[{ "id": "/art/angelico", "url": "/art/angelico/", "title": "Fra Angelico", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-03T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1400, "died": 1455, "image": "/images/art/angelico_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Fra Angelico was both a Florentine painter and a Dominican friar. He made several trips to Rome to execute papal commissions; and he was prior of San Domenico in Fiesole from 1449 to 1452. He was known as the Blessed Angelico, and during his lifetime both his gentle, disciplined personality and his art were held in the highest esteem. The tenderness and delicate beauty of his work were ideally suited for the specific religious purpose for which it was produced. With the help of many assistants, Fra Angelico decorated the cloister, the cells, the common rooms and the corridors of the convent of San Marco in Florence with some fifty frescoes. Of them all The Annunciation is probably the most famous. It was painted on a wall of the convent cloister, and the receding vaulted arches of the outside loggia, in which the Virgin sits, reflect the fresco’s surroundings as well as giving space and depth to its composition. Inscribed on the border of the loggia’s stone floor is a quotation in Latin from a twelfth-century hymn : ‘Hail Mother, noble resting place of all the Holy Trinity.’ Along the edge of the floor is a reminder to the friars of the convent : ‘When you come before the image of the spotless Virgin, beware lest through carelessness the Ave be left unsaid.’ The frescoes in the convent of San Marco decorated both the communal spaces and the nuns’ private cells, where they were designed to encourage meditation. Fra Angelico’s experience as an illuminator shows in his thin, precise application of paint. It was an ideal method for detailing wing feathers and embroider, and well suited to background features. The soft pale colours and comparatively simple structure give the painting a sparkling serenity, and a directness that is charming, if a little naive. If Mary and the Angel were to stand up, their heads would no doubt touch the ceiling; yet the springtime scene is convincing, and painted with great care and attention to detail, particularly in the intricate decoration of the Angel’s robe and the colourful patterning of his wings. The figures have a weightlessness and stillness about them which makes them seem more spiritual. It is a painting about the communication of faith, and as the friars walked in the cloister of San Marco the event depicted must have seemed very real to them. Fra Angelico had an innovative approach to composition and is credited with the invention of the Sacra Conversazione, a device which places all the figures in a painting close to one another, as though in a conversation. Although the Renaissance meant a strong move towards humanism, Fra Angelico’s work maintained a firm reverence for the Christian ideal. " },{ "id": "/art/artemisia", "url": "/art/artemisia/", "title": "Artemisia Gentileschi", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1593, "died": 1652, "image": "/images/art/artemisia_3.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Artemisia Gentileschi’s early education consisted entirely of painting; in fact she couldn’t read or write until she was an adult. She studied initially with her painter father and in this way she met Caravaggio, whose chiaroscuro style impressed her so much that she was drawn to Baroque drama and expressiveness. She was her own model for her first version of Susannah and the Elders, painted when she was only seventeen. But at nineteen, Gentileschi was raped by her tutor Agostino Tassi. Her father sued, and there followed a seven-month trial, during which Gentileschi was accused of being promiscuous, subjected to intimate examination, and then tortured with thumbscrews while giving evidence. Tassi was imprisoned for just one year. After this humiliation, Gentileschi married another painter, Pierantonio Stiattesi, and the pair moved to Florence. They both worked at the Academy of Art and Design, where Gentileschi became the first official woman member, supported by her patron, Cosimo II de’ Medici. Gentileschi was hailed as a genius and yet frequently decried, because she possessed a creative talent believed to be exclusively male. Fortunately, this did not stop her producing works of key importance and even gaining patronage from Charles I of England. Recent scholarship has declared that Gentileschi was not merely “a good woman painter”, but one of the major visual thinkers of her era. Judith and Holofernes illustrates the decapitation of the Assyrian oppressor Holofernes by the Jewish heroine Judith. This is a powerful expression of the artist’s own emotional turmoil. The realism and dramatic chiaroscuro easily match Caravaggio or Rubens. Gentileschi painted five other versions; it was a theme that particularly appealed to the Florentines who were often threatened by the more powerful states. For the artist, it was an affirmation of the strength of women in all kinds of adversity. " },{ "id": "/art/banksy", "url": "/art/banksy/", "title": "Banksy", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1973, "image": "/images/art/banksy_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Banksy is a pseudonymous England-based street artist, political activist and film director whose real name and identity remain unconfirmed and the subject of speculation. Active since the 1990s, his satirical street art and subversive epigrams combine dark humour with graffiti executed in a distinctive stenciling technique. Banksy displays his art on publicly visible surfaces such as walls and self-built physical prop pieces. Banksy no longer sells photographs or reproductions of his street graffiti, but his public “installations” are regularly resold, often even by removing the wall they were painted on. Girl with Balloon (also known as Balloon Girl or Girl and Balloon) is a series of stencil murals around London started in 2002. They depict a young girl with her hand extended toward a red heart-shaped balloon carried away by the wind. The locations for this work include street murals in Shoreditch and the South bank in London on the Waterloo Bridge[1] and other murals were around London, though none remain there. In 2018, a 2006 framed copy of the artwork was auctioned at Sotheby’s. Moments after the closing bid, the artwork began to self-destruct by means of a hidden mechanical paper shredder that Banksy had built into the frame bottom. Only the lower half shredded. Banksy released an image of the shredding on Instagram with the words “Going, going gone..”. The partially shredded work has been given a new title, Love Is in the Bin. " },{ "id": "/art/blake", "url": "/art/blake/", "title": "William Blake", "layout": "artist", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1757, "died": 1827, "image": "/images/art/blake_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "William Blake, the English poet, artist and mystic, was first apprenticed to an engraver and went on to study at the Royal Academy Schools. He reacted strongly against conformity and conventional realism in art, and was profoundly influenced by Michelangelo, as can be seen in his muscular figures and in the enormously dramatic concepts behind much of his work. The scenes he depicted were of his own invention, often illustrating his own poems, or linked to imaginative interpretations of Dante, Milton and the Bible. Deeply if unconventionally religious, he was subject to visions; and his figures, although evidently muscular, are strangely insubstantial and unearthly, often surrounded by a supernatural light. Blake invented a highly personal and mysterious mythology, verbal and visual, to express his view of the world. The Ancient of Days, or God Creating the Universe, is one of his best-known images. It may have come to him complete in a vision; and it was an image to which he frequently returned. It formed the frontispiece to one of his prophetic books, Europe, from which this print is taken, and Blake was engaged in hand-colouring a copy of it on his deathbed. Urizen, the Creator, kneels in the orb of the sun, and reaches out into the void with a pair of golden compasses, with which to measure and plan the universe and its creatures. His long hair, and even longer beard, stream in the wind to his right, and rays of brilliant light burst through the clouds surrounding him. His powerful body is composed of finely balanced horizontal and vertical lines, framed by the disc of the sun, and linked to the diagonal lines of the compass. The left arm of the compass corresponds to a line taken through the kneeling figure from right knee to left and contributes to the wonderfully satisying harmony of the composition. It is a work of tremendous elemental strength and energy, revealing something of the force that inspired Blake’s visionary mind. In this large, very accomplished colour print, Isaac Newton is shown busily rationalizing the universe with the aid of a pair of compasses. Blake divided the background with one bright and one dark section, implying that the great mathematician and physicist brought not enlightenment but a godless night-time. Blake believed that artists alone were capable of divine insight and that the soul was always struggling to free itself from the confines of reason and organized religion. One of four similar paintings that Blake made in gratitude to his parton, Thomas Butts, who supported him by sending his son for drawing lessons. Blake thought it was more ethical to paint in tempera, a water based medium, than oil, as it was more demanding of the artist’s skill. " },{ "id": "/art/bosch", "url": "/art/bosch/", "title": "Hieronymous Bosch", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-03T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1450, "died": 1516, "image": "/images/art/bosch_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The Flemish painter Hieronymus Bosch was one of the world’s greatest masters of fantasy. His haunted work, full of monsters and devils, reflected the superstitious and religious beliefs which had survived from the early Middle Ages. He fathered no school of followers in his own time, although he was a distinguished artist, but his influence has continued for nearly five hundred years, and is easy to detect in the work of the Surrealists of the twentieth century. Four paintings on a series of folding panels make up The Garden of Earthly Delights. When the outer wings are closed we see the Third Day of Creation (or, according to a recent interpretation, the destruction of the earth by flood). When the wings are opened they reveal astonishing scenes in subtle colour and mesmerizing detail. On the left is the Garden of Eden, in the centre the Garden of Earthly Delights, which is thought to depict the world before the Flood, and on the right a terrifying vision of Hell. The meaning of the work as a whole is uncertain, but the sense of a powerful allegory is beyond doubt. Over half of Bosch’s surviving paintings have religious subjects, and his work can only be interpreted in a religious framework; his art was, as a Spanish cleric remarked, ‘a painted satire on the sins and ravings of man’. It studied those human feelings which in the Middle Ages were thought to be the result of divine or devilish inspiration. Bosch was painting at the climax of a period when people firmly believed in the existence of grotesque demons; it was also a time of robust, even cruel humour. This great work, with its imaginary buildings, landscapes of parks and gardens and dark fire-lit inferno, exposes humanity in a truly terrifying light. In the central panel a wild sexual orgy is depicted showing every imaginable aspect of lust, the cause of man’s downfall, and revealing his ignorance and corruption. Writhing human bodies are dwarfed by massive birds, fish and fruits: one figure carries off another on his back in a huge mussel shell; a man and a woman are encased in a bubble on the back of a strange sea creature; strawberries, fish, flowers, exotic birds and animals are all involved with men and women in the act of love. People can be seen riding an assortment of animals in a ring in the middle distance: pigs, camels, horses, goats, unicorns and strange unrecognizable creatures that are part-animal, part-bird. In the work as a whole there are something like a thousand human figures. Bosch’s dazzling inventiveness seems endless. He has created an extraordinary, fascinating fantasy world, full of weird exaggerations and distortions, but he has done it with such care and detail that he has turned its nightmarish terrors into reality. " },{ "id": "/art/botticelli", "url": "/art/botticelli/", "title": "Sandro Botticelli", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1445, "died": 1510, "image": "/images/art/botticelli_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Botticelli was born in Florence and spent most of his life there. Many of his paintings have devotional subjects and were designed for specific settings in churches and other religious buildings. But he was also the first painter of the Renaissance to use classical myths as central subject matter in his work. The Birth of Venus was almost certainly executed for Lorenzo di Pierfrancesco’s Villa di Costello near Florence. Botticelli was unaffected by the passion for realism that was current in his day. In The Birth of Venus he makes little attempt to persuade us of the reality of the scene, but we are completely convinced that we are witness to a splendid moment in the world of ancient myth. Legend tells us that Venus, the Roman goddess of love and fertility, was born from sea-foam, and here she is seen slowly floating on her shell-boat in to the shore. The navigation of her journey is undertaken by two intertwined figures, male and female, representing the winds. The male, Zephyr, the west wind of springtime, supports the female, who is probably Flora, his wife. Just where the sea touches the shore, a young woman adorned with leaves and flowers steps forward to envelop Venus in a flowered cloak. Venus herself, her wide grey eyes gentle and a little pensive, embodies here not sensual love but perfect beauty. The draperies of the winds, the flowing clothes of Venus’s welcoming attendant, and her own glorious golden hair flickering through the painting like flames, are not naturalistic, but are used to create a feeling of movement about to be resolved. With one arm Venus partly covers her breasts, and with the other she artfully arranges her hair as a modest covering in the traditional pose of classical statues of the goddess of love. Her left leg bears most of her body weight so that her hip is thrust gently forward, giving a sinuous S curve to her body. There is flowing, curving line throughout the composition, in the sharply defined, highly stylized shoreline, the beautifully arched feet of the human figures and the movement of drapery and hair. The landscape is decorative rather than realistic : the waves of the sea are indicated by little white V shapes; the tree trunks are slim brown rods, and the wings of the winds and the sharp spiky leaves of the trees are outlined in gold. There is no physical depth or perspective in the painting; but this heightens the feeling that we are present at a mysterious and magical event, depicted with the delicate beauty which characterizes Botticelli’s work. The inscription in The Mystical Nativity referring to the Apocalypse and the “troubles of Italy” is in both Greek and Latin. Botticelli had used an archaic device that magnifies the Virgin and Child; altogether, the picture is calling for a return to medieval morality. " },{ "id": "/art/bruegel", "url": "/art/bruegel/", "title": "Pieter Bruegel, the Elder", "layout": "artist", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1525, "died": 1569, "image": "/images/art/bruegel_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Pieter Bruegel was born in Antwerp and spent most of his life there, with a two-year trip to Europe from 1552-4. He went over the Alps to Italy, travelling as far south as Sicily, and the scenery of the Alps had a marked effect on his landscapes. He depicted man in natural surroundings, leading a simple life, and dependent on the earth and the seasons for survival. He earned the nickname ‘Peasant Bruegel’, not because he was uncultivated which was far from being the case, but because the lives of the Flemish peasants formed such a large part of his subject matter. He showed them working, feasting and celebrating, and exposed their drunkenness, lechery and greed with a gently sarcastic wit. But a religious sincerity and understanding of happiness and suffering were as evident in his pictures as his eye for human weakness. He was interested in the peasants’ customs and in every aspect of their daily lives, and his paintings tell us a great deal about them. The Return of the Hunters, also known as Winter, is one of a series of landscapes representing the seasons of the year. Like the others in the cycle, it has a high vantage point in the foreground and a long vista receding into the distance. It combines elements of the alpine scenery that Bruegel saw on his travels with the countryside, houses and people of the Low Countries where he lived. It is a snow scene, but the signs of companionship and domestic comfort give it a feeling of warmth. Three men are plodding back wearily through the snow, their shoulders bent and their legs heavy, after a hard day’s hunting with their hounds. The line of trees down the hillside emphasizes the steady tramp of their footsteps descending to the village. They pass an inn on the ridge where a group of people are roasting a pig over a blazing fire; and beyond it the roofs of houses follow the line of the ridge down to the valley. A horse-drawn wagon trundles along a road bordered by feathery trees ; and fields, copses and four churches are scattered over the flat landscape as far as the eye can see, with mountains like alpine crags towering over them. A river winds its way through the valley, with a bridge crossing it in the middle distance. It has flooded several of the surrounding fields, and the water has frozen into hard green ice. The villagers are taking advantage of it, skating or playing games on the newly-formed frozen lakes. Just below the foreground ridge an old woman trudges across a bridge with a load of twigs on her back for a fire, and a woman in a red skirt is pulled over the ice on a sledge. The roofs of the houses are long and steep to shed the heavy snow, and icicles hang from the eaves. The bare branches of the trees are like the delicate bones of a skeleton, and the snow on them reflects the icy eerie light. There is so much detail in the picture that one could look into it for hours in fascination, and its minute observations reveal Bruegel’s familiarity with the countryside and the lives of the people. Bruegel’s skill with genre scenes such as this one, depicting hundreds of little people acting out a catalogue of pastimes, was honed when he was an engraver with the Antwerp publisher, Hieronymous Cock. His figures are solid with little modelling but they are wonderfully lively; and beyond the fascination of identifying all the games and activities, the viewer is treated to a convincing street perspective on the right, and a delightful glimpse of typical Flemish landscape on the left. Bruegel’s last major work refers to a quotation from Matthew’s gospel: ‘If the blind lead the blind, both shall fall into the ditch’. In this solemn allegory for the human situation, the string of unfortunate people, each clinging blindly to the next, are jeopardizing their own salvation instead of working it out for themselves. " },{ "id": "/art/caravaggio", "url": "/art/caravaggio/", "title": "Caravaggio", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1571, "died": 1610, "image": "/images/art/caravaggio_2.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Caravaggio was a stormy and excitable man, and his tempestuous life was surrounded by controversy. He stabbed a man to death after a violent quarrel in Rome, was imprisoned, but escaped and fled to Sicily. From there he was pursued to Naples and nearly murdered in a brawl with a group of cut-throat mercenaries. The vivid and sensational quality of his temperament is reflected in his art. People were shocked by his work, but it was widely admired and extremely influential. When he died at the age of thirty-seven he was generally recognized as one of the most exciting painters and innovators of the Baroque age. In particular his use of chiaroscuro (strong light contrasted with deep shadow) and dramatic foreshortening are the characteristics of his work for which he is best known. His technical methods were unusual for the sixteenth century: he painted directly on to canvas instead of working from sketches and squared-up drawings in the accepted fashion, and this gave his style a remarkable zest. Bacchus was the god of wine and fertility, and he was a common subject in paintings of the period. This portrayal of him, executed when Caravaggio was barely twenty years old, may well be a self-portrait; and the young god in his crown of grapes and vine leaves certainly has some of the artist’s passion and vitality in his gaze. Although his pose is indolent and relaxed he has an air of repressed energy. His foreshortened arm is thrust forward so that it breaks the flat surface of the painting and draws us in towards him. It is a powerful pose, and its directness is very arresting. A strong light silhouettes his figure against the dark background, and this chiaroscuro device heightens the effect of his gesture. The bowl of fruit and carafe of wine underline his sensuality and the mood of indulgence. Bacchus is a superb example of the effects of lighting, foreshortening and vivid realism achieved by Caravaggio. The gestures in this painting tell us a great deal. The outstretched hand of the disciple on the right, and those of the others gripping his chair, capture the immediate moment of recognition, as the beardless youth they met along the road reveals himself to be the resurrected Christ by blessing the meal. The still life of fruit makes biblical references to restored life and expectations fulfilled, whilst the apples — symbols of temptation — remain noticeably blighted. " },{ "id": "/art/cezanne", "url": "/art/cezanne/", "title": "Paul Cézanne", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-15T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1839, "died": 1906, "image": "/images/art/cezanne_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The work of Paul Cézanne has had such a far-reaching influence that he has been called the father of modern painting. It was not until the end of his life, however, that his genius was widely recognized. In the year after his death a major exhibition of his work was held, which startled the world. He was born in Southern France, the son of a wealthy banker, but much of his working life was spent in Paris, where he mixed with all the Impressionist painters of his day. He was a shy, irritable man who, after a discouraging start in the early 1860’s — a forbidding father, examination failure and Salon refusals — scarcely seemed destined for lasting recognition. Acclaim was hard won, taking over thirty years of disciplined work before his first one-man exhibition in 1895; following which, younger artists like the Nabis formed an enthusiastic clique, alert to Cézanne’s pushing of the boundaries beyond airy Impressionism. Whereas other artists in the group sought to capture rapidly changing light and colour, Cézanne’s greatest achievement lay in exposing in planes of colour the underlying shapes in nature, which he believed to be the sphere, the cylinder and the cone. Cézanne knew that the theories of Parisian academics and critics, let alone public opinion, were not sympathetic to his ideal of “the logical development of everything we see and feel through the study of nature”. It was his desire for this essential harmony, expressed by colour as tone, which drew him back to his beloved Provence in 1882. He applied this analysis of structure to La Montague Sainte-Victoire, a scene in his native Provence. The greens and terracottas in the foreground fade almost imperceptibly into the pale blues and pinks of the distant rocky mountains, yet each individual area is made up of separate geometric slabs of colour carefully worked together to form the shapes in the landscape. The sharply defined outline of the mountain is framed by the branches of two Mediterranean pine trees, the fields and houses set out in such a way that the eye is guided through the painting to the Roman aqueduct in the middle distance, and on to the peak of the mountain itself. The horizontal planes are perfectly balanced by the vertical tree trunk on the left and the tower of the building beyond it. The effect of distance is emphasized by the scale of the foreground trees, but somehow the mountain’s bare surface seems to loom towards us and dominate the peaceful cultivated scene. Cézanne painted this landscape many times, and this calculated, finely balanced picture reveals his intimate familiarity with his subject. He became the most important of the Post-Impressionists, who concentrated in a rigorously disciplined way on form and outline. In his technique of exposing the structural shapes in nature he was also the forerunner of Cubism, which was fully developed by Picasso and Braque. He was greatly respected and admired by his fellow artists, and is generally considered now to be one of the most brilliant painters of the last hundred years. " },{ "id": "/art/chardin", "url": "/art/chardin/", "title": "Jean Siméon Chardin", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-31T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1699, "died": 1779, "image": "/images/art/chardin_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Chardin, the son of a cabinet maker, lived and worked in and around Paris all his life. His father regarded painting as a craft, similar to his own, with the result that Chardin never received the full academic training required by a wide-ranging professional painter. This, combined with a lack of money, led him to opt principally for still life subjects, for which there was a ready market. His success in his lifetime was not spectacular but steady and assured : his work was bought by distinguished international connoisseurs, he became a member of the French Royal Academy, and Louis XV not only bought some of his paintings but gave him a pension and an apartment at the Royal Palace of the Louvre. Chardin’s pictures are thoughtful and quiet. His domestic scenes and animals, still lifes with stone jars, glass bottles, flowers, eggs and cooking pots are all painted with such feeling for texture that one could reach out and touch them. The Kitchen Maid shows a young woman pausing for a moment in her work. In one hand she holds a kitchen knife, in the other a turnip she is peeling. She is dressed in simple earthy colours — cream, terracotta, indigo and brown — underlining the quiet, peaceful mood of the painting. On the floor are more vegetables; and pots, pans, a huge chopping-block with blood stains and a blue glazed earthenware bowl containing the already peeled vegetables surround her. Every object is painted in the finest brushwork and gently pointed with delicate, gleaming touches of reflected light. The plump shapes of the vegetables are echoed by the rounded kitchen utensils and the chopping block. The human figure and the domestic objects blend together to suggest a life of simple activity in a style of painting of which Chardin was a master. Arguably Chardin’s most influential painting, this artwork features a gutted rayfish, or skate. The red blood and white muscles of the ray contrast with the fur of a cat on one side and kitchen utensils and a black pitcher on the other side. This painting influenced the French novelist Marcel Proust, who wrote about the artwork, as well as the painter Henri Matisse, who reimagined it in his own version during the early twentieth century. This was one of a pair of paintings (The other was Le Buffett) that Chardin submitted to the French Academy when Nicholas de Largilliere first discovered him amongst other hopefuls at the Salon de Jeunesse. People had mistaken the canvases for Flemish still lifes and they were considered good enough to go forward immediately as Chardin’s diploma pieces. Chardin’s own son Pierre-Jean, around the age of seven. Dressed in a blue working apron, he is pictured with a stick of white chalk in a holder, studying a drawing in front of him. Pierre-Jean did in fact grow up to be an artist and was living in Venice in 1767, when he died in mysterious circumstances. " },{ "id": "/art/constable", "url": "/art/constable/", "title": "John Constable", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-15T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1776, "died": 1837, "image": "/images/art/constable_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "John Constable was born in Suffolk, the son of a mill-owner, farmer and merchant; and the scenes that surrounded him in his childhood are the ones he later made famous through his beautiful landscapes. He went to the Royal Academy Schools in his early twenties, but not until his forties did he achieve a measure of success. The Hay-Wain was shown at the Royal Academy in 1821, and in 1824 it was exhibited with two other Constable landscapes at the Paris Salon, where it was awarded a gold medal. The best-known paintings of the English landscape are those by John Constable, and of them all The Hay-Wain is the most famous. Constable’s life was divided between London and Suffolk, but it is East Anglia, and Suffolk in particular, which to him was the heart of England. He has caught its character so superbly that his paintings of winding streams and rivers, flat water-meadows, brick farm buildings, and fast-moving clouds in a vast expanse of sky seem to sum up the spirit of the English landscape. He wrote of his love for ‘the sound of water escaping from mill dams… willows, old rotten banks, slimy posts & brickwork…’, and he said he would always ‘paint his own places best… Painting is but another word for feeling.’ The Hay-Wain is one of a series of six large paintings (each about six feet across) in which he expresses his feelings for landscape superbly. He completed it in about five months, and would have made sketches of the subject on the spot before starting work in oils in his London studio. The paint is applied in short and long, rough and smooth strokes, making a rich variety of texture Constable has picked out the characteristic elements of the landscape : light glitters off moist leaves in shadowy places; water reflects the plants along its banks and the light in the sky; and it is the sort of cloudy day, with intermittent sunshine, which is typical of English weather. It is rich farming country, and there are signs everywhere of activity: in the distance are cattle and farm-workers, in the foreground a low fence borders a vegetable garden near the old tiled cottage, and the centre of it all is the wide shallow river. A man can be seen in the bushes on its far bank, with a rowing boat moored close by, and a group of ducks in mid-stream. By the Watergate outside the cottage a woman appears to be washing clothes or maybe collecting water in the large jug beside her. A farm dog trots along the near bank watching the two men as their horse-drawn wagon makes its way through the river. Little touches of red, often to be found in Constable landscapes, provide a focal point. It is a very peaceful scene, but Constable’s eye for detail has noted all the small features which might otherwise be overlooked. He draws attention to them with little pinpoints of light against the shadows, filling the composition with interest, and building up a picture which typifies nineteenth-century English rural life. The inhabited landscape was Constable’s constant and most intimate theme. The lane to the cornfield is the same one the artist followed to school; this is the Suffolk that he carried in his heart all his life. The Cornfield traces several points in time and space. The vertical format steers the viewer’s gaze, from the boy at the stream, to the man reaping the corn and finally, to the church tower among the trees. The Romantic poet Wordsworth subscribed to the fund that purchased this picture for the English National Gallery. For Constable, ‘skying’ meant making small oil studies of clouds, with full notes written on the back. Typically, he covered red primer in thick strokes and overlapping colours, which gave depth to the cloud formation. They were not necessarily part of any larger composition, but recorded the reality of weather, light and colour in a particular patch of sky. " },{ "id": "/art/courbet", "url": "/art/courbet/", "title": "Gustave Courbet", "layout": "artist", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1819, "died": 1877, "image": "/images/art/courbet_6.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Gustave Courbet was the son of a substantial country farmer at Ornans, near the Swiss border of France. By 1839 he had moved to Paris, and taught himself to paint largely by copying the pictures in the Louvre. He took his role as an artist very seriously, and felt it his duty to depict the world around him as it was, without idealizing it in the way that many artists had done in the past. He painted portraits, nudes, landscapes, and scenes from everyday life which sometimes reflected abject poverty in a way that caused discomfort and brought him harsh criticism. He was intensely vain, and quite often painted himself, romantically handsome, pipe-smoking, greeting a patron with supreme self-confidence, or waving at the sea from the shore, as though he, rather than nature, were the master of the waves. Courbet reached his peak as a Realist painter in the 1850’s. Realism was regarded as dangerous by the French Academy who disliked anything painted in a spontaneous, uncontrived manner. In those days, Courbet’s battle for artistic freedom was totally consistent with his politics, which were socialist and anarchic. He fought any organization, having already grasped the implications of the shift from an agrarian to an industrialized society: ‘I must be free even of governments. The people have my sympathies, I must address them directly.’ Courbet took from the Romantic movement a feeling of tital emotional involvement, but he discarded the central role of the individual, believing the truth and dignity were located in the community and reality of everyday life. The Studio of the Painter has all the elements which typify Courbet’s work. It is theatrical and flamboyant, and the life-size figures are painted with tremendous vigour and energy. The artist himself dominates the composition. He is seated at his easel in front of a huge landscape, in which the naked model presumably will be included, and a small boy gazes up at him with rapt attention. Courbet has filled the room with people who had some personal significance in his life. He has said that amongst the crowd are ‘A Jew I saw in England as he was making his way through the swarming traffic of the London streets… behind him is a self-satisfied cure with a red face… a huntsman, a reaper, a professional strong man, a clown, an Irish-woman suckling a child.’ There is a motley collection of people on the left, but most of them are probably Courbet’s models, and recently it has been shown that his words were partly a smoke-screen concealing friends from his childhood and people he admired. On the right is the philosopher Proudhon, the poet Baudelaire, his patron Alfred Bruyas, an art collector and his wife, and a fellow painter Champfleury. The painting is highly personal and revolves around the painter’s work and the Bohemian world in which he lived. It was, in his own words, ‘a real allegory summing up seven years of my artistic and moral life’, and it is a work which people have been discussing ever since. It combines Courbet’s flair for unusual composition, rich colour and dramatic lights and darks, and reveals a great deal about himself and the world he inhabited. When the jury for the 1855 Paris Universal Exhibition rejected The Studio of the Painter, people ridiculed him for having set up his own show in a ‘Pavilion of Realism’. However, one of his few supporters, Delacroix publically declared: ‘They have rejected one of the most outstanding paintings of the times.’ One of three Realist pictures that made Courbet’s name at the 1850-51 Paris Salon. The other two were The Stonebreakers, and his first monumental canvas, A Burial at Ornans. All three paintings shocked the public because ordinary villagers were presented in a style that ranked them with their ‘betters’. Opinionated and provocative as ever, Courbet was putting art at the service of social revolution. By giving ‘things as they are’ the monumental treatment normally accorded to mythological or historical themes, Courbet set out to demolish the traditional hierarchies of subject matter and increase the emphasis on purely formal values. He felt the actual canvas and paint were as much his subject matter as the scene he depicted. Such ideas were well ahead of their time and Courbet’s declaration of creative independence opened the door for Manet and the Impressionists. " },{ "id": "/art/dali", "url": "/art/dali/", "title": "Salvador Dali", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1904, "died": 1989, "image": "/images/art/dali_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Perhaps the most spectacular personality in twentieth-century painting is Salvador Dali. He was born in the Catalan region of Spain, and at seventeen went to Madrid to study at the School of Fine Arts. He was suspended and finally expelled for his outrageous behaviour and refusal to conform. He moved to Paris, where he joined and became one of the leaders of the Surrealist Movement, and as a result of his inventive genius and his flair for personal publicity he has become its most famous representative. His egotism, narcissism and showmanship have all contributed to the exotic legend which surrounds him. (On the occasion of the International Surrealist Exhibition in London in 1936, Dali lectured in a complete deep-sea diving suit.) In 1937 he was expelled from the Surrealist Movement, and left for America. Since then he has moved from one extreme to another: from embracing revolutionary politics and producing highly provocative work, he has turned to religious pictures and right-wing orthodox views. His life and paintings have always caused violent reactions, but he has defined the aims of Surrealism more precisely than any other artist. The work of Magritte is intellectual and turns physical laws upside down to express an idea ; Dali appeals directly to the emotions for an instinctive spontaneous reaction, and he does it with enormous technical skill and originality. The Persistence of Memory is an early work, and one of his most fascinating. In a flat deserted landscape, probably based on the coast of Catalonia, Dali has created the weird images of three limp watches. They are draped like rubber or plasticine : one from a branch of a dead tree growing out of a wooden platform; another, with a fly on the glass, over the edge of the platform itself; and a third folded over what might be a distorted head on the ground. Glistening ants have gathered on the metal back of an apparently normal watch turned face downwards. The limp watches have been compared to the human tongue, and they may have some erotic symbolism. Dali himself has characteristically said that the idea came to him when he was eating a ripe Camembert cheese. His autobiography Diary of a Genius tells us that he experienced hallucinations in his childhood; as the title of the painting suggests, perhaps the subject was inspired by persistent visions and memories from the past. Like a dream, the picture is probably impossible fully to explain. Although harmless, its images are threatening and disturbing, both because they are unexpected and because they are so convincingly real. Dali’s exaggeratedly precise drawing and brushwork and transparently clear colours in the brilliant Mediterranean light create a clinically accurate illusion of reality, which is alarming, amusing and brilliantly inventive. The “paranoiac-critical” method used in Dali’s “hand-painted dream photographs” involved perceiving more than one image in a configuration. The dominant image here is a face constructed from an urn and two men’s heads; the figs are formed by the rocks beyond. The outline of the Afghan hound takes shape through the windswept clouds, its head resting on the cliffs and its paws on the sand. Dali’s friend, the poet Lorca, had been killed in the Spanish Civil War in 1936 and this may explain his apparition. " },{ "id": "/art/davinci", "url": "/art/davinci/", "title": "Leonardo da Vinci", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1452, "died": 1519, "image": "/images/art/davinci_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Leonardo, born in the small village of Vinci in Tuscany, was the illegitimate son of a Florentine notary. He studied under Verrochio, who is said to have given up painting almost entirely as a result of his pupil’s outstanding ability. He was the greatest universal genius of the Italian Renaissance, when intellectual and artistic supremacy were admired above all, and the ideal man was accomplished in almost every sphere. Apart from his skill as a painter and sculptor, he was a brilliant scientist, musician, poet, military engineer and inventor, with one of the most versatile minds in history. He came near to discovering the circulation of the blood, made preliminary designs for several aircraft, a submarine and the first armoured vehicle; he made intense studies of anatomy, the formation of rocks and the fall of drapery, and produced endless notes and drawings that reveal his curiosity and inventiveness. His working methods were slow and his interests so varied that he rarely completed a project — it was abandoned as soon as he felt he had ‘solved the problem’. As a result very few finished paintings by him exist. He worked on the Mona Lisa for nearly four years, and it was completed around 1503. Mona comes from Madonna meaning madam, and the woman is thought to be the wife of the silk merchant Francesco del Giocondo (the picture is also known as La Gioconda). She would have been about twenty-four when Leonardo began her portrait. Her identity is not entirely certain — the painting itself has few specific clues — and the power of the picture has probably been enhanced by the mystery surrounding it. We know the figure was framed originally by two stone columns as well as by the parapet behind her. Her body is turned at a slight angle and her eyes gaze directly towards us. Her strangely enigmatic expression has fascinated the world for hundreds of years. Her lips show the trace of a smile and her penetrating eyes under heavy lids appear to be studying us rather than the other way around. A wide forehead, and eyebrows plucked to the point of invisibility, were marks of beauty in the Renaissance world, and her hair parted in the centre and drawn away from her face accentuates these features and heightens her air of composure. Chestnut curls falling to her shoulders are covered by a veil of fine gauze. Her hands are folded in her lap, and her long delicate fingers rest on the shining folds of her dress. An imaginary landscape provides a muted backcloth. Its jagged bare mountains, dissected by a river and a winding road, tower starkly over the sea, and its wildness and hostility provide a marked contrast to the calm face of the woman. The paint is applied with fine detailed brushwork that reveals the textures of drapery, hair and flesh. The evening light and the sombre colours of the woman’s classically simple dress throw her face and neck into relief. Leonardo believed that twilight provided the perfect atmosphere for portraits, warming skin tones and softening the contours of a face. By the time he painted the Mona Lisa Leonardo’s reputation was firmly established. He reached unequalled heights in an age of great artistic achievement, and his paintings and drawings have been copied and circulated ever since. The Mona Lisa has undoubtedly become the most famous picture in the world. " },{ "id": "/art/degas", "url": "/art/degas/", "title": "Edgar Degas", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-16T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1834, "died": 1917, "image": "/images/art/degas_2.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Degas, born in Paris, was the son of a wealthy banker, and for most of his life he was free to paint without depending on his art for a livelihood. He was something of a recluse, troubled from his early forties with failing eyesight, a witty, formidable and forbidding character. He was a member of the Impressionist group for a time, but his work was more academic than theirs, and although he made intense studies of light and colour, he was fascinated principally by movement. Many of his pictures are of women — laundresses, hat-makers and, above all, dancers — depicted in a deeply perceptive and sympathetic manner in paintings, drawings and sculptures. His interest in movement can also be seen in his pictures of horses in training, scenes at the racetrack and people at work. The French poet Baudelaire remarked that artists ‘must draw out of daily life its epic aspect’, and this is precisely Degas’ achievement as he shows us an everyday rehearsal at the ballet. The painting has an air of uninterrupted activity. The dancers seem to be unaware of an observer and nothing is posed : some exercising at the barre, some listening and watching as the teacher instructs a soloist, and a violinist waits to begin; one resting; one reading notices on a board at the back. The horizontal red line of the barre forms a link between the groups of dancers, and the red is picked up in the girls’ sashes and the fan on the foreground chair, making a perfect rectangle. The open space in the centre, and the apparently random arrangement of people and chairs, accentuate the life and immediacy of the painting. A mirror reflects a group outside the composition and a girl whisks past a half-open door, perhaps on her way to another studio; everything suggests that movement is continuing beyond the scene portrayed. Degas observed, analyzed and recorded with great care, by means of numerous sketches from life, before beginning work on a canvas in the studio. As a result he caught revealingly, and with extraordinary realism, the movement and atmosphere of his subject. The Orchestra of the Opera is the first of a series of canvases featuring orchestral musicians. This is a portrait of Degas’s friend Désiré Dihau, democratically placed among other members of the orchestra just below a bright frieze of dancers in the stage footlights. The work is relatively early and hints of Ingres and Delacroix, both admired by Degas. Degas and Delacroix both had a scientific interest in colour theory and pigments. Nothing could be much further from the glamour of the Opera than the toil of two weary laundresses, but the strong diagonal of the ironing table is reminiscent of the edge of the stage. His other inspiration for this picture is the realism of Daumier’s portrayal of working life. Degas counted almost 2000 Daumier prints among his private art collection. " },{ "id": "/art/delacroix", "url": "/art/delacroix/", "title": "Eugène Delacroix", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1798, "died": 1863, "image": "/images/art/delacroix_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Delacroix’s mother came of a family of noted designer-craftsmen, and his legal father, who died when Delacroix was a little boy, was an active revolutionary and Foreign Minister under the Directoire. Unprovable but tenacious rumour suggested that Talleyrand, the great politician and statesman, was Delacroix’s real father. In any event a network of connections, allied with his talent, helped to secure official patronage for him throughout his life. By 1816 he was studying painting under Guerin — the teacher of Gericault, whom he ardently admired. Delacroix visited London and became deeply interested in English landscape painting, especially the work of Constable, and in the epic poets of England and Germany. He copied the masters in the Louvre, notably Rubens and Veronese, and although a superb draughtsman, colour was his passion. He declared that ‘when the tones are right, the lines draw themselves’. He had an enormous range of subject matter, much of which was based on literary or historical incidents of the past, but although he lived through a time of political upheaval, Liberty Leading the People is his only major work which appears to comment directly on a topical event in France. He witnessed the fighting in the streets in the Revolution of 1830, which brought Louis-Philippe to the throne, and he wrote to his brother, ‘I have undertaken a modern subject, a barricade, and if I have not conquered for my country, at least I will paint for her.’ The painting is grand, stirring and highly political; and when it was exhibited in 1831 the coarseness of the characters depicted aroused controversy and criticism. Bare-breasted Liberty, beautiful and resolute, is waving the people forward to the barricades. She carries a bayonet and the tricolour banner of France, and on her head is the Phrygian cap of Liberty. She is striding barefoot through a field littered with corpses, and behind her is an armed band of men and boys, determined and ruthless in their fight for freedom from oppression. They are armed with swords, muskets, pistols and even rocks as they march through the streets of Paris. In the distance are the towers of Notre Dame amid a low-lying haze of gun smoke. In Delacroix’s crowded composition there is an underlying order; the figure of Liberty and the two bodies in front of her form a triangle, and the use of red in the sash and scarf of the figure looking upwards create a powerful vertical link with the red in the banner above, an example of his highly imaginative use of colour. He has been labelled a Romantic, and although the harsh realities of death and destruction are exposed in all their horror, the painting has a glory and patriotism that is highly romantic and inspirational. Delacroix had completed the journey from startling, innovative colourist to respected older artist by the time he came to influence modern masters, such as Cézanne, Degas, Van Gogh and Picasso. As long as he lived, he was, as the poet Baudelaire wrote, “passionately in love with passion, and coldly determined to seek the means to express passion in the manner visible.” Inspired by Gericault’s treatment of the theme of suffering, Delacroix presents a harrowing scene from the Greek rebellion against the Turks, which roused many Europeans (including Byron) to their cause. The painting was bought at the Salon of 1824 by the French government, perhaps by Talleyrand in covert support of his son. Significantly, at the same Salon, Delacroix encountered Constable’s Hay-wain. " },{ "id": "/art/duccio", "url": "/art/duccio/", "title": "Duccio di Buoninsegna", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-06-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1255, "died": 1319, "image": "/images/art/duccio_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Duccio was the first and perhaps the greatest of the religious painters of medieval Siena, then the capital of one of Italy’s northern city states. His work sums up the highly formal tradition inherited from the eastern civilization of Byzantium, but it is also more realistic and more natural. In the Middle Ages, when artists had been content to follow the Byzantine tradition, their principal aim was to express their strong religious beliefs in a highly decorative and spiritual way. Their figures were two-dimensional, and they made little attempt to represent them accurately or realistically. Duccio introduced something new: his work marks a turning point in that it began to express the idea that a body has life, and it moves in a particular way. This achievement had a profound effect on the Sienese painters who followed him. In 1285 he painted The Rucellai Madonna, a large work named after the aristocratic Rucellai family of Florence, who probably commissioned it and in whose private chapel it was placed in the church of Santa Maria Novella. The characteristics of Byzantine art can be seen to persist in its decorative formality: the Madonna and the Holy Child face towards us, the figures stylized and rather stiff’ against the gold background. The throne is an elaborate structure, its architectural features symbolizing the Christian Church. But there is a new liveliness and movement in the angels clinging to the throne. The gilded border of the Virgin’s dark blue robe flows down and across the painting, following the contours of her body and suggesting that it covers a living, three-dimensional figure, not just a painted representation. Colour as well as line was significant in Duccio’s work. He used it to create a harmonious scheme, rather than just to define the separate figures; and here the variations in the angels’ robes — light blue and rose, green and pale violet — make a glowing pattern. The Virgin was traditionally portrayed in blue as it was an expensive pigment, and its use implied reverence and respect; it also denoted purity since it is the colour of the sky and therefore of heaven. The figures are surrounded by a gilded frame decorated with medallions of saints and prophets. Above all, this devotional painting heralded a gradual new development in the art of Siena. The beginnings of a new humanity and warmth pervade its grave and austere beauty, and Duccio has conveyed deep religious feeling in a far more accessible way than did the art of the Byzantine masters who preceded him. " },{ "id": "/art/durer", "url": "/art/durer/", "title": "Albrecht Dürer", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-07T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1471, "died": 1528, "image": "/images/art/durer_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Dürer was born in Nuremburg, the son of a goldsmith, and he received early training in the art of drawing from his father. His first self-portrait, drawn when he was thirteen, reveals his precocious genius; its self-analysis is remarkable. Success came early, for by his twenties he was renowned throughout Europe and acknowledged as Germany’s leading artist. Vasari tells us that ‘the entire world was astonished by his mastery’. Dürer’s output was enormous, and many of his meticulously detailed woodcuts and drawings — The Praying Hands, The Young Hare — are known universally. His genius lay mainly in his draughtsmanship, and he has been described as ‘the greatest mind that ever expressed itself in line’. From 1490-94 he travelled widely, and after his marriage made his first major trip to Italy. He was the first important German artist to do so; and it was largely through him that the academic ideas and artistic achievements of the Italian Renaissance were introduced to the North. In this half-length self-portrait, painted when he was twenty-six, Dürer has portrayed himself as a perfect example of the Renaissance ‘universal man’. Not only is this one of the first self-portraits in Northern European art in which the artist is shown in an individual study rather than as part of a group, but it also makes a bid for the status of the artist as gentleman. (The profession of painter at that time ranked fairly low in the social scale.) Dürer’s success had made him a rich man ; and here his hair is elaborately curled, his clothes are fine, and his hands immaculately gloved in grey kid. A cloak is draped round his shoulders with a casual, stylish air, and over his shirt of bleached and gathered linen, trimmed with gold brocade, is an elegant white doublet edged in black, with separate oversleeves and a dashing tasselled cap. The serious intelligence of his character can be seen in his dispassionate objective gaze. The snow-covered mountains through the window are reminiscent perhaps of Dürer’s travels across the Alps. It is a portrait of self-scrutiny, maybe even self-promotion, and it embodies a great deal of the artist’s character and attitudes as well as his genius as a draughtsman. Dürer realized that prints made his art available to the widest possible public and hired an agent to sell them in the fairs and markets of Europe. The Apocalypse was Dürer’s earliest major series, illustrating the Book of Revelation with the Scripture on the reverse. His interpretation of the four horsemen — War, Famine, Pestilence and Death — has never been surpassed. The Four Horsemen are riding their steeds and treading on a gathering of hapless humans. An angel watches over the landscape, which is framed by majestic clouds and beams of light. The three horsemen are recognized in the Scripture primarily by the colors of their horses. Dürer, forced to work in gray-scale owing to the limitations of the woodcut technique, clearly portrays their weaponry — trident, sword, a set of scales, and a bow — as defining features. Death is also identified as an old weary figure with a beard riding a malnourished stallion. As the final character to join the stage, Death carries Hades with him, shown as a wide-mouthed creature swallowing a person wearing a priest’s collar and hat. The priests and nobles, like the majority of the population, are decimated by the Apocalypse. Their modern attire allows the 16th-century observer to easily envisage their own misery ahead. By covering practically the whole panel with careful detailing, Dürer wonderfully conveys the terror and turmoil of the end times. " },{ "id": "/art/el_greco", "url": "/art/el_greco/", "title": "El Greco", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-25T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1541, "died": 1614, "image": "/images/art/elgreco_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "El Greco, the Greek, was the name given by the Spanish to Domḗnikos Theotokópoulos, who was born in Crete but spent most of his working life in Toledo. He was a Baroque painter, but he was influenced by both the Mannerist and the Renaissance masters. His style is very individual and easily recognizable: elongated figures, harsh surprising colours in brilliant contrasts, and an abundant use of white. The patrons for whom he worked were taking part in a fervent religious revival, and El Greco painted mainly for churches and buildings belonging to religious orders. Christ Driving the Money Changers from the Temple is a subject he painted many times. The energetic and graceful movement of Christ’s right arm, and the angle of his elbow as he raises his whip, are pivotal parts of the entire composition. They are echoed in the bent arm of the man to the left, and both he and the man stretching upwards repeat the angle of Christ’s twisting central figure. A piece of upturned furniture, possibly a trader’s stand, testifies to the vigour with which the merchants are being urged to leave. The two crowds of people are sharply separated : on the left are the traders, and on the right a group of elderly bearded Pharisees, talking among themselves. The two groups are further defined by the small reliefs on the wall. Behind the Pharisees is the sacrifice of Isaac, a symbol in the Old Testament of purification and redemption, and behind the traders is the expulsion of Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. The paint is almost slapped on to the canvas, making strong, rough textures. The strident, acid colours, the streaks of white emphasizing the elongated limbs, the nervous tension and dynamism of the strange distorted figures, all express El Greco’s personal and passionate Christian beliefs. " },{ "id": "/art/fragonard", "url": "/art/fragonard/", "title": "Jean-Honoré Fragonard", "layout": "artist", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1732, "died": 1806, "image": "/images/art/fragonard_3.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "At the age of fifteen Fragonard was clerk to a lawyer in Paris, but he showed more talent for art, and in 1752 he went to the French masters of the day, Chardin and Boucher, to train as a painter, followed by five years at the French Academy in Rome. He worked with all the accepted subjects of the time: history, portraits, and scenes set in landscape. He more or less abandoned a public, official career to work for private clients as decorator and artist. Love, courtly and otherwise, love as a grand game, became his speciality. He decorated rooms for several of Louis XV’s mistresses, among them Madame de Pompadour and Madame du Barry. In spite of his associations with the court, Fragonard managed to survive the French Revolution and worked as curator at the Louvre; but he finally fell from official favour under Napoleon, and he died poor. The Swing is an enchantment, and it sums up the reasons why Fragonard’s art has always pleased. It shows a charming, exquisitely dressed young woman, the mistress of the reclining man who is gazing at her and up her skirts with such languid, affected ardour. He is the Baron de St Julien, who commissioned the picture ; and he and the lady are portrayed in the garden of the house where she lives. The intention of his look is obvious, recollecting past love and dwelling with delight on the thought of love to come. In control of the swing is an older man, possibly the lady’s acquiescent husband. The painting centres on the trim and joyful young woman, her legs in their white stockings kicking out from a froth of petticoats; one of her tiny shoes flies through the air as though she were sending a favour to her lover. The lighting cleverly conveys the impression that we are not looking in at a real garden, but at a theatrical scene, in which the lovers are playing parts, both for their own enjoyment and for ours. The elegant marble statue of Cupid on the left, the fine clothes of the actors themselves in this romantic, amorous moment, and the filtered sunlight, all contribute to a sense of luxury in a natural setting, manicured so finely that not a leaf is out of place. The Baron, reclining in a shrub it seems, would perhaps in real life have felt a little uncomfortable; but here all is ease and joy in a setting of formal frivolity. The painting sums up a mood not of ideal love but of ideal flirtation. " },{ "id": "/art/gauguin", "url": "/art/gauguin/", "title": "Paul Gauguin", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-27T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1848, "died": 1903, "image": "/images/art/gauguin_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The French painter Paul Gauguin led an unsettled and stormy life, and his dramatic story has been as much the subject of novels and films as his work has been analyzed by art historians. He was descended on his mother’s side from a Spanish-Peruvian family, from whom he inherited his independent spirit, fierce pride and restless fiery temperament. He did not begin to paint until his twenties, but in 1873 Gauguin gave up his business career and stable, bourgeois existence, abandoned his wife and five children, and devoted all his energies to art. His restlessness and need for an escape from conventions took him to Martinique and, in 1891, to Tahiti, where his work began to develop the features for which he is best known: simplified figures, clear outlines, rich colour patterns and exotic tropical settings. His new life brought him no real happiness, however, and he was tortured by anxieties and self-doubts. “Your civilization is your disease; my barbarism is my restoration to health. I am a savage”. Gauguin’s bold, non-naturalistic style in Primitive Tales evolved while working with Van Gogh’s friend, Emile Bernard. Strong decorative lines and flat, bright colours were inspired by simple woodcuts and Japanese prints. This troubled, searching picture reflects his state of mind and sums up his thoughts about life before his attempted suicide. It is the largest painting Gauguin ever produced (over twelve feet wide and some four-and-a-half feet high), and he finished it in a month, working day and night at high pitch. It was not meant to depict a real scene, but to reveal the world of the mind. The painting shows a mysterious region filled with intense, thoughtful, monumental figures. In the centre a young man plucks a ripe fruit from the tree above his head ; on the right are young people with a baby; and on the left an old woman crouches waiting for death. The painting moves from infancy to old age, and from birth to death ; and at the back a stone idol, its expression enigmatic, raises its hands in benediction. Gauguin believed that the universal force of nature could be expressed through the vibrations of colour. The landscape elements are shown in the vivid dark purples, blues and greens of the painting’s tropical background, and they seem to throb with the energy of life. The plants are like airborne snakes, curved, sinuous, binding the various features of the composition together. The artist himself considered this painting to be his masterpiece. It combines his brilliant, heightened colours and dramatic imagery with a passionate expression of his inner thoughts and feelings about the meaning of life. " },{ "id": "/art/gericault", "url": "/art/gericault/", "title": "Théodore Géricault", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-25T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1791, "died": 1824, "image": "/images/art/gericault_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Géricault was born in Rouen, the son of wealthy parents, and unlike the majority of artists he had a measure of financial independence all his life. He was fanatically interested in horses, both as a painter and as a reckless rider, and his tragic death at the age of thirty-two was hastened by the after-effects of riding accidents. But in about twelve years he produced enough work to leave a substantial legacy of paintings when he died. He trained in the studios of two French painters, Carle Vernet and Guerin, but Rubens, Michelangelo, Caravaggio and the Venetian painters were perhaps the strongest influences on his work. He developed a superb flair for composition and a dramatic style that are clearly displayed in The Raft of the Medusa. In 1816 a French military transport frigate, the Medusa, laden with settlers and soldiers for Senegal, had been wrecked off the coast of West Africa. The incident caused a scandal at the time because of the captain’s ineptitude, the lack of lifeboats, and the number of people drowned as a result. A hundred and fifty passengers and crew were crammed on to a makeshift raft, but two weeks later only fifteen of them were alive to tell the tale. Géricault worked for over a year on the huge painting, some sixteen feet high and over eighteen feet wide, in a special studio hired for the purpose. He launched a raft into the sea to see how it would work; he interviewed survivors; and he visited hospitals and morgues to make studies of the ill, the dying and the dead. He chose to illustrate the moment when some of the survivors first glimpsed their rescue ship, the Argos, on the horizon, but it vanished from sight, although later returned to pick them up. Some of the raft’s passengers were seized with excitement and tried desperately to attract the ship’s attention, but others, if they were not already dead, were sunk in desolation and too weak to move. The subdued colours are sombre and expressive of the horror of the whole event. The sharply contrasting light and shade on the figures is a clear indication of the influence of Caravaggio, and their bodies are wonderfully taut and muscular, like those of Michelangelo. The composition is based on the tension between two diagonals: the raft itself and the movement of the figures take the eye inwards from the left, while the ropes and the mast, with its billowing sail, strain back to hold the structural balance. Géricault’s ambition was ‘to shine, to illuminate, to astonish the world’, but The Raft of the Medusa was considered by some as an attack on a government which had allowed inefficiency to lead to tragedy, and it was given a lukewarm reception when it was first shown in Paris in 1819. Now, however, it is appreciated as an outstanding work of the French Romantic movement, brilliantly constructed and intensely powerful. This painting is variously titled The Mad Woman, The Insane Woman, The Monomania of Envy and The Hyena of the Salpêtrière. Whilst in England, Géricault made studies of the poverty and misery to be found on the streets of London. In the same vein, on his return to Paris, he visited La Salpêtrière, an insane asylum, where he made portraits of the inmates in a compassionate attempt to capture and understand the image of mental illness. " },{ "id": "/art/giorgione", "url": "/art/giorgione/", "title": "Giorgione", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-07-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1477, "died": 1510, "image": "/images/art/giorgione_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Giorgione, born in Castelfranco, some twenty-five miles from Venice, is one of Europe’s greatest painters, yet practically nothing is known about him. It is thought that he worked with or was apprenticed to Giovanni Bellini in Venice, that in Bellini’s studio he met the young Titian, and that Titian in his turn became Giorgione’s pupil. He died of the plague in his early thirties, and some of his paintings may have been finished by other artists after his death. This has added to the considerable problem of deciding which works are entirely authentic and which are not. As a result of his remarkable talent, and the fact that information about his life was invented because so little was known, a legend has grown up around him in which he has become a mysterious and almost mythical figure. Portraits, religious scenes and landscapes were the themes of Giorgione’s small oil paintings, and he was the first artist in Venice to produce work for collectors rather than for churches or public buildings. Like The Tempest , many of his pictures do not represent a real or even mythological scene in the way that most paintings had done in the past. Giorgione was ahead of his time in that his work was created to express a mood or an idea, much as modern art does today, and this had a profound effect on his Ventian contemporaries and the painters who followed him. The Tempest is one of the very few paintings — about thirteen in all — that have always unanimously been attributed to Giorgione, but its subject has been disputed for over four centuries. X-rays have revealed that Giorgione first painted another female nude where the man now is, which indicates that he had no intention of illustrating a particular event, but was allowing his imagination entirely to guide him. The scene is lit by the strange golden light of an approaching storm, and a streak of lightning pierces the heavy thunderclouds. On a grassy bank a plump young woman, naked but for a length of white cloth draped around her shoulders, cradles a baby to her breast, and a shepherd passing by stops to look at them from the water’s edge. The overwhelming, elemental force of Nature, and the part man plays in the cycle of life are implied by the storm and the figures in the landscape, and evidence of man’s creation of the civilized world is provided by the buildings along the river bank. In the distance are the dome of a church and the sunlit walls of battlemented palaces (on the roof of one a stork or heron is outlined against the sky). Behind the young man are the ruins of ancient buildings overgrown with trees, indicating perpetual change and the passing of time. Giorgione has used intense colour and light to bind the composition together, and to pick out details of architecture, distant trees, the planks of the bridge, the shining foliage of bushes behind the two figures, and the beautiful naked flesh of the woman and her child. And he has reproduced superbly in this mysterious, emotional landscape the eerie light of a summer storm, and the electric tension it creates in the atmosphere. " },{ "id": "/art/giotto", "url": "/art/giotto/", "title": "Giotto di Bondone", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-07-01T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1266, "died": 1337, "image": "/images/art/giotto_4.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Giotto was to Florentine painting what Duccio was to that of Siena — a pathfinder — and his work had a far-reaching effect. He moved away entirely from stylized formality, and gave his figures a greater degree of solidity and movement than had been seen before in Western art. His work represents a breakthrough in the way it expressed human emotion with imagination and understanding. He applied to his religious paintings a close observation of the world around him, so that they are believable and relate closely to life. His success produced commissions in Padua, Naples, Milan and Rome, but most of his life was spent in his home town of Florence. Much of his work was done in the technique known as fresco, a method of wall-painting in which water-based pigment, similar to watercolour, was applied directly on to wet plaster. The paint and plaster then fused together as they dried. It was used most often in the decoration of religious buildings in Italy. The frescoes for the Arena Chapel were commissioned by Enrico Scrovegni, a member of a wealthy banking family of Padua. Giotto decorated the chapel with scenes from the lives of Joachim and Anna (the parents of the Virgin Mary), the Virgin herself and Christ her son, which together provide a powerful narrative of the lives of Christ’s family. Each scene is set in a separate rectangular border, painted to resemble a mosaic, in which are small insets depicting Old Testament stories. The Lamentation is simple and dramatic in composition. A large outcrop of rock leads sharply downwards from the right in a diagonal line, so that our attention is focused on the group around the dead Christ. His body has been taken down from the cross, and the figures of the Virgin, Joseph, Mary Magdalene and some of the disciples cluster round in attitudes of grief. Their feelings are expressed in a new and lifelike repertoire of gestures. The Virgin cradles her son on her lap, fiercely protective of him, and Mary Magdalene holds his wounded feet. A group of angels, materializing from the clouds, weep and wring their hands in distraction. On the rock is the skeleton of a tree symbolizing the Tree of Knowledge, which was said to have withered and died when Adam fell from grace. Separating us from a full view of Christ’s body are two cloaked and hooded figures, their backs towards us. Compared with the stiffness of Byzantine art, in which figures by tradition had faced the spectator, this was a remarkably informal and realistic device. As a result of it we are drawn into the group, as if we are looking over their shoulders and sharing their involvement in the tragedy. Giotto has depicted the event with great imagination, and conveys the human reactions to it with a compassion that brings it alive. " },{ "id": "/art/goya", "url": "/art/goya/", "title": "Francisco Goya", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-25T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1746, "died": 1828, "image": "/images/art/goya_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The artistic career of the Spanish artist Goya was long and successful. He was principal painter to King Charles IV of Spain and director of the Spanish Royal Academy, and prodigiously gifted as a draughtsman, print-maker and painter. He was born in Saragossa, had a conventional apprenticeship in art, and became known principally as a painter of portraits and of the horrors of war. His portraits are often devastatingly candid, and so caustic in their portrayal of the corruption and arrogance of the Spanish monarchy that it is surprising his commissions continued. He criticized violently the cruelty, hypocrisy and stupidity that surrounded him; and in a series of prints called The Disasters of War he revealed the savage brutality of Napoleon’s forces when they took over Spain in 1808. But he had another side which came to the fore in his sensual and subtle portraits of women, indicating the immense scope of his talent. He became the greatest Spanish painter between Velazquez and Picasso, and one of the greatest artists in Europe. The Third of May is one of a pair of paintings which together depict two days in the short-lived uprising of the people of Madrid against the French troops in the Napoleonic Wars. The paintings were commissioned a few years after the event, with the command to the artist to ‘perpetuate with his brush the most notable and heroic actions or events of our glorious insurrection against the tyrant of Europe’; and Goya has produced two of the most electrifying and dramatic works in European art. This painting depicts the second day, when Spanish civilians were executed by the invading army in the aftermath of the fighting. The group of Spaniards cowering in panic in front of a French firing squad are depicted with horrifying realism: the dead body slumped on the ground, the pool of blood and the expressions of the victims are all shown with a shocking intensity. They are portrayed not as heroes of war, but as ordinary frightened men, pleading for their lives and showing disbelief, terror and even a sort of crazed bravado in the face of death. Our attention is focused on the central figure by means of various devices: Goya has painted him, and the figures surrounding him, considerably larger in proportion to their executioners than they would be in reality; the massacre is taking place at night by the harsh light of a lantern and the kneeling man’s white shirt reflects its glare; the soldiers are shooting at point-blank range; and the man’s pose, with arms outstretched, is extremely eye- catching and dramatic. These tactics of composition and lighting heighten the drama and fear, and reveal Goya at his most passionate. " },{ "id": "/art/grunewald", "url": "/art/grunewald/", "title": "Matthias Grünewald", "layout": "artist", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1470, "died": 1528, "image": "/images/art/grunewald_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Grünewald was, with Dürer, one of the greatest German painters of the sixteenth century. Little of his life was recorded and few of his works have survived, but The Isenheim Altarpiece is undoubtedly a painting of genius. It was commissioned by the monastic order of St Anthony for their hospital church at Isenheim, near Colmar. The altarpiece has two themes: the narration of the stories of the Annunciation, the Nativity, the Crucifixion, the Lamentation and the Resurrection ; and the depiction of scenes from the lives of the patron saints of the monastery. It is made up of an elaborate series of folding wings, and The Crucifixion can be seen on the outside when all the wings are closed. Grünewald has created a truly terrifying painting, perhaps the most terrifying in Christian religious art. The scene is bleak and dark, and the cross is set in a rocky, barren landscape. To the left, in white, the swooning Virgin Mary is supported by St John, into whose care Christ had entrusted her; Mary Magdalene, her long golden hair rippling down her back, kneels at the foot of the cross, her hands raised in prayer; and to the right St John the Baptist points to the figure of the dead Christ. Framed by his arm is the inscription in Latin, ‘It is fitting that He increase and I diminish.’ The lamb at his feet holds a thin cross of reeds, and blood, representing the Holy Sacrament, pours from a wound in its chest into a golden chalice. The most remarkable feature of this deeply disturbing painting is the nearly central figure of Christ himself nailed to the cross. The placard above his head bears the letters INRI, the initials for the Latin Iesus Nazarenus, Rex Iudaeorum, Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. Blood still gushes from the sword wound in his side and his head has fallen limply on to his shoulder. His body is thin, and distorted with the stiffness of death; the fingers grope upwards like frozen claws. Splinters and thorns pierce his skin, evidence of the beating he received, and his flesh has a greenish pallor, the feet already turning black with putrefaction. The horizontal beam of the cross is dragged down slightly by the dead weight of his body. The agony of the Crucifixion is depicted starkly and simply. There is nothing romantic about it; the harsh reality of the event is portrayed with a passionate accuracy that makes it all the more heartrending. " },{ "id": "/art/hiroshige", "url": "/art/hiroshige/", "title": "Hiroshige Utagawa", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-24T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1797, "died": 1858, "image": "/images/art/hiroshige_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Utagawa Hiroshige was a leading exponent of ukiyo-e — ‘Pictures of the floating world’ during the last half century of its existence as a Japanese art form. Ukiyo-e originated in the late seventeenth century, dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure in everyday urban life and based on popular idols taken from the ranks of courtesans and actors. The collectable ukiyo-e woodblock prints developed along relatively sophisticated lines of their own, within the Japanese tradition of harmonious colour and graceful composition, which raised them above plain folk art. They were priced to suit the pockets of middle-class tradesmen, artisans and merchants. Paintings were reserved for the wealthier ranks. Hiroshige’s total output was immense, some 5400 prints. He studied drawing from childhood and was apprenticed to just one master, Utagawa Tohoyiro. Yet Hiroshige worked for over twenty years before producing the series that established his reputation, Fifty-three stations of the Tokaido Road; an ambitious travelogue that followed the great highway between Kyoto and Edo. Night Snow at Kanbara is a wood-block print from the series Fifty-three stations of the Tokaido Road. His characteristically shaded sky registers twilight over a mountain village engulfed in snow, through which three people are struggling home. Snow, rain or mist are favoured background conditions against which Hiroshige sets his travellers, often depicted crossing each others’ paths, emphasizing the transience of existence. Working in the nineteenth century, Hiroshige and Hokusai each preferred to creates landscapes rather than portraits of actors, wrestlers, poets and courtesans. Their innate love of the Japanese for all aspects of the natural world ensured that both artists had an enthusiastic following. Although he may not have matched Hokusai’s draftsmanship, Hiroshige at his best is unsurpassed in his poetic vision. His ability to evoke the mood of a particular place still has unfailing appeal to westerners. " },{ "id": "/art/hokusai", "url": "/art/hokusai/", "title": "Katsushika Hokusai", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-16T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1760, "died": 1849, "image": "/images/art/hokusai_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Hokusai was responsible for a phenomenal 30,000 works of art. He lived for nothing else and was driven to perfect his style with every new undertaking. Between the ages of sixty-four and seventy-two he had a burst of creativity that resulted in several major series of woodblock prints, including The Thirty-Six Views of Mount Fuji. As a youth, Hokusai was on a constant quest for his artistic niche. After a relatively long period under Katsukawa Shunshim he left the studio following his master’s death and — ever curious — investigated what other schools had to offer. In the process, he came across examples of art displaying a distinct western influence that had originally filtered through via the Dutch trading post in Nagasaki. To appreciate the impact of such influence, it is necessary to remember that Japan underwent a policy of National Seclusion from 1639 to 1854. Foreign trade was strictly limited and the Japanese themselves forbidden to travel abroad. The pictures derived from European engravings inspired Hokusai finally to become a landscapist at the age of thirty-eight. He began work afresh, experimenting with western perspective, making endless observations; the ensuing work went into twelve volumes of the Hokusai Manga (sketchbooks) published in 1814. But it was ukiyo-e — pictures of the floating world — that made the reverse journey in the late nineteenth century to complete a circle of influences and reveal to a delighted Europe the glories of Japanese print. One of Hokusai’s finest works, this print from the Fuji series is arguably the single most famous image in all Asian art. The horizon has been lowered to emphasise the monstrous wave towering above, its impending crash of water heightening a tension over the graceful lines of a diminutive Mt Fuji. This one is from the collection of the Japan Ukiyo-e Museum, Matsumoto. Amida waterfall is one of the most stylised, visually intriguing and dreamlike of all Hokusai’s creations. The waterfall derives its name from the most popular Buddhist deity in Japan, Amida Nyōrai, whose rounded slender shoulders and figure take a similar shape to the cascading water, and whose head, halo or third eye is thought to have a similar shape to the form of the circular hollow at the top of this print’s radical design. One of series entitled One Hundred Poems Explained by the Nurse, this masterpiece of colour printing illustrates a poem by Sanji Hitoshi. Hokusai’s innate sense of proportion marries well with his development of western-style perspective; and figures of all kinds, at work and leisure, fed his insatiable enthusiasm for depicting life in all its aspects. " },{ "id": "/art/holbein", "url": "/art/holbein/", "title": "Hans Holbein the Younger", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-08-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1497, "died": 1543, "image": "/images/art/holbein_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Hans Holbein was born in the rich commercial city of Augsburg, where his father Hans the Elder was a well-known painter. He trained in his father’s workshop and then moved to Basel, where he started on his own successful career. Eventually he was to seek his fortune in London, and to this circumstance we owe the greatest paintings of the Tudors and their circle: Henry vm and his wives; Edward VI as a child; Sir Thomas More before his fall from favour; and Thomas Cromwell. He became Henry VIII’s court painter, with a studio in the Old Palace of Whitehall. It was during his stay in London, and probably shortly before he entered the king’s service, that he painted this magnificent portrait. _ The Ambassadors is one of the first full-length, life-size portraits in the North, and it shows two richly dressed, dignified young men, conscious of their office, their responsibilities and their positions in life. The robes they wear are fur-trimmed and made of shining, elaborately decorated materials. Both young men are surrounded by objects — terrestrial and celestial globes, mathematical instruments, books both religious and worldly, a lute, a piece of Turkish carpet —l all of which indicate their high education, their knowledge and understanding of the world about them and their interest in science, art and religion. The man on the left is an aristocrat Jean de Dinteville, aged twenty-nine, the French Ambassador in London; his friend and visitor is Georges de Selve, the twenty-five-year-old Bishop of Lavaur, who also undertook diplomatic duties. These men are in the prime of life, but Holbein is anxious to show that death is never far away, and he has included several symbols of death as a reminder of this. In the top left hand corner a crucifix is just visible, the tiny skeletal figure of Christ almost covered by the rich green damask of the curtain; Jean de Dinteville wears on his tip-tilted hat a badge decorated with a skull; and at the very front of the painting there is a strange object, which can only be deciphered if the spectator moves to the right and views it from the side. It is a human skull, possibly painted in this distorted way because the painting was to hang on a staircase, and would be seen from the side. Two mathematical instruments on the top shelf of the table show the exact time when the portrait was supposed to have been completed : 10.30 on the morning of 11 April. Time is frozen ; and this illusion paradoxically underlines the knowledge of time rushing on and age approaching. A string on the lute is broken, another symbol of how things end. With great penetration Holbein has painted something of the lives of these two young men as well as revealing their accomplishments. Several of his great group portraits have sadly been lost; but The Ambassadors combines in the richest possible measure his insight into character, his range of intellectual interests, and his genius in portraying the world with perception and accuracy. As was typical of a hard-working artist of his period, Holbein turned his hand to many things besides painting; he designed costumes, stained glass, objects in silver, and even themes for festivals. But his ability as a portrait painter brought him an international reputation, and he was certainly one of the greatest Northern Europe has ever produced. The Tudor period was one of intrigue and deception. In this portrait of Henry VIII’s fourth wife, perhaps Holbein did smooth over with his meticulous, blended brushstrokes those features that caused the king to call her the “Mare of Flanders” once he had met her. Her elaborate dress certainly outshines her facial expression. Should that have been a clue? However, by the time he and Anne were wed, Henry was more or less ready to commission Holbein’s portrait of his fifth wife. When this portrait was first painted, Southwell had been sherriff of Suffolk and Norfolk for two years, despite the fact that he was a convicted murderer. Holbein conveys a certain unpleasantness about the man but, as always, in his dispassionate style. The unshaven jaw below his sneering mouth draws the viewers’ attention to the scars on his neck. " },{ "id": "/art/hopper", "url": "/art/hopper/", "title": "Edward Hopper", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1882, "died": 1967, "image": "/images/art/hopper_3.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Edward Hopper was one of the pioneers of twentieth-century American realism. He painted scenes from the country of New England and the city of New York: backwater scenes — old shabby houses, a few people waiting at a cinema, a street early on a Sunday morning or a lonely garage at dusk on a country road. He painted an America of loneliness and isolation, whose citizens lead lives of spiritual poverty, and he found a sad, touching beauty in their desperation. The city scene Nighthawks is filled with the atmosphere of depression and anxiety at the start of the Second World War. The clothes of the people at the all-night ‘lunch counter’ and the lettering outside, as well as the mood of the painting, are strongly evocative of the 1930s and early 40s. The upper windows have their blinds halfway down, the windows of the shops are bare, and the city is silent. A harsh fluorescent light ruthlessly exposes the small group of people as though they are on a stage, and floods through the glass walls on to an empty street, its effect heightened by the surrounding darkness. A man is seated with his back towards us, a little hunched up, as though he is drawing comfort from a drink in front of him. A couple wait to be served; they are together, but they appear to have little to say to one another. Hopper’s people are passive; they seem resigned and desolate, unable or unwilling to communicate. The hard light gleams on two large metal coffee urns, making them look strangely dramatic and menacing. The paint is applied quite thickly, and the intense, bitter colours reflect the glare. The composition is made up of simple, stark horizontal and vertical shapes, which emphasize the bleakness of the environment, and make the people seem more vulnerable. Hopper thought of his art as intimate transcriptions from nature, and he denied any social message or purpose, but he conveys through his paintings such a deep understanding of human isolation that we can identify with this silent group. A woman sits alone with a cup of coffee. We can only guess if the empty chair opposite means that she is expecting someone, or indeed would welcome the arrival of anyone at all. Placing her in an alienating environment where people connect only with vending machines, Hopper makes use of distance and detachment — painted and imaginary — to create a situation where the viewer supposes the consequences. " },{ "id": "/art/kahlo", "url": "/art/kahlo/", "title": "Frida Kahlo", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1907, "died": 1954, "image": "/images/art/kahlo_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The Mexican artist and feminist icon was a performance artist of paint, using the medium to lay bare her vulnerabilities while also constructing a persona of herself as an embodiment of Mexico’s cultural heritage. Her most famous works are the many surrealistic self-portraits in which she maintains a regal bearing even as she casts herself as a martyr to personal and physical suffering—anguishes rooted in a life of misfortunes that included contracting polio as a child, suffering a catastrophic injury as a teenager, and enduring a tumultuous marriage to fellow artist Diego Rivera. She was born in Coyoacán in Mexico City and grew up at what was called “The Blue House”, or La Casa Azul, which was her family home. Kahlo suffered numerous hardships in her life, and the most notable was a bus accident in 1925, which left her with multiple broken bones and fractures and a punctured uterus and abdomen. She started painting after her accident, but she was always interested in art; her father was a photographer, and Kahlo would assist in his studio as well as learn drawing from Fernando Fernandez, who was a print-maker and friend of her father’s. Kahlo produced numerous notable paintings throughout her career, all inspired by her rich inner world as well as her passion for politics, activism, and her heritage. The Two Fridas was the first large-scale work done by Kahlo and is considered one of her most notable paintings. It is a double self-portrait, depicting two versions of Kahlo seated together. One is wearing a white European-style Victorian dress while the other is wearing a traditional Tehuana dress. Some art historians have suggested that the two figures in the painting are a representation of Frida’s dual heritage. Her father, Guillermo Kahlo, was German; while her mother, Matilde Calderon, was Mexican. Both Fridas show an open heart. The heart in the Mexican Frida is healthy whereas the heart of the European Frida is open and cut. An interpretation of this is that it not only shows two separate personalities but indicates the constant pain that Frida is going through. Although the two figures appear separate, a vein connecting the two further symbolises that despite the differences in the two figures they both make up one Frida; together they make the self-portrait. " },{ "id": "/art/kandinsky", "url": "/art/kandinsky/", "title": "Wassily Kandinsky", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2025-04-17T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1866, "died": 1944, "image": "/images/art/kandinsky_2.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Wassily Kandinsky, Russian-born painter and writer on art, one of the most important pioneers of abstract art. He abandoned a promising university career teaching law, partly under the impact of an exhibition in Moscow of French *Impressionists, at which one of Monet’s Haystack pictures made a particularly lasting impression upon him, and in 1896 went to Munich to study painting. In 1901 he was one of the founders of an avant-garde exhibiting society called the Phalanx, the main forum for Jugendstil (Art Nouveau) in Germany, and in 1902 he joined the Berlin Sezession. Between 1903 and 1908 he travelled widely in western Europe and Africa. His pictures at the turn of the century combined features of Art Nouveau with reminiscences of Russian folk art, to which he added a Fauve-like intensity of colour. In 1908 he returned to Munich and began to eliminate the representational element from his work, until, in a series of Compositions, Improvisations, and Impressions, done between 1910 and 1913, he arrived at pure abstraction. (The best collection of works from this period is in the Lenbachhaus in Munich.) Kandinsky himself said that his understanding of the power of non-representational art derived from a night when he went into his studio in Munich and failed to recognize one of his own paintings that was lying the wrong way up, seeing in it a picture ‘of extraordinary beauty glowing with an inner radiance’. From 1911 he was one of the most active figures in Der Blaue Reiter almanac, editing along with Franz Marc. In 1914 he returned to Russia, where he gained several distinguished academic posts. However, being out of sympathy with the new ideas that subordinated fine art to industrial design, he left Russia in 1921 to take up a teaching post in the Bauhaus, where he remained until it was closed in 1933. In 1927 he became a German citizen. He left Germany for France in 1933 and lived at Neuilly-sur-Seine. He became a French citizen in 1939. Kandinsky’s style was based on the non-representational properties of form and colour; used to express the full range of his memories, emotions and imagination. Kandinsky was one of the most influential artists of his generation both for his painting and for his writing. He was in the forefront of those who investigated the expressive attributes of artistic materials without reference to natural appearances. His progress towards non-figurative abstraction proceeded alongside his philosophical views about the nature of art, which were influenced by theosophy and mysticism. He did not completely repudiate representation, but he held that the ‘pure’ artist seeks to express only ‘inner and essential’ feelings and ignores the superficial and fortuitous. His chief works setting forth his theories of abstract pictorial composition are Über das Geistige in der Kunst (Concerning the Spiritual in Art, 1912), Rückblicke (Reminiscences, 1913), and Punkt und Linie zu Fläche (Point, Line and Surface, published in 1926 as a Bauhaus pamphlet). " },{ "id": "/art/klimt", "url": "/art/klimt/", "title": "Gustav Klimt", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-06-24T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1862, "died": 1918, "image": "/images/art/klimt_5.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Klimt lived and worked in a scandalous city at a scandalous time: Vienna in the late nineteenth century. It was a hothouse of creative activity, producing the deliciously amorous operas of Richard Strauss, the salacious witty plays of Arthur Schnitzler, and a new wave in art and architecture called ‘Jugendstil’ (Young Style) a variant of Art Nouveau. All this came together with a new sexual freedom and an emphasis on the female form to produce the highly erotic work of Gustav Klimt. He was the son of a gold and silver engraver, and this influence can be seen in his craftsmanship, and in his extensive use of gold. He set up a highly successful artists’ workshop which provided mural decorations for public buildings and private houses. By 1898 he was both founder member and president of a newly formed artists’ society, the Vienna Secession, and had embarked on an intellectually fashionable career. His later style was much influenced by a visit he paid in 1903 to Ravenna, where he was dazzled by the ancient mosaics which decorate the churches. This is evident in the rich ornament and intricately worked small areas in his pictures which are linked to form complex, tightly-knit patterns. The Three Ages of Woman represents the cycle of life and are set in a sea of silver bubbles. The figures themselves are more closely surrounded by shapes reflecting Klimt’s interest in the science of microbiology. A little research reveals the shapes floating above the younger woman resemble colonies of bacteria, while the older one stands amid an elongated protozoa associated with death and decomposition. Klimt was naturally a silent man, but he expressed himself eloquently through his art. He never married, but he adored women and often painted them. The Kiss, his most famous painting, was shown in 1908 at a major exhibition in Vienna, and, in spite of its suggestiveness, it was bought by the Austrian government. Against an enormous golden sky a man and a woman are embracing, naked under their richly patterned cloaks. The man’s head is garlanded and the woman’s red hair adorned with star-like flowers; his cloak is decorated with strong vertical rectangles, and hers with circular flower forms, to accentuate their sexuality. They are sinking together on to a carpet of flowers, and the woman’s eyes are closed in ecstasy as he kisses her. She is supported by his arms, her hand resting lightly on his neck, only her toes stretched to balance her, and to increase the erotic tension of the painting. " },{ "id": "/art/lautrec", "url": "/art/lautrec/", "title": "Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-28T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1864, "died": 1901, "image": "/images/art/lautrec_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was the son of a French aristocrat. As the result of two accidents as a boy, in which he broke first one leg and then the other, he was crippled for life: his legs never grew normally, and he became a grotesque figure with the body of an adult and the legs of a child. He began to paint during the periods of convalescence from his accidents, and went on to study art in Paris. His physical disability had had a psychological effect on him too, and he led a decadent life, seeking the company of people who would accept him without discomfort. He mixed with singers, dancers and prostitutes, entertainers of the music hall, the circus and the cabaret with whom he felt at ease. These people and other artists formed the subject matter of his art. He had an infallible eye for design, a gift for conveying movement and atmosphere in a few rapid strokes, and he recorded what he saw without implication of any kind. At the Moulin Rouge shows his world, unique and full of gossip. The Moulin Rouge (where the can-can was made famous) was a music hall at the centre of Bohemian life in Montmartre, and Toulouse-Lautrec, initially through the medium of posters, made many of its stars immortal, and made his name as a painter. The inhabitants of the room are arranged in an apparently accidental way, but the painting is in fact made up of precise diagonals formed by the table, the balustrade on the left and the planks on the floor. The brilliant hennaed hair of the woman with her back to us is echoed throughout the composition, so that colour as well as line unifies the picture; she also provides a striking focal point. In the foreground a woman stares out at us, her face mask-like under heavy makeup. She is only partially visible, as if her movement has been caught as it would be in a photograph. Lautrec’s friends sit drinking absinthe (a powerful liqueur which was popular in their circle) and talking at the table in the centre. Amongst them is the Spanish dancer La Macarona, her bright red lips in a rather jaded smile. The artist himself can be seen at the back, his top hat barely reaching the shoulder of his cousin next to him; to the right a famous dancer at the Moulin Rouge known as La Goulue (The Glutton) arranges her hair. There is a feeling of continuous activity, as if the artist actually is part of the scene he has painted, and the movement in the picture is going on all around him. Mirrors reflect the crowded, smoky, slightly out-of-focus haze of the room, accentuating the life and the atmosphere of the place which Lautrec has caught vividly. " },{ "id": "/art/lempicka", "url": "/art/lempicka/", "title": "Tamara Łempicka", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-24T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1898, "died": 1980, "image": "/images/art/lempicka_5.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Tamara de Lempicka was a prolific painter who often worked on commission for the rich and famous. Although she also made prints, Lempicka is best known for her paintings, which range from figurative to abstract and encompass portraits, figure studies, nudes, still lifes, urban scenes, and religious figures. Lempicka got her start in Paris, where she moved with her husband shortly after the Russian Revolution of 1917. There she honed her artistic skills and established herself as a portraitist, working in an art deco style. In 1928, De Lempicka was commissioned to make a self-portrait for the cover of the German fashion magazine Die Dame. The painting she produced showed her at the wheel of a Bugatti racing car, wearing a leather helmet and gloves and wrapped in a gray scarf. She portrayed herself as a personification of cold beauty, independence, wealth and inaccessibility. In fact, she did not own a Bugatti automobile; her own car was a small yellow Renault, which was stolen one night when she and her friends were celebrating at La Rotonde in Montparnasse. Between the two World Wars, the artist’s clientele included writers, fellow artists, scientists, and many of Eastern Europe’s exiled nobility. Lempicka’s career waned with the increasing popularity of abstraction during the postwar period, but she continued to paint until the end of her life. " },{ "id": "/art/magritte", "url": "/art/magritte/", "title": "René Magritte", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1898, "died": 1967, "image": "/images/art/magritte_2.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "René Magritte was the son of a Belgian businessman, and the eldest of three brothers. Most of his life was spent in Brussels, where he studied for several years at the Academie des Beaux-Arts, and for a while supported himself and his wife Georgette by designing wallpaper and commercial catalogues. In the 1920s he began to paint full time, and during a few tremendously productive periods he produced a painting a day. He spent five years in Paris from 1927-32, and joined a group of painters who came to be known as the Surrealists. The movement developed from Dada, and its object was to explore the sub-conscious mind, and provoke an emotional and instinctive reaction to the world that was free from preconceptions. With the dream-like clarity and enormous inventiveness typical of the movement, Magritte combines ordinary everyday objects in an incongruous and startling way that is often funny and always surprising. He worked in a bland, deadpan manner, the paint smooth and dry-looking, the colours usually dull browns, blues and greys, which makes the strange mixtures of unrelated objects seem normal and convincing, and the effect therefore even more disconcerting. Magritte was always conscious about things that have a flip side even more curious than their facade. In order to render the dark side visible, several of Magritte’s recurring motifs are rendered here: Bowler hatted Mr. Average, the melodious cowbell with associated cheese, and the evocative house at twilight. Being fooled allows us to “shift our gaze”, as the philosopher Lacan wrote, to eventually see things for what they really are by seeing what they really aren’t. Most of Magritte’s work was the result of a long period of reflection, but Time Transfixed appeared to him spontaneously, like a sudden vision. It shows a mantelpiece, as anonymous and simple as most of the elements in his paintings, with empty candlesticks and a clock reflected in a large mirror. From the empty fireplace a locomotive engine rushes into the room, smoke and steam pouring up the chimney from its funnel. A train is associated in our minds with motion, and a clock is of course the emblem of time, but they are used here in a sort of double bluff : as a reminder of life rushing on and as an implication, because a painting can only capture a split second, of time and movement transfixed. The painting has a logic of its own, and a distorted connection with reality, which makes it seem as if the impossible could easily happen. An unnerving tension is set up when one is faced with something unexpected, and Magritte, by creating an Alice in Wonderland world of his own inventing, full of illusions and surprises, jars us out of our preconceptions about the world we take for granted. " },{ "id": "/art/manet", "url": "/art/manet/", "title": "Édouard Manet", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1832, "died": 1883, "image": "/images/art/manet_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Manet came from a comfortable middle-class Parisian background — his father was an official in the Ministry of Justice — and his decision to be a painter met with strenuous family opposition. He studied under Couture, a much admired artist of the day, who gave him a thorough grounding in technique; but his travels studying European art, and the experience he gained from copying Old Masters in the Louvre were equally valuable. He developed a brilliant technique, based on a limited palette and the use of contrasting light and shade, and he painted directly on to the canvas, which gives his work great zest and vitality. He longed for public recognition, but his unconventional ideas led to him being labelled a rebel, and his paintings were frequently refused by the official Salons. He joined the Impressionist group soon after it was formed, and became one of its key figures, although, fearing more disparagement from the critics, he refused to take part in its exhibitions. The painting that caused one of the greatest upheavals of the time was an early work — Le déjeuner sur l’herbe — which preceded the Impressionists by nearly a decade. When it was first exhibited it caused a scandal, and the Emperor himself called it ‘an affront to modesty’. It was revolutionary not because the woman is naked, but because she is shown with two men who are fully clothed in contemporary dress, and they are engaged in an ordinary conversation at an ordinary picnic. The nude was no longer protected in the traditional way by the scene being set in some mythical place, and illustrating an ancient legend. Even the picnic itself consists of ordinary everyday food — not exotic sweetmeats, but the bread rolls that were part of the staple diet of every Parisian. Manet wanted to be free to paint any subject that appealed to him, without preserving conventions, and this attitude was hard for his contemporaries to accept. The people represented in Le déjeuner sur l’Herbe were well known to him: the woman in the foreground is Victorine Meurand, one of his favourite models, and the men are his brother Eugene (who later married one of the Impressionist group, Berthe Morisot) and a young Dutch sculptor Leon Koella-Leenhoff. He has shown them in a wooded country setting, with a woman bathing in a pool in the background, and a soft light filtering through the trees, highlighting the pale flesh against the rich deep greens of the grass. The flesh tones are contrasted so dramatically with their dark background as to seem almost luminous. Music in the Tuileries is a statement of Manet’s desire to paint in an entirely new way. It is chaotic, dynamic and most importantly, it is modern. The figures do not appear to be posed or static, they are living, breathing people who inhabit urban Paris. The irony of this piece is that despite its title, no music is seen being played. There are no musicians, no instruments, and no obvious performances taking place. In this way, the piece contrasts with Manet’s earlier works that feature music and musicians such as Spanish Guitarist, Street Singer and Old Musician. " },{ "id": "/art/mantegna", "url": "/art/mantegna/", "title": "Andrea Mantegna", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-06-16T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1431, "died": 1536, "image": "/images/art/mantegna_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "For over half a century Andrea Mantegna was probably the most influential painter of Northern Italy. His work is characterized by decisive line, subdued colour, and a highly skilled use of perspective, which gives it depth and reality. He was a master of the foreshortened figure. His father was a carpenter, but at an early age the boy was apprenticed to and legally adopted by a painter in Padua, a highly cultured city with one of the oldest universities in Europe. By 1448, aged seventeen, Mantegna had become an independent master. When Mantegna was a young man, there was a huge interest around the North Italian city of Paduain the collection and study of Roman antiquities. Mantegna knew many of the university scholars and antiquitarians involved in the work, and what he learned from them he frequently reproduced throughout his art. In turn, his paintings produced a growing interest in the revival of the classical forms. Throughout his career, he made frequent references to Roman style of bas-relief as shown with Caesar himself in the epic suite The Triumph of Caesar. There are three surviving paintings by him on the subject of St Sebastian, a Roman soldier who was sentenced to death by the Emperor Diocletian for his belief in Christianity. Sebastian was topical because he was traditionally appealed to for protection from the plague, which was rife in Mantegna’s time. His martyrdom was a popular subject as it allowed the artist to concentrate, with all due piety, on the near naked male figure. For Mantegna it was also an excuse to demonstrate his scholarly passion for the ruins of ancient Rome. The figure of Sebastian is stone-like and sculptural, reminiscent of ancient Roman statues, and in spite of the arrows piercing the flesh, and the rivulets of blood, it has a feeling of strength and dominance. Parallel to his feet is a remnant of a Roman statue, a carved stone foot in a stone sandal. Sebastian’s arms and feet are tied to a fluted column, part of an ancient Roman temple. There is a wealth of detail in the imaginary classical background : magnificent ruins perched precipitously on rocky crags, with a fortified town on the topmost peak, and fantastic stylized clouds floating overhead. The painting has an austere but undeniable grandeur, and it is easy to understand why princes and potentates vied to own the work of Mantegna. Mantegna has frames this confined space in a way that architecturally defines it as the cell of a morgue; and, trained has he was in the study of classical models, he conveys an impression of austerity with his Christ figure. His mastery of foreshortening also ensures that whatever the angle of approach, the viewer encounters the pierced feet. The draperies are sharply defined, painted — it is said — from Mantegna’s models of folded paper and gummed fabric. The frescoes in the Camera degli Sposi (Bridal Chamber) of the ducal palace in Mantua are striking examples of fifteenth century illusionism. " },{ "id": "/art/masaccio", "url": "/art/masaccio/", "title": "Masaccio", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1401, "died": 1428, "image": "/images/art/masaccio_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The tragically short-lived Masaccio (Tommaso di Ser Giovanni di Mone) was the first great Florentine painter of the Italian Renaissance. He created dramatic effects by his use of space, light and perspective; and in the twenty-seven years of his life he developed an austere realism and economy of style which influenced many other artists. The Rendering of the Tribute Money describes a scene from Matthew’s gospel. The tax collector at the Capernaun demands payment of the temple tax. Jesus’ answer is to order Peter to catch a fish, and in its mouth they will find a miraculous silver coin. Historians believe this painting alludes to a controversial tax reform in Florence. Masaccio may have included himself in the group of apostles, possibly as St. Thomas, on the right. The apostles stand in a distinct semi-circle, solidly modeled in their Greek-style tunics and cloaks. The landscape in the background is painted in perfect perspective with successive planes of distance and the light very clearly coming from one source. Masaccio was responsible for several of the frescoes in the Brancacci Chapel in Florence. One of these, The Expulsion, shows the figures of Adam and Eve as they leave the Garden of Eden after their banishment. There seems to be a physical force behind them, driving them through the gates of Paradise; and over their heads an angel flourishes a sword, both to urge them on and to guard the gates of the Garden. The angel is amply clothed in flame-coloured draperies, accentuating the vulnerable state of the figures of Adam and Eve, naked but for a garland of leaves. Eve’s hands, one covering her groin, the other her breasts, are in the traditional pose of female nudes derived from classical statues of Venus. Her mouth is open in a scream of anguish; perhaps she already anticipates the pain she must soon suffer in childbirth, now that the gift of immortality has been taken away from them. Adam holds his hands to his eyes, his shoulders bowed and his whole attitude expressing his despair. The figures are real, and not idealized in any way. They are made of flesh and blood, substantial and entirely three-dimensional. Adam’s feet are placed firmly on the ground, and they are bearing his weight. Light falls on the scene in a natural manner, and shadows define the shapes of the human figures. As a result of accurate observation and scientific study, Masaccio was able to convey human emotion in an astonishingly convincing manner, and he reveals the agonizing plight of Adam and Eve in a painting of powerful simplicity. Three centuries after the fresco was painted, Cosimo III de’ Medici, in line with contemporary ideas of decorum, ordered that fig leaves be added to conceal the genitals of the figures. These were eventually removed in the 1980s when the painting was fully restored and cleaned. This group was a collaboration between Masaccio and Masolino. The composition of the major figures shows that they were Masaccio’s contribution. The Madonna’s right knee presses forward through the fabric of her dress and the hand of St. Anne seems to explore the depth of the picture-space. By contrast, Masolino’s angels remain rather flat and pale, with scarcely enough strength in their slender hands to hold the curtain up at the back. " },{ "id": "/art/matisse", "url": "/art/matisse/", "title": "Henri Matisse", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-24T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1869, "died": 1954, "image": "/images/art/matisse_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Matisse had an orderly and brilliant academic mind; he would probably have been a lawyer if he had not turned to painting to amuse himself during a period of convalescence from appendicitis. As a result, the world of art gained one of its most outstanding and admired figures of the twentieth century. What began as a diversion for Matisse became an obsession, and he gave up his legal training and joined the studio of Gustave Moreau in Paris. He was influenced by the Impressionists, and particularly by the work of Cezanne. But he broke away from their gentle studies in light, and by 1905 had become the leader of a group of artists known as Les Fauves, the wild beasts, because of their use of violent explosive colour and aggressively rough paint textures. He was also much drawn to the formality, the inventive patterns and the colours of Islamic art, particularly after a visit to the great Islamic exposition in Munich in 1910. This influence can be seen in the pure, contrasting colours and shapes of most of his work. He turned his talent to sculpture and printmaking, books, murals and designs for the theatre as well as painting. His subjects were mainly domestic interiors, scenes framed by windows, and — above all — the female form. He said, ‘What interests me most is neither still life nor landscape, but the human figure. It is through it that I best succeed in expressing the almost religious feeling I have towards life.’ Dance and Music were two decorative panels produced for the Russian collector Sergei Shchukin, which explains why they are now, after confiscation from private ownership, in the Russian state collections. But Matisse had initially produced for Shchukin’s inspection another full-scale version of Dance — over eight-and-a-half feet high and nearly thirteen feet wide — and this is the one that is now in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. In it Matisse probably used as his starting point a ring of dancers from the background of his own painting Bonheur de vivre. 1909 was the year Diaghilev and the Russian ballet arrived in Paris, and dance was a topical subject. The figures are dancing on a hill (a traditional site for ancient mystic rites and ceremonies), but it is as if they are afloat in the blazing blue sky, their feet barely touching the ground. Their five naked bodies, linked in a circle, are painted in clear flat colour without shadows, and the simplified outlines of the figures stand out very strongly against the background. They are drawn without detail, but the movement of their limbs and twisting bodies is realistic and full of life. The vibrant blue and green of the sky and the grass are perfectly balanced and extraordinarily intense. The total effect of this striking painting is one of primitive joy and exhilaration, communicating the joy Matisse derived from brilliant colour and dramatic forms. The painting depicts the artist’s wife, Amelie. The green stripe down the center of her face acts as an artificial shadow line and divides the face in the conventional portraiture style, giving it a dark and a light side. Matisse allowed the colours of these objects to dictate their final composition. Warm, glowing fruit and bright ceramics leap out from the cool background, at the same time remaining central to the arrangement. Matisse rejoiced in the use of newly invented pigments and the restoration of colour’s emotive power. " },{ "id": "/art/michelangelo", "url": "/art/michelangelo/", "title": "Michelangelo", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-06T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1475, "died": 1564, "image": "/images/art/michelangelo_5.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The phenomenal genius of Michelangelo has been praised consistently since the start of his unparalleled career. He worked for princes and popes and was pre-eminent in the High Renaissance as an architect, a sculptor and a painter. More than anyone else, he raised the crafts of painting and sculpture to the status of Fine Arts. He was first apprenticed in the Florentine workshop of Domenico Ghirlandaio, and shortly afterwards transferred to a school set up under the patronage of Lorenzo de’ Medici, who was known as Il Magnifico. After the death of Lorenzo, Michelangelo went to Bologna and then to Rome, where he first made his name with his Pieta (a sculpture of the Virgin with the body of Christ after the descent from the cross) in St Peter’s Cathedral. The Medici of Florence and the Popes of Rome — Julius II, Leo X, Paul III — were his patrons, and he produced work for them that won him public acclaim and adulation. Vasari tells us simply that the work of Michelangelo ‘transcends and eclipses that of every other artist, living or dead… supreme not in one art alone but in all three…’ Probably his greatest achievement, which can be seen in both sculptures and paintings, was his extraordinary ability to express all the human emotions through the beauty of the naked body. The Sistine Chapel was built in the Vatican by Pope Sixtus IV (hence its name); his nephew, who became Pope Julius II, commissioned the ceiling frescoes from Michelangelo to complete its decoration (the walls already bore many famous paintings by fifteenth-century Italian artists). The chapel is 133 feet long, 43 feet wide, and 68 feet high, and it required a brilliant imagination to devise a scheme in which the whole vast ceiling was united. Michelangelo achieved it through a series of narrative paintings which tell the stories of Genesis until the Great Flood, and the stories of the life of Christ from the Gospel of St Matthew. He was determined to carry out the scheme virtually on his own, and, while Julius 11 agitated for its completion, Michelangelo worked for nearly four years under appalling difficulties, most of the time lying flat on his back on the scaffolding and unable to get a clear view of what he was doing. There are nearly 350 figures in the ceiling as a whole, in a wonderfully rich variety of poses which has been drawn on by artists ever since. The Last Judgement was designed at a grand scale, and spans the entire wall behind the altar of the Sistine Chapel. This fresco gave rise to controversy from the start. Christ standing, rather than sitting as the Bible states, was the chief problem. Although standing certainly seems a more authoritative position, in response to later laws against nudity, another painter added spurious draperies. Level with Christ’s left foot sits the martyred St. Bartholomew, holding his own flayed skin. The skin contains Michelangelo’s self-portrait. The Creation of Adam shows with extraordinary power and subtlety the moment when the hand of God gave life to Adam, and symbolically to the human world. The Creator’s flowing mantle encloses some eleven figures, angels or beings that existed before man, and they support him as he stretches out his arm to touch the finger of Adam. Reclining in a superbly graceful attitude, Adam’s perfect, muscular body reveals his latent strength. The hands just touching provide an emotional tension as well as a physical link between God and man. The magnificent sculptural figures, dominating the spaces around them, express in Michelangelo’s vast and dramatic conception the full significance of the moment of creation. At its unveiling the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel was hailed as a supreme work of art, and it earned its artist the name Il divino Michelangelo. " },{ "id": "/art/millais", "url": "/art/millais/", "title": "Sir John Everett Millais", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-15T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1829, "died": 1896, "image": "/images/art/millais_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The English painter Sir John Everett Millais was one of the most prosperous artists in history. He entered the Royal Academy Schools when he was only eleven, the youngest pupil ever accepted. He was elected a Member of the Royal Academy in 1863, knighted in 1885, and became President of the Royal Academy in 1896, the year of his death. As a young man he was a founder member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, a band of painters who wanted to revive the sincerity and deep significance which they believed had existed in art before the time of Raphael. Their work was serious in subject matter, usually with a detailed natural setting, and it conveyed a spiritual message through a variety of symbols. Four years before beginning this painting Millais had remarked to a fellow Pre Raphaelite, ‘Is there any sensation more delicious than that awakened by the odour of burning leaves? To me nothing brings back sweeter memories of the days that are gone; it is the incense offered by departing summer to the sky; and it brings one a happy conviction that Time puts a peaceful seal on all that is gone.’ John Ruskin, the great nineteenth-century critic, considered Autumn Leaves to be ‘the first instance of a perfectly painted twilight’; Millais had captured ‘the glow within the darkness’. And the artist’s wife Effie wrote that he wished ‘to paint a picture full of beauty and without subject’. Yet Millais himself has recorded that Autumn Leaves was not just a charming, wistful scene, but was intended , to arouse the deepest religious reflections. The two girls at the centre, one with a basket, one holding leaves, are Effie’s younger sisters, Alice and Sophie; the others are local youngsters, Matilda Proudfoot and Isabella Nicol, whom Effie had found to model. The setting is the garden of Annat Lodge in Perthshire, its distant hills shading into purple at the far horizon. The dresses of the two older girls act as dark foils for the heap of papery fallen leaves — bronzes, reds and pale yellowish-greens — and the younger girls are in russet and deep purple, blending with the colours around them. They have a mystical look, as if they are taking part in an ancient ritual charged with intense emotional feeling. Pictured at twilight, near the end of the year, they are just beginning their lives, suggesting an eternal cyclic renewal. Millais has used colour and the elements of nature to convey his own understanding of the deep spiritual beauty of life in this sensitive and evocative painting. Millais’ grandson, William James, was the model for this picture, originally titled A Child’s World. This picture was used as the advertisement for Pears, Soap. When bought by Pears, Millias’ Permission had still to be obtained for addition of a bar of soap, for use as an advertisement. Bubbles remained oe of the most iconic advertising symbols ever devised, and many of the colour prints that Pears later published hung in homes around the world. The Pre-Raphaelites experimented with every new pigment available, glazing them for maximum luminosity, onto canvas primed with zinc white. Ophelia ‘reads’ like a colour merchant’s catalogue, with its cobalt blue, madder lake, chrome yellow, chromium oxide and zinc yellow. Millais began painting the background out of doors, near Kingston-upon-Thames. The painting was completed in London the following winter. Lizzie Siddal, the Pre-Raphaelite muse, wearing an antique brocade gown, had to line in a bath of water, heated by oil lamps from below. The cold she caught as a result brought the threat of damages against the artist from her father. " },{ "id": "/art/mondrain", "url": "/art/mondrain/", "title": "Piet Mondrain", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1872, "died": 1944, "image": "/images/art/mondrain_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Piet Mondrain came from a devout Calvinist family of keen painters and musicians. But their repressive discipline led to his rejection of steady art teaching career in favour of the artist’s life itself, and later still, to his embrace of Theosophy. This mystical belief system — in humanity’s evolution towards spiritual unity — was popular in the West at that time, not least amongst the pioneers of abstract art, Kandinsky and Malevich. Mondrain encounter with Cubism in 1911 was the critical point of his artistic development, when he removed natural forms from his pictorial vocabulary. Together with Theosophy, it propelled him into the ranks of the avant-garde. The obscure Dutchman left for Paris, the first step towards an international life that would have a lasting impact on western art. Stranded in Holland by World War I, Mondrain and Theo van Doesburg formed a group and published a magazine called De Stijl (The Style). The writer Schoenmaeker’s ideas of ‘positive mysticism’ we directly incorporated and Mondrain’s aesthetic became their guiding force, committed to purifying modern art and bringing it to everyone via architecture, product design and typography. The very term, Neo-Plasticism, that Mondrain adopted for his geometric abstractions in 1921, was borrowed from Schoenmaeker. With his typical asymmetrical arrangements of squares and rectangles painted in primary colours divided by black bands on a white ground, Mondrain strove for transcendental experience and pure harmony. Mondrain kept strictly to vertical and horizontal lines of composition and broke with Van Doesburg for introducing diagonals into his work in 1924. When Mondrain moved to New York, in response to his energetic new surroundings, his lines formed the all-colour grids which came to be called “Boogie Woogie” " },{ "id": "/art/monet", "url": "/art/monet/", "title": "Claude Monet", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-15T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1840, "died": 1926, "image": "/images/art/monet_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "It was from one of Claude Monet’s paintings — Impression , Sunrise — that the Impressionist group, of which he was the leader, acquired its name. He was born in Paris, but spent most of his working life on the Normandy coast or in the French countryside, and he passionately loved the sea and the open air. Poverty dogged him for many years, and the dreary problems of how to live exasperated and depressed him. He was reduced to scrounging from his friends and patrons just to survive, and frequently had to sacrifice finished work by scraping off the paint in order to use the canvas again. He spent the summer of 1866 at Ville d’Avray, near Paris, and it was there that he painted Women in the Garden. He worked, as usual, out of doors, and had a trench dug in the garden into which his huge canvas — about eight-and-a-half feet by six-and-a-half feet — was lowered, and a pulley arrangement was rigged up so that he could reach the top. Light interested him more than anything, and he was concerned to reveal the fact that colour only exists in terms of light, and that it changes in all the normal variations of daylight and shadow. The scene in the garden is a study of the effects of sunlight filtering through leaves, casting dark shadows and dappling the figures of the four women (who were all modelled by Monet’s mistress Camille). Roses are in bloom, the trees are dense with the dark green leaves of mid-summer, and the women wear pale delicate dresses of embroidered cotton and fine muslin. The seated woman shields her face from the sun with a parasol; and Monet has caught precisely the effect of shade-on the colour of her skin and the top of her dress, contrasting it with the bright reflected light on her skirt and the flowers in her lap. The two women standing together are in the shade of a tree, with the sun flickering through and forming patches of light on their dresses. The fourth is in the full sun, its strong rays shining directly on to the back of her dress and her gleaming red hair. The long dark shadow in the foreground accentuates the brilliance of the light, especially where it edges the white skirts spread in a circle over the grass. The swirling movement of light summer dresses makes an extremely romantic composition, and Monet’s understanding of the effects of light bring out all its subtle variations of colour and atmosphere. He is generally considered to be the greatest of all the Impressionist painters. He had an astonishing ability to observe and record a scene with a fresh eye, as free as possible from influences and conventions, and to paint exactly what lay before him as if he were seeing for the first time. One of a series of twelve railway station pictures, created at different times of the day. For his most ambitious study of the urban landscape, Monet chose Saint-Lazare, gateway to his beloved Normandy. He concentrated on the full-spectrum effects of light, smoke and steam, building cloud shapes with curly brushstrokes. Monet was a master at adapting strokes to show how light affects texture and form. After La Gare Saint-Lazare, Monet subsequently embarked on other series — haystacks, Rouen cathedral and the waterlilies at Giverny — each a painstaking demonstration that atmospheric colour, caused by changes in the light, can modulate a subject through the entire spectrum. In spite of his destitute state, he more than anyone stuck to the ideals of Impressionism throughout his long life without deviating, and he was a great source of stimulation to others in the group in the face of poverty and endless criticism. Renoir said of him, ‘Without Monet, without my dear Monet who gave us all courage, we would have given up.’ After about thirty years of struggle, their work began to be understood and appreciated ; and finally it has come to be valued as one of the most important movements, and certainly the most popular, of the nineteenth century. " },{ "id": "/art/munch", "url": "/art/munch/", "title": "Edvard Munch", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-27T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1863, "died": 1944, "image": "/images/art/munch_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The Scream is one of the most disturbing and famous paintings of modern times. Munch’s mother died when he was only five, and his beloved sister eleven years later, and these two tragic events in his early life affected his psychological health. Ill as a child, he had several nervous collapses as an adult, and in 1908-9 was one of the first people to be treated with electric shock therapy. He was outstandingly good-looking, drank far too much, never married, and seems at times to have regarded women as devouring, destructive creatures, in spite of or perhaps because of his extended love affairs. Munch was an Expressionist painter: one who deliberately rejects fidelity to nature, which the Impressionists had striven for, in favour of a simplified and emphatic use of line and colour which carries great emotional impact. It was a movement which took strongest hold in Germany and Northern Europe at the start of this century, and Munch was one of its founders. The darkest recesses of his emotional life were his subject. He said, ‘Art is the opposite of Nature. A work of • art can only come from inside a person. Art is the shape of the picture fashioned through the nerves, heart, brain and eye of a man.’ Munch has left us an exact description of how he came to invent the image of The Scream. He was taking a walk one evening, feeling tired and ill, and in this mood observed the sun setting over the sea and the clouds burning fiery-red. He was possessed by a consuming fear, and felt in the fibres of his being a loud, unending scream piercing nature. The painting that resulted is one of a cycle of pictures Munch called The Frieze of Life in which he revealed his deepest feelings about life, love and death. Through them all runs the undulating line of the shore and the waves of the sea. The face is transfixed and frozen, contorted in a dreadful, anguished scream of fear and pain, and the sunset a fiery blood-red, like the sunset that inspired it. The swirls of rough paint flow across the painting as though they are about to engulf the foreground figure. Behind are two mysterious people: perhaps they stand for approaching death. Man at the mercy of terrible forces beyond his control, forces within himself maybe, is exposed in this strange, powerful and unnerving painting. " },{ "id": "/art/okeeffe", "url": "/art/okeeffe/", "title": "Georgia O'Keeffe", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-24T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1887, "died": 1986, "image": "/images/art/okeeffe_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Georgia Totto O’Keeffe was an American modernist artist. She was known for her paintings of enlarged flowers, New York skyscrapers, and New Mexico landscapes. O’Keeffe has been called the “Mother of American modernism”. Georgia O’Keeffe’s reputation rests in part on the idea that many of her paintings evoke a certain part of the female anatomy. O’Keeffe herself angrily rejected the notion that her compositions—especially her floral studies—were symbolic representations of vaginas, but the idea has stuck. Nevertheless, there so much more to the artist’s work, which could be described as a blend of symbolism, precisionism and abstraction. Cow’s Skull: Red, White, and Blue depicts a cow skull centered in front of what appears to be a cloth background. In the center of the background is a vertical black stripe. On either side of that are two vertical stripes of white laced with blue. At the outside of the painting are two vertical red stripes. To O’Keeffe, the bone represented the strength within the America soul, which is further insinuated by the background colors of red, white, and blue. At the time this artwork was made numerous American artists in different fields were creating compositions dependent on American subjects. Rather than speak to the pervasive thoughts of America at the time, O’Keeffe portrays a bovine skull at the focal point of the canvas with the three shades of the American banner behind it. This image has since become a quintessential symbol of the American West. " },{ "id": "/art/picasso", "url": "/art/picasso/", "title": "Pablo Picasso", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-03-12T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1881, "died": 1973, "image": "/images/art/picasso_8.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The Spanish artist Pablo Picasso was probably the greatest artistic genius of the twentieth century. He was first taught by his father, and showed exceptional talent at an early age. He exhibited and won awards when still a boy, and went on to study at the academies of Barcelona and Madrid. In 1900 he visited Paris, and by 1904 had settled in France, where he spent the rest of his life. His early work is much concerned with poverty. His ‘Blue Period’ — showing the squalor of the Paris streets — produced some of his most famous pictures, and began his immense, lifelong success. His personal life was complicated by a series of mistresses, wives and children whom he used as subjects many times. All Picasso’s work in any style — and there are many — is concerned with his love of life, expressed through the eternal themes of birth, love, death and war. He was astoundingly productive in a variety of media and techniques : drawing, sculpture, painting, print-making and ceramics. Over a score of volumes have already been published simply cataloguing his work. He had two great strengths beyond his remarkable technical expertise and outstanding energy: he could assimilate with almost alarming ease the art of many other cultures and other European artists, and combined this ability with his own imagination, verve and wit to extend the scope of art. He participated in all the movements of his own time, while remaining individual and becoming permanently identified with none. Les Demoiselles d’ Avignon, started when Picasso was only twenty-five, began a remarkable phase in his work. Artistic innovations do not come about in a vacuum : Picasso drew on the influence of African sculpture and the work of Cezanne and Matisse in this painting, and it is therefore a meeting place for the traditions of primitive and contemporary art, disrupting both to create something new and disturbing. The harsh angularity and distortion of the almost naked figures, heralding the movement known as Cubism, are as disconcerting and alarming now as they were for Picasso’s astonished fellow artists. The title of the painting comes from a street in the red-light district of Barcelona, and the five statuesque females are presumably prostitutes, their gestures aping those of sexual invitation. Two women in the centre face towards us but their noses are painted in profile; two others wear frightening masks, one of them shown both full face and in profile although the woman has her back to us. As became typical of Cubist paintings, the colours are flat and unemphatic, limited to flesh tones and a muted background, with the result that the firm, deliberate outlines dominate the painting. The five women are simultaneously passive objects and aggressive predators, and the painting has a mood of restlessness and violence, and a strange primitive energy. Its influence has been vast, and it has become one of the most famous works of art of this century. The model for this intensely moving picture was surrealist photographer Dora Maar (Theodora Markevich), Picasso’s mistress and muse for seven years before a stormy separation that left her broken and reclusive. Like other left-wing sympathizers in 1937, the couple’s eyes were on the civil war in Spain. Maar photographed Picasso’s creation of Guernica — the anti-war icon — which was painted in a studio she hired in due des Grands-Augustins. At the start of 1937, Picasso received, via Josep Renau, a commission from the legitimate government of the Republic to create a large-scale work for the Spanish Pavilion at the International Exposition at Paris, to be held that summer. Initially, the artist toyed with the idea of making an allegory of painting represented by painter and model. On 26th April 1937, however, the devastating bombing of the Basque town of Gernika by Nazi Germany and Fascist Italy inspired Picasso to paint Guernica. In little under six weeks, he produced close to fifty drawings, sketches and preliminary works and different corrections of his large picture. The genesis of the work was photographed by Picasso’s then partner, Dora Maar, constituting one of the most well-documented examples of an artwork’s process of creation in art history. The outcome is a complex painting, unintelligible at first glance, at once interior and exterior, late-Cubist and Surrealist, but also interwoven in Western pictorial tradition. Its pyramidal structure os commonplace in history painting and it borrows from and includes influences from past masters such as Rubens, Delacroix, David and Goya. The upsetting and startling scene depicts grieving women, fire, a fallen soldier, a bull and a horse, and all the symbols of the terror and death of the war. A hidden symbol is formed as the horse’s nostrils and upper teeth can be seen as a human scull facing left and slightly downward. Another hidden image is of a bull that appears to gore the horse from underneath. The head of the bull is formed mainly by the horse’s front leg which has the knee on the ground. The leg’s knee cap forms the head’s nose, and a horn appears within the horse’s breast. " },{ "id": "/art/piero", "url": "/art/piero/", "title": "Piero della Francesca", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-07-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1410, "died": 1492, "image": "/images/art/piero_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Piero della Francesca was born and lived most of his life in the small town of Borgo San Sepolcro in Umbria. From Uccello he learned the new science of perspective, and he may also have studied with Fra Angelico. He was well known in his own time, and worked for celebrated patrons. His art was long neglected, but in the nineteenth century his reputation began to soar, and today he is one of the most popular Italian painters of the Early Renaissance. He was passionately interested in mathematics and problems of perspective, and there are several books by him on these topics. His paintings were constructed with great precision, and this, combined with his use of pale colours, gives them the timelessness and serenity for which he is best known. The Baptism is an early work and was created as part of an altarpiece for the priory church of San Giovanni Battista in his native town. From the nave of the church the eye would have been drawn directly to the central figure of Christ, with the dove of the Holy Spirit above his head, and the scene framed by the rounded arch. The calm and statuesque figures bathed in brilliantly clear light are set against a background of Umbrian valleys and hills, Piero’s own native landscape. The composition, although not symmetrical, has an exceptionally satisfying sense of balance. Dominating it are the figures of Christ and John the Baptist, who is anointing Christ’s head with water from a shallow bowl. Their two heads, and John the Baptist’s outstretched arm, are outlined against the clear blue sky, and this device effectively focuses our attention on them both. The scene is framed by the dark leaves of a tree, whose pale slim trunk repeats the vertical lines of the figures. To the left are three angels, and in the middle ground other people can be seen preparing for baptism. The winding river Jordan, transposed to Umbria, reflects the sky, the scenery and the background figures. The arrangement may look simple, even random, but in fact the distribution of the figures and the spaces between them is carefully calculated to create an atmosphere of stillness and tranquillity. The drawing is definite and exact, and the figures solid and rounded, their feet accurately foreshortened. The soft clear colours stand out sharply in the light, and accentuate the peace and calm of this inspirational painting. This is known as the “Brera altarpiece: Madonna and Child with angels, saints and Federico da Montefeltro, Duke of Urbino”. The Duke lost his right eye and part of his nose in a tournament and was always shown facing left. This was probably della Francesca’s last work before his eyesight failed but his mastery of proportions is still remarkable. The ostrich egg hanging from shell in the apse symbolizes the virgin birth and is echoed by the oval of the Madonna’s head, placed in the precise centre of the composition. Battista Sforza was a member of the ruling Milanese family. She bore Federico seven daughters and a son, after whose birth she died. Most historians believe this diptych portrait was painted posthumously. The background shows Urbino and the countryside. " },{ "id": "/art/pissarro", "url": "/art/pissarro/", "title": "Camille Pissarro", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-06-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1830, "died": 1903, "image": "/images/art/pissarro_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Camille Pissarro was born and brought up in Charlotte-Amalie, in the Danish West Indies, where his father had a general store. He was sent to school in France, encouraged to paint by a sympathetic art teacher, and found, on his return to the West Indies, that clerical work in the family business was more than he could stand. He left for Venezuela with an artist friend, and in 1855 he settled in Paris, to a life of painting and poverty. A number of young Parisian painters, who came to be known as the Impressionists, formed a group in the 1870s. Their principal aim was to capture the fleeting effects of colour and atmosphere caused by the play of light and shade in the open air. The official Salons consistently scorned and rejected their work because it was unconventional and appeared unfinished by the accepted standards, and from 1874 the Impressionists held their own independent exhibitions. Pissarro was one of the founders of the movement. He was a little older than the others — Monet, Renoir, Degas and Cezanne among them — and was regarded almost as the honorary uncle of the group. He was a gentle man, full of warmth, enthusiasm and curiosity, and he believed in freedom and mild anarchy. He never compromised; nor did he ever attach blame in the frequent quarrels that broke out around him. He remained friends with everybody and was respected for his principles as much as for his art. Pissarro was enormously prolific, and painted farming scenes, streets in Paris or country villages, all with a spontaneity and life that captured his first vivid impression of his subject. Garden with Trees in Blossom was painted in the orchard behind Pissarro’s house, in the small village of Pontoise, near Paris. The freshness of spring and new growth is perfectly conveyed by the flurry of falling petals and the young green shoots under the apple trees. Blue and red roofs of the village merge with feathery trees in the distance in the small brush strokes that cover the canvas. The Impressionists’ interest in light meant that sharp outlines disappeared as objects fused under the effects of light and shade. Pissarro believed that every element in a picture should be completely understood, and should work together so that the eye takes in the whole scene at once, as it does in life. He declared that nature was ‘always to be consulted’. Cezanne worked with Pissarro at Pontoise, and sketched him, with his flowing beard, big hat and boots, a stick in his hand and his materials strapped to his back as he set off for a day’s painting in the country; and Cezanne said of him, ‘He of all painters most closely approached nature’. He painted the French country-side at every season of the year, from spring orchards to snow-bound winter landscapes, and demonstrates in all his work the intense joy he derived from it Like Millet and Daumier, Pissarro shared a profound respect for working people; more than that, he was involved in socialist politics. Although he knew hardship himself, manual work is never portrayed as harsh or demeaning. ‘Work is a wonderful regulator of mind and body. I forget all sorrow, grief, bitterness and I even ignore them altogether in the joy of working.’ In The Wheelbarrow, a woman pauses with an armful of straw under what suggests a triumphal arch, formed by the apple trees. The Côte des Bœufs at L’Hermitage is an example of a more complex painting, both in its composition and execution. The painting is dominated by a dense fabric of interweaving tree trunks and branches with thick scrub in the foreground. Beyond, a collection of neat buildings can be seen. There are also two figures to the left of the painting. The inclusion of figures in a landscape are characteristic of Pissarro’s work. To create the textures of this piece, Pissarro applied the paint in a series of tiny brushstrokes. The paint was so thick in parts that the canvas had to be reinforced in order to bear the weight. This gives the work a highly textured surface that echoes the rough texture of the tree bark he depicts. This scene was painted in L’Hermitage, a hamlet close to Pissarro’s home where he lived between 1866 and 1883. Pissarro painted a large number of canvasses in nearby Pontoise and the surrounding area, enjoying the wide range of rural subjects. " },{ "id": "/art/pollock", "url": "/art/pollock/", "title": "Jackson Pollock", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-28T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1912, "died": 1956, "image": "/images/art/pollock_2.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Jackson Pollock was born on a farm in Wyoming, and his childhood was spent in Arizona and California. He studied art in Los Angeles and New York, and worked for the Federal Arts Project, a government-funded programme for artists which was part of President Roosevelt’s New Deal to combat the Depression. He was killed in a car accident in his early forties, but he has left a legacy of over a thousand paintings. His subjects were abstract, and he was the greatest American exponent of Action Painting. Pollock underwent psychoanalysis, and his pictures seem to involve a release of tensions, as if he is allowing things to emerge from the depths of his subconscious. His technique was unconventional : he spread a length of unprimed canvas on the floor, instead of stretching it in the usual way, and tacked it to the boards. He said, ‘On the floor I am more at ease. I feel nearer, more a part of the painting, since this way I can walk round it, work from the four sides, and literally be in the painting.’ He abandoned the use of brushes, and splashed or poured the paint straight on to the cloth. He wanted nothing to come between him and the colour itself. He felt that the painting had a life of its own, and if things went well it would come through. ‘My painting is direct… I want to express my feelings rather than illustrate them… When I am painting I have a general notion as to what I am about. I can control the flow of paint: there is no accident… .’ The results are dramatic. Blue Poles, like many of his paintings, is very large. Skeins and streaks of brilliant colour weave a web in which one is almost engulfed. There are no recognizable forms depicted, and the spectator is free to interpret the result in whatever way he likes. It is different for each person each time he looks at it; and this changeable quality adds to its energy and vitality. The purchase of Blue Poles by Australia’s relatively new National Gallery was controversial : the price of two million dollars was thought to be high. Yet Pollock made a new and inventive contribution to modern art : he devised a method of painting in which old conventions are set aside and new disciplines imposed, and the result is spontaneous, stimulating and adventurous. " },{ "id": "/art/poussin", "url": "/art/poussin/", "title": "Nicholas Poussin", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-11-30T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1594, "died": 1665, "image": "/images/art/poussin_a.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The greatest of French seventeenth- century painters was Nicolas Poussin. He amplified and passed on the classical artistic tradition, frequently using the themes of Greek myth and legend as his subjects. He believed that painting should appeal more to the mind than the eye. He was a painter of ideas, an artist who praised the rational rather than the intuitive, who sought to impose order rather than reflect chaos. To this end, form and composition are paramount, emotion subordinate. His paintings are smooth, highly finished and controlled; and this very discipline led paradoxically to a kind of visual poetry. Poussin spent most of his life in Rome, and A Dance to the Music of Time was painted for Cardinal Giulio Rospighosi, later Pope Clement IX. Its composition is thought to be of the Cardinal’s own devising. In an idealized landscape reminiscent of the country around Rome, four large — indeed hefty — figures form a circle. They are dancing in a rather lumbering manner, and looking towards the bearded, winged figure of Time, an old but muscular man playing his lyre. The dancing figures probably represent Pleasure (garlanded with roses), Wealth (with pearls entwined in her hair) and Poverty (wearing a simple white linen headdress). Wealth holds hands with Pleasure, but barely touches the hand of Poverty. The man with his back towards us is crowned with laurel, the victor’s wreath; perhaps he is Fame. At Time’s feet a cherubic naked boy sits contemplating the sand running through an hour-glass; balancing him on the left another boy blows soap bubbles. Both infants represent change and fragility: what could be shorter-lived than a soap bubble, what more evocative of time running out than an hour-glass? The stone column on the left bears the double head of youth and age. This splendid earthbound scene is crowned by a fabulous group in the sky. Borne upon sunlit grey clouds, Apollo the Sun God rides in his golden chariot, drawn by four powerful horses. He is escorted by dancing maidens representing the Hours, or maybe the Seasons. Leading the way is Aurora, goddess of the Dawn and sister to the Sun God, scattering flowers as she banishes Night. The circular form of the dance itself implies a never-ending cycle, echoed by Apollo’s journey through the air as the sun crosses the sky. It is a powerful allegory of the ceaseless ebb and flow of human history, in which the dancers represent the quality of human life, and the rise and fall of fortune is in the hands of Time. In the mid-1630s, Poussin explored the work of Raphael, Roman architecture, and Latin books on moral conduct. From these he adopted the pure, classical idiom that he used for the rest of his life. Et in Arcadia ego is also known as Les bergers d’Arcadie or The Arcadian Shepherds. This idealized pastoral scene depicts people dressed in the garments of classical antiquity and a woman. They are all gathered around an austere tomb and are reading an epigraphic inscription. This painting has a sculpted version — a marble bas-relief as a part of Poussin’s tomb in Rome. The inscription Et in Arcadia ego is a quotation from Latin poet Virgil. Poussin reminds us that there is no escape from death, even in the perfect world of Arcadia. " },{ "id": "/art/raphael", "url": "/art/raphael/", "title": "Raphael (Raffaello Sanzio da Urbino)", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1483, "died": 1520, "image": "/images/art/raphael_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "So remarkable was Raphael’s talent that he became known as ‘the boy genius’; his reputation grew rapidly, and his career throughout his short life seems to have been effortless. He was born and brought up in Urbino, an important provincial centre of art and literature in the Italian province of the Marches. In 1504 he moved to Florence, where he quickly absorbed all that the Florentine masters could teach him. He was soon considered to be the equal of his two greatest Renaissance contemporaries, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, although they were both somewhat older than him, and already well established. In about 1508 he was summoned to Rome by Pope Julius 11, a great patron of the arts. Raphael produced a large number of devotional pictures and altarpieces for him and for his successor Pope Leo x, and he also painted portraits and designed interiors for many other wealthy Romans. The Alba Madonna is so called because for over one hundred years it was in the collection of the Spanish Dukes of Alba. The painting is a tondo , a circular format that was popular at the time, of the Madonna with the Christ Child on her lap, seated serenely in the Italian country-side. The adoring infant John the Baptist, clothed traditionally in animal skins, holds out a cross of twigs to Christ. The Virgin Mary wears her customary blue cloak; the haloes are fine wisps of gold. The bright soft colours and delicate detail of the draperies and hair, and the circle of wild flowers round the feet of the three figures, make an unusually light and beautiful composition. It is remarkable for its serenity and perfect calm, although the cross is a reminder of the suffering to come. The figures are grouped to the left, but the Virgin’s arm and the billowing material of her cloak create a restful balance, its harmony emphasized by the shape of the painting. The Alba Madonna reveals Raphael’s genius in the solving of a difficult problem : the convincing portrayal of three-dimensional figures on a flat surface. It is interesting to compare this picture with the work of the very early masters represented here, and to notice how dramatically painting had changed by the time of Raphael, particularly in the representation of the human figure. The woman and the two young children are not only three-dimensional, they are entirely realistic in their movements and in the way they express feeling in their faces and their gestures. This humanism and vitality was one of the most significant features of High Renaissance Italian art. " },{ "id": "/art/rembrandt", "url": "/art/rembrandt/", "title": "Rembrandt", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1606, "died": 1669, "image": "/images/art/rembrandt_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Rembrandt ranks with the greatest artists of all time, outstandingly gifted as a painter, a draughtsman and a print-maker. He was born in Leyden, Holland, the son of a miller, and trained in Amsterdam. Holland at the time of Rembrandt had recently emerged from the yoke of Spanish occupation, and the Golden Age of Dutch painting reflected this new-found freedom. It had become a major sea-power and its people were commercially successful and eager for celebrations of the good life. Hundreds of artists were drawn to its cities and made good livings. In 1632 Rembrandt set up in Amsterdam as a portrait painter, and made his name with a group portrait of the Amsterdam Guild of Surgeons. He soon acquired scores of pupils and followers (at least fifty pupils are known by name). Once established, he refused to specialize, and his subject matter is immensely varied. But he never strayed far from his central concern : human beings, their spiritual aspirations and worldly realities. He produced no sea paintings, but there are landscapes, group portraits, religious, mythological and still life pictures, scenes of contemporary life and domestic scenes. He exploited to the full the effects of chiaroscuro , and has been called the most dramatic painter in history. Rembrandt produced a long series of self-portraits, which reveal every stage of his life and career in an ever-deepening analysis. One of his first recorded paintings contains a portrait of himself, and something like a hundred self-portraits, both drawings and paintings, have survived. As a result of living well beyond his means, he was bankrupted in 1656, but he kept a mirror from the creditors so that he could continue to paint himself. In some of the portraits he appears with a confident air in fancy dress, acting the part of a swaggering young man, a romantic, or a man of substance and responsibility. But later in his life he reveals increasingly his disillusionment, suffering, doubts and need for reassurance. Taken together, the self-portraits are the finest, broadest and most moving visual autobiography ever created. This one was painted near the end of his life, and is probably the most famous. He is in working clothes, with a white cloth round his head, and a thick warm coat to keep the cold at bay in the studio. The sombre colours show the typical Rembrandt palette of browns and black, contrasted with flesh tones and touches of white. He holds his palette, a handful of brushes and a maulstick, a rigid slender rod used by painters to keep hand and brush steady when carrying out detailed work. The slant of the shoulders and spreading arms creates a wide pyramid shape, which gives the figure a solid, rock-like quality. The face is heavily furrowed, the skin patchy, and the bulbous nose is shown with no attempt at disguising its prominence. The expression in the mouth and eyes shows a lifetime’s experience. It is a remarkably self-penetrating study which reveals his sensitivity and imagination as a man and as an artist. Through capturing an outward appearance accurately and completely, Rembrandt exposes the inner landscape of the human character, and it is this understanding of humanity and his skill in portraying it that sets his art so high. Arguably the most well known among his works, The Night Watch is one of the most famous Dutch Golden Age paintings. The painting is famous for three things: its colossal size (363 by 437 centimetres (12 by 14+1⁄2 feet)), the dramatic use of light and shadow (tenebrism), and the perception of motion in what would have traditionally been a static military group portrait. The painting was completed in 1642, at the peak of the Dutch Golden Age. It depicts the eponymous company moving out, led by their Captain (dressed in black, with a red sash) and his lieutenant (dressed in yellow, with a white sash). With effective use of sunlight and shade, Rembrandt leads the eye to the three most important characters among the crowd: the two men in the centre (from whom the painting gets its original title), and the woman in the centre-left background carrying a chicken. Behind them, the company’s colours are carried by the ensign. The figures are almost life-size. The Archangel Raphael helps Tobias to restore his father’s sight and then flies off in a Baroque flurry of foreshortened limbs, wings and drapery. But most impressive of all is Rembrandt’s masterful chiaroscuro. " },{ "id": "/art/renoir", "url": "/art/renoir/", "title": "Pierre-Auguste Renoir", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1841, "died": 1919, "image": "/images/art/renoir_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Renoir came from a poor Parisian family - his father was a tailor, his mother a seamstress - and by the age of thirteen he was at work in a factory, painting decorations on to china and porcelain. Undoubtedly the use of clear, light colours in this work was a permanent influence on him. The encouragement of Monet, and the resilience of his own cheerful nature, sustained Renoir through periods of appalling poverty. He seems to have endured all his hardships with optimism, and his paintings reveal none of the problems of his life. Groups of people in riverside landscapes, dance-halls and cafes, and latterly nudes, were his principal subjects, and their warmth and charm have made him one of the best-loved of all the Impressionists. A landscape with figures, from Renoir’s purest Impressionist period. Reminiscent of Monet’s Wild Poppies, it was probably painted during one of the summers that two artists spent together at Argenteuil. With the arrival of the railway, the banks of the Seine beyond Paris became a popular resort for city workers. La Grenouillère at Croissy-sur-Seine was a restaurant built from several boats roped together, providing a dance floor in the evenings. This was the destination of Renoir and Money one day in 1869, when the two young friends set up their easels together en plein air and initiated the breakthrough to Impressionism. By 1881, the year he turned forty and began travelling around Europe and North Africa, Renoir knew it was time for a reassessment. He decided that colour was to be the servant, not the master, and that he would attempt to express form more carefully by tonal relationships. Not that he altered his palette; Renoir kept to the bright colours he had always favoured. In his later works, Renoir’s experimentation brought an outpouring of monumental nudes and sensual young women with luminescent skin. The attraction of Le Moulin de la Galette is largely the result of Renoir’s preoccupation with a technical problem: the portrayal of dappled sunlight filtering through trees and illuminating the dancing, chattering figures underneath, and he has mastered it with a wonderful delicacy. He was fascinated by the pearly tints of female flesh, and frequently used this colour scheme of pinks and blues to accentuate the softness and clarity of skin tones. The play of light and shade on the girls’ dresses and hair, and on the men’s straw hats and dark jackets, softens the outlines of the figures and blends them with their surroundings and the shadows on the ground, so that a haze of diff used colour fills the entire canvas. This cafe in Montmartre, housed in an old windmill, was a favourite gathering place for flirting, drinking grenadine, eating the galettes or pancakes from canvas there every week, and painted the picture on the spot. His friends and regular models posed for most of the figures. He has captured delightfully the atmosphere of gentle gaiety and the soft shimmering effects of summer afternoon light. Gabrielle Renard was a distant cousin who came as his son Jean’s nurse, and stayed on as housekeeper and model for Renoir. When arthritis reduced his hands to claws, Gabrielle wrapped them in powdered gauze to prevent the skin adhering. Disabled as his father was, Claude Renoir recalled slipping paintbrushes between his father’s fingers to enable him to paint. " },{ "id": "/art/rivera", "url": "/art/rivera/", "title": "Diego Rivera", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-19T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1886, "died": 1957, "image": "/images/art/rivera_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Diego Rivera was a Mexican painter whose bold large-scale murals stimulated a revival of fresco painting in Latin America. Between 1922 qnd 1953, Rivera painted murals in, amopng other places, Mexico City, Chapingo, Cuernavaca, San Francisco, Detroit and New York City. A government scholarship enabled Rivera to study art at the Academy of San Carlos in Mexico City from age 10, and a grant from the governor of Veracruz enabled him to continue his studies in Europe in 1907. He studied in Spain and in 1909 settled in Paris, where he became a friend of Pablo Picasso, Georges Braque, and other leading modern painters. About 1917 he abandoned the Cubist style in his own work and moved closer to the Post-Impressionism of Paul Cézanne, adopting a visual language of simplified forms and bold areas of colour. On returning to Mexico, Rivera painted his first important mural, Creation, for the Bolívar Auditorium of the National Preparatory School in Mexico City. In 1923 he began painting the walls of the Ministry of Public Education building in Mexico City, working in fresco and completing the commission in 1930 . These huge frescoes, depicting Mexican agriculture, industry, and culture, reflect a genuinely native subject matter and mark the emergence of Rivera’s mature style. Rivera defines his solid, somewhat stylized human figures by precise outlines rather than by internal modeling. The flattened, simplified figures are set in crowded, shallow spaces and are enlivened with bright, bold colours. The Indians, peasants, conquistadores, and factory workers depicted combine monumentality of form with a mood that is lyrical and at times elegiac. Man at the Crossroads was originally slated to be installed in the lobby of the RCA Building at Rockefeller Center in New York City, the fresco showed aspects of contemporary social and scientific culture. As originally installed, it was a three-paneled artwork. A central panel, depicting a worker controlling machinery, flanked by two other panels, The Frontier of Ethical Evolution and The Frontier of Material Development, which respectively represented socialism and capitalism. When it was discovered that Rivera had included a portrait of Lenin and a Soviet May Day parade in the fresco, the Rockefeller family ordered the fresco to be plastered over, thereby destroyed before it was finished. Only black-and-white photographs exist of the original incomplete fresco, taken when Rivera suspected it might be destroyed. Using the photographs, Rivera repainted the composition in Mexico under the variant title Man, Controller of the Universe. " },{ "id": "/art/rubens", "url": "/art/rubens/", "title": "Peter Paul Rubens", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1577, "died": 1640, "image": "/images/art/rubens_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The Prince of Painters was the name given to the Flemish artist Sir Peter Paul Rubens. He was the son of a high-ranking official in the Flemish government, and combined an astonishingly successful artistic career with missions of diplomacy for the Governors of the Netherlands. He was well-educated, good-looking, charmed everyone he met with his courteous manners, and spoke several languages. He visited many European countries including Italy, where he studied the High Renaissance masters — Titian and Michelangelo in particular. He was also deeply influenced by the work of Caravaggio. His paintings were executed with great confidence and control in rich and intoxicating colour, which is one of the most important features of his work. His rapid preparatory sketches in oils show the freedom and verve of his style. Commissions poured in, and he produced, with the help of assistants (the young van Dyck among them), countless portraits, landscapes, mythological scenes with voluptuous nudes, religious pictures and altarpieces. This major work formed the central panel — some fourteen feet wide and ten feet high — of an altarpiece for Antwerp Cathedral. It depicts the descent from the cross, and shows Christ’s pale body being gently lowered into the arms of St John the Evangelist. The Virgin, in a billowing blue robe, reaches up to him, and Mary Magdalene supports his feet. On the left the bearded Joseph of Arimathea anxiously clasps the white shroud in which the body will be wrapped in the tomb, and Nicodemus descends the ladder on the right. The nine figures are arranged in such a way that they form a single diagonal line, with Christ at the centre of the group. This device effectively and dramatically focuses attention on the main subject, and at the same time expresses the concern and protective care felt by Christ’s friends and family. The perfectly harmonized colours glow against an ominously dark sky. Joseph’s hat and the robe of St John reinforce the red of Christ’s blood. The flesh tones and the dazzling white shroud, which accentuates the structure of the composition, provide the main sources of light. The Descent from the Cross is a supreme work of art, showing the vision and dynamism of Rubens’s imagination. It captures the attention of worshippers in the Cathedral now as it did three centuries ago, and magnificently fulfils the purpose for which it was intended — to encourage the faithful. The side panels of the altarpiece depict, on the left, the Virgin’s visit to her cousin Elizabeth to celebrate their pregnancies, and, on the right, the presentation of Jesus at the Temple of Jerusalem. Drawing upon his Latin school education, Rubens produced scores of elaborate altarpieces and allegorical ceilings. He was adept at painting supposedly Christian virtue but giving it a subversive sinuosity; the voluptuous features of his nudes are deliberately exaggerated to emphasize fecundity and freedom from want. One of a cycle of 21 paintings for the Palais de Luxembourg, commissioned by the French dowager queen Marie de Medici to depict her life. Rubens prepared hundreds of master sketches for his studio to work from. It was no easy task diplomatically either, since the queen was quarrelsome, far from attractive and had wasted huge amounts of money without achieving anything remarkable in her life. To Rubens’ credit, he left a satisfied customer on completion. Rubens was an exceptionally talented, energetic and prolific painter, a favourite at the court of Philip IV of Spain, knighted by Charles I of England, and court painter first to the Duke of Mantua in Italy, and later to the Spanish rulers of the Netherlands in his native Antwerp. He held this appointment until his death, and became the most important Baroque artist in Northern Europe. Rubens’ stylistic influence endured over three centuries, inspiring artists from Van Dyck and Murillo, through Watteau and Gainsborough to Delacroix and Renoir. " },{ "id": "/art/seurat", "url": "/art/seurat/", "title": "Georges Seurat", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1859, "died": 1891, "image": "/images/art/seurat_2.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Georges Seurat’s brief life included a short academic art training in Paris, a year of military service, and a decade of intense work and artistic investigation. He died when he was thirty-two, but by then he had produced a handful of masterpieces which reveal his intelligent and rational approach to the problems of colour and light. He wanted to be able to apply a scientific system to the methods of the Impressionists, and he evolved a new technique which came to be known as Pointillism, in which he applied the paint in small dots of different colours which blend in the eye of the spectator rather than on the canvas. Seurat combined several techniques in The Bathers as well as the features he was fully to develop in his later work. His pointillist theory was not entirely formed when he painted it, and he later added dots of colour in certain areas to heighten their intensity, but the principles behind his colour analysis are already evident. His aim was to achieve the exact interplay of colour and light in the open air, and, to this end, each area of shadow was broken down into the complementary colours of the surrounding areas of light, and every element in the painting — the grass, the water, the flesh tones — was made up of colour reflected from the objects next to it. There is something of the Impressionist style in the brushwork and the effects of light; but Seurat conveys not so much the light-heartedness to be found in their work but more the dignity and solemnity of everyday life. He was equally absorbed in the study of composition, and his major paintings and small landscapes are the results of extremely careful preparation. For The Bathers he made no less than fourteen small paintings and ten drawings before putting together this formal and precise composition. It now seems as if the arrangement was inevitable: the placing of the figures, the spaces between them, and even the points of colour on each fine blade of grass are essential parts of the carefully calculated scheme. Seurat’s early work was received with consternation and criticism, but for the last five years of his life he found himself the centre of a cult, and his effect on modern art has been considerable. The Sideshow is a wonderfully atmospheric, skillfully composed picture of a travelling fair, with the oil and gas lamps reliving the gloom of a winter’s evening, and tempting the audience to some escapist entertainment. " },{ "id": "/art/titian", "url": "/art/titian/", "title": "Titian (Tiziano Vecelli)", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-06-16T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1487, "died": 1576, "image": "/images/art/titian_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Titian was one of the most celebrated and prolific painters in history. Trained under the renowned Giovanni Bellini in Venice, Titian’s artistic expertise flourished upon Bellini’s passing in 1516. The Venetian Republic promptly appointed him as its official painter, cementing his status as a leading figure in European art throughout the sixteenth century. Throughout his illustrious career, Titian held commissions from some of Europe’s most influential patrons, including the ducal families of Ferrara and Mantua, Francis I of France, Philip II of Spain, Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor, and Pope Paul III, who elevated him to the rank of Count Palatine. From his meticulously organized atelier in Venice, Titian produced an astonishing number of works — approximately seven thousand paintings — that spanned altarpieces, portraits, and mythological scenes, many of which showcased the female form in all its beauty. His work exhibits a love of the dramatic and a radiant confidence and enjoyment of life. ‘Life through coloured light’ is the phrase often used to describe the glittering paintings of Titian. He helped to establish oil-paint as a widely accepted medium, and his colours are exceptionally rich and glowing. He applied them in free expansive brush strokes, sometimes using his fingers for the final touches. Titian painted this Venus for the Duke of Urbino, hence its name. The painting is reminiscent of a pagan altarpiece: it worships female sexuality, and presents the goddess of love as an earthly woman, aware of her beauty and the physical pleasures of life. The warm glow of her skin is enhanced by the gold and cream tints in the sheet and pillows of her couch, by her brown eyes, and her ‘titian’ hair falling in waves on to her shoulders. (This particular shade of red-gold hair appeared so often in Titian’s paintings that it was named after him.) A crystal earring catches the light against her cheek. In her right hand she holds some small red roses, the flowers of love associated with Venus; in ancient legend roses originally were white, and became red when they were stained by her blood. Her left hand covers her groin, in the traditional pose. The expression in her dark almond-shaped eyes and curving lips is both provocative and knowing, as if she is confident of the power of her sexual attraction. The emerald green curtain behind her acts as a cool dark foil to her skin, and its soft folds accentuate the voluptuous lines of her body. This deep green and the red of the roses and the couch are picked up in the colours of the background scene, where two maidservants are putting away their mistress’s clothes for the night. The light of a summer evening floods into the room, picking out the sheen on rich materials, the designs on the elaborately decorated chests and the tapestries on the walls. The maids, chests, tapestries, and little dog curled up asleep on the couch, fill the painting with interest; they also balance the long angled line of the naked goddess in the foreground, and provide a contrasting activity to her languorous pose. This is one of three mythological paintings painted for the Duke of Ferrara’s studiolo painted between 1518 and 1525. For this picture, Titian first painted the background in full. Each foreground figure was then filled in over a silhouette of white ground, for the richest colour effect. His palette included most of the pigments known to the workshops of the day. The composition of the painting is very complex but so skillfully accomplished that every detail of the story unfolds smoothly as the eye travels round. Pope Paul III, the last of the renaissance popes and a veteran policitian. He was seventy-five at the time Titian painted this portrait, a patron of the arts and also a reformer who later summoned the Council of Trent. This was the Pope responsible for excommnicating King Henry VIII of England from the Roman Catholic church, leading to the establishment of the Anglican church. " },{ "id": "/art/turner", "url": "/art/turner/", "title": "Joseph Mallord William Turner", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-07T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1775, "died": 1851, "image": "/images/art/turner_2.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "JMW Turner was one of the two outstanding geniuses of British painting (the other was Constable). His characteristics even fit the dictionary definition of genius: unusual capacity for imaginative creation, intellectual power, unusual energy and precocity. He was born and brought up in Covent Garden, London, where his father was a barber and wig-maker. It was in London that he received his early training and employment, and he spent most of his life there, yet he was to develop into the most original landscape painter of the nineteenth century. By the age of fourteen he had enrolled at the Royal Academy Schools, and a few years later he was employed as a copyist, with a handful of other young artists, by a famous connoisseur and collector Dr Munro. Turner explored Britain with great zeal, and he went abroad to Venice, Switzerland, and notably to Paris where he saw the Old Masters looted by Napoleon from all over Europe. He was short, stout, an eccentric, and latterly a recluse. He was also ambitious and outstandingly productive: sketchbooks, thousands of drawings and water-colours (nearly 20,000 in the British Museum alone) and over five hundred oil paintings survive. Almost his entire artistic life was devoted to landscape painting in all its guises; formal and informal, seascapes, city scenes, historical and architectural scenes of dazzling accuracy and fidelity to the real world. In his book Liber Studiorum , landscape is categorized as Historical, Mountainous, Marine and Architectural, not to mention Epic, Elegant and Elevated Pastoral. When dealing with real landscape (rather than imaginary) he painted what he actually saw, and never added what he knew was there but could not see. The Temeraire was a warship of ninety-eight guns, launched in 1798 and active at the Battle of Trafalgar; but by 1838 she was outmoded, her days of employment over, and she was towed up the Thames to be broken up. Turner witnessed this event, and his painting captured the imagination of critics and public alike. It was generally thought that the picture connected the Temeraire’s last journey to the waning of British sea power, symbolized by the dying sun. The painting has an enormous variety of texture: Turner used not only conventional brushes and palette knife, but often his hands, paint rags and the ends of his brushes. The tall ship without her sails is ghostly and mysterious, and she is shepherded up the river by a squat tug belching fiery steam from its funnel. The whole scene is bathed in the colours of the brilliant sunset reflected in the water, so that the stately warship and the tug seem to be part of the river and the sky. Shining translucent colours were Turner’s hallmark; he created extraordinarily beautiful effects with colour and light so that his subjects seem to melt almost magically into the atmosphere. " },{ "id": "/art/uccello", "url": "/art/uccello/", "title": "Paolo Uccello", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-07-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1397, "died": 1475, "image": "/images/art/uccello_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Paolo Uccello was born in Florence, where he trained in the workshop of the sculptor and goldsmith Ghiberti, and entered the Painters’ Guild. He worked in a variety of media: on wood panels, on canvas, and even in mosaic; he designed stained glass windows for the cathedral in Florence, and produced a famous wall painting of an equestrian figure, Sir John Hawkwood, an English soldier who served the Italians with conspicuous success. In his strange, highly individual and lively paintings, one of the most notable features is his interest in foreshortening and perspective. The effects that could be achieved with them were a constant source of fascination to him. His colours were not true to life but were used to create a decorative design; and his paintings were filled with charming and delicate detail made up of patterns of lines and spirals. Uccello had another powerful gift — he could tell a story — and the Rout of San Romano, a battle in which Florence was victorious over Siena in 1432, provided an ideal subject. It was commissioned by the great Medici family for their new palace in Florence, and Uccello painted three episodes from the event. They would have been hung as a continuous frieze, providing gorgeous propaganda for Florentine courage and success. The hero of the battle was the Florentine warrior Niccolo da Tolentino, who recklessly pursued the Sienese and held them until reinforcements arrived to save the day. Here he can be seen on a powerful white charger in the centre of the action. He is in fact directing operations rather than actually fighting; his face is exposed, and in his magnificent hat and elegant short cloak, more like ceremonial than battle dress, he makes an impressive sight. His young page rides behind him carrying his helmet, and another soldier holds a banner bearing his heraldic device. The composition is divided into two sections: the colourful and dramatic foreground, with its convincing portrayal of figures in action (including the fore-shortened knight prostrate on the ground); and the steeply sloping hill behind, which is little more than a decorative backdrop where Uccello could indulge to the full his love of perspective. The division is emphasized by the orange trees at either side and the hedge of wild roses in full bloom, which indicate the luxuriance of the surrounding landscape. The diagonal lances, the rearing horses in their fine coloured bridles, and the helmets and lances scattered on the ground, all increase the impact of this vigorous and captivating scene. Uccello provided not only a highly decorative and interesting painting for his aristocratic clients but one that was designed to stir the blood with patriotic pride. Uccello tells the story of St. George in true gothic style. The valiant knight’s deadly lance lines up with a storm cloud behind him, which could signify divine intervention. At the same time, it projects forward into the picture plane helping establish a three dimensional space around which the elegant damsel — no longer distressed — prepares to lead the conquered dragon, like a pet dog. " },{ "id": "/art/van_eyck", "url": "/art/van_eyck/", "title": "Jan van Eyck", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-04-23T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1390, "died": 1441, "image": "/images/art/vaneyck_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "In the fifteenth century the Belgian city of Bruges was one of the principal artistic centres of Europe. It was a prosperous seaport until its river silted up around 1500, and its wealthy merchants commissioned paintings to celebrate themselves, their families and their success. Artists reached new, triumphant heights hitherto unequalled in Europe, and Jan van Eyck was one of the most remarkable of them all. For a long time he was credited with the actual invention of oil painting, and although this has been disproved, it is certain that he perfected a medium of pigment, oil and varnish which has allowed his rich colour to survive almost unchanged. The Arnolfini Marriage was probably the first double full-length contemporary portrait in the North. It was painted for a merchant of Bruges, and it is generally thought that the picture celebrates the marriage of Giovanni Arnolfini, a silk merchant from Tuscany trading in the Netherlands, to Giovanna Cenami. The artist was witness to the ceremony, and as proof the words ‘Johannes de Eyck fuit hie. 1434.’ (Jan van Eyck was here) are inscribed on the wall above the mirror. The room is lit by clear, cool daylight, and each object stands out with crystal clarity on the highly finished surface of the painting, showing van Eyck’s remarkable feeling for texture and the effects of light. It is no chance collection of items: everything has a direct relevance to marriage, or to the circumstances of this particular marriage. The house itself is substantially built of brick, and the rich clothes of the couple, the hangings of the bed, the Turkish carpet, the mirror on the wall, even the oranges which were hard to obtain in the North, are all signs of their prosperity. The apple on the window ledge may be used to symbolize the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge ; a single candle, representing the Spirit of God, burns in the ornate brass chandelier; the frame of the mirror contains ten scenes from the Passion of Christ, and next to it hangs a rosary made of crystal or amber, reflecting the light. The blue of the woman’s sleeves and underskirt may be used to denote purity (and it is more likely that her voluminous dress was the fashion than that its folds conceal her pregnancy, as has been suggested). On the wooden chair beyond the canopied bed is the tiny carved figure of a saint, possibly St Margaret, the patron saint of childbirth; and even the small dog at the woman’s feet is recognized as a symbol of fidelity. An informal atmosphere is created by the presence of the dog and the man’s clogs lying askew on the floor, which adds to the astonishing realism of the painting. Van Eyck has defined the relationship of marriage in both worldly and spiritual terms in this portrait, and reveals his extraordinarily accomplished technique in its accuracy, clarity of colour and perception of the realities of life. " },{ "id": "/art/vanderweyden", "url": "/art/vanderweyden/", "title": "Rogier van der Weyden", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-07-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1399, "died": 1464, "image": "/images/art/vanderweyden_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Rogier van der Weyden became the single most important Flemish painter following the death of Van Eyck. Since he signed none of his works, facts concerning their authenticity and chronology have to be gathered frm comparison with others and the records of those who commissioned him. The start of Van der Weyden’s career is easier to define. He enrolled in Campin’s workshop in Tournai, emerging as a master after five years and moving to Bruges, when he most probably came under the influence of Van Eyck. After The Descent of 1435, Van der Weyden’s rise to fame was rapid, taking him far and wide in pursuit of one prestigious commission after another. When the chancellor to the Duke of Burgundy, Chancellor Rolin, founded his hospice in Beaune, Van der Weyden was called upon to decorate the chapel. In Italy, he was kept busy by the Medicis in Florence and the Estes in Ferrara. Whilst there, he also taught the technique of painting in oils, something at which Flemish painters were particularly adept. Although he favoured Fabriano and Fra Angelico, whose styles were nearest his own, Van der Weyden’s later work was certainly enriched by what he saw of Italian masters. The Flemish painters who succeeded him — Bouts, Memling and Van der Goes — were all indebted to Van der Weyden, but his influence persisted even more widely for the remainder of the century, in France, Germany and Spain. For one of the most emotionally charged pictures in the history of art, Van der Weyden has compressed the scene into a painted imitation of a gilded shrine, which concentrates the grief and despair of nine very realistic — almost life-sized — figures surrounding Christ’s body. These are not statues, they are mourners, each grieving in their own way. Through Van der Weyden’s use of rhythmic line, colour and pattern, they relate to one another in an elegaic chain of sorrow. By 1440, Van der Weyden’s reputation reached as far as Spain, where King Juan II of Castille founded the monastery of Miraflores, near Burgos. As a final touch, he donated an altarpiece by “Master Rogier, the great and famous Fleming”. This panel shows Mary wearing white to symbolize her purity, two others celebrate her virtues of endurance (in a red robe for pain) and faith (dressed in blue). " },{ "id": "/art/vangogh", "url": "/art/vangogh/", "title": "Vincent van Gogh", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-07T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1853, "died": 1890, "image": "/images/art/vangogh_4.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Van Gogh was probably the greatest Dutch artist after Rembrandt. He was a bitterly unhappy and lonely man, and we know a good deal about his inner life as a result of a massive, stirring and deeply moving autobiography in the form of hundreds of letters written to his brother Theo. These described how his paintings and drawings attempted to give shape to his feelings; they were cries of anguish in his passionate and ultimately destructive search for self-knowledge. He was a man of deep religious belief, the son of a minister, and he was both lay preacher and missionary in a coal-mining district of Belgium before he took up painting. His character is full of contradictions: his dedication has resulted in a large number of magnificent and important paintings and drawings; yet he also abandoned himself to drink, despair, and the violent expression of his personal feelings. He mutilated himself by cutting off his ear, and finally committed suicide. Most of his short life was spent in Holland, and his paintings of Dutch peasants are characterized by heavy dark colour; but in 1886 he joined his brother Theo in Paris, where he was influenced by the Impressionists and his entire colour range broadened and lightened. In 1888 he moved to Arles in the South of France, and his work became increasingly vivid and passionate as his mental state deteriorated. He suffered from fits, and was eventually admitted to an asylum at Saint-Remy. He was allowed freedom to paint, however, and in his clear periods was still productive, but it was there in 1890 that he eventually shot himself. In Starry Night it is easy to see the turbulence of his unbalanced and tormented personality behind the vibrant colour and fast and furious brushwork, with its characteristic short strokes and swirls of paint. But the painting has too the energy and vigour which were an essential part of van Gogh’s temperament and art. It is full of a sense of joy and understanding of the relationship between the world we know on earth and the vast expanses of the universe. The cypresses, familiar features in his landscapes, tower against the deep blue of the night sky, with its sun and crescent moon and eleven stars whirling in space. There are lights in all the village houses, and a church at the centre whose central spire reaches up to the sky above the distant hills. The eleven stars are other worlds continuing into infinity and dwarfing our own planet, yet the village lights and the church link the earth with them, emphasizing that it is part of the same immense creation. It is an intensely religious picture, painted with an almost fanatical fervour, and its strength and energy are electrifying. Van Gogh’s desire to paint a starry night sky was something he mentioned repeatedly in his letters throughout 1888. The result was this study of Arles, as he described it to Eugene Boch: “The town lighted with gas reflected in a blue river. Over it the starry sky with the Great Bear — a sparkling of pink and green on the cobalt blue field of the night sky, whereas the lights of the town and its ruthless reflections are in red gold and bronzed green’. Van Gogh’s own “white deal chair”, painted as a pendant (companion piece) to Gauguin’s armchair. Both chairs were symbolic portraits of the two young men, painted in a rare period of calm, shortly after Gauguin’s arrival at the Yellow House in Arles. " },{ "id": "/art/velazquez", "url": "/art/velazquez/", "title": "Diego Velázquez", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1599, "died": 1660, "image": "/images/art/velazquez_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Diego Velázquez was born of Portuguese parents in the Spanish town of Seville. He trained in the academy of Francisco Pacheco, whose daughter he married, and by 1617 he had set up as an independent master. At the age of twenty-four he became court painter to Philip iv in Madrid, a position he held for the rest of his career. He was twice released for visits to the artistic centres of Italy (a necessary pilgrimage for any painter), which resulted most notably in a remarkable portrait of Pope Innocent x. Most of his work was bound by his court appointment, and his paintings of the Spanish royal family and the life of the court reveal an insight into human relationships that communicates beyond their own time and culture. Las Meninas (the title is Portuguese and means Maids of Honour) was painted towards the end of his life. Its audience would have been the royal family, their courtiers and servants. Ingeniously mm Velázquez has included in the composition a large portrait of the king and queen on which he is working, which is reflected in a mirror at the back of the room. This device may have been based on the reflection used by Van Eyck in The Arnolfi Marriage, which was then in the Spanish Royal Collection. Standing beside the painter, and no doubt talking to the royal couple who are posing for him, is the Infanta Margarita Teresa, their flaxen-haired five-year-old daughter. She is surrounded by a retinue of maids of honour and dwarfs, playmates for the royal children, who provided Velázquez with unusual character studies. Behind them, in a nun’s cowl, is the Infanta’s duenna (or chaperone) talking to a male attendant, and on a stairway at the back the superintendent of the old palace pauses to look through the open door. He is outlined against the brightly lit wall at the top of the stairs. In the room the shutters are closed against the brilliant sun, and the daylight falling on the figures in the foreground fades very gradually into shadow at the back, deepened by the greys and ochres of the pictures, ceiling and walls. The colours throughout the painting are limited to subtle, closely related tones, and they merge together in the silvery light. The paint has been applied thinly with rapid brushstrokes, yet the result is detailed and accurate: there is a silky bloom on the young girls’ skin, and the artist has caught exactly the way the light gleams softly on their hair and their crinolines, and on the thick close fur of the dog. Hands and facial features are so finely observed and portrayed that they reveal the relationship within the group superbly. In this work Velázquez achieved perhaps his greatest heights in combining realism, atmosphere and insight into character. The Infanta Margarita Teresa — the charming central figure from Las Meninas — here seems remote and imprisoned by her formal court dress. Velázquez was instructed to paint regular portraits of the princess, which were sent to the Austrian court to record her growing up. She had been betrothed as a baby to Prince Leopold. This type of picture is known as a Bodegón, literally Spanish for ‘tavern’, but generally meaning still-life based on a kitchen scene. All three objects are strongly lit from the front and demonstrate a variety of surfaces and textures. It is thought that Velázquez painted this as an advertisement for his skills, and took it with him when we went to Madrid looking for patronage. " },{ "id": "/art/vermeer", "url": "/art/vermeer/", "title": "Johannes Vermeer", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1632, "died": 1675, "image": "/images/art/vermeer_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "On the basis of some thirty-six small surviving pictures, Vermeer is now thought to be one of the greatest painters Northern Europe has ever produced. He lived during the Golden Age of Dutch painting, perhaps the most productive period of painting there has ever been, yet on the evidence available he seems to have worked slowly, produced little, and not achieved spectacular fame in his lifetime. He was almost entirely overlooked until the 1 860s, when his work was studied by French critic and art historian Theophile Thore, who realized its genius. Vermeer was born in Delft and spent his life there. In the tradition of Dutch painting, most of his small pictures are concerned with domestic interiors, in which everyday life is portrayed with a great feeling of intimacy. Everything is bathed with light, for the play of light on domestic objects and furnishings, and above all on people, fascinated Vermeer. He used it to brilliant effect in bringing out the depth and clarity of his colours. Whereas other masters concentrated on official portraits, still life and scenes from stories, Vermeer became one of the world’s greatest painters of women. He captured them at private moments, writing letters or poised to play a musical instrument, as though they were unobserved, and showed their strength and vulnerability, straightforwardness and mystery. The identity of Vermeer’s models is uncertain, but he did have eleven children, and it is thought that this may be one of his daughters. Her turban may be part of the Turkish-style costumes, probably dressing-up clothes, which were among the effects left by Vermeer on his death. The girl is painted in an unusual and arresting pose, as if she has turned to look at a companion, and the artist has caught the movement of her head. She is very young and seems a little shy and uncertain, yet her gaze is cool and steady. Her wide dark eyes with their opalescent whites, her slightly parted lips, and her creamy skin reflect the strong light shining on her face. A large pearl gleams in her ear, a device often used by Vermeer in his portraits of women as an additional source of light, and her white collar heightens its effect. She wears a beautiful turban of blue and gold, and the ends of it hang down her back and balance the upward tilt of her head. The extraordinarily luminous colours of the turban and the girl’s pale skin are accentuated by the deep shadow of the background, which seems to recede and throw them into relief in an almost mesmerizing way. This painting reminds us that Vermeer lived in an age of scientific discovery. He grew up in Delft with the inventor of the microscope, van Leeuwenboek, who after Vermeer’s death, became trustee for his estate. The astronomer’s globe was made by Hondius in 1600. It sits on a table draped with an exotic cloth and the astronomer wears a flowing gown, as if the scholarly scientific future has still to contend with the superstitious past. Vermeer was one of the greatest masters of light and colour there has ever been, and his small calm paintings shine with a wonderful intensity. " },{ "id": "/art/veronese", "url": "/art/veronese/", "title": "Paolo Veronese", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-06-19T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1528, "died": 1588, "image": "/images/art/veronese_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Born in Verona, Paolo Caliari was called Veronese after his native town; but he moved to Venice in 1553, and his work is closely associated with the Venetian school. His greatest contribution was the creation of decorative schemes and paintings which reflected the rich pageantry and splendour of Venetian ceremony. Together with Titian and Tintoretto, Veronese is thought to have dominated the Venetian art scene in the sixteenth century. Although a native of Verona, Veronese of the most serene republic might have been a more fitting title for him. His works exhibit all the opulence the Venice had gathered through centuries of commerce and conquest. He thought nothing of painting religious scenes in a Venetian setting with the saints in silks and jewels, although some reproached him for it, others admired this flattering portrayal of their city-state. Veronese’s gigantic works, some of them as much as thirty feet across, were carried out in a well-organized workshop with the assistance of his brother and several of his sons. He specialized in biblical and historical subjects, and filled them with vast crowds of people of all sorts: aristocrats and peasants, fashionably dressed women and freakish buffoons, courtiers, musicians, soldiers and drunks, all gathered in settings of architectural splendour, rich tableaux in which fact and fantasy are merged. This work was produced for the refectory of the convent of San Giorgio Maggiore, and it depicts Christ’s first recorded miracle, when, at the wedding feast at Cana, he turned water into wine. The huge stone drinking jars can be seen in the foreground of the painting. The only full face portrait is that of Christ himself, seated under the balustrade with the Virgin next to him; their expressions are tranquil and calm in the extravagant turmoil around them. Musicians in the foreground (with two elegant dogs) add to the mood of boisterous indulgence; one of them — dressed in a silver robe — is thought to be Veronese. The composition is symmetrically balanced, with depth created by the classical colonnades at either side and the belltower in the distance. In the clear shadowless daylight, the teeming activity of the brilliantly choreographed crowd ( 132 figures in all) fills the vast canvas with life and energy. The Egyptian princess and her entourage, complete with dwarf jester, have come straight from a gathering at a Venetian palazzo; with calm assurancee, Veronese transports the bible story and the viewer to his own special world. As he told the inquisition tribunal, ‘Painters take the same liberties as poets and jesters.’ " },{ "id": "/art/watteau", "url": "/art/watteau/", "title": "Jean-Antoine Watteau", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1684, "died": 1721, "image": "/images/art/watteau_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Watteau was born in Valenciennes, a town near the Flemish border which had recently become French. From a very early age he was passionate in his love of drawing and studied art in his native town. In about 1702 he moved to Paris, where he earned a meagre living as a hack painter, and a few years later went to work for Claude Audran, the curator of the Luxembourg Palace; through him and subsequent connoisseurs and collectors he had access to some of the work of Rubens, for whom he developed an enormous admiration, although his own style was always more introverted and poignant than that of the energetic Rubens. Watteau’s paintings have all the delicacy and prettiness of the Rococo movement of the early eighteenth century, which followed the age of Baroque. It began in France after the death of Louis XIV in 1715, and spread to Southern Germany and Austria in the next forty years. He disliked working for patrons on commission, and most of his pictures seem to have been created at his own whim, and paid for by clients in advance or bought by art dealers. Even the subject of this painting, The Embarkation for Cythera, which he was asked to create for his formal admission to the French Royal Academy, was left to his discretion, instead of being stipulated as was generally the case. As a result, Watteau was able to add a new classification to French art : the fete galante , pictures which, like Giorgione’s, take a mood as their subject. It was a romantic mood in which the pleasures of the senses and the fulfilment of the emotions were pursued with a gentle ardour in idealized country settings. It is thought that The Embarkation for Cythera was inspired by a play in which two lovers make a pilgrimage to the island of Cythera off the coast of Southern Greece, the island which Venus may have reached at the moment of her birth from the sea. In Watteau’s painting the statue of Venus is garlanded with flowers, and the shell motif on the golden barge is another reminder of her birth. Little winged putti , symbols of love, drift over the sea. Peasants, villagers and courtiers are wending their way down to the water’s edge to board the barge, and others on the bank are rising to join them. In the centre a woman looks back with a tender smile, and her elegant, amorous cavalier, his arm about her waist, gently urges her to join the procession. The hazy landscape is idyllic in the evening sun, and filled with an atmosphere of love and flirtation. We cannot be sure if the couples are embarking on the journey to Cythera, or if the mood is one of sweet regret that the day on the island of love is over and they must return; but this exquisite painting has an atmosphere of wistful melancholy, implying the transitory nature of happiness and life itself. It reflects the restlessness of Watteau’s temperament and his striving after perfection; and it is one of the most haunting and delicate examples of French eighteenth-century art. Watteau may have painted this as a sign for a cafe owned by Belloni, an actor who played the role of melancholic Pierrot from the commedia dell’arte. Contrasting the gravity of Gilles with the boisterous group behind him, Watteau sets him apart in a colourless world of his own. By this time, Watteau was quite ill with tuberculosis and possibly very sensitive to the certainty that all the world’s pleasures are transient. " },{ "id": "/art/whistler", "url": "/art/whistler/", "title": "James Abbott McNeill Whistler", "layout": "artist", "lastmod": "2023-05-07T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1834, "died": 1903, "image": "/images/art/whistler_1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Whistler was born in America and spent much of his life in England, and both countries claim him as their own; yet he belongs as much to France, where he studied art and became friends with most of the great painters of his day. He was always a controversial figure, the centre of public quarrels and a libel case; and he was also a dandy with a biting wit, who could outdo even his friend Oscar Wilde in verbal repartee. Whistler was a master etcher, and was more interested in the formation of shapes and colours on a canvas than in subject matter. Art for art’s sake was his motto, and his portraits of women, domestic interiors and views of water are vehicles for the creation of perfect compositions, each one made up of delicate gradations of tone. This portrait of his mother, to whom he was deeply attached, is intensely personal and full of character and atmosphere. She is seen in profile, her grey hair rather severely dressed and her hands folded in her lap. The effect is dignified and a little austere, but alleviated by the delicate lace at her neck and trimming her sleeves and cap. As its title states, the painting is primarily ‘an arrangement’ of colours, and its most arresting feature is the way in which areas of subtle colour have been weighed against each other. The woman’s dress is a bold expanse of black, balanced by the dark vertical mass of the curtain and the frame of another Whistler painting on the wall ; and these dark shapes are offset by precisely calculated areas of grey and white. It is a sensitive and beautifully constructed composition of blocks of muted colour, in which any change in emphasis would upset the delicate balance. " },{ "id": "/books/altered-carbon", "url": "/books/altered-carbon/", "title": "Altered Carbon", "layout": "post", "description": "A mish-mash that works", "author": "Richard Morgan", "date": "2019-01-05T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3101.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Science-Fiction", "content": "Morgan has borrowed ideas from a number of other sci-fi, detective potboiler and consipiracy thrillers and pulled it all together into a single book. It works, after a fashion. There’s a bit of Arthur C Clarke, a lot of Peter F Hamilton, some good old Gumshoe stuff like Raymond Chandler and finally, some Agatha Christiesque closed room mystery. The story is set about a few hundred years into the future, and humanity has invented (discovered? There’s some hints that this technology was an alien artifact) a mechanism to store consciousness in a device called a stack. The stack can be inserted into a body, called a sleeve, at the base of the skull. Travelling still takes time, but data transfer has made travelling superfluous; people simply transfer their stack to a sleeve at the destination for near instantaneous travel. Using this mechanism, folks have settled a number of worlds across a section of the galaxy. Sleeves are still transported as freight to various planets, and at the destination, people are downloaded into the sleeves, a mechanism called needle-cast. Data transfer across worlds seems to be instantaneous, unconstrained by trivialities such as the speed of light, though. Because of the stack-sleeve separation, folks essentially can be immortal. Upon sleeve death, called organic damage, the stack is inserted into a new sleeve, assuming folks can afford it. The government provides one sleeve to each person, which can be marginally compatible (age, sex, race, pick any one). More sleeves need to be paid for. The super rich clone their bodies and are immortal. Anyway, this is the premise. The story centres around Takeshi Kovacs, a UN envoy and veteran of dozens of battles across many worlds, now in storage waiting to be called up when needed. Laurens Bancroft, one of those super-rich on Earth, finds himself dead. Real-dead, sleeve destroyed. He is restored from backup, and cannot remember the last 2 days leading up to his death, and consequently, does not know how he died, or who killed him. Cops are convinced it is a suicide, but Bancroft thinks otherwise. So he pulls up Kovacs to investigate the death, and catch the perpetrator. What follows is a peeling open of multiple layers of a conspiracy going several layers deep, with multiple seamy interludes, and all at a manic pace. A couple of points of irritation. A number of very basic concepts are not explained at depth, but are referenced throughout, and are central to the story. This requires repeated back-and-forth trying to understand what was being said. The motivation behind the actions of a number of characters is insufficiently explained. In fact, it seems very unlikely they would actually act the way given how their individual characters have ben built up. On the whole, it is a very entertaining read, which is possibly why Netflix optioned it into a hit series. " },{ "id": "/books/the-perils-of-being-moderately-famous", "url": "/books/the-perils-of-being-moderately-famous/", "title": "The Perils of being Moderately Famous", "layout": "post", "description": "Does a pea under the mattress really bother a princess?", "author": "Soha Ali Khan", "date": "2019-01-12T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3102.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Autobiography Memoir", "content": "Soha Ali Khan is a scion of what is arguably India’s most famous family. Under different circumstances, she ought to have been a princess. A literal, big-disney-gown kind of princess. Her father and grandfather were Oxford educated nawabs, the archetypal “Indian Maharajas”. But more prominently, they were both captains of the Indian cricket team. Her mother was a movie actress, and related to India’s first Nobel laureate. Her brother’s a well known actor as is her sister-in-law. She… well… she’s in the movies. But this book isn’t about her family, not really. The reader may indeed get to know a little more about her family through the book, but that is entirely incidental. She writes this book as a memoir, a collection of stories and events from her life, and a little bit of pop wisdom thrown in. Her writing style is unassuming and self-deprecating, and is both witty and informative in equal measure. This makes the book easy reading, and a page turner. " },{ "id": "/books/coraline", "url": "/books/coraline/", "title": "Coraline", "layout": "post", "description": "The brave girl beats the bedlam", "author": "Neil Gaiman", "date": "2019-01-19T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3103.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Fantasy Young-Adult", "content": "Neil Gaiman weaves this intensely disturbing tale centered around this little girl, an only child of working parents. She discovers that a hitherto unremarkable locked door in her house leads to an alternate world. This world is populated with slightly unsettling versions of her house, parents and neighbors, who call themselves the “other” ones. Much more attentive and entertaining, they work to convince Coraline to stay there with them, rather than return to her usual world. Coraline’s real parents get abducted, and Coraline discovers that it is the work of the other mother. With the help of a black cat, which seems to be the only one who can walk across both worlds, Coraline mounts a daring rescue plan. Very frightening, and has quite a few intense scenes. Definitely not for the more sensitive children. The story is very well crafted, but I did have a few of questions. Coraline does not seem to get scared at all, and remains rather detached through what should have been extremely disconcerting situations. Why? How much of a number did her parents play on her that she isn’t even very put out by their complete absence for days? The other mother takes an inordinate amount of time to seduce Coraline with visions of a wonderful life. It seemed like she was powerful enough to simply overpower Coraline for her nefarious purposes without going through the rigmarole of playing games, and toying. Still, as a children’s horror story, it doesn’t get better than this. " },{ "id": "/books/the-palace-of-illusions", "url": "/books/the-palace-of-illusions/", "title": "The Palace of Illusions", "layout": "post", "description": "Inside the mind of the fire-born one", "author": "Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni", "date": "2019-01-26T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3104.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Literary", "content": "Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni delves into the mind of Draupadi, arguably Indian mythology’s most enigmatic characters, and presents her perspective of the times. On the blurb, it was pitched as a retelling of the Mahabharata from Draupadi’s point of view. But that isn’t entirely accurate. Episodes and scenes of the Mahabharata are described, but only as far as necessary to set the context. The real purpose here is to explore Draupadi’s mind, her thoughts and emotions through singular moments in the Mahabharata. There are some nice alternative interpretations, specifically the angle about how she is obsessed with Karna. There were a number of criticisms of that. A very intuitive take on her relationship with Kunti is presented. Vyasa never stops to explore how Kunti’s “share equally” diktat is received by Draupadi, or how that would colour Draupadi’s interactions with her mother-in-law. On the whole, the book was very insightful and thoughtful. In parts, it seemed that Draupadi came across as shallow and petty, rather than high-minded and stoic as all prior interpretations would have us believe. This left me a little unhappy briefly. But then, over the book, Draupadi grows into her own and becomes the woman that we know. This makes sense too. One isn’t born with wisdom of years. The wise were young once, and presumably, much less wiser. A nice read, I’m glad I picked this one. " },{ "id": "/books/the-breach", "url": "/books/the-breach/", "title": "The Breach", "layout": "post", "description": "What is that thing that came through the breach?", "author": "Patrick Lee", "date": "2019-03-15T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3106.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Mystery Thriller", "content": "Thirty years ago, in a facility buried beneath a vast Wyoming emptiness, an experiment gone awry accidentally opened a door. It is the world’s best-kept secret-and its most terrifying. Trying to regain his life in the Alaskan wilds, ex-con/ex-cop Travis Chase stumbles upon an impossible scene: a crashed 747 passenger jet filled with the murdered dead, including the wife of the President of the United States. Though a nightmare of monumental proportions, it pales before the terror to come, as Chase is dragged into a battle for the future that revolves around an amazing artifact. Allied with a beautiful covert operative whose life he saved, Chase must now play the role he’s been destined for-a pawn of incomprehensible forces or humankind’s final hope-as the race toward Apocalypse begins in earnest. Because something is loose in the world. And doomsday is not only possible… it is inevitable. A throwback to the heyday of suspense thrillers, when Frederick Forsyth and Craig Thomas ruled supreme. I thoroughly enjoyed this story. The plot was intricate, intelligent, and well-developed. Most of the key characters were well drawn. The writing was professional. I would recommend this novel to any lover of techno/scifi-thrillers. " },{ "id": "/books/open", "url": "/books/open/", "title": "Open", "layout": "post", "description": "... because every match is a life in miniature.", "author": "Andre Agassi", "date": "2019-06-26T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3107.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Autobiography Memoir", "content": "From Andre Agassi, one of the most beloved athletes in history and one of the most gifted men ever to step onto a tennis court, a beautiful, haunting autobiography. Agassi’s incredibly rigorous training begins when he is just a child. By the age of thirteen, he is banished to a Florida tennis camp that feels like a prison camp. Lonely, scared, a ninth-grade dropout, he rebels in ways that will soon make him a 1980s icon. He dyes his hair, pierces his ears, dresses like a punk rocker. By the time he turns pro at sixteen, his new look promises to change tennis forever, as does his lightning-fast return. And yet, despite his raw talent, he struggles early on. We feel his confusion as he loses to the world’s best, his greater confusion as he starts to win. After stumbling in three Grand Slam finals, Agassi shocks the world, and himself, by capturing the 1992 Wimbledon. Overnight he becomes a fan favorite and a media target. Agassi brings a near-photographic memory to every pivotal match and every relationship. Never before has the inner game of tennis and the outer game of fame been so precisely limned. Alongside vivid portraits of rivals from several generations—Jimmy Connors, Pete Sampras, Roger Federer—Agassi gives unstinting accounts of his brief time with Barbra Streisand and his doomed marriage to Brooke Shields. He reveals a shattering loss of confidence. And he recounts his spectacular resurrection, a comeback climaxing with his epic run at the 1999 French Open and his march to become the oldest man ever ranked number one. In clear, taut prose, Agassi evokes his loyal brother, his wise coach, his gentle trainer, all the people who help him regain his balance and find love at last with Stefanie Graf. Inspired by her quiet strength, he fights through crippling pain from a deteriorating spine to remain a dangerous opponent in the twenty-first and final year of his career. Entering his last tournament in 2006, he’s hailed for completing a stunning metamorphosis, from nonconformist to elder statesman, from dropout to education advocate. And still he’s not done. At a U.S. Open for the ages, he makes a courageous last stand, then delivers one of the most stirring farewells ever heard in a sporting arena. With its breakneck tempo and raw candor, Open will be read and cherished for years. A treat for ardent fans, it will also captivate readers who know nothing about tennis. Like Agassi’s game, it sets a new standard for grace, style, speed, and power. " },{ "id": "/books/the-taliban-shuffle", "url": "/books/the-taliban-shuffle/", "title": "The Taliban Shuffle: Strange Days in Afghanistan and Pakistan", "layout": "post", "description": "Whiskey! Tango! Foxtrot!", "author": "Kim Barker", "date": "2019-08-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3108.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction History Memoir", "content": "Kim Barker is not your typical, impassive foreign correspondent - she is candid, self-deprecating, laugh-out-loud funny. At first an awkward newbie in Afghanistan, she grows into a wisecracking, seasoned reporter with grave concerns about our ability to win hearts and minds in the region. In The Taliban Shuffle, Barker offers an insider’s account of the “forgotten war” in Afghanistan and Pakistan, chronicling the years after America’s initial routing of the Taliban, when they failed to finish the job. When Barker arrives in Kabul, foreign aid is at a record low, electricity is a pipe dream, and of the few remaining foreign troops, some aren’t allowed out after dark. Meanwhile, in the vacuum left by the U.S. and NATO, the Taliban is regrouping as the Afghan and Pakistani governments flounder. Barker watches Afghan police recruits make a travesty of practice drills and observes the disorienting turnover of diplomatic staff. She is pursued romantically by the former prime minister of Pakistan and sees adrenaline-fueled colleagues disappear into the clutches of the Taliban. And as her love for these hapless countries grows, her hopes for their stability and security fade. Swift, funny, and wholly original, The Taliban Shuffle unforgettably captures the absurdities and tragedies of life in a war zone. " },{ "id": "/books/the-windup-girl", "url": "/books/the-windup-girl/", "title": "The Windup Girl", "layout": "post", "description": "A probable near-future scenario with rampant climate change and biological warfare.", "author": "Paolo Bacigalupi", "date": "2020-01-31T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3110.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Dystopian", "content": "What happens when calories become currency? What happens when bio-terrorism becomes a tool for corporate profits, when said bio-terrorism’s genetic drift forces mankind to the cusp of post-human evolution? Bacigalupi paints a terrifying and whole probable future in this SciFi (or is it CliFi? Climate Fiction?) biopunk novel. In a future where climate change and corporate greed are rampant, the world is on the brink of famine as a biological war is being waged between agriculatural mega-corporations (AgriGen companies) using gene-hacked seeds and mutant pests. The solitary hold-out from the world-wide mayhem is Thailand, which is where the story is set. Thailand maintains their own seedbank, and has thus far resisted the efforts of the AgriGen companies. Multiple characters have independent goals as their lives and needs intertwine in a complex web full of political and corporate intrigue. At the centre of it all is Emiko, the titular “Windup Girl”, an engineered human being created as a servant or companion. There are so many new concepts in the book like “Kink-Springs”, the successor to batteries and motors. These springs are “wound” using beasts genetically designed for the purpose. The springs are then used to drive things like dirigibles, cars or even elevators. A spectacular book and a true-blue science fiction which makes the reader wonder and think. A must read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-broken-earth-trilogy", "url": "/books/the-broken-earth-trilogy/", "title": "The Broken Earth Trilogy", "layout": "post", "description": "A series so well written, that each book in the trilogy won a Hugo award. The final book also won the Nebula award.", "author": "N. K. Jemisin", "date": "2020-03-04T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3111.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Science-Fiction", "content": "I think this has to be one of the best world-building books I have ever read. This is a strange land, wracked with unusually strong and violent earthquakes, which happen cyclically. The land and quakes can be controlled by people born with specific powers called “Orogenes”. These people are identified by roving scouts who pick them up at a very young age from their families and bring them to the great schools where their skills are honed and sharpened. At the same time, these people are both revered and reviled, and derogatorily called “Rogga” by common folk. The story centres around one such lady, born Damaya, with the Orogene name of Syenite, and living anonymously under the name of Essun. A massive earthquake literally rips the planet apart right at the equator, and while she protects her village from the effects of the quake, she reveals her identity as a Rogga. Her husband, in a fit of rage, kills his infant son and kidnaps her daughter to ostensibly cure her of her orogenic powers. The rest of the story centers on Essun/Syenite/Damaya on her untiring quest for her daughter, and her thoughts into the very nature of humanity and her powers, until eventually she understands the root cause between the cyclic doom her planet faces and how she works to fix it. A fantastic trilogy; beautifully written characters, with depth and pathos, and a genuinely original take on “magic” and social/cultural reactions to difference. The fear, and loss, and rage, in the story are palpable, with characters rendered in a perfect moral palette of shades of grey (even if some are unforgivable, they are at least understandable in the context of narrative). The story starts small, and personal, and painful, and even though the plot reaches a world changing scope, it never loses that personal human scale. " },{ "id": "/books/infected", "url": "/books/infected/", "title": "Infected", "layout": "post", "description": "When you hear the voices, it's already too late", "author": "Scott Sigler", "date": "2020-05-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3105.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Thriller Horror", "content": "An excellent book, and the first of a trilogy from Scott Sigler. Across America a mysterious disease is turning ordinary people into raving, paranoid murderers who inflict brutal horrors on strangers, themselves, and even their own families. Working under the government’s shroud of secrecy, CIA operative Dew Phillips crisscrosses the country trying in vain to capture a live victim. With only decomposing corpses for clues, CDC epidemiologist Margaret Montoya races to analyze the science behind this deadly contagion. She discovers that these killers all have one thing in common – they’ve been contaminated by a bioengineered parasite, shaped by a complexity far beyond the limits of known science. Meanwhile Perry Dawsey – a hulking former football star now resigned to life as a cubicle-bound desk jockey – awakens one morning to find several mysterious welts growing on his body. Soon Perry finds himself acting and thinking strangely, hearing voices . . . he is infected. The fate of the human race may well depend on the bloody war Perry must wage with his own body, because the parasites want something from him, something that goes beyond mere murder. Infected is told through three POVs - the most memorable and the one that held my attention the most being that of Perry, the former footballer who now has a fairly mundane but comfortable life repairing computers and spending most of his time with his BFF, Bill. What makes Perry so memorable is not so much the character he is at the beginning of the book, but what he goes through during the course of the story. It’s difficult to explain exactly how Perry changes without spoiling the plot, but it’s also connected to the reason I had remembered this book so vividly years later. The second POV is Doctor Margaret Montoya and is perhaps for me the weakest POV. What Sigler does exceptionally well in this series is to build an intricate and complex plot with detailed explanation on the infection, the causes and the effects, but it does manifest as a little bit of info-dumping in Margaret’s perspective. It’s a difficult balance, and for a reader who is much more interested with the science than me it would most probably be fascinating. Having said all of that, Margaret is a complex character, and not stereotypical in the role that she plays – she isn’t overly confident and it does make her more likeable to have that vulnerability whilst giving her room to grow and develop as a character. Lastly is the POV of Dew Phillips, the aging former military-man turned cop. I know my description of him sounds a little cliché, and he is actually just that. His anger at his daughter’s life choices, his language and actions should make him a cardboard cut-out, but it’s his dedication to his partner and finding out as much as possible about the infection that makes him far more than that. As I hinted at earlier, there are several parts of Infected that stuck with me for a very specific reason, and had just the same effect on me the second time around. I’m trying to play with the words to try and make it not negative, but there are certain parts of this book that had me feeling physically nauseous. Now, before you click away from this review and think this isn’t a book for you, I also want to explain that those particular parts, although gruesome, are incredibly well written. To be able to evoke such a reaction in me, when I have only ever cried over two books in my lifetime and that this is the only one to make me feel physically nauseous, actually says a lot about the prowess of Sigler’s writing. And you can always skim those bits if you can’t handle it ;-) Infected is split into very short chapters which fits the pacing of the book perfectly – the story moves quickly and the POVs are well defined and all very relevant to the story. Often with multiple POVs I find myself rushing through the ‘less interesting’ one to get back to the character I find most interesting, but that wasn’t the case with Infected. I found all the characters, and what was happening to them, interesting and very relevant to the story. Infected is a frenetic read, with excellent world-building, interesting characters that shrug off their outer clichés, develop throughout the story and still have room to grow in the next book. It’s definitely not for the faint-hearted in places, but it remains one of my favourite non-zombie virus books by far. " },{ "id": "/books/the-hate-u-give", "url": "/books/the-hate-u-give/", "title": "The Hate U Give", "layout": "post", "description": "A look into the minds of the victims of racist police brutality, and what sends them over the breaking point", "author": "Angie Thomas", "date": "2020-07-06T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3112.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult", "content": "The title is from a lyric of Tupac: “The Hate U Give Little Infants F-s Everyone”. The acronym makes that line significantly more profound: THUG-LIFE. High-schoolm girl Starr Carter moves between two worlds: the poor neighborhood where she lives and the fancy suburban prep school she attends. The uneasy balance between these worlds is shattered when Starr witnesses the fatal shooting of her childhood best friend Khalil at the hands of a police officer. Khalil was unarmed. Soon afterward, his death is a national headline. Some are calling him a thug, maybe even a drug dealer and a gangbanger. Protesters are taking to the streets in Khalil’s name. Some cops and the local drug lord try to intimidate Starr and her family. What everyone wants to know is: what really went down that night? And the only person alive who can answer that is Starr. But what Starr does—or does not—say could upend her community. Before the event, she always said that if she ever witnessed any incident, her voice would be the loudest. Now, she is at the epicentre of it all, she is scared for her life, and for the safety of her family. Sometimes, a book transcends the typical criteria for a rating or review. It’s not the plot, or prose, or characters that count, but the story itself. The sheer significance of the work negates any need to dwell on the details that tend to make a book what it is. An absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-blade-itself", "url": "/books/the-blade-itself/", "title": "The Blade Itself", "layout": "post", "description": "Dark and gritty grimdark fantasy novel that doesn't rely on typical fantasy clichés", "author": "Joe Abercrombie", "date": "2020-07-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3115.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy", "content": "Logen Ninefingers, infamous barbarian, has finally run out of luck. Caught in one feud too many, he’s on the verge of becoming a dead barbarian – leaving nothing behind him but bad songs, dead friends, and a lot of happy enemies. Nobleman Captain Jezal dan Luthar, dashing officer, and paragon of selfishness, has nothing more dangerous in mind than fleecing his friends at cards and dreaming of glory in the fencing circle. But war is brewing, and on the battlefields of the frozen North they fight by altogether bloodier rules. Inquisitor Glokta, cripple turned torturer, would like nothing better than to see Jezal come home in a box. But then Glokta hates everyone: cutting treason out of the Union one confession at a time leaves little room for friendship. His latest trail of corpses may lead him right to the rotten heart of government, if he can stay alive long enough to follow it. Enter the wizard, Bayaz. A bald old man with a terrible temper and a pathetic assistant, he could be the First of the Magi, he could be a spectacular fraud, but whatever he is, he’s about to make the lives of Logen, Jezal, and Glokta a whole lot more difficult. Murderous conspiracies rise to the surface, old scores are ready to be settled, and the line between hero and villain is sharp enough to draw blood. Unpredictable, compelling, wickedly funny, and packed with unforgettable characters, The Blade Itself is noir fantasy with a real cutting edge. Overall, the book is a page-turner, and compelling reading. There is not much in terms of plot, because the story is more character driven. The focus is on the point-of-view characters and the events that happen around them, and how their individual lives are intertwined with the events around them. The story, such as it is, unfolds as percieved by the POV characters. I couldn’t wait to start off with the next book when I was done with this. " },{ "id": "/books/before-they-are-hanged", "url": "/books/before-they-are-hanged/", "title": "Before They Are Hanged", "layout": "post", "description": "Sequel to \"The Blade Itself\", there are three POVs again; a road trip led by a Wizard, a colonel struggling against a huge foe and an inquisitor fighting traitors and conspirators", "author": "Joe Abercrombie", "date": "2020-08-17T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3116.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy", "content": "Superior Glokta has a problem. How do you defend a city surrounded by enemies and riddled with traitors, when your allies can by no means be trusted, and your predecessor vanished without a trace? It’s enough to make a torturer want to run – if he could even walk without a stick. Northmen have spilled over the border of Angland and are spreading fire and death across the frozen country. Crown Prince Ladisla is poised to drive them back and win undying glory. There is only one problem – he commands the worst-armed, worst-trained, worst-led army in the world. Not to mention he has never even held a weapon before. And Bayaz, the First of the Magi, is leading a party of bold adventurers on a perilous mission through the ruins of the past. The most hated woman in the South, the most feared man in the North, and the most selfish boy in the Union make a strange alliance, but a deadly one. They might even stand a chance of saving mankind from the Eaters. If they didn’t hate each other quite so much. Ancient secrets will be uncovered. Bloody battles will be won and lost. Bitter enemies will be forgiven – but not before they are hanged. The focus remains on character weaving, with the plot unfolding as the perception of the PoV characters. The individual characters are very strongly built. There is the fearsome barbarian Logen Ninefingers, who is an enigmatic and sympathetic character, but is shaped by the world’s perception of him as a blood-thirsty warrior. There is the disillusioned colonel, who has dedicated his life to crown and country so he can leave his low-born past behind, only to be let down by both crown, and country. There is the crippled inquisitor, who is struggling to make an impact instead of being dismissed an shunned. The focus lies on the various POV characters and their individual idiosyncracies. While it is a compelling read, the lack of a plot does seem rather frustrating. " },{ "id": "/books/last-argument-of-kings", "url": "/books/last-argument-of-kings/", "title": "Last Argument of Kings", "layout": "post", "description": "Final installment of the \"First Law\" trilogy. A worthy finale which highlights all the shades of grey...", "author": "Joe Abercrombie", "date": "2020-09-08T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3117.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy", "content": "The end is coming. Logen Ninefingers might only have one more fight in him but it’s going to be a big one. Battle rages across the North, the King of the Northmen still stands firm, and there’s only one man who can stop him. His oldest friend, and his oldest enemy. It’s past time for the Bloody-Nine to come home. With too many masters and too little time, Superior Glokta is fighting a different kind of war. A secret struggle in which no one is safe, and no one can be trusted. His days with a sword are far behind him. It’s a good thing blackmail, threats and torture still work well enough. Jezal dan Luthar has decided that winning glory is far too painful, and turned his back on soldiering for a simple life with the woman he loves. But love can be painful too, and glory has a nasty habit of creeping up on a man when he least expects it. While the King of the Union lies on his deathbead, the peasants revolt and the nobles scramble to steal his crown. No one believes that the shadow of war is falling across the very heart of the Union. The First of the Magi has a plan to save the world, as he always does. But there are risks. There is no risk more terrible, after all, than to break the First Law… This book completely blurs the lines between good and evil. It is said that a bad villain is someone who is just a jerk for no reason, a good villain is someone who thinks they’re right but in reality they’re wrong, and a great villain is someone who IS actually right, but their methods go beyond what any moral person would approve of. There are so many great villains in this book and they don’t even feel like villains! The morally grey anti-hero vibe is given off by almost every character in the book. It is a thoroughly enjoyable read and a great end to a fine trilogy. " },{ "id": "/books/cursed", "url": "/books/cursed/", "title": "Cursed", "layout": "post", "description": "Another needless, tiresome and convoluted spin on Arthurian legend. On a positive note, the book had some lovely illustrations by the always excellent Frank Miller", "author": "Thomas Wheeler and Frank Miller", "date": "2020-10-26T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3136.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult", "content": "I read a review online which essentially said: Cursed is an overloaded, bloated mess that promises a unique spin on classic Arthurian legends, but does nothing to fulfill those promises, is bursting at the seams with unnecessary garbage, and completely betrays nearly all of its source material to an unforgivable degree. I believe this reviewer was not strong enough in their criticism. The story promises some measure of interest in the opening chapters because the refreshing perspective, that of the lady of the lake. But that interest entirely squandered because of the way it strays from source material, and builds up all the established characters in entirely contrived and ridiculous ways. I struggled to finish this book. I found it slow and not exciting. I couldn’t connect to the main character and had a hard time staying focused on what was going on. There were no reference points, no character growth seen even in the key protagonists (or at least, what should have been the key protagonists). Perhaps the only thing which kept me going was the beautiful artwork. " },{ "id": "/books/unwind", "url": "/books/unwind/", "title": "Unwind", "layout": "post", "description": "Young adult dystopian book which leaves the reader horrified and in a strange situation of not wanting to read anymore while wanting to finish the book...", "author": "Neal Shusterman", "date": "2021-01-17T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3118.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Dystopian Science-Fiction Young-Adult", "content": "The Second Civil War was fought over reproductive rights. The chilling resolution: Life is inviolable from the moment of conception until age thirteen. Between the ages of thirteen and eighteen, however, parents can have their child “unwound,” whereby all of the child’s organs are transplanted into different donors, so life doesn’t technically end. Connor is too difficult for his parents to control. Risa, a ward of the state, is not enough to be kept alive. And Lev is a tithe, a child conceived and raised to be unwound. Together, they may have a chance to escape and to survive. The basic premise of the book is quite fantastical. Yes, the biggest paradox today is that policy makers care a lot about the unborn, because that helps them rouse the rabble, so to speak. But then, they have absolute disregard for the mothers’ health or the well-being of those children when they are born and need monetary support for medical care or education. This book explores that concept and takes it to an extreme level which, while implausible, serves as a perfect mirror to the policy makers of today. I am ambivalent about recommending this book. On the one hand, it makes a great point about the whole pro-life vs pro-choice, but that battle is a distant and unrelatable battle for me, personally. I live in a country with a population problem. It is unlikely that the pro-life mob will ever have a voice here. " },{ "id": "/books/the-fault-in-our-stars", "url": "/books/the-fault-in-our-stars/", "title": "The Fault in our Stars", "layout": "post", "description": "A romance involving a young girl and boy, both in remission from cancer, told from the perspective of the girl Hazel", "author": "John Green", "date": "2021-02-22T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3119.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult Romance", "content": "Despite the tumor-shrinking medical miracle that has bought her a few years, Hazel has never been anything but terminal, her final chapter inscribed upon diagnosis. But when a gorgeous plot twist named Augustus Waters suddenly appears at Cancer Kid Support Group, Hazel’s story is about to be completely rewritten. Insightful, bold, irreverent, and raw, The Fault in Our Stars is award-winning author John Green’s most ambitious and heartbreaking work yet, brilliantly exploring the funny, thrilling, and tragic business of being alive and in love. The book is funny, sad and poignant at the same time. That said, the characters are… for want of a better word, grating. Teenagers, even those who are faced with their own mortality from a very young age, seem to be wise far beyond their years. It has an unnatural, contrived quality about it. I want to draw a parallel to The Diary of Anne Frank. The Anne Frank Huis in Amsterdam plays a key role in this books plot. Anne’s diary is written by a teen too, who also is forced to confront the mortality of herself and her entire community at a young age. But through her writing, she still remains a child, evinced by her ideas and her petulance, and the feeling that the adults just don’t treat her thoughts with the gravity they should be. I would like to say I enjoyed the book, but I am not sure I did. " },{ "id": "/books/the-maze-runner", "url": "/books/the-maze-runner/", "title": "The Maze Runner", "layout": "post", "description": "Another young-adult dystopian science fiction, in the mould of The Hunger Games", "author": "James Dashner", "date": "2021-04-19T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3120.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Dystopian Young-Adult", "content": "A group of teenaged boys are thrust into a large open area called the glade. None of them have any memories, other than their names. In the daytime, the Glade is a beautiful garden. But beyond the stone walls is an ever changing maze. The boys explore the maze in the daytime, but at night, the maze is closed off, and full of mechanical monsters which can slice and sting. Through the maze is the only way out, but no one has ever made it through alive. The boys set up a community in the Glade, with different groups performing different functions. Each group has their own hierarchy and everyone talks Glade-speak, a slang that has evolved right there on the Glade. The story starts when Thomas arrives at the Glade, and integrates into its society. Then everything changes when a girl arrives, with an ominous message. One thing that is a common theme among young adult fiction is the complete lack of personality the characters seem to have. It’s one thing to not have any memories; but they seem to have no thoughts, no opinions, no feelings and no enterprise. They act only on instinct, with no perception of consequences or foresight. If this is the kind of book that is popular among the “young” adults… I fear for that generation. " },{ "id": "/books/artemis", "url": "/books/artemis/", "title": "Artemis", "layout": "post", "description": "Deadly forces are battling for control of the lunar colony, and the only person in a position to save it is a part time porter/smuggler...", "author": "Andy Weir", "date": "2021-08-19T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3114.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "Andy Weir’s follow up to Martian. Earth has established a lunar colony, which is built largely from aluminium, mined from the lunar regolith itself. Oxygen is a byproduct of this mining, and a small colony flourishes, supporting the tourist industry and the eccentric billionaires who call the Moon home. The main character, Jazz Bashara, is a porter/smuggler, whose father is part of the welding team which built the colony. The plot involves multiple parties fighting for control of the mining operation. There is delightful detail about life on the colony and the mining operation, but the main character and her internal monologue is… rather bad. It is essentially the same character from Martian, but written as a woman. Unfortunately, that does not work. On the whole, the book is not as strong as the Martian, but still fantastic on the hard science, making it an enjoyable read nonetheless. " },{ "id": "/books/the-last-wish", "url": "/books/the-last-wish/", "title": "The Last Wish", "layout": "post", "description": "A simple way of putting it... a collection of tales about a man hunting monsters for money. But then, this book (and in fact, the whole series) is so much more...", "author": "Andrzej Sapkowski", "date": "2021-11-03T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3121.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Short-Stories", "content": "Geralt the Witcher — revered and hated — is a man whose magic powers, enhanced by long training and a mysterious elixir, have made him a brilliant fighter and a merciless assassin. Yet he is no ordinary murderer: his targets are the multifarious monsters and vile fiends that ravage the land and attack the innocent. But not everything monstrous-looking is evil and not everything fair is good… and in every fairy tale there is a grain of truth. Sapkowski introduces the reader to a beautiful combination of Slavic mythology, a distinct eastern European setting, and classical high fantasy. That makes for a different read from a lot of other works within the genre, while at the same time keeping all the mandatory aspects of epic fantasy (magic, elves, kings…). The writing is almost lyrical, but in a relaxed manner, and the English translation is good. But the characters and the setting are what really makes this a great novel. Geralt of Rivia is the most interesting and fascinating protagonist in the fantasy genre, bar none, and the world in which he lives is in many ways different from all others. His one true love, Yennefer of Vengerberg, is one of the most enigmatic women characters across fantasy literature. This book is a collection of short stories, each an adaptation of a well-known fairy tale. Or, if you will, the gruesome “real” story behind the fairy tale. Very nice read. " },{ "id": "/books/thirteen-reasons-why", "url": "/books/thirteen-reasons-why/", "title": "Thirteen Reasons Why", "layout": "post", "description": "Clay's crush is dead. Suicide. A couple of weeks later, he gets a box of tapes recorded by her, her suicide note, listing 13 reasons why she did take her own life. He is one of those 13...", "author": "Jay Asher", "date": "2022-01-13T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3174.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult Mystery", "content": "It’s been two weeks since Hannah Baker took her own life. Then a box of double sided cassette tapes surface, with instructions that they should be passed around person to person according to a list accompanying the box. Clay is the ninth person on that list. Recorded in Hannah’s voice, the tapes each talk about her relationship with one person, and the interactions they had, and the distress caused to her by that relationship. Clay walks through the town along with Hannah’s voice, reliving her agony at the location where the tape was recorded, or the incident being narrated occurred. At the end of the tapes, Clay passes it on to the next person on the list, but his own life and perspective is changed forever. The book was an international best seller, receiving several rave reviews and adapted into a highly publicised Netflix show. But for all that, I did not like this book. The main character was whiny and judgemental, and often came across as someone who needed the world to pay attention to her. I come from a culture where high school was extremely hard work, and required that we only study, study, study. I cannot sympathize with people who equate happenings in high school as something so significant that it colours their life. One other aspect which was grating: The book definitely glamourizes suicide. It feeds into all the myths that teens hold about suicide, rather than help debunk and do something positive. Tedious book, move on. " },{ "id": "/books/project-hail-mary", "url": "/books/project-hail-mary/", "title": "Project Hail Mary", "layout": "post", "description": "This book is half science experiments, half wacky buddy comedy — and it just works so well! That nerdy glee I felt on every page of The Martian is back full force.", "author": "Andy Weir", "date": "2022-03-09T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3122.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "Ryland Grace is the sole survivor on a desperate, last-chance mission—and if he fails, humanity and the earth itself will perish. Except that right now, he doesn’t know that. He can’t even remember his own name, let alone the nature of his assignment or how to complete it. All he knows is that he’s been asleep for a very, very long time. And he’s just been awakened to find himself millions of miles from home, with nothing but two corpses for company. His crewmates dead, his memories fuzzily returning, Ryland realizes that an impossible task now confronts him. Hurtling through space on this tiny ship, it’s up to him to puzzle out an impossible scientific mystery—and conquer an extinction-level threat to our species. And with the clock ticking down and the nearest human being light-years away, he’s got to do it all alone. Or does he? When Ryland Grace wakes up from a coma, with a bunch of tubes sticking out of him (including that spot where the sun don’t shine), he realizes that he has no memory of what happened — and eventually, through a bit of complicated science, realizes and remembers that he’s the sole survivor of a mission that’s the last ditch chance to save Earth from a star-eating microbe (“Evolution can be insanely effective when you leave it alone for a few billion years.”). For life that needs the output of the Sun it’s not good news. I wont say more if anyone reading this doesn’t want spoilers. But I have to say, this book is such a delight to read; I cannot recommend it enough. " },{ "id": "/books/sharp-objects", "url": "/books/sharp-objects/", "title": "Sharp Objects", "layout": "post", "description": "Disturbing story. Disturbing characters. This book will make you feel uncomfortable, that's what Gillian Flynn does best!", "author": "Gillian Flynn", "date": "2022-03-12T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3126.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller Literary", "content": "Fresh from a brief stay at a psych hospital, reporter Camille Preaker faces a troubling assignment: she must return to her tiny hometown to cover the unsolved murder of a preteen girl and the disappearance of another. For years, Camille has hardly spoken to her neurotic, hypochondriac mother or to the half-sister she barely knows: a beautiful thirteen-year-old with an eerie grip on the town. Now, installed in her old bedroom in her family’s Victorian mansion, Camille finds herself identifying with the young victims—a bit too strongly. Dogged by her own demons, she must unravel the psychological puzzle of her own past if she wants to get the story—and survive this homecoming. This book is deeply disturbing. The plot line features self-harm, sexualization of children, murder, child abuse and munchausen by proxy. The story starts of intruigingly, but gets progressively more disturbing, and somehow, towards the end, it felt rushed and incomplete. As though the author herself tired of writing anymore, and just wanted to get the damn thing done. While the writing style is good, there is a feeling that she is trying too hard to pull back the veneer of the friendly small town community by thrusting every disturbing trope underneath. Every single character was filled with an intense hatred and cynicism about everything. It seemed as though they were all shallow people who just seemed to be awful without any motivation or reason to be so… no redeeming qualities at all. " },{ "id": "/books/bad-science", "url": "/books/bad-science/", "title": "Bad Science", "layout": "post", "description": "Medical doctor Ben Goldacre disassembles some of the biggest bullshitters supposedly sharing medical, health and/or nutrition theories or even cures at best just placebos, or at worse harmful, who in many cases have their voices amplified by the media.", "author": "Ben Goldacre", "date": "2022-03-26T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3124.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science", "content": "How do we know if a treatment works, or if something causes cancer? Can the claims of homeopaths ever be as true - or as interesting - as the improbable research into the placebo effect? Who created the MMR hoax? Do journalists understand science? Why do we seek scientific explanations for social, personal and political problems? Are alternative therapists and the pharmaceutical companies really so different, or do they just use the same old tricks to sell different types of pill? We are obsessed with our health. And yet - from the media’s “world-expert microbiologist” with a mail-order Ph.D. in his garden shed laboratory, via multiple health scares and miracle cures, to the million-pound trial that Durham Council now denies ever existed - we are constantly bombarded with inaccurate, contradictory and sometimes even misleading information. Until now. Ben Goldacre masterfully dismantles the dodgy science behind some of the great drug trials, court cases and missed opportunities of our time, but he also goes further: out of the bullshit, he shows us the fascinating story of how we know what we know, and gives us the tools to uncover bad science for ourselves. I am not usually a fan of non-fiction. I struggle to read it, and struggle even more to retain all the details and context. But this book is a pleasant revelation. A fast page-turner and written in a delightfully simple prose, it carefully dismantles the biggest scientific frauds which have been perpetrated in recent memory, and amplified by the (occasionally) unwitting media. A must read. " },{ "id": "/books/beautiful-creatures", "url": "/books/beautiful-creatures/", "title": "Beautiful Creatures", "layout": "post", "description": "An unholy mess involving witches & wizards, reincarnation, American civil war, its re-enactment, a teenage romance and the insular mindset of deep south America.", "author": "Kami Garcia, Margaret Stohl", "date": "2022-04-14T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3123.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult Romance", "content": "Lena Duchannes is unlike anyone the small Southern town of Gatlin has ever seen, and she’s struggling to conceal her power, and a curse that has haunted her family for generations. But even within the overgrown gardens, murky swamps and crumbling graveyards of the forgotten South, a secret cannot stay hidden forever. Ethan Wate, who has been counting the months until he can escape from Gatlin, is haunted by dreams of a beautiful girl he has never met. When Lena moves into the town’s oldest and most infamous plantation, Ethan is inexplicably drawn to her and determined to uncover the connection between them. In a town with no surprises, one secret could change everything. Yeah. I very nearly DNF’ed this book several times. But I persevered, and quite frankly, I wish I hadn’t bothered. Why do Americans think that this civil war of theirs is so significant and important? One would have thought they would be embarrassed by the war, and even more so because of the reason for which it was fought. Anyway, I really don’t want to spend any more time talking about this. Please stay away… " },{ "id": "/books/sapiens", "url": "/books/sapiens/", "title": "Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind", "layout": "post", "description": "It's like a common man's version of Guns, Germs and Steel by Jared Diamond. But where Diamond's book is a scientific treatise, this one has a more narrative structure along with some insightful conclusions", "author": "Yuval Noah Harari", "date": "2022-06-06T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3113.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science History", "content": "Good Reads had this to say: 100,000 years ago, at least six human species inhabited the earth. Today there is just one. Us. Homo sapiens. How did our species succeed in the battle for dominance? Why did our foraging ancestors come together to create cities and kingdoms? How did we come to believe in gods, nations and human rights; to trust money, books and laws; and to be enslaved by bureaucracy, timetables and consumerism? And what will our world be like in the millennia to come? In Sapiens, Dr Yuval Noah Harari spans the whole of human history, from the very first humans to walk the earth to the radical – and sometimes devastating – breakthroughs of the Cognitive, Agricultural and Scientific Revolutions. Drawing on insights from biology, anthropology, paleontology and economics, he explores how the currents of history have shaped our human societies, the animals and plants around us, and even our personalities. Have we become happier as history has unfolded? Can we ever free our behaviour from the heritage of our ancestors? And what, if anything, can we do to influence the course of the centuries to come? Bold, wide-ranging and provocative, Sapiens challenges everything we thought we knew about being human: our thoughts, our actions, our power … and our future. But having read “Guns, Germs and Steel”, this book seems quite under-researched. Moreover, Jared Diamond presents facts, and where such facts are not available, presents all possible theories and their probability of occurrence. In Sapiens, Dr. Harari often presents a limited set of historic events, and draws up a reasoning for the events. These are presented as conclusion which borders on conjecture, rather than a possibility. Oftentimes, it seems as though he has a conclusion and then cherry-picks the events to illustrate. While the book and his conclusions are thought-provoking, they are not quite as absolutes as presented. I would recommend this book still, as it is an easy read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-god-delusion", "url": "/books/the-god-delusion/", "title": "The God Delusion", "layout": "post", "description": "A book that is as brutal and honest as its title. This is like a handbook of reference for any atheist for the range of illogical, childish or even intelligent theist arguments that might be addressed to him.", "author": "Richard Dawkins", "date": "2022-06-21T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3125.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science Religion", "content": "A preeminent scientist - and the world’s most prominent atheist - asserts the irrationality of belief in God, and the grievous harm religion has inflicted on society, from the Crusades to 9/11. With rigor and wit, Dawkins examines God in all his forms, from the sex-obsessed tyrant of the Old Testament, to the more benign (but still illogical) Celestial Watchmaker favored by some Enlightenment thinkers. He eviscerates the major arguments for religion, and demonstrates the supreme improbability of a supreme being. He shows how religion fuels war, foments bigotry, and abuses children, buttressing his points with historical and contemporary evidence. The God Delusion makes a compelling case that belief in God is not just wrong, but potentially deadly. It also offers exhilarating insight into the advantages of atheism to the individual and society, not the least of which is a clearer, truer appreciation of the universe’s wonders than any faith could ever muster. A common argument I’ve encountered is ‘if you don’t believe in god, then what’s to stop you stealing, raping, and killing as often as you like?” And of course, I do steal, rape, and kill as often as I like to–which is not at all. However, if you turn the question around, it has very unflattering implications for the believer who asked it: ‘Are you saying the only thing preventing you from violating and killing strangers is your belief in god? That most of the time, you’re sitting there fantasizing about murder, and the only thing stopping you is fear of divine punishment?’ A must read, no matter what your religious beliefs may be. This book will put things in perspective and make the reader think… hard. " },{ "id": "/books/the-water-knife", "url": "/books/the-water-knife/", "title": "The Water Knife", "layout": "post", "description": "Paolo's second ecological dystopian (cli-fi?) novel sets the action in the arid American south west, where water is the most precious commodity.", "author": "Paolo Bacigalupi", "date": "2022-07-01T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3127.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Dystopian Thriller", "content": "In a future hammered by climate change and drought, mountain snows have turned to rain, and rain evaporates before it hits the ground. In a fragmenting United States, the cities of Phoenix and Las Vegas skirmish for a dwindling share of the Colorado River. But it is the Las Vegas water knives - assassins, terrorists and spies - who are legendary for protecting Las Vegas’ water supplies, and for ensuring Phoenix’s ruin. When rumours of a game-changing water source surface, Las Vegas dispatches elite water knife Angel Velasquez to Phoenix to investigate. There, he discovers hardened journalist Lucy Monroe, who holds the secret to the water source Angel seeks. But Angel isn’t the only one hunting for water, Lucy is no pushover, and the death of a despised water knife is a small price to pay in return for the life-giving flow of a river. I am a huge fan of Paolo Bacigalupi and highly recommend him to all my friends. The Water Knife is no exception to that. I enjoyed this book from start to finish. The world building is sufficient and the dry post apocalyptic world is interesting and believable. The characters are good. The story and mystery is fun. A great read. " },{ "id": "/books/shadow-and-bone", "url": "/books/shadow-and-bone/", "title": "Shadow and Bone", "layout": "post", "description": "First book of a YA fantasy series with excellent and rich world building and complex characters who are not all stark black-and-white.", "author": "Leigh Bardugo", "date": "2022-07-13T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3128.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult", "content": "Surrounded by enemies, the once-great nation of Ravka has been torn in two by the Shadow Fold, a swath of near impenetrable darkness crawling with monsters who feast on human flesh. Now its fate may rest on the shoulders of one lonely refugee. Alina Starkov has never been good at anything. But when her regiment is attacked on the Fold and her best friend is brutally injured, Alina reveals a dormant power that saves his life—a power that could be the key to setting her war-ravaged country free. Wrenched from everything she knows, Alina is whisked away to the royal court to be trained as a member of the Grisha, the magical elite led by the mysterious Darkling. Yet nothing in this lavish world is what it seems. With darkness looming and an entire kingdom depending on her untamed power, Alina will have to confront the secrets of the Grisha… and the secrets of her heart. This was the first book, of the first story arc of multiple story arcs all set in the same world, with the different arc’s occasionally intertwining. Ravka in this fictional world is like early 20th century tsarist Russia. A puppet king on the throne dancing to the tune of a powerful monk, the Darkling, with magical powers and sinister motives. The story is told from the perspective of Alina Starkov, a young orphan who joined the war effort as a cartographer, but is thrust into the center of the war, and indeed, the very center of the world. Very nice read, with fast, even pacing. The story doesn’t go deep into the psychae of the key characters, but that is generally typical of young-adult literature. Some plot elements are rather predictable, but the romance aspect is poignant and believable. It is definitely better than most in the same genre. The Darkling character in particular is very frustrating, because he is supposed to be Machiavellian, but Worth reading. " },{ "id": "/books/six-of-crows", "url": "/books/six-of-crows/", "title": "Six of Crows", "layout": "post", "description": "A gambler, a convict, a wayward son, a lost Grisha, a Suli girl who has become a killer, a boy from the Barrel who had become something worse.", "author": "Leigh Bardugo", "date": "2022-07-28T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3129.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult", "content": "Ketterdam: a bustling hub of international trade where anything can be had for the right price—and no one knows that better than criminal prodigy Kaz Brekker. Kaz is offered a chance at a deadly heist that could make him rich beyond his wildest dreams. But he can’t pull it off alone… A convict with a thirst for revenge A sharpshooter who can’t walk away from a wager A runaway with a privileged past A spy known as the Wraith A Heartrender using her magic to survive the slums A thief with a gift for unlikely escapes Six dangerous outcasts. One impossible heist. Kaz’s crew is the only thing that might stand between the world and destruction—if they don’t kill each other first. This is the first book of another YA fantasy-romance series set in the same world as Shadow and bone, with even more complex characters in all shades of gray. Each character has strengths and weaknesses, and a complex, and often tragic back story. All of this is explored and provides a great in-depth look into their psychae and motivations for their actions. The pacing is flawless and the character and world building is even more elaborate and spectacular. Some things are plot is a little convoluted, and the lead is a little too Machiavellian to be entirely appealing. " },{ "id": "/books/sword-of-destiny", "url": "/books/sword-of-destiny/", "title": "Sword of Destiny", "layout": "post", "description": "Another collection of short stories, following the adventures of the collection The Last Wish. Geralt forges ahead, battling monsters, demons and prejudices alike...", "author": "Andrzej Sapkowski", "date": "2022-08-13T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3130.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Short-Stories", "content": "Six short stories, again drawing inspiration from the various fairy tales and folk tales. This collection is less a sequence of cases, as was the previous book, but more of a deep dive into what shape and traits Geralt’s character has. There are stories inspired by the little mermaid and the snow queen, among others. This book also introduces the character of Ciri, and the backstory which links her destiny with that of Geralt. Istredd is also elaborated, and he is pitched as a rival of Geralt, in the affections of Yennefer. The writing is not as fast paced as the first book, but more care is taken in world building and character analyses. We get a deeper look into Yennefer’s psychae (not that pleasant and likeable, honestly). A thoroughly enjoyable book, but like the first. The story deviates from the TV series, specifically the parts related to Ciri and her connection to Geralt. But honestly, I preferred the book version. " },{ "id": "/books/guns-germs-and-steel", "url": "/books/guns-germs-and-steel/", "title": "Guns, Germs and Steel", "layout": "post", "description": "Winner of the Pulitzer Prize and a national bestseller, this book explores the rise of civilization in humans and how the world came to be the way it is, today.", "author": "Jared Diamond", "date": "2022-09-29T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3131.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science History", "content": "Jared Diamond is a biologist, who had a passion for studying birds, particularly the birds of New Guinea. He came to know and appreciate the many native people he met in his work, the question asked by a New Guinean named Yani remained with him. Why was it that westerners had so much relative to New Guinean natives, who had been living on that land for forty thousand years. Many advocated racial exceptionalism as the explanation. Diamond decided to find out. Was one group of people smarter than another? Why was there such dimorphism in the amount of cargo produced and toted by different groups? The core of Diamond’s explanation is that Europeans were essentially lucky in two respects. First, they had unusually many easily domesticable plant and animal species in and around the fertile crescent, the “birthplace” of civilization. Second, since Europe is oriented East-West rather than North-South, a species which is domesticated in one part of Europe has a good chance of thriving in another, so there are many opportunities to swap farming technology between different areas. It helps that there is an easily navigable river system, and also that there are no impassible deserts or mountain ranges. These conditions are not reproduced in most other parts of the world; Diamond has a range of interesting tables, showing how few useful domesticable species there are elsewhere. Because we got efficient farming earlier than most other people, we also got cities and advanced technology earlier, and everything else followed from that initial lead we established. Some of the conclusions may seem far-fetched, but Jared always backs up all his conclusions with extensive backing data, and always provides a list of other, rejected hypotheses, and the reasons why they were rejected. His reasoning is always sound, and presented in a manner digestible for a lay reader, with no in-depth subject matter knowledge. I strongly recommend this book. It is a long read, and often presents like a text book or course-work. But persevere through, the book definitely deserves all its accolades. " },{ "id": "/books/the-forever-war", "url": "/books/the-forever-war/", "title": "The Forever War", "layout": "post", "description": "Caught in an war he doesn't want to be in, and completely disconnected from the very world he is fighting for, Mandella's war goes on... forever!", "author": "Joe Haldeman", "date": "2022-10-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3132.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "This is the best Sci-fi books I had read in a long time, and one of the best ever. An allegory for the Vietnam war, or indeed, war of any kind. The Earth’s leaders have declared a war against the Taurans, a fierce alien enemy. Never mind that said enemy is inscrutable, unconquerable, and very far away. William Mandella has been drafted as one of the first troops that will be sent to fight the Taurans. Ostensibly, the war is being waged to control collapsars - wormholes that will transport a ship to a distant area in the universe instantly. Both races like to build bases on nearby planets to establish control of the area around the collapsars. Unfortunately, most planets are usually cold lifeless rocks, and just training to use their suits in these environments is dangerous, let alone trying to fight an alien race they know little about. Mandella gets through training and manages to survive the first battle with the Taurans. That’s where the book gets really interesting. While the collapsars provide instant space travel, the ships still have to get to the nearest one and that means months of travel at near light-speed. So while the troops on the ship feel like a journey only took months, relativistic time dilation causes years to have passed for everyone else. When Mandella returns to Earth after his first battle, he’s only aged two years, but ten years have passed on Earth. Since Mandella has to do more and more light speed journeys, centuries pass on Earth even though it’s only been a few years for him. Mandella will return from missions to find that humanity has changed so much that he has almost nothing in common with the rest of the people, and since he manages to survive several campaigns when almost everyone else dies, he’s quickly becoming one of the oldest men in the universe during his ten year (subjective) enlistment. Another quirk of the time differences is that when the humans meet the Taurans, they can’t know if they’re battling alien troops who are centuries ahead or behind them in terms of military intelligence and weapons technology. So Mandella and his fellow soldiers may have a huge advantage or be severely outgunned. It just depends on if the Taurans they’re fighting started their light-speed journeys before or after they did. As the war drags on for century after century, it is both sustaining and draining Earth’s economy. Mandella finds himself losing all his family, his friends and his lovers to war or age. He is increasingly out of touch with Earth and the rest of humanity. The army continues to promote him, mainly because his seniority has reached ridiculous levels after centuries of service. One of the things that isolates Mandella is that homosexuality becomes the norm due to Earth overpopulation. In an ironic reversal of don’t ask-don’t tell, Mandella is the outcast that disgusts many of his fellow soldiers due to his unenlightened ways. Even the slang spoken by other soldiers becomes incomprehensible to him. Increasingly lonely and out of sync with everyone around him with almost no chance of surviving his enlistment, Mandella nurses the hope that the war will someday end during the large gaps of time he skips as he travels to his assignments. Absolutely enthralling read, I was not able to put the book down. Strongly recommend even if you are not a sci-fi fan. " },{ "id": "/books/it", "url": "/books/it/", "title": "It", "layout": "post", "description": "Arguably the best work by Stephen King. Seven teenagers first stumble upon the horror one summer, and now they are grown-ups who have gone out into the big world to gain success and happiness. But none of them can withstand the force that has drawn them back to Derry to face the nightmare without an end, and the evil without a name...", "author": "Stephen King", "date": "2023-01-04T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3133.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Classics Horror Thriller", "content": "It is 1958 in the small town of Derry, Maine and several children have been found murdered. Bill Denbrough and his six best friends believe the murders are linked to something that lurks beneath their home town – something that crawled from their nightmares and has taken form in the shadowed recesses of the sewers. Driven by forces unseen, Bill and his friends sense they have what it takes to stop the monster. They vow – with a piece of broken glass sliced across their palms – to come back to Derry if evil ever returns. Twenty-seven years later, the murders have started again. It’s time for Bill and his friends to honor their vow . . . What a spectacular peice of horror fiction! At over eleven hundred pages in length, It is a prolific book that provides significant backstory for each character and gives an abundant history of Derry, Maine. Because King provides so many specifics – almost to the point of excess – the book reads like a vast compilation of research collected on true events. What makes this book notorious, however, is the dreadful monster at the heart of the story: Pennywise the Dancing Clown. Pennywise – or It – is not as prevalent in the book as one might presume, given its classification as a horror novel, but any time It makes an appearance, the narrative drops readers into a dark scene where terrifying events unfold. Deep down, It is a literary coming-of-age story, just as much as it is horror. There are two distinct narratives, one involving the childen in that fateful summer, and another set twenty-seven years later, when they come back to face It. The two stories are told simultaneously using clever plot linkages and an unorthodox chapter structure. Even at its prolific length, and extensive sections devoted to the backstory and history, the book does not ever drag or slacken the pace, ever. An absolute must read just to reckon the sheer literary genius of Stephen King. " },{ "id": "/books/the-sparrow", "url": "/books/the-sparrow/", "title": "The Sparrow", "layout": "post", "description": "For the greater glory of God, but does that apply when dealing with alien creatures with even more alien cultures?", "author": "Mary Doria Russell", "date": "2023-01-17T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3109.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "In 2019, humanity finally finds proof of extraterrestrial life when a listening post in Puerto Rico picks up exquisite singing from a planet that will come to be known as Rakhat. While United Nations diplomats endlessly debate a possible first contact mission, the Society of Jesus quietly organizes an eight-person scientific expedition of its own. What the Jesuits find is a world so beyond comprehension that it will lead them to question what it means to be “human”. Comprised of a crew of priests, a scientific researcher, an AI specialist with a dodgy past, and a married couple who are an engineer and a doctor, they make the trip to the distant planet over several years. But because of relativistic time dilation, ship time is a few months. When they arrive, they make contact with a alien race and establish communication. But, as it turns out, this race was not the one which made the music. In terms of HG Wells’ classic, they met the Eloi, but the music was made by the Morlocks, who have their own culture which is alien far beyond the mission’s understanding. The book spends a lot of time doing the buildup, and performs extensive character development and story, until towards the end, everything just comes crashing down abruptly. Several of the characters’ stories end without a first or even a second person point of view. It is merely related in third person. After spending over three quarters of the book understanding their psyche and thought process, both the readers and other characters are just informed that they, well, were killed. The whole book left me feeling frustrated and hollow. I do understand that things can fall apart rather rapidly, but as a deeply invested reader, one cannot help but ask why the characters did not plan and anticipate the events better. The implied answer seems to be a cultural and lingustic disconnect, but even that can, at best, just be inferred and is just tangentially alluded to. The story is uneven and patchy, and the science is very speculative. Would I recommend this book? Perhaps not. " },{ "id": "/books/diary-of-a-young-girl", "url": "/books/diary-of-a-young-girl/", "title": "The Diary of a Young Girl", "layout": "post", "description": "Discovered in the attic in which she spent the last years of her life, Anne Frank’s remarkable diary has become a world classic—a powerful reminder of the horrors of war and an eloquent testament to the human spirit.", "author": "Anne Frank", "date": "2023-01-26T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3134.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction History Memoir Classics", "content": "The Diary of a Young Girl, also known as The Diary of Anne Frank, is a book of the writings from the Dutch language diary kept by Anne Frank while she was in hiding for two years with her family during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands. The family was apprehended in 1944, and Anne Frank died of typhus in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp in 1945. The diary was retrieved by Miep Gies, who gave it to Anne’s father, Otto Frank, the family’s only known survivor, just after the war was over. The diary has since been published in more than 60 languages I don’t believe we are qualified to review this book… this diary. The wonderful chronicle of the time spent by the Frank family and friends in hiding at the Annex; a secret set of rooms behind a cupboard in an office building. The original Dutch title of the book is simply “Het Achterhuis”… (The Annex). By turns thoughtful, moving, and surprisingly humorous, her account is a fascinating portrait of human courage and frailty. Anne’s dearest dream was to be come an author; with the book translated into 60 languages and having published millions, we can safely say she remains one of the most prolific authors of all time. " },{ "id": "/books/the-wizard-of-earthsea", "url": "/books/the-wizard-of-earthsea/", "title": "The Wizard of Earthsea", "layout": "post", "description": "The origin story of sparrowhawk, the greatest wizard of Earthsea. As the young boy learns to be a wizard, his pride and ego causes him to take some mis-steps; and as a young man, he uses his skill and resourcefulness to rectify those mis-steps", "author": "Ursula K. Le Guin", "date": "2023-02-02T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3135.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Classics", "content": "Ged, the greatest sorcerer in all Earthsea, was called Sparrowhawk in his reckless youth. Hungry for power and knowledge, Sparrowhawk tampered with long-held secrets and loosed a terrible shadow upon the world. This is the tale of his testing, how he mastered the mighty words of power, tamed an ancient dragon, and crossed death’s threshold to restore the balance. The magic in this story is all about summoning the actual names of beings (as in the Rumpelstiltskin fairy tale), since saying something’s real name is like reaching its very essence, its power to be what it is. However, the pure magic in this book is Ursula K. Le Guin’s dry yet rhythmic prose: it conjures up in the mind ghost-like vistas of a timeless twilight, of an inexhaustible wind blowing over the waves, of an endless cloud cover overcasting the ocean, rarely pierced by blinding sunbeams. The book does not have the sprawling and elaborate breadth of Tolkien’s works, but it does not have the childish mannersims of Rowling’s Harry Potter series. There is no singular antagonist in the vein of Voldemort or Sauron; Ged is fighting against a primeval evil just called the “Shadow”. But deep down, Ged’s true antagonist is his own inner self. An excellent read, and paced beautifully. " },{ "id": "/books/the-handmaids-tale", "url": "/books/the-handmaids-tale/", "title": "The Handmaid's Tale", "layout": "post", "description": "The Handmaid's Tale is an incredibly well-written dystopian tome, presented as a diary of \"Handmaid\", living in an extremely misogynistic, horrifying world.", "author": "Margaret Atwood", "date": "2023-02-12T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3137.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Dystopian Literary Classics", "content": "It took me more than a couple of attempts to finish this book. While dystopian books generally are intended to leave the reader with a sense of unease, the discomfiture brought about both by the experiences of the protagonist and the erudite writing of Atwood is extreme. The story is set in the Republic of Gilead, an extreme far-right Judeo-Christian state, which is centred around what is today Boston. The government makes laws based on a diabolically literal reading of the bible. Women are reduced to strict categories: Martha for housework and cooking, Jezebels for… well, Eyes, Angels (soldiers for the state), infertile Wives and potentially fertile Handmaids. Handmaid here is not as in the ordinary meaning of the word, i.e., a domestic worker, but in the biblical sense, viz. Hagar, Ziplah or Bilhah. Offred, the protagonist, is a Handmaid in this world. She may leave the home of the Commander and his wife once a day to walk to food markets whose signs are now pictures instead of words because women are no longer allowed to read. She must lie on her back once a month and pray that the Commander makes her pregnant, because in an age of declining births, Offred and the other Handmaids are valued only if their ovaries are viable. Offred can remember the years before, when she lived and made love with her husband, Luke; when she played with and protected her daughter; when she had a job, money of her own, and access to knowledge. But all of that is gone now… It is certainly the most explicitly feminist dystopian book I have ever read. It was thought-provoking cover to cover. All in all, a very well-written feminist text that should serve as a clarion call for defending women’s rights to maintain control over their own bodies and lives now and forever. “Nolite te bastardes carborundum.” (Don’t let the bastards grind you down.) " },{ "id": "/books/shutter-island", "url": "/books/shutter-island/", "title": "Shutter Island", "layout": "post", "description": "Fear, obsession, paranoia... this book is the stuff nightmares are made of. It is noir psychological suspense at its finest.", "author": "Dennis Lehane", "date": "2023-02-24T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3138.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller Mystery", "content": "The year is 1954. U.S. Marshal Teddy Daniels and his new partner, Chuck Aule, have come to Shutter Island, off of the Boston harbour. The island is home to the Ashecliffe Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The marshalls have come to investigate the disappearance of a patient. Multiple murderess Rachel Solando is loose somewhere on this remote and barren island, despite having been kept in a locked cell under constant surveillance. As a killer hurricane relentlessly bears down on them, the strange case takes on even darker, more sinister shades—with hints of radical experimentation, horrifying surgeries, and lethal countermoves made in the cause of a covert shadow war. No one is going to escape Shutter Island unscathed, because nothing at Ashecliffe Hospital is what it seems. But then neither is Teddy Daniels. The confusing plot builds up over the four days on the island, only to be resolved in a gigantic plot twist at the end. The book is insanely well written and brilliantly constructed, and is easily one of the best psychological thrillers I’ve ever read. Absolute madness, in the truest sense of the word. Lehane does a great job with character development and keeping things smoothly developing from its origins. " },{ "id": "/books/and-then-there-were-none", "url": "/books/and-then-there-were-none/", "title": "And Then There Were None", "layout": "post", "description": "Influential murder-mystery that is clever and suspenseful. This gem will keep you guessing!", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2023-03-03T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3139.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Crime Classics", "content": "A group of people are all individually invited to an island for a summer holiday in Devon. None of them 100% sure who their mysterious host is. Things become even more peculiar when their host isn’t there when they arrive, and doesn’t show themselves at all. One by one the guests are killed, picked off, leaving the others terrified and paranoid. It was a fantastic mystery throughout. As tension becomes hysteria, the guests wonder who will be next, who is responsible for these murders and why? The premise is intruiging, and early on, the reader is made aware tangentially of some sinister events in each guests’ past. Some crime they may purportedly have committed, but they have not been brought to justice. Throughout, we keep looking for the avenging angel, some singular and mysterious person or entity which has taken it upon itself to bring the other guests to justice. In fact, the guests themselves keep searching unsuccessfully for just such an entity. The big reveal of the killer(s), with little clues which manifest on a second read, is the climax. This is an outlier amongst Christie’s works. The premise, as well as the general layout of the story is unique. There is no master detective who has to unravel the mysteries, but it is the author themselves who are cast in that role. An engaging read. " },{ "id": "/books/wrinkle-in-time", "url": "/books/wrinkle-in-time/", "title": "A Wrinkle in Time", "layout": "post", "description": "Not entirely sure which genre to slot this book into, but that's OK, since it would be embarrassing for that genre to count this book in its ilk.", "author": "Madeleine L'Engle", "date": "2023-03-11T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3140.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult Science-Fiction", "content": "It was a dark and stormy night. Out of this wild night, a strange visitor comes to the Murry house and beckons Meg, her brother Charles Wallace, and their friend Calvin O’Keefe on a most dangerous and extraordinary adventure — one that will threaten their lives and our universe. All the characters are flat — the genius child, the misfit girl, the beautiful, genius, scientist mother who nonetheless stays home and cooks stew in bunsen burners while her husband has adventures. And then there are three beings who used to be stars before they died in the fight with the “Darkness” and became something beyond our comprehension. Essentially they are a Deus Ex Machina, a convenient plot device for transporting the characters throughout the Universe and the story. The story takes about 100 pages of tedious, banal dialogue, to get to the point where you are told that this is a battle against Evil, and all you need is love. But everything is so oversimplified, so sketchy — everything is reduced to big words, like IT, and evil. This IT, also called the Dark Thing, is striving to create a communist-type society where everyone conforms, down to the little children who bounce their balls in uniform rhythms and who live in cutter-box houses. And the so-called Darkness, Evil, IT… is essentially a disembodied brain, and the main character defeats this brain by gushing love. There were undertones of spiritual / religious indoctrination throughout the book. On the whole, it was a tedious, patronizing and superficial story which was attempting to pass off in equal parts as science fiction, fantasy and family fiction. There were so many reviews praising this book to high heavens. I was thoroughly disappointed. " },{ "id": "/books/station-eleven", "url": "/books/station-eleven/", "title": "Station Eleven", "layout": "post", "description": "Story detailing the lives of a group people living before, through and after a pandemic wipes most of humanity. 'Survival is insufficient' - Star Trek Voyager", "author": "Emily St. John Mandel", "date": "2023-03-21T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3141.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Dystopian Literary", "content": "The book is a study of lives before and after the end of the world (a flu strain wipes almost everyone out in short order). There’s very little action, tension, or intrigue in this novel but it is beautifully written, observed with a gentle but penetrating eye, and made me want to keep reading. One snowy night a famous Hollywood actor slumps over and dies onstage during a production of King Lear. Hours later, the world as we know it begins to dissolve. Moving back and forth in time — from the actor’s early days as a film star to fifteen years in the future, when a theater troupe known as the Traveling Symphony roams the wasteland of what remains — this suspenseful, elegiac, spellbinding novel charts the strange twists of fate that connect five people: the actor, the man who tried to save him, the actor’s first wife, his oldest friend, and a young actress with the Traveling Symphony, caught in the crosshairs of a dangerous self-proclaimed prophet. The book presents an unsentimental and clear-eyed portrait of what humanity considers civilization. It is a wonderful story of the resilience of people. It’s subtle, seemingly low impact, but the images it put in my head will stay with me. I first started reading this during the early days of Covid-19, but the themes in the book hit a little too close for comfort, and paused reading this until much later. In hindsight, Covid didn’t prove as lethal as the fictional Georgia flu from the book, but humanity’s reaction — or lack thereof — was probably even worse than the one the author describes in this post-apocalyptic work. There is now a television mini-series based on the book. The reviews for the show are mixed, but I do intend to watch it, as I really enjoyed this book. " },{ "id": "/books/rosemarys-baby", "url": "/books/rosemarys-baby/", "title": "Rosemary's Baby", "layout": "post", "description": "Dark and twisted horror novel with a slow build-up of a sense of unease, with both the reader and the protagonist asking themselves, \"Is there something ominous, or are we reading too much into nothing?\"", "author": "Ira Levin", "date": "2023-03-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3143.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Thriller Classics", "content": "Rosemary is a modern and fashionable young girl from a small town. She and her husband, an actor, move in to an old and elegant New York apartment house with a rather strange past — there have been several reports of unnatural deaths of residents in the apartment block. Rosemary becomes pregnant, but after that, she begins to suspect the building harbours a diabolically evil group of devil worshippers, who had mastered the arts of black magic and witchcraft. The satanic cult even seems to have roped in her husband to their cause by propping up his career, but their sinister plans seem not to involve him, but her unborn baby. Both the reader, and Rosemary, get the sense that something is not right, and that everyone seems to be hiding some sinister purpose, while gaslighting Rosemary (and indirectly, the reader) into thinking that everything is as it should be. Or is it….? The book is easy to read, and there is a slowly building sense of unease, along with an eerie, unsettling feeling that something sinister is underfoot. The premise is simple, and it doesn’t over complicate itself with too much detail. The author has an elegant style of writing, with perfect flow and pacing. Definitely worth reading. " },{ "id": "/books/the-picture-of-dorian-gray", "url": "/books/the-picture-of-dorian-gray/", "title": "The Picture of Dorian Gray", "layout": "post", "description": "A classic study of shallowness, vanity, casual cruelty and hedonistic selfishness, all presented as a suspenseful Gothic horror novel", "author": "Oscar Wilde", "date": "2023-03-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3142.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Classics Literary", "content": "Oscar Wilde’s celebrated book is a Gothic horror novel with the central theme of the effects of evil and debauchery. Dorian Gray is a young, extremely good-looking man with an appreciation of art and beauty. His friend, the artist Basil Hallward, paints a portrait of Dorian. While Dorian poses for the portrait, he meets Hallward’s friend, a Lord Henry Wotton. At the meeting, Dorian becomes enthralled with Lord Henry’s world view, which is a form of radical hedonism, and outright rejection of all that would be classified a “decent” behaviour, and posits that the only worthwhile life is one spent pursuing beauty and satisfaction for the senses. When Basil gifts Dorian the portrait, Dorian strikes a Faustian bargain: “If it were I who was to be always young, and the picture that was to grow old!” As Dorian Gray sinks into a life of crime and gross sensuality, his body retains perfect youth and vigor while his recently painted portrait grows day by day into a hideous record of evil, which he must keep hidden from the world. And this is where the real depravity begins. Dorian’s world has no consequences. Everything he does is attributed to the painting, everything. Any regret or malice leaves him quickly and is transferred to the canvas. So he can’t technically feel emotion for an extended period of time; thus, his attitude becomes one of nonchalance. He becomes a shell, an emotionless creature who can only seek his sin: vanity. Interestingly, even at his worst, he retains a semblance of the original innocence, a part of him believing that he may be redeemed. He is fighting the inner struggle, and constantly asking himself, “Do I want to be good?” “Can I resist being bad?” A classic must read book. " },{ "id": "/books/into-thin-air", "url": "/books/into-thin-air/", "title": "Into Thin Air", "layout": "post", "description": "A personal account of the Mount Everest disaster of 1996 by one of the climbers.", "author": "Jon Krakauer", "date": "2023-04-08T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3144.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Memoir", "content": "Shortly after I finished reading this book, newspapers flashed photographs of a Sherpa who skipped his own attempt at summitting Mt. Everest to carry a nearly dead Malaysian climber back to base camp from the death zone. In 1996, journalist and mountain climber Jon Kraukauer was assigned to cover an Everest ascent expedition, and chronicle the experiences of people — some experienced climbers, some not — who paid a small fortune for the chance at a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Kraukauer was a member of one of three American-led climbing teams that would attempt to climb to the summit of Mt. Everest. By the time the teams made their way back to Base Camp, eleven people had died on the mountain. This book describes why one might want to climb Mt. Everest; what the mind-set of a person even contemplating such a task would be. It describes how one might go about achieving this very task. He goes on to describe his own journey to Everest, the different people in the teams and their leaders, the storm that scattered the group just below the summit, and the deadly aftermath. It seeks to rationalize the decisions and behaviors of some of the people in the group, and understand how so many died in such a senseless way. Kraukauer himself, because he was part of the team, isn’t an impartial witness, and the book doesn’t shy away from his own culpability — at least two of the deaths that occurred during the expedition were very likely a direct result of Kraukauer’s own actions. The readers get an insight into what exactly goes into an Everest expedition, and the book does a thorough job of describing the absolute horrific ways one might die on the way to achieve this monumental accolade. Kraukauer also spends some time discussing whether it’s even a good idea for people to attempt Everest in the first place. Aside from the very real risk of death, Kraukauer also considers the ethics of employing local Sherpa guides, and whether supplemental oxygen ultimately helps or hurts climbers. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/murder-on-the-orient-express", "url": "/books/murder-on-the-orient-express/", "title": "Murder on the Orient Express", "layout": "post", "description": "A train stopped at midnight in the snow. A dead body found in a compartment. Twelve stab wounds leave no doubt it was murder. And Hercule Poirot, tasked with solving the crime, is certain the culprit is a passenger on the Orient Express.", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2023-04-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3145.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Crime Classics", "content": "This story is set on a filled to capacity train, heading from Stamboul (Istanbul) to London. It’s the middle of winter and the snow has built up on the tracks and forced the train to a standstill on its way through Yugoslavia (an area that is now in Croatia). This is when the murder is discovered… An American tycoon lies dead in his compartment, stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside. Hercule Poirot happens to be on the train, and M. Bouc, his friend and a staff member of the company running the train, enlists his help in identifying the murderer. Because of their curious circumstances and the estimated time of death, the murderer is essentially one of the passengers. Everyone on the train is a suspect, but everyone also has an alibi. Poirot has to identify the actual murderer by narrowing down who had the motive, means, and the opportunity to actually murder the victim. Poirot identifies the victim as a kidnapper who killed a little girl, but managed to evade justice on a technicality, and also that his murder was an act of vengeance. Now he has to tie in one passenger to the little girl… and how he picks up on the various little clues from the passengers and unravels the mystery forms the intricate and tightly woven rest of the story. Dame Agatha’s most celebrated and intricate work, this has been adapted into plays, movies and television shows several times. But none truly match the clever and complex nuance of the book. An absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/books/hyperion", "url": "/books/hyperion/", "title": "Hyperion", "layout": "post", "description": "Seven pilgrims set out on a potentially fatal one-way trip to visit the Time Tombs on the planet of Hyperion, where a godlike killing machine called the Shrike will possibly grant one of them a wish -- and probably slaughter the rest...", "author": "Dan Simmons", "date": "2023-05-07T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3146.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "The whole book is modeled on Chaucer’s Canterbury tales, and filled with multiple references to the poet John Keats. There is so much high literary content in the book, all set against a backdrop of hard science fiction. There is very little NOT to love about this book. The hegemony of man has expanded across hundreds of planets and star systems. There are several planets which are not yet part of the Hegemony, and are effectively outside the common law. And then there are the Ousters, space dwellers who occasionally raid planets for resources. Hyperion is a very strange and unusual planet, existing outside the hegemony. There was an ancient civilization there once, but they are long extinct. The planet is home to a set of extremely unusual structures called Time Tombs, empty buildings which move backward in time. Guarding them is the Shrike, a gigantic creature that kills by slicing, dicing and impaling its victims. Seven pilgrims are chosen to make one final trip to Hyperion, and the time tombs, before the war with the Ousters threatens to engulf the planet. During the journey, each pilgrim tells their tale, and speaks of their association with Hyperion and why they are making the trip. Each person slowly reveals a little more of the plot and the backstory. The Priest’s tale is one of horror, as a priest stumbles on a group of strange creatures, who are of the cruciform The Soldier’s tale is one of love and action, equal parts thriller and mystery and romance. The Poet’s tale is one of humour, of the crude and fast-talking poet reliving his life and his time with Sad King Billy The Scholar’s tale is a sad one, where the scholar is moving worlds to cure his beloved daughter afflicted by the strange environment of the Time Tombs The Detective’s tale is a weak one, relatively. A reincarnated poet John Keats is on the run and the detective is trying her best to protect him, and unravel his connection to Hyperion The Consul’s tale is one of vengeance against all of humanity, for all the greed, cruelty and ugliness it encompasses The scope of imagination, wordplay, and critical analysis of humankind is astounding. The “frame” structure of the story is superbly done. Each following story added a significant layer of depth to the book. I could write pages but still fail to do justice to the magnificence that is this book. An absolute must read. I cannot wait to start on the sequel. " },{ "id": "/books/divergent", "url": "/books/divergent/", "title": "Divergent", "layout": "post", "description": "Tedious and pretentious young adult novel set in an unrealistic dystopian Chicago", "author": "Veronica Roth", "date": "2023-05-15T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3147.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Dystopian Young-Adult Romance", "content": "So at some point, apparently, humanity realized that all of society’s evils can be traced back to faults in human personality. So they decided to separate people into factions, to eradicate the undesirable traits in personality which they believed to be responsible for tearing the world apart. Each faction has a philosophy of holding one key personality trait has paramount, and all are expected to fall strictly into one of the five factions. Of course, there are those who are “divergent”, and have more than one key trait. The protagonist is divergent, and a teenaged girl. She does something or other to bring down the evil government, not strictly sure why she was the “chosen” one among all… but anyway, I lost interest in all the rambling detail about the faction’s initiation rites and conflicts with the higher-ups. I eyerolled so much while reading this book that I may have permanently damaged at least some of my cranial nerves. I could not wait to complete it, but then the end was just as disappointing as the rest of the book. If this is the kind of fare that appeals to young adults today, it paints a very sad picture of our future generations. " },{ "id": "/books/the-big-sleep", "url": "/books/the-big-sleep/", "title": "The Big Sleep", "layout": "post", "description": "The first book featuring tough-as-nails P.I. Philip Marlowe... private eye, educated, heroic, streetwise, rugged individualist, hero... a complete man, a common man, and yet, a highly unusual man.", "author": "Raymond Chandler", "date": "2023-05-20T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3148.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Classics Mystery", "content": "Philip Marlowe is hired by a rich and handicapped retired general to help resolve someone blackmailing him over gambling debts. Marlowe runs into his two daughters, the icy cold Vivian, and pretend-childish and wild Carmen. Marlowe determines that the blackmailer runs a pornography ring, and then the plot thickens: The blackmailer and the general’s chauffeur drop dead, a former blackmailer gets involved, as does a sleazy gangster who runs a casino, his hefty bodyguards, and his wife. The whole book has a complicated plot, with characters being introduced even towards the last quarter of the book. The book is very heavy on 1930’s slang, which makes it rather hard to follow what the characters are even saying. Chandler has the habit of describing each scene in detail by using long and complicated analogies, and I literally mean each scene. For example, this is an actual passage from the book: The air was thick, wet, steamy and larded with the cloying smell of tropical orchids in bloom. The glass walls and roof were heavily misted and big drops of moisture splashed down on the plants. The light had an unreal greenish color, like light filtered through an aquarium tank. The plants filled the place, a forest of them, with nasty meaty leaves and stalks like the newly washed fingers of dead men. They smelled as overpowering as boiling alcohol under a blanket. To even understand what is being described here, one needs to know: What a cloying smell is, How tropical orchids in bloom smell, What light filtered through an aquarium tank looks like, What newly washed fingers of dead men look like, and What alcohol boiled under a blanket smells like. Often these analogies have little or no relevance to the reader. Remove these analogies, and the book length is likely to drop to about a half of what it is. What really is grating is that the book is extremely misogynistic. The women are all faithless femme-fatales, trying to use their feminine wiles to put one over Marlowe and the other men in their lives. Some are even shrewish and unhinged, but never is one of them shown in even a slightly positive light. There is a strong under-current of homophobism in addition to the sexism, as one of the characters turns out to be closeted gay with a boy-toy. On the whole, it was not an easy read, since the style and setting is too far removed to be relatable. " },{ "id": "/books/killing-floor", "url": "/books/killing-floor/", "title": "Killing Floor", "layout": "post", "description": "Jack Reacher. Ex-Military Police, current drifter, is passing through a small town when he is suddenly arrested for a murder he knows nothing about. He expects the case of mistaken identity to be quickly resolved, but soon finds out that he is connected to the case... very intimately.", "author": "Lee Child", "date": "2023-05-25T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3149.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller Crime Mystery", "content": "Jack Reacher is the typical 80’s macho-man swole beefcake, a la Schwarzenegger and Stallone. Except this time, he is the lead in a hard-boiled detective story. Formerly of the military police, he is now a drifter and gets off a bus early one morning and walks to a small town in Georgia. What follows is a whirlwind case where is is first the suspect, and then part of the investigation to uncover a plot that threatens to shake the very foundation of the economic power of the United States. The whole premise is rather dated, and reminiscent of an 80’s macho action tome: Ex-military drifter, with a manly sounding name (John Rambo) Muscle-bound strong man hero (Stallone / Schwarzenegger) Has a personal grudge against baddies Villains are standard corrupt businessmen and politicians Hero has few allies, but is betrayed Hottest girl around immediately taken up with him Everything goes boom at the end With this in place, the book itself is not bad. the writing and pacing is even. The dialogues are poor, and forced. The story is intruiging and has the right level of complexity without being contrived. The character build-up is good for all the central characters, and even the side characters are well thought out. There is a pervasive feeling of predictability once the base plot is laid out, and the feeling that this is very derivative. But the book is still worth reading. The book has been adapted into a TV show, with this book’s story spread over an entire season. " },{ "id": "/books/memoirs-of-a-geisha", "url": "/books/memoirs-of-a-geisha/", "title": "Memoirs of a Geisha", "layout": "post", "description": "A world where women's artistry is to entice the most powerful men; where their virginity is auctioned to the highest bidder, and where love is scorned...", "author": "Arthur Golden", "date": "2023-06-03T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3150.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Romance Classics Literary", "content": "Arthur Golden’s Memoirs of a Geisha is set in Japan from The Great Depression through just after World War II. A young girl named Chiyo is sold into slavery and is moved to Kyoto, where she would be trained as a geisha. However, an older geisha is determined to destroy her. One day, a man notices Chiyo crying in the streets, inspiring Chiyo to become Sayuri, a remarkable geisha. The book is the story of her journey. The most enjoyable part of the book is the gamesmanship between the warring geisha, Mameha and Sayuri against Hatsumomo. Mameha knows how to perfectly extract herself from situations gracefully, and she is a true chess player, always thinking a few steps ahead. The book is to be commended for shedding more light on geisha as a culture. The women are entertainers, skilled in conversation, singing, dancing, and playing a musical instrument called the samisen. There are also certain hairstyles and clothing indicating different stages in the life of a geisha. That said, the book has a particularly disappointing ending. For a book that spends entire paragraphs describing the embroidery on each Kimono, the ending is so rushed that you blink and you miss it. Moreover, the ending doesn’t make much sense either. It is a little too fairy-tale, in a world that is on the brink of obsolescence and collapse. In the acknowledgements, Arthur Golden thanks Mineko Iwasaki, who is a real geisha. However, Iwasaki spoke to Golden on the condition of anonymity. She alleges that the book is her life’s story except that Golden falsely sexualized the book. Two years later, an out-of-court settlement was reached. It is a good read, if you stay aware of the flaws. " },{ "id": "/books/a-time-to-kill", "url": "/books/a-time-to-kill/", "title": "A Time To Kill", "layout": "post", "description": "A riveting court-room drama and a compelling tale of retribution and justicea in small town Mississippi, where both the crime and the fallout are highly racially charged...", "author": "John Grisham", "date": "2023-06-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3151.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller", "content": "In a small town in Mississippi, a 10-year-old black girl is viciously raped and beaten by two white supremacists. While the largely white town is shocked and horrified, it is evident that the two men would get away with not much more than a slap on the wrist. The girl’s father takes matters into his own hands and guns down the two men in the courtroom, and is charged with capital murder, a crime which carries a death sentence. He retains a young white lawyer, Jake Brigance, who has to convince an all white jury that the black man who just killed two white men was not guilty by reason of temporary insanity. Up against a prosecutor who wants to use this case for policital progress and the resurgent Ku Klux Klan, Jake is up against society’s deep rooted racial divide a much as the court. The book chronicles the lawyer’s journey from convincing folks that he is right for the job, to getting paid, selecting a jury and presenting a convincing psychiatrist to the jury, all while dealing with death threats, burning crosses, bombs and eventually a burned down house. Although unrelated, the book made me think of the case of Cmdr. Nanavati, who shot his wife’s lover point blank and turned himself in. In a shock move, the jury acquitted him, which led to the elimination of jury trials entirely in India. A jury needs to identify with the perpetrator, and ask themselves how they would act. The jury did that for Nanavati. But in racially charged America, the colour of the skin prevents them from this very basic act. A white person cannot identify with a black one under any circumstances. As an epilogue, it was revealed that the jury’s decision came about when they were asked to flip the skin colours. Grisham drives the narrative effortlessly and keeps the reader hooked and engaged. His story-telling is excellent. Worth reading. " },{ "id": "/books/the-giver", "url": "/books/the-giver/", "title": "The Giver", "layout": "post", "description": "At the age of twelve, Jonas, a young boy from a seemingly utopian, futuristic world, is singled out to receive special training from The Giver, who alone holds the memories of the true joys and pain of life.", "author": "Lois Lowry", "date": "2023-06-15T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3152.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Dystopian Science-Fiction Young-Adult Classics", "content": "Jonas lives in a small town with his family. They live in a society that has taken away pain and strife by converting to “Sameness”, a plan that has also eradicated emotional depth from their lives. The society lacks any color, memory, climate, or terrain, all in an effort to preserve structure, order, and a true sense of equality beyond personal individuality. Jonas is selected to inherit the position of Receiver of Memory, the person who stores all the past memories of the time before Sameness, as there may be times where one must draw upon the wisdom gained from history to aid the community’s decision making. Jonas struggles with concepts of all the new emotions and things introduced to him: whether they are inherently good, evil, or in between, and whether it is even possible to have one without the other. He is horrified to learn that the euphemistic term “release” really means euthanasia and it is used extensively to preserve the “sameness”, and he takes matters into his own hands. The Giver felt like a very sparse story; it is a poor attempt at sci-fi, and clumsy and heavy-handed at its moral messaging. The world-building is very rudimentary at best, and no characters other than the primary ones are developed, and even the primary ones are developed only to serve the moral leanings. One cannot form an emotional connection with any of the characters. While one can appreciate the overall message about the importance of individual differences and human emotion, the book lays it down way too thickly, with only marginal focus on world and character building. The ending also called back a key scene with an unnecessary deux ex machina. On the whole, would not recommend. " },{ "id": "/books/the-lovely-bones", "url": "/books/the-lovely-bones/", "title": "The Lovely Bones", "layout": "post", "description": "The book begins with the tragic death of a fourteen-year-old girl, Susie Salmon (like the fish). From there, Susie's spirit narrates in first person the lives of Susie’s family, friends and murderer.", "author": "Alice Sebold", "date": "2023-06-22T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3153.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery", "content": "This book has an interesting premise. The story starts as one of rape-murder, and continues to talk of the fallout of the murder. The unusual style utilised puts the murdered girl front and center… as the narrator describing events from her “personal heaven”. And given that she is in heaven, she can follow the lives of her family, her friends and her murderer, who is never caught. The interesting premise is all that the book really has going for it, though. It’s slow, boring and there is no real connection with any of the characters. The mother had set aside her dreams and aspirations to be full-time mom, and the murder is the catalyst which then causes her to first cheat on her husband, and then abandon her family to do what can best be described as menial jobs on the other side of the country. The father ends up suspecting the actual culprit, but a series of misunderstandings left him broken, both physically and spiritually. The sister has to deal with her identity now reduced to “dead-girl’s sister”, while brother has to now grow up in a world without mother, ill father and dead sister. There are more characters, none of whom are worth mentioning; the entire ensemble weren’t interesting enough to hold up the rest of the story, I was just relieved when I finally got to the end. This is a painfully boring book, and I am at a loss to understand it’s popularity. " },{ "id": "/books/norwegian-wood", "url": "/books/norwegian-wood/", "title": "Norwegian Wood", "layout": "post", "description": "Toru, a young college student in Tokyo, is devoted to Naoko, but their mutual passion is marred by the death of their beir friend years before...", "author": "Haruki Murakami", "date": "2023-06-29T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3154.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary Romance", "content": "Toru is a quiet and bookish college student in Tokyo. He chances upon old friend/crush Naoko. Naoko used to be his best friend Kizuki’s girlfriend, but Kuzuki had committed suicide years ago, and had shaken both of them up severely. When Toru and Naoko finally do get together, she suffers a severe emotional breakdown and leaves college to recuperate. She moves to a secluded half-way-home sanatorium, where other emotionally scarred residents/patients help each other recover. Toru is devoted to her and visits her multiple times, but is unable to reconnect and relate to her fully. In the meanwhile, he meets bubbly, outgoing and self-assured student Midori, who has expressed a clear interest in him, but Toru struggles to put Naoko behind… Widely regarded as Murakami’s most popular work, the writing and storytelling are excellent. But, but, BUT…. this book was so infuriating!!! The character build-up is so sparse and slow that they remain unsympathetic and unrelatable. The book spends way too much time on the depressed girlfriend and her kooky friend, and too little on the fun and outgoing Midori. Also, the scenes involving his college roommate, which were supposed to be funny, actually come across as dark and disturbing. Worst of all, this book is weirdly misogynistic. The female characters are often compared to children during sexual scenes. A lot is written about the wrinkles on the older Reiko, which comes across as ageist. And all scenes involving sex are just bizarre. Every. Single. One. Including the one involving an assault on Reiko by a 13-year-old girl. I would not recommend this book and I do not believe this is the best that Murakami can do. Maybe I should have started with something else… " },{ "id": "/books/the-boy-in-the-striped-pyjamas", "url": "/books/the-boy-in-the-striped-pyjamas/", "title": "The Boy In The Striped Pyjamas", "layout": "post", "description": "Auschwitz as seen by a child... a very deluded and self-involved child.", "author": "John Boyne", "date": "2023-07-04T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3155.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult Historical", "content": "The idea is interesting. “What if the horrors of Auschwitz were retold from the perspective of a child?” Oh, but the execution was just so incredibly bad. First, and most of all, it would be useful for an author who puts children front and center to actually meet some children. The central character in the book, Bruno, is purpotedly 9, but seems to think and behave as though he is four. There are so many discrepancies in the book that it comes across like a high-schooler’s essay, or worse. Why would a German child, educated in Germany, find it hard to pronounce Auschwitz and Führer, even after seeing them written down? Why would he think Heil Hitler is a way of greeting, and not know what Heil or Hitler mean? Germany has not used imperial measurements from the 19th Century, so why are we talking miles and feet? How can a boy whose father is a high-ranking official in the Nazi regime does not know what a Jew is? He lives next to a concentration camp and does not know what that is? There is no way a section of the camp fence was unpatrolled, or could have been lifted enough for a boy to pass under. Most importantly, there is no way a frail nine-year-old boy could have survived in a camp. They were gassed upon arrival, as they were just considered unproductive mouths to feed. What was the author’s thinking here? Did he think that no one would dare say anything negative about his book since it was about the Holocaust? The Holocaust was very real and one of the greatest horrors ever perpetrated by humans on other humans. This book is a crime against the memory of the Holocaust and should not be allowed to exist. " },{ "id": "/books/the-outsiders", "url": "/books/the-outsiders/", "title": "The Outsiders", "layout": "post", "description": "Two weeks in the life of Ponyboy Curtis, a 14-year old \"greaser\" and his struggles with right and wrong in a society in which he believes that he is an outsider.", "author": "S. E. Hinton", "date": "2023-07-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3156.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult Classics", "content": "There are two kinds of people in the world: greasers and socs. A soc (short for “social”) has money, can get away with just about anything, and has an attitude that shows they know it. A greaser, on the other hand, always lives on the outside and needs to watch his back. Ponyboy is a greaser, and he’s proud of it, even willing to rumble against a gang of socs for the sake of his fellow greasers — until one terrible night when his friend Johnny kills a soc. The murder gets under Ponyboy’s skin, causing his bifurcated world to crumble and teaching him that pain feels the same whether a soc or a greaser. The characterization is very real and quite complex. Even though the greasers come from “the wrong side of the tracks”, they each have their strengths and their weaknesses. Some question their choices in life. Even some of the rich “socs” are shown in a humane light. Author S. E. Hinton wrote the majority of this story when she was only 16-years-old. She obviously followed the “golden rule of writing” — write what you know and care about. Absolute gold, and a must read. " },{ "id": "/books/ivan-denisovich", "url": "/books/ivan-denisovich/", "title": "One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich", "layout": "post", "description": "The story of labour-camp inmate Ivan Denisovich Shukhov, it graphically describes his struggle to maintain his dignity in the face of communist oppression. An unforgettable portrait of the entire world of Stalin's gulags.", "author": "Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn", "date": "2023-07-06T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3157.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Classics", "content": "USSR, 1950s. In cold windswept Siberia, Ivan Denisovich Shukhov struggles through another bleak day as a prisoner in the Gulag labour camp. Why he is in there isn’t relevant, and it is pointless to think of when he would get out. He can only think of getting through the day, to keep his chin up, and scrounge for the meanest comforts… a little tobacco, an extra bowl of gruel, or a small piece of a hacksaw blade. He never lets the system get to him, he does not despair. He does the best he can, putting in all his effort, and taking pride in the labour he is forced to do. I wish I had the resilience and moral fortitude that Ivan Denisovich demonstrates if I was ever in challenging circumstances. I live a comfortable life. I have a home, a wife, two kids, a job, clothes, a full stomach. And yet, when reading this harrowing account, I was transported. I felt cold, I felt hungry, I felt scared, I felt harassed, I felt helpless, I felt hopeless, I felt powerless, I felt humiliated. It is very rare that a book moves the reader as much as this one does. Solzhenitsyn writes from personal experience, and the power emanates from every sentence of this superb tome. His Nobel prize in literature was awarded for his life’s work, including the seminal Gulag Archipelago. But this… this book alone moved me to tears several times. An absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/books/slaughterhouse-five", "url": "/books/slaughterhouse-five/", "title": "Slaughterhouse-Five", "layout": "post", "description": "Centering on the infamous firebombing of Dresden, the story follows the life of Billy Pilgrim. as he reflects on the events of his life across time and space.", "author": "Kurt Vonnegut", "date": "2023-07-10T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3158.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Science-Fiction Classics Literary", "content": "This book is in a genre by itself, a unique perspective on human folly that combines elements of science fiction, satire and fable, while discussing the horrors of war. Pick a genre, and put this book there, it will fit. The story follows Billy Pilgrim, a young college student who gets conscripted for WWII, but even before he can take up his post, he is forced to start running to escape the advancing Germans. He is captured after a series of misadventures, and is one of the few PoW’s to live though the horrific firebombing of Dresden. But the most interesting thing that happens to him is that he becomes unstuck in time. He is able to see his whole life, that which has been and that which will be, all at once. Beyond this point, the book switches to a non-linear story telling structure, with consecutive passages referring to his childhood, as a respected optometrist and as a human oddity in an alien zoo. The book has no structure or at the very least a perceivable one: it’s all over the place. But, it works so well. It cements the book’s message and purpose underlining its meaning. Indeed, this book is an anti-war novel, which is asserted (in part) through its random and confusing organisation. The story is “jumbled and jangled” such as the meaning of war. It appears pointless to the reader, again alluding to the meaning of war. It also suggests that after the war a soldier’s life is in ruins and has no clear direction, which can be seen with the sad case of Billy Pilgrim. If for nothing else, the below passage makes this book an absolute must read. “America is the wealthiest nation on Earth, but its people are mainly poor, and poor Americans are urged to hate themselves. To quote the American humorist Kin Hubbard, ‘It ain’t no disgrace to be poor, but it might as well be.’ It is in fact a crime for an American to be poor, even though America is a nation of poor. Every other nation has folk traditions of men who were poor but extremely wise and virtuous, and therefore more estimable than anyone with power and gold. No such tales are told by the American poor. They mock themselves and glorify their betters. The meanest eating or drinking establishment, owned by a man who is himself poor, is very likely to have a sign on its wall asking this cruel question: ‘if you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?’ There will also be an American flag no larger than a child’s hand – glued to a lollipop stick and flying from the cash register. Americans, like human beings everywhere, believe many things that are obviously untrue. The most destructive untruth is that it is very easy for any American to make money. They will not acknowledge how in fact hard money is to come by, and, therefore, those who have no money blame and blame and blame themselves. This inward blame has been a treasure for the rich and powerful, who have had to do less for their poor, publicly and privately, than any other ruling class since, say Napoleonic times. Many novelties have come from America. The most startling of these, a thing without precedent, is a mass of undignified poor. They do not love one another because they do not love themselves.” There is no better way to describe this book except as “bizarre”. The narrative is random and confusing. But despite that, this book shall remain one of the best anti-war books ever written. " },{ "id": "/books/the-secret-garden", "url": "/books/the-secret-garden/", "title": "The Secret Garden", "layout": "post", "description": "An orphaned girl is sent to live with a reclusive uncle, where she finds a secret garden which changes the lives of herself and everyone around her", "author": "Frances Hodgson Burnett", "date": "2023-07-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3159.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult Classics", "content": "Mary Lennox is a surly, spoilt and isolated child growing up in colonial India, where her upbringing has been delegated to the subservient brown ayahs. When her entire household perishes in a Cholera epidemic, she is sent to live with a distant uncle in a large mansion in the Yorkshire moors. The uncle is largely absent, and the minimal staff at the mansion, with their broad Yorkshire accents, are not as fawning as the brown-skinned help she is used to. To kill boredom, she explores the vast gardens of the mansion, and discovers a walled off “secret” garden. When a little bit of luck and help from a robin, she finds the key to the garden, and sets about restoring the hidden place to its original glory. She ropes in her maid’s brother Dickon into the scheme, as well as her isolated and seemingly handicapped cousin. The effort they put in to bringing the secret garden back to life also has a positive effect on their own manner, and health. This book was a product of its times, but even in that context, it is vastly problematic. Brown people are depicted as somewhat less than fully human. A handicapped child miraculously is cured, with nothing more than will-power; all it takes to cure any ailment is to chant “magic magic magic”. While this is meant to be a children’s fable, rather than serious literature, the overwhelming praise this book gets is unwarranted. The pacing is slow and the language used is tedious. The author puts in a fair amount of effort to describe the broad Yorkshire accent, but those parts are much harder to understand because of the colloquialisms, which are actually presented as quaint. The character development is strong, but there are no real conflicts or hurdles to be overcome, so the character growth experienced by the key protagonists doesn’t seem very plausible. Overall, a tedious and dated read. " },{ "id": "/books/all-quiet-on-the-western-front", "url": "/books/all-quiet-on-the-western-front/", "title": "All Quiet on the Western Front", "layout": "post", "description": "A young soldier in WW1 recounts his moving story of horror and disillusionment of life in the trenches.", "author": "Erich Maria Remarque", "date": "2023-07-14T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3160.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Classics Literary", "content": "First world war, or the Great War, as everyone called it then. Fought mainly because the various imperialist chest-thumpers ruling the European super-powers got into a dick measuring contest, the war completely destroyed a whole generation of their populations. Common draftees died in vast numbers, and those who survived often did so without all intact limbs, and suffering from severe shell shock… as PTSD was called back then. The devastation of war is so complete, that no one survives, even if the soldier returns from war. Written in first person by a young German soldier recruited straight from high-school, the story details the daily horrors: hand-to-hand combat, trench warfare, barbed wire, shelling, gas attacks, seeing close friends dying dying from either enemy fire or disease, scrounging for food and cigarettes. His comrades-in-arms are much like himself; school students, farmers and factory workers. The sadistic training officer who brutalized them in the name of getting them ready was a postman. He returns home briefly when he gets leave for a while, and again when he is recovering from injury. But the world at home is too far removed from the front-lines. His old acquaintances, unaware of the true ugliness of war, glorify the effort and the cause of the fatherland. The story, much like the war itself, does not have a plot. It is a cautionary tale. There are no victors in a war. No one returns unscathed from the godawful mind-numbingly exhausting terror of war. An absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/books/jurassic-park", "url": "/books/jurassic-park/", "title": "Jurassic Park", "layout": "post", "description": "Revolutionary new techniques in genetic engineering allow scientists to bring back long-dead animals. They choose to use the technology to make the most amazing theme park ever envisioned... until something goes wrong.", "author": "Michael Crichton", "date": "2023-07-20T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3161.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Thriller", "content": "While this book is almost always classified as a thriller — and the thriller aspects of it are undeniable — at its core, the book is a study of the hubris of scientists who do science not for research or knowledge, but for money and ‘because it can be done’. The story centers around an experiment gone wrong. Businessman John Hammond envisions a biological theme park filled with resurrected dinosaurs. He sets up InGen, a genetics company, on a small island called Isla Nublar off the coast of Costa Rica. There, using revolutionary technology, the team rebuilds the DNA sequences of dinosaurs from bones and other sources. These are then grown as eggs, incubated and hatched. The island has several sections demarcated by fences and moats, and each species is let into its own section. John Hammond brings paleontologist Alan Grant and his student paleobotanist Ellie sanders over to the island to showcase his work. He shows them several dinosaurs, such as apatosaurus, stegosaurus, dilophosaurus, velociraptors and the fearsome tyrannosaurus rex. Accompanying them is mathematician Malcolm Ian, who has long predicted that this experiment will fail using his field of study, Chaos Theory. Dr. Grant discovers that the animals are breeding and escaping the island, which the park people did not expect. Dr. Ian shows that these specific events were predicted in his report, and also indicates that this is the first step in a collapse of the infrastructure on the island itself. On cue, a disgruntled employee disables certain sections of the security system to steal technology, but this leads to him being killed by the dilophosaurus. While the remaining technicians work to restore the system, a series of mis-steps leads to several people being attacked and killed by dinosaurs, including John Hammond and Malcolm Ian. The story ends with the Costa Rican military having to destroy the entire island from the air. The book is over 30 years old, and some of the key aspects are still science fiction; resurrecting Dinosaur DNA is impossible because there is simply no way for the DNA to last the vast eons of time since their death. Even so, the world today is vastly different from the world of dinosaurs, up to and including the very air we breathe. This is Michael Crichton’s most famous work, and the effort put into research, both in geography and science really shows. A very well written book, and adapted well into the first movie of the same name by Steven Spielberg. On a side note, Costa Rica is famously one of the only countries in the world that does NOT have a military. " },{ "id": "/books/binti", "url": "/books/binti/", "title": "Binti", "layout": "post", "description": "Her name is Binti, and she is the first of the Himba people to be offered a place at the prestigious Oomza university. But that would mean leaving her world behind forever and entering a world at war with the Meduse...", "author": "Nnedi Okorafor", "date": "2023-07-21T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3162.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "The story starts off very well. Binti is a brilliant 16-year-old girl, from the Himba people in Namibia. She builds astrolabes (something like mobile phones) with her father, and is destined to become a master harmonizer (unsure what that is). Water is very scarce in the region the Himba people are from, and they smear a combination of clay and oils called otjize over their bodies and hair. She is accepted to Oomza Uni, where the top minds across all species come to study. She makes the courageous decision to go, where people from her tribe rarely stray away from their village. The journey is five weeks long on a spaceship, orientation and classes start right away on the spaceship. But the spaceship is attacked by Meduse, a jellyfish like being at war with humans. So far, so good. But the rest of the book teeters between science fiction, fantasy, and otjize, otjize, otjize. Binti ends up bringing about an end to the war by using her skill as a master harmonizer to establish a communication channel with the Meduse, and all this while still in shock over seeing her fellow students and teachers brutally murdered in front of her. The book is categorized as a novella, as the length is roughly between a short story and a novel. The writing is great, and well suited for young adults, without dumbing down the story. Some aspects are a little hard to stomach. Bloodthirsty wars are may be started because of misunderstandings, but they are rarely stopped by just communicating. Several non-combatants are killed, including students and children, but there seem to be no call for repurcussions or reparations. Indeed, the Meduse are given what they came for, as well as an opening to join the wider galactic community. There are two sequels to this book, here’s to hoping that they address the odd shortcomings… " },{ "id": "/books/we", "url": "/books/we/", "title": "We", "layout": "post", "description": "The grand original O.G. dystopian novel, that influenced everything from 1984 to Brave New World, and everyone from Kurt Vonnegut to Ayn Rand. D-503 of the totalitarian OneState is a mathematician who thinks in numbers and equations. But he discovers he has a soul, and passions...", "author": "Yevgeny Zamyatin", "date": "2023-07-24T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3163.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Dystopian Classics Science-Fiction", "content": "We is set in a world built by the handful of survivors of a 200-year war, a world where individuality, imagination and privacy are no longer available. Sex, and families are tightly controlled, and set on a rigid, state-controlled schedule. Smoking, drinking and other “vices” are completely unheard of. The storyline, though is oddly familiar. A party functionary, who is recording his experiences in a journal, lives in a future fascist society which maintains its solidarity by compulsory attendance at public events dominated by a remote, all-powerful leader. He meets a woman, a secret rebel who expresses her revolutionary impulses through her sexuality, and the two of them carry on an affair in a room in an old house, which symbolizes what life was like in the days before the new society. The man becomes a revolutionary too, but still has doubts, and, after undergoing a mind-violating experience, betrays his lover and the revolution too. This is the base story for We, as well as 1984, by George Orwell. I am a huge fan of George Orwell, and have read 1984 and Animal Farm several times. 1984 has excellent concepts such as the NewSpeak, the way in which the party limits the language so people do not even have the tools for ThoughtCrime, as even thinking the ideas of revolution are dubbed a crime. The Ministry of Truth which peddles lies, the Ministry of Peace which runs the War… all great, original ideas. And set in a believable world, not far removed from a post-war Britain. But the overarching story framework is a straight lift from We. It was used by Orwell as the framework of 1984 a good twenty-five years after Zamyatin wrote We. Orwell had read the french translation of We a few years before he wrote 1984, and reviewed it for a magazine too. He acknowledged the influence of We in interviews too. All told, 1984 is an easier read than We, as the latter uses a lot of mathematical analogies to demonstrate the extremely logical and rational thinking of the protagonist. 1984 has an unforgettable starting sentence, and an equally unforgettable ending too. It is worth mentioning that We was not Soviet state approved. The manuscript was smuggled out of the Soviet Union and published in western Europe in Russian, and also translated into several languages. It was not officially allowed to be published in the USSR until 1988, just a couple of years before USSR ceased to be. " },{ "id": "/books/memory-man", "url": "/books/memory-man/", "title": "Memory Man", "layout": "post", "description": "Muscle-man ex-cop who is down and under is caught up in an investigation of a series of crimes which seem to involve him specifically and directly...", "author": "David Baldacci", "date": "2023-07-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3164.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller Crime Mystery", "content": "Amos Decker was the school football star. Huge and towering, he had a formidable physique which, coupled with a lot of hard work, saw him to college football and through drafts to a pro-football team. On the first day, he has a violet helmet-to-helmet with which knocked him unconscious, off the field, and out of the game for good. But the knock left him with improbable side-effects, Hyperthymesia, meaning he can never forget anything, and synesthesia, meaning he associates colours with numbers, moods and environments. He gets back to a normal life… detective job in his local police force, wife, kid… until that life is destroed when his family is brutally murdered, and the case is never solved. The depression of losing his family sends him to the streets, and after several years of homelessness, he starts over as a PI. His life is shaken up again when there’s a school shooting in his town, and the police department ropes him in for his unique skills. But that is just the start of a series of murders, which seem to be set up specifically to challenge his skills and abilities… There are many things in this book that I suspect we are supposed to exclaim dramatically at and be impressed by, but they’re flimsy at best. The story is full of plot holes - the detectives ignore key pieces of evidence to prolong the mystery, instead looking into other dead ends. It seems as though except for Decker, everyone is particularly incompetent, or at least, they are written that way. Also, the “motive” did not make any sense. I do not think the reasons given in this book added up to the sum of the crimes at all. Even in a very distressed mind, with Decker having paid a huge price already, the exceedingly large number of body count seems… inconsistent for someone who is described as intelligent. Franky, not worth reading. " },{ "id": "/books/flipped", "url": "/books/flipped/", "title": "Flipped", "layout": "post", "description": "A romance between two teens which builds up over many years. She flipped the first time she saw him, but realized he wasn't quite as wonderful as she thought. He ran when she first appeared, but slowly realizes how amazing she is...", "author": "Wendelin Van Draanen", "date": "2023-08-02T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3165.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult Romance", "content": "This book comprises a series of he-said, she-said chapters; where the same set of events are told first from the male protagonist Bryce Loski’s perspective, and then from the female protagonist Juli Baker’s perspective. The premise is interesting, if not very original. Bryce is just trying to fit in, not get ridiculed, and just get by without calling attention to himself. So many sources of said ridicule surround him; father, sister, friends, classmates… and all interaction with Juli is a sure-fire way to invite ridicule. So his approach devolves to essentially treating her rather badly, so he can save face. Juli is cut from an entirely different cloth; she does the RIGHT THING, no matter what the price; and the last thing that has ever troubled her is what others think. There is a bit of Mars-Venus undertones to the story as we see the protagonists navigate the world of small town suburban America and all its idiosyncrasies. The characters are a little hard to identify with, as they seem rather precocious. Especially Juli. It’s worth reading once, I guess. This was also made into a movie which is supposed to be decidedly more charming than the book. " },{ "id": "/books/super-sad-true-love-story", "url": "/books/super-sad-true-love-story/", "title": "Super Sad True Love Story", "layout": "post", "description": "A hopeless romantic navigates a one-sided love affair while America crumbles around him. The story evolves from his diary and her social media account.", "author": "Gary Shteyngart", "date": "2023-08-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3166.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Dystopian", "content": "This book is classified as sci-fi, but it is only notionally so. It is set in an unspecified near future. America, through a series of bad economic and political decisions, is on the verge of complete collapse. It is fighting an unwinnable war in Venezuela, and all civil liberties are largely suspended thanks to the “American Restoration Authority”, an extended National Guard which runs the domestic scene brutally. The American dollar is worthless, and an alternate currency, called the Yuan Pegged Dollar, is the only one used. International relations are also abysmal, with only Italy having any meaningful relations with the US. Youth is revered, and social media reigns supreme. Reading is frowned upon, and literacy is at an all time low, and the only industry which even exists is retail. People spend most of their time on an äppärät, a sort of mobile augmented reality device which is not adequately described in the book, and use it for everything from online shopping, communication, consuming news and media, and even identifying people, their net worth and fuckability. None of the above is explicitly stated, though. All this is what the reader has to infer from between the lines of the story, which is essentially told in alternating chapters from the diary of Lenny Abramov, and the social media (GlobalTeens) account of Eunice Park. 39-year-old Lenny falls hopelessly in love with Eunice, and works hard to a future life with her, while she just sees him as a meal ticket, and is very conflicted about it. The story is depressing on so many fronts, and none of the characters or side characters are even remotely likeable. The people are all awful in their own way, and the world could not possibly be worse. It took me forever to finish this book, after several aborted attempts and breaks. It is not an easy read, and beyond a point, I found myself reading it only to get it over with. The writing style and world-building, such as it is, is interesting, but I would not recommend this book. " },{ "id": "/books/american-psycho", "url": "/books/american-psycho/", "title": "American Psycho", "layout": "post", "description": "Patrick Bateman is the archetypal yuppie. Rich, handsome, charming, excellent taste in music, art, food and all things fine. He is also a psychopathic killer.", "author": "Bret Easton Ellis", "date": "2023-08-14T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3167.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Thriller Literary", "content": "This was singularly one of the hardest books to finish, and there was a morbid fascination which egged me on to the end, despite strongest instincts to give up several, several times. I have found that books which use the unreliable narrator trope are the ones I find the hardest to stomach. In this book, there isn’t much to indicate that the narrator is unreliable until we come to the end, which makes it nigh intolerable. There are three types of chapters in this book: Patrick Bateman descibes, in excruciating detail, his social life, his friends and acquaintances, their clothes and their conversation, their taste in food, gossip and interpersonal relationships. Patrick Bateman describes, in excruciating detail, the career of musicians and artists, from their early formative work, to their peak and beyond, and on occasion, various high-end gadgets and equipment he acquires, and their features and. Patrick Bateman describes, in excruciating, graphic and overly gruesome detail, the way he brutally murders and mutilates the bodies of several men and women. All three types of chapters are interleaved throughout the book. Just when one thinks this is getting beyond tedious, the next type of chapter shows up, and the cycle repeats. Throughout the book, he repeatedly demonstrates an encyclopaedic ability to identify designer items worn, or used, by all the men and women he encounters. Some of the murder chapters go far beyond the pale, especially when he talks about squshing eyeballs, chewing intestines and microwaving heads. Often I would read while eating; big mistake. I would like to believe that the book is intended as a satire on yuppie culture, and the capitalistic acquisition of wealth and possessions which serve no purpose beyond bragging rights. The book slowly builds up to a climax, mirroring Patrick’s detiorating mental state, I believe. I would not recommend this book, though. Both the tedium and the gruesomeness are things we can do without in life. I don’t believe I have the enthusiasm to watch the movie adaptation starring Christian Bale. " },{ "id": "/books/red-rising", "url": "/books/red-rising/", "title": "Red Rising", "layout": "post", "description": "A group of teens fight each other brutally in a gladiatorial contest on Mars", "author": "Pierce Brown", "date": "2023-08-25T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3168.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Dystopian Science-Fiction", "content": "Darrow is a teenager and a Red, a member of the lowest caste in the color-coded society of the future. Like his fellow Reds, he willingly works all day and gets paid in scraps, because he believes their efforts are making the surface of Mars livable for future generations, and saving the whole human civilization. But Darrow finds that everything he knows is a lie. Humans have been on Mars for generations, living in sprawling cities on the surface. Darrow and the Reds are just insignificant slaves to an arrogant ruling class. Aided by the mysterious terrorist group the Sons of Ares, Darrow infiltrates the world of Golds, the highest caste and the ruling class. He joins other Gold children at the gruelling Institute where they train the next generation of civilization’s overlords. He fights and competes for his life, and the very future of civilization, against the best and most brutal of the Golds. He will stop at nothing to bring down his enemies, because this is just a hurdle to cross before he brings down all of society. The writing is dense and wordy, and the prose is splendid. But the plot and storyline are so tedious that I struggled to get through this book. First, world building. The first fifth of this book is dedicated to setting the stage and stoking the reader’s sense of outrage at the injustice of it all. But the overly complex word salad just had me rolling my eyes instead. And then, there’s the lead, Darrow. He is the average everyman, but he is perfect in every single way. He dies, but is saved by a miraculous mechanism which is not addequately explained. He has never been educated, but a crash course in math and science allows him to be on par, nay, superior to those who have had a lifetime of schooling? He bests the Golds in each skill because he was a miner in his previous life and is good with his fingers? He is this archetypal young adult lead. Someone with humble roots so everyone can relate to him, but at the same time, he is the chosen one, the one teenaged superman that leads generations of oppressed masses against a tyrannical ruling class… I wish to run into him in the street so I can ignore him and keep walking. The remaining four fifths of the book is just Hunger Games. Bunch of kids fighting to the death, last man standing wins, but since the system is rigged, Darrow fights the system, the real enemy… I wish the book had some redeeming quality… but I fail to put my finger on it. " },{ "id": "/books/binti-home", "url": "/books/binti-home/", "title": "Binti: Home", "layout": "post", "description": "Binti comes back home from Oomza for a break, with her Meduse friend in tow. But not everyone is thrilled, as she sets out to discover more about her father's side of the family, the nomadic desert people...", "author": "Nnedi Okorafor", "date": "2023-08-28T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3169.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "The first Binti book left a lot of unanswered questions, and a lot of concepts raw and unexplored. Rather than bring closure to those, “Binti: Home” moves further away, by introducing more characters and concepts which are incompletely fleshed out. Binti feels flashes of anger, and decides the best way to resolve this would be to take a break from university, mid-term, and go an a pilgrimage like Himba people do. The university is very supportive, and her Meduse friend Okwu accompanies her back home. There, the finds that not too many people are thrilled to have a Meduse in their midst, and socially no less. Understandable, since they have lost friends and family in the war with the Meduse. Binti sees an apparition called a Night Masquerade; presently, a group of desert people, who turned out to be her father’s family, arrive to take her to see her grandmother, and teach her more about her heritage. This is when things get far murkier, something about an advanced alien species from long ago, whose DNA exist in her… This storyline has moved far away from any professed science fiction roots, deep into the realm of fantasy. But the world building is very sparse, and no ground concepts are established. This prevents a reader from ever becoming emotionally involved in the story. It seems like the characters are taking actions and making decisions based on criteria which are sensible within the rules of that world, but the reader is unaware of those same rules. I kept waiting for the story to converge, for some big revelation or plot twist which pulls in all the unexplained threads and ties them all together, but this book did just the opposite. It introduced newer characters, newer concepts, and newer angles to everyone’s back story. I am very hard-pressed to recommend this book series to anyone. I am even more hard-pressed to find the motivation to read the next book, the last book in the series. " },{ "id": "/books/a-canticle-for-leibowitz", "url": "/books/a-canticle-for-leibowitz/", "title": "A Canticle for Leibowitz", "layout": "post", "description": "A ruined post-apocalyptic world is slowly nursed back to civilization by a group of cloistered monks, following the teachings of a blessed Saint Leibowitz, a Jewish military engineer from before the fall.", "author": "Walter M. Miller Jr.", "date": "2023-09-04T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3170.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Dystopian Science-Fiction Classics", "content": "A nuclear holocaust wipes out most of the world population, and the survivors reject all that led to the holocaust, things like education, literacy, science, and books. They hold massive book-burning sessions, and lynch all educated people they find. Leibowitz is a engineer, who hid from the lynch mobs in a monastery, in mid-western USA. Later, he becomes a man of the cloth himself, and starts his own order, to save books and knowledge for a future generation. The story is split into three parts. The first set 600 years after the holocaust, a wild and chaotic world full of bandits and mutants, as people severe birth defects is now the norm. A young monk of the Albertian Order of Leibowitz chances upon a fallout shelter, pointed out to him by a mysterious Wanderer. There, the monk finds an original blueprint made by the founder of his order, the Blessed Leibowitz himself. The next is set 600 years later, when a new renaissance is beginning. Several local city-states have arisen, and their rulers battle for supremacy much like in ancient Greece or medieval times. The church has now started studying and understanding the texts from over a millenium ago, and one of their more talented monks makes a treadmill-powered light bulb. The Wanderer is still around, he is now a reclusive hermit calling himself Benjamin. He monitors the goings-on, and meets with a nobleman who has “rediscovered” some basic scientific principles. 600 more years pass, and mankind has evolved into a new technological age, with nuclear weapons, and starships and colonies in space. The Leibowitzian order now preserves not just ancient memorabilia, but all knowledge. But humanity is doomed to repeat its mistakes, and never learn from their past ones. A new cold war is underway, between the Atlantic confederacy and the Asian coalition. A series of misunderstandings lead to another nuclear strike and retaliatory strikes. The Leibowitzian order loads a starship full of the memorabilia collected over a thousand years, and takes off shortly before the strikes again wipe out humanity. The last monk boards the ship with the words Sic Transit Mundus. This book is beautiful in so many ways. There are the vivid descriptions of the desert landscape, the finely drawn portraits of the monks, abbots, and priests, and there is a deep eloquence and humor infused in the narrative. The book is evenly paced, and the structure is elegant. The vivid visuals of a deeply hurt world make for wonderful reading. " },{ "id": "/books/the-guns-of-navarone", "url": "/books/the-guns-of-navarone/", "title": "The Guns of Navarone", "layout": "post", "description": "Several attempts have been made to silence the guns of Navarone, but all have failed. A small team of experienced mountaineers and saboteurs make one last attempt... the lives of 1200 men are at stake.", "author": "Alistair MacLean", "date": "2023-09-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3171.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Thriller", "content": "In the Aegean theatre during WWII, the German forces controlled most of the Greek islands, having defeated Greece. The Allied forces attempt an attack from the South, and have men on several of the smaller islands. But the Germans move fast, and have encircled the islands, and the men there are sitting ducks. All rescue missions, by air or by sea, are thwarted by the powerful guns stationed on the island of Navarone, which blocks the only available strait to reach Kheros, where 1200 allied troops are holed up. A small force of just five men, all who speak fluent Greek and German, are sent in by boat. Led by expert mountain climber Capt. Keith Mallory of New Zealand, the team lands on the southern wall of Navarone, a steep cliff. They scale the wall, and have three days to infiltrate the gun compound and sabotage the weapons. With some help from local Greeks, they narrowly escape from the vociferous German assault, as well as being captured by the German commander of the island. They are betrayed by a double agent, but they still complete their mission, and even manage to escape after stealing the German commander’s personal yacht, and rendezvous with the rescue ships. The book is fast-paced, but still has a layered narrative. Good old fashioned WW2 action, with no complicated politics or emotions. The interplay between the five men and the locals is very entertaining reading. Everything is black or white… just good guys trying to save other good guys from bad guys. There is a brief episode of an interaction between Mallory and a German officer, who recognizes Mallory and is himself a climber. He says “Before the war, even during it, I would have been proud to have known you, glad to have met you. But not here, not now. Not any more.”. It’s a simple book, and very enjoyable. " },{ "id": "/books/the-thursday-murder-club", "url": "/books/the-thursday-murder-club/", "title": "The Thursday Murder Club", "layout": "post", "description": "Four senior citizens in a retirement community solve murders... several, actually", "author": "Richard Osman", "date": "2023-09-14T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3172.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery", "content": "Four unrelated residents in Cooper’s Chase, a retirement community in Kent form a “Murder Club”. The septuagenarians meet weekly, and pore over unsolved case files made available to them by one of their group, an ex-police detective member. When the former detective takes ill, she is replaced by retired nurse Joyce, who maintains a diary of their activities. Along with the infinitely resourceful Elizabeth with a mysterious past, former union activist Ron and the shrewd psychologist Ibrahim, they are a force to be reckoned with. Things get a lot more interesting when they have a live murder case, right in their laps. The builder of the community is murdered in his home, and they manage to wrangle themselves into the official police investigation. Soon, more mysteries come tumbling out; an inexplicable skeleton in a graveyeard, and even more shocking, their developer is poisoned right outside said graveyard. Whose skeleton is that? Who did the builder in? And… which one of their own community poisoned the developer? Fast paced with a perfect blend of deadpan humour, clever dialogues and tender moments, the book features several unpredictable twists and turns. I don’t think I guessed even one of the perpetrators. I thoroughly enjoyed my time with the gang at Coopers Chase. The Thursday Murder Club is a wholesome read with a big heart, that is sure to keep you guessing. " },{ "id": "/books/to-all-the-boys-ive-loved-before", "url": "/books/to-all-the-boys-ive-loved-before/", "title": "To All the Boys I've Loved Before", "layout": "post", "description": "Lara Jean never spoke about her crushes. She just writes letters to them as a way of coping, and hides the letters under her bed. But when those letters suddenly get sent out, havoc!", "author": "Jenny Han", "date": "2023-09-19T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3173.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult Romance", "content": "Lara Jean is a Korean-American girl, the middle of three sisters, and a junior in high school. She has several intense, profound crushes, but she has never acted on any of them. She “gets over” these imaginary boyfriends by writing them letter, and hiding the letter in a hat box in her room. When the letters are sent out, including one to her sister’s on/off boyfriend Josh, she has to crisis-manage. She gets into a “pretend” relationship with one recipient Peter Kavinscky; she gets to keep Josh at bay, and Peter gets to show his long-time girlfriend that he’s got options. Anyway, things don’t entirely go to plan, she actually ends up liking Peter, and vice versa. But when a story of Lara Jean in the hot tub with Peter gets around, it all falls apart. I had several issues with this book. Lara Jean is supposedly sixteen. But she thinks, talks and has the maturity of a twelve-year old. She’s a bit spoiled and naive, and comes across as rather whiny. If at any point she had taken charge of the situation, and spoken out and acted sensibly, the book needn’t have been. She whole story exists because she did not. Also for someone who is in her final two years of high school, she spends exactly zero time studying or doing homework. I find that both unrealistic, and exceedingly hard to sympathize with. On the whole, this whole book is dull and pointless. " },{ "id": "/books/tell-no-one", "url": "/books/tell-no-one/", "title": "Tell No One", "layout": "post", "description": "Gripping thriller in which a widower doctor is suddenly thrust into a whirlwind of life-threatening scenarios, starting when he gets a mail from beyond the grave...", "author": "Harlan Coben", "date": "2023-09-21T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3175.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller Crime Mystery", "content": "Dr. David Beck is a widower who lost his wife to a violent crime eight years ago. She comes from a family of cops, with her father and uncle both members of the force. While Dr. Beck himself was recuperating in hospital, her body is recovered and she is identified as being the latest victim of a notorious serial killer. The killer himself is caught and sentenced, but not specifically for Dr. Beck’s wife. It’s almost eight years to the date, when he receives a cryptic email referencing a private moment that no one except his wife should have been aware of. The link in the email leads to a grainy traffic camera video, where his wife walks in front of the camera. Not as she was eight years ago, but looking older, with a different haircut. This starts a whirlwind chase involving the police, the FBI, some lawyers, a successful drug dealer with a heart of gold, and several people who end up dead as soon as Dr. Beck talks to them. And it all ties back to the unsolved murder of a billionaire tycoon’s son who’s murder remained unsolved. I am at a loss to decide whether I actually like this book or not. The storyline is well constructed, full of twists and turns, carrying you along in the sweep of its path - not letting up for one moment. As a suspense book, it is definitely intruiging, but there are some unusual reveals at the end of the whodunit, right on the very last page. The reveals, in retrospect, makes other parts of the novel inconsistent at best, and confusing and misleading at worst. It seems to almost go into the unreliable narrator area, which I absolutely detest. On the other hand, I love the characters. Dr. Beck is not the smartest, the fastest, fittest, or the best fighter. He is a very ordinary man, in extraordinary circumstances, and he reacts the way an ordinary man would. This alone sets this novel apart from the standard suspense books, where the protagonist is a superhuman with spectacular physical and mental capabilities. Elizabeth, the wife, on the other hand, is very smart, but still makes mistakes which land her and her loved ones into a lot of trouble. " },{ "id": "/books/big-little-lies", "url": "/books/big-little-lies/", "title": "Big Little Lies", "layout": "post", "description": "Things get out of hand at a school fundraising event, and one of the Kindergarden parents ends up dead. And as the mystery of the death is examined, each of the parents' perfect little lives also unravels.", "author": "Liane Moriarty", "date": "2023-09-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3176.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller Mystery", "content": "Madeline, Celeste and Jane are three friends whose children are in the same kindergarten class in an idyllic small coastal town. But right on the very first day, things go awry and the three mothers find themselves up against Renata, a working mother, and her friend’s circle. On the surface, the parent group has all the standard cliques: stay-at-home moms, do-gooders, helicopter parents, parents who think their brats are exceptional. As we get to know more about the three friends and their efforts to navigate the school parents’ politics, it is revealed that their perfect seeming lives aren’t that perfect. Jane is a sexual assault survivor, Celeste suffers from severe domestic abuse and Madeline is struggling to deal with her teen daughter having a relationship with her birth father. On the very first day, Jane’s child is accused of bullying; Jane stands up for her child, while other parents start a petition to have him expelled. The base narrative is interspersed with testimony given by various people to the police after a murder, or some unnatural death, which happens at a school event. The nature of the death itself is not revealed, but what is revealed is that all the petty disagreements between the parents comes to a boil towards that fateful day: the day of the school’s Audrey and Elvis-themed trivia night. The book is thoroughly captivating; the story is well-paced, and the plot is brilliant in both structure and tone. It is a spectacular schievement to have a book that deals with sexual assuault, domestic abuse, abandonment and bullying, that is absolutely hilarious and laugh-out-loud funny. The suspense is built up gradually and keeps us guessing until the very end. " },{ "id": "/books/the-wife", "url": "/books/the-wife/", "title": "The Wife", "layout": "post", "description": "Angela is married to celebrated author and economics professor. When he gets caught up in sexual harrasment case, her loyalty to him threatens to unveil her own dark secrets.", "author": "Alafair Burke", "date": "2023-10-01T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3177.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller Mystery", "content": "Angela works as a caterer in the Hamptons, where rich New Yorkers come for their summer vacations. She regularly caters for Susannah, a TV journalist, and becomes good friends with her. She meets Jason Powell at one of Susannah’s parties and they get married, and Angela uses it to reboot her own life, and put her horrid past behind her: When she was a teen, she was abducted and held prisoner for three years, and she was rescued with an infant in her arms, after the police have a shootout with her abductor. She recovers from her ordeal, and with the help of her parents, rebuilds her life. She has been married six years now, and her son is twelve. Jason is a celebrity author, professor and consulting economist, and they are doing very well for themselves. Now, her husband is first accused of sexual harrasment by an intern in his consultancy, and then another woman, a client, comes forward with reports of sexual assault and rape. Her husband’s firebrand lawyer is convinced she can get him off, but asks Angela to testify for him, and that threatens to bring out all her past secrets, and also affect her son’s future. This is a suspense novel, with a bit of legal drama thrown in. But there some odd issues I have with it. The main protagonists and their behaviour does not seem to be logical. I find it unusual that a high-flying TV journalist is besties with Angela, a high-school dropout caterer. And Jason… any professional with half a brain would know not to get involved with clients, and would know how to behave with interns. Jason is drawn up as a squeaky clean college professor, and it is at odds with his persona which is revealed later. The parents work in the Hamptons as cleaners for people’s summer homes, but at the same time, they constantly talk of the same city folk derisively, and are very distrustful of them. I would understand if they were from some rural community, but not the Hamptons! The end was predictable, partially. The “who” was evident, but not the “why”. The “why” part still managed to surprise, so the book was not a total loss. On the whole, it is worth reading for the excellent way it ended. " },{ "id": "/books/i-am-legend", "url": "/books/i-am-legend/", "title": "I Am Legend", "layout": "post", "description": "A plague has struck, and Robert Neville is the last man alive, and the rest of the world are undead vampires, thirsting for Neville's blood. He hunts them by day, and barricades himself by night. But how long will this continue...", "author": "Richard Matheson", "date": "2023-10-03T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3178.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Dystopian Science-Fiction Horror Classics", "content": "Following a nuclear war, a global pandemic breaks out, which converts the diseased into vampires. They are then allergic to garlic, avoid sunlight, and are only killed by a stake through the heart. Most are mindless beasts, but some retain all their human faculties. Robert Neville, the narrator, is the sole survivor. Before the war, he was bitten by a bat in Panama once, rendering him immune to the disease. Neville narrates the feelings of utter loneliness and despair he feels at being the last human left alive. He spends his days hunting them, and burning their remains in a giant bonfire. He spends the nights barricaded in his house, as they collect outside ranting and taunting him. The local vampire mob is led by Ben Cortman, a colleague and neighbour who reminded him on Oliver Hardy (the comedian). Cortman shouts every evening he should come out. Robert starts doing research on the bacterium that transforms humans into vampires. He makes analyses, and understands the disease better, but he does not progress beyond that. At some point, a dog enters his life. He cares for it for a while, but eventually the dog is infected and dies too. A lady calling herself Ruth shows up, but he cannot discern if she is infected or not. Where does it end? How does it all turn out? The last paragraph explains the cryptic title, “I am legend!” This is a fantastic, extremely well written book with a compelling plot and graceful prose. The story pulls you in and refuses to let you put the book down. An absolute must read! " },{ "id": "/books/cloud-atlas", "url": "/books/cloud-atlas/", "title": "Cloud Atlas", "layout": "post", "description": "A thought-provoking tale spanning generations and eons, from the distant past to a post-apocalyptic far future, and examines how souls drift across time, and how the souls are interconnected", "author": "David Mitchell", "date": "2023-10-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3179.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Literary", "content": "This is not one story, but a set of six stories, spanning six locations in six time-periods The first story is set in 1850’s New Zealand, and centers on an American Notary traveling back home The next story moves to 1930’s Belgium, where a young bisexual musician enters the home of an ailing master composer to work and learn, but gets caught up in a relationship with the composer’s wife and daughter The story moves to 1970’s USA, where a young reporter is investigating a nuclear power plant and connects with an insider The next episode is set in present day England, centered on a vanity book publisher, who is tricked into a retirement home like prison by his brother. Fast forward to the future, and the tale set in an extremely capitalist South Korea, centering on a fabricant, an artificially created (cloned?) restaurant worker who has broken free of her programming and become sentient A far future Hawaii, in a world destroyed by global war and pandemics. The local society has returned to the Iron Age, and is ekeing out an existence by trading with some technologically advanced survivors. The language spoken itself has changed, or rather, evolved radically,. The story centers on a goatherder. Each story is linked to the previous by means of a record; The composer in Belgium reads the autobiography of the American notary in the library of the composer. The reporter reads the letters written by the musician to his lover, and listens to music composed by him. The publisher reads the manuscript of the story of the reporter, and the fabricant reads the life story of the publisher. The recording of the interview of the fabricant lands in the hands of the herder. In fact, each story itself is presented as being read (or otherwise consumed) by the central character of the next. In each story, the central person is the same soul, as evidenced by a small comet-shaped birthmark on their shoulder-blades. There are recurring themes in each story; truth, betrayal, power, captivity… and in each, the protagonist shows great strength of character to elevate themselves from their circumstances. This book defies definition in the truest sense of the word. It cannot be slotted in as mystery, or science-fiction, or drama. It can be slotted in as all of them. But one thing is for sure, it does not let you put the book down. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/an-artist-of-the-floating-world", "url": "/books/an-artist-of-the-floating-world/", "title": "An Artist of the Floating World", "layout": "post", "description": "Set in post-war Japan, the story explores the rapid modernization of the country and the resentment held against the older generation for thrusting the country into a needless war.", "author": "Kazuo Ishiguro", "date": "2023-10-16T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3180.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary", "content": "Masuji Ono is an septuagenarian artist, reminiscing about days gone by in a world that has moved on and regards his generation with distrust and resentment for their role in promoting imperialist Japan’s war. He himself was not content with depicting nature and beauty in his art, and channeled his talents to support the imperial war machine and its propaganda engine. Now, many years later, he feels deep-rooted guilt at his actions and his role. His younger daughter is getting married, and before the potential suitors can unearth his dark secrets, he wishes to make amends. But some wrongs are not righted easily. A slow-paced introspective narrative, the book serves as a mouth-piece for an entire generation of Japan, and their feeling that they had let themselves and the whole nation down with their misguided actions. The title is an allusion to the term ukiyo-e, or wood-block printing, the best known art form in Japan. The term ukiyo-e literally means ‘picture of a floating world’. It is also a reference to the changing world and rapid modernisation in post-war Japan. A good read. " },{ "id": "/books/perfume", "url": "/books/perfume/", "title": "Perfume: The Story of a Murderer", "layout": "post", "description": "Jean-Baptiste Grenouille is born in the slums of 18th-century France, with an extraordinary gift of smell. Working as a perfumer, he starts the grisly task of bottling up.. the essence of women.", "author": "Patrick Süskind", "date": "2023-10-19T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3181.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Horror Classics Literary", "content": "A magic realist tale, or rather, a fable set in 18th century France. Grenouille is born unwanted and uncared for, and discarded into a pile of rotting fish and offal. But Grenouille has a gift, an outstanding, super-human sense of smell. He can smell everything, even things not normally odoriferous, like wood and brass. He uses his extraordinary power much like others use sight; so much so that he can walk around comfortably in pitch darkness by just smelling the obstacles and side-stepping them. When he catches a whiff of the fairer sex, he becomes obsessed with the idea of capturing that essence, and bottling it. He works as an apprentice for a perfumer, and learns the trade while the perfumer uses Grenouille’s skills to rejuvenate his failing fortunes. But making perfumes is different from extracting the essence from nature, and this is the skill that Grenouille needs. He moves away from Paris, and in the town of Grasse, he starts murdering women and extracting their essence from their skin and hair to make the ultimate perfume. This book is very well researched; the author has done his homework on all things related to perfume, and the methods involved in it’s creation - both chemically and artistically - and the importance of it’s purpose in that point in history. The book is written very descriptively, with care taken to describe the people, settings and landscape in detail. Despite its title, the book is about all the meaner aspects of humanity: jealousy, greed, pride, lust, and of course, murder. I do not much care for magic realism as a genre. But the tone of this book is closer to historical fiction or thriller than it is to magic realism. I don’t believe there is a single likeable character in the whole book, and that is a deliberate choice made by the author. Despite that, it is not a difficult read. The pacing is mostly even, except for an interlude involving Grenouille spending seven years alone in a cave, away from all contemptible humanity which “disgusts” him. I suppose that period is significant in some form, or an allegory to something. In all, a good read, thought I wouldn’t recommend it too strongly. " },{ "id": "/books/the-silent-patient", "url": "/books/the-silent-patient/", "title": "The Silent Patient", "layout": "post", "description": "A criminal psychotherapist joins a facility with the specific aim of working with one of their celebrity inmates, painter Alicia Berenson. Does he just want the publicity, or does he have a more sinister motive...", "author": "Alex Michaelides", "date": "2023-10-25T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3182.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller", "content": "Alicia Berenson was a successful painter, married to a celebrated fashion photographer. Then one day, when her husband returns late from a photoshoot, Alicia shoots him five times in the face, and then never speaks another word. She paints one last cryptic painting, with the word “Alcestis” on it. Theo is a criminal psychologist, himself a survivor of abuse as a child. He worms his way to a job at the facility where Alicia is being treated, and starts working on getting her to talk. But she attacks him brutally on his first interaction. He perseveres though, and seems to make some progress, but has to contend with other staff members and their misgivings. Meanwhile, Theo has marital problems of his own; his actress wife has been cheating on him. But rather than confront her, he starts smoking pot, and stalking her lover, and her lover’s wife… especially the wife. Tying all of these together is the Greek tragedy “Alcestis” by Euripedes, and a diary that Alicia maintains. Strictly speaking, since Alicia does write the big reveal in her diary, she is not exactly the titular “silent”. Also, it is not described how Alicia manages to retain her diary throughout her incarceration. Anyway, a lot of twists and turns, and none of the characters are entirely what they seem. The story is full of thrills and artistic metaphor, all framed with elements of a Greek tragedy. The writing is fast paced and enjoyable. A good book to read once. " },{ "id": "/books/the-man-eaters-of-tsavo", "url": "/books/the-man-eaters-of-tsavo/", "title": "The Man-Eaters of Tsavo and Other East African Adventures", "layout": "post", "description": "A first-hand account of the hunt for two lions which terrorized the crew building a railway line in Eastern Africa.", "author": "Lt. Colonel J.H.Patterson, D.S.Q.", "date": "2023-10-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3183.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Autobiography Memoir", "content": "Patterson was a product of his time. In his time, the British ruled half the globe, and considered it the white man’s burden to civilize the unfortunate savages infesting their dominion. These savages came in all shapes and colours, and the British had endearing nicknames for each kind: Negroes, Coolies, Abbos, Gins and so on. The worth of a man is measured by the number of animal species he pushes closer to extinction, for hunting is, after all, just “game”. The book is essentially a memoir of Patterson, of the time he was deployed to East Africa and given the charter to build a railway from Kenya to Uganda, which included building a bridge across the river Tsavo, deep inside the African jungle. The workers he uses are vast crews of indentured labourers, supplanted from India to work on the railway. The book is equal parts details of the engineering and supply-chain challenges faced by Patterson and his crew, and details of the various extinct and near-extinct animals Patterson dispatches for fun. The titular man-eaters were a pair of young lions who terrorized the worker crews and over months killed several of them, one a night, while eluding the armed Patterson. Once the deep-rooted racism and offensiveness is set aside, the first part of the book, specifically the hunt for the man-eaters of Tsavo and the impact the two lions had on the construction crew is interesting. Perversely, despite the intentions of the author, I was rooting for the lions. They demonstrated resourcefulness and ingenuity, and were simply defending their territory from creatures who had no business being there, in their dominion. The human toll was sad, but then, humans had no business encroaching their space. For Patterson, the human toll of the lions was just a cold hard statistic; he just had to “Keep Calm and Carry On” with fewer coolies than before. Stiff upper lip and all that, one has to do the best in the circumstances. The rest of the book is a boring, and depressingly tedious retelling of the hunt for several animals, including rhinoceroses, hippopotamuses, wildebeests, buffaloes and leopards dispatched wantonly by Patterson for no reason other than they existed. The one saving grace was that Patterson at least considered the non-whites surrounding him as “human”. Which is more than can be said of his contemporary countrymen. Once you read the book, you will be suffused with a strong instinct to hit a punching bag until your knuckles are sore. Avoid the book to avoid the punching. " },{ "id": "/books/frankenstein", "url": "/books/frankenstein/", "title": "Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus", "layout": "post", "description": "A deeply moving tale of a scientist forced to confront the ethical and moral implications of his research, and pay the price for disregarding those implications.", "author": "Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley", "date": "2023-10-30T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3184.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Horror Classics Literary", "content": "Hollywood scriptwriters and pop-culture has mangled and twisted this tale so much that what is deemed “common knowledge” regarding this book bears no resemblance to the book itself. The lightning, grim castle, villagers with pitchforks, monster with scars across face and bolts in the neck are all figments of the imaginations of various Hollywood personas through the ages. Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (née Maruy Wollstonecraft Godwin) was just nineteen when she wrote this fantastic piece of literature. This book transcends trivial concepts like genres. It is a deeply poignant and thought-provoking story of a scientist who, in Michael Crichton’s words, “was so preoccupied with whether or not he could, he didn’t stop to think if he should.” The story is told in a frame format, with each outer narrator relating his perception of the story of the next narrator. Captain Wolton is leading a sea expedition to the North pole, and writes a letter to his sister of an extraordinary occurrence. They first encounter a gigantic man driving a dog sled. Shortly later, they rescue a emaciated and near frozen scientist named Victor Frankenstein who is in pursuit of the gigantic figure encountered earlier. Victor relates his tale thus: He was born of a wealthy Genovese family, and moves to Switzerland to study. There he excels in Chemistry and develops a method to impart life to non-living objects. Using this technique, he “creates” the gigantic man seen earlier. Though designed to be beautiful, the creature turns out to be hideous, and effectively turns his back on him. He returns home when he hears his brother was murdered, and is convinced the creature murdered him. The creature confronts him and tells him his own tale. He is articulate and intelligent, but has been feared and shunned by people everywhere due to his appearance. Their unkindness makes him bitter; he was shot by the father of a child he saves from drowning. In his bitterness, he swears vengeance against all humans. He travelled to Geneva and murdered Victor’s brother. He then demands that Victor make a female companion for him, since no normal human would ever accept him. Victor initially agrees, but changes his mind when faced with the implications of them breeding. This enrages the creature who kills Victor’s best friend, and later, his bride on their wedding day. Victor, wanting revenge and to destroy his creation, pursues the creature across Europe, and towards the North pole, where he had encountered the ship. The strain of relating his story exhausts him and Victor dies. Walton then witnesses the creature on his ship, mourning over the death of his creator, and vows to burn himself to death so none will know of his existence. Walton then sees the creature leave… The pacing of the story is brilliant. Victor comes across as a man of weak character, unwilling to take responsibility for his actions and its consequences. He pays for this by losing all his loved ones, but still choses to blame his creation rather than his own folly. The characterizations are excellent and the creature’s narration is particularly moving. This book is an absolute must read, it is a seminal work of literature. " },{ "id": "/books/the-haunting-of-hill-house", "url": "/books/the-haunting-of-hill-house/", "title": "The Haunting of Hill House", "layout": "post", "description": "A scientist studying the paranormal ropes in a few people to live in a \"haunted\" house. All is quiet, until the house starts acting up...", "author": "Shirley Jackson", "date": "2023-11-03T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/3185.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Classics Literary", "content": "Dr. Montague persuades the owners of the very haunted “Hill House”, a strange gothic building, to allow him to stay there an study paranormal phenomena. He invites several people who have displayed psychic or paranormal inclinations in their past, but just two show up. Eleanor is a shy, single lady who had, until recently, been caring for her demanding and overbearing ailing mother. She is now caught in her sister’s shadow, and dreams of an independent life far away from her family’s influence. Theodora is a bohemian artist, and Luke is the heir of the house itself. As Dr. Montague, Luke, Theodora and Eleanor explore the house, they find that it is a veritable maze, and built with walls not exactly vertical, causing doors to repeatedly slam shut. All four start experiencing strange events, including inexplicable noises, ghosts, writing on the wall, and other similar events. Eleanor seems to be more tuned in to these events, but she seems to be having difficulty separating reality from her imagination. As they are joined by Dr. Montague’s wife and her assistant, they attempt to commune with the supernatural forces. But the messaging from these forces seem to indicate that they are specifically interested in Eleanor. Dr. Montague advises Eleanor to leave, and she reluctantly does so, only to crash her car into the great oak tree outside the house… as the book ends. Reading this book gives one a distinct feeling of uneasiness and disquiet. It is not because of what is said, but more because of what is not. The quiet part is left to the reader’s interpretation and imagination. Is there an actual paranormal force at work? Or is it just one of Eleanor’s alternate personalities at work? Or even Eleanor herself? The story contains just enough detail that it cannot be called incomplete. There is an introduction of the characters, the setting, the build up of suspense, and an ambiguous ending. But in each of the sections, there seem to be bits left out. Even the phenomena observed is only described, vaguely, if at all. There is a sense that Eleanor herself is causing these events, as her childhood experiences with a poltergeist also seem to indicate that she was the perpetrator. Without actually presenting a frightening entity, the book gives the reader deep chills, and a sense of foreboding thanks to the masterful writing. A good read. " },{ "id": "/books/in-a-dark-dark-wood", "url": "/books/in-a-dark-dark-wood/", "title": "In a Dark, Dark Wood", "layout": "post", "description": "Nora is invited to a former friend's hen-do in an isolated house in the woods. But someone ends up dead, and everyone is a suspect.", "author": "Ruth Ware", "date": "2023-11-14T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3186.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller", "content": "Leonora is a reclusive writer, who has had some form of trauma as a child, causing her to sever all connections with old friends, except for Nina. Now, ten years later, Nora (as she choses to call herself now) gets an invite to Clare’s hen-do, in a remote isolated glass house deep in the woods. As the various tedious and often ridiculous events of the hen-do progress, Clare is convinced that they are not alone in the glass house, and there is someone else around. Footsteps in the snow, missing phones, inexplicably open doors… until some intruder is fired upon with a gun. A sequence of events unfolds which culminates with Nora in hospital, being a suspect in the death of James, and police questioning her. As Nora gradually remembers the sequence of events, she realizes that someone at the hen-do had more sinister motives. The intruder was James, Clare’s fiancé and Nora’s ex-boyfriend, who dumped Nora as a teen when she got pregnant. But why was he there at the glass house, and why are there texts from her mobile to his, inviting him over? Nora escapes the hospital to find out just that. The story builds like a intriguing mystery, but the ending is decidedly unsatisfactory. Clare, it turns out, is extremely narcissistic and manipulative. She had caused the break-up between James and Nora back in the day, and when James finds out, demands that she make amends under threat of breaking up. Clare is unwilling to either make amends, or face the ignominy of being dumped. So she decides that the best course of action would be to murder James and frame Nora for it. To this end, she texts James from Nora’s phone, and invites him over, while replacing the blank cartridges in the shotgun with live ones. There is no logical explanation for Clare’s motives. I mean, she was a teenager, who pulled a nasty prank. But rather than make amends, she decides that her fiancé must die? There would be signs that someone is this twisted. She would not have been capable of forming normal relationships, or keep up the pretense of being an empathetic human being so consistently to all circles. Quite frankly, she is rather poorly written, and the plot seems decidedly weak as a result. Moreover, in a classic case of the cavalry coming in once the battle is over, the police posse pieces everything together and figures out that Clare is the culprit shortly after she nearly takes Nora out, again. Clare is supposedly fighting for her life in hospital, but she is more concerned with being unmasked? The ending had me rolling eyes. That’s Clare. But every character in this book is ridiculous to varying degrees. Nora was dumped (or, thought she was) ten years ago. She is now a functioning adult, but cannot form relationships because of something that happened when she was a teen? Flo, on the other hand, is not a functioning adult. And really, who has bachelor parties or hen-do’s lasting days? A dinner with drinks and get back home. The whole premise is ridiculous. " },{ "id": "/books/mash", "url": "/books/mash/", "title": "MASH: A Novel about Three Army Doctors", "layout": "post", "description": "A collection of stories from the 4077th Mobile Army Surgical Hospitals (MASH), during the Korean war, in the early 50's.", "author": "Richard Hooker", "date": "2023-11-16T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3187.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical", "content": "The military is synonymous with discipline, order, hierarchy and rules. But those are for soldiers. When a group of young surgeons, straight out of medical school, are drafted to serve as field surgeons in a collection of tents just behind the front lines, they throw all rules and order to the winds. Hawkeye Pierce, Duke and Trapper John join Lt. Col. Blake’s unit, the 4077th MASH. In the brutal circumstances they are meant to live in, they see many young men, barely out of childhood, fighting for their lives. The doctors are repeatedly called upon to patch the wounded just enough to get them to a bigger hospital, with better resources. Twelve, sometimes fourteen or sixteen hours a day they are elbow deep in blood and guts. But when they are not, their tent, dubbed the “Swamp”, becomes the focus of all manner of shenanigans, pranks and cocktails and tomfoolery to help them unwind from the physical and emotional toll of their punishing jobs. They get into several adventures, some hilarious and others poignant. Despite their wayward behaviour and frequent insubordination, Blake tolerates and even appreciates them, because they are highly competent and have an incredible work ethic. The book is equal parts hilarious, touching, and deeply emotional; largely because of the nature of lives led by the front-line surgeons. They often act unhinged, and survive on copious amounts of alcohol to cope with the horrors visited on them. Their only connection to reality is the letters they exchange with loved ones back home. One excellent movie and a very long running TV show was spawned from this book. Needless to say, it is an absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-graveyard-book", "url": "/books/the-graveyard-book/", "title": "The Graveyard Book", "layout": "post", "description": "Noboday 'Bod' Owens lives in the graveyard, and has done so most of his life. His parents are ghosts, his guardian straddles the world of the living and the dead, and his best friend is a witch. But, the real danger for Bod are the sinister forces on his trail in the world of the living...", "author": "Neil Gaiman", "date": "2023-11-18T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3188.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Horror Young-Adult", "content": "This book starts with a brutal opening. A mysterious assassin called Jack has murdered an entire family in their sleep, but a tiny toddler has managed to elude him and slips into the graveyard nearby. Jack pursues him there, but is rebuffed by the other-worldly residents of the graveyard. A ghostly couple adopt the toddler, and name him “Nobody Owens”, Bod for short. Bod has several adventures over the next several years. His parents are ghosts, and his guardian Silas is a vampire. He has several tutors, but the most interesing one is a werewolf with an Eastern European accent. He befriends a witch and enters a prehistoric tomb of a king guarded by a trio of creatures called “the sleer”. He is captured by very hungry ghouls and has a very narrow escape from them. He even dances the “Macabray”, the dance where the living and the dead dance together. But the real adventure, one that threatens his very existence, is that Jack (a.k.a. Jack Frost) and his ilk (Jack of all trades) are still on his trail. Jack, pretending to be a historian, befriends Scarlett, Bod’s sole flesh-and-blood friend. Bod and Scarlett visit Jack Frost, when he reveals his identity, and starts chasing them along with three other Jacks. Bod escapes to the graveyard, and uses his unique knowledge of the graveyard, his home, to defeat the Jacks. Once the Jacks are eliminated and Bod is about 15, Bod moves on from the graveyard to make his way in the real world. This is such a loveable book despite the grim tone and macabre setting. The language is rich and the tone is visceral, but what stands out are the characters in the book, who are all so unique and loveable. This book is intended as a children’s book, and I wish I had read more books like this rather than the more staid fare like Dickens and RL Stevenson. I cannot recommend this book enough. " },{ "id": "/books/bad-luck-and-trouble", "url": "/books/bad-luck-and-trouble/", "title": "Bad Luck And Trouble", "layout": "post", "description": "One Reacher is tolerable, barely. Four of them isn't four times the fun.", "author": "Lee Child", "date": "2023-11-22T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3189.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller Crime Mystery", "content": "The book is the eleventh in the series, and Reacher has stubbornly refused to evolve as a functioning citizen. Anyway, he gets an SOS call from his former special investigations military police crew. Reacher reassembles the surviving unit to piece together why one of their team was found dead in the desert near LA. As the mystery is slowly unraveled, Reacher, Neagley and two others get embroiled in a corrupt missile manufacturer, and a plot by a UK based terrorist to blow up targets across the US. Like a typical Jack Reacher book, there are several instances where Reacher makes wild assumptions and guesses with very little base information, and these assumptions always turn out to be correct. For example, the size of a post office box a dead ex-teammate of his would have used, based solely on his knowledge of his profession as a private detective. There are several such instances in the book, which are eternally grating. Intertwined with the story is a Reacher coming to the understanding that all the rest have moved on and assimilated into civilian life; as detectives, private investigators, security specialists and similar professions. Some are even married with children. Reacher muses wistfully on what might have been, if he had also set aside his long-standing misanthropy and actually worked at becoming a productive member of society. These interludes are probably the saving grace of the book. On the whole, the book is just ho-hum, and does not rank even amongst the top ten Reacher books. Safely missable. " },{ "id": "/books/endless-night", "url": "/books/endless-night/", "title": "Endless Night", "layout": "post", "description": "Some are born to sweet delights, and some are born to the night that will engulf all, even those aforementioned, born to sweet delights", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2023-11-24T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3190.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Crime Classics", "content": "Michael Rogers is a drifter, working odd jobs here and there with no specific goal or purpose, until he chances upon Gipsy’s Acre, a beautiful plot of land with stunning views. He envisions owning that, and building a perfect dream house designed by his architect friend Santonix. As narrated by Rogers, he meets a wealthy heiress, Ellie, near Gipsy’s Acre. After a whirlwind courtship and wedding, Ellie reveals she has purchased Gipsy’s Acre, and the couple charge Santonix with building their dream abode. Ellie is warned by a cranky old lady that no good comes of anyone owning Gipsy’s Acre, but she ignores the warning at Rogers’ encouragement. Their house is ready soon enough, and Ellie brings in her chaperone and companian, a German lady called Greta Anderson to live with them as she recuperates from an injury. Ellie takes up horse riding and makes friends in the nearby village. One day, while Rogers is having lunch in the village, Ellie’s horse returns riderless, and she is found dead in the woods, apparently of shock. Now Rogers, as the sole survivor, inherits all her untold wealth. As it turns out, Rogers had planned an elaborate scheme with Greta to “accidentally” meet and court Ellie, and eventually eliminate her so he could live a rich life with Greta. But no good comes of anyone owning Gipsy’s Acre… their scheme unravels just as quickly as Rogers’ sanity. This book is a marked departure from Christie’s staple mysteries. The writing and language is decidedly modern, and features working class protagonists front and center, rather than posh nobs. She has written stories narrated by the murderer before, but this book adds a level of intrigue and unpredictability. The ending is also satisfying, as Rogers’ conscience eventually wakes up and pushes him to break down. Christie wrote this book well into her seventies, and captures the speech and culture of the post-war generation beautifully. The title is drawn from Blake’s Auguries of Innocence. One of her best works. " },{ "id": "/books/interview-with-a-vampire", "url": "/books/interview-with-a-vampire/", "title": "Interview With The Vampire", "layout": "post", "description": "The vampire Louis recounts his life story, and his journey to find meaning and connection in his immortal existence", "author": "Anne Rice", "date": "2023-11-28T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3191.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Horror", "content": "The vampire Louis sits down for an interview, and starts recounting his life story. He was born in Louisiana when it was still French territory, and lived on a large estate with his family. His devout younger brother dies in an unusual accident, and while still mourning him, Louis meets another vampire, Lestat, who converts Louis to a vampire in turn, unwillingly. Louis still continues to run his estate, while the cruel and cunning Lestat grudgingly teaches him the ways of the vampire. Louis gets his remaining family well settled, and moves with Lestat to New Orleans. There, he plans to escape from the confining influence of Lestat. Foreseeing this, Lestat makes a young 5-year-old orphan girl, Claudia into a vampire. This is a particularly cruel act, as she will now be an immortal, but forever be trapped in a child’s body. Louis is loathe to abandon Claudia to her fate with Lestat, and continues to remain. Eventually, Claudia and Louis attempt to kill Lestat in a fire, and escape to Europe on a ship. They search for more of their kind Romania, but the vampires they find are mindless reanimated corpses, vastly different from themselves. They eventually reach Paris, where they chance upon a theatre of vampires, where they meet several vampires like themselves, including the sauve and elegant Armand. But it turns out Lestat survived their attack, and in an orgy of revenge, all the vampires of the theatre and Claudia are all killed. Armand and Louis tour the world together for several decades following this. Louis suspects Lestat escaped, and is proven right when he returns to New Orleans, to find Lestat greatly weakened but still clinging on. Louis muses on the nature of a vampire, the psychology of a vampire and the impact of immortality, and how it is more of a curse than a boon. ‘One evening, the vampire simply rises and realizes what he has feared perhaps for decades, that he simply wants no more of life at any cost’. The writing is very descriptive, and the settings, houses, landscape and architecture is painted wonderfully using words. The prose is a little long-winded and Louis tends to muse a lot on his lot in life, often coming across as whiny. On the whole, a great read and a different look at vampire lore. " },{ "id": "/books/out", "url": "/books/out/", "title": "Out", "layout": "post", "description": "Following a random act of violence, four japanese women get embroiled in the cover up of the crime, and fight to contain the fallout and maintain their own sanity...", "author": "Natsuo Kirino", "date": "2023-12-07T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3192.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller", "content": "Four women living in a low-end Tokyo suburb work the night shift in a factory making boxed lunches. One of them, Yayoi, a young mother, brutally strangles her gambling, cheating husband Kenji a day after he punches her for standing up to him. In a panic, she calls the resourceful Masako, her friend from the factory, to help dispose the body and cover the crime. Masako ropes in the other two, and cuts up the body and disposes the pieces in garbage bags all around the suburb. But the police find the bags soon enough, and a DNA match helps them identify the body too. They interview everyone concerned, but Masako has got all their stories straight. The police nearly figure it out, but a chance mention by Yayoi of her husband’s gambling leads them to the owner of the nightclub. He had had an altercation with Kenji on the day he was murdered, with several witnesses. The police promptly arrest him and shut down his club. Meanwhile, Masako is sexually assaulted by an immigrant worker at her factory, but she forgives him and strikes up an odd friendship with the assailant. One of the other ladies gets entangled with a pay-day loan, and Masako has to step in to get the loan shark off her back, but the loan shark figures out everything, and comes up with a lucrative business plan… disposing bodies. Now Masako works to dispose random Yakuza victims. Meanwhile the police release the club owner for lack of evidence, but having lost his club, he makes it his life’s mission to exact revenge on the real killers of Kenji. Everything is at stake for the women, and they are up against several enemies. The story builds up to a climax, and the ever-resourceful Masako has to use all her wits to go up against the relentless club owner. The books encompasses the best elements of a thriller, a mystery and a horror. There are several instances where the narrative shifts at just the right moment; Kirino masterfully manages the storytelling by keeping the reader constantly engaged, and constantly at the edge of their seat. There are several brutal scenes; rapes, murders, dismemberments… but the book retains a tinge of black humour. The characters are complex and vividly drawn, and a certain amount of back story is provided for each character to clue the reader in on their motivations. On the whole the tale becomes much more compelling. " },{ "id": "/books/eileen", "url": "/books/eileen/", "title": "Eileen", "layout": "post", "description": "For subdued Eileen, life holds little charm. Dead-end job. An abusive, alcoholic father. But when the vivacious Rebecca joins her workplace, the doors of her imagination open...", "author": "Ottessa Moshfegh", "date": "2023-12-09T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3193.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller Literary", "content": "Mid-sixties, in an unnamed town in New England. It’s Christmas season, but there’s little cheer for Eileen Dunlop. A plain-looking college dropout with no friends, she works as a secretary in a ghoulish prison for young boys, where the children are subjected to a heavy dose of bible inspired indoctrination / re-education as rehabilitation. Outside of work, Eileen either spends her time dealing with her abusive, alcoholic ex-cop father, shoplifting minor things, or most frequently, stalking a buff co-worker she has a crush on. All this changes when the bright vivacious Rebecca Saint John waltzes into her workplace, to work as a counselor with the boys. Eileen wants nothing more to do with her tame crush, or her father. She wants to be like Rebecca, with Rebecca, and bask in the glory that is Rebecca. But in a bizarre twist, Rebecca drags Eileen into an ill-thought out crime caper, and looks for Eileen’s help to extricate herself from a situation she got herself into. The story is narrated by Eileen, as a memoir. She is much older now, and relates this story as events from her youth. But she deliberately goes out of her way to hide the place, and details, as a hint of the crime that is to come. And it also tells us that she herself survives the series of incidents which unfold. But that said, it takes more than three fourths of the book to even start having a semblance of a plot. The first three quarters deals with her loneliness, resentment, self-loathing, hints of child-abuse, her random crushes, her drinking problem, her father’s alcoholism, the abuse of the children at her workplace. Somehow, the build-up felt like the last bit would miraculously solve all of the above in one fell swoop. Alas, that does not happen. But Eileen does get out, as promised, and leaves her miserable world behind for a better one unfettered by unwanted responsibilities. On the whole, the book was unsatisfying. There were too many loose ends, and unresolved storylines. While this lends a bit of realism as not all real-life stories have clear endings, it leaves the reader mildly annoyed at not knowing where each thread ends. It’s a fast read, but does get tedious since the narrator is not a very likeable person. A movie has been made of the book, I would like to see if they have tweaked the script to excise the tedium. " },{ "id": "/books/girl-with-a-pearl-earring", "url": "/books/girl-with-a-pearl-earring/", "title": "Girl with a Pearl Earring", "layout": "post", "description": "An imagining of the story behind the enigmatic eponymous girl from Vermeer's painting, the dutch Mona Lisa.", "author": "Tracy Chevalier", "date": "2023-12-13T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3194.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical", "content": "Griet is a young 16-year-old girl in a conservative protestant middle class family in early renaissance era. After an accident blinds her father, she takes a job working as a maid at the residence of Johannes Vermeer, a celebrated painter. Griet is initially intimidated by the Vermeer household, staunch Catholics. But she learns to deal with the mistress, the other maid, the children and their shenanigans, the old mother-in-law, and most importantly, is tasked with cleaning Vermeer’s studio every day. Slowly, over a period of time, she moves to becoming Vermeer’s assistant, preparing both his model settings as well as the mixing his colours for him. She becomes an indispensible part of his work process, when she catches the eye of Vermeer’s patron, who demands a painting of her for his collection. Vermeer, though not entirely happy, proceeds to make his best known work with his young maid as his model. This gets her into trouble with her mistress, though, and she has to deal with her wrath. In a seamless blending of history and fiction, Chevalier paints a vivid picture of seventeenth century Holland. Reading the book transports you to the streets, canals and markets of Delft, making the reader visualize the sights, hear the sounds and smell the pungent odours. The novel is well-crafted, and the prose is well-paced and flows evenly. It is evident that most of the novel is fictional. Little is known about any of Vermeer’s models in real life. Much of the details are extrapolated well, without being overly fantastical or unbelievable. The characters are well drawn and believable. On the whole, this is a delightful, fast read. " },{ "id": "/books/guernsey-literary-and-potato-peel-pie-society", "url": "/books/guernsey-literary-and-potato-peel-pie-society/", "title": "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society", "layout": "post", "description": "A delightful and charming story set in the aftermath of WW2, presented as a collection of correspondences between Juliet Ashton, an author, and the residents of the Channel island of Guernsey", "author": "Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows", "date": "2023-12-16T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3195.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Romance Historical", "content": "In early 1946, London is just recovering from the brutal war that has left much of the city in tatters. Juliet Ashton is an author who wrote a humourous column through the war under the pseudonym of Izzy Bickerstaff, now plans to get back to serious writing. While looking for inspiration, she receives an odd correspondence from a stranger in Guernsey, asking for her help in locating a specific book. Guernsey is a Channel Island, and was occupied by the Germans during WW2. The letter mentions the literary and potato peel pie society, and Juliet, intruiged, exchanges several letters with the man, Dawsey Adams. He tells her how the society was dreamt up on the spur of the moment to escape a German night patrol, but became a real society of literature lovers, which helped the islanders bond and retain their stiff-upper-lip through the brutal occupation. One letter leads to several more, and soon she is corresponding with several other members of the society, and finds that the activities of the society is exactly the inspiration she was looking for. Juliet, meanwhile, is being courted by American publisher Mark Reynolds, and she is ambivalent toward him. She takes the ferry to Guernsey and meets all her friends there, all the quirky, funny, lovable, charming and all too human people who have retained they moral fortitude through the worst of times. More of their tragic stories surface when she is there, and she becomes very attached to the young daughter of the most charismatic resident, Elizabeth McKenna. Elizabeth was sent to a concentration camp by the Germans during the war, and her child is now being collectively reared by the whole village. The whole book is a collection of correspondences, between Juliet and all the people in her circle; residents of Guernsey, her publisher Sidney, her best friend Susan, and Mark. This allows the story to evolve gradually, and builds up a certain amount of suspense in the process. Several sections of the book reveal tidbits of WW2 history as seen through the eyes of the common people, and the strength they each had to find to deal with the horrors of war. The book is frequently humourous, despite what seems to be a grim subject matter. The pacing is superb, and the book is hard to put down. Very well researched and superbly written, this is an excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-stars-my-destination", "url": "/books/the-stars-my-destination/", "title": "The Stars My Destination (Tiger! Tiger!)", "layout": "post", "description": "In a far future universe where people travel by thought, a barely articulate menial survivor from an inter-planetary vessel escapes jail to wreak havoc, and change the world...", "author": "Alfred Bester", "date": "2023-12-19T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/3196.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Classics", "content": " Gully Foyle is my name Terra is my nation Deep space is my dwelling place The stars my destination Humans have developed a skill called “Jaunting”, a mechanism where they teleport from point to point by just thought. It changes society world over, and the nature of transportation. But jaunting has its limitations. The distance is limited to a couple of hundred kilometers, and one must clearly know both where they are, and where they plan to go to. Deep in space, somewhere between Jupiter and the asteroid belt, the ship “Nomad”, owned by Presteign shipping, is marooned. Most of its crew is dead, there is just one survivor on board, Gulliver “Gully” Foyle. Gully is an uneducated, unskilled grunt, with limited vocabulary, but manages to survive on the rotting hulk of the ship for six months before another ship passes by. But the Vorga, also owned by Presteign, ignores his calls for help and passes him by. An enraged Foyle, consumed by revenge against Vorga, repairs his ship sufficiently to make it to the asteroid belt. There he is captured and mutilated by the scientific people, a cargo cult which lives on the larger asteroids. They tattoo his face to resemble a tiger. He escapes from them too, and returns to Terra, and attempts to blow up Vorga. He is captured, and asked to divulge the position of the Nomad which, unknown to him, carries a fortune in Platinum and PyrE, a new material which could change the course of history. Foyle is not swayed by bribes or threats, and is jailed in a Jaunte-proof prison. In a sequence reminiscent of The Count of Monte Cristo, he bonds with another prisoner, who educates him; he becomes less savage, more articulate and erudite. He escapes from the prison and his actions after that end up changing the course of humanity for all time. This seminal work is far more than a reinvention of the Count of Monte Cristo in a science fiction setting. The author goes into the very psychae of the main protagonist, and analyses his emotions in detail as he transforms from an amorphous blob intent on revenge, to a being which transcends time, space and humanity itself. His unswerving fixation on revenge saves him from being destroyed on more than one occasion. The book is very well crafted, and for a science fiction work written over seventy years ago, the story holds up very well. Some of the concepts introduced have been reused in other works by other authors, like the fighting for resources across the system, and life in the asteroid belt. It’s a bold and ambitious story that seems ahead of its time in many ways, and I’m glad that I chose to read this. A definite sci-fi must read. " },{ "id": "/books/chocolat", "url": "/books/chocolat/", "title": "Chocolat", "layout": "post", "description": "A fable with magic, passion and chocolate, and how it all comes together to awaken a straight-laced village in the South of France.", "author": "Joanne Harris", "date": "2024-01-03T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240103.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Magical-Realism Literary", "content": "Lansquenet is a small village, where nothing much has changed in over a hundred years. The conservative and close-minded outlook of the people and various prejudices are stuck in a time warp. Vianne Rocher is a beautiful single mother, who arrives at Lansquenet, and is faced with a mix of curiosity and hostility from the townsfolk. She sets up a Chocolaterie in the midst of its idyllic but judgemental atmosphere, and opens the doors of her new shop on the first day of Lent. This incurs the wrath of the town priest, Pere Reynaud, the self-righteous, prejudiced and judgemental focal point of the town. Slowly, with a winning combination of delightful chocolate creations and open-minded friendliness, Vianne wins over the towns people, and is one of the few who welcome the river gypsies, who moor their boats just outside the town. As Vianne prepares for a grand gala on Easter, Reynaud is himself preparing to bring her and her sinful shop down. Who will win this battle of wills? The story alternates between first-person narration of Vianne and Reynaud, with each perceiving events coloured by their past experiences. The reader gets to take a deeper look into the psyche and innermost thoughts of both these complex and layered characters. As a rule, I don’t like magic realism much, but this book keeps the magic to a minimum, limited to a little bit of Tarot reading. The imagery is vivid, and the cast of characters are colourful and entertaining. The good and enjoyable read. " },{ "id": "/books/turn-of-the-screw", "url": "/books/turn-of-the-screw/", "title": "The Turn of the Screw", "layout": "post", "description": "A young governess is sent to a remote estate to care for two beautiful children, who are oddly distant and wholly disconcerting...", "author": "Henry James", "date": "2024-01-09T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240109.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Mystery Classics", "content": "A young governess writes a memoir in first person, talking about how she was engaged to go to a remote estate to care for a pair of orphaned siblings by their uncle. The children seem perfectly charming and engaging, and all is well at first, save for a discordant note indicating that the boy has been expelled from his school for being a bad influence. Soon, the governess starts seeing strange apparitions and ghostly characters around the estate, identified as former people who were in employ at the estate itself, but are now either deceased or far away… doubtless there is a deep evil lurking around the estate, manifesting itself as apparitions, and working to assimilate or possess the children. But just as much as the governess and the staff work to against this, the children themselves seem to want to be possessed by the evil. There are multiple issues with this book. The children do not ever seem to do anything to endear themselves to the governess or any of the other staff. In fact, the children don’t do anything charming or sinister. They are just… detached. If the children are detached and distant as described, there doesn’t seem to be any reason the governess was as attached to them as she indicates. I find it hard that she would devote so much of her energy to their care and well-being when there just was no reciprocation. Which brings me to the second part. Is there a genuine malevolent force at work, trying to corrupt the souls of the two young children, or is this all the figment of the imagination of the governess? This is left entirely ambiguous, and the whole story could be a case of unreliable narrator. This may also explain her obsession with the children, as she might have been rather unsound of mind. In fact, one interpretation may be that she herself is the malevolent force, and is there with the express purpose of killing the children. The children, sensing this, gravitate away from her in an attempt of self-preservation. The language used is period-specific, but even within that, there is an excessive use of punctuation and run-off sentences, along with multiple tangents being alluded to within the same sentence. It is not an easy read. All told, I was at a loss why this is considered a seminal classic in Gothic horror. The whole book is rather tedious, and frankly, the saving grace is that it is rather short, more of a novella. " },{ "id": "/books/zen-and-the-art-of-motorcycle-maintenance", "url": "/books/zen-and-the-art-of-motorcycle-maintenance/", "title": "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry into Values", "layout": "post", "description": "A study into how we live, and how to be better at living, set around a narrative of a father-son motorcycle trip across the American Northwest.", "author": "Robert M Pirsig", "date": "2024-01-20T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240120.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Autobiography Classics", "content": "Well, actually, there are three distinct threads in this book. The simple, straight-forward one, is the story of the narrator, travelling from Minneapolis to San Francisco along with his young son. The stated goal is to just enrich their lives and live along the road, either in motels, camps, or with friends. The unstated goal is to iron out what the narrator perceives as behavioural issues with his son. While the narrator works as an editor of technical manuals now, he did, at some point in the past, work as a researcher and teach creative writing in English; and was actually quite prolific at it. But an introspective deep-dive into the nature of the subject he was teaching cause him to become obsessive, right up until he had a nervous breakdown. He built his life back up from there. The narrator refers to his pre-breakdown self as Phaedrus, after a greek philosopher. The narrator is trying to both forget, and remember Phaedrus. Or more realistically, he is trying to understand Phaedrus. Which brings us to the third thread. This is a discourse of the study and findings of Phaedrus, on the philosophy of quality. The very attempt of defining quality leads to the eventual breakdown of Phaedrus. There was this classification of people into two groups: romantic and classical. The romantic school appreciates the beauty of things, while the classical school focuses on how the thing works. The world is not binary, though, and this grouping, and the names for this are quite nonsensical. This book is not an easy read. The complex and layered musings on quality are hard to unravel, and the detail that the author delves into causes one to lose track as the threads keep shifting. There are several “quotable quotes” in the book, especially from the sections devoted to his meditation on the nature of quality. But that is just it. The serious, philosophical part is just quotes connected by mumbo-jumbo. The story-like narratives are pleasant enough, but unsatisfying. It took me a while to get through this book, after two aborted attempts. I suppose there are people who love this disjointed writing. There have to be for the book to be the runaway best seller that it is. I am not one of those people. " },{ "id": "/books/a-gentleman-in-moscow", "url": "/books/a-gentleman-in-moscow/", "title": "A Gentleman in Moscow", "layout": "post", "description": "A Russian nobleman is sentenced to life imprisonment in a luxurious hotel in Moscow. But the indomitable Count takes his circumstances in his stride, never losing his spirit or deep humanity.", "author": "Amor Towles", "date": "2024-01-30T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240130.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary", "content": "Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov is a Russian nobleman, who grew up in his family estate Idlehour near Nizhny Novgorod. He has lived the life of a typical gentleman of leisure, well educated and widely travelled. When the Bolsheviks come to power, he works to help his grandmother, the Countess escape to Switzerland, and moves to the Metropol Hotel in Moscow as he is trapped by the closed borders. He is brought to trial, and would have likely endured the same fate as the Romanovs, but a poem attributed to him was seen as a call to action against the ruling class. His life is spared, but he is sentenced to life imprisonment at the Metropol. Count Rostov refuses to despair and give the Bolsheviks the satisfaction of having bested him. He keeps his spirits up, and goes about making the best of his situation, and continues to live his life as a true gentleman. His observations on the nature of the human condition, and the equanimous elegance with which he deals with his trials and tribulations are a treat to read about, as much as his thoughts on the literature and cuisine from the far reaches of the Soviet empire. Despite having his life limited to the four opulent walls, he grows as a human being, forming deep friendships, romances and even a parental relationship. An absolute delight to read and an ending that is in equal parts joyous, poignant and sad. " },{ "id": "/books/under-the-skin", "url": "/books/under-the-skin/", "title": "Under the Skin", "layout": "post", "description": "Isserley drives around in her car, and picks up big muscular hitch-hikers on the highways around Scotland. She talks to them, understanding their lives, where they are headed and whether they have families and relatives who will miss them when she is done with them.", "author": "Michel Faber", "date": "2024-02-06T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240206.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Horror", "content": "Isserley is small, and has very thick corrective glasses. She has severe pain, and sleeps uncomfortably and fitfully. She loves taking long, extended baths. She cannot eat most food. She spends most of her time driving around the scottish highways, picking up lonely male hitch-hikers, which is easy for her to do. This is because she has a very large pair of artificial breasts, which she flants in low-cut tops. Once she picks up the hitch-hikers, she tries to ascertain whether they will be missed. Once she has convinced that they would not, they are suitable for her purpose. The purpose is immaterial, because the story is about Isserley, about what it means to be human, what identity is and what morality is. Ultimately, the things that really matter are, for all intents and purposes, Under the Skin. I have tried to not drop any spoilers here. Everytime the reader processes what they have read and tries to predict where the story is headed, it veers sharply away. Equal parts creepy, horrific, sympathetic and amusing, the book is a slow burn must read. " },{ "id": "/books/lincoln-lawyer", "url": "/books/lincoln-lawyer/", "title": "The Lincoln Lawyer", "layout": "post", "description": "Mickey Haller is a criminal defense lawyer who works from the back of his Lincoln Town Car, mostly with decidedly guilty clients. Then a very high-paying job drops in his lap, where the client insists he is innocent...", "author": "Michael Connelly", "date": "2024-02-10T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240210.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Thriller", "content": "Mickey Haller is the standard sleazy lawyer, working criminal defense across all the court-houses in the Los Angeles area. Since he shuttles between courts frequently, he works from his chauffeured car, specifically a Lincoln Town car. He specializes in finding the procedural missteps by the investigators and uses that to get his clients off, many of whom provide him repeat business. But having worked the scene for so long, he is not sure whether he would even recognize innocence when he sees it, or for that matter, true evil. He had recently managed to get a client of his, arrested for the brutal murder of a young prostitute, a reduced sentence of just four years. The client insisted he was innocent, but Mickey convinces him this is the best deal possible. And then, a rich real-estate agent arrested for a very similar crime asks to be defended by Mickey specifically. On the surface, this looks like the big-ticket moneymaker case which will set him up for life, but something is not right. It is a little too similar to his previous case… and makes Mickey wonder exactly how innocent or guilty, or evil his clients really are… The book delves in great detail both into criminal court procedure, as well as police investigational procedures and the extensive research done by the author makes the book that much more interesting. A very good read, and the first in a series of books featuring Mickey Haller. " },{ "id": "/books/never-let-me-go", "url": "/books/never-let-me-go/", "title": "Never Let Me Go", "layout": "post", "description": "Kathy H, a carer for donors, reminisces about her time at Hailsham, a private institution where she spent her formative years, and her friends.", "author": "Kazuo Ishiguro", "date": "2024-02-15T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240215.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Dystopian Literary", "content": "Kathy H studied at Hailsham, a private boarding school in England with several other children. She was particularly close to Ruth and Tommy, and the three of them were inseparable. Hailsham seems like a regular, pleasant school, where teachers are called “guardians”, and the children are strongly encouraged to produce art. The best pieces of art are selected for a “gallery”. There are clues earlier on, that something is not quite right. There is never any mention of family, or a life beyond the school. But over time, it is revealed that all children at the school are meant to be “donors”. They have been brought into the world for the explicit purpose of reaching a specific age, and then donating their organs. They have no life, not dreams or future beyond this purpose. Kathy, as a carer, eventually becomes the carer for her old friend Ruth, who was in a relationship with Tommy years earlier, and recognized that it was Tommy and Kathy who really connected. She encourages Kathy to reconnect with the old Hailsham administration, to see if they can help in some way. The book has an uneasyu tone throughout, and the reader often has to reread sections with furrowed brows when something really unusual is casually mentioned as a matter of course. It all clicks in place as the key elements of the story are revealed, though. The title is a name of a song that Kathy really likes, a song which is revealed to be a plot point later. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-last-hunter", "url": "/books/the-last-hunter/", "title": "The Last Hunter", "layout": "post", "description": "Captain Jack Romanov of the space force is being drummed out of the navy. But some political game sees him shunted to another division, promoted, and in charge of a old relic of a battleship. The only battleship capable of repelling the aliens who are just attacking....", "author": "JN Chaney, Terry Mixon", "date": "2024-02-19T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240219.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "Captain Jack Romanov has flown his last mission, and is facing mandatory retirement. Just as he is handed his papers by his gleeful superior, he gets another set of orders superceding those, which see him promoted and in charge of the battleship Delta Orionus, the “Hunter”, Hunter was used in the last war against robotic aliens, but that was two hundred years ago. She has been mothballed and converted to a museum since. But as Jack finds out, the ship is almost operational, and with some clever bargaining, he gets the ship operational again, and not a second too soon. Reports have just come in that the aliens have resurfaced, nearly two hundred years after they last attacked and caused untold destruction. The Hunter is pressed into service, and with a crew staffed with green recruits from the training institute, retired personnel back in uniform, and video game enthusiasts who have flown the battleship in simulation, Hunter takes on the locust drones yet again. Let me be frank. This is bad. Poor writing, cliched characters, predictable plot, and abysmal dialogues cannot come together and make an interesting read. The way the book progresses, more often than not, the reader is forced to just roll eyes and mentally scream at the authors to get the plot moving. There is absolutely zero depth to the story, and the narration is a tedious sequence of events with contrived drama. I would not recommend this book. " },{ "id": "/books/the-explorer", "url": "/books/the-explorer/", "title": "The Explorer", "layout": "post", "description": "A group of children are marooned in the Amazon jungle when their plane crashes. They meet an explorer, a man who has forsaken civilization in favour of living his life out in the jungle. But will he help get the children rescued?", "author": "Katherine Rundell", "date": "2024-02-20T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240220.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult", "content": "Four children, three teens and a small boy are on a plane which crashes in the Amazon jungle. Far from civilization, the children manage to survive initially by foraging and fishing, after which they build a raft and try to go down the river. They meet a reclusive hermit, living his life out in the jungle, who is very displeased to meet them. Living in the ruins of an undiscovered city built by ancients, he does not want to return to civilization, or even help the children do so, for fear the ruins will be commercialized and, well, ruined. The rest of the story is about how the children establish a relationship with the explorer, and circumstances force him to help them return to the city, but under strictest instructions of silence. I was given this book as a gift accidentally. It is a children’s book, but it is an enjoyable read with little illustrations at the start of every chapter. It is structured well, and the children each have unique personalities, driven by their complex backgrounds and home situations. Each child is called upon to face their fear and grow as a person through the course of their adventure. I have read adult-oriented books with lesser depth than this, so on the whole, I was not disappointed. " },{ "id": "/books/rendezvous-with-rama", "url": "/books/rendezvous-with-rama/", "title": "Rendezvous With Rama", "layout": "post", "description": "A gigantic cylinder-shaped structure whizzes through the solar system on a celestial journey. Humanity calls the structure \"Rama\", and sends a team on a ship to investigate it.", "author": "Arthur C. Clarke", "date": "2024-02-21T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240221.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Classics", "content": "This book is set in a not-too-distant future where humanity has settled several of the planets of the Solar system. A gigantic celestial body, weighing several trillion tons, is observed to be entering the system. The body is moving at an incredible speed, and is initially christened “Rama”. As the body grows closer, a space probe notes that it is not a natural object. In fact, it is perfectly cylindrical. The planets hurriedly put together a mission to land on the object and possibly, for the first time in human history, make contact with an alien civilization. The ship lands on the flat surface on the leading edge of the cylinder, and passes through a triple airlock to enter the confines of the cylinder. Inside they find an entire macrocosm, and an atmosphere close enough to Earth that they don’t need breathing apparatuses. They set about exploring the world on the inside of the cylinder and possibly meeting and communicating with the aliens in the limited time they have, before Rama slingshots around the sun and exits the Solar system. Their adventures inside Rama, and their ingenuity in exploring the depths of the body, and also preventing hostile planets in the System from taking drastic actions form the bulk of the narrative. This is a plot-driven story, rather than the more conventional character driven stories that form the bulk of literary works nowadays. They story focuses on the the teams’ efforts on understanding the mechanics and environment of the alien world, and their ingenuity and thought processes as they come up with novel ways to efficiently explore Rama. Their wonderment at the fantastic sights they see, and their speculation about the nature and purpose of everything they discover is a pleasure to read. In an era where man has conquered and settled his entire system, being pioneers is in itself unusual. In the end, they run out of time, and have to leave in their ship as Rama starts its acceleration towards the sun in anticipation of the slingshot. The nature of Rama, as well as the identity of it’s creator remain an enigmatic mystery, and the crew are left with the realization that Rama was neither benevolent nor malevolent. It has a greater purpose where humans and their antics are inconsequential; And that purpose would remain a mystery to humans. " },{ "id": "/books/bonds-of-blood", "url": "/books/bonds-of-blood/", "title": "Bonds of Blood", "layout": "post", "description": "Captain Jack Romanov has rescued a group of more than 200 ships, mostly civilian, from certain death at the hands of the locusts. Now he is stranded and faced with a challenge to his authority by a group of pirates and colluding naval officers...", "author": "JN Chaney, Terry Mixon", "date": "2024-02-23T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240223.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "So, picking up where the last book left off, Delta Orionus is stranded with a broken fusion plant in an unknown, uncharted system. The effort of bringing along several other vessels in its wake as left the Hunter needing repairs. Romanov rushes through various parts of his ship assessing damage and figuring out how and get them moving again. Meanwhile, the rescued ships includes one which was his previous command, now damaged beyond salvage, and several pirate ships. The naval captain refuses to acknowledge Romanov as anything other than a criminal, he works with the pirate captains and plans a mutiny against Romanov. The mutiny is thwarted but several marines and navy personnel die in the process. The survivors swear a blood oath on the coffins of the slain that they will stay united, and that is the “Bond of Blood” of the title. In the review of the first book, I said: Poor writing, cliched characters, predictable plot, and abysmal dialogues cannot come together and make an interesting read. There is absolutely zero depth to the story, and the narration is a tedious sequence of events with contrived efforts at creating drama. This time around, all of the above hold true, and the dialogues are even worse. I thought the first book was painful, but this book was punishment. But I do know I will likely read one more before I lose interest enough to give up on this series. " },{ "id": "/books/being-mortal", "url": "/books/being-mortal/", "title": "Being Mortal: Medicine and What Matters in the End", "layout": "post", "description": "Medicine has leapt forward in recent times, with several new drugs and procedures which have reduced the life-threatening to minor inconveniences. But the goals of medicine often run counter to the needs of the patient. The author explores all sides.", "author": "Atul Gawande", "date": "2024-03-04T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240304.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science", "content": "Medicine and medical procedures have come a long way from the hey day of the surgeon Robert Liston, the only doctor in history to have a 300% mortality in a surgical procedure. New medical procedures, and fancy drugs have helped extend human life expectancy in developed countries to nearly double of what it was a scant couple of centuries ago. But the flip side is that the medical community often prescribes invasive procedures and strong medicines to their patients to merely stem the onset of a fatal disease, just so the patient may survive a little longer. The goal of the doctor is solely treatment, but often treatment is not what the patient needs, but care. The author explores several sides of the argument, but makes a strong case for palliative care in discussion with the patients, and aligning their care with their goals rather than the goals of the medical fraternity. " },{ "id": "/books/the-snowman", "url": "/books/the-snowman/", "title": "The Snowman", "layout": "post", "description": "Detective Harry Hole is investigating a case where several young mothers have gone missing, with a snowman being left at the scene. Harry is personally being toyed with by the killer too, as he receives ominous communiques from the purpoted killer...", "author": "Jo Nesbø", "date": "2024-03-08T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/240308.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Thriller", "content": "Detective Harry Hole is the only FBI-trained serial killer specialist in Norway. Living alone in a dank apartment in Oslo, he trudges through life determined to stay sober while the love of his life, Rakel, has moved in with Mathias, a successful plastic surgeon. He gets assigned a case where a couple of young mothers have been abducted, and in each case there has been a snowman left at the scene by the abductor. Digging through cold cases, he discovers this is in fact Norway’s earliest known serial killer, with one woman going missing every year after the first snow, with only a snowman to mark the site of abduction. Hole is joined by officer Katrine Bratt from the Bergen PD, and they work the case together and identify that the common link between all the women was that their partners were NOT the father of their children. After several close calls, and suspects ending dead, Bratt herself is suspected and jailed. But as the murders continue, Harry knows they are close, very close. Harry is up against a very intelligent killer, and the tension never lets up for a moment, keeping the reader on the edge of the chair from the get go. The sombre atmosphere, coupled with the grim, noir-inspired story telling adds to the tension. The twists and turns are masterful; Hole identifies several plausible suspects through the course of the book, and in each case the real killer dispatches the suspect too. An excellent read from Nesbø. " },{ "id": "/books/alpha-strike", "url": "/books/alpha-strike/", "title": "Alpha Strike", "layout": "post", "description": "Commodore Jack Romanov must get nuclear warheads for the Last Hunter, but they are all stored in New Copenhagen, now controlled by the locusts. Only way to get them is to launch an Alpha strike...", "author": "JN Chaney, Terry Mixon", "date": "2024-03-11T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240311.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "Commodore Jack continues his last stand against the might of the locusts, by launching a ground attack right at New Copenhagen, the human system which has fallen to them. He really needs the nuclear warheads there, which will give his ship some bite in the next battle. Against all odds, they break into the vault under the volcano and get the warheads. But the locusts are regrouping, and its an uphill battle. I am a glutton for punishment. This book is as tedious as the last two. There is an exciting plot, no doubt. But if all the fluff is excised, the meat of the book can be laid out in less than a dozen pages. The rest is just ill-written dialogue spoken by bland monochromatic characters with little or no development, and rehashing, rehashing, rehashing the few plot points. The authors are building up to some reveal. Once I get to that reveal, I will gladly give up on this series and move on to something more enriching. But until I get to that reveal, I feel like the sunk costs are too high to give up, just yet. " },{ "id": "/books/where-the-crawdads-sing", "url": "/books/where-the-crawdads-sing/", "title": "Where The Crawdads Sing", "layout": "post", "description": "Marsh girl Kya Clark has been left to fend for herself in a rundown shack outside Barkley Cove. Most of the village treats her as an outcast and pariah, while she grows up all alone into a young woman, and a sensitive, artistic naturalist. When rich kid Chase Andrews is found dead in the marsh, the locals immediately suspect Kya.", "author": "Delia Owens", "date": "2024-03-16T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240316.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Mystery Literary", "content": "This is a complex, layered novel with many different parallel stories running alongside each other. It’s a biography, a study of human behaviour in isolation and the nature of loneliness, a paean to the natural beauty of the Carolina marshes, the need in human beings for emotional connections, a police procedural, a view of life in America before the civil rights movement and a courtroom drama. Catherine “Kya” Clark has grown up in a little run-down shack in the marsh near Barkley Cove. She’s the youngest of several siblings, and her abusive and alcoholic father caused all members of the family to leave, one by one, once they felt they were better off themselves. Once her mother leaves, her father actually sobers down, and helps Kya learn to fish, and use the boat. But her father disappears too, when she’s about six. From then on, she has played cat-and-mouse with social services, and surviving by trading mussels she catches in the marsh for fuel and money. She makes it to school, but is mocked and jeered by the other children incessantly. The one day she attended was so traumatic, she never returns. She contents herself by spending time in the marshes, with the hundreds of creatures which, like herself, call it home. Apart from the owner of the store where she buys her fuel, her one friend in the world is Tate, an older boy who used to play with her brother Jodie. Tate teaches her to read and write, and catalogue the hundreds of shells, feathers and creatures she encounters in the marsh. She takes to drawing everything she sees, using pencil sketches and vivid water colours. Her friendship with Tate grows to romance, which is cut abruptly when he leaves for college. He returns several years later, a certified naturalist, and in the interim, her collection of paintings and artifacts has grown so exhaustive and voluminous, he encourages her to publish her findings. The book is a moderate success, and she is commissioned to write several more. While all of the above is going on, the body of Chase Andrews, former football star and town rich kid is found in the marshes. While it seems like it might have been accidental, the complete lack of fingerprints and footprints leads the police to suspect foul play, and the witnesses all swear to altercations between Kya and Chase. Kya is arrested and is stuck in jail for over two months. But all the police have are circumstantial evidence. What will become of Kya. A gripping page turner which keeps the reader riveted from start to finish. The casual cruelty displayed by “good” townsfolk towards anyone who does not fit their mould is frustrating to see, but all too real in a USA which was still coming to terms with civil rights for black folk. It often seems like the book is trying to be a little bit of every genre, but still manages to be good at all genres. An excellent read all around. " },{ "id": "/books/solaris", "url": "/books/solaris/", "title": "Solaris", "layout": "post", "description": "Kris Kelvin lands on the remote research outpost around the ocean planet Solaris. There is definitely intelligent life on this planet, but the nature of the intelligence is beyond human comprehension...", "author": "Stanisław Lem", "date": "2024-03-20T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240320.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Classics", "content": "The whole planet is covered by an ocean, and by all records, it is the ocean itself that is intelligent. It is formed of a material which is fluid, but can be solidified and liquefied at will. The ocean is capable of forming fantastic shapes and designs seemingly at random, and for the most part, the scientists on the station do little more than catalogue all the myriad forms the ocean takes. Understanding the nature of the ocean, or establishing communication with it are way beyond the capabilities of humans. When Kris Kelvin arrives, he discovers that the captain is dead, took his own life. The remaining two crew members are uncommunicative and suspicious of him, and talk cryptically. Kelvin starts seeing apparitions of people who have no business being on the station; people he knew to have deceased several years ago, like his own wife. Kelvin knows deep down that the creature in front of him is not his wife, but still continues to establish an emotional relationship with her. The other two scientists are likely in the same boat. One interpretation is that it is not so much the researchers investigating the ocean, but the ocean researching them, much like rats in a maze. The apparitions elicit emotional responses from the humans, and are the maze. This book is at once both seminal sci-fi, horror and a deep romance. It has suffered from poor translations from the native Polish, first to French, and then to English from the French. The author, who spoke fluent English, was said to be deeply unhappy with the translation. A second attempt was made at translating the work into English, which the author’s estate enthusiastically approved of. But the newer translation is caught in copyright quagmire, and is only available digitally. This book has been adapted into a movie twice, in Russian and English. In both adaptations, the directors chose to focus on the emotional aspects of the movie and omit the scientific basis entirely. An absolute must read, irrespective of the version. " },{ "id": "/books/the-man-who-died-twice", "url": "/books/the-man-who-died-twice/", "title": "The Man Who Died Twice", "layout": "post", "description": "The four pensioners at Cooper’s Chase are at it again, solving a case involving a ghost from Elizabeth’s past and £20 million in diamonds.", "author": "Richard Osman", "date": "2024-03-25T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240325.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery", "content": "Elizabeth Best retired from MI5, and her former husband Douglas Middlemiss is still in the secret service. He is part of an operation at a criminal banker’s house, where a bag containing £20 million in diamonds has gone missing. Everyone suspects him, and several people want those diamonds to themselves. One of them kills Douglas, but the clues to the whereabouts of the diamonds are too cryptic for anyone except Elizabeth and her three chums to solve. Meanwhile, Ibrahim is mugged by a young hood and left for dead. He recovers, but the police can do little to bring the perpetrator to justice. The crew are left to exact revenge with the hood themselves. A fast paced, cleverly written mystery novel, with witty dialogues and amusing situations, despite the summary sounding rather grim. The eventual culprit may have been obvious, but the steps the quartet take to identify and collar them is excellent reading. " },{ "id": "/books/lessons-in-chemistry", "url": "/books/lessons-in-chemistry/", "title": "Lessons in Chemistry", "layout": "post", "description": "Elizabeth Zott is a serious, no-nonsense chemist and a single mother. But she finds herself hosting a cooking show on daytime television, a show where she galvanizes the oft-downtrodden American housewives into self-respect.", "author": "Bonnie Garmus", "date": "2024-03-29T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240329.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary", "content": "Elizabeth Zott is a chemist. She was pursuing her degree and working towards a doctorate when she is booted for rebuffing her professor’s unwanted advances. She takes a lowly job in a laboratory, and falls in love with the lab’s top research scientist, Calvin Evans. She steadfastly refuses to marry him, as she has no intention of changing her maiden name. He dies in an accident, and she is booted from the laboratory. With a baby on the way, she makes ends meet by doing research for her former colleagues at the lab. An altercation with another kindergarten parent leads her to a role as a host of a television cooking show. There are so many problems with this book that I am not sure where to begin bashing it. The story, premise and characters are so ludicrous, I am at a loss to explain the vast number of five star reviews it has got and the volume of book club lists it features on. Elizabeth is a scientist in the 50’s and 60’s, but her most pressing problems are all feminist issues from 2020’s. America had a slew of problems then, civil rights, red scare, space race, Cuban missile crisis… but feminism is front bench. From all descriptions of Elizabeth, she is a slight, diminutive woman, with no specific background in sustained physical activity. But she picks up rowing, a sport requiring intense cardio training, and is a elite rower right away because… feminism? Elizabeth does not know that she is good looking, nor does she put in any effort to grooming or maintaining herself. But the world thinks that she is the most beautiful woman ever. That is not how anything works. This is the most frustrating part. Elizabeth is the perfect scientist and logician. No self-doubt, no conflicting ideas, in fact, no thoughts whatsoever other than Chemistry and logic. She operates like an automaton. All men in the 50’s and 60’s were sexual predators and wife-beaters and had no respect for women. There are exactly two exceptions. There are several reviews of the book which talk about it being funny. I am not sure which part of the book was meant to be funny and tickled the bone of those reviewers. This book is neither funny, nor informative, and definitely provides no lessons in chemistry, or indeed, have anything at all to do with chemistry. Avoid like the plague. " },{ "id": "/books/the-enemy-revealed", "url": "/books/the-enemy-revealed/", "title": "The Enemy Revealed", "layout": "post", "description": "The nature of the enemy facing Commander Jack Romanov and his crew is finally... revealed", "author": "JN Chaney, Terry Mixon", "date": "2024-04-01T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240401.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "Four books in and we finally have an idea of the exact nature of the existential threat facing humanity. So there are these bipedal creatures which are symbiotes. There are two different creatures, which have evolved in entirely different environments which are fused together and operate as a single entity. These symbiotes are of two different camps. The common populace and the military. The military wants to form new symbiotes with humans instead. There is also another race which created the symbiotes in the first place… who the military are running scared from. Yeah, this is where I give up. Despite the awful writing and tedious dialogues, contrived premise and bland characters, I stuck with the story hoping it was building up to something good. It was not. " },{ "id": "/books/the-help", "url": "/books/the-help/", "title": "The Help", "layout": "post", "description": "Two black maids in segregation era Mississippi write a book about their experiences with the help of a young white college graduate.", "author": "Kathryn Stockett", "date": "2024-04-04T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240404.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary", "content": "Eugenia “Skeeter” Phelan is a young white woman who has just graduated from Ole Miss, and rejoins the social circle in her hometown. All her friends are married with children, and their households are pretty much run by black maids who they treat as less than human. Skeeter dreams of getting a job as a journalist, or author, in New York, and gets the idea of writing a book on the lives of the black maids. She ropes in two maids, friends Aibileen and Minny, and together they write about their lives, the households they work in, their employers and their cruelties, their wards and the love they get, and the hardships they face doing the most mundane things. In the background of this is the American Civil rights movement led by Dr. King, which rouses many more maids to share their experiences to be included in the book. The book is finally published, and the fallout upends the lives of several people in the town, both positively and negatively. The book is well written and well paced. The character sketches are very well done, as are the narrative voices of the storytellers. I should add, “to the best of my knowledge”, since I know little of AAVE. The primary irritation factor here is the “white saviour” trope. It seems particularly grating that a white woman, for her own selfish reasons, is the one who manages to improve the lives of the “help” in her town. And in a weird meta scenario, the author, Kathryn Stockett, is an affluent white New Yorker writing in an AAVE voice. The other pain point is that the black folk (save one) are really nice to Skeeter, who has done little to earn their niceness. She is literally going through this exercise for her own profit, promising little to nothing to the black folk, except for a vague promise of giving them a voice. Whereas they know that there will be certain retaliation against them, for just speaking out. That seems particularly unreal. All told, the book is a pleasant enough read, despite the unbelievable premises and trite cliches. " },{ "id": "/books/ring", "url": "/books/ring/", "title": "Ring", "layout": "post", "description": "A journalist investigates a mysterious home video, which leads to the death of anyone who watches it.", "author": "Koji Suzuki", "date": "2024-04-06T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240406.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror", "content": "Investigating the extraordinary deaths of a few teens, a reporter identifies that the connection between the dead was that they all stayed at a mountain cabin a few days before their deaths. He goes to the cabin and sees a video tape with jarring abstract imagery, much of it both gruesome and violent. At the end is a message that the viewer would die within a week. Badly frightened, the journo ropes in his friend to make sense of the tape. He makes a copy and gives it to his friend Ryuji. Together they investigate and identify that a young girl named Sadako with supernatural powers was tortured, abused and killed. Meanwhile, the journo’s wife and infant son also see the video accidentally. Racing against time, they trace her abusers and her body, and return her remains to her surviving family. Assuming the curse to be broken, they return to their normal lives, only for Ryuji to die. The journo then realizes that the only way to survive is to make a copy of the original tape. A fantastical story blending elements of horror, the supernatural, and technology, the writing style is compelling. Where it breaks down for me is Sadako’s ability to record images seen with her eyes onto a video tape, and causing the death of viewers after years after her own death. Paranormal virus spreading through video tapes requires too much suspension of disbelief. The book came out when high technology gadgets became commonplace, and there was a significant portion of the populace suffering “Future Shock”. In this environment, a supernatural story which blends just enough elements of science and technology would work: It taps into the latent mistrust of things that people don’t completely understand. But now the whole premise just triggers eye-rolls. That said, the book does have its fan club; it has given rise to several movies and sequels. The movie needed to use jump-scares to maintain the tension, since the source material was too dated to actually evoke any fear. " },{ "id": "/books/the-colour-of-magic", "url": "/books/the-colour-of-magic/", "title": "The Colour of Magic", "layout": "post", "description": "The first in his incredible Discworld series, the story tells of the adventures of a tourist who comes to Ankh-Morpork to “see the world”.", "author": "Terry Pratchett", "date": "2024-04-08T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240408.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy", "content": "The first of the incredible “Discworld” series of books by Terry Pratchett. The world is a gigantic disk which is carried through space on the back of four gargantuan elephants, which stand on the back of a colossal turtle. Twoflower is a naive tourist who arrives from the rich and powerful Agatean empire in the port city of Ankh-Morpork, seeking adventure. Although Twoflower is a lowly insurance adjuster, the abundance of gold in the Agatean empire makes him immensely rich in Ankh Morpork. The concept of tourism is wholly alien to the rough city, but wary of displeasing the Agatean empire, the inept wizard Rincewind is tasked with accompanying Twoflower and keeping him out of trouble. The two of them have several adventures involving a gang of thieves, sentient luggage chests, an imp in a camera, mountain trolls, dragon-riders and upside-down mountains, dragons which can be imagined up on a whim, sea-trolls, and surprisingly, a passenger jet and space capsule. Fast paced, witty and wholly irreverent, the whole tome is uproariously funny, and eminently quotable. The discworld series as a whole celebrates and pokes fun at the the swords-and-sorcery genre of stories and the Colour of Magic is a wonderful start to the whole “Discworld”. " },{ "id": "/books/chip-war", "url": "/books/chip-war/", "title": "Chip War: The Fight for the Worlds Most Critical Technology", "layout": "post", "description": "A well-researched and detailed account of the battle for control of what has emerged to be the most crucial resource in the world:- microchip technology", "author": "Chris Miller", "date": "2024-04-16T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240416.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Technology Science", "content": "The whole of today’s world is powered by microchips. Underpinning every modern advancement from warplanes to smartphones, from refrigerators to the stock market are computer chips. Until not too long ago, USA maintained an unassailable lead in the microchip world, cementing its status as the #1 super power. But that lead is slowly slipping, with inroads being made by Taiwan, Europe, South Korea, and most importantly, China. Due to a series of embargoes and strict control of the manufacturing technologies, the OECD countries have managed to keep China behind in the race. But China is pouring billions into the effort to catch up; at stake is the military and economic advantage enjoyed by USA and its allies. Chris Miller tells the story of how microchips evolved into the critical resource which has almost supplanted oil as the economic weapon. The deep research and engaging storytelling make this a wonderful read. Strongly recommend. " },{ "id": "/books/the-andromedia-strain", "url": "/books/the-andromedia-strain/", "title": "The Andromeda Strain", "layout": "post", "description": "A group of scientists race against time in a special facility to contain an alien organism.", "author": "Michael Crichton", "date": "2024-04-21T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240421.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Thriller", "content": "It’s the sixties, the height of the cold-war space race. A group of scientists warn the government that the quarantining procedures followed for spacecraft returning from space is woefully inadequate and that a facility is needed to handle any extra-terrestrial threats, specifically, micro-organisms. The government actually takes notice and builds a special facility to handle such threats, and identifies a team which would operate the facility. Two years later, a military satellite returns from low-earth orbit, and crashes near a small desolate village in Arizona. Shortly after the crash, the entire village is littered with bodies of the residents. The team is roped in, and sequestered in the special facility to understand and control this virulent threat which could end humanity as we know it. The story plays out like a biological horror story; the subject matter is well researched and the fast-paced narrative furthers eerie and entirely plausible threat. The build up is near excellent, but the story is let down by a damp squib of an ending. On first read, the ending seems rather anti-climactic, but from a scientific standpoint, it actually seems plausible. Micro-organisms depend on the host they infect for its own sustenance and reproduction. If it rapidly kills that host body, it is not doing itself any favours. An excellent read and a wonderful early work of great author of scientific thrillers. " },{ "id": "/books/a-good-girls-guide-to-murder", "url": "/books/a-good-girls-guide-to-murder/", "title": "A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder", "layout": "post", "description": "Pippa Fitz-Amobi starts investigating a murder as a high-school project, but the secrets she uncovers are ones that no one wants to face", "author": "Holly Jackson", "date": "2024-04-25T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240425.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller Young-Adult Mystery", "content": "Andie Bell was a pretty and popular high-school girl, who was murdered by her boyfriend Sal Singh, after which Sal killed himself. The double tragedy shook the small town. Five years later, true crime loving high-school senior Pippa Fitz-Amobi is an aspiring journalist who decides to focus her project on the town’s best known crime, Andie Bell’s murder. Pippa knew Sal a little, and didn’t think he was capable of such a heinous act; she begins to re-examine all the evidence, without the base assumption that Sal did it. With the help of Sal’s brother Ravi, she uncovers a trail of dark secrets which may prove that Sal was innocent after all. This is a really good young-adult mystery thriller. The book uses realistic characters in an age group that young adult readers can relate to, but at the same time, it does not talk down to its reader since they are, well, “young” adult. Another aspect I appreciated was that the people in the story are not all black and white, and they have nuance and complexity. The story is standard mystery whodunit, and the reader gets to puzzle out the clues alongside the main characters. There isn’t some grand deus ex-machina, or some clue deliberately hidden from the reader; the mystery is like a complicated knot that everyone has to unravel together. Despite this, the book kept me guessing till the reveal. Some weak plot elements are the parents in the book, who seem to have little to no concern about where their offspring are, what they are doing and with who. Everyone seems too ready to talk to Pippa about their life story… why? She doesn’t seem to come across as particularly charming or winsome. Still, on the whole, a good read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-searcher", "url": "/books/the-searcher/", "title": "The Searcher", "layout": "post", "description": "Cal, a retired police officer from the US, now settled in rural Ireland, is approached by a local kid for help looking for a missing brother.", "author": "Tana French", "date": "2024-04-30T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240430.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller", "content": "Cal Hooper is a retired Chicago PD detective, and has taken up residence in a small village in rural Ireland, an isolated place with farms and local folk who’ve seen each other’s dirty linen for generations. He spends his time refurbishing the rundown house that he bought for a song. But something in his interactions with the local populace doesn’t sit right. All his detective instincts are triggered and there is a sense of unease. One day, a kid named Trey strikes a rapport with Cal, and asks for his help to locate a missing older brother. Cal grudgingly takes on the assignment, but finds that the idyllic rural setting is not much safer than the ghetto streets he left behind. The camaraderie between the locals is entirely more sinister and malevolent when he tries to pry open their secrets. This is a grimy noir story from the old school, Raymond Chandler-Dashiell Hammett style. Cal is the hardened, grizzled detective who has seen too much of the ugly side of the world, and really wants to leave it all behind, start with a clean slate. But the ugly side is always there, just with a different coat of paint. I love the way he chooses to resolve the issue by leaving all concerned parties without their feathers ruffled, or upsetting the apple-cart too much. There is a distinct sense of inevitability which ring through Cal’s thoughts throughout the book, as though he is fated to encounter the seedy underbelly wherever he goes, because he carries that with him. Fast paced, moving and with well crafted dialogues, this is a likeable book. Tana French typically writes police procedurals set in Ireland, notably the “Dublin Murder Squad” series of books. This is a standalone break from that series, and a great one. " },{ "id": "/books/poor-things", "url": "/books/poor-things/", "title": "Poor Things", "layout": "post", "description": "A retelling of the Frankenstein mythos, with the beautiful young Bella Baxter brought back to life with the brain of an infant", "author": "Alasdair Gray", "date": "2024-05-06T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240506.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Historical Literary", "content": "Godwin Baxter is a brilliant scientist and physician who was consumed by his research and never found time to have a family. It also did not help that he was physically quite hideous. The corpse of a beautiful young woman is brought to his laboratory one day; she had committed suicide by jumping off a bridge. Her attire and jewellery suggest that she was quite well to do and astonishingly, she was pregnant. Using all the knowledge at his disposal, Baxter brings both the young woman and her baby back to life, after a fashion; he operates on the woman and put her baby’s brain in her body. He recruits a Dr. Archibald McCandless, a poor student of his, to document the development of Bella as she grows up from infant, to toddler, to child and eventually adulthood, all while in an adult’s body. This causes Bella to experience womanhood and societal expectations of women as a child; serious as this may sound, the way it is written is exceedingly funny. Bella, after a whirlwind world tour involving several sexual encounters, goes on to marry McCandless and study to become a nurse, veterinarian and eventually a doctor. There are several themes here which have all been cleverly enmeshed. This is a tribute, or even a satire of several Victorian classics; Frankenstein of course, some Jekyll and Hyde, a bit of Don Juan, all revisited through a lens of a woman not weighed down by the standard Victorian “propriety”, thereby giving a uniquely feminist perspective to everything. At once funny and thought-provoking, this book is presented as a recounting of events by Dr. Archibald McCandless, but Bella (a.k.a Dr. Victoria McCandless) has her say too, and presents her own perspective in the latter third of the book. An altogether good read. " },{ "id": "/books/sea-of-poppies", "url": "/books/sea-of-poppies/", "title": "Sea of Poppies", "layout": "post", "description": "The first book of the Ibis trilogy, a delightful epic set in the 1830’s, telling the stories of several people whose lives intersect with the ocean-going vessel “Ibis”", "author": "Amitav Ghosh", "date": "2024-05-22T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240522.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary", "content": "It is exceedingly difficult to describe the sheer scale of this epic. Several enchanting threads run in parallel, each with unique and charismatic characters, and each character has engaging stories and fascinating back stories. Yet it is all presented so masterfully, and so rich in suspense and satire that it is incredibly hard to put down this page-turner. Among the varied cast is a poppy-farmer’s widow, a disgraced minor king, a cross-dressing ship supercargo, a white-passing black American sailor, the orphaned teenage daughter of a French botanist, the former crew of a pirate ship among many more smaller, but just as interesting characters. More interesting is the language that each character speaks; the charming admixture of their native tongues and the English of that time period blend to uniquely identify the voice of each character, like the freedman from Baltimore, the very formal and Indianized English of the supercargo, to the heavy peppering of Anglicized Indian words used by the colonials. On a more serious, somber note, the story shines a spotlight on the grim details of opium production and its impact on the people of Bihar and Bengal of that time period. The vast British empire was financed through the blood, sweat and tears of the miserable Indian populace who they crushed under the steel-tipped boots of their Sepoy army. I cannot recommend this book strongly enough, and am looking forward to the second book in the series, “River of Smoke”. " },{ "id": "/books/the-39-steps", "url": "/books/the-39-steps/", "title": "The 39 Steps", "layout": "post", "description": "The original spy-thriller; a mining engineer on vacation is caught up in an international conspiracy involving assassinations, disguises, shady backroom dealings and shifty Germans", "author": "John Buchan", "date": "2024-05-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240527.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller Classics", "content": "Set shortly before the start of the first world war, there is a whole lot of political intrigue. A German underground organization called Blackstone is working to eliminate all the pacifists and progressives and actually bring about a war. A spy called Scudder unravels their plans, but is caught before he can communicate it to his superiors. He communicates this information to Richard Hannay, a bored man who happens to be his neighbor, and is assassinated shortly thereafter. Hannay, with Scudder’s notes, escapes in disguise. Switching disguises several times, and with the Blackstone agents hot on his trail, he makes his way to Scotland, and at one point walks right into their den. He escapes by rigging up a bomb using odds-and-ends he finds in the storeroom he is locked in. He reaches London, and talks to Scudder’s bosses. They trace the Blackstone agents, and with Hannay’s help, set up an elaborate trap to get them before they escape to Germany with England’s war plans. Filled with intrigue and mystery, Hannay solves problems by using his wits; kind of like a thinking man’s James Bond. This is gritty, grimy spy work; none of the suave tuxedos and baccarat, shaken not stirred. Throughout the book, Hannay is outnumbered and outgunned, and always has to outsmart his opponents to survive. The title alludes to the steps leading down to the sea at the back of a mansion that the Blackstone agents are hiding out at. At various times throughout my schooling days, I have had passages from this book in either texts or in reading comprehension. But for all that, I had never read the whole book until now. A short and excellent read, it spawned several movies, two of which are made by Hitchcock himself. " },{ "id": "/books/life-of-pi", "url": "/books/life-of-pi/", "title": "Life of Pi", "layout": "post", "description": "A grand novel blending several different concepts and themes; philosophy, religion, and, above all, the enduring human spirit in the face of adversity", "author": "Yann Martel", "date": "2024-06-02T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240602.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Magical-Realism Classics Literary", "content": "I am not sure if this book would be classified as fantasy, or magic realism. The protagonist is the oddly named teenager Piscine Molitor Patel, or just “Pi” Patel for short. His family owns a zoo in Pondicherry in South India and he has always known how to care for animals and how to take care of himself around animals. He is deeply interested in both zoology and religion and is a staunch vegetarian. At some point, his family decides to sell off the zoo, re-home the animals and emigrate to Canada. The set sail upon a Japanese flagged ship, along with several of the animals in the hold, which they continue to care for. Somewhere in the Pacific, they are ship-wrecked, and Pi finds himself adrift on a small lifeboat, along with a royal Bengal tiger named Richard Parker. Together, they face the challenges of the open sea, forging a remarkable bond between human and beast. Pi’s ingenuity and resilience are tested as days turn into months, prompting him to draw upon his religious beliefs and inner strength. The first thing that struck me was the vivid and detailed descriptions by the author. It was like he was painting with words. The whole story is framed as an interview of an adult Pi by the author, so we know all along that Pi survives his tribulations. Fantastical as the story was, there seemed to be one underlying concept that the author, framing it in the context of this fascinating story. Religion! Early on in the book, the author rejects the concept of atheism, and says that even the staunchest atheist will remember God on his deathbed. This was uncalled for. He then goes on to do some half-hearted comparative religious study, and has Christianity win out, just because. The sad part is, the story now just seems like some biblical allegory to being lost in the desert or something… thankfully, despite that, the book remains charming and a page-turner. A good read, on the whole. " },{ "id": "/books/a-christmas-carol", "url": "/books/a-christmas-carol/", "title": "A Christmas Carol", "layout": "post", "description": "A classic which has lent so much to our everyday parlance, and likely started the very concept of “Christmas Spirit”", "author": "Charles Dickens", "date": "2024-06-03T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240603.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Classics", "content": "Old Ebenezer Scrooge does not like Christmas. On the eve, he turns out two men seeking a donation, rebuffs his nephew’s invitation to dinner and grudgingly gives an evening off to his only employee. That night, his long dead business partner’s ghost comes and shows him three visions… … of the past where he was rejected by his fiancee Belle because of his love of money, and how she is now happily married with a large family, … of the present, where his employee’s son, Tiny Tim, is seriously ill and will die soon without any intervention, … and of the future, where Scrooge is dead, and no one mourns him, but are busy divvying up his possessions and. Deeply affected, Scrooge resolves to change his ways; he makes the rejected donation, he spends the afternoon with his nephew and gives a raise to his employee. He treats others with kindness, generosity and compassion, and embodies the spirit of Christmas. This short novella was almost directly responsible for making Christmas the season for charitable giving, and indeed, a revival of Christmas as a celebration in an increasingly industrialized Victorian society. Several phrases from the book entered into common parlance, not the least of which was “Scrooge” meaning miserly. There are several adaptations of this book, in radio, screen, and stage. For several households, Christmas is incomplete without a retelling of this story in some form. For that reason alone, I chose to read it in early June, as far away from Christmas as possible. Odd to think that the commercial juggernaut that Christmas has become today can be traced to this one book written nearly 200 years ago. " },{ "id": "/books/the-stepford-wives", "url": "/books/the-stepford-wives/", "title": "The Stepford Wives", "layout": "post", "description": "Joanna moves to beautiful Stepford with her family, it seems almost too good to be true. It is.", "author": "Ira Levin", "date": "2024-06-04T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240604.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Science-Fiction Classics", "content": "At the height of Gloria Steinem’s liberation movement and female empowerment, the women of Stepford seem to be regressing. Abandoning all forms of independent thought, they seem to be becoming cleaning machines and dedicated housewives. Joanna and Walter Eberhart have just moved to Stepford, a spectacularly beautiful idyllic neighbourhood which seems to be the right place to bring up their children. Her husband enrolls in the local “men’s only” club, with the stated intention of making it gender neutral. Joanna picks up her photography again, but she is unable to relate with the other women of the town, dedicated housewives with perfect outfits with the singular ambition of making their husbands happy; quite the diametrical opposite of the strong liberal independent thinking Joanna. When she sees her two friends (and the only “normal” women) turn suddenly into the typical “Stepford” wives, she suspects some foul play. The whole book was a commentary on feminism, or rather, the opposition to it from the “good old boys clubs” all over America. Though often marked as a horror novel, it is quite funny with clever writing and hilarious dialogues. It is rather short, and can be finished cover to cover in a few hours, and thoroughly entertaining. " },{ "id": "/books/the-scarlet-letter", "url": "/books/the-scarlet-letter/", "title": "The Scarlet Letter", "layout": "post", "description": "In Puritan America, a young woman is accused of adultery, and is sentenced to wear the letter “A” on her outfit...", "author": "Nathaniel Hawthorne", "date": "2024-06-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240605.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Classics Literary", "content": "In 17th century Boston, is young woman Hester Prynne, and her infant daughter Pearl, are ostracized and vilified for the crime of adultery. Hester is forced to live her life with a scarlet letter “A” embroidered on her clothes. Her husband, thought lost at sea, arrives on the day of her sentencing, and lives incognito in the same town, intent on taking revenge on his wife’s lover. Through it all, Hester steadfastly refuses to divulge the identity of her lover, and endures the taunts and jeers of the townsfolk with equanimity. She supports herself by working as a seamstress, and manages to support herself and Pearl. Arthur Dimmensdale, the town minister, aids her as best he can, for he is Pearl’s father. His guilt at the secret eats away at him till he becomes quite ill. Hester’s husband, under the name of Chillingworth suspects Dimmensdale. Hester realizes that Arthur’s guilt will cause his death, but if she convinces him to reveal himself as Pearl’s father, the Chillingworth would kill him. She convinces Arthur to leave to Europe with her. But, on the day of departure, Arthur delivers a fiery sermon, admits to being Pearl’s father and falls dead. The focus of the story is Hester’s demeanour and her courage in the face of adversity. There is also a study into the nature of sin, legality and guilt; there are two parties who are involved in adultery, but she is the one who paid the price and bore the punishment. That said, the writing is tedious in the extreme. Hawthorne has this tendency to use very little imagery and allegory, but that little is very blatant and called out to the reader’s attention. It’s not classy writing, it is as though he is lauding himself throughout the book at how clever he is. I am at a loss why this book is so celebrated, since there does not seem to be much of either literary value, or cerebral themes in this. This book can, and should, be avoided. " },{ "id": "/books/roman-stories", "url": "/books/roman-stories/", "title": "Roman Stories", "layout": "post", "description": "A set of short stories set, or rather, woven around the eternal city of Rome", "author": "Jhumpa Lahiri", "date": "2024-06-10T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240610.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Short-Stories Literary", "content": "A set of nine stories touching upon loss, alienation and isolation, set in and around Rome; actually, Rome is more of a protagonist than a setting in these stories. Actually, to even call them stories is stretching it. Most are merely brief “a day in the life of” anecdotes, entirely lacking in anything resembling a plot, or delving into character buildup. The basic story structure of exposition, rising action, climax, falling action and conclusion is completely abandoned. There is a lot of exposition, but little else. None of the characters are named, only alluded to by their profession, or physical description. Everything is alluded to in vague terms, with little focus. This all seems very stylized, experimental writing, probably intended to be high-brow and cerebral. Or perhaps it is meant to be read only when you are sitting on the benches across from Trevi fountain. But for a casual reader who has never been to the eternal city, it was a hard pass. " },{ "id": "/books/a-murder-is-announced", "url": "/books/a-murder-is-announced/", "title": "A Murder is Announced", "layout": "post", "description": "Miss Marple decodes a very complicated murder which is preceded by an announcement of the murder in the local newspaper, replete with location, date and time.", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2024-06-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240612.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Classics", "content": "A note appears in the Chipping Cleghorn Gazette that a murder is scheduled to take place at Little Paddocks, at 6:30 PM on Friday, the 29th of October. This is a surprise to everyone, including Letitia Blacklock, the mistress of Little Paddocks, a manor house in the town of Chipping Cleghorn. At 6:30 PM on the specified date, several notable friends, neighbours and acquaintances show up at Little Paddocks, to witness the event. At 6:30, the lights go out, some screaming is heard, and a masked stranger with a flashlight bursts in and yells “Stick ‘Em Up”. In the next few moments, shots and screams are heard; when the lights come on, the masked man is dead and Ms. Blacklock is bleeding. The police are called in, and they tap Miss Marple to unravel the mystery, which involves multiple intertwining plots including Ms. Blacklock’s former employer’s will, his wife, his estranged sister and her twin children, and lastly, Ms. Blacklock’s sister. Miss Marple, as usual, draws upon similarities to several past cases and identifies the perpetrators by repeating the steps used to solve those. On the whole, I felt the plot was too convoluted and far-fetched. Unusual wills and testaments causing people to resort to murder to meet the criteria is a weak strategy. Perhaps it made sense in the context when it was written. Another weak point is Miss Marple’s detective skills. There is no actual deduction or reasoning, just a recollection of past cases and their solutions, and mapping those details to the current case in hand. This is hardly detective work; it is more like pattern matching. I prefer Poirot. " },{ "id": "/books/fahrenheit-451", "url": "/books/fahrenheit-451/", "title": "Fahrenheit 451", "layout": "post", "description": "Guy Montag burns books, and all other such illegal commodities. But when he is exposed to a world where people didn’t live in fear, Montag re-examines his life", "author": "Ray Bradbury", "date": "2024-06-20T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240620.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Dystopian Classics", "content": "In an authoritarian future America, knowledge is tightly controlled, books are prohibited. “Firemen” have been tasked, ironically, with burning all books that are found. Knowledge and entertainment is disseminated entirely through interactive television programs, played on screens the size of walls. Guy Montag is a fireman who is dedicated to his job. But following a series of events including a suicide attempt by his wife and the disappearance of a neighbour, Guy becomes disillusioned with his work, and quits. With his colleagues in hot pursuit, he escapes the world and joins a group dedicated to the preservation of the literary and cultural heritage of humanity. The book came out during the American “Red Scare” era, with McCarthy and his House Un-American Activities Committee hearings in full swing. This happened not long after the Nazi book burnings Europe, and it did seem like the McCarthy era would culminate in a second, much more significant book burning spree in the USA. Relatively short, and a little disjointed, the book nevertheless is very impactful. It examines the psychae of someone who is tasked with erasing humanity’s collective conscience. The book remains timeless and eternally thought-provoking. " },{ "id": "/books/river-of-smoke", "url": "/books/river-of-smoke/", "title": "River of Smoke", "layout": "post", "description": "The Ibis completed its maiden voyage, taking labourers to Mauritius. The narrative shifts to Canton, and talks about the events that lead-up to the first Opium War", "author": "Amitav Ghosh", "date": "2024-06-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240627.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary", "content": "The British think him dead, drowned at sea. But Neel Rattan Halder has found his way to Canton, in the employ as the munshi, or secretary, of Seth Bahram Mody, a Parsee businessman. Paulette has found employment with Fitcher Penrose, a botanist, and is taking care of rare flowering plants aboard his ship. She too has found her way to the Pearl River, to the small island of Hong Kong. Seth Mody is a fixture in Fanqui-town, the foreign enclave. The offices from where trade is conducted by the foreign traders are called “Factories”. Foreigners are not allowed to set foot inside Canton, and the factories are situated outside the main fort, at 13, Hong Street. Mody has bet his entire fortune on bringing in one last shipment of opium before the Chinese authorities clamp the trade shut. As a leader of the “Achas”, the pejorative used for Indians in the Canton factories, he is a powerful voice in the dealings of the opium traders of the Canton factories. Robin Chinnery, a childhood friend of Paulette, also lives at the Factories and makes a living by painting portraits, and sometimes, fakes of famous paintings. The Chinese have sent a new commissioner, the incorruptible and powerful Lin Zexu, to put an end to the opium trade. But a clash of cultures precipitates in acrimonious exchanges between the traders and the authorities, setting the stage for outright hostilities. The writing is magnificent, though decidedly slow-paced after the frenetic break-neck thriller that was Sea of Poppies. All the events are told from the perspectives of Mody, Chinnery, and Halder. The language(s) used are, as usual, simply gorgeous. The Indianized English of Mody, the clever period specific double entrendes of Chinnery, and the ubiquitous Chinese pidgin used in all interaction with the locals in Canton. The chief complaint is the lack of likeable characters. Almost none of the characters Ghosh built up in the Sea of Poppies make more than a passing appearance, except for Paulette and Neel Rattan. Neel Rattan does little more than narrate, and Paulette barely shows up. Ghosh tries hard to make Seth Mody the linchpin. But the ambiguities in his character do little to help him rise in esteem to the level of Kahlua or Serang Ali. The story itself is very slow moving, with the focus being more on language than the story. Then again, the way I see it, language is the primary character. All the people exist only to use the language. And there, the book is just marvelous. " },{ "id": "/books/the-guest-list", "url": "/books/the-guest-list/", "title": "The Guest List", "layout": "post", "description": "A celebrity destination wedding is happening on a remote island off Ireland. Following a blackout, a body is discovered, but every guest has a secret to hide...", "author": "Lucy Foley", "date": "2024-06-30T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240630.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller", "content": "A plot that is very reminiscent of Dame Agatha Christie’s “And then there were none” and, towards the latter half, “Murder on the Orient Express”. Friends and family have been invited to the wedding of Julia “Jules” Keegan, a magazine editor, and Will Slater, host of a popular TV survival reality show. It’s a destination wedding, and happens on a remote island called “The Folly” off the Irish coast, accessible only by a boat, much like in “And then there were none”. As is slowly revealed over the course of the novel, every guest has a gripe with Will, some more than others. The novel keeps the reader guessing, often incorrectly. Initially the mystery is the identity of the murdered, and later, the identity of the murderer. The bridesmaid, the childhood best friend’s plus one, the wedding planner, the best man and the bride herself are the narrators. Each have problematic relationships with the victim, much like in Christie’s “Murder on the Orient Express”. While there is no “detective”, the reader is left to solve the mystery through the perspectives of each of the back story narrators. The ending, though a little unhappy, was great too. On the whole, a fantastic read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-three-body-problem", "url": "/books/the-three-body-problem/", "title": "The Three Body Problem", "layout": "post", "description": "Set in the backdrop of the Chinese cultural revolution, an alien civilization on the brink of extinction plans to invade earth, and works to stagnate scientific progress on earth till they reach.", "author": "Cixin Liu (trans. Ken Liu)", "date": "2024-07-06T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240706.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "The story starts in the late sixties, amidst Mao’s great leap forward. Scientists and intellectuals are coerced to conform to the regime’s brutal thought processes. Meanwhile, the military has started broadcasting missives into space, in the hope that if and when an alien civilization comes to earth, they would interface with the Chinese first. One such civilization indeed intercepts this message, and their planet is in a death spiral, caught in a highly unstable orbit in a system with three stars. They plan to invade earth and supplant humanity, and need Earth to remain at its current level of scientific progress until they reach. They use an ingenious method of frustrating scientists to achieve that. Meanwhile, on earth, multiple groups form; some want to welcome the alien overlords and help them eliminate humanity as retribution for all the injustices humanity has wrought. The other group wants to stop the aliens. This book has seen several rave reviews, and has been nominated for both the Hugo and Nebula awards. But despite that, the book is tedium personified. The writing is bland and dispassionate, while the characters are like black-and-white cartoons, who seem to have no trace of empathy or emotion. The most jarring is the main antagonist. I can understand being a misanthrope when witnessing first hand the brutal murder of ones own family in the name of a cultural revolution. But being a misanthrope is far removed from deliberately causing the death of your husband, and being instrumental in the potential eradication of the human race. The story itself focuses on science and technology, with almost religious fervour. The pacing is patchy, and the author has this weird habit of leaving narratives dangling, and coming back much later to fill in the blanks. The whole storyline is a bare-faced rehash of “The Gods Themselves” by Isaac Asimov, with a generous dollop of Chinese history thrown in, from the warring states period to the cultural revolution. Hard pass. Despite all the laurels, I will not be continuing this trilogy. " },{ "id": "/books/the-devotion-of-suspect-x", "url": "/books/the-devotion-of-suspect-x/", "title": "The Devotion of Suspect X", "layout": "post", "description": "Tokyo police detective Kusanagi has a perplexing case on his hands; he has a body, but is unable to piece together the events leading up to the death...", "author": "Keigo Higashino", "date": "2024-07-11T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240711.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery", "content": "Yasuko is a single mother who works in a Bento shop packing lunches. Her life is turned upside down when her ex-husband shows up suddenly and start to extort money from her. The situation escalates suddenly and Yasuko and her daughter end up strangling him to death. Enter neighbor Ishigami, high-school mathematics teacher and Yasuko’s secret admirer. He disposes the body and provides Yasuko and daughter with alibi’s. Detective Kusanagi is investigating the murder, and cannot piece together the sequence of events. Yasuko and her daughter’s alibis are water-tight, but Kusanagi thinks there is something fishy but just can’t put his finger on it. He ropes in his friend Dr. Yukawa, nicknamed Galileo, a physics professor and an old classmate and friend of Ishigami. This starts of a game of cat-and-mouse with Ishigami and Yukawa trying to out-think each other, with Yukawa bent on proving Ishigami had something to do with the murder and Ishigami, in turn, determined to protect Yasuko. It becomes evident that Ishigami is willing to sacrifice himself to protect Yasuko, and Yukawa is torn between proving his friend’s guilt and protecting him from the gallows. This is Higashino’s first in his acclaimed “Galileo” series, and considered his best work. The premise and build-up was quite good, and I really appreciate the meticulous and detailed planning that Ishigami does. But the weak point is Yukawa. He does not seem to be equal to the task of solving the case. A detective is supposed to live by the maxim: “Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth”. Through armchair conjecture, he just miraculously pulls the right answer out of thin air based on little more than “Oh I knew Ishigami in college”. The unlikelihood of a police detective discussing details of ongoing investigations with civilians in procedure-mad Japan is also a hard pill to swallow. The base premise is similar to Natsuo Kirino’s Out, but while that one goes off the rails pretty quickly, this one fizzles down to a standard police procedural. Still, the parts where the author delves into Ishigami’s out-thinking the detectives is quite entertaining to read. Worth delving into. " },{ "id": "/books/material-world", "url": "/books/material-world/", "title": "Material World: The Six Raw Materials That Shape Modern Civilization", "layout": "post", "description": "Sand, salt, iron, copper, oil, and lithium. The six fundamental raw materials which have shaped humanity and the world we live in. This book takes an in-depth look at each.", "author": "Ed Conway", "date": "2024-07-19T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240719.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science Technology", "content": "Our modern world would not exist without them. They have such an unimaginable impact on our day-to-day lives, but the vast majority of folk have no inkling on how these six crucial materials have changed the face of society today. From the earliest antiquity, when sand was mined to produce glass to the modern age where it is used to produce the very microchips at the heart of every electronic convenience around us, sand, and silicon, has always been a crucial resource. Now, this is at the centre of geopolitics, as the have-nots of the world scramble to acquire the finest silicon and the haves stop at nothing to prevent them from getting it. Salt is a component of our diet, and is absolutely essential to function. Despite its abundance in the ocean water, it is actually rather expensive to extract and purify salt from ocean water. The purest salts are actually mined, and this mined salt has been controlled and taxed from antiquity across the world from China to Rome. The world “salary” literally originates in salt, as soldiers were paid in salt. Controlling and taxing salt has been a historical source of much contention between the state and its people.  Iron is so important a mineral that the process of extracting it was a watershed moment of human history. There was the before and after; and the after was quite appropriately named the Iron Age. Copper is equally critical, and the two metals are used extensively from construction and manufacturing to electronics. Oil is the magic material which underpines the energy security of the human race. Moreover, it also supplies us with a host of other materials which we take for granted, the most significant of them being plastics. Lithium is the backbone of the energy storage infrastructure, powering everything from mobile phones to electric cars. Conway explores the history and impact of each of these materials and how dependent humanity has become to these materials, while at the same time being ready to safeguard their interests to the extent of going to war over them. An excellent eye-opening read. I highly recommend you pick it up now. " },{ "id": "/books/the-bullet-that-missed", "url": "/books/the-bullet-that-missed/", "title": "The Bullet That Missed", "layout": "post", "description": "The four senior citizen detectives are at it again, this time solving a ten year old case of a murdered TV journalist... while other events happen around them", "author": "Richard Osman", "date": "2024-07-23T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240723.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery", "content": "When the Thursday Murder Club meets, the four geriatric detectives are presented with a cold case from ten years ago by their favourite TV news reader. A colleague of his has been murdered; but there was no body, and no answers. She was unearthing some huge story involving mafia and politicians, and the only person with any connection with the case is in jail. The club ropes in their mob-queen from the last book, also in the same jail, to help investigate the case. Meanwhile, Ron starts a relationship with the lady who worked at the same TV station, and was friends with the victim. Meanwhile, an unknown, shadowy figure nicknamed “The Viking” has charged Elizabeth with the task of murdering a former KGB colleague and friend of hers, with the threat of killing Joyce if she fails. Will the quartet of intrepid seniors overcome their challenges and solve the sticky conundrums they are presented with? Another great page turner from Osman with sharp dialogues and unexpected surprises. Great read. " },{ "id": "/books/good-omens", "url": "/books/good-omens/", "title": "Good Omens", "layout": "post", "description": "The end of times is upon us; the date for the apocalypse has been set, and the antichrist has been primed (sort of...). It’s up to one sympathetic pair, an angel and a demon, to calm things down and save the world.", "author": "Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett", "date": "2024-07-29T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240729.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy", "content": "An outstanding piece of fiction which both mocks and pays tribute to Christian mythology, with a very definite nod to the works of Ms. Richmal Crompton! The angel Aziraphale and the demon Crowley have been friends from the time of Adam and Eve. Crowley was the snake who gave her the apple, and Aziraphale gave Adam a flaming sword to deal with the dangerous world outside paradise. Now, having lived on earth for millennia, both Aziraphale and Crowley are rather fond of humans and have happily integrated with them. Now the end of times and the great war between heaven and hell is upon them, and they are faced with a tough proposition: they want to get heaven and hell to amicably settle their differences and spare earth. Meanwhile, through a series of mishaps, the antichrist is a 11 year old boy who has grown in a small village in the English countryside. Along with his gang of friends called the “Them”, he is much like Crompton’s William Brown and his gang of “Outlaws”. He is taken in by his momentous role involving the end of times, and the four horsemen of the apocalypse are on their way to meet him and assist him. Amidst this, a prognosticating witch called Agnes Nutter from the seventeeth century has written a book full of predictions for her descendants to use, who have ever since made it their mission to just be there at the right place and right time, if they could only correctly interpret those prophecies. Will the world end? Which amongst the myriad forces working for and against the apocalypse succeed? This fantastic piece of fiction is a wonderful page turner which will have you roaring with laughter from start to finish, and you will be loath to tear yourself away from the story of the world which is about to end… or is it? " },{ "id": "/books/the-left-hand-of-darkness", "url": "/books/the-left-hand-of-darkness/", "title": "The Left Hand of Darkness", "layout": "post", "description": "In a world far away, and a culture even further away, one human works to bridge the chasm of differences", "author": "Ursula K. Le Guin", "date": "2024-07-31T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240731.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Classics", "content": "Genly Ai is a human male, from Terra (Earth). He is an envoy to the planet Gethen, representing a coalition of planets called the Ekumen. Gethen is populated by creatures much like humans, but are neutral gendered, and can choose to switch to either male or female based on circumstances. Genly lands in a kingdom called Karhide, and hopes to appeal to the king to initiate the proceedings to include Gethen into the Ekumen. With the help of the prime minister Estraven, Genly seems to be making good progress, when he is suddenly rebuffed and Estraven is exiled. Genly travels to the fastness, where it is predicted that Gethen will indeed join the Ekumen within five years. Encouraged, Genly travels to the neighboring kingdom of Orgoreyn, where the politicians are initially very receptive, because they had been primed by Estraven. But the secret police, which controls the kingdom, arrest and send both Estraven and Genly to a prison camp in the far north. Genly and Estraven escape and make the arduous trek back to Karhide, where Estraven predicts Genly’s appearance will shake things up. During the journey they form a close bond, and Genly teaches Estraven mindspeak, the language of Ekumen. They reach Karhide, but are betrayed and Estraven is killed. As predicted, Genly’s appearance causes the governments of both nations to fall, and the new governments agree to join the Ekumen. Vast in scope with detailed and nuanced world-building, this book is part of the Hainish cycle. The author describes the squeamishness felt by both the human, as well as the aliens of Gethen, when encountering a creature quite different from themselves. The close bond which is formed, and the redemption arc are wonderfully written and a joy to read. Strongly recommend. " },{ "id": "/books/assassins-apprentice", "url": "/books/assassins-apprentice/", "title": "Assassin’s Apprentice", "layout": "post", "description": "A young boy is taken in by the king’s men and trained to be an assassin, where he uses his unique gifts and intelligence to achieve his goals", "author": "Robin Hobb", "date": "2024-08-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240805.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy", "content": "A little boy is brought to an army base by his maternal grandfather, claiming that he is the illegitimate son of Prince Chivalry, the crown prince of the Six Duchies. Prince Verity, the younger brother of Chivalry, takes him in and gives him to Burrich, Chivalry’s right-hand man and stable master. Burrich names the boy Fitz, and raises him as a foster father would. Fitz is taken to the capital, but the scandal of his existence has caused Chivalry to give up his position as King-in-waiting and leave the capital. He dies soon after, never having met Fitz. Fitz shows innate traits of the royal family, such as the Skill, a magic which allows him to share thoughts and strength. Fitz is trained by a reclusive palace resident as an assassin, and given several tasks to perform. He is also trained in using the Skill along with several other children in the palace. He also has another ability, dubbed the Wit, which allows him to bond telepathically with animals. This is an distrusted magic, and Burrich strongly discourages him from using it. Meanwhile, a band called the Red Ship Raiders has been terrorizing the coastal villages. When they attack, they kill several residents and leave the remaining severely mentally damaged, with no emotion and driven only by desire; these are called the Forged Ones, and are feared as much as the raiders themselves. He helps Verity draw from his Skill strength to fight the Red Ship Raiders. Several plots are underway in the palace to eliminate Verity and make Regal, the youngest and most unsuitable brother the next in line to the throne. Does Fitz manage to survive, and overcome the several mortal challenges thrown his way? Is he able to help and protect the people who appreciate him and do the tasks required of him as an Assassin and king’s man? Sprawling in scope, with an elaborate and intricate plot with several interwoven subplots, this book is a pleasure to read and a stand-out in a sea of mediocre fantasy novels. The world-building is intricate and the story lines are gripping. The book is a page-turner and I can’t wait to start on the second in the series. Excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/dirk-gentlys-holistic-detective-agency", "url": "/books/dirk-gentlys-holistic-detective-agency/", "title": "Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency", "layout": "post", "description": "An absent minded engineer's reality comes crashing down, and he ropes in the mysterious detective Dirk Gently to make sense of it", "author": "Douglas Adams", "date": "2024-08-07T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240807.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Science-Fiction", "content": "It’s hard to describe a book that has so many unrelated concepts squeezed into it. Of course, this worked very well in the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy series. But here, Adams has taken it up several notches, throwing in everything and then several kitchen sinks too. This is a non-exhaustive list of some of the concepts which are introduced in the book: An alien electric monk, who rides to earth through a trans-dimensional gateway An Oxford don who has been there forever, literally. Like from when the college was established Sofas that get stuck in stairways, in a mathematically impossible way A ghost trying its best to communicate an important message so it can move on to the great beyond A time traveling room A deeper meaning to Samuel T Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner An alien being stuck on Earth for untold millenia, trying to resolve an engine problem So many concepts, and somehow a single thread is woven through all of them. There are throwbacks, but there is such a high volume of new concepts being introduced, right up until towards the end of the book, that the throwback doesn’t even land. Not his best work, but still a jolly overwhelming read. " },{ "id": "/books/flowers-for-algernon", "url": "/books/flowers-for-algernon/", "title": "Flowers for Algernon", "layout": "post", "description": "A diary of an intellectually challenged young man detailing his experience being part of an experimental procedure to increase his intelligence", "author": "Daniel Keyes", "date": "2024-08-16T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240816.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Literary Classics", "content": "Charlie Gordon was born with an unusually low IQ. Disowned by his family, he supports himself by working menial jobs at a bakery. Motivated to improve himself, he is selected as the perfect test candidate for a new experimental procedure to increase his intelligence… a procedure that has already been successfully tested on a mouse called Algernon. As they start the procedure, the doctor encourages Charlie to maintain a diary detailing his thoughts, events, ideas, anything that would help them gauge his intellectual capacity. The book is presented as the collective writings from Charlie’s diary. As the treatment takes effect, Charlie’s intelligence expands until it surpasses that of the doctors who engineered his metamorphosis. The experiment is hailed as a huge success, and as a major scientific breakthrough. The reader also sees the change in the improvement of Charlie’s writing; grammar and spelling gradually improve, better sentence construction and larger and complicated words, and most importantly, abstract thought rather than a plain retelling of events. But intelligence comes with a price. Charlie learns that the people he’s known for years are not what he’d always thought. Where he once associated laughter with friendship, he soon learns that it is mockery. It has been said that intelligence is mostly about having a good memory - and Charlie Gordon finds that out the hard way. Memories that had been forgotten come flooding back, bringing pain with them. Meanwhile, the mouse Algernon suddenly starts deteriorating. What will this mean for Charlie? An incredibly poignant and touching story of a simple man who was given a glimpse of paradise, just a brief glimpse. It’s a classic for a reason. Read it. You won’t be able to put it down. " },{ "id": "/books/little-women", "url": "/books/little-women/", "title": "Little Women", "layout": "post", "description": "A coming-of-age novel set around the American Civil war, detailing the lives of four sisters from childhood to womanhood.", "author": "Louisa May Alcott", "date": "2024-08-20T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240820.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Young-Adult Literary Classics", "content": "Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy are the four March sisters, living with their mother, whom they call Marmee. They are genteel, upper class poor, living in Massachusetts during the civil war when their father is serving in the Union army on the front lines. The story details their lives through their childhood, and how the older sisters work to support the family and their interactions with their neighbors, especially the rich Mr. Laurence next door and his grandson Laurie. Each of the four has a unique quality, as well as distinct dreams and passions; talented tomboy and author-to-be Jo, tragically frail Beth, beautiful Meg, and romantic, spoiled Amy, united in their devotion to each other. The book is a plain narrative, there are no great events or adversities, no rising/falling action, no climax. But it is gentle, wholesome paean to the good old days, an enduring and endearing classic espousing good values and honest living. " },{ "id": "/books/behind-her-eyes", "url": "/books/behind-her-eyes/", "title": "Behind Her Eyes", "layout": "post", "description": "A doctor's secretary is having an affair with the doctor, while being a close confidant of his wife.", "author": "Sarah Pinborough", "date": "2024-08-24T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240824.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller", "content": "Behind Her Eyes is very readable; I couldn’t put it down and I was constantly trying to figure out what was going to happen. But there were so many twists and intricate interwoven plots, involving a slowly revealed history related in multiple flashbacks. It’s nearly impossible to write a summary of the events of this book without giving too much away, so I am just going to keep it as this: A man, his wife, and his secretary get caught up in a tangled web. The multiple twists culminate in one giant twist towards the end, which leaves you feeling sorry for all the people involved. A good read, one that will stay with you for a long while after, and you will keep mulling over the plot and rethinking various events in the light of new information. " },{ "id": "/books/black-echo", "url": "/books/black-echo/", "title": "The Black Echo", "layout": "post", "description": "LA detective and Vietnam vet Harry Bosch is called in to examine a body found in a drainage tunnel, but the case hits closer to home when he recognises the body as an old comrade", "author": "Michael Connelly", "date": "2024-08-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240827.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Thriller", "content": "The first of the Harry Bosch series by Michael Connelly. Harry is a grizzled old detective and former Vietnam vet who has worked clearing the notorious tunnels of the Viet Cong. A case gone awry has him demoted and IA on his tail, waiting for one more misstep. He is called in on a murder case involving a fellow vet, another tunnel expert like him. Harry connects the death to a series of unsolved bank robberies, all done through tunnels. He ropes in the FBI, but they are reluctant to work with him, initially. But the lead detective, Eleanor Wish, works with him and connects the robberies to a pair of corrupt Vietnamese police chiefs now living in the USA. How Bosch unravels the whole scheme and identifies the perpetrators forms the remainder of the book, complete with a surprise towards the ending. This is a classic noir police procedural; Bosch is a cynical detective, who is straight as an arrow, but accepts that the world around him isn’t perfect. His reasoning and deductive skills are top notch, and he draws upon his vast experience, both in the police as well as the army to solve the crimes. Good reading, and also a TV series from what I hear. I will perhaps read a book or two more before I start watching. Definitely worth reading. " },{ "id": "/books/flood-of-fire", "url": "/books/flood-of-fire/", "title": "Flood of Fire", "layout": "post", "description": "The conclusion of the magnificent Ibis trilogy, and another foray into the language and history of the British Raj", "author": "Amitav Ghosh", "date": "2024-09-02T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240902.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary", "content": "This follows the story lines from the previous two books. Kesri Singh, Deeti’s brother, is serving in a unit led by Deeti’s dead husband’s uncle. Because Deeti eloped with Kalua, Kesri is ostracized and nearly booted from the unit. But along his commanding officer, he sets up a new company to travel to Canton. Zachary Reid has been cleared of all charges related to the events on Ibis in the first book. But he has to start at the bottom, as a carpenter restoring Raja Neel’s ship. He starts a very colourful affair with Mrs. Burnham while working on the ship. At her encouragement, her husband also brings Reid into the opium trade. Against the wishes of her family, Shireen Modi decides to go to Canton and reclaim the share due to her husband because of the destruction of his consignment by the Chinese authorities. She also wishes to find her husband’s son by the Chinese boat-woman. She connects with her husband’s close friend, the Armenian merchant Karabidian to help her in her journey. With the help of Baboo Nob Kissin, Raja Neel’s young son also makes his way to Canton, initially as Zachary’s page boy, and later, working with the British colonial armed forces. The magnificent saga concludes with this installment, and the beautiful tribute to the English language in all its myriad variations and derivatives through the breadth of the British Empire is explored to the fullest. Absolutely riveting and gripping, the tale concludes as all the key characters come together one last time, with the Ibis. Absolutely gorgeous and magnificent reading. " },{ "id": "/books/the-alchemist", "url": "/books/the-alchemist/", "title": "The Alchemist", "layout": "post", "description": "A young shepherd follows his dreams, quite literally, and learns alchemy along the way.", "author": "Paulo Coelho", "date": "2024-09-04T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240904.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Magical-Realism Classics", "content": "I now have to figure out how to express my absolute contempt without descending into either foul language, or getting incoherent. This so-called book is essentially a complete collection of inspirational quotes, with a weak story wound around it. This is the laziest form of literature, and I cannot fathom why this is considered a “masterpiece” and why so many people claim that it has changed their lives. So all Coelho wanted to say was “Follow your dreams. Often what we seek is right in front of us”. He says this repeatedly, and capitalizes and reiterates in case we missed it the first several times. I don’t want to even honour this book with a full synopsis. I think it would more than suffice to say just this: There is a shepherd who finds something called a “Personal Legend”. I strongly encourage everyone to put this book down, and find something better to do with their lives. Perhaps even… find a Personal Legend worth reading. One thing I’ll say for sure. Given the popularity of this book, Coelho sure found the secret to turn crap into gold. " },{ "id": "/books/city-of-bones", "url": "/books/city-of-bones/", "title": "City of Bones", "layout": "post", "description": "A young girl accidentally steps into a world of magic and discovers a lot about herself and her family", "author": "Cassandra Clare", "date": "2024-09-10T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240910.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult Fantasy Romance", "content": "15-year old Clary witnesses a crime at a trendy New York night club. Interesting thing, nobody but Clary can see both the victim and perpetrators. As it turns out, there is an entire invisible to regular people world, and Clary is an unwitting important part of it. The rest of the book is one extended hot mess. I am constantly disappointed with the world of young-adult fiction. Very poor writing is somehow packaged and sold to readers who do not know better. This book is possibly the worst offender, though Veronica Roth does give Ms. Clare some competition there. The main protagonist seems largely unconcerned that her mother is missing and possibly dead, still engaging in witty banter with a boy who does not seem to be able to talk without sarcasm. The back story is told in tedious bits and pieces, and there are way too many protagonists, deuteragonists and antagonists, so much so that it is hard for the reader to keep track. Too many concepts, too convoluted a history and painfully lazy world building. Strongly recommend that folks stay well away from this book. There was apparently a movie too, but I couldn’t be bothered to look that one up. " },{ "id": "/books/fooled-by-randomness", "url": "/books/fooled-by-randomness/", "title": "Fooled by Randomness", "layout": "post", "description": "A treatise on the role of randomness in all ventures, and how everyone often models all behaviour on repeating that one random outcome", "author": "Nassim Nicholas Taleb", "date": "2024-09-13T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240913.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction", "content": "Chance plays a much higher role in our lives than we realise. Biased by hindsight, we often remember the successes and forget the many, many failures, and try to identify reasons for the success even though the success was entirely a random, chance event. Mild success can be attributed to hard work and preparation, but wild success is almost always a chance event. This is essentially the premise under which the author operates and builds upon. He quotes several anecdotes which support this premise, and describes his own cumulative mild success and compares the same to the few wild successes that his neighbours and colleagues have encountered, and where they went from there. Ironically, this cherry-picking of scenarios is what he himself warns against. He derides people who were successful once and are no longer so, based on his own interpretation of why they are no longer successful. The whole book is little more than an extended rant; it can be summed up in one generality: “Exercise caution. Chance favours preparedness, but is not caused by preparedness”. The writing is fairly tedious and the author often tends to gloat. On the whole, for someone who does not make a living playing the markets, the book holds little appeal. " },{ "id": "/books/mysterious-affair-at-styles", "url": "/books/mysterious-affair-at-styles/", "title": "The Mysterious Affair at Styles", "layout": "post", "description": "The first novel by Dame Agatha, and also the first in which the iconic Poirot makes an appearance", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2024-09-16T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240916.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Crime Classics", "content": "Poirot is a former police detective from Belgium, now in England as a refugee during the Great War. He has settled near Styles Court, the country estate of his benefactor, Mrs. Emily Inglethorp. When Ms. Inglethorp is fatally poisoned with Strychnine, the police are baffled and rope in Mr. Poirot. Suspects include her much younger husband, Alfred Inglethorp, who now stands to inherit her fortune, and her older son John, who inherits the manor. Her estranged friend, a Ms. Evelyn Howard, arrives and immediately accuses Mr. Inglethorp of murder. Someone matching Mr. Inglethorp’s description is seen buying Strychnine at the chemist too. But Poirot works out that things don’t quite add up. Using his deductive skills, Poirot sifts through all the deception and identifies the actual murderer. An excellent introduction to the eccentric Belgian sleuth, the pattern follows Dame Agatha’s favourite closed scene murder, where there are a limited number of suspects and the detective has to identify the correct one. The book also introduces Poirot’s frequent collaborator, Hastings, how also narrates the story. A must read for all murder mystery aficionados. " },{ "id": "/books/my-man-jeeves", "url": "/books/my-man-jeeves/", "title": "My Man Jeeves", "layout": "post", "description": "A collection of short stories which include among the first appearances Bertie Wooster and his superlative valet Jeeves", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2024-09-18T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240918.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Short-Stories Classics Literary", "content": "Bertie is in New York. Having displeased his formidable aunt Agatha, he has left England to give her time to cool off, and hopefully figure out some way of working himself into her good graces. While in New York, he has several escapades involving his friends and acquaintances. Corky wants to be an artist and marry his beau, but needs to convince his uncle. But the uncle marries the beau instead, and Corky now has to paint a portrait of the uncle’s baby now. Motty, a connection of aunt Agatha has finally managed to come to a big city, and is running amok. Bicky has to impress an uncle, and Freddie accidentally kidnaps a child to impress his beau. Rocky loves to live alone in the country, but his aunt wants him to live it up in the city, and pays him to do it. So many friends, so many problems. Jeeves is at hand to fix everyone’s issues, though it often does not go well to start off, he always finds a solution that will resolve it to everyone’s satisfaction, though sometimes leaving Bertie a little worse for wear. Outstanding turn of phrase as always, and thoroughly enjoyable. " },{ "id": "/books/the-last-devil-to-die", "url": "/books/the-last-devil-to-die/", "title": "The Last Devil to Die", "layout": "post", "description": "A friend of Elizabeth’s husband, Stephen, has been killed, and a package he was protecting is now missing", "author": "Richard Osman", "date": "2024-09-20T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240920.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery", "content": "A very poignant and touching book, and probably the most emotional of the whole series. This time, murder hits much closer to home as a friend of Stephen’s has been murdered. With their trademark forthrightness and humor, Joyce, Elizabeth, Ron, and Ibrahim stick their noses where they don’t belong, and are soon caught up in the world of heroin dealers, antiques, and fake art. Elizabeth’s husband is sinking further into dementia, and has already laid plans for when this happens. With Elizabeth largely indisposed, Joyce takes over the lead in driving the investigation, and really comes into her own. A well and fitting end to the Thursday Murder Club series, as the author has said he is now moving on from Cooper’s Chase to other stories. " },{ "id": "/books/best-sf-six", "url": "/books/best-sf-six/", "title": "Best SF Six", "layout": "post", "description": "A collection of Sci-fi short stories from the golden age.", "author": "Edmund Crispin (editor)", "date": "2024-09-23T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240923.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Short-Stories", "content": "A collection of science fiction short stories curated by “Edmund Crispin”. The stories are each in equal parts thoughtful, funny and poignant. As the best science fiction often does, it holds up a mirror to contemporary society by pointing the direction where it would be headed. Judas Bomb (1961) by Kit Reed - Competing street gangs fight over control of a Bomb, with little thought to consequences. A Work of Art (1956) novelette by James Blish - Richard Strauss is recreated, and sets to work composing. The Nostalgia Gene (1954) by Roy Hutchins - A young man with a fixation on times gone by invents a time machine. The Star Ducks (1950) by Bill Brown - A reporter locates a small rural farm where aliens have landed The Waitabits (1955) novelette by Eric Frank Russell - Aliens with a time perception much lower than humans are unconquerable The Fly (1952) by Arthur Porges - An engineer looking for radioactive ores encounters a fly caught in a spider’s web Kaleidoscope (1949) by Ray Bradbury - Astronauts have a catastrophic failure and are facing their imminent death Camouflage (1945) novelette by Henry Kuttner & C.L. Moore - Criminals hijack a space freighter, but now have to find the elusive pilot, who is integrated into the circuits of the spaceship Letter to a Phoenix (1949) by Fredric Brown - An accident causes a man to age very very slowly. Death March (1956) novelette by Algis Budrys - and perhaps meritocracy gone awry Weapon (1954) by John Christopher - the military attempts to build a weapon from 100 years in the future Billennium (1961) by J.G. Ballard - In an overpopulated world with very controlled living space, two friends find a hidden space. Old Hundredth (1960) by Brian W. Aldiss - Far in the future, humans have left earth and animals have developed intelligence A Life and a Half (1959) by Frederik Pohl Excellent collection of shorts from the golden age of science fiction. A quick and intriguing read. " },{ "id": "/books/moonwalking-with-einstein", "url": "/books/moonwalking-with-einstein/", "title": "Moonwalking with Einstein", "layout": "post", "description": "An excellent chronicle of the author's journey to becoming a memory champion", "author": "Joshua Foer", "date": "2024-09-25T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240925.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science", "content": "Much like Olympic games, there are memory games, where people pit their skills at memorizing and remembering things against each other. The author stumbles across one such contest, and to understand better how the competitors do it, he sets himself a challenge to learn their techniques. He engages some top mental athletes to tutor him and improve his memory. The book covers his year spent learning about mnemonics and memory palaces and all of the memorable characters he met along the way. He covers the history of memorization – it goes back to the ancient Greeks, when Socrates famously complained that writing destroys memory, and how, as a culture, they placed much more emphasis on the oral tradition than written. The last chapter and the epilogue cover the memory championships in which Foer competed, but the outcome of those events really doesn’t matter. By then, it was clear that the purpose of a good memory isn’t just for party tricks like memorizing a deck of cards; more importantly, it teaches you to become more mindful in your life. " },{ "id": "/books/death-on-the-nile", "url": "/books/death-on-the-nile/", "title": "Death On The Nile", "layout": "post", "description": "Murder follows Poirot on vacation, as a wealthy young woman is shot dead on his boat while on a cruise down the river Nile", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2024-09-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/240927.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Crime", "content": "Like many of Dame Agatha’s mysteries, this one is again a closed room mystery. A wealthy heiress is murdered on a luxury cruise ship going down the Nile. The murderer has to be one of the other passengers on the ship, but several of them have motives, and more than one is traveling under an assumed identity. The victim is Linnet Doyle née Ridgeway, a young and rich American woman,set to inherit her father’s fortune when she turns 21. Her childhood friend Jacqueline de Belleforte, now estranged, is also on the ship. Her late father’s business partners are also co-passengers. There is but a small window when the crime could have happened, and the murderer seems obvious. But like in so many of Christie’s works, Poirot had to work hard to peel back all the layers to arrive at the true events leading to the death. Always a pleasure to read an Agatha Christie murder mystery. Exotic locale, convoluted mystery, several suspects and no obvious answer… it’s as good as it gets. " },{ "id": "/books/inimitable-jeeves", "url": "/books/inimitable-jeeves/", "title": "The Inimitable Jeeves", "layout": "post", "description": "The supreme gentleman's gentleman continues working his magic to extricate his employer and his friends out of sticky situations", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2024-10-01T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241001.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Short-Stories Classics", "content": "Jeeves extricates the incurable serial lovebird Bingo Little from several sticky situations, while occasionally working the same grey cells to save Wooster some blushes. Bingo keeps falling in love with very “unsuitable” women, who his very rich uncle will not approve of. Dependent on the uncle for exchequer, Bingo appeals to Jeeves and Wooster for help in situations involving a waitress called Mabel, the erudite Honoria Glossop, a communist called Charlotte Rowbotham, a socialite called Cynthia Wickhammersley and several others. The most amusing running theme in these stories is Rosie M. Banks, an author who writes sappy romance novels. Bingo initially uses her works to “soften” his uncle, and then gets Bertie to pose as Rosie herself. Ironically, the woman Bingo eventually marries turns out to be the real Rosie herself. Full of roll-on-the-floor, laugh-out-loud situations and written with beautiful language, this book is ever the constant entertainer. " },{ "id": "/books/night", "url": "/books/night/", "title": "Night", "layout": "post", "description": "A brutal and gut-wrenching inside view of the holocaust", "author": "Elie Wiesel", "date": "2024-10-03T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241003.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Memoir", "content": "This brief autobiography describes the most horrendous time of the author’s life. It describes his journey from being a teen in a Romanian village, when stories of Nazi treatment of Jews are dismissed as irrelevant; the whole village lives in constant state of denial as the holocaust is elsewhere, happening to other people. They are safe and they are isolated, it has nought to do with them. But when the Nazis eventually march in, their own rights are stripped away bit by bit, until they find themselves on the train to Auschwitz. Wiesel is too young, and his father is too old, and as such, they would have been headed straight for the gas chambers. But an opportune bit of advice to fudge their ages sees them through to forced labour. The remainder of Night describes Eliezer’s efforts not to be parted from his father, not even to lose sight of him; his grief and shame at witnessing his father’s decline into helplessness and his own role transition from the cared to the caregiver are described in detail. I am ever amazed that we, a civilized society, allowed the horror of the holocaust to ever happen, and are still lauding Nazis in any form or manner. As much as this book is hard to read, it should be essential reading. Until we realize the depth of Nazi depravity, we remain at risk of allowing this awful episode of our history to be shoved under the carpet, and allowing it to happen again. " },{ "id": "/books/burglars-cant-be-choosers", "url": "/books/burglars-cant-be-choosers/", "title": "Burglars Can't Be Choosers", "layout": "post", "description": "Bernie Rhodenbarr is a gentleman burglar, he takes pride in his doings. But when he is accused of the more baser crime of murder, he needs to solve it to exonerate himself.", "author": "Lawrence Block", "date": "2024-10-07T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241007.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery", "content": "Bernie is a good neighbor. Polite. Clean. Spends weekends playing poker with friends, none of whom know what he does for a living: He is a burglar. A very good one, who can worm his way into a rich apartment and is out with all the valuables before you can blink. He makes few mistakes, and looks at the ones he has made as a teachable moment. When he is approached by a person with specific instructions to rob a specific apartment, his alarm bells go off. But he takes the assignment, and while he is busy trying to break into the writing desk, a pair of police officers show up. While he is negotiating how much they would accept to let him walk away, one of the cops discovers a dead body in the next room. Now suddenly, he is not a robbery suspect, but a murder suspect. Bernie bolts and is the subject of a great manhunt. And the only way he can come clean is to find the actual killer. A very unusual murder mystery, where the detective is the suspect, and has to solve the mystery while on the run from authorities. The writing is in first person, full of clever quips and fast dialogues, with several cultural references to life in ‘70s New York. The mystery was also quite well woven; I did not suspect the eventual murderer at all. On the whole, a great and enjoyable read. " },{ "id": "/books/march-violets", "url": "/books/march-violets/", "title": "March Violets", "layout": "post", "description": "Bernie Gunther, a private detective in 1930’s Berlin, has to solve the murder of a billionaire’s daughter", "author": "Philip Kerr", "date": "2024-10-11T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241011.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Historical Mystery", "content": "The first of a series of quite excellent books featuring detective Bernie Gunther, a private eye in 1930’s Berlin. Bernie is a former policeman, and a veteran of the great war. But now, he makes a living running missing persons cases, mostly Jews, who have invariably been shipped off to KZs (Konzentrationslager, the German name for concentration camp) by the gestapo on trumped up pretexts. At the height of Hitler’s ascent, shortly before the the Olympics Games, Bernie is approached by a wealthy industrialist whose daughter and son-in-law have been murdered brutally. Bernie is charged with finding the murderer, or more specifically, a diamond necklace stolen by the murderer. This search leads him down the entire sordid world of Nazi excesses, right up to the infighting between Hitler’s sidekicks, Goering and Himmler. Through morgues, Olympic stadiums, abandoned mansions and finally, to Dachau concentration camp, Gunther chases a trail that keeps the reader on edge throughout. Told in first person with the same cynical outlook to life as the classic detectives created by Chandler and Hammett, it’s an outstanding read, opening a window into the extreme living conditions during the worst of the Nazi regime. The title is a reference to the slang term used for people who entered the Nazi party after the Enabling Act passed in March ‘33 making Hitler dictator. " },{ "id": "/books/neverwhere", "url": "/books/neverwhere/", "title": "Neverwhere", "layout": "post", "description": "Richard Mayhew stumbles into a world under the streets of London, a world filled with angels, monsters, monks, assassins, saints and soul-stealing beings which transcend definition.", "author": "Neil Gaiman", "date": "2024-10-17T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241017.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy", "content": "London Below is an unusual world, comprising everyone who has ever fallen through the cracks, or slipped off the radar. Richard is a young businessman who helps a young woman from London Below, the Lady Door. This act saves her life, but unfortunately also causes him to “fall through the cracks”, and become virtually invisible in London Above. To get his life back, he tags along with her and her companions, as she is on a quest to escape her assassins and find out who is so intent on having her dead. Interacting with utterly bizarre world, they encounter the angel Islington, the Black Friars, an Earl who holds court in a tube carriage, sewer people, and several equally unusual, quirky and oftentimes dangerous entities. A gripping, rollicking and fast-paced romp, this is a beautifully crafted novel, full of humour and wonder. Every character in the book is well-written, even the villains. Especially the villains. The menacing verbiage of Mr. Croup and the casual brutality of Mr. Vandemar would bring a smile, even when they are being at the villainous best. An absolute, and I cannot stress the absoluteness of the heavy lifting done by that word “absolute” here, MUST READ. " },{ "id": "/books/carry-on-jeeves", "url": "/books/carry-on-jeeves/", "title": "Carry On, Jeeves", "layout": "post", "description": "The world's most famous valet exercises his grey cells again to extricate Wooster and his vapid friends from sticky situations", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2024-10-21T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241021.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Short-Stories", "content": "This is probably the start of the saga of Wooster and Jeeves, since the first story features Wooster hiring Jeeves as his valet. It isn’t the first story ever to feature the iconic pair, but it is a great starting point. Several of the stories also appear in The Inimitable Jeeves, but it definitely was a pleasure the read them again. In Jeeves takes charge, Wooster is given the task of stealing the manuscript of his uncle’s memoirs. The stories of Corky, Motty, Rocky and Freddie are also featured in the earlier tome, but the story of Sippy is a new one. Sippy’s shenanigans land him in the clink for thirty days without the option, and in a plot that Wodehouse would go on to use several times, repeatedly, over and over, Wooster pretends to be Sippy to fulfill a prior commitment. The story of the forgetful Biffy is also quite amusing, and the story with Wooster being roped in to give a lecture at a girls’ school is another repeat. The writing is excellent, as always. This contains several of the earlier, formative stories when Wodehouse was still fleshing out his characters. But, absolutely entertaining, nonetheless. " },{ "id": "/books/the-fat-years", "url": "/books/the-fat-years/", "title": "The Fat Years", "layout": "post", "description": "A political commentary on the CCP disguised as science fiction", "author": "Chan Koonchung", "date": "2024-10-24T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241024.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Dystopian Science-Fiction", "content": "China is ascendant; everyone is happy and doing great, and the new age of Chinese prosperity is underway, on the steady march to become the world leader. But one group of people living around Beijing discover that they seem to be only ones to remember the events that occurred during one specific month; a month of heavy political crises, leadership upheaval, uprisings, riots and general chaos. Together they manage to capture a member of the CCP politburo, so they can get some answers. But the answers are not what they expect… This book is, for the most part, slow-moving and full of very tedious exposition. I would like to believe this was because a lot of the cultural significance was lost in translation; nevertheless, I had a tough time trying to stay focused on the story. The action was patchy, and the story line was convoluted. The author tried to follow the stories of several characters, which initially seem unrelated, but later intersect at various points. This angle just seemed like forced coincidence. At the end, it just boiled down to one very very long monologue, which explains and connects all the various unrelated branches of the story. It seemed crafted specifically to irritate the CCP and score with the small dissenting underground. The claim was this is China’s 1984. I beg to differ. 1984 is a masterpiece. This is just lazy, pretentious writing. " },{ "id": "/books/mans-search-for-meaning", "url": "/books/mans-search-for-meaning/", "title": "Man's Search for Meaning", "layout": "post", "description": "Neurologist and Psychologist Dr. Frankl details his experiences and observations from when he was a prisoner in the Nazi death camps", "author": "Viktor E. Frankl", "date": "2024-10-28T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241028.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Memoir", "content": "This is considered one of the most authoritative descriptions of life on the inside of a Nazi concentration camp. Through the first half of the book, Dr. Frankl dispassionately and objectively makes observations on the worst excesses of cruelty and brutality that can be inflicted by one human on another. The recollections are more in the form of anecdotes rather than a chronological sequence of events. Later in the book, Dr. Frankl presents his arguments on the nature of human spirit, and how one can survive even in the most trying of circumstances. Suffering cannot be avoided, but man can choose how to cope with suffering, find meaning in it, and hold on to that for survival. In the second half of the book, he describes a new form of psychotherapy based on the “search for meaning”, called “Logotherapy”. He rejects Freudian and Nietzschean doctrines in favour of logotherapy, claiming that the quest to find meaning is higher motivator than the quest for power or pleasure. It devolves into a semi-scientific tome describing his experiments with logotherapy, and the results he saw in various circumstances. What is remarkable is that the very science of logotherapy was the result of Frankl’s own search for meaning during his time in the death camps. It is a short volume, but carries immense weight, and is deeply inspirational. I would not re-read it, but would recommend everyone read this once. " },{ "id": "/books/peter-pan", "url": "/books/peter-pan/", "title": "Peter Pan; or, The Boy Who Woundn't Grow Up", "layout": "post", "description": "Peter Pan, and the little fairy Tinker Bell lead the Darling children to the magical world of Neverland", "author": "J.M. Barrie", "date": "2024-10-29T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241029.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult Classics", "content": "Peter Pan is a mischievous young boy who can fly and never grows up. He spends his never-ending childhood in the magical island of Neverland, having several adventures involving fairies, pirates, native americans, mermaids and, occasionally, children from the real world. The story involves the Darling children, Wendy, John and Michael. Peter enters the Darling nursery, and the curious children fly with the exciting and dashing Peter back to Neverland. While there, they have several adventures, and slowly forget their parents and home. Wendy becomes the mother figure to Peter and the Lost Boys. Captain Hook, the pirate chief, kidnaps all the children, forcing Peter to lead a daring rescue and a showdown culminating in Hook’s death. The children subsequently return to London, and the Darling family adopts all the Lost Boys, save for Peter, who chooses to return to Neverland and not grow up to become a man. JM Barrie’s older brother died when he was just a boy. In their mother’s thoughts, he remained a small boy forever, inspiring Barrie to write a play with a central character as the boy who never grows up. His mother’s deep sadness at her lost child also inspired him, and the mother’s love for children is a central recurring theme throughout the book. Disney sanitized and reworked the story heavily, but the original play was an interactive one which involved the audiences to participate by clapping, cheering and booing. The play was then adapted by Barrie himself into a novelization called “Peter and Wendy”, which is the version I read. It is a classic in children’s literature and a must read. " },{ "id": "/books/very-good-jeeves", "url": "/books/very-good-jeeves/", "title": "Very Good, Jeeves", "layout": "post", "description": "A collection of short stories related by Wooster where Jeeves rescues him and his friends from the after effects of their hare-brained schemes", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2024-10-30T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241030.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Short-Stories Classics", "content": "A collection of short stories where Bertie and his friends regularly get themselves into sticky situations, often of their own making, and Jeeves extricates said persons from aforementioned situations. The first is set at the residence of Bertie’s formidable Aunt Agatha, and involves Bertie, his friend Bingo and Aunt Agatha’s obnoxious son young Thomas. Then there is an odd one where Bertie cancels his trip to Monte Carlo, upsetting Jeeves. He then gets into a pickle involving Sir Roderick Glossop, and Jeeves thoroughly embarrasses him to get back. Tuppy Glossop has got himself engaged to a singer who does not like practical jokes, and Aunt Dahlia charges Bertie with breaking up that engagement. An incident involving Aunt Agatha’s dog, and another one involving an obnoxious artist are diverting, but the one involving Bertie’s two nephews in a good-conduct contest is the funniest by far. The one that takes the cake though involves Bertie’s attempts to break up the engagement of his middle-aged uncle, Lord Yaxley, and a young waitress. Excellent writing, as always, and a light-hearted jaunty read. Top notch stuff, don’t you know? Just what the doctor ordered and all that. " },{ "id": "/books/alice-in-wonderland", "url": "/books/alice-in-wonderland/", "title": "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland", "layout": "post", "description": "Alice falls into the rabbit-hole and has several adventures involving some very unusual characters", "author": "Lewis Carroll", "date": "2024-10-31T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241031.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult Classics", "content": "Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland follows the curious journey of a young girl named Alice, who falls down a rabbit hole into a bizarre and magical world. The story unfolds through a series of episodic adventures, each more peculiar than the last. This book has arguably lent more metaphors to the common vernacular than any other book, partly because this remains the most imaginative and accessible book for young children. A few are: Mad as a hatter Fall down the rabbit hole Cheshire cat grin Curiouser and Curiouser Chasing a White Rabbit Off with his/her head When reading a little about Alice Liddell, I realized that I haven’t read this since I was a child, and even then I probably read an abridged version. I set out to rectify this, and this was a treat! Carroll was his pen-name; his real name was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, and he was a mathematics professor at Oxford. Alice Liddell was the daughter of a friend of his, and she is the inspiration for the titular Alice. Several aspects of the story either mirror or satirize events from the time the book was written. " },{ "id": "/books/beartown", "url": "/books/beartown/", "title": "Beartown", "layout": "post", "description": "In a small town obsessed with junior level hockey, the star player is accused of a crime which tears the town apart", "author": "Fredrik Backman", "date": "2024-11-03T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/241103.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary", "content": "Beartown is a small town with nothing much going for it; the decline of industry and tourism has wreaked havoc on its economy. Now, the hopes and dreams of the entire community rest on the success of a junior hockey team. These teen boys are treated like celebrities and the weight of the world is on their shoulders. Parents, business sponsors, booster club members and a variety of other individuals all contribute to this high-pressure environment. Morality and justice take a back seat to winning. Nothing is more important than hockey. A wide cast of characters, and each of them are explored in detail by the nuanced writing; Peter is the team manager, and Maya is his daughter. After winning the tournament semifinals, Maya is assaulted by the star player, the lynch-pin of the team. Now the whole town is taking sides, torn between justice for the girl and their overwhelming need to see the team succeed in the finals. The relationships are rich and enlightening, with varying viewpoints explored in detail with context from the characters’ past. Each characters drive, desire and motivation is elucidated and explored. Everything weaves together to make a complex web, with hockey at the center. Events are inter-connected and this book explores the ripple-effect of actions. For a while there, it seemed like this may be a difficult book for someone without a working knowledge of hockey; but while hockey is central to the book, it is not the game, but the impact of the game which is the focus. The writing is the strength of the book. Despite exploring the very detailed back stories and thought processes of a huge cast of characters, the book remains well-paced and gripping. The book is both plot driven and character driven in equal parts. The ending is satisfying, but still leaves you wanting more. " },{ "id": "/books/right-ho-jeeves", "url": "/books/right-ho-jeeves/", "title": "Right Ho, Jeeves", "layout": "post", "description": "Wooster is at Brinkley Court, trying to get Gussie Fink-Nottle away from newts long enough to get him hitched, while also trying to mend his cousin Angela's love life and saving his Aunt Dahlia's cook Anatole.", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2024-11-04T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241104.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Classics", "content": "Wooster has just returned from a two-month long trip to Cannes, along with his Aunt Dahlia and her daughter Angela. So Wooster is rather surprised when he receives a summons to the aforementioned aunt’s state home at Brinkley Court. Aunt Dahlia needs Wooster to give a speech at Market Snodsbury Grammar School, while Gussie Fink-Nottle, Wooster’s newt-obsessed friend is smitten with Madeline Bassett, and seeks Jeeves’ help in wooing her. Since the soppy Bassett is also currently put up at Brinkley Court, Wooster nominates Gussie in his stead. But there are more goings-on at Brinkley Court. Aunt Dahlia has lost £500 gambling at Cannes, and she needs Jeeves’ help to tackle her miserly husband. Angela has broken off her engagement with Tuppy Glossop, and is all out of sorts. Wooster himself is feuding with Jeeves over a white mess jacket. Through a series of misunderstandings, Madeline thinks Wooster proposed to her, and now Wooster needs Gussie’s romance to succeed to get himself off the hook. Does it all satisfactorily resolve itself in the end? It doesn’t matter, the absolutely joyful turn of phrase employed in the narrative would in and of itself provide sufficient diversion. But yes, it does all get resolved out at the end. " },{ "id": "/books/the-pale-criminal", "url": "/books/the-pale-criminal/", "title": "The Pale Criminal", "layout": "post", "description": "Tracing a blackmailer leads Bernie Gunther to the trail of a series of missing young girls... and a plot to discredit Jews that goes all the way to the top", "author": "Philip Kerr", "date": "2024-11-08T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241108.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Historical", "content": "It’s two years after the events of March Violets, in 1938. Bernie is back in Berlin, and his practice is now doing reasonably well that he has a partner. But his operations are still based on word-of-mouth, while papers are flooded with advertisements for a competitor, Vogelmann. Bernie starts investigating a blackmailing case, but just as they are making headway, both his partner and his prime suspect are killed. Bernie himself is reinstated in the police force to look for a serial killer targeting blonde, blue-eyed teenage girls. Each lead turns out to be a dead end, and the murders keep piling up. When one couple reveal that they had contracted private detective Vogelmann, Bernie pretends to be the father of the next missing girl and meets Vogelmann. Soon he finds himself at a seance, along with Himmler himself, trying to communicate with the spirit of the missing girl, where the medium reveals the location. Bernie deduces that the whole setup was to abduct and kill girls, and make it seem as though Jewish deviants were responsible; the whole exercise designed to turn public sentiment against the race. At times convoluted and confusing, the book features a large cast of characters, several of whom were actual historical figures and influential people in Nazi Germany. While the book is fast-paced, it becomes increasingly hard to keep track of the plot as several people are introduced midway and become central to the story line. A decent read, on the whole. " },{ "id": "/books/abc-murders", "url": "/books/abc-murders/", "title": "The A.B.C. Murders", "layout": "post", "description": "Poirot tracks a serial killer with a peculiar modus operandi... he murders people in alphabetical order.", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2024-11-13T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241113.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Classics", "content": "Poirot receives a missive about a crime that is about to be committed, signed A.B.C. The letter details the murder of an Alice Ascher in a town called Andover. She is an elderly lady, running a tobacco shop. Poirot receives two more similar letters, about an Elizabeth “Betty” Barnard at Bexhill and Sir Carmichael Clarke at Churston. In each of the cases, an open ABC railway guide is placed near the body, and in each of the cases, Poirot receives a letter describing the details of the murder, evidently from the murderer. The police are skeptical of Poirot’s abilities and do not involve Poirot, and ignore is inputs. Poirot forms a group of relatives of the murder victims and conducts a parallel investigation, and identifies that in each case, the murder victim was visited by a door-to-door salesman trying to sell silk stockings. Poirot gets another letter describing a murder in Doncaster, and the police get a tip-off about a person called “Alexander Bonaparte Cust”, an epileptic war veteran working as a traveling salesman. Because of his blackouts, the police theorize that he must have committed the murders but not have any memory of the same. How Poirot identifies the actual criminal and motive, and exonerates the innocent “ABC” forms the rest of the story. Very well written, this is the first book by Christie where Poirot is solving a murder mystery where the stage is not a closed room with a limited number of players, but indeed, is spread across the whole of England. Sort of… " },{ "id": "/books/before-the-coffee-gets-cold", "url": "/books/before-the-coffee-gets-cold/", "title": "Before The Coffee Gets Cold", "layout": "post", "description": "A fable about table at a restaurant which allows a patron to time travel... as long as they meet certain conditions.", "author": "Toshikazu Kawaguchi", "date": "2024-11-15T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241115.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Magical-Realism Literary", "content": "In a small back-alley in Tokyo is a non-descript cafe which serves a coffee, and has a special table which sends the person seated through time. There are certain conditions, though. The person can never leave the seat, and must finish their coffee before it gets cold. The book relates the stories of four people who use the table: a woman who confronts the man who walked away, a nurse to receive a letter from her husband who has Alzheimer’s, a bartender who wants to meet her sister one last time, and a woman who wished to meet her daughter, who she never saw grow up. Quirky, heartwarming and pleasant, yes. But without any literary merit, no conflicts, no challenges, no insights into the deeper thoughts and emotions of any of the protagonists. The dialogues and themes are repetitive, and there is a tendency to talk down to the reader, as though the reader is unfit to understand basic human emotions. Scenario descriptions are very detailed, but have no apparent connection to the plot. On the whole, despite the massive love this book received from the world in general, it comes across as a bit silly and tedious. " },{ "id": "/books/train-to-pakistan", "url": "/books/train-to-pakistan/", "title": "Train to Pakistan", "layout": "post", "description": "Mano Majra, a sleepy village is caught in the crossfire as it sits right on the fault line where a great nation is being divided in two.", "author": "Khushwant Singh", "date": "2024-11-19T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241119.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Classics", "content": "Mano Majra lies right on the border drawn between India and Pakistan, and is populated by Muslims and Sikhs who have lived together peacefully for generations. The first sign that things are going awry was the looting of the moneylender Lal’s house. Jaggat Singh, the local hooligan, and Iqbal, a politically active man are blamed and arrested. Then trains full of corpses start arriving. The magistrate is keen to blame Muslims for the goings-on, both Lal’s murder as well as the trainloads of dead Sikhs. His goal is to encourage the Muslim populace to evacuate the village and move to a refugee camp. The real dacoits, though, have other plans. They have looted all the abandoned Muslim households, and now plan to slaughter everyone leaving on the Train to Pakistan, while Iqbal and Jaggat work hard to stop them. Deeply disturbing, the short novel gives a brief and gory glimpse of bloody start of the India-Pakistan saga. Succinct and well written, the character sketches are all too believable and realistic. A worthy read. " },{ "id": "/books/burglar-in-the-closet", "url": "/books/burglar-in-the-closet/", "title": "The Burglar in the Closet", "layout": "post", "description": "Another heist gone wrong, as Bernie is hiding in the closet when a woman is murdered.", "author": "Lawrence Block", "date": "2024-11-26T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241126.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery", "content": "Bernie has got a tip from his dentist, about the fabulous jewels his ex-wife owns. Intrigued, Bernie agrees to burgle the lady’s apartment. Unfortunately, while in the act, the good lady returns home unexpectedly. Bernie hides in a closet, and hears a loud argument outside, ending with the murder of the lady. When he steps out, Bernie discovers the assailant has made off with the jewels he had intended to steal. Cops arrive, and Bernie is the main suspect. With the help of the dental hygienist, Bernie has to solve the murder and clear his name. Despite the seemingly grim premise, Bernie’s sharp wit and clever repartee make this an amusing and very enjoyable read. The writing showcases Bernie’s charm and keeps the whole story light-hearted. Quick, easy read. " },{ "id": "/books/catch-22", "url": "/books/catch-22/", "title": "Catch-22", "layout": "post", "description": "If you want to fly more missions, you're insane, making you eligible to be grounded. But if you want to be grounded, it means you're sane enough to keep flying.", "author": "Joseph Heller", "date": "2024-12-08T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241208.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary Classics", "content": "Catch-22 is a satirical anti-war novel set during World War II, primarily focusing on Captain John Yossarian, a bombardier in the U.S. Army Air Forces stationed on the Mediterranean island of Pianosa. Yossarian desperately wants to get out of flying increasingly dangerous missions, but is unable to sidestep military regulation catch-22; insanity will get you grounded, but if you want to be grounded, you’re sane. With a non-linear narrative, the story describes a rich cast of eccentric characters, while mocking the horrifying banality of war and the soulless bureaucracy which treats soldiers and people as just numbers on a ledger. This includes power hungry superiors keep increasing missions to advance their own careers, a mess officer who runs a wartime supply cartel with every senior officer a shareholder, doctors, a chaplain and other pilots. As he keeps flying more missions, Yossarian becomes desperate as he experiences first-hand the extreme trauma caused by the horror and futility of war. A brutal massacre of an innocent village and deaths of his closest friends finally pushes him to make the decision to desert. The writing is brilliant, the characters are unique, engaging and memorable, and the story will scar you with wonder and awe. An American classic and an absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/books/heart-of-darkness", "url": "/books/heart-of-darkness/", "title": "Heart of Darkness", "layout": "post", "description": "Deep in the African jungle, Kurtz ran a business procuring ivory and is treated like a god by the natives. But lately, something entirely more sinister is afoot... Kurtz has gone insane.", "author": "Joseph Conrad", "date": "2024-12-12T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241212.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary Classics", "content": "This book is structured as a story within a story. Charles Marlow, a sailor, recounts his experiences travelling up the Congo river. He has been tasked with finding Kurtz, a highly successful and enigmatic ivory agent, who has reportedly become ill. As Marlow ventures deeper into the heart of Africa, he witnesses first hand the brutal realities of European colonisation: widespread exploitation, cruelty, and the dehumanization of the native population. The perception of the idealistic European powers bringing civilization to the savages is questioned, and he wonders whether his journey is taking him into the darkness of Africa, or the darkness in the colonizers. Marlow becomes increasingly fascinated and disturbed by the figure of Kurtz. He learns of Kurtz’s tyrannical rule over a native tribe, fueled by greed and a complete disregard for morality. When Marlow finally reaches Kurtz, he finds a man ravaged by illness and consumed by guilt over his actions. Marlow returns to Europe after Kurtz’s death, and grapples with the weight of his experiences and the unsettling truths he has uncovered about human nature and the corrupting influence of unlimited power. On the surface of it, this book is a deep critique of Western colonialism, and questions who the savages really are. But despite that, the natives are little more than caricatures, or stick figures, exposing the deep-rooted mentality of the author himself. The language used in the book is probably par for the course in Conrad’s era, but it is deeply offensive viewed though modern eyes. Despite being problematic, this book provides a stark look at the uglier side of colonialism, and is a eye-opening read. The celebrated movie adaptation, Apocalypse Now, changes the setting to Vietnam, and the colonial power in question is USA, but the premise remains the same. " },{ "id": "/books/howls-moving-castle", "url": "/books/howls-moving-castle/", "title": "Howl's Moving Castle", "layout": "post", "description": "Sophie Hatter has been cursed to be an old woman, and seeks out the fearsome wizard Howl to help her undo the curse.", "author": "Diana Wynne Jones", "date": "2024-12-17T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241217.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult Classics", "content": "A whimsical story with sorcerers and witches, and a girl who rewrites her destiny. Sophie believes she is to be a hatter, and inherit her family’s hat shop. But she is unexpectedly cursed by the rather nasty Witch of the Waste to be an old lady. Determined to undo her fate, she seeks out the enigmatic wizard Howl, and his moving castle. Inside, she encounters the sarcastic fire-demon Calcifer, and Howl’s apprentice Michael. She settles down to life within the moving castle, working as a cleaning lady, and discovers that Howl is not the heartless monster rumours portray. While he is vain and sidesteps responsibility, he possesses hidden depths. Sophie’s presence brings order and warmth to the castle, and she uncovers her own inner strength and the true meaning of home and love in the process. On the surface, the book is a straight-forward coming of age story, but there are hidden depths to every character in the book. There are some characters who are introduced late and end up being key to the plot, and the ending seems a bit rushed, but on the whole, the book was very enjoyable. " },{ "id": "/books/wonderful-wizard-of-oz", "url": "/books/wonderful-wizard-of-oz/", "title": "The Wonderful Wizard of Oz", "layout": "post", "description": "Young Dorothy Gale is swept by a tornado from Kansas to a magical land with wizards, witches and several marvelous creatures, but all she wants is to get back to Kansas...", "author": "L. Frank Baum", "date": "2024-12-19T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241219.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult Classics", "content": "A timeless classic which has entertained children and adults for generations. In the heart of rural Kansas, young Dorothy Gale lives on a farm with her uncle and aunt. A violent tornado sweeps her and her pet dog Toto to the magical and colourful world of Oz. Her house lands on the Wicked Witch of the East, and her long suffering minions, the munchkins, are grateful to Dorothy. Dorothy just longs to go back to Kansas, and the munchkins and the Good Witch entreat her to approach the great and wise wizard Oz in the Emerald City. Dorothy follows the Yellow Brick Road towards the Emerald City, and picks up three traveling companions along the way: A cowardly lion who wishes to get courage, a tin woodman who wants a heart, and a scarecrow who desires a brain. Together, they face various challenges and magical creatures on their path to the Emerald City, strengthening their bonds of friendship. Upon reaching the city, they find that the Wizard is not quite what they expected, and he sets them the task of defeating the Wicked Witch of the West. Their adventure culminates in a final confrontation that reveals the true nature of their desires and the hidden strengths they possessed all along. A delight for all ages and times, this is a very creative children’s fantasy filled with wondrous sights and creatures. I don’t believe I had ever read the unabridged version, and the language and structure are a joy to behold. " },{ "id": "/books/the-perfect-couple", "url": "/books/the-perfect-couple/", "title": "The Perfect Couple", "layout": "post", "description": "A high-society wedding in affluent Nantucket goes completely off the rails, as the body of the Maid of Honour is discovered on the beach...", "author": "Elin Hilderbrand", "date": "2024-12-24T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/241224.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery", "content": "Benji, the son of multi-millionaire power couple Tag and Greer, is getting married to Celeste. The wedding is happening at Tag & Greer’s Nantucket summer home, but things go awry as the body of the maid of honour, Merritt, is found washed up in the harbour by the bride-to-be. Local police chief Ed Kapenash is called in to investigate, and discovers that Shooter, the best man, is also missing. Through various flashbacks, and through the police investigation, multiple parallel stories are unearthed, from Tag’s infidelity, to Celeste being in love with Shooter, and Benji’s brother’s issues. Suspicion falls on various members of the families involved, each harbouring their own secrets and complicated relationships. Chief Kapenash meticulously questions everyone, and each person’s testimony provides another piece of the puzzle, slowly revealing the reason behind Merritt’s death and laying bare the notion of the “perfect” couple or family. The author has written an excellent whodunit where everyone has secrets and everyone is suspicious. The reader is kept guessing throughout, and the suspense is maintained to the end. On the whole, the book is a very entertaining read. " },{ "id": "/books/american-gods", "url": "/books/american-gods/", "title": "American Gods", "layout": "post", "description": "Shadow Moon has recently been released from jail, and is hired as a bodyguard. He soon becomes embroiled in a titanic struggle between the \"Old Gods\" and \"New Gods\" and finds himself questioning the nature of belief in modern America.", "author": "Neil Gaiman", "date": "2025-01-09T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250109.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy", "content": "The Old Gods have existed in America, brought in by faithful immigrants over millennia. But as their adherents dwindle, so do their powers. Shadow Moon has just been released from prison, but has no prospects. His wife is dead, as is his best friend. No home, no job. He is engaged by a mysterious Mr. Wednesday as a bodyguard, as he travels around the country meeting unusual persons in improbable locations. As it turns out, Mr. Wednesday is the Norse God Odin, or at least, the version of Odin brought to the Americas by the early Viking raiders. Mr. Wednesday, accompanied by Shadow moon, meets several other Old Gods, from Norse, Egyptian, Hindu, Celtic, African and various other mythologies, trying to rally them to his cause. He is up against the powerful “New Gods”, Technology, Media, Pop-culture, Transportation… everything the people worship now. Things go wrong and the new Gods kill Mr. Wednesday, which galvanizes the other Old Gods to heads to an all out war with the New ones. Shadow is called upon to mourn Odin, and in the process, dies himself. But Odin, Mr. Wednesday,is actually running a 2-man con along with Loki, to destroy all other Gods, old and new, and take all their power for themselves. Shadow is brought back to life, and now with some magical powers of his own, works to end the reign of the cruel Gods. It is hard to get the plot straight in your head soon after reading this book. Needlessly twisty, and riddled with arbitrary Deus ex machina characters who randomly pop up, do something, and then slide out of the story just as suddenly. The basic premise is interesting, but beyond that, the execution left much to be desired. Character buildup was minimal, and it is near impossible to separate the good guys from the bad; everyone seems to straddle both sides in a Machiavellian nightmare. There is probably some interesting back story to each character, but that is something only a student of comparative mythology may be expected to know. Much as I want to like this book, I find it hard to. " },{ "id": "/books/covenant-of-water", "url": "/books/covenant-of-water/", "title": "The Covenant of Water", "layout": "post", "description": "A multi-generational saga about a large St. Thomas Christian family in Kerala, and the mysterious illness that affects each generation of a family.", "author": "Abraham Verghese", "date": "2025-01-19T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250119.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Magical-Realism Literary", "content": "At the beginning of the 20th century, a 12-year-old girl named Mariamma enters an arranged marriage with a much older widower, Big Appachen. She is now mistress to a large estate, and is christened Big Ammachi. The family grapples with a mysterious affliction known as “the Condition,” which causes members to die by drowning in each generation, creating a haunting legacy tied to water. The first death Big Ammachi sees is her stepson, who drowns in a shallow puddle. She has two more children, a daughter with developmental disabilities and a son who grows up to be a celebrated author. A parallel narrative sees a Scottish doctor, Digby Kilgore, who joins the Indian Medical Service, and has an accident where he burns his hands. While healing at a leprosarium, he meets a young girl called Elsie who helps him recover the use of his hands. Elsie grows up and is married to Philippose, Big Ammachi’s son. Their marriage is rather unsuccessful, but their daughter, also named Mariamma, grows up to be a doctor, and unravels the actual medical reason behind the family’s Condition. There is a LOT of intermediate and interwoven storylines, like the relationships between each member of Big Ammachi’s large family, Kilgore’s affairs, Elsie’s history, and her personal relationships and struggles. All of this is laid against the backdrop of India’s historical changes, like the British colonization, the struggle for independence and the Naxal movement. There are several elements of magic realism thrown in as well, like Big Ammachi’s daughter being prescient, and the ghost living amongst the pots in the storeroom. At many points in the book, the character build-up is so extensive it feels as though we are reading about the central characters, only for the story to suddenly meander off in another direction and render the previous character buildup incidental. In fact, I am hard-pressed to identify the central characters and themes of the book, there are so many which get the full treatment. Love, loss, family, culture, politics, and interconnectedness of everything are all explored. On the whole, this is an enjoyable read, reminiscent of Isabel Allende’s House of the Spirits, with lesser magic realism. " },{ "id": "/books/a-german-requiem", "url": "/books/a-german-requiem/", "title": "A German Requiem", "layout": "post", "description": "The third in the Berlin Noir series; WW2 is done, and Bernie is still trying to eke out a living. He is called to Vienna to investigate a case, but is caught up in the complex interplay between Germans, the Allies, the Red Army and former Nazis in hiding", "author": "Philip Kerr", "date": "2025-01-23T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250123.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Crime Mystery Thriller", "content": "The last time we encountered Bernie Gunther, it was shortly before WW2; he was reinstated “temporarily” as a police officer to investigate the disappearance & murders of teenaged girls. Since then, he was drafted, fought in the war and spent a lot of time in a Soviet prisoner of war camp. Now he is back, trying to pull his life together. He is married, and is still trying to eke out a living as a gumshoe. He is called to look into the murder of a prominent German businessman, which sees him travel to Vienna. The investigation leads him into confrontation with several factions, including the Red Army, the Allied occupiers, former Nazi war criminals in hiding and the newly formed East German state. As always, there is a much deeper conspiracy than what Gunther initially set out to investigate, with several twists and surprises thrown in. The book paints a grim picture of a country recovering from being on the losing side of a brutal war, where the common man has to scrimp and scrounge to survive, where the line between right and wrong is very blurred. But the key plot gets so convoluted, that I could not keep pace. I lost track of the key plot and the characters. What makes it more complex is the Machiavellian nature of the key characters, making it impossible to know which side they are on, or indeed, any side but their own. By the end of the book, I had no idea of the central plot, but the picture Kerr paints of Post-war Europe is undeniably magnificent. " },{ "id": "/books/the-inheritors", "url": "/books/the-inheritors/", "title": "The Inheritors", "layout": "post", "description": "In a pre-historic world, a simple, close-knit Neandertal family has to contend with the \"new people\", a group of early modern humans with a very different culture, abilities and weaponry", "author": "William Golding", "date": "2025-01-26T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250126.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Science-Fiction Classics", "content": "Lok is a member of a small tribe of close-knit neandertals living at a time when the world is rapidly changing, and this is coinciding with the arrival of strange new creatures, Homo Sapiens. The story is mostly told from Lok’s perspective, as he observes the new creatures and tries to explain their behaviour using his limited perspective and understanding. Lok and his tribe are slowly diminished in number due to the superior abilities and tools of the newcomers. Lok and his group rely more on instinct and tradition, whereas the new people are masters of adapting to the environment and using tools they build with their hands. The narrative takes on a more poignant tone, as Lok struggles to express his fear, confusion and a sense of the bleak future that awaits him and his ilk. From the Human’s perspective, the Neandertals are forest demons, not much more removed than wolves. But what is brought out is that irrespective of the position on the evolutionary scale, humanity exists in all beings. The story draws parallels to the effects of rapid modernisation and the progress of civilization on lesser societies, like the undiscovered and uncontacted tribes interactions with loggers. A short and thoughtful read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-secret-history", "url": "/books/the-secret-history/", "title": "The Secret History", "layout": "post", "description": "A young classics student relates the incidents which lead up to the murder of one of his classmates at an exclusive liberal arts college in Vermont.", "author": "Donna Tartt", "date": "2025-02-02T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250202.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller Literary", "content": "Richard Papen is a young man from a modest background studying literature, with a gift for classical languages. He finds himself in the small Hampden College, where he joins the classes of the enigmatic classics professor, Julian Morrow. The class comprise a small clique of well-heeled students who are devoted to him. The classes seem interesting, but Richard notices that the other students are very odd. They frequently have minor injuries and bruises, and often boil unusual plants on a stove. Over the winter break, they all leave the college. Two of them, Henry and Bunny, go on a holiday to Rome. In the new year, Richard notices that the relationship between Bunny and the other students is very strained, with Bunny constantly picking on and insulting the others. Henry reveals the reason to Richard; the group have been enacting a Dionysian Bacchanal at a country estate. During one of these Bacchanals, they have killed a farmer at a neighbouring estate. Bunny has discovered this, and is blackmailing the others for substantial amounts of money. When the demands spiral out of control, the group resolves to murder Bunny. While on a hike, Henry pushes him into a ravine, to his death. They return to their lives after this, even joining the search team for Bunny, and going to his funeral. But their actions cause them to fall apart, resorting to pills, alcohol, violence, abuse. Julian discovers the full nature of their actions, but instead of handling it, he runs away mid-term. Things come to a head when one of them is arrested for drunk driving, leading the whole group to a confrontation in a hotel room, with a loaded gun in the midst. The book is brilliantly written, interwoven with several quotes and references to Greek classics, and a discussion on the nature of beauty and evil. Richard is from a working-class background, and looks up to his more affluent classmates, only to be disillusioned by their heinous acts and moral corruption. There is an article in The Guardian which captures it best; ten reasons to love this book: It start with a murder It is in love with Ancient Greece It has all the best elements of the campus novel It has a classic lonely narrator It is full of quotations It has a charismatic master of ceremonies It is obsessed with beauty It believes in fate It is possessed by Dionysos It lets you in on secrets An excellent read which leaves you wanting more. " },{ "id": "/books/the-code-of-the-woosters", "url": "/books/the-code-of-the-woosters/", "title": "The Code of the Woosters", "layout": "post", "description": "Bertie has been charged by his favourite aunt Dahlia to steal a valuable silver cow creamer from the residence of Sir Watkyn Bassett, while Bertie is working to ensure that he doesn't get married to Sir Watkyn's daughter Madeline.", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2025-02-10T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250210.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Classics", "content": "A thick and tightly interwoven plot, or rather, several plots, all of which feature a silver cow creamer at the centre. Sir Watkyn is a former judge, the same one who once fined Wooster for pinching a policeman’s helmet on boat race night. Sir Watkyn is also father to the very sappy and insipid Madeline who, though engaged to Gussie Fink-Nottle, believes that Wooster loves her deeply and has consented to marry him if things don’t work out with Gussie. Enter the silver cow creamer, an antique sought by Wooster’s uncle Tom, but now in the possession of Sir Watkyn. Wooster’s aunt Dahlia charges him with pinching the cow creamer. Wooster invites himself over to Sir Watkyn’s estate to both pinch the said antique, and also smooth things over in the Basset - Fink-Nottle romance. More characters and objets d’art enter the fray, all of which seems to be centered around the cow creamer. Not all of Jeeves’ clever solutions work out, or at least, work out for Wooster. A fascist, a curate, a policeman, a notebook full of insults and a strict code to not let his pals down all build up to a climax which sees Wooster imprisoned in a room for… stealing a helmet. Again. A bundle of laughs from start to finish, the book is quintessential Wodehouse, chock full of his signature wit and charm. The light-hearted tome will have the reader screaming with mirth with every twist. An absolute must read, there are no two ways about it. " },{ "id": "/books/it-ends-with-us", "url": "/books/it-ends-with-us/", "title": "It Ends With Us", "layout": "post", "description": "Lily is a young florist, with a traumatic past. She meets a neurosurgeon and they hit it off... but there is something not quite right.", "author": "Colleen Hoover", "date": "2025-02-12T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250212.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Romance", "content": "Lily Bloom comes from a broken family; her father physically abused her mother, and once beat her own boyfriend, Atlas Corrigan, to within an inch of his life. But she has put that behind her and moved to Boston and opened her dream flower shop. She starts a relationship with a successful young neurosurgeon, Ryle Kincaid, and things seem to be going great. One night, Ryle accidentally drops a casserole and hurts himself, and slaps Lily in a rage. He immediately apologizes, but Lily is horrified. She accepts his apology, and believing herself more evolved than her mother, she gives him another chance. She runs into Atlas at a restaurant, who notices her bruises and tells her to leave Ryle. This leads to an altercation between Ryle and Atlas. Atlas later gives her his number, in case of an emergency. When Ryle discovers Atlas’ number, he pushes a pregnant Lily down the stairs in a rage, believing she is having an affair. Lily leaves him, but is still in love with him. She finally understands what her mother went through. She decides she doesn’t want her child to again grow in a broken home, and says, “It Ends With Us”. Large parts of the book read like a tedious romance, with all the standard ingredients. Every one is exceedingly well off and good-looking, whether they are doctors, florists, chefs or engineers. If you put the unreal parts aside, and focus on what is perhaps the central story, the plot is very thin and full of holes. Girl meets guy, guy is abusive, girl agonizes, and eventually leaves him. I do not understand why this book became a literary phenomenon. Move along, nothing to see. " },{ "id": "/books/kindred", "url": "/books/kindred/", "title": "Kindred", "layout": "post", "description": "Dana, a young black woman in 1976 California, is repeatedly transported back in time to an early 19th century slave plantation in Maryland", "author": "Octavia E. Butler", "date": "2025-02-18T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250218.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Classics Literary", "content": "America has just celebrated its 200th anniversary, and society is a lot more progressive than it ever was. Dana is a young black librarian, married to a white man; a marriage that raised eyebrows in both their families despite the now “progressive” society. One evening she feels dizzy, and is suddenly transported to the bank of a river, where she spots a small red-haired boy drowning. She rescues him, but is confronted by an irate man in old-fashioned clothes, carrying a gun and accusing her of trying to drown the boy. She is whisked back to her home, and is deeply shaken. A little while later, the process repeats, but this time, the same boy is setting fire to his house curtains. She rescues him again, and a pattern emerges. The boy is the son of a plantation owner, a slave plantation which Dana knows her own ancestors came from. She deduces that the boy is effectively her ancestor, and the time period is early 18th century. She is whisked to the past whenever his life is in danger, and whisked back home when her own life is in danger. The process repeats several times, including once when her husband is inadvertently taken back too. She spends several months, or even years back in the past, but she is always brought back to just after the moment she left. The central theme explores how a modern black woman would deal with the brutal slave society, where the whole world has been configured to be arrayed against her. She experiences, first hand, harsh punishments, brutal work, resistance against the cruel slavers, life in the slave quarters, struggle for education, sexual abuse and hypocrisy of the religious teachings. Through her miraculous journeys, Dana is forced to confront the harsh truths of her heritage and the impact of historical trauma on her present life. A thoughtful and gripping read, which questions the connection between history and personal identity in a world which is still deeply torn by race, but refuses to fully acknowledge it. " },{ "id": "/books/joy-in-the-morning", "url": "/books/joy-in-the-morning/", "title": "Joy in the Morning", "layout": "post", "description": "Bertie's hijinks and Jeeves' convoluted schemes sees his uncle riding a bicycle dressed as Sindbad the Sailor... but that's just a part of the story", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2025-02-19T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250219.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Classics", "content": "Bertie, as a rule, stays well away from his Aunt Agatha. She, it is rumoured, eats broken bottles and conducts human sacrifices at the time of the full moon. She is married to a Lord Worplesdon, father of the formidable Lady Florence Craye, an intellectual and serious young woman who was once engaged to Bertie. It is hardly surprising that Bertie wishes to give the town of Steeple Bumpleigh, Lord Worplesdon’s seat, a wide berth. But fate would have otherwise, as there were multiple twists thrown in, including a clandestine meeting with an American businessman, a brooch, an enthusiastic boy scout, a fancy dress ball, a playwright friend, a fire at a cottage and an overzealous policeman. The end result is that all is settled before the imperious Aunt Agatha returns and expresses displeasure at the goings-on in her absence. As Bertie notes, “Joy cometh in the morning” just about sums up all that he has been through at Steeple Bumpleigh. A hilarious romp which will have you laughing out loud, it is considered by a fervent few to be Wodehouse’s masterpiece. I personally prefer The Code of the Woosters, simply for the existence of the cow creamer. But this is a close second. " },{ "id": "/books/the-defense", "url": "/books/the-defense/", "title": "The Defense", "layout": "post", "description": "Eddie Flynn, a former con-artist turned lawyer, is trapped into defending a notorious Russian mobster", "author": "Steve Cavanagh", "date": "2025-02-24T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250224.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Thriller", "content": "Eddie Flynn is a small time lawyer who is suddenly accosted by the Russian mafia, and trapped into defending the boss in a high-profile murder trial. The trap involves a jacket with a remote-triggered bomb sewn into it, which Eddie has to wear to court. Additionally, Eddie’s daughter Amy has been kidnapped and kept in an unknown location. Eddie has a night to ramp up on the case, and build up a comprehensive defense which is strong enough to stand up against the prosecution. Eddie uses every trick in his arsenal, every lawyer trick and every con-man trick, to get himself and his daughter out of this very sticky situation unscathed. This thrilling, fast-paced and entertaining courtroom drama is full of suspense and keeps the reader gripped throughout. The character buildup is great, and the reorientation of Flynn’s moral compass is a main focus. Sharp dialogue and the intricate plot make this a great read. " },{ "id": "/books/world-war-z", "url": "/books/world-war-z/", "title": "World War Z: An Oral History of the Zombie War", "layout": "post", "description": "A book written as a series of interviews conducted after a zombie apocalypse, outlining how the whole apocalypse unfolded", "author": "Max Brooks", "date": "2025-03-03T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250303.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Science-Fiction", "content": "A very unique take on the zombie apocalypse, written from the perspective of a UN agent documenting the history of the apocalypse after the event, presented as a series of interviews with various survivors. The survivors include a very diverse set of people including policitians, soldiers, scientists and ordinary citizens from several different countries around the world. The whole apocalypse starts in a village in China, around the time of the construction of the Three Gorges dam. China, desperate to hide the infection, diverts attention by launching an attack on Taiwan, while the infection is spread around the world by travellers, emigrants and even the organ trade. The disease if first officially reported from South Africa, and is christened African Rabies. Israel is the only country which takes it seriously, clamping down its borders and restricting all travel. The book outlines the world response, identifying phases called the “Great Denial”, “Great Panic”, etc. There are many varied responses to the pandemic, most notable being Iran and Pakistan destroying each other using nuclear weapons, Russia killing its own military personnel and the US being routed on live TV when taking on zombies using conventional warfare techniques. Eventually, a plan formulated by an Aparthied era consultant from South Africa is adopted worldwide, which involves using the majority of the populace as bait to buy time to fortify and consolidate a retiatory force. This plan works, and zombies are eliminated for the most part. There are still several million zombies on the ocean floor and the Arctic, but the rest of the world limps back to normalcy. The quality of life is far lower than before, and the world order has changed drastically, but people are plugging along. The whole book serves as a commentary on human nature, and the way global co-operation works (or, doesn’t) in the time of a world-wide crisis. A scaled-down version of this was on full display during the Covid-19 pandemic which, ironically enough, started in China. The scenarios presented in the book, while horrifying, are entirely too plausible, and we are made to confront how fragile civilization itself is, and how little it will take to completely tear it down. An outstanding read, even if a little disturbing. " },{ "id": "/books/the-last-unicorn", "url": "/books/the-last-unicorn/", "title": "The Last Unicorn", "layout": "post", "description": "When a unicorn learns that she is the last of her kind, she sets out on an epic journey to find out what happened to all the other unicorns", "author": "Peter S Beagle", "date": "2025-03-08T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250308.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult Classics", "content": "A mysterious Red Bull has made all the unicorns in the land disappear. She is the last one left, and sets out from her enchanted forest to learn the fate of the others of her kind. She is captured by a travelling circus run by a witch Mommy Fortuna, who uses spells to make regular animals enchanted. The unicorn escapes with the help of Schmendrick, an inept magician, and the two head towards the castle of cruel King Haggard, keeper of the Red Bull. The encounter some bandits along the way, and are joined by Molly Grue, the mistress of the bandit leader. They reach Haggard’s castle near the ocean, when Schmendrick turns the unicorn into a young woman he dubs Lady Amalthea. They become part of the King’s household, and learn as much as they can about the Bull, the unicorns and the castle itself, while Amalthea is courted by Prince Lir. When they find the Red Bull’s lair, Amalthea changes back to the unicorn and defeats the bull. This frees the other unicorns, who have been trapped in the ocean, and in their rage, they bring down the whole castle. Lir is now king, and sets about ruling much more responsibly than Haggard. This is an older book, and many contemporary fantasy fiction authors highlight this book as their inspiration. But for all that, I did not particularly enjoy this book. There is no character growth of the central protagonist; the unicorn doesn’t use her smarts to outwit the adversaries, nor does she prepare before charging headlong against the Red Bull. Often she is helped out of sticky situations by the others, and even manages to defeat the Bull at the end only because of her anger and sorrow at the death of her love Prince Lir. She brings the prince back to life too, in a sorry plot development. Molly and Schmendrick fall in love, and even that is not the most tedious angle… the unicorn declares that she is unique among unicorns, as she has loved and lost. Thus negating the life experiences of the other unicorns, who have fought the Red Bull, lost, and were trapped in the ocean for years. Read if you will, but be prepared for disappointment. " },{ "id": "/books/dauntless", "url": "/books/dauntless/", "title": "The Lost Fleet: Dauntless", "layout": "post", "description": "Captain \"Black Jack\" Geary inherits command of a fleet stuck deep in enemy space, and is vastly outnumbered", "author": "Jack Campbell", "date": "2025-03-09T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/250309.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "This is a dense book, with a lot of information; but despite that, the pace is really fast and never flags for an instant. The action is near non-stop, but the personalities of the various characters are well brought out despite that. This is true masterful writing; and I am going to take some time explaining the context. The Alliance worlds have been at war with the Syndicate worlds for a hundred years. It’s been a war of attrition, and all rules of war have been long dispensed with. Skirmishes show no trace of military tactics or formations, and resemble brawls. The Alliance worlds are nominally a democratic, though the civilian leadership is in constant fear of a military coup. The Syndics are authoritarian, with each entity run as a corporation headed by a CEO. Both sides travel between planetary systems using Hypernet Gates, which are operated using keys installed on ships. The Alliance gets a syndic hypernet key from a supposed spy, and musters up the entire fleet for an attack at the syndic home world. On the way, they pick up a derelict Alliance shuttle which has been adrift for nearly a century. It contains a sleeping Captain John “Black Jack” Geary, an early hero of the war, someone thought long dead, and the whole fleet looked up to. The syndics ambush the fleet, and execute all the Alliance senior naval staff. Black Jack is now the oldest serving Captain in a fleet of over 200 ships, and becomes the de-facto fleet commander. The hypernet is now blocked off, and Geary uses an older technique of “Jumps” to get out of the syndic home world, something which was so unexpected that the syndics never thought to guard that escape route. Their rear-guard is protected by a ship captained by his great-nephew, and his ship does not make the jump point. Geary has to come to terms with a vastly changed military, where decisions are made like a democracy with all captains weighing in. Geary re-establishes a chain of command, brings back simple courtesies like salutes, teaches the whole fleet the basics of fighting in formation and how to use jump points, all dead skills. With his guidance, they easily manage to overcome their pursuing force and live to fight another day. The author John G. Hemry (Jack Campbell is a nom de plume) is a former naval officer, and brings in a lot of knowledge of tactics, scaled up to the three dimensional environment of space. He factors in a lot of physics principles like relativistic distortion, time dilation and gravity wells. A lot of interesting ideas like how war is more about waiting to fight; the actual fighting is done in the blink of an eye. An excellent, thoroughly enjoyable read; I have not enjoyed a book like this in a very long time. " },{ "id": "/books/fearless", "url": "/books/fearless/", "title": "The Lost Fleet: Fearless", "layout": "post", "description": "Geary has to deal with a self-aggrandizing captain who leads a mutiny, and also with syndics attempting to blow up a hypernet gate", "author": "Jack Campbell", "date": "2025-03-11T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250311.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "The Lost Fleet is now in the Sutrah system, where they encounter a PoW camp. The marines rescue several Alliance prisoners from the camp, including a Captain Falco, a hero of the alliance who believes he should supplant Geary as the commander of the fleet. Geary stands firm, but using slick political maneuvering, Falco creates a breakaway force of 39 ships who decide to take the shortest route back to Alliance space. Geary knows this is suicide; syndics will be expecting this and have all their forces arrayed along the route. The remaining fleet head deeper into syndic space, to the industrial system Sancere, the manufacturing hub of the syndics. Lightly guarded, Geary manages to essentially destroy all the factories and make away with much needed supplies. In retaliation, the syndics attempt to destroy the hypernet gate. This has the potential of wiping out the whole system. Geary manages to stop them and minimize the damage from the gate’s collapse. They re-unite with the survivors of the mutiny, and realize Falco has become unhinged. All captains who were part of the breakaway fleet are placed under arrest and replaced. As slickly written as the first, the book brings in another real danger in the form of the hypernet gate collapse. In addition to being in hostile enemy territory, Geary has to deal with hostile people in his own fleet, who will go to great lengths to supplant Geary. Very well written, fast-paced, and with strong character-building of both the protagonists and the antagonists, this is a pleasure to read. " },{ "id": "/books/courageous", "url": "/books/courageous/", "title": "The Lost Fleet: Courageous", "layout": "post", "description": "The Lost fleet is wounded; all ships need more ammo, more repairs and more supplies. And Geary is made aware of the presence of another threat...", "author": "Jack Campbell", "date": "2025-03-20T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250320.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "The syndic pursuing force which came in after the mutineer ships returned to the lost fleet was defeated, but at a very high cost. Several ships are badly damaged, some have to be scuttled, and every ship is low on supplies. They come upon a syndic mining system, and raid it for supplies; food, raw materials for repairs, ammo and fuel cells. The syndics also anticipate his moves, and are now wary of blindly charging at him. They work on improving their own techniques to counter his superior tactics. In the meanwhile, Geary starts a relationship with co-president Victoria Rione, a politician on the flagship giving oversight to the military operation. Geary’s staff start investigating the nature and origin of the Hypernet gates, and surmise that there must be a third player, an unknown possibly non-human entity, who made the technology available to both Syndics and Alliance in the hope that they will destroy each other. In this book, the action flags a little, as the focus moves sideways to Geary handling incompetent and rebellious underlings, and grappling with the logistics of command while managing a relationship on the side. The pace still keeps up, but on the whole, this book feels a little bit like a filler. " },{ "id": "/books/verity", "url": "/books/verity/", "title": "Verity", "layout": "post", "description": "A struggling young author is recruited to ghost-write the novels of the severely incapacitataed best-selling author Verity Crawford", "author": "Colleen Hoover", "date": "2025-03-25T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250325.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller Romance", "content": "Lowen has one book to her name, and not too many prospects. She is invited to a meeting at her publishers, where she is made an offer; move to the country mansion of bestselling author Verity Crawford, now incapacitated because of an accident, and ghost-write her next books. At the creepy lake house, Lowen meets the non-responsive Verity, and is provided access to her study and all her notes. Among the notes, Lowen comes across a manuscript which is Verity’s autobiographical account titled “So Be It”, in which she describes herself as a seriously disturbed human, obsessively in love with Jeremy and jealous of her twin daughters because they were competing for his attention. She goes on to write how she wished for their death and was glad they actually did, though their deaths were due to an allergic reaction and drowning respectively. Lowen falls in love with Jeremy, and she shares this manuscript with Jeremy along with the belief that Verity is not ill at all, but faking it. This causes Jeremy to react explosively, kill Verity and make it look like a natural death. Post that, Lowen finds a note describing the manuscript as a writing exercise designed to help her think evil so she could better design her books’ villains. The book reads exactly like one would expect; a thriller written by a romance author, thereby its neither a good romance nor a good thriller. For the most part, the scenes are repetitive, and there is a very contrived and forced effort to create a creepy atmosphere, though there is no logical reason why a lake house should be creepy. The Verity character is very poorly designed, since it would seem like a best-selling author would have better options at her disposal than Verity did. The end, despite being a twist, seemed anticlimactic and trite. I suppose I will never be a great Colleen Hoover fan, I have been disappointed by both her best-selling books. " },{ "id": "/books/valiant", "url": "/books/valiant/", "title": "Valiant", "layout": "post", "description": "Geary now has to deal with enemies within his own fleet, and also come to terms with the alien threat", "author": "Jack Campbell", "date": "2025-03-28T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250328.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "Geary, under heavy onslaught, escapes with his fleet to the Lakota system, and manages to set a booby trap for the pursuing syndic fleet, who walk right in and are defeated. Before they are destroyed, they send a command to destroy the hypernet gate. This essentially wipes out the entire system; all planets, satellites, ships. But the alliance fleet manages to escape with relatively minor damage by using the star as a shield. By this book, Geary builds up both his skill and his reputation as a formidable commander, and few remain who question his authority, but those few now work in the shadows. The move on to a couple of other systems, and right before the next jump, Geary receives an anonymous coded message describing a worm in the jump drive. This would have left Geary’s ship Dauntless and a few other loyalists stranded for eternity in Jump Space. They eliminate the worm, and go on to another system, where they find a settlement of Syndic civilian citizens about to die as their life support fails. They rescue them, and go on to the next system and leave the citizens there. They also win a battle against the syndic fleet there, and capture a CEO, who admits to the existence of the aliens. There is a romantic triangle side story involving Geary, Rione and Tanya Desjani, the captain of the Dauntless. Geary and Rione break things off, and Desjani and Geary dont take things further because he is her commanding officer. This sub-plot actually pulls an otherwise strong book down. " },{ "id": "/books/throne-of-glass", "url": "/books/throne-of-glass/", "title": "Throne of Glass", "layout": "post", "description": "In a world where magic is dying, a young assassin is rescued from prison to be a champion in a tournament", "author": "Sarah J Maas", "date": "2025-04-02T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250402.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult Romance", "content": "Celaena Sardothien is a trained assassin, the most notorious. She was betrayed, caught, and now in prison. Prince Dorian and his friend Chaol Westfall, captain of the royal guard take her out of prison and to the palace, where she is charged with winning a contest against miscellaneous thugs, thieves and cutthroats, the prize being the position of KIng’s Assassin. She survives every test and wins every contest against the remaining opponents, while a mysterious force seems to be attacking and mutilating the contestants at random. The final test against the powerful Cain is the hardest, not least because she is drugged before the contest. There are also multiple subplots involving a love triangle between Celaena, Dorian and Westfall, a certain princess Nehemia from the neighbouring kingdom a Lady Kaltain Rompier, a typical lady-in-waiting an ancient Queen Elena whose ghost appears in Celaena’s dreams. It’s a world filled with a confusing plethora of characters with machiavellian intentions. Celaena is also rather vain and self-obsessed, maybe designed that way to show growth in later books, but it does not make her appealing. The world building is patchy, since there is a deeper world alluded to, which is filled with magic and mysterious power, but it seems out of reach of everyone. There is also some side plot involving an ancient runic language called Wyrdmarks, but that seemed like one too many concept for the book. I struggled to finish this book, and would not recommend this. " },{ "id": "/books/relentless", "url": "/books/relentless/", "title": "Relentless", "layout": "post", "description": "Geary is within touching distance of Alliance space, but has to deal with the fleet saboteurs and the Syndic reserve flotilla", "author": "Jack Campbell", "date": "2025-04-03T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250403.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "The Syndic worlds are collapsing under Geary’s onslaught. At the next system, the occupied Syndic planets start an impromptu civil war, with a few loyalists launching suicide attacks on the Lost Fleet. Geary manages to free the Alliance POW’s, retrieve some supplies and get out relatively unscathed. He also learns of a Syndic reserve flotilla, kept aside to defend against the aliens, but which has now been ordered to intercept him. Geary heads towards Alliance space, but more sabotage attempts, this time nearly ending his own flagship. With some vital information from an informant, the saboteurs and unmasked and arrested. The leader commits suicide before he could bring her to justice, though. At the next system, he discovers the aftermath of a battle between the reserve flotilla and an Alliance fleet, and rescues a defecting Syndic CEO who tells all he knows of the aliens. He also learns of a hypernet gate which spontaneously exploded destroying an entire system. From there, Geary jumps to Alliance space, with his fleet almost completely drained of ammo, fuel, food, and overloaded with POWs. He puts in the fleet for refitting and repair and takes a long overdue breather. Another stop-gap book, with the unmasking of the saboteurs providing the only excitement. Otherwise, the action is a repetitive, the only saving grace being that Geary is now in safe, alliance territory. Also interesting is that his actions have wreaked havoc in the syndic worlds, which have risen up in rebellion. " },{ "id": "/books/victorious", "url": "/books/victorious/", "title": "Victorious", "layout": "post", "description": "Geary gets a promotion, and one final assignment", "author": "Jack Campbell", "date": "2025-04-04T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250404.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "Geary walks in to the Alliance senate, and presents them with a brief of all his actions since he took command. The senate, relieved that he was not planning to stage a coup, promote him to admiral of the fleet, and charge him with ending the war, once and for all. Geary takes the full fleet and heads to the Syndic home world to negotiate a ceasefire. They attempt to blow up their gate in a suicide attempt to wipe out Geary’s fleet, but a rebellion within the Syndic high command stops and they surrender instead. Geary is also informed that the Aliens, dubbed the Enigma race, have issued an ultimatum demanding Syndic citizens leave a system immediately. Geary arrives at the system, and fears that the alien fleet outnumbers him by several times. Realizing the Enigmas are using computer manipulation to trick him, he manoeuvers his fleet in a way to completely destroy the alien ships. Returning back to Alliance space, Geary relinquishes his admiralty, chases after Desjani, replete with a cringy, dramatic proposal in the spaceport. She accepts, and happily ever after. Excellent end to a very well written and enjoyable series, except for the rather cringe-worthy proposal-marriage ending. There was also a side story involving his reunion with his great-niece, who is another captain in the expanded fleet. The series started strong, flagged a bit in the middle, and picked up at the end, but a better conclusion would have really helped. " },{ "id": "/books/assistant-to-the-villain", "url": "/books/assistant-to-the-villain/", "title": "Assistant to the Villain", "layout": "post", "description": "A viral tik-tok series that grew into a book series, it is an office comedy set in a swords-and-sorcery world with anachronisms galore", "author": "Hannah Nicole Maehrer", "date": "2025-04-08T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250408.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy", "content": "Evie desperately needs a job. Her father is sick, her younger sister is still in school, and her mother and brother are gone. Entirely by accident, she bumps into the notorious villain, a man who is on top of the wanted lists across the kingdom, and he offers her a job as his office assistant. She takes over managing his affairs completely, juggling his schedule of nefarious activities, the comings-and-goings of the interns, and dealing with the eclectic office staff, each with their special quirks. And oh, she is madly in love with her handsome boss. There is a bomb planted in the office, indicating the presence of a traitor within the ranks. Evie and the villain work to unmask the traitor. The villain captures a rare creature called a guvre, and are dealing with the aftermath of this when the villain is captured by the king’s forces. Evie identifies the traitor as her own father, and vows to rescue the villain, becoming one herself in the process. The story starts off slow, and the “banter” between Evie and others turns a bit tedious. The author puts in a lot of effort to make Evie, or indeed, all characters seem endearing, but the result is that they all come off saccharine sweet, cringe-level max. Still, the story does pick up, and tantalizing hints dropped indicating the villain’s origin story, and how the true villain is actually the king. It is better than the average young-adult romantasy drivel that is peddled nowadays, not that that is saying much. I think I will continue the series though, just to see where this leads. " },{ "id": "/books/the-housemaid", "url": "/books/the-housemaid/", "title": "The Housemaid", "layout": "post", "description": "Millie, a young woman with a troubled past on the verge of penury, is hired as a housemaid by the wealthy Winchester family, but there is something off about the employers", "author": "Freida McFadden", "date": "2025-04-10T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250410.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller", "content": "Millie is down and nearly out; a former convict, fired from her job and living out of her car, is desperate for a fresh start. She gets a job as a housemaid for a wealthy couple, Nina and Andrew Winchester, who live in a mansion with their young daughter Cecilia. As she settles down, Nina becomes increasingly erratic and volatile, or indeed, downright bizarre. Their gardener, Enzo, warns Millie to get out, but she continues since she doesn’t have an option. Over time, she ends up having an affair with Andrew, and Nina becomes increasingly unstable, until Andrew kicks Nina out. The next day, Millie finds herself imprisoned in the attic. The narrative switches to Nina’s perspective. Andrew is extremely controlling and abusive. He routinely locks up and tortures Nina, and has the world convinced that Nina is mentally unstable. It is revealed that Nina hired Millie for a reason. Given Millie’s past in vigilante violence, she is hoping that Andrew will shift his attentions towards her, and she will not take it lying down. Switching back to Millie, after days of torture, Millie manages to turn the tables and imprison Andrew instead, and force him to endure all he inflicted on herself and Nina. This ends with Andrew tortured to death; Nina returns and takes the blame for what happened, but a sympathetic cop lets her off. She pays Millie a large sum of money, who goes on to another household with a similar abusive man. This is a well-written thriller with a tight narrative, but with some glaring inconsistencies. The main plot seems very far-fetched; it seems unlikely that such a long-shot would surely work, but somehow, for Nina, everything clicks into place, including the cop who lets her off. There is also the miraculous saviour Enzo who just exists. All told, worth reading once, but not sure it deserves all the accolades this book has received. " },{ "id": "/books/djinn-patrol-on-the-purple-line", "url": "/books/djinn-patrol-on-the-purple-line/", "title": "Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line", "layout": "post", "description": "Three children in a slum on the outskirts of a sprawling Indian metropolis start investigating why their friends go missing", "author": "Deepa Annapara", "date": "2025-04-15T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250415.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary Mystery", "content": "Jai loves detective shows on TV, and dreams of being one. He lives in a small one-room house in a slum near several high-rise buildings on the fringe of a huge Indian metropolis. When his school friend Bahadur is the first of many children to go missing, Jai, along with his friends Pari and Faiz starts questioning everyone connected. The police are indifferent, and as more children go missing, people start blaming each other. Jai and friends take a trip on the purple metro line to the city center to enquire at a shelter, and also train a dog to help them track. Eventually, a series of events leads to a victim close to home, as Jai’s older sister Runu goes missing. This galvanizes the whole community, and a witness comes forward and identifies a man named Kumar who, under torture from the police, confesses to the kidnappings. The community believes he does the kidnappings under behest of a rich lady he works for, but nothing comes of that. The kidnappings stop, but Jai’s family life collapses. His mother seldom talks, his father becomes a drunk, and his friends’ families move away. He stops watching TV, having lost all faith in “detectiving”. An excellent, well-written book which starts off much like poverty porn, but is actually focused on the thought-process, ingenuity and infinite fortitude of the main characters. Though the end is deeply depressing, it is inevitable and all too realistic. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/dark-matter", "url": "/books/dark-matter/", "title": "Dark Matter", "layout": "post", "description": "A married college physics professor is drugged and wakes up in an alternate world, where he is a successful single scientist", "author": "Blake Crouch", "date": "2025-04-21T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250421.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Thriller", "content": "Jason Dessen lives a pretty mundane life. He teaches physics at a local college and lives in Chicago with his wife Daniela and son Charlie. One evening, he is abducted by a masked man who drugs him. When he wakes up, he stumbles out of a black cube into a laboratory. A large group of people descend upon him, and he basically pieces together that another version of him in this world, who he dubs Jason2. Jason2 is the chief scientist of the laboratory, and has invented the black cube, a machine which transports poeple between multiple alternate universes created of every possible outcome of every event. In this world, he is single, and Charlie isn’t even in the picture. Desperate to get back to his own world, he escapes into the cube with his counselor Amanda, and after a few trials and errors, finally reaches his own reality. Here he discovers several alternate Jasons have arrived, each from an alternate outcome of an event in his journey from Jason2’s world to his own. Jason2 attempts to kill him, but he manages to convince Daniela and Charlie that he is the true one, and escapes with them into the cube, to an unknown alternate world. An excellent, well-written sci-fi thriller, with a thought-provoking premise and realistic characters. It was a joy to read, and the ending is also well-constructed, where Jason has to face off against numerous alternate versions of himself, all of whom want the same thing and all have an equal claim on the prize. Strongly recommend. " },{ "id": "/books/shadow-of-the-wind", "url": "/books/shadow-of-the-wind/", "title": "Shadow of the Wind", "layout": "post", "description": "A mystery, thriller, romance and detective story which will have you gripped from the beginning to the end", "author": "Carlos Ruiz Zafon", "date": "2025-04-25T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250425.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Mystery Thriller Literary", "content": "Young Daniel Sempere finds a book in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, a private library open only to a select few. It is a book called The Shadow of the Wind, written by a Julián Carax. Daniel absolutely falls in love with the book, and sets about investigating the origin of the book, and the author. He discovers that the author is now missing, along with every other copy of the book, and he likely owns the last known copy. He befriends the ebullient Fermín who helps him trace the origin of the book. This brings him into the crosshairs of the murderous Inspector Fumero, the main antagonist of the book. He is also accosted by a heavily scarred and disfigured stranger calling himself Lain Coubert, a character from The Shadow of the Wind. Using all the leads he has, he uncovers the tragic story of the author Julián, and the love he had for Penelope Aldaya, and how their story was intertwined with that of Inspector Fumero. Daniel’s own love life involving the blind Clara and his best friend’s sister, Beatriz Aguilar is also mixed into the multi-faceted epic that is The Shadow of the Wind. The whole book is chock-full of quotable quotes, and traces the history of Spain from the early 1900’s through to the 50’s and 60’s, through the lives of the characters. At the heart of it, this whole book is a love story to Barcelona. The book beautifully brings out the artistic and enchanting nature of the city, and it provides the perfect backdrop to the book by giving a gothic feel to the whole tale. An excellent, absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/books/apprentice-to-the-villain", "url": "/books/apprentice-to-the-villain/", "title": "Apprentice to the Villain", "layout": "post", "description": "Evie stages a daring rescue of the boss from a public event, and they start a hunt to uncover her mother's legacy", "author": "Hannah Nicole Maehrer", "date": "2025-05-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250505.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Romance", "content": "The king has planned a public event to unmask the villain, Trystan Maverine, including presenting a coffin with his “last victim” inside. Except, the “victim” is actually Evie, who suddenly wakes up and, in the chaos, escapes with Trystan on their dragon Fluffy.  Using clues left behind by her mother, Nura Sage, they retrieve stardust and trace her through various locations, where they are closely pursued by the king’s valiant guard. These locations include:  A village where they are nearly drowned by a theatre troupe The mansion of Rebecca Erring’s mother who was once a close friend of Nura Sage Back to their own castle, where the last vial of stardust reveals a broken piece of sky The piece has a star, which is the now immortal Nura Sage, watching over the events of the world. There is a promise of some major upcoming event as an old prophecy is being slowly fulfilled. Who the villain of the prophecy is, remains to be seen. Oh, and the romance between the two main characters is more open, involving some kissing etc. etc.   The first book had a relatively tight storyline, but this book meandered all over the place. Families and extended families of all the key characters (and even some fringe characters) are suddenly in play. The number of characters moving the story along has increased considerably, to the point where it’s hard to keep track of all the players who are critical to the storyline. The clever writing is probably the sole redeeming factor, but even the banter and repartee is predictable and repetitive. Here’s to hoping this series ends neatly with the next book. " },{ "id": "/books/five-little-pigs", "url": "/books/five-little-pigs/", "title": "Five Little Pigs", "layout": "post", "description": "Poirot investigates a cold case", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2025-05-07T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250507.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Crime Classics", "content": "It’s been sixteen years since Caroline Crale has been convicted of murdering her husband, famous painter Amyas Crale, and died in prison. Now her daughter Carla receives a letter from her mother claiming innocence. The daughter charges Poirot to establish the truth.  Poirot discovers there were five people in the house at the time of Amyas’ death, and he dubs these the Five Little Pigs. He interviews each of the five, and cannot unravel any obvious motive. He then assembles all of them at the scene of the crime, and reviews the case.  Caroline took the blame, since she believed her younger sister Angela was guilty. But Angela was innocent; it was actually the painter’s model, Elsa Greer who poisoned Amyas. He had promised to marry her, but was only stringing her along so his masterpiece could be finished. Of course, since the statute of limitations had passed and there is no physical evidence, nothing comes of the case, but Carla is convinced of her mother’s innocence, which was the end goal anyway.   Poirot manages to piece together exactly what had occurred by putting together the pieces of everything that was said in the interviews of the “Five Little Pigs”, much like a jigsaw puzzle. This part was very clever, but it did not make the case obvious. Everyone seemed equally innocent or guilty. The key evidence is apparently the painting itself; Poirot understood the victim’s mentality by examining the painting. Even for an expert art critic, this seems rather far-fetched. Still, quintessential Christie. Well worth reading. " },{ "id": "/books/the-fellowship-of-the-ring", "url": "/books/the-fellowship-of-the-ring/", "title": "The Fellowship of the Ring", "layout": "post", "description": "Frodo Baggins inherits a ring which must be destroyed; the motley crew which accompanies him on his perilous task is the \"fellowship\"", "author": "J.R.R.Tolkien", "date": "2025-05-13T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250513.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Classics", "content": "Much has been said and and written about the sheer magnificence of the tale that is the Lord of the Rings. Little can be said here that has not already been said more eloquently, because the subject is one of the most beautiful works of fantasy literature that exists. Middle Earth is a wondrous place with elves, dwarves, men, hobbits, orcs, trolls, ents, sorcerers and demons, and many such manner of fantastic creatures. It is an entire continent, with several villages and cities, and regions which are inhabited by one or more of these creatures. The story centers around a ring, crafted by the evil warlord Sauron and infused with fell power which allows him to control everyone and everything for his nefarious purposes. Eons before, Sauron was defeated and the ring was lost. Now, Sauron slowly grows in power and is marshalling his forces, as the ring comes into possession of a young Hobbit called Frodo. As Sauron’s evil minions, the Nazgul, are scouring the land in the hopes of retrieving the ring, Frodo takes on the responsibility of destroying the ring in the fires of Mount Doom, right in Sauron’s backyard. A handful of folk volunteer to accompany him, and this is their tale, the “Fellowship of the Ring”: The Wizard Gandalf is nominally the leader of the troop, alongside the ranger Aragorn, elf Legolas, dwarf Gimli, Steward-prince Boromir and 3 more Hobbits. Together they endure many adventures as they set off from the Elf city of Rivendell towards Mordor, Sauron’s territory and where Mount Doom is. A fantastic journey like no other ever; with excellently defined characters, flawless world building, completely enthralling story progression, unpredictable plot twists, and a soul-shattering ending. " },{ "id": "/books/the-house-of-the-spirits", "url": "/books/the-house-of-the-spirits/", "title": "The House of the Spirits", "layout": "post", "description": "A fable spanning across four generations of the Trueba family", "author": "Isabel Allende", "date": "2025-05-19T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250519.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Magical-Realism Literary", "content": "The De Valle family in turn-of-the-century Chile has 2 daughters, Rosa the beautiful and Clara the Clairvoyant. Rosa is betrothed to a man named Esteban Trueba, who is from a grand family, but fallen on hard times. Rosa dies of accidental poisoning, and the heartbroken Esteban marries Clara instead. He works hard restoring his family’s old hacienda back to its full glory, driving the local peasants hard and becoming fabulously rich along the way. Clara has 3 children, a girl Blanca and twin boys. Esteban also rapes several of the local peasant women, and has numerous illegitimate children with them.   Blanca falls in love with Pedro Tercero, the son of the estate foreman, much to the chagrin of her father. Additionally. Pedro Tercero is a socialist, and the murderous Esteban resolves to kill Pedro himself. He succeeds in cutting some of his fingers off, but does marry Blanca off to a dubious French count. Blanca has a daughter with Pedro Tercero, Alba, who is the apple of her grandfather’s eye. In college, she is involved in a revolutionary movement during the Pinochet regime, and is arrested and raped by Colonel Esteban Garcia, Trueba’s illegitimate son, thus completing a cycle.  This broadly summarizes about half the story, or what can best be perceived as the main story. The narrative meanders into several side stories involving the twins, the French count’s activities, an uncle who travels, Clara’s magical abilities, Chilean politics and the nationalists vs. socialists, the military coup and much more.   Much of the novel focuses on magic realism, and the multi-generational family saga seems forced. Often it seems like X is born, and is a child playing, then goes away to school and at next reckoning, is an adult, and contributing to the storyline and producing the next generation. One particularly frustrating example is Transito Soto, a brothel madam who only ever appears when there is a key plot development required.  Only Esteban has significant character development, and there is moderate character development for Clara and the twins. The rest of the characters are mostly just mentioned. On the whole, the writing is very engaging, but the plot is exceedingly frustrating. " },{ "id": "/books/i-who-have-never-known-men", "url": "/books/i-who-have-never-known-men/", "title": "I Who Have Never Known Men", "layout": "post", "description": "A group of women try to find their way in a post-apocalyptic world where they are the only survivors", "author": "Jacqueline Harpman", "date": "2025-05-21T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250521.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Dystopian Literary", "content": "This is a very unusual book which cannot be slotted into a specific genre. It’s feminist literature, with elements of science-fiction, and at it’s core, it’s an exploration of loneliness, identity and isolation. The earliest memories of the woman at the centre of the story start in a secluded underground jail-like cell, where she is a young girl incarcerated with 39 older women. She has never met a man, and she is raised by the other women. The women in the shelter are afraid and strict, believing the outside world is dangerous. Over time, the main character starts to question everything she has been taught, and wonders what life is like outside. One day, her world changes when the sirens go off, and the shelter is left unguarded. The main character and a few other women decide to leave and explore the outside world. They walk out as a group, and over the course of several years, they explore the world around them. They encounter new experiences, and discover several strange new things. Throughout these explorations, they come across several other cells, with both men and women, filled with long dead residents. Their own numbers dwindle, leaving the protagonist as the last member alive of the group, and possibly, the world. In her journey, the main character learns about love, freedom, and the complexity of human relationships. This discovery leads her to reflect on her own identity and what it means to be a person in a broader world. The key theme highlighted in her solitary reflections is the importance of connecting with others. An excellent and though-provoking read. " },{ "id": "/books/little-fires-everywhere", "url": "/books/little-fires-everywhere/", "title": "Little Fires Everywhere", "layout": "post", "description": "Tensions boil to the surface when two families with vastly different ideologies clash in small town America", "author": "Celeste Ng", "date": "2025-05-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250527.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary", "content": "In the small, perfectly manicured and well-kept suburb of Shaker Heights in America live the Richardsons. Elena Richardson, her perfect husband live in their perfect home in their perfect neighbourhood with their four perfect children. Almost… she clashes almost constantly with her free-spirited youngest daughter Izzy, but still, perfect otherwise. She rents a room out to a single mother, Mia Warren, a struggling artist & nomad, and also gives her a job as a cook and housekeeper. Mia’s daughter, Pearl, becomes friendly with the Richardson children, and is enamoured by their luxurious and care-free lifestyle, and infatuated with the oldest boy too. Izzy, on the other hand, is enamoured with Mia. A major conflict arises when the Richardson’s friends adopt a Chinese-origin baby, but Mia supports the biological mother and wants the baby returned to her. The case goes to court and press, but the biological mother loses custody. In retaliation, Elena digs up a number of sordid details from Mia’s past and evicts her. This precipitates in the titular Little Fires everywhere; Mia leaves and, reconciles with her own past, reconnects with her own parents and Pearl’s father. Izzy, realizing how her whole family has used Mia and Pearl, sets fire to her house and runs away, hoping to reconnect with Mia. Elena abandons her pursuit of “perfection” and dedicates herself to finding and reconnecting with Izzy. A recurrent theme throughout the book are the secrets that each person holds, and the consequences of keeping those secrets. The climax builds as each person is forced to deal with with fallout of their choices. A good read, if a bit melodramatic. " },{ "id": "/books/the-mating-season", "url": "/books/the-mating-season/", "title": "The Mating Season", "layout": "post", "description": "A delightful romp with Bertie trying to mend several rocky relationships around him, while frequently getting into sticky situations, requiring extrication... by Jeeves.", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2025-05-30T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250530.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Classics", "content": "Bertie is ordered by his aunt Agatha (the one who chews broken glass and performs human sacrifices on full moon night) to stay at Deverill hall and perform at the local village pageant. Along the way, Bertie encounters several youngsters who are trying get together, but are hampered by a group of domineering women at Deverill hall, in the mould of his aunt. He also needs to keep things smooth between Gussie Fink-Nottle and Madeline Basset, since a rift in their relationship would require him to step up and marry Ms. Basset. Except, Gussie has been locked up for 14 days because of a drunken joke. Through a series of shenanigans including an assumed identity, Bertie makes a complete mess of things, and Jeeves swoops in and sets everything right. A hilarious romp as usual, one of the best featuring Jeeves and Wooster. " },{ "id": "/books/the-ocean-at-the-end-of-the-lane", "url": "/books/the-ocean-at-the-end-of-the-lane/", "title": "The Ocean at The End of the Lane", "layout": "post", "description": "A man returns to his hometown, and slowly recollects a series of strange and magical events that happened in his childhood.", "author": "Neil Gaiman", "date": "2025-06-04T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250604.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Horror", "content": "A middle-aged man returns to his hometown for a funeral. While there, he recalls his childhood memories, particularly his friendship with a mysterious girl named Lettie Hempstock. She lived with her mother and grandmother at the end of the lane, and called the pond behind her house an “ocean”. As his memories come flooding back, the story is told from the perspective of a seven-year-old boy. The narrator and Lettie are pulled to an alternate world, and he inadvertently brings back a malevolent creature back with him, in the form of a worm in his foot. The creature then takes the form of a young woman and ingratiates herself with his whole family, all the while threatening grievous harm to the narrator. The creature is finally defeated by hunger-birds which Lettie’s mother and grandmother summon, but a piece of the worm remains lodged in the narrator’s heart and the hunger birds are determined to eliminate this. Lettie sacrifices herself to allow him to continue living. Back in the present, the narrator meets the old Hempstock ladies, and finds out that Lettie is in the “ocean”, recovering; and she occasionally wishes to see the narrator to convince herself that her sacrifice was worthwhile. On the surface, the book is a monster story. But the deeper context is that of childhood and innocence, and how events, even those not remembered, shape our character and define us as adults. One particular paragraph stood out from the book: Grown-ups don’t look like grown-ups on the inside either. Outside, they’re big and thoughtless and they always know what they’re doing. Inside, they look just like they always have. Like they did when they were your age. Truth is, there aren’t any grown-ups. Not one, in the whole wide world. An excellent and short read. Although the story is mostly told from the perspective of a seven-year-old, it is directed to adults to reminiscence on their own childhood, and the watershed events that shaped them. " },{ "id": "/books/witches", "url": "/books/witches/", "title": "Witches", "layout": "post", "description": "A boy and his grandmother encounter child-hating witches", "author": "Roald Dahl", "date": "2025-06-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250605.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult", "content": "A seven year old orphan boy is sent to live with his grandmother in Norway, where she tells him stories of witches who hate children, for children smell thoroughly vile to them. They have a number of distinguishing physical characteristics like baldness, lack of fingernails, pointed feet and so on, and they stop at nothing to eliminate all children, for they cannot stand them. Through a series of events, they find themselves in a hotel in Bournemouth, which happens to be hosting the annual get-together of all English witches. Entirely by accident, the boy discovers their plan to convert all children to mice, involving a potion and a magic money-making machine. The witches smell him and change him into a mouse, but aided by his grandmother, the mouse-boy steals the potion and feeds it to the witches instead. Together, using the money-making machine, grandmother and the mouse-boy decide to rid the world of all witches. Although written for children, the book is tonally patchy and filled with plot-holes, deus ex machinas, and random coincidences which would have even the most gullible child reader rolling their eyes. " },{ "id": "/books/long-live-evil", "url": "/books/long-live-evil/", "title": "Long Live Evil", "layout": "post", "description": "A terminally ill girl is given the chance to enter the universe of her favourite book and perform a task in exchange for recovery", "author": "Sarah Rees Brennan", "date": "2025-06-09T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250609.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Romance", "content": "Rae is a dying teenager, and spends her remaining life immersed in the world of her favourite fantasy book series. She is given a chance at a second life if she enters the world of her beloved books and retrieves a specific flower; she seizes the chance and finds herself a character in the book’s world. Except, she is the villainess. Undeterred, she takes it in her stride. After all, the villains get the best lines and are the best dressed. Changing the story as she goes along, forging unlikely alliances and escaping by the skin of her teeth several times, she sets about making her own destiny. The premise is wholly intriguing; it seems like a send-up of all the usual swords-and-sorcery literature tropes. But the nicest thing that can be said about the execution is that it is entirely too tedious and repetitive. " },{ "id": "/books/a-man-called-ove", "url": "/books/a-man-called-ove/", "title": "A Man Called Ove", "layout": "post", "description": "A curmudgeonly old man learns to love", "author": "Fredrik Backman", "date": "2025-06-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250612.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary", "content": "Ove is a grumpy old man with strict routines, a deep sense of duty, and a strong dislike for anyone who disrupts his ordinary life. Ove has lost his wife, Sonja, and feels lost without her. He plans to end his life, believing he has nothing left to live for. However, Ove’s plans are interrupted when new neighbors move in next door. A lively young family, including a mother named Parvaneh and her two daughters, unwittingly intrude into Ove’s isolated world. Through their kindness and persistent efforts to connect with him, Ove slowly begins to open up. He experiences moments of joy and laughter he thought he had lost forever. Alongside the story, through flashbacks, we learn more about Ove’s past, his love for Sonja, and the struggles he’s faced. The relationships he forms with his neighbors help him rediscover purpose and connection, showing how important community and love can be, even in the darkest times. Ultimately, Ove learns that life is worth living, even amidst grief and loneliness. An excellent and heart-warming read, well-paced and with endearing characters. Parvaneh, while initially seeming like a token non-white character, grows to be a central figure in the narrative. " },{ "id": "/books/the-keeper-of-lost-causes", "url": "/books/the-keeper-of-lost-causes/", "title": "The Keeper of Lost Causes", "layout": "post", "description": "A police detective is assigned a cold case to keep him occupied, and has breakthroughs using exceptional detecting skills", "author": "Jussi Adler-Olsen", "date": "2025-06-17T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250617.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Thriller", "content": "Detective Carl Mørck is an excellent detective, but his abrasive personality and brusque nature rubs his colleagues the wrong way. Following a traumatic incident where one of his partners is killed and another confined to a bed because of paralysis, the chief inspector is forced to create a new department just for Carl, since nobody else will work with him. Christened Department Q, Carl’s prime directive is to investigate cold cases. Relegated to a basement and with only Assad, a Syrian immigrant driver as company, Carl starts looking at the case of Merete Lynnggaard, a young up-and-coming politician who mysteriously disappeared over five years ago. As Carl and Assad dig deeper, they uncover unsettling truths about Merete’s life and the people around her. They face numerous obstacles, including bureaucratic indifference and threats from those who want to keep the past buried. Without revealing too much, Carl and Assad form a close bond and good working relationship, and Carl also grapples with his own past. As they work to solve Merete’s case, Carl finds a renewed sense of purpose, showing that even lost causes can lead to important revelations and connections. Excellent and gripping read, well paced and with an engaging narrative. " },{ "id": "/books/the-railway-children", "url": "/books/the-railway-children/", "title": "The Railway Children", "layout": "post", "description": "Three children, uprooted from London to the countryside, become fascinated with trains", "author": "E. Nesbit", "date": "2025-06-19T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250619.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Young-Adult Classics", "content": "Roberta (Bobbie), Peter, and Phyllis live a happy life in London until their father is suddenly taken away and imprisoned, being falsely accused of treason. Their family falls on hard times, and the children and their mother move to a small house near a railway station in the countryside. They become fascinated with the trains which run by their house and wave at it vigourously everyday as it passes by. One passenger, who they refer to as the old gentleman, waves back at them regularly. They also befriend the station master and the porter at the railway station. During their time in the countryside, they have several adventures, including preventing a train accident, rescuing a baby from a burning barge on the canal, taking in a Russian exile as a lodger, and aiding an injured boy in a railway tunnel. The injured boy, Jim, is revealed to be the grandson of the old gentleman, who returns the Railway Children’s kindness and bravery by helping clear their father’s name and having him released. Written at the turn of the century (1906), the story incorporates events from the current affairs of the times; the author also draws upon her own childhood in the countryside. A charming and engaging read, this is essentially a children’s book, as the various adventures are specifically designed to appeal to young children. It should be noted that though the book is a product of its times. It would be unthinkable for children to be left to their own devices in today’s day and age, or indeed, being allowed to explore an uncontrolled environment. " },{ "id": "/books/hell-house", "url": "/books/hell-house/", "title": "Hell House", "layout": "post", "description": "A group of people are sent to investigate a haunted house known for being the most dangerous in the world", "author": "Richard Matheson", "date": "2025-06-22T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250622.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Classics", "content": "The Belasco house in Maine has a dark history and is said to be filled with evil spirits. A physicist interested in the paranormal leads the group of four people, each with a personal interest in exploring the house and discover its secrets. Throughout their investigation, the group learns of the history of the house, and the horrific acts and atrocities committed there, including the murder of the son of the former owner, Daniel Belasco. As they spend time in the house, they experience terrifying events that challenge their beliefs and sanity. Strange noises, ghostly apparitions, and a sense of dread surround them. The characters face not only the supernatural forces within the house but also their inner demons, making their journey even more complex and intense. As the story builds up to a climax, the challenge for the team is surviving long enough to unravel the mystery of the house. A gripping supernatural mystery and a wonderful read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-two-towers", "url": "/books/the-two-towers/", "title": "The Two Towers", "layout": "post", "description": "The fellowship has disintegrated, but the quest continues to destroy the one ring", "author": "J.R.R.Tolkien", "date": "2025-06-26T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250626.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Classics", "content": "The story continues with the quest to destroy the One Ring. Boromir is dead, killed by Orc arrows. Merry and Pippin have been captured by Orcs. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli start tracking Merry and Pippin trail. They hear about the evil wizard Saruman and the battle brewing in the land of Rohan, and join a resurrected Mithrandir to unite and rouse the realm of men. Meanwhile, Frodo and Sam are on their own journey to bring the Ring to Mount Doom, where it can be destroyed. They meet Gollum, a strange creature who once owned the Ring. Gollum becomes their guide but is also untrustworthy and torn between his desire for the Ring and his promise to help Frodo and Sam. Their journey is filled with danger as they encounter dark creatures and the forces of evil. Merry and Pippin, on the other hand, escape from the Orcs, and encounter the Ents, a race of tree-like beings, and join them in a charge against Saruman’s lair, Isengard. The story builds up to epic battles, including the defense of the city of Helm’s Deep and the attack on Isengard. The characters grow stronger in their resolve to defeat evil, and the ties between them deepen as they face great hardships together. Despite the complex story-line involving several parallel threads, the book is an absolute page turner, with perfect pacing and rising tension; the end comes all too soon, leaving the reader wanting desperately to start the final concluding volume right away. " },{ "id": "/books/my-sister-the-serial-killer", "url": "/books/my-sister-the-serial-killer/", "title": "My Sister, The Serial Killer", "layout": "post", "description": "Korede has to juggle her job as a nurse with her love for her murderous sister", "author": "Oyinkan Braithwaite", "date": "2025-06-28T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250628.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Thriller Literary", "content": "Korede works as a nurse and lives a life defined by responsibility and practicality in Lagos. She is often overshadowed by her beautiful, charming sister Ayoola. However, there is a catch: Ayoola is sociopathic and decidedly murderous; she has killed her last three boyfriends, claimed “self-defense”, and roped in Korede to dispose their bodies. Korede, practical and resourceful, is ever the unwilling accomplice, helping to clean up the mess and dispose of the evidence, all while grappling with her loyalty to her sister and the moral implications of her actions. Ayoola, on the other hand, is mostly unconcerned with the fallout of her actions. Things come to a head when Ayoola starts dating Tade, a doctor at Korede’s hospital who Korede secretly admires. Tade’s charm captivates both sisters, but Korede is increasingly anxious, fearing for his life due to Ayoola’s violent tendencies. Korede is torn between sororal love and romantic love, and confides all her thoughts to a comatose patient in the hospital. When the family of the last murdered boyfriend comes seeking answers, Korede makes a choice. Darkly funny, the witty writing filled with amusing turn of phrase highlight the absurdities of their situation, making for a gripping reading experience. The author skillfully blends thriller with dark comedy, poking at the boundaries of loyalty and morality. " },{ "id": "/books/ring-for-jeeves", "url": "/books/ring-for-jeeves/", "title": "Ring for Jeeves", "layout": "post", "description": "Jeeves' temporary new employer is desperately in need of money and uses Jeeves' ingenuity and big brain to get what he needs", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2025-06-30T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250630.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Classics", "content": "The world has changed: World War 2 is done, and the nobility and hereditary peers are being dismantled by government policies and death duties. The idle rich cannot afford to be “idle” anymore, and oftentimes, are not rich anymore either. Wooster is sent to an education camp for the nobility; he has to learn to darn his socks and iron his clothes. Jeeves takes up temporary employment with a friend of Wooster’s, a Bill Rowcestor, another nob with a vast mansion and no funds. Together with Jeeves, he starts silver ring bookmaker’s business under the assumed name of Honest Patch Perkins, complete with a disguise involving an eyepatch, garish clothes and fake whiskers. Things begin to go wrong when a belligerent man wins a double at extremely long odds, and Bill has no funds to pay up. How Jeeves steps in and resolves the predicament to everyone’s satisfaction is the best part of the story. The world is changing, and Wodehouse moved with the times. People perhaps didn’t have the patience to read about the shenanigans of the gentlemen of leisure, a dying breed often viewed as leeches. But he still managed to elicit a thoroughly enjoyable full length book based on the tribulations of these pariahs. Eminently readable. " },{ "id": "/books/the-selfish-gene", "url": "/books/the-selfish-gene/", "title": "The Selfish Gene", "layout": "post", "description": "Darwin's theory of evolution and natural selection is reaffirmed, but at what scale is the evolution happening?", "author": "Richard Dawkins", "date": "2025-07-11T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250711.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science", "content": "Evolution is reframed and examined from the perspective of genes rather than organisms. Genes are the fundamental units of natural selection, persisting because they are good at replicating themselves. Organisms are merely “survival machines” constructed by genes to ensure their own propagation, and the apparent altruism of individuals can often be explained as strategies that ultimately increase a gene’s inclusive fitness. A central concept introduced is inclusive fitness, which extends the idea of reproductive success to include the survival of genetically related individuals. This explains behaviors such as kin selection, where an animal may sacrifice its own chances of survival to help relatives who share many of its genes. The “selfishness” of the gene alluded to in the title does not indicate a moral shortcoming, but rather that the gene is driven by blind encoding to propagate and copy themselves, which they do at any cost, including possibly harm for their host organism. An excellent and thought-provoking read, and the origin of a number of phrases used in common parlance, like “meme”. " },{ "id": "/books/the-couple-next-door", "url": "/books/the-couple-next-door/", "title": "The Couple Next Door", "layout": "post", "description": "A small baby goes missing while under the care of the seemingly perfect \"couple next door\"", "author": "Shari LaPena", "date": "2025-07-15T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250715.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Thriller", "content": "The story begins with a seemingly ordinary dinner party in a suburban New York neighborhood. When the hosts, Anne and Marco Conti, leave their infant daughter, Bella, sleeping on the couch to run an errand, their next‑door neighbors, the seemingly perfect couple Colin and Claire, step in to watch the baby. Unexpectedly, Bella disappears while under Colin’s care, and the police quickly focus on the Contis as the primary suspects. The investigation unravels a web of secrets that each couple has been keeping. Anne, a former lawyer, discovers that Marco has been embezzling money from his firm, while Colin is revealed to be a former police officer with a hidden past involving a violent incident. Claire, who appears flawless on the surface, is actually battling a gambling addiction and has been blackmailing Colin to keep her secrets hidden. As the police dig deeper, evidence surfaces that suggests the disappearance may have been staged, and the true motive could be tied to financial desperation, revenge, or a desperate bid to protect a dark secret. Without revealing too much, the fast-paced thriller makes everyone involved an equal suspect, and the plot remains unpredictable until the perpetrators and motive is revealed. A great quick read, thoroughly enjoyable. " },{ "id": "/books/ice", "url": "/books/ice/", "title": "Ice", "layout": "post", "description": "Three personal narratives interconnect in a world where an ice age is imminent", "author": "Anna Kavan", "date": "2025-07-17T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250717.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Classics Literary", "content": "A mysterious, unstoppable cold is spreading across the world, turning cities into frozen wastelands. Amidst this, there are three interwoven story-lines that gradually converge: A nameless narrator, a disaffected young man in London who becomes obsessed with a charismatic, enigmatic woman named Susan; their brief, intense affair is marked by a sense of impending doom that mirrors the encroaching frost. A British intelligence officer, John, is dispatched to investigate the strange climatic phenomenon and discovers a covert Soviet operation that may be deliberately engineering the freeze. A Russian immigrant named Sasha lives in a decaying apartment block in Moscow and becomes a reluctant witness to the government’s secret experiments with a cryogenic weapon. As the ice spreads, communication breaks down, transportation collapses, and ordinary people are forced to confront the absurdity of a world turning to stone. The novel’s tone shifts between bleak realism and the surreal. In the climax, the three protagonists’ paths intersect in a desolate, ice‑covered London where the narrator finally meets John and Sasha amid the ruins. Their brief collaboration reveals that the freeze is a self‑propagating natural disaster, not a weapon, and that humanity’s attempts to understand or halt it are hopeless. The novel ends on a semi-positive note, with the ice receding as mysteriously as it arrived. The survivors have to pick up the pieces of what’s left behind. What stands out is the insignificance of man and his puny efforts against a literal force of nature, and how fragile the life we take for granted really is. A thought-provoking and slightly depressing read. " },{ "id": "/books/we-should-all-be-feminists", "url": "/books/we-should-all-be-feminists/", "title": "We Should All Be Feminists", "layout": "post", "description": "A poignant essay on what it means to be a feminist, and the case for feminism as the author defines it", "author": "Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie", "date": "2025-07-18T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250718.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction", "content": "This is more of an essay than a book; it begins with the author relating a personal anecdote about being called “boyish” as a child, which leads her to examine how gender expectations are imposed from an early age. She argues that the word “feminist” has become stigmatized, yet the core idea &emdash; recognizing that both men and women suffer from rigid gender roles &emdash; is essential for a fair society. By defining feminism as “the belief in the social, political, and economic equality of the sexes,” she frames it as a universal human concern rather than a niche movement. Adichie illustrates the everyday ways sexism manifests: women are often expected to be modest, to prioritize marriage over career, and to accept lower pay. Men, on the other hand, are discouraged from showing vulnerability. She uses statistics and cultural examples to show that these expectations limit both sexes, reinforcing a hierarchy that benefits none. The essay also highlights how language shapes perception; for instance, describing a woman as “strong” can be perceived as threatening, whereas the same trait in a man is praised. The conclusion calls for a collective re‑thinking of gender norms, urging both men and women to actively challenge stereotypes and to teach future generations that equality is a shared responsibility. Adichie proposes concrete steps &emdash; such as encouraging girls to speak up, supporting equal parental leave, and confronting sexist jokes &emdash; to create a world where “feminist” is simply a synonym for “human.” " },{ "id": "/books/persuader", "url": "/books/persuader/", "title": "Persuader", "layout": "post", "description": "Jack Reacher goes undercover at the behest of the DEA to track a personal enemy", "author": "Lee Child", "date": "2025-07-22T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250722.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Thriller", "content": "Years before, when he was an MP, Reacher’s colleague was brutally tortured, raped and murdered by a person known as Quinn, who was then a CIA double agent. Reacher lost track of him, but he suddenly resurfaced in a DEA investigation. Reacher teams up with the DEA folks to and infiltrates the operation of a Zachary Beck, in the hope of getting closer to kingpin Quinn. A large part of the book details the elaborate ruse by which Reacher enters the service of Beck, and how he manages to get in and out of the fortress like mansion where the Becks live. Reacher pretends to save Beck’s son from a kidnapping attempt, and then becomes Beck hired gun and bodyguard. He also faces off with Beck’s hulking bodyguard Paulie, eventually leading to a massive showdown with DEA, ATF and Quinn’s folks, all happening at the mansion. Typical Reacher book; he draws upon some events which happened in his time as MP, and using skills inherited from that time, brings down a massive crime syndicate. One key difference here was that he didn’t rope in his trusted lieutenants from the MP squad, otherwise, pretty standard potboiler. Quick read, marginally enjoyable, and eminently forgettable. " },{ "id": "/books/aarushi", "url": "/books/aarushi/", "title": "Aarushi", "layout": "post", "description": "Details the botched investigation and the media frenzy around a brutal murder of a teen girl", "author": "Avirook Sen", "date": "2025-07-31T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250731.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Crime", "content": "In a quiet New Delhi suburb in 2008, a 14-year-old girl Aarushi was brutally murdered in her bedroom. The mysterious death shocked India and sparked a media frenzy. This book begins its narrative from the night of her murder, unfolding the events leading up to it and the subsequent investigation that followed. Sen examines, in detail, the impact of sensational journalism on public perception and the legal processes surrounding the case. Through a detailed account of the investigation’s missteps and public reactions, the book illustrates how a family’s tragedy became a national spectacle. The ramifications of the case on Aarushi’s parents, Rajesh and Nupur Talwar, are detailed, as they were later accused of their daughter’s murder. Sen portrays their struggles to cope with grief while being thrust into a media storm and a flawed criminal justice system. Showcased is the way in which the Talwars were portrayed as guilty before due process could unfold, describing the challenges of seeking justice in a landscape rife with prejudice and speculation. The narrative also reflects on the issues of class, gender, and the power dynamics that were revealed during the trial. The book raises critical questions about justice and accountability, examining the roles of law enforcement, media, and society in influencing public opinion. It challenges readers to think about the interplay of truth, bias, and morality in high-profile criminal cases. Reading this leaves you with a deep sadness at a system that is so deeply flawed that it seems unlikely that any justice will ever be served in this case, or indeed, in any case. " },{ "id": "/books/nine-perfect-strangers", "url": "/books/nine-perfect-strangers/", "title": "Nine Perfect Strangers", "layout": "post", "description": "Nine people from different walks of life attend a 10-day retreat at a luxury wellness centre", "author": "Liane Moriarty", "date": "2025-08-06T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250806.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller", "content": "Firstly, I didn’t quite understand the title. They are not perfect strangers. Three of nine are a family comprising father, mother and daughter. There is another married couple, and that’s five already. The remaining four are an author, a retired football player, a lawyer and a housewife. So while the nine of them are at the centre, they are subject to a rather unusual and disturbing regimen by the enigmatic retreat owner, Masha. A lot of time is spent of the back story of each of the characters, as well as Masha herself and her employees. Anyway, the nine “strangers” are microdosed with hallucinogens, and then put in an escape room-type situation, where they each have to come to terms with the ghosts of their past. The whole experience is eventually cathartic, but not quite as intended. Great writing, but way too much time and energy is spent in the various back-stories and the events leading up to their presence at the retreat. Overall, the story is a little unsatisfying, but the humour and situational comedy are a treat. " },{ "id": "/books/the-gray-man", "url": "/books/the-gray-man/", "title": "The Gray Man", "layout": "post", "description": "A former CIA assassin is now the subject of a manhunt, a manhunt by his counterparts from a dozen different countries", "author": "Mark Greaney", "date": "2025-08-10T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250810.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller", "content": "Court Gentry is a former CIA-trained assassin, now operating independently, selling his skills to the highest bidder. He is so good that he is a complete ghost, or chameleon; the apocryphal “Gray Man”. He performs a perfect mission killing the Nigerian energy minister at Syria, and is heading to his extraction point. His handler, Sir Donald Fitzroy, is approached by another former CIA agent, a lawyer named Lloyd representing a french conglomerate. He has kidnapped Sir Donald’s family, and instructs him to have the Gray Man killed. Sir Donald reluctantly gives the order, but the Gray Man escapes and makes his way to Europe. Lloyd, meanwhile, has roped in teams of intelligence agency assassins from a dozen countries and puts a bounty of $20 million on Court. Court runs into several of these teams along the way, and eliminates each of them with his superior skill. He is betrayed by a forger to the CIA, but manages to escape that too. When he encounters resistance at a secret weapons cache known only to him and Sir Donald, he deduces that Sir Donald is being blackmailed, or coerced. He then works his way to Normandy, where Sir Donald’s family is being held, and rescues them, eliminating every other assassin team in the process. Standard pot-boiler, with marginal character development but chock-full of heart-pounding action and brief moments of introspection, where Court contemplates the life choices that led him to this perilous point. All told, a gripping thriller and an insight into the morally gray world of espionage and intelligence, where corporate interests supersede national ones. " },{ "id": "/books/the-demolished-man", "url": "/books/the-demolished-man/", "title": "The Demolished Man", "layout": "post", "description": "From the golden age of sci-fi, the very first ever Hugo award winner is a police story in a telepathic world", "author": "Alfred Bester", "date": "2025-08-13T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250813.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Classics", "content": "This is set in a future where telepathy is commonplace, allowing people to read each other’s thoughts. The skill of the telepaths, called Espers, all vary, and some of the very best ones work for the police department, solving crimes and identifying criminals by probing minds. The story follows Ben Reich, an influential businessman in a disturbed state of mind as his family company is being driven to bankruptcy. He proposes a merger with his main competitor, Craye D’Courtney, but he is so addled that he misreads Craye’s positive response. He then formulates a very elaborate plan to murder D’Courtney and still evade the Espers, while recruiting a very skilled esper himself to pull this off. Lincoln Powell is the esper prefect of police, and is determined to solve the murder. What begins is a cat-and-mouse police procedural, involving several characters and plot twists. The main characters are Ben Reich and Lincoln Powell, but with a cast of several other people of varying importance to the plot, the whole story gets rather muddled. This is not helped by the fact that Ben Reich’s motivations and actions are unreliable given his psychological state. A great, but rather confusing read. " },{ "id": "/books/something-wicked-this-way-comes", "url": "/books/something-wicked-this-way-comes/", "title": "Something Wicked This Way Comes", "layout": "post", "description": "A carnival unexpectedly comes to town, and its far more sinister than rides and attractions", "author": "Ray Bradbury", "date": "2025-08-18T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250818.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Classics Fantasy", "content": "The lives of two young boys, Will Halloway and Jim Nightshade, living in a small town, takes a dramatic turn when a mysterious carnival, Cooger & Dark’s Pandemonium Shadow Show, arrives one fateful night. The carnival is not just any carnival; it promises to grant people’s deepest desires but hides dark secrets behind its enchanting façade. The boys are both excited and wary, sensing that something sinister lies beneath the surface of the spectacle. As they explore the carnival, Will and Jim encounter various supernatural elements and sinister characters, including the malevolent Mr. Dark, who can manipulate and exploit people’s fears and desires, and Mr. Cooger, who uses the conveniently out-of-order carousel to age up and down. Th boys’ friendship is tested as Jim becomes more entangled in the carnival’s spell, drawn by its promise of power and excitement. In a climactic showdown, Will, with the support of his father, Charles Halloway, confronts Mr. Dark and the dark forces of the carnival, including the blind dust witch. The struggle becomes not just about saving Jim, but also about reclaiming their innocence and confronting the fears that haunt them. This is a precursor to a common trope in horror, where something seemingly innocent and enjoyable hides a very dangerous demoniac entity; this is used several times by both Stephen King and Neil Gaiman, who both were influenced by this seminal horror / fantasy work. This novel features a superb build up of tension and an eerie aura in the build up to the climax. The only downside seems to be that the protagonists defeat the evil rather easily. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/halloween-party", "url": "/books/halloween-party/", "title": "Hallowe'en party", "layout": "post", "description": "A young girl is killed during a hallowe'en party, and Poirot is summoned to investigate", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2025-08-19T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250819.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Classics", "content": "Ariadne Oliver is a mystery novelist who is staying with a friend. A neighbour hosts a hallowe’en party for the youth of the village, and the youngsters come in to help with the decorations and setup. While there, a young girl, purpotedly to impress Ms. Oliver, boasts that she once witnessed a murder. She was known to make up stories, so everyone dismissed her. The next day, she is found drowned in the bucket for bobbing apples. Ms. Oliver brings in her friend Poirot, who has to identify who killed the girl, as well as what she supposedly saw, and that murder as well, since the two seem inter-connected. He discovers a wealthy aunt of the hostess who deceased recently, and a forged will in favour of her au pair. The au pair herself is missing as well. In typical Poirot fashion, he keeps all cards close to his chest, and reveals how all the pieces fit together only right at the end. The premise seems a little far fetched though, at least in the modern day-and-age. I suppose these inheritance-related murders were common enough in Dame Agatha’s time, that it made sense to hinge the whole novel upon. On the whole, the plot is confusing with several key players and witnesses, who all seem interconnected only tenuously. Still, a quick and enjoyable read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-return-of-the-king", "url": "/books/the-return-of-the-king/", "title": "The Return of the King", "layout": "post", "description": "The magnificent and thrilling conclusion of the quest to destroy the one ring", "author": "J.R.R. Tolkien", "date": "2025-08-25T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250825.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Classics", "content": "The resurgent riders of Rohan have repulsed Sauron’s forces, who now sends a huge army to lay seige to Minas Tirith. Gandalf rides to rouse Denethor, much like he did for Theoden, but the severely addled Denethor tries to kill himself and his surviving son Faramir even as Sauron’s Orcs are bringing the gate down. Aragorn recruits the army of the dead, an accursed army that has been waiting for years to be called upon by the heir of Isildur. Together, the riders of Rohan and the Army of the Dead break the seige of Minas Tirith and defeat Sauron’s forces. Not without losses, though. Eowyn is deeply wounded, and Theoden is among the dead. Aragorn inherits special healing powers as the rightful heir of Isildur, and uses these to heal Eowyn and Faramir. He learns of Frodo’s progress from Faramir, and leads the entire army to the black gate to distract Sauron. Sauron arrays his entire forces there as well. Meanwhile Frodo, who has been captured by Orcs, is rescued by Sam. Frodo is much weakened, and Sam literally carries Frodo right up Mount Doom. When they finally reach the Cracks of Doom, Frodo is unable to resist the pull of the ring anymore. He initially refuses to destroy it and puts it on. Gollum attacks him at that moment, and literally bites off Frodo’s finger. But in the struggle, he falls, along with the ring, into the fires of Mount Doom and are both destroyed. Immediately, Sauron loses his power and is crushed forever. His forces are in disarray and are easily defeated. Aragorn is crowned king, and the four hobbits return to the Shire, only to find that mercenaries under the control of Saruman have taken over. The four hobbits, having fought much more powerful adversaries, enlist the help of all the other hobbits and easily overcome the thugs. Saruman himself is killed by his minion Grima Wormtongue. Sam marries Rosie Cotton and settles down, whereas Frodo joins Gandalf and all the elves on their journey to Valinor, the undying lands. This is rightfully considered the peak of fantasy fiction, and a near perfect exemplification of the hero’s journey. There are those who cite certain scenes from the book as irrelevant or poor, but I find the book flawless. " },{ "id": "/books/a-scanner-darkly", "url": "/books/a-scanner-darkly/", "title": "A Scanner Darkly", "layout": "post", "description": "In a dystopian future, drug culture and use have been normalized and taken over the mainstream", "author": "Philip K. Dick", "date": "2025-08-31T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250831.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "Bob Arctor stays in a house where he and his roommates are all drug users, but he is in fact an undercover police agent assigned to spy on his own household. Moreover, based on the laws of the time, he hides his identity from his police colleagues as well as his roommates. While posing as a drug user, he gets addicted to a dangerous narcotic called Substance D that he obtains from his girlfriend Donna, while at the same time, he is also investigating the high-level dealers of Substance D. If this is confusing, the dissociation for Bob is far worse. He is unable to even reconcile to the fact that he is, indeed, Bob Arctor. His superior even suggests that this may be the case, but he rejects it outright. In an ironic twist, it turns out his girlfriend Donna is also an undercover agent, investigating a rehabilitation centre called New-Path, and enrols Bob into the centre. At the centre, Bob is subject to some cruel group games intended to break the will, and suffers from some serious neuro-cognitive issues because of this former addiction. After discharge, he works at a commune farm, and notices that the the main “crop” is actually the source of substance-D, closing the whole loop. The story is a fictionalized account of Dick’s own experiences in the 1970’s drug culture, and his experience with amphetamines and herion addiction and recovery from the same. While I personally was not greatly impressed with this book, it was reviewed very favourably by many critics. I still prefer Dick’s short stories, and he remains the absolute master of mind-bending science fiction where he examines the nature of the mind and effortlessly subverts expectations. " },{ "id": "/books/the-exorcist", "url": "/books/the-exorcist/", "title": "The Exorcist", "layout": "post", "description": "A young girl is possessed by a demon, and a pair of Jesuit priests perform the exorcism", "author": "William Peter Blatty", "date": "2025-09-06T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250906.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Classics", "content": "Regan McNeill is a young girl living with her actress mother in a suburb of Washington DC. She begins to exhibit strange behaviour after she starts playing with an Ouija bord. Her mother, Chris, seeks the help of medical professionals, but they are unable to explain the radical changes. Symptoms such as violent convulsions and a deep, menacing voice suggest something far more sinister than mere illness. Desperate for answers, Chris turns to Father Karras, a Jesuit priest and psychiatrist who is grappling with his own crisis of faith after the death of his mother. Karras initially approaches the situation with skepticism but becomes increasingly convinced that Regan’s affliction is a case of demonic possession. With the help of the more experienced Father Merrin, the two priests perform a difficult exorcism. The battle of wills against the demon Pazuzu is beset with severe physical and psychological horrors that challenge the faith and strength of the Jesuits. This forms the climax of the book. A recurring theme of the book is the nature of evil and the meaning of faith, both absolute and personal. The writing style makes the reader also experience the profound psychological horror that challenges the primary characters. Excellent writing, with a gloomy gothic feel to the whole narrative add to the sinister and eerie feeling. An absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-gunslinger", "url": "/books/the-gunslinger/", "title": "The Dark Tower 1: The Gunslinger", "layout": "post", "description": "Childe Roland to the Dark Tower came...", "author": "Stephen King", "date": "2025-09-09T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250909.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Fantasy Science-Fiction", "content": "Roland Deschain is the last gunslinger in a desolate, post-apocalyptic world. Roland’s relentless pursuit of the enigmatic “Man in Black” leads him through a desolate landscape filled with dangers and echoes of his past. As he travels, he faces various challenges and encounters various characters, some of whom he has to battle and kill. While crossig a desert, he almost dies of thirst, but is rescued by Jake, a young boy born in our world, but thrust into this world just as he was about to die. They continue the journey together, encountering creatures such as a succubus, and subterranean creatures called “slow mutants”. They travel through a tunnel in a railway handcar, over a collapsing bridge. Roland is forced to choose to either save Jake, or continue his quest, and chooses to let Jake die. When he finally catches up with the Man in Black, he identifies him as someone from his own past; the man tells Roland his fate from Tarot cards, and dies. Fast paced and intense, and set in a bleak unforgiving world, the book is an enjoyable and short read. " },{ "id": "/books/masala-lab", "url": "/books/masala-lab/", "title": "Masala Lab", "layout": "post", "description": "A scientific approach to cooking Indian food", "author": "Krish Ashok", "date": "2025-09-18T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250918.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science", "content": "An exploration of Indian cuisine that blends the author’s personal journey with scientific principles. The book delves into the rich diversity of Indian culinary traditions, illustrating how various ingredients interact and how cooking techniques can enhance flavors. Through a series of experiments and anecdotes, Ashok demystifies the process of cooking, making it accessible and engaging for both novice cooks and seasoned chefs. Ashok emphasizes the importance of understanding the why behind cooking methods, rather than just following recipes blindly. He encourages readers to experiment with their culinary creations by understanding the science behind ingredients like spices, grains, and vegetables. This approach enables cooks to develop a more intuitive sense of cooking, fostering creativity and encouraging a deeper appreciation for the cuisine’s complexity. One thing I liked about the book was that it served as a window into food culture, exploring the history and evolution of Indian food. It also looks at how globalization and the exposure to international culinary traditions have reshaped modern Indian cooking. The book champions both traditional practices and modern innovations by understanding the scientific bases (or lack thereof) for each. A great and insightful read. " },{ "id": "/books/tracers-in-the-dark", "url": "/books/tracers-in-the-dark/", "title": "Tracers in the Dark", "layout": "post", "description": "Relooking at cyber-security and privacy in the insidious world of the dark web", "author": "Andy Greenberg", "date": "2025-09-21T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/250921.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Technology Crime", "content": "Crypto-currency transactions promise to be entirely anonymous. Untraceable, unidentifiable and providing absolute privacy. While this is not strictly true, it does obscure the flow of money. This led to a number of clandestine businesses adopting the technology since it challenges the existing regulatory frameworks. This led to the burgeoning of illicit activities in an area of the internet called the dark-web, with all money exchange happening in the form of crypto-currency. This book explores the technology underlying crypto-currency, specifically block-chain, and the nature of the distributed ledger. It describes the investigative techniques used by both hackers and law enforcement agencies, detailing how forensic analysts employ sophisticated methods to uncover the identities of users in the blockchain. The book culminates in a gripping account of major investigations led by various law enforcement agencies, emphasizing the ongoing battle between anonymity advocates and authorities aiming to hold criminals accountable. Very thrilling and insightful read, which opens a window into an area which is just an amorphous mess of buzzwords for the ordinary citizen, but holds a lot of meaning for cyber-citizens on both sides of the law. " },{ "id": "/books/crooked-house", "url": "/books/crooked-house/", "title": "Crooked House", "layout": "post", "description": "The wealthy Aristide Leonides is dead, poisoned through his medicine. But who has poisoned him?", "author": "Agatha Christie", "date": "2025-10-06T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/251006.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Mystery Crime Classics", "content": "Several generations of his family live under his roof; his two sons, their wives and two young grandchildren, his young second wife Brenda, sister-in-law Edith and the children’s tutor Lawrence. It is indeed a crooked house, much like the nursery rhyme, since each resident has a very warped interdependence on the others. Charles Hayward is a young man who wishes to marry Sophia, the oldest granddaughter. He is charged by Sophia with finding the killer, since his father is chief of Scotland Yard. Everyone stands to gain financially from the murder, since they are all beneficiaries. But there was no need for the step, since the old man would have gladly given them anything they asked for. Charles uncovers several secrets, like the failed business of the older son, the travel plans of the younger son and the supposed affair between Brenda and Lawrence. Further muddying the waters is the revelation that Aristide has re-written his will leaving everything to Sophia. Shortly after, Josephine, the youngest grandchild who claimed to know the killer, is assaulted. Based on the revelation of the affair, Brenda and Lawrence are arrested. But after the arrest, the nanny is poisoned. Edith, the elderly lady takes Josephine out for ice-cream and drives over a cliff, killing them both. In a letter, she reveals that Josephine herself was the killer, and staged her own assault to throw the scent. Apparently she wanted to hurt her grandfather for not paying for her ballet lessons. The whole premise was a little unsatisfying. Crooked they may be, but to have failed in the upbringing of their child to the level where she murders multiple people for attention seems far-fetched. Also, despite the efforts of the investigations, it seems like the solution pretty neatly falls into the lap of the authorities, rather than through their own efforts. Not her best work. " },{ "id": "/books/contact", "url": "/books/contact/", "title": "Contact", "layout": "post", "description": "Humanity's search for extra-terrestrial intelligence is fruitful", "author": "Carl Sagan", "date": "2025-10-15T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/251015.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "Eleanor “Ellie” Arroway is a gifted young girl with a strong aptitude for math and science. She follows her interests and earns a doctorate despite the lack of support from both family and her guides. She is director of a radio observatory when they start picking up obvious signs of intelligence, a signal transmitting a repeated sequence of prime numbers. Further analysis reveals a retransmission of Adolf Hitler’s 1936 Olympic speech, the first TV signal to escape Earth’s ionosphere. Politicians from the world over get involved, including sworn enemies USA and USSR, and they all start examining the signal using several radio telescopes around the world. With their concentrated gaze, the transmission is discovered to hold a design for a machine described in a form of universal language. An international race ensues to build the machine described, but flaws in the Soviet design leave only the US design viable. The US machine is destroyed in a terrorist attack, and a third machine is revealed to have been privately built in Japan. A group of five people, including Ellie, are chosen to enter the machine and activate it. The machine travels through a series of wormholes to a station near the galactic centre. There, they each meet an extra-terrestrial who takes on the form of a loved one. They travel back to Earth recording their progress throughout, but when they return, they realize that only seconds have elapsed on earth and all their recordings are wiped. The world dismisses their journey as a hoax, but Ellie finds proof in the digits of Pi, something the E.T. told her. The premise and build-up is a excellent, and the tale is gripping. The political context is a little dated, but still relatable. The ending is a little dissatisfying, as much for the characters themselves as the reader. Still, this book is a must-read sci-fi classic. The movie gets a lot of the details off, and does not focus on Ellie’s growth as a scientist in the face of adversity at all, missing the point. " },{ "id": "/books/a-short-history-of-nearly-everything", "url": "/books/a-short-history-of-nearly-everything/", "title": "A Short History of Nearly Everything", "layout": "post", "description": "An engaging exploration of science and the natural world, making complex topics accessible to the casual reader", "author": "Bill Bryson", "date": "2025-10-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/251027.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction History Science", "content": "The book covers a vast array of topics, from the origins of the universe and the formation of Earth, to the development of life and human civilization. The writing style is conversational, and the book is peppered with humourous anecdotes, mainly involving scientists and other significant personalities. This makes the journey through scientific history both entertaining and enlightening. Bryson delves into various scientific disciplines, including geology, biology, and physics, presenting key figures like Albert Einstein and Isaac Newton in relatable contexts. Topics discussed cover the astounding intricacies of life, from the microscopic building blocks of cells to the vastness of the cosmos, illustrating the interconnectedness of all things. A few topics are stressed upon, like the importance of collaboration amongst scientists, and how many crucial discoveries are made accidentally. Also addressed are contemporary topics like humanity’s impact on the world, leading to climate change and extinction. This excellent book makes the reader appreciate the wonder of the natural world and the cosmos. When the end is reached, the reader is left asking for more, and that, in itself, is a key message of the book; the quest for knowledge is never-ending. " },{ "id": "/books/mickey7", "url": "/books/mickey7/", "title": "Mickey7", "layout": "post", "description": "Mickey Barnes tries to survive in a \"beachhead\" colony on an alien world", "author": "Edward Ashton", "date": "2025-10-29T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/251029.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction", "content": "The story is related by Mickey Barnes; he is part of a mission to establish a colony on the cold and forbidding distant planet of Niflheim. His role is that of the “expendable”; he is required to undertake all potentially fatal tasks, and if he should die, he is cloned and brought back with most of his memories intact. He is essentially immortal, but in probably the worst way possible. An accident and a mix-up end with there being two copies of him, Mickey7 and Mickey8, but as the colony struggles for resources, they both have to work together to keep the duplicate existence under wraps. Coupled with a chief who is religiously opposed to the idea of cloning, and increasingly aggressive native life forms, things seem on the verge of falling apart. Mickey7 eventually is instrumental in helping the team reach an understanding with the native life, as well as helping truly justify his “dual” existence. An fast-paced and fun read, the novel turns out to be multi-layered and insightful, wile remaining wildly entertaining. An all round great read. " },{ "id": "/books/maltese-falcon", "url": "/books/maltese-falcon/", "title": "Maltese Falcon", "layout": "post", "description": "Private eye Sam Spade finds himself surrounded by several parties all vying to get hold of a jewel encrusted bird", "author": "Dashiell Hammett", "date": "2025-11-03T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251103.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Classics", "content": "The quintessential hard-boiled detective novel starring the enigmatic detective Sam Spade. The story starts when Sam and his partner Miles are contracted by a Ms. Wonderlay to find her sister. Miles, when tailing their lead Floyd Thursby, is found dead. Sam is now embroiled in a complex web of deceit, betrayal, and greed that centers on the legendary Maltese Falcon, a valuable artifact sought after by multiple parties. A colourful cast includes the beautiful and cunning Brigid O’Shaughnessy (Ms. Wonderlay’s real identity), effeminate criminal Joel Cairo, gangster Casper Gutman and his vicious young enforcer Wilmer Cook. Everyone assumes that Spade knows all, and reveal nothing, but in reality, Spade knows next to nothing at all. Eventually he actually comes into possession of the falcon, almost entirely by accident. In a twist, the bird is found to be a fake, and Gutman and Cairo head out of the country in search of the real bird. Spade pieces together the rest of the story and figures out it was Brigid herself who killed his partner; he turns her in to the police, who inform him that Gutman was killed by Wilmer, who he attempted to double-cross. This book is a product of its times in many ways. The snappy dialogue and vivid descriptions haven’t aged well, and is sometimes near incomprehensible. The plot is often hard to follow, and I often was left wondering how Spade could even function when he spent more time talking tough than doing any actual detective work. More often than not, solutions just fell into his lap with little to no contribution from him. Why key people trusted him when he did little to earn that trust was also inexplicable. To add to all this mess, he is having an affair with his dead partner Miles’ wife, and is actively avoiding her through most of the book. On the whole, this book is probably not worth reading. It might have been a trend-setter in its time, but it is thoroughly dated. " },{ "id": "/books/the-name-of-the-wind", "url": "/books/the-name-of-the-wind/", "title": "The Name of the Wind", "layout": "post", "description": "Kvothe relates the story of his life, the tale of how he grew from a gifted child to be the most notorious wizard his world has ever seen", "author": "Patrick Rothfuss", "date": "2025-11-11T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251111.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Literary", "content": "Kvothe is a world-renowned figure of mystery with a disreputable reputation - a hero or a demon depending on which stories you hear. The real man, now calling himself Kote, has hidden himself away at an inn in the middle of nowhere with his apprentice Bast, and it is not known why. It’s not until the Chronicler discovers him there that he shows any interest in reliving his past life. Insisting that his story will take three days to tell, and that the famous chronicler must write it down exactly as he tells it, he begins to share his story. His story starts when he was a child genius growing up with his parents’ troupe, performing plays and tricks across the land while being taught “sympathy” (magic), history, chemistry etc. by a tinker, Abenthy, who had been to the University. The entire troupe is slaughtered by a group called the Chandrain, after which the orphaned Kvothe is homeless and penniless on the streets of Treban, a big port city. It’s not until he’s fifteen that he makes it to the University, and is accepted, though he’s three years younger than is usual. Abenthy has taught him well, and combined with his impressive memory, natural talent, quick intelligence and training, he moves quickly up the ranks of the university. Despite his abject poverty, he hones his skill in metalworking, music and medicine. This is not without adversity though, as he makes some dangerous enemies along the way, none as dangerous as the wealthy Ambrose Jakis. Kvothe keeps up his investigation of the Chandrain, pursuing any trace of the mysterious group which makes flames glow blue and spell death for anyone who may take a closer look at them. Kvothe also repeatedly encounters the mysterious and beautiful Denna, a young girl with a beautiful voice and in search of a patron. A confrontation with Ambrose leads to Kvothe accidentally calling the name of the wind, which earns him both a punishment, as well as a promotion. It is very evident from the outset that this book is just world-building and laying the groundwork of a story of epic proportions. The character development is ludicrously good. The world-building is solid, believable and original, with a perfect balance of new elements and concepts, introduced and fleshed out at a manageable pace without overwhelming the reader. But what really stands out is the prose. The language, the construction, the delivery… it is just sheer poetry. " },{ "id": "/books/something-fresh", "url": "/books/something-fresh/", "title": "Something Fresh", "layout": "post", "description": "The first ever Blandings castle book and, as it always happens, there are visitors to the castle under an assumed identity", "author": "PG Wodehouse", "date": "2025-11-18T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251118.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Classics", "content": "The Hon. Freddie Threepwood is engaged to be married to the wealthy American heiress Aline Peters, but his absent-minded father, the Earl of Emsworth, has unknowingly purloined an invaluable scarab from Aline’s father, and is displaying it in his castle museum. Multiple parties are working on retrieving the scarab without causing offense to the earl or alerting his secretary, the efficient Baxter. While many of the characters are just being introduced, the groundwork for the charming and irresistible Blandings series are all laid. The absent-minded earl is introduced, but not his obsession with gardening and his prize-winning hog; his dim-witted son Freddie; and the one person holding it all together, his secretary, the efficient, bespectacled Rupert Baxter. One thing unusual about this book which Wodehouse almost never revisits in any of his other books: he describes the two distinct worlds in the large estate houses of the time, the world of the masters and the world of the servants. Each has its own strict hierarchy, and rigid customs. Each has its head, and fiefdoms. While perhaps not as amusing as the later books in the series, this is a solid first book and, unusual for Wodehouse, a read in equal parts enlightening and entertaining. " },{ "id": "/books/the-arabian-nights-entertainments", "url": "/books/the-arabian-nights-entertainments/", "title": "The Arabian Nights Entertainments", "layout": "post", "description": "A collection of folk-tales from the Arab world, from the Islamic golden age", "author": "Richard Burton", "date": "2025-11-26T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251126.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Classics Short-Stories", "content": "Multiple times in life we have encountered one or more of the stories from this celebrated collection; the exploits of Aladdin and Sindbad the Sailor are perhaps the best known as they have been co-opted by western media and expanded into franchises. But those are but two of the tales of Arabian nights. This is the (nearly) complete compilation as interpreted by Sir Richard Burton at the end of the nineteenth century. The outermost frame story is also relatively well known. King Shahryar observes, first hand, the infidelity of his brother’s wife, and vows that his own wife would never be unfaithful to him. To this end, he resolves to have every wife of his put to death the morning after his wedding, thereby ensuring that she would never be unfaithful. Scheherazade is the daughter of his Vizier, and she is the next to be married to Shahryar. But that night, she starts telling a story to her sister, which goes on for most of the night, and stops at a cliff-hanger at dawn. Shahryar so desperately wants to know the tale’s ending, that he is persuaded to let her live another day. This continues for another thousand nights. There are several more frame stories within this, like the Genie who stops a trader and demands a story in exchange for his life, the trader goes on to relate further stories. Another frame story involves a poor porter who is observed bemoaning his ill-luck by Sindbad. Sindbad then tells the stories of his seven voyages and the adventures on each. There are stories involving enchanted princes, castles, and kingdoms. There are stories involving thieves, demons, sorcerers, maidens, merchants, naval voyages, magic caves, vast treasures, and many more. Many tales are bawdy and saucy, despite the primary translator being from the Victorian era. Several themes are repetitive, and in some cases, the frame stories are so deeply nested that the reader forgets the context of the outer stories before the inner one finishes. There is a reason that only a handful of stories are well known as “Tales from the Arabian Nights”; the majority of them are so far-fetched that they lean into the region of preposterous. It’s fun to read once, but if I called upon to relate a particular story at random, I probably will fall back on the staples: Aladdin, Alibaba and Sindbad. " },{ "id": "/books/the-cuckoos-egg", "url": "/books/the-cuckoos-egg/", "title": "The Cuckoo's Egg", "layout": "post", "description": "In the early days of the internet, one astronomer turned part-time sysadmin uncovers a hacker trying to steal sensitive military information", "author": "Clifford Stoll", "date": "2025-11-27T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251127.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Crime Memoir Technology", "content": "Cliff Stoll is an astronomer working at Lawrence Berkeley Labs. In his lean time, he is tasked with managing the several computer systems at the labs, which are networked to multiple computer systems outside, giving access to scientists who may be anywhere in the world. An early version of what is now the internet. He notices a 75c accounting mismatch, and starts down a deep rabbit hole to trace it, culminating in tracking the activities of an ingenious and resourceful hacker who uses the LBL computers as a gateway to gain access to several sensitive military and security computers in an attempt to steal information from them. Playing an elaborate game of cat-and-mouse, the author does not cut off the hacker, but logs every activity of his on both LBL’s computers and every computer accessed through LBL. He even plants fake data as a honey trap to lure the hacker. His detailed tracking efforts gets the attention of FBI, CIA, and West German police, who all work to corner his unseen adversary. This book gives a great insight into the fledgling days of the internet, when it was just a handful of rag-tag mainframes talking disparate languages and running a myriad set of operating systems. Computer security, such as it was, was rudimentary at best, but mostly non-existent. A abbreviated version of this book appeared as a “book section” in a Readers’ Digest in the 90’s, which encouraged a lot of readers (including me) to get interested in computer networks. The writing style is conversational and engaging. It almost reads like a mystery, detective or spy novel, but it’s so much more exciting because it’s all true. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/pachinko", "url": "/books/pachinko/", "title": "Pachinko", "layout": "post", "description": "A grand saga detailing the life of Sunja, from a small fishing village in occupied Korea to her life in Japan, and the repercussions of a decision she took as a teenager", "author": "Min Jin Lee", "date": "2025-12-07T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251207.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary", "content": "Sunja is born in Korea during the Imperia Japanese occupation of the peninsula, and in a rooming house, which she runs along with her mother hosting poor fishermen. In her teens, she is seduced by Hansu, a young, wealthy Zainichi Korean man from Japan. When Sunja turns pregnant, he then reveals that not only has he no intention of marrying her, he is in fact already married and has 3 children. Sunja rejects him completely, and instead marries the gentle priest Baek Isak, who is staying at their rooming house on his way to Japan. The book then jumps to Sunja’s life in Osaka. Sunja has two sons, Noa and Mozasu, and living with Isak’s brother and sister-in-law, Yoseb and Kyunghee. Baek Isak is jailed under Japan’s then strict Lèse-majesté laws, so Sunja and Kyunghee start a small business selling Kimchi from a cart. AS WW2 breaks out, Sunja and Kyunghee get employment at a Korean restaurant, which gives them financial security. A few years later, as the war is drawing to a close, Hansu reappears, and reveals that he has been orchestrating Sunja’s life. She has born him a son, and he is a powerful Yakuza, and uses his wealth and connections to relocate Sunja and her family at a farm away from the city. He also brings her mother over from Korea to live with them. The third part of the book focuses on the lives of Noa and Mozasu. Noa attends college, paid for by Hansu, but is ashamed when he discovers he is an illegitimate child, and moreover, his father is a Yakuza boss. He drops out of college and goes into hiding, with a Japanese identity, and ironically, ends up working as a book-keeper at a Pachinko parlour. Mozasu drops out of school, and starts running Pachinko parlours himself, and brings up his son Solomon as a single parent when his wife dies. Solomon becomes an investment banker, but despite his foreign education, he faces anti-Korean racism, and stigma because of his father’s association with Pachinko. This leads to him joining his father’s Pachinko business. The story ends with Sunja at Isak’s grave, looking back at her life and choices, and finding out that the new deceased Noa was a frequent visitor. I knew next to nothing of Korean history prior to reading this book. I knew Japan invaded them, but I thought that was WW2, not from the beginning of the 20th. I also knew nothing about Pachinko… I believed it was a kind of slot machine… thought different, the underlying principles are the same. The player loses more than he wins, but he plays anyway. That principle is used as a metaphor for life itself in the book; everyone plays, and everyone loses more than they win. Stylistically, this narration is direct and undramatic, despite the story being tender, deeply human and full of soul. The characters face systemic oppression with equanimity, showing gratitude for their meagre victories, and accepting their defeats pragmatically. Each character had a quality which made the reader simultaneously admire and pity them, in equal measure. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/carrie", "url": "/books/carrie/", "title": "Carrie", "layout": "post", "description": "Stephen King's debut novel about a shy teen with telekinetic powers is a tour-de-force, which established him as a master of his craft", "author": "Stephen King", "date": "2025-12-08T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251208.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Thriller Classics", "content": "Carrie White is a teenage girl in a small Maine town, living with her religious fanatic mother. Carrie is shy, is heavily bullied, and treated as an outcast at school. She is mocked incessantly by her classmates and isolated by her mother’s extreme beliefs. Unknown to those around her, Carrie possesses telekinetic powers — the ability to move objects with her mind — which manifest and grow stronger as she enters adolescence. The powers come out particularly during moments of emotional distress or humiliation. When the popular students at the school play a cruel prank on Carrie at prom, the situation becomes a catalyst for tragedy. After being publicly humiliated in front of the entire school, Carrie’s suppressed rage and her telekinetic abilities explode in a devastating display of supernatural power. She destroys the gymnasium, kills many of her classmates and teachers, and causes a massive fire that spreads throughout the town, resulting in the deaths of hundreds of people. She heads home and has a tense encounter with her mother, which results in her mother’s death and Carrie being mortally wounded. Much later the event, labelled the “Black Prom”, is national news, and has caused the deaths of over 400 people in the town, including almost the entire high-school senior student body. The book, at the core, is horror, incorporating both supernatural and gothic themes. The key theme of the book is the psychologically destructive nature of alienation, bullying and religious extremism. Carrie, though having caused all the carnage, is portrayed as a sympathetic figure, a product of her environment in an intolerable situation. The book is presented as a combination of narrative, followed by newspaper clippings and interview transcripts. A short and excellent read. It is hard to believe this is written by a debutant novelist. " },{ "id": "/books/eleanor-oliphant-is-completely-fine", "url": "/books/eleanor-oliphant-is-completely-fine/", "title": "Eleanor Oliphant is completely fine", "layout": "post", "description": "A lonely and isolated 30-something woman makes a friend, and starts to open herself up", "author": "Gail Honeyman", "date": "2025-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251215.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary", "content": "This story follows the life of the titular Eleanor Oliphant, a socially awkward and isolated woman in her thirties living in Glasgow. Her life is strictly regimented, and her daily schedule follows a very rigid pattern. Eleanor works as a bookkeeper, lives alone in a small flat, and has minimal social interaction, speaking to almost no one except during her weekly phone calls with her mother. Eleanor’s controlled world begins to change when she befriends Raymond Gibbons, a kind-hearted IT worker from her office. They witness a violent attack on an elderly man named Sammy. Eleanor and Raymond become closer, and they work together to help Sammy recover. Eleanor gradually opens up about her past and begins to form genuine human connections for the first time in years. Through their friendship, Eleanor starts to confront the painful memories and emotional wounds she has buried, including a traumatic childhood event. This event involved her mother’s mental illness and neglect, resulting in her sibling’s death and Eleanor being burdened with survivor’s guilt all her life. The main concept is one of healing and redemption brought about by basic human connection. As Eleanor trusts others and acknowledges her own feelings, her former catch phrase of being “completely fine” shows up as her protective mantra, to hide her deep-rooted misery from the whole world, and more importantly, herself. A touching story about how there is always scope for change and growth even for those who have given up on themselves. A good read. " },{ "id": "/books/we-have-always-lived-in-the-castle", "url": "/books/we-have-always-lived-in-the-castle/", "title": "We have always lived in the Castle", "layout": "post", "description": "A psychological horror novel which defined the genre, taking gothic horror to the next level", "author": "Shirley Jackson", "date": "2025-12-16T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251216.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Horror Mystery Literary Classics", "content": "Mary Katherine Blackwood, “Merricat” for short, is the narrator of the story. She is a young adolescent girl, who lives with her older sister Constance and invalid uncle Julian at the sprawling mansion. The three are survivors of a shocking event which befell the Blackwood family; six years ago, the rest of the Blackwood family, including several adults and children, died of arsenic poisoning. It was discovered that arsenic was mixed in with the sugar sprinkled over the blackberries consumed at dinner. Constance was the main suspect, and was even arrested, but was released due to lack of evidence. The entire town still considers her guilty, and she never steps out of her house to avoid their accusing looks. Merricat is the sole interface to the world outside, with her periodic trips for groceries and library books. An estranged cousin Charles arrives and befriends the three; but Merricat is deeply suspicious. In a fit of rage, she knocks his pipe over and accidentally sets fire to the house. Villagers arrive to douse the fire, but take their rage out at the family. Uncle Julian dies, but the girls survive in a hideout in the woods. Constance reveals that she knew all along it was Merricat who poisoned the sugar bowl, but didn’t speak up. The next day, they return to their house, now severely burnt, and resume their lives of isolation. Deeply disturbing and macabre, this brief story and its themes linger long after you put the book down. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-drawing-of-the-three", "url": "/books/the-drawing-of-the-three/", "title": "The Dark Tower 2: The Drawing of the Three", "layout": "post", "description": "The gunslinger travels to New York, in our world, and enters the minds of three different people at different times", "author": "Stephen King", "date": "2025-12-21T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251221.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Horror Science-Fiction", "content": "The book picks up immediately after the end of the first book, the Gunslinger. Roland wakes up on a beach, and is attacked by a small creature, which he labels a “lobstrosity”. He loses two fingers in his shooting hand, and a toe to boot. The wounds become infected, and Roland is rapidly losing strength. He walks along the beach and enters a door, standing by itself, labelled “The Prisoner”. This allows him to enter the mind of a young man, Eddie Dean, who is smuggling cocaine into the USA from the Caribbean. When Roland’s help, Eddie manages to escape the clutches of the customs officials, and makes his way to the mob boss, who is holding Eddie’s brother until Eddie gets the cocaine. When Eddie discovers his brother is dead, a wild shootout ensues, which Eddie survives thanks to the superior skills of the gunslinger. At the end, Eddie joins the gunslinger on the beach, and they continue their journey. At the second door, Eddie and Roland encounter a wheelchair-bound woman with dissociative personality disorder; Odetta Holmes is a mild-mannered civil rights activist, whereas Detta Walker is a violent predatory woman. Eddie and Roland have to contend mostly with Detta since Odette remains mostly suppressed. Roland becomes too ill to make it to the third door. Odetta and Eddie enter the door on their own, and encounter Jack Mort, a sociopath who revels in hurting random strangers. He is responsible for the death of Jake Chambers from the first book, as well as for Odette losing her legs and having a split personality. Roland reaches and saves Jake, gets medicines and ammunition for himself, and kills Jack Mort in such a way that both Odetta and Detta witness his death, causing them to merge and become a new woman, Susannah. Now recovered, Roland, along with Susannah and Eddie, continue to the Dark Tower. The first book was a prologue to the Dark Tower series, mostly just setting the stage. This book entwines the world of the Dark Tower with our own, and is written with a rich narrative replete with diverse language structures. The world building is wildly fantastic, and the three distinct characterizations all make this book an absolute joy to read. " },{ "id": "/books/odd-and-the-frost-giants", "url": "/books/odd-and-the-frost-giants/", "title": "Odd and The Frost Giants", "layout": "post", "description": "Norse mythology retold as a children's adventure story", "author": "Neil Gaimam", "date": "2025-12-22T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/251222.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Young-Adult", "content": "The Gods of Asgard, Thor, Odin and Loki have been transformed into animals and cast out by the frost giants. Odd, a neglected and lonely boy with a limp, finds the Gods in the forms of a fox, bear and eagle. He befriends them, but realizes that he does not have the wherewithal to keep feeding them. He travels with them back to Asgard, and convinces the frost giant to return to his world, and restore Asgard to the three forlorn Gods. The frost giant gladly does so, and the Gods thank and heal Odd, sending him back to Midgard (Earth) stronger, wiser and taller. And armed with a staff. Several of Neil Gaiman’s works, while specifically targeting children, and usually a joy for adults to read. This book is an exception; it is a little too fantastic to stomach, and the challenges faced by the protagonist are overcome fairly trivially. Not his best work, to say the least. " },{ "id": "/books/cosmos", "url": "/books/cosmos/", "title": "Cosmos", "layout": "post", "description": "An epic treatise describing how the entire universe has evolved over 14 billion years, and how the human civilization and our own understanding of science has evolved in parallel", "author": "Carl Sagan", "date": "2026-01-02T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/260102.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science", "content": "This is a companion book to the epic TV series which established Carl Sagan as the greatest science communicator of his generation and rejuvenated an interest in science for the entire populace. Starting with the origin of the cosmos, the book traces through the formation of matter, galaxies, constellations, stars, planets and moons. It talks about the evolution of living beings, and the long and winding road to humans and consciousness. It talks about the forces and individuals across history who contributed to humanity’s long journey of discovery, and the shaping of modern scientific thought. Sagan looks at earth and humanity as a child, just wondering about the universe around them and taking their first baby steps to the long journey of understanding and discovery. Sagan’s beautiful and eloquent language makes the whole book a joy to read. With several full-colour illustrations, this is perhaps the best book on science, reality and the nature of things. Presented without lofty ideology or inspiring quotations, the subject matter is presented in simple language without scientific terminology. An absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/books/flatland-a-romance-of-many-dimensions", "url": "/books/flatland-a-romance-of-many-dimensions/", "title": "Flatland: A romance of many dimensions", "layout": "post", "description": "An brief and entertaining mathematical satire, where a 2-dimensional being encounters a 3-dimensional one", "author": "Edwin A Abbott", "date": "2026-01-03T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/260103.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Science-Fiction Classics", "content": "A. Square is a resident of flatland, a two-dimensional world populated by regular polygons. In this world, women have the lowest social standing, they are mere straight lines. The men may have any number of sides depending on their social standing. A. Square describes his world, the five-sided houses, the separate entrance for the “dangerous” women, and the social mores of a world where his perception is limited to just one dimension. Between the lines, it is a satire on the rigid social mores of the Victorian era when this book was first published. A. Square is visited by a strange beings from other lands, allowing him to encounter life-forms from other lands: the three-dimensional “space-land”, the lowly one-dimensional “line-land”, and even the non-dimensional “point-land”. Enthralled by the new and enlightened dimensions he has encountered, A. Square harbours thoughts about visiting a four-dimensional world, which shocks his interlocutor so much that A. Square is promptly returned back to his world, Flatland. Edwin A. Abbott was a clergyman, educator and Shakespearean scholar, which just makes the very existence of this book that much more delightful. A very short book that is fascinating reading and an excellent introduction to the concept of multiple dimensions in space. " },{ "id": "/books/jonathan-strange-and-mr-norrell", "url": "/books/jonathan-strange-and-mr-norrell/", "title": "Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell", "layout": "post", "description": "Years after English magic is thought dead, a magician Mr. Norrell comes forth to help England in the Napoleonic wars", "author": "Susanna Clarke", "date": "2026-01-21T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/260121.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Fantasy Historical Literary", "content": "English magicians were once the wonder of the known world, with fairy servants at their beck and call; they could command winds, mountains, and woods. But by the early 1800s they have long since lost the ability to perform magic. All that is left are “theoretical magicians”, enthusiasts and self-proclaimed scholars who study old books and write long, dull papers about magic. From Yorkshire, a rich reclusive gentleman named Mr. Norrell has compiled a vast library which contains nearly all extant works on magic. Using this, he regains some of the powers of the old magicians and goes to London, to offer his services to His Majesty’s government. While initially dismissed as a curiosity, he turns heads when he raises a young woman from the dead, and is soon helping England in its war against Napoleon, creating fake storms and ghost fleets. Another magician appears in the form of Jonathan Strange; young, handsome, outgoing and well-spoken, Strange is everything that Mr. Norrell is not. Mr. Norrell accepts him as a pupil, and together they make considerable strides in developing their skills. Strange departs with the English ground forces led by Lord Wellington, performing magic on battlefields to aid the campaign. When he returns, it is evident that there is a rift in the perspectives of Strange and Mr. Norrell. While the latter wants to closely guard the secrets of magic and control its use, Strange is attracted to progressively more dangerous magic, and becomes obsessed with the Raven King, a legendary king of yore who ruled both England and Faerie. Soon the repercussions of their past actions catch up with them, and threatens to destroy all they hold dear. This book is not for everyone; it targets a very specific type of reader, who has a range of tastes. To me, the book is a true charmer, compelling in all its subtlety, imaginative, witty and beautifully written. The characterizations in the book is definitely one of the best elements; the characters, be it the main protagonists or otherwise, are solidly drawn and interesting, as lovable as they are flawed. " },{ "id": "/books/luckiest-girl-alive", "url": "/books/luckiest-girl-alive/", "title": "Luckiest Girl Alive", "layout": "post", "description": "Ani seems to have it all; fancy job, glamourous life, rich fiancé. But her past hides horrendous secrets which still haunt her...", "author": "Jennifer Knoll", "date": "2026-01-27T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/260127.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Thriller Literary", "content": "Ani FaNelli works as an editor at a glamourous New York fashion magazine. She has a loving fiance, from a wealthy family. She seems to have it all, and have it completely together. Except, she hides a dreadful secret… or secrets. When she was a teenager, she was subject to crippling emotional abuse as well as a gang rape, and is a survivor of a high-school shooting which claimed several of her classmates. All of these have impacted her deeply well into her adult years, a fact she is initially unwilling to acknowledge. When she participates in a documentary being made about the events, she begins to question whether she is genuinely happy, and if the life she has worked hard to curate and polish is actually the one she wants. Told in first person, the voice of the narrator changes along with their mental state; at the start, she is cocksure and snooty, and over the course of the book, she gradually becomes more down-to-earth and accepting, demonstrating her changing attitude and perception. A decent read. " },{ "id": "/books/the-chrysalids", "url": "/books/the-chrysalids/", "title": "The Chrysalids", "layout": "post", "description": "A community in a post-apocalyptic world strictly defines what it means to be human, and roots out any deviations as abominations", "author": "John Wyndham", "date": "2026-02-01T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/260201.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Classics Science-Fiction Dystopian", "content": "This is a world of people picking up the pieces after a huge nuclear war has left most of the world barren and poisonous. Survivors are yet to reinvent most modern technologies, and live largely agrarian lives. Given the high amounts of residual radiation, one in two children is born with some abnormality… an extra finger, a missing toe, or something less obvious. At a remote station a deeply religious community evolves which strictly defines what it means to be human, and discards all abnormalities as abominations. Babies are carefully examined and killed if not “normal”. Older abominations are banished, when discovered. The story centers on David who is born telepathic. There are just a handful who can talk to each other through thought, including his cousin Rosalind, and his little sister Petra. A series of circumstances lead to some of them being discovered, mostly because of Petra’s extremely powerful telepathic capability. They manage to escape capture and go into the “Fringes”, the territory of the banished ones. In the meantime, another seemingly technologically superior group of survivors at the other end of the world makes contact, having sensed Petra. An excellent tale with intricate and nuanced world-building, beautifully describing a world set back by hundreds of years, complete with religious fanatics. The story magnificently traces the intolerance arising from fear, the sad plight of the outcasts, and the desperate flight of those who would be found out. And yet, from an unbelievable source, there is hope… this book is just pure magic. " },{ "id": "/books/the-girl-on-the-train", "url": "/books/the-girl-on-the-train/", "title": "The Girl on the Train", "layout": "post", "description": "A woman becomes obsessed with a couple she sees from her train window every day", "author": "Paula Hawkins", "date": "2026-02-03T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/260203.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary Thriller", "content": "This is an unreliable narrator story, with multiple twists revealing that all is not what it seems, again and again. Rachel is divorced, bitter and alcoholic. Her husband is now married to Anna, and they have a child together. Rachel goes on a train everyday, and at a specific spot where the train stops for a few minutes, she observes a seemingly happy perfect couple. She slowly becomes obsessed with the couple, giving them fictitious names and lives. The woman Rachel observed through the train window is Megan. The story shifts perspectives, describing events from all three viewpoints, Rachel, Anna and Megan. Without revealing too much, Megan goes missing, and Rachel inserts herself into the investigation, but her alcohol fueled blackouts hide a lot, both from her and the reader. A great, fast paced read. I first struggled to get through this book because I generally do not like unreliable narrator tomes, but after a long break, I gave it another go and rather enjoyed it. " },{ "id": "/books/the-time-travellers-wife", "url": "/books/the-time-travellers-wife/", "title": "The Time Traveller's Wife", "layout": "post", "description": "Henry has a rare condition which causes him to randomly jump in time, to various places in either the past or future", "author": "Audrey Niffenegger", "date": "2026-02-17T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/260217.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Historical Literary Science-Fiction", "content": "This is essentially a love story, a love across ages, across lifetimes, a love that existed before it started and exists after it finished. That probably makes no sense, but things generally get murky when time travel is involved. Henry DeTamble is a librarian, son of two reasonably famous classical musicians. He has an odd genetic makeup, which causes him to randomly relocate to arbitrary places in time and space, where he suddenly appears with no clothes on, and has to survive until the process reverses and he jumps back to where he started. Clare Abshire is an mixed-media artist, and the love of his life. But his time jumps cause him to meet her when he is in his 40’s and she is just 6. They keep meeting, at different times and ages, until they meet for the first time, in real time. The book seems like a metaphor for something; there are parallels drawn between Odysseus and this book, and sometimes even the life of Jesus. But both seem like overreach. All told, it is just a love story, and the time travel is used as a plot device to illustrate the concept of a soul-mate as one for all time. Several twists and turns, coupled with the necessarily non-linear storytelling, make this a hard book to wade through in a single sitting. There are individuals who loathe this book with great fervour, and equally, those who adore it. " },{ "id": "/books/one-shot", "url": "/books/one-shot/", "title": "One Shot", "layout": "post", "description": "A former army sniper has been arrested for going on a random killing spree, and he taps Reacher", "author": "Lee Child", "date": "2026-02-26T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/books/260226.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Mystery Thriller", "content": "A gunman, James Barr, goes on a killing spree in a parking lot in a small town, and kills 5 people with 6 bullets. He is caught quite quickly by the local police, but he absolutely refuses to talk, and asks for Reacher. Reacher is in the other end of the country, and makes his way to the town, but he has a different agenda. Barr had done this before when in the army, and Reacher had caught him, but he was never convicted because of a technicality. Reacher had vowed to bury him if he ever stepped out of line, and now, he’s come to do just that. Except, a lot of things don’t add up, and as Reacher investigates, he uncovers a sinister Russian mob, led by a Gulag survivor, who framed Barr. Typical Reacher novel, showcasing his superhuman fighting abilities and powers of deduction. The story starts off well, but the Russian mob angle seemed far-fetched. If a mob wants to dispose someone, they don’t randomly kill bystanders and frame someone. Too many loose ends that way. Still, a fun read. " },{ "id": "/books/pale-blue-dot", "url": "/books/pale-blue-dot/", "title": "Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space", "layout": "post", "description": "Describes the first steps taken by humanity to explore space, and assesses the future before us as we step out into our system and beyond", "author": "Carl Sagan", "date": "2026-03-09T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/260309.jpg", "tags": "Non-Fiction Science", "content": "A sequel of sorts to his seminal “Cosmos”, Dr. Sagan titled this book on a lecture given by him with the same title. Just as the Voyager 1 was about to slingshot around Saturn and begin its journey away from the solar system, at the advice of Dr. Sagan, the probe was turned around and took a series of photographs of the solar system and all the planets visible. Entitled the “Family Portrait” series, this was taken at a distance of 6 billion kilometers from Earth. At this distance, Earth does not even warrant one full pixel of image space. It just shows as a slightly pale blue discolouration. But, as Dr. Sagan put it in his lecture: From this distant vantage point, the Earth might not seem of any particular interest. But for us, it’s different. Consider again that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives. The aggregate of our joy and suffering, thousands of confident religions, ideologies, and economic doctrines, every hunter and forager, every hero and coward, every creator and destroyer of civilization, every king and peasant, every young couple in love, every mother and father, hopeful child, inventor and explorer, every teacher of morals, every corrupt politician, every “superstar”, every “supreme leader”, every saint and sinner in the history of our species lived there – on a mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam. Dr. Sagan charts out the Voyager missions, what the inspiration was, what they achieved and how their findings changed our understanding and perception of the cosmos. He went on to describe upcoming scientific missions, and what humanity might look like in the future, having ventured across the solar system and beyond. He also pragmatically observes that the petty squabbles of nations, and our blatant nearsightedness when it comes to planetary issues like climate change would sooner undo us than lead us to a grand multi-world civilization. The book is loosely structured, meandering, filled with musings and tangents, written much like the lecture of a scientist whose thoughts are racing away and words are struggling to keep up. An excellent follow up to Cosmos. " },{ "id": "/books/the-city-and-the-city", "url": "/books/the-city-and-the-city/", "title": "The City & the City", "layout": "post", "description": "Police have to solve a crime in the city-state of Beszel, a bizarre place which shares streets and neighbourhoods with the equally bizarre city state of Ul Qoma", "author": "China Miéville", "date": "2026-03-12T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/260312.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Crime Fantasy Literary Mystery", "content": "Inspector Tyador Borlú of the Extreme Crimes Squad in Beszel is called to the scene of a murder; a young woman is discovered dead. Beszel is one of a pair of city-states, the other being Ul Qoma, which exist adjacent to each other such that they even share streets. The border cuts through parks and runs along pavements. But it is is a serious crime for the citizen of either city to even acknowledge the existence of the other. They bring in a mental blur filter and immediately look away. All residents can identify the people, buildings and vehicles of the other city, and nearly involuntarily forget that they even observed it. Why? Because to do so is a crime called breach, policed by an authority higher than any single person or body, called “The Breach” who are a law onto themselves. People who commit breach are “disappeared”. No questions asked. Anyway, the woman is revealed to be a Mahalia Geary, a Canadian student at the university in Ul Qoma. Borlú is all set to wash his hands off the case since it involves breach, but receives evidence that the murder vehicle crossed the border legally, with a permit, and “The Breach” would not be involved. Now Borlú has to work with the police across the border in Ul Qoma to unravel the case, which progressively gets murkier. The world building in the book is beyond anything I have seen, and despite the complexity of the idea, Mieville never drops the ball, keeping the narrative tight and even and the plot moving steadily along. An absolute delight to read. " },{ "id": "/books/in-ascension", "url": "/books/in-ascension/", "title": "In Ascension", "layout": "post", "description": "A Dutch marine biologist is part of a team which investigates a new undersea formation, and the findings tie in with a space mission", "author": "Martin MacInnes", "date": "2026-03-16T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/260316.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary Mystery Science-Fiction", "content": "In a not-too-distant future where climate change has reshaped the planet, Leigh’s life is marked by turmoil. Born into a household ravaged by abuse and neglect, she finds solace in the scientific community, cultivating a career as both a microbiologist and marine ecologist. The discovery of an undersea thermal vent sparks her curiosity, drawing her to join a research team that ventures beneath the waves to collect samples. Leigh’s experience underwater is marked by a strange, unsettling pull that leaves her feeling disoriented and drained upon returning to the ship. Her professional life takes a dramatic turn when she’s recruited by an enigmatic company with a vision for a deep space mission. The proposal: harness algae as a sustainable food source for a revolutionary journey to a distant point in the Oort cloud. Leigh is in one of several teams which could be selected for the mission, but a series of mishaps result in her team being the chosen crew. As they approach their target, a phenomenon known as a time shift sets them billions of years adrift. If the premise sounds bizarre, the story and writing is no less so. The narrative repeatedly jumps between hard science fiction, deeply philosophical musings and the protagonists inner monologue. There is also a side plot, or at least, what I think is the side plot, of her deteriorating relationship with her sister and her declining mother whom she chooses not to visit. This is one of the novels where people are expected to ponder, read between the lines, and be deeply affected about the nature of relationships and the definition of home, or whatever. Doesn’t do it for me. " },{ "id": "/books/anxious-people", "url": "/books/anxious-people/", "title": "Anxious People", "layout": "post", "description": "An unreliable narrator talks of an inept bank robber who first fails to rob a bank, then takes hostages at a real-estate viewing, and finally disappears, without a trace", "author": "Fredrik Backman", "date": "2026-03-23T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/books/260323.jpg", "tags": "Fiction Literary Mystery", "content": "Set in a small town in Sweden, the story follows a non-linear structure and relates a sequence of events which led an apartment open house morphing into a hostage situation. An inept bank robber attempts to rob a cashless bank, and in a fit of panic, runs into the building across the street and barges into the open house waving a gun. Viewing the open house are an eclectic bunch of people that include: a retired couple who fix-up and flip houses to distract from the harsh truth that it’s their marriage that needs to be fixed up. a wealthy banker who is too busy making money to care about anyone else a young couple expecting their first baby, but seem to be incapable of agreeing on anything an old lady who isn’t scared of anything, and an over-eager real-estate agent. Throw in a half-naked man dressed as a rabbit, brought in there to disrupt the viewing, and the now frantic robber has what is possibly the worst group of hostages ever. But despite their differences the motley group begins to unexpectedly connect as the narrative progresses, finding common ground in their differences and shared vulnerabilities. The policemen on the case are a father-son duo, who have their own odd dynamics; they manage to get the hostages out safely, but the robber has vanished. They interview each witness in an attempt to figure out the case, but that just muddles things further. While occasionally veering toward the overly sentimental, the novel is undeniably funny and heartwarming. It’s filled with unexpected twists – some bordering on the absurd – and incorporates a poignant backstory involving a suicide from years past that weaves through the lives of several key characters. Ultimately, it’s a charming and thoroughly engaging read, offering a satisfyingly lighthearted escape.” " },{ "id": "/classical/ABer", "url": "/classical/ABer/", "title": "Alban Berg", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-31T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1885, "died": 1935, "image": "/images/classical/38.jpg", "from": "Vienna, Austria", "schools": "Modern, 2nd Viennese", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Born in 1885 in Austria, the young Alban Berg soon realised that he wanted to spend the rest of his life composing music. He was fortunate enough to receive a private income for many of his early years, thereby giving him the time and means to pursue his calling. However, this money ran out shortly after the Second World War, and he had to scrape a living from teaching and performance royalties. In his twenties, Berg could always be found in the company of the avant-garde Viennese intellectuals of the time such as the architect and founder of the Bauhaus, Walter Gropius, and Mahler’s widow, Alma. It was in such circles that he met Arnold Schoenberg, who became a guide and friend, and for whom Berg composed his Chamber Concerto on his mentor’s fiftieth birthday. Berg is probably best remembered for his opera Wozzeck, which is seen as being one of the more accessible modern works. Both Wozzeck and his other opera, Lulu, are regarded as significant contributions to the development of opera in the twentieth century. Three Orchestral Pieces 1914, Orchestral Berg learnt many of his skills and abilities as composer from his teacher and friend, Arnold Schoenberg, who became something of a hero to him and, on the event of his mentor’s fortieth birthday, Berg hoped to produce a suitable composition. But rather than save it as a surprise, Berg found himself consulting Schoenberg on many aspects of a work that later became the ‘Three Orchestral Pieces’. Although suitably flattered, the master stuck to his role of teacher and gave realistic and occasionally cutting advice and criticism as Berg progressed. Consequently, in a desperate bid to please, Berg spent longer than normal on the work, to the unfortunate extent that on the actual birthday, 13 September 1914, only the first and last of the ‘Three Pieces’ were actually finished. In the accompanying letter Berg wrote: ‘For years it has been my secret but strong wish . . . to dedicate something to you. The works written under your supervision . . . were automatically eliminated, having been received by you. My hope to write something more independent and yet as good as these first compositions . . . has been repeatedly disappointed for several years . . . I cannot tell whether I have succeeded or failed. Should the latter be the case, then in your fatherly benevolence, Mr Schoenberg, you must take the goodwill of the deed.’ The first piece begins with a misty sound that is soon filled out by other instruments until the principal theme is introduced by the violins and bassoons in unison. At the end, the movement fades back to its original haze. The second section is set at a waltz-like pace and has some noticeable connections with the beer-garden scene from Berg’s opera ‘Wozzeck’. The final piece is a March and is as long as the first two movements combined. It constantly seems to rise to series of catastrophic climaxes, often with loud and crashing kettle-drums. On the original score, Berg wrote: ‘To my teacher and friend Arnold Schoenberg, in immeasurable gratitude and love’. Wozzeck 1921, Opera Berg’s ‘Wozzeck’ is often seen as one of the most influential operas of this century and also the only Expressionist opera to be accepted into the standard repertoire. Berg took as his source the tragedy ‘Woyzeck’, written by Georg Buchner in 1837, which was seen as a very reactionary piece of literature for its day. It tells the story of Wozzeck, a simple-minded soldier, who is shown to us as a helpless victim of his environment. He has a captain who mocks him, a garrison doctor who performs scientific experiments on him, a drum major who regularly beats him, and a mistress who is unfaithful to him. In his despair, Wozzeck murders his mistress and then drowns while trying to wash her blood off his hands in a pond. The work was finished in 1921, and at first no opera house would touch it, claiming that it was simply too difficult to perform. So, on the advice of a friend, Berg chose three excerpts that he could present in concert form. A performance took place in June 1924 in Frankfurt, and was a resounding success – so much so, that the Berlin State Opera decided that they would stage the entire opera, which they did in December 1925. The first excerpt begins with a scene in the room of Wozzeck’s mistress, Marie. We hear the approach of a military band, which Marie watches intently while holding her baby. As she is admiring the drum major who is leading the band, her neighbour begins to shout insults at her until Marie slams shut the window, thereby shutting out the sound of the band. She sings the child to sleep with a beautiful lullaby. The next excerpt is also set in Marie’s room, in the evening. A single, muted viola introduces a theme upon which seven variations follow. In the final section we are at the end of the opera, where Wozzeck is drowning. The horror of this scene is enhanced by slow, rising scales for strings and woodwinds that soon becomes a powerful orchestral lament for all the down-trodden Wozzecks of this world. Lulu 1934, Opera Alban Berg’s opera ‘Lulu’ is based on two plays by the German Expressionist writer Frank Wedekind, ‘Earth Spirit’ and ‘ Pandora’s Box’. By skilful cutting and careful arrangement, Berg was able to construct a libretto and a produce a three-act opera with a strong story line, though governed essentially by musical forms. The main character, Lulu, is a dangerous woman who uses her sex and cunning to climb the social ladder. Up to the middle of Act II, we see Lulu destroy three husbands in quick succession as she strives for social recognition, yet it is in the second half that she begins to suffer for her crimes, for she herself is eventually destroyed by three men, corresponding to her husbands. Lulu’s first husband dies of a heart attack when he discovers her with a portrait painter. The painter, who becomes her second husband, shoots himself when he discovers that she is the mistress of the local doctor. When the doctor, her third husband, discovers that she has seduced his son, he tries to make her commit suicide, but Lulu shoots him first and is imprisoned. After a year she is rescued by a trio of her admirers and flees with them to Paris and eventually to London, where she has fallen so far down the social scale that she is nothing more than a common prostitute. In the last scene, we see Lulu meet a horrible end at the hands of Jack the Ripper. The Suite is set in five movements and was put together after the success of the opera. The first movement is a Rondo and introduces the main Lulu theme, while the Allegro of the second movement stresses the turning point of the opera, where Lulu begins to fall from social grace, i.e. her arrest and imprisonment for the death of the doctor. The third section is called ‘Lulu’s Song’ and is her self-defence and justification for the killing, which sadly does her no good as she is still thrown in jail. The ‘Variations’ follow in the fourth part to prepare the observer for the hopelessness of the final scene. The theme Berg uses here is actually from a collection of Berlin prostitute songs. The final Adagio is the tragic end of Lulu’s life, when she meets her doom with her last customer, Jack the Ripper. After we hear Lulu’s screams, her friend, a down-and-out Countess, rushes to her aid – only also to be killed by the Ripper. As she dies, she is accompanied by astonishingly tender music, to which she murmurs: ‘Lulu my angel – let me see you once more! – I am near to you. I will always be near to you, in eternity . . .’ Violin Concerto 1935, Concerti, Orchestral On the original manuscript of Berg’s Violin Concerto is the inscription ‘To the Memory of an Angel’. The work is in fact dedicated to the eighteen-year-old Manon Gropius, the daughter of the famous architect Walter Gropius and his wife, Alma Maria Mahler, formerly the wife of Gustav Mahler. In February 1935 Berg was shocked and dismayed to learn of the death of Manon, who had been a devoted friend. He was told that she had been struck with infantile paralysis and, though she struggled bravely against it as best she could, had sadly passed away. Berg was deeply moved and decided that he would write a violin concerto as memorial to his dead friend. He began work at an incredible pace which, for Berg, was rather unusual, and interrupting the composition of the last act of his opera ‘Lulu’. In July he wrote to his friend Anton Webern, saying: ’ . . . and then I was so dead tired after an almost thirteen-hour work day, that I was incapable of absorbing any more music, so I went to bed. For on that day [July 12] I had practically completed the composition of the Violin Concerto and I had been sitting at the piano or my desk from seven o’ clock that morning until nine o’ clock at night almost without interruption.’ The concerto is in two movements of two parts each, the first being a musical portrait of Manon Gropius, the second ‘The catastrophe of death and the transfiguration in heaven.’ The first movement (Andante – Allegretto) begins with a quiet string introduction before the solo violin takes up its musical position. In the Allegretto we hear a light-hearted display of dance tunes that Berg hoped would capture and represent Manon’s natural cheer and love of life. In the second section (Allegro – Adagio) the musicians are instructed to allow the rhythm to fluctuate to re-enact Manon’s struggle with death. " },{ "id": "/classical/ACop", "url": "/classical/ACop/", "title": "Aaron Copland", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-11-03T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1900, "died": 1991, "image": "/images/classical/41.jpg", "from": "New York, USA", "schools": "Modern, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Aaron Copland’s parents were Russian Jews who emigrated to the USA. Their name was originally Kaplan, but this was misspelt by the emigration authorities and Copland it became. Copland showed no great aptitude for music until about the age of eleven, when his sister was having piano lessons and, inspired by the music she was playing, he decided that he would like to have lessons himself. Fascinated, too, by the whole art of creating music, he had lessons in harmony and composition with Rubin Goldmark when he was about seventeen years old. Wanting desperately to pursue his interest in music, he made his way to Paris four years later to study with Nadia Boulanger (a celebrated and much revered musicologist and teacher). He returned to America some seven years later, having absorbed the modernist influences of Paris and Madame Boulanger. In 1925 his Symphony for Organ and Orchestra was performed, and the conductor Walter Damrosch turned to the audience and said: ‘If a young man at twenty-three can write a symphony like that, in five years time he’ll be ready to commit murder!’ This appears not to have bothered Copland too much at the time, but as the years passed he began to address this most serious of issues – the relationship between the composer and the audience. This is a matter that many contemporary composers are guilty of neglecting, which is why there is little public interest in much of what is being produced today. Cast your mind back to the days of Bach and Handel, or Mozart and Haydn, when the public couldn’t wait to hear the latest works of these composers and would make a point of being present at the first performances. Nowadays composers are lucky to see a sprinkling of academic admirers alongside the critics at the first performances of their works, whilst many people are confused and bewildered at the aural assaults to which they are subjected. Copland became aware of this and astutely took it on board. He then really began to write from the heart – romantic music with a distinctly American flavour to it: El Salón México was followed by the ballet Billy the Kid, An Outdoor Overture, Quiet City, Rodeo and in 1945 the all-time favouritethe ballet Appalachian Spring. Copland was honoured with the Pulitzer Prize and the award of the New York Music Critics for Appalachian Spring, and this piece paved the way for his longest work, the Symphony No. 3, which has been described as being ‘all about America’. Copland’s works sit perfectly alongside those of Gershwin, these two composers being the two great representatives of American music: Gershwin with his jazzy populist style and Copland with his amazing gift for writing pieces that capture the spirit of ‘the great outdoors’ and the American people. Rodeo Ballet Rodeo is an exciting story of a cow-girl who invades a male sport and ends up beating the boys at their own game. Tender Land Opera Copland certainly stuck to his favourite theme when he wrote this opera, whose main theme is about true love on the range. It was once cruelly described as an upmarket ‘Oklahoma’. El Salón México 1937, Orchestral Aaron Copland wrote in 1932: ‘If you have ever been in Mexico you probably know why a composer should want to write a piece of music about it.’ Indeed, he went on to write a work that seemed to combine the folk melody, rhythm and harmony of Mexico without removing the freshness and beauty of true Mexican song. In fact, a Mexican critic wrote that the American’s music embodied ‘the very elements of our folk song in the purest and most perfect form’, which is probably the highest praise Copland could have received. The ‘Salón México’ was a nightclub with a grand Cuban Orchestra where Copland spent a lot of time during his travels around the country. It amused the composer to find that the club was divided into three halls: one for tourists, one for workers and one for barefoot dancing, where a sign on the wall read: ‘Please don’t throw lighted cigarette butts on the floor so the ladies don’t burn their feet’! After spending many nights there, Copland decided to use his inspiration to work a piece from Mexican folk songs, to which end he set about buying collections of traditional Mexican music and familiarising himself with them fully. The end result is not merely a collection of melodies, but rather a cohesive whole from which one can almost imagine the scenes that so inspired the composer. ‘El Salón México’ set Copland on a path of folk-music inspired works which included ‘Billy the Kid’ and ‘Appalachian Spring’. Billy the Kid 1939, Ballet Like the majority of composers at some point in their lives, Copland was keen to explore and exploit the folk music of his native land and, having played with some Mexican folk tunes in his ‘El Salón México’, he now turned to traditional American songs with a view to producing a cowboy ballet. He took as his source the famous ballad of Billy the Kid, which goes as follows: When Billy the Kid was a very young lad, In Old Silver City, he went to the bad; At twelve years of age the Kid killed his first man, Then blazed a wide trail with a gun in each hand. Fair Mexican maidens played soft on guitars And sang of ‘Billito’ their king ‘neath the stars; He was a brave lover, and proud of his fame, And no man could stand ‘gainst the Kid’s deadly aim. Now Billy ranged wide, and his killings were vile; He shot fast, and first, when his blood got a-rile, And, ‘fore his young manhood did reach its sad end, His six-guns held notches for twenty-one men. Copland felt that his ballet music should contain some recognisable melodies from traditional cowboy songs, and the final work includes parts of ‘The Old Chisholm Trail’, ‘Git Along, Little Dogies’, Great Granddad’ and ‘The Dying Cowboy’. He refused to include ‘Home on the Range’, saying that he had to draw the line somewhere! The action begins on a prairie while a bouncy cowboy tune (‘Great Granddad’) is played on a piccolo. Later we find ourselves in a frontier town with cowboys sauntering by. Trombones begin to play another cowboy tune. Soon we are into Billy’s violent life and the music continues to depict his turbulent days up to his death at the age of only twenty-one. Appalachian Spring 1944, Ballet On 30 October 1944 a choreographer, producer and dancer called Martha Graham staged three new works by contemporary composers, adapted for ballet. One of these was Aaron Copland’s ‘Appalachian Spring’, and it was fairly well received. However, the following spring Graham and her company took just ‘Appalachian Spring’ up to New York, and from this point things really took off. Firstly, the music was awarded the Pulitzer Prize for Music, and a little time later it received an award from the Music Critics Circle of New York. America seemed to be beginning to accept Copland as a composer of some worth. As a result Copland decided to arrange an orchestral suite from his ballet music, and this was first performed by the New York Philharmonic in October 1945. The story of the ballet was described by the ‘Herald Tribune’ as follows: ’ . . . a pioneer celebration in early spring around a newly built farm-house . . . in the early part of the last century. The bride-to-be and the young farmer husband enact the emotions . . . their new partnership invites. An older neighbour suggests now and then the rocky confidence of experience. A revivalist and his followers remind the new householders of the strange and terrible aspects of human fate. At the end the couple are left quiet and strong in their new house.’ The music is divided into eight sections and Copland gives a little description of each. Very slowly – Introduction of characters. Fast – Sudden burst of unison strings starts the action. The main theme is played on a trumpet. Moderate – Duo for the Bride and her Intended – scene of tenderness and passion. Quite fast – The revivalist and his flock. Folksy feelings – suggestions of square dances and country fiddlers. Still fast – Solo dance of the bride. Very slowly. Calm and flowing – Scenes of daily life with variations on a theme by Shaker. Moderate – The bride takes her place among her neighbours and the couple are left . . . quiet and strong in their new house.’ Clarinet Concerto 1948, Concerti, Orchestral Copland wrote this clarinet concerto especially for Benny Goodman, the famous jazz clarinettist of the day, and it is indeed a ‘finger-snapping’ work. " },{ "id": "/classical/ADvo", "url": "/classical/ADvo/", "title": "Antonín Dvořák", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-11T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1841, "died": 1904, "image": "/images/classical/19.jpg", "from": "Bohemia, Czechoslovakia", "schools": "Romantic, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Dvorák is the foremost Czech composer. His music ranks alongside that of all the great writers of the nineteenth century, being performed by orchestras in concert halls all over the world. He was definitely a composer’s composer: Tchaikovsky was a friend and admirer and Brahms was once moved to write, ‘I should be glad if something occurred to me as a main idea that occurs to Dvorak only by the way!’. Dvorák had a very special talent for writing beautiful tunes, and his works are therefore littered with great melodies that sound so spontaneous you can’t help but have them ringing in your ears long after the music has stopped. He started music at a very early age and, like all the other great composers, showed enormous promise straight away. He found jobs as a viola player in various orchestras, notably the Czech National Opera Orchestra, and was often conducted by Smetana, one of his heroes. It was here that he got his own first inspirations to write opera, and working alongside Smetana was undoubtedly of great benefit. He was also obsessed with the works of Wagner and, having made contact with the maestro, is reputed to have attended every single performance of Wagner’s work at the German Theatre in Prague. His own forays into the world of composing were not received with the wildest enthusiasm, but this did not deter him and he continued to write symphonies, string quartets and song cycles until, in the mid-1870s, no one could ignore him any longer. Brahms had long championed his works and helped Dvorák’s career by getting him a publishing deal. Dvorák had already won the Austrian State Prize four years running and finally made his mark with works such as the Serenade for Strings and the now immensely popular Slavonic Dances. It was from then on that Dvorák never looked back. He was invited all over the world both as a conductor and a professor of music. He spent three years in the United States, where he wrote his Symphony No. 9 (The New World), but spent the last few years of his life in his native land in the city of Prague as the Director of the Conservatory. Serenade for Strings in E Serenade for Strings in E Op. 22: Moderato 1875, Chamber Music Full of catchy lines, the Serenade for Strings was originally written as a five-movement suite, yet it sounds more like a chain of endless melodies that are hard to forget. Stabat Mater Stabat Mater Op. 58: Stabat Mater dolorosa 1877, Choral Dvorák is not so well known for his choral work, yet this solemn and religious text is well handled, with a good use of melody. Slavonic Dances Slavonic Dance in G Minor No. 8, Op. 46 1878, Orchestral Originally written as a piano duet, this fast and rhythmic folk dance is even more red-blooded in its orchestral version. New World Symphony Symphony No. 9 (‘New World’) Op.95: Largo 1884, Symphonies, Orchestral The Czechs – or Bohemians, as they used to be called – have been famous as musicians as long as European music has been made, and, from chronicles of the Middle Ages, we can see that they held positions such as pipers and fiddlers to the great dukes and kings of France and Germany. In the eighteenth century, Bohemian composers settled in France, Italy, Austria and Germany, making tremendous contributions to the new symphonic style, so therefore it is not surprising that Dvorák, whether he knew it or not, was following in a great Czech tradition when he accepted a job to come and teach at the National Conservatory of Music in New York – his arrival serving as an inspiration for his ‘New World’ Symphony. As a good Romantic, Dvorák was firmly of the belief that great music must grow from the healthy soil of native folk music and, whilst in America, he identified the music of the Negroes and the American Indians as the sources for his composition, coupled with the inevitable Czech influences he carried within himself. A slow introduction from the horns opens the otherwise well-paced first movement (Adagio; Allegro molto), which incorporates a lovely flute line that is reminiscent of ‘Swing Low Sweet Chariot’, one of Dvorák’s favourite spirituals. It is the second movement (Largo), however, that contains the famous horn phrase played as a solemn procession. The Scherzo that follows is bright and alive and could be a festive village scene full of dancing Indians or Czech peasants. The finale is a tremendous sweeping Allegro that recaps the previous three movements. Symphony No. 7 Symphony No. 7 Op. 70 1885, Symphonies, Orchestral Dvorák’s Symphony No. 7 was one of the most important he ever wrote – at least, according to him – for in June 1884 he had been made an honorary member of the London Philharmonic Society, and furthermore he had recently been completely overwhelmed by Brahms’s Third Symphony and wished to produce something of equal stature. The LPS invited him to write a work for them and he duly obliged, producing a symphony that is possibly eclipsed only by his ‘New World’ Symphony (No. 9). Piano Quintet in A Piano Quintet in A Op. 81 1887, Keyboard Works This is a work that seems to be smiling at the listener. Set in four movements, a bright piano is contrasted with some strenuous string lines, as if the two parties are having a friendly conversation. Dumky Piano Trio Dumky Piano Trio Op. 90 1891, Chamber Music A ‘dumka’ is a traditional Czech folk dance with alternating slow and fast sections, often based on the same theme. Dvorák uses this structure in combination with the more serious sonata form to produce a work of considerable charm. Cello Concerto in B Minor Cello Concerto in B Minor Op. 104: 3rd Movement 1894, Concerti, Orchestral Dvorák’s cello concerto was the last thing he wrote while working in America: he began it in New York in November 1894 and finished it three months later. It was a stunning piece, and when Brahms first read the music he exclaimed: ‘Why on earth didn’t I know that it was possible to write a cello concerto like this? If I had only known, I would have written one long ago!’ When he took it back to his native Prague in 1895 Dvorák learnt of the death of his sister-in-law, Josephina Kaunic, and was deeply shocked. Not only had she been a friend, but when he was younger he had secretly fallen in love with her, writing a discreet love song for her entitled ‘The Cypresses’. There was, however, another of his songs which was her favourite, ‘Leave Me Alone’, the theme from which Dvorák incorporated into the coda of the cello concerto as a last reference to Josephina. The first movement (Allegro) opens with a fiery orchestra sweep and the principal theme as a phrase from the clarinets. The solo cello then makes its entrance against a background of whispering violins and violas. The second, slow movement (Adagio ma non troppo) is full of emotional warmth, and the cello sings the melody of Josephina’s favourite song. The finale is a rousing dance-like movement which, according to Dvorák’s biographer, is filled ‘with the tone of happy anticipation of the composer’s early return to his own country.’ There is a melodious middle section, and finally the cellist joins the first violins in a duet of passionate tenderness. A brilliant climax for full orchestra rounds off one of Dvorák’s finest works. " },{ "id": "/classical/ASch", "url": "/classical/ASch/", "title": "Arnold Schoenberg", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-25T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1874, "died": 1951, "image": "/images/classical/32.jpg", "from": "Vienna, Austria", "schools": "Modern, 2nd Viennese", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Undoubtedly the most famous and influential member of the Second Viennese School (see also Berg and Webern), Arnold Schoenberg revolutionised composition technique in the twentieth century and developed the ‘twelve-note system’ that is considered of great importance. He was a great believer in personal expression and tried to instil this ethic in all his students. Yet he also stressed the importance of structure and discipline and wrote a university textbook called ‘Harmony Method’ which remains in use today. He was always seeking to express pure emotion yet never felt that he achieved this in his own work, which caused him great frustration and dissatisfaction, driving him constantly to push against and experiment with the musical boundaries of the day. His music can either be very seductive, if the listener is following the composer’s moods and feeling, or an aural nightmare, if one is looking for a pretty tune with a nice development section. While Schoenberg is often seen as being a composer’s composer, his music can be accessible to the non-musician if the background and idealism of the man is given due consideration. Verklärte Nacht 1899, Orchestral In 1896 one of the most distinguished poets of the day, Richard Dehmel, published a collection of poems called ‘Woman and World’, with a powerful expressionist work opening the book. It told the story of a couple walking through bare, cold woods while the woman is telling the man that she pregnant, and not by him. Expecting him to be angry, she is surprised when he is overjoyed at the news and embraces her fondly, telling her of the ‘special warmth’ that he now feels for her. The twenty-four-year-old Schoenberg, who was a passionate man, was deeply moved by this poem and instantly wanted to work it into some musical form. There is a story that he finished the whole piece during a three-week holiday in a mountain village south of Vienna, though it has now been proven that, in reality, he spent about three months on the five-part composition. It was initially written, interestingly enough, for a string sextet. The first section has a repeated plodding bass tone, over which a falling phrase is played while high violins suggest a moonlit night. The second section begins with an agitated rhythm that suggests the guilt of the woman’s words, though this is soon replaced by a nostalgic theme for the cellos that is answered by a solo violin and viola. It has often been thought that this particular passage was a representation of the woman’s longing for the joys of motherhood. By the third part, the lovers are walking again. We come to the man’s reply in the fourth section, where the woman’s tension and worry is replaced by a great tenderness, building to a passionate climax. The whole work concludes with a similar passion. Pelléas und Mélisande 1903, Orchestral In 1901 the twenty-eight-year-old Schoenberg decided to move to Berlin because he felt he would find it far easier and more enjoyable making a living there. All in all, it turned out to be a good and prosperous decision for he soon found himself in the company of Richard Strauss, who helped him get a teaching job at one of Berlin’s leading music schools as well as acquiring a substantial amount of money for him from the Liszt Fellowship. It was also Strauss who suggested that Schoenberg might write an opera around the story of Pelléas and Mélisande by Maeterlinck. After much consideration, he decided that he would rather write a symphonic poem than an opera, and set to work. Looking back, it seems incredible that Schoenberg received any acclaim for his work at all, for Debussy had already produced a fantastic opera of the drama earlier that year (though Schoenberg didn’t know this), Fauré had written some incidental music on the same theme four years previously, and Sibelius brought out his version in 1905. The symphonic poem is made up of four parts. In the first we see Mélisande’s husband, Prince Golaud, discover his wife crying by a lake in a forest. Here we hear a Fate theme on a bass clarinet which will recur throughout the work. Mélisande’s theme is played on a solo oboe. Later the mood changes as Pélleas enters the scene, musically represented by a brilliant trumpet solo that is ‘knightly and youthful’. In the second movement there is an interesting musical combination of two events from the drama. The two lovers are by a well and Mélisande is playing with her wedding ring, which unfortunately falls through her fingers into the well at exactly the same time as her husband has a terrible fall from his horse. Schoenberg combines the Prince Golaud theme with the Wedding Ring theme in one great crash of trombones and kettle-drums to reproduce the individual events perfectly. The third movement is slow and generally represents the passion and feeling between the two lovers. The finale brings us the scene of Mélisande’s death, the tragedy of which is conveyed by long notes from the lowest instruments in the orchestra, as long descending lines of woodwinds get softer and softer. " },{ "id": "/classical/AViv", "url": "/classical/AViv/", "title": "Antonio Vivaldi", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-09-23T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1678, "died": 1741, "image": "/images/classical/01.jpg", "from": "Venice, Italy", "schools": "Baroque", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Born in Venice, Vivaldi appears to have been quite a remarkable character. He started learning the violin at a very early age, being taught by his father and immediately showing great promise, and later became one of the most celebrated violinist/composers ever to have lived. At the age of fifteen he started his training for the priesthood, which took almost ten years to complete, and when finally he had become a fully fledged priest, in 1703, he promptly decided to give up saying mass, on the rather spurious grounds of ill health. Apparently it was not uncommon for him to leave a service in mid-celebration, complaining of chest pains, only to rush out and scribble down a new tune for a concerto. Although Vivaldi’s main priorities were writing and performing music, he retained an almost life-long association with one of the major charitable institutions in Venice that was concerned with looking after and educating young orphaned girls – of which there were literally hundreds in Venice at the time. This place, La Pietà, as it was known, was also to become something of a mini-conservatoire of music. The children were educated with a definite bias towards music, all taking lessons on string instruments from Vivaldi and others. This led to numerous concerts being given by the youngsters to a remarkably high standard, which became something of a regular attraction in Venice. Vivaldi played a major role in the preparation and staging of these concerts and also brought in many other well-known composers and musicians of the day to take part. From 1703, aged twenty-five, he concentrated on composing music. His first pieces were published a couple of years later, and he embarked upon what turned out to be a highly successful and rewarding career. Always travelling and extremely busy, Vivaldi liked not only to compose the music but to take an active part in rehearsing and conducting the performances as well. He was an extremely prolific composer and during the period between 1703 and his death in 1741 he wrote an astonishing 750 works, most of which are of exceptional quality. His most famous work is that for violin and orchestra, The Four Seasons, and he is, perhaps, best known for his pieces written in a similar vein – the concertos for violin, guitar, bassoon and cello. There are, in addition, forty-six operas listed in the catalogue (although Vivaldi claimed to have written nearly a hundred, the remaining fifty or so of which are now lost), scores of works for miscellaneous wind instruments, trio sonatas, vocal pieces and a whole host of small chamber works. Concerto for Two Trumpets and Strings Concerti, Orchestral Vivaldi was an amazing composer who could write an entire concerto in a day if necessary. This particular one for Two Trumpets and Strings has the two lead instruments playing at different volumes (one quiet, one loud), constantly echoing each other, while backed by a galloping string ensemble. Concerto for Violin in A Minor Concerto for Violin in A Minor op. 3, No. 6: Allegro Concerti, Orchestral This is just one of the countless violin works Vivaldi wrote, many of which have been lost over the years. It is typical not just of the man’s work, but of the man himself, as he was a bit of rogue and ‘man-about-town’ who could always be seen with a smile on his face and a devilish air. Consequently his music is inevitably charming and delightful, with a strong sense of having been written purely to please. Concerto Grosso Concerto Grosso Op. 3, No. 8 Concerti, Orchestral Vivaldi is reputed to have written over 450 concerti grossi. This one is a wonderful example of the man’s style. Concerto in C Minor Concerti, Orchestral It is claimed that Vivaldi could write a concerto in a single day and an opera in a week. Many of his concerti were written for up to four soloists, as he enjoyed nothing more than performing with others. Gloria in D Gloria in D, RV 589 Choral Vivaldi’s Gloria is probably his most popular piece of church music and can often be heard today. Concerto for Violin and Strings in G Minor Concerto for Violin and Strings in G Minor Op. 6, No. 1: Allegro 1717, Concerti, Orchestral This violin concerto is one of a set of six that Vivaldi wrote between 1716 and 1717. It is typical not just of the man’s work but the man himself, as he was a bit of rogue and ‘man-about-town’ who could always be seen with a smile on his face and a devilish air. Consequently his music is inevitably charming and delightful, with a strong sense of having been written purely to please. Four Seasons – Spring Concerto for Violin in E Major Op. 8, No. 1: Allegro 1725, Chamber Music This is quite possibly Vivaldi’s most famous work, notorious in the world of television and advertising for its subtle yet powerful portrayal of a year. The arrival of spring is greeted with the twittering of birds and the gentle murmuring of streams. There is a pastoral tone with sheep-dogs barking in the slow movement and the sound of rustic bagpipes in the concluding allegro. Written solely for strings, Vivaldi’s masterpiece has somehow managed to stand the test of time without losing its freshness and vitality. Four Seasons – Summer Concerto for Violin in G Minor Op. 8, No. 2: Allegro 1725, Chamber Music This is quite possibly Vivaldi’s most famous work, notorious in the world of television and advertising for its subtle yet powerful portrayal of a year. Summer begins in the lazy heat of the sun, but tension soon builds to a storm, which breaks out in the tempestuous presto. Written solely for strings, Vivaldi’s masterpiece has somehow managed to stand the test of time without losing its freshness and vitality. Four Seasons – Autumn Concerto for Violin in F Major Op. 8, No. 3: Allegro 1725, Chamber Music This is quite possibly Vivaldi’s most famous work, notorious in the world of television and advertising for its subtle yet powerful portrayal of a year. Autumn, the season of mellow fruitfulness, begins with a celebration of the vine and drifts into fantasy as the revellers rest before jauntily setting out to hunt at dawn. Written solely for strings, Vivaldi’s masterpiece has somehow managed to stand the test of time without losing its freshness and vitality. Four Seasons – Winter Concerto for Violin in F Minor Op. 8, No.4: Allegro 1725, Chamber Music This is quite possibly Vivaldi’s most famous work, notorious in the world of television and advertising for its subtle yet powerful portrayal of a year. Foot stamping and teeth-chattering, sitting by the fire and slipping on the ice: these, Vivaldi tells us, are the joys of winter, and they are graphically re-created in musical terms. Written solely for strings, Vivaldi’s masterpiece has somehow managed to stand the test of time without losing its freshness and vitality. Concerto for Flute and Strings in D Major Concerto for Flute and Strings in D Major Op. 10, No. 3: Allegro 1728, Concerti Altogether Vivaldi composed thirteen flute concerti, the opus 10 set being written in 1728. At the time, it created something of a small record, as it was the first ever publication of music composed for a solo flute accompanied by strings and there was no dedication on the title page, the implication being that Vivaldi had written them purely for pleasure. Concerto for Viola d’amore Concerto for Viola d’amore RV 540 1740, Concerti, Orchestral A viola d’amore was a six-stringed bowed instrument that was roughly equivalent to a combination of a violin and a viola. It also possessed a set of ‘sympathetic’ strings that would resonate under the main six to produce a silvery sweet sound. This particular work is really a double concerto for the viola d’amore and lute. " },{ "id": "/classical/AWeb", "url": "/classical/AWeb/", "title": "Anton Webern", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-30T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1883, "died": 1945, "image": "/images/classical/37.jpg", "from": "Vienna, Austria", "schools": "Modern, 2nd Viennese", "tags": "", "content": "Biography A notable avant-garde composer of the Second Viennese School (along with Berg and Schoenberg), Anton Webern studied for a philosophy degree at university and afterwards decided to pursue a doctorate in music. He was fascinated by an intellectual approach to music and appreciated ‘clever’ techniques in composition, such as music that took a theme, turned it upside down and then played the first half backwards. After university Webern went to study composition with Arnold Schoenberg and, following his marriage, supported his family by teaching, lecturing and conducting. Up to this point his life was fairly uneventful, yet this was all to change when the Nazis over-ran Austria and performances of his music were banned – Webern being declared a ‘non-artist’. He just about managed to eke out a living by proof-reading and other low-level musical work that his loyal publishers gave him during Austria’s period of fascist rule. Soon after the war ended, Webern’s life was tragically cut short when, smoking a cigar in his son’s garden on a summer evening, he was shot dead by an American soldier who had mistaken the glow of the cigar for the glint of a rifle. Five Pieces for Small Orchestra 1913, Orchestral There is no question that Anton von Webern was one of the most minimalist composers who ever lived and, therefore, was open to a lot of criticism concerning his approach to music. He is often described as a late Late Romantic, and this was true not only of his music, but also of his character and tragic life. He was gripped by an almost fanatical idealism in pursuing his style of music and, as a result, found himself at odds with the general public and music critics. But he was never disheartened, merely withdrawing from the hustle and bustle of the musical market-place so as to continue with his work. The Five Pieces for Orchestra is a fascinating exercise in minimalist music, though hardly a surprise coming from a man who wrote a symphony that was only eight minutes long! The longest movement in this collection is a little over a minute, while the shortest lasts only fourteen seconds. But is not only in length that Webern’s love of the miniature comes through, for the level of the music is, at its loudest, pianissimo, going down to ‘scarcely audible’. There is only one climax, found in the last bar of the second piece, which is scored for a mere eight instruments. The rest of the music has a fantastic and delicate texture, with individual wisps of melody creating subtle touches of colour. The pieces have been given names but only to suggest the mood in which the composer wanted them to be played. They are as follows: Primal Image or Concept Metamorphosis Return Memory Soul They only way to fully enjoy this strange and short collection is to resign oneself to it rather than to look for themes and analyse for structure. " },{ "id": "/classical/BBar", "url": "/classical/BBar/", "title": "Béla Bartók", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-27T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1881, "died": 1945, "image": "/images/classical/34.jpg", "from": "Nagyszentmiklos, Hungary", "schools": "Modern, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Bartók stands out as being the most famous composer to have emerged from Hungary. His style is very clearly derived from the folk music of his native land and characteristically combines wonderful folk tunes with energetic rhythms in a gypsy idiom. Born near the borders of Hungary, Yugoslavia and Romania, Bartók was brought up by his mother (his father died when he was only seven years old). It was a hard life: young Bartók was always ill and his mother had to work very hard to keep the family on an even keel financially. The political climate at the time was unsettled and this, too, posed its own restrictions on the early years of Bartók’s life. He showed enormous promise as a musician and became the organist of the Gymnasium Chapel at Pozsony, later taking up a place at the Budapest Academy. He was, in fact, offered a place at the celebrated Vienna Conservatoire, but turned this down in order to follow his first love, Hungarian folk music. In 1905 Bartók teamed up with Kodály to carry out an in-depth survey of folk music from many countries, including their own, and this provided the main creative influence on the material that each used in their compositions thereafter. A few years later Bartók accepted a position as a professor at the Academy where he had himself been a student. Following the First World War he began to produce works of considerable stature, including the wonderful music to the ballets The Wooden Prince and The Miraculous Mandarin, as well as a whole host of piano pieces and a couple of string quartets. Also a fantastic concert pianist, Bartók was attracting praise from all quarters and was awarded a special prize in the United States for his extraordinarily difficult work the String Quartet No. 3. Bartók travelled to the United States and to Britain on a number of occasions as a concert pianist and his works were invariably extremely well received. However, he was deeply affected by the political distractions going on around him, and the depression he felt at seeing the increasing Nazi control of Central Europe shows through his work. He was an intensely proud man who desperately wanted to make his own way without the assistance of others wherever possible. He was quite a withdrawn individual and this may have stemmed from the problems he had experienced as a child and through not having a father for the important developmental years in his childhood. He married twice – each time to pupils of his who were both considerably younger than himself. Care should be exercised when exploring the works of Bartók. His Concerto for Orchestra, written in 1943, is a wonderful work that shows a masterly skill at writing for the orchestra; this is now often used by symphony orchestras around the world as something of a showpiece. The Music for Strings Percussion and Celesta is also a very approachable work, as is the Piano Concerto No. 3. The Dance Suite and Romanian Dances are essential listening, which can lead one on into the more astringent world of the string quartets and piano music. Romanian Dances 1915, Keyboard Works Certainly the best introduction to Bartók’s music, this set of six tiny pieces is an interpretation of Hungarian folk art at its freshest. Whilst they were originally written for piano, there exists a sparkling arrangement for piano and violin. Miraculous Mandarin 1919, Ballet The music of ‘The Miraculous Mandarin’ is of a symphonic nature, even though the work was written as a ballet. Set in New York, where Bartók eventually died, it opens with the snarling whirl of the city’s traffic, thereby setting the scene for a story of hoodlum violence and hopeless love. Dance Suite 1923, Orchestral In 1923 Bartók (along with Kodály and Dohnányi) was commissioned to write a work to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of Budapest, the capital city (the city having previously been three separate towns). As in much of his work, Bartók drew on the peasant heritage and folk roots of his country to produce a suite of delightful nationalistic dance tunes. Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta: 4th Movement 1939, Chamber Music As Bartók grew older and his popularity seemed to be dimming, he became increasingly reluctant to write music for large symphony orchestras unless he was absolutely sure that the resulting work would receive a performance. This, considering Bartók’s tragic life, is quite understandable, as his family was often struggling to survive and in desperate need of money. Unperformed works simply did not pay. He was, however, strongly drawn to chamber music, which was less expensive to perform, and wrote six of the finest string quartets of the twentieth century. An admirer of Bartók, Paul Sacher, was the founder and conductor of the Basel Chamber Orchestra, and on its tenth anniversary he commissioned the composer to write a fitting piece. Bartók produced the Music for Strings, Percussion and Celesta, which was first performed in January 1937 in Basel. Bartók did not refer to his four-movement piece as either a suite or a symphony, although it is certainly related to both these forms. Each movement is based on a variation of a main theme. Despite being slow, the first movement (Andante tranquillo) has a strong drive to it, and a mournful theme for the violas is soon picked up by the other instruments, leading to an intense ending. The second section (Allegro) clearly shows the division of the strings into two opposing ‘choirs’: the main theme from the first movement is divided between them. The third movement (Adagio) has a slow, almost exotic feel to it, and opens with a xylophone solo, developing to an interesting middle section that becomes a shimmering web of strings with delicate work from harp, piano and celesta. The finale rounds off the whole work with a guitar-like strumming from the strings backing a wild violin melody. String Quartets 1939, Chamber Music Many people have said that Bartók’s string quartets are some of the finest written since those of Beethoven, and they are certainly a thorny and compelling set. No. 1 is almost always likened to Debussy’s work, while the second is the traditional Bartók in fierce folk-music mode. Numbers 3 and 4 are a little gritty, yet perfect for the true fan of the composer. The fifth is light-hearted and cheerful, and the sixth (possibly the best) has all its four movements linked by a sad folk-like melody. Concerto for Orchestra Concerto for Orchestra: Introduction 1945, Concerti, Orchestral Traditionally, a concerto is written for a solo instrument, such as a violin or piano, accompanied by an orchestra, so the title of the Hungarian composer’s possibly most famous work may require some explanation. As Bartók’s himself said: ‘The title of this symphony-like orchestral work is explained by its tendency to treat the single orchestral instruments in a . . . soloistic manner’. In other words, there are brilliant opportunities available for a virtuoso orchestra, and everybody will get the chance to show off. Bartók was on a lecture tour of the USA when he wrote the concerto. During the trip he became very ill – to the point that funds were raised by American music societies in order that he might get some professional treatment. Bartók was very poor towards the end of his life, and it is a widely held belief that the commissioning of the concerto was the psychological stimulus that kept him alive. He died in 1945, only two years after its completion. This five-movement work is very much a piece of twentieth-century music, for it breaks with classic musical conventions. The first movement (Andante non troppo – Allegro vivace) starts with a slow and eerie string passage: new instrumental groups are added, each one giving a new colour to the overall musical picture. The second movement is a light-hearted ‘Game of Pairs’, where the main themes are picked by up a pair of woodwinds at a time, starting with a pair of bassoons, followed by two oboes, then clarinets, flutes and, finally, muted trumpets. The third movement (Elegy: Andante non troppo) is a slow death-song, which contrasts sharply with the Allegretto of the fourth. This, according to Bartók, mocked a theme from Shostakovitch’s Seventh Symphony, even though Shostakovitch was the Hungarian’s idol. The Presto of the finale is full of dance-like rhythms and ends with extraordinary brilliance. Piano Concerto No. 3 1945, Concerti, Orchestral Bartók’s Third Piano Concerto was his last completed work. On the evening of the final day he spent in his small New York apartment, a fellow Hungarian friend found him feverishly writing out the last movement. Only seventeen or eighteen bars were left to be completed when he was taken to hospital the next morning, but four days later he was dead. During the last years of his life, Bartók and his wife were barely scraping a living in America even though he practically worked himself to death, and they seem to have survived on gifts and acts of generosity from the friends they made in New York. When Bartók died in September 1945, at no time had his income exceeded $4,000 which, though an apparently large sum of money, could not support the ill composer and his family. However, some time later his works were bringing his family $100,000 a year. Like Mozart, Bartók always seemed to find himself having to make ends meet and therefore having to write music ‘to order’ rather than from pure inspiration. The same friend who took Bartók to hospital also finished off the concerto, being familiar with the composer’s shorthand. It was first performed in February 1946 and surprised audiences with its uncharacteristic charm and tranquillity. The first movement is an Allegretto where the piano introduces a ‘folky’ melody backed by violas and second violins. The second section is interestingly marked Adagio religioso; while there seems to be no religious intent in the music, there is a hymn-like feel. The closing Allegro vivace alludes to a folk song in the final bars. " },{ "id": "/classical/BBri", "url": "/classical/BBri/", "title": "Benjamin Britten", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-11-07T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1913, "died": 1976, "image": "/images/classical/45.jpg", "from": "Lowestoft, England", "schools": "Modern, English Music", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Benjamin Britten is one of the most outstanding British composers to have emerged this century. He had a unique voice in the world of composition and has left us with a catalogue of works many of which are already considered masterpieces, and which find themselves firmly placed in the standard classical repertoire. Britten was something of a child prodigy: by the time he had left preparatory school he had already composed more than forty works. He met up with Frank Bridge, a composer who had a great influence on the young Britten and who advised him to study at the Royal College of Music with John Ireland. Britten didn’t enjoy his time at the college very much and, rather peculiarly, only ever had one of his own works performed whilst he was there. The year after he left college he joined the GPO Film Unit and was responsible for providing the soundtracks for a number of films over the five-year period that he was there. He made some useful contacts whilst in that job, one of whom was the poet W. H. Auden, with whom he struck up a close relationship both professionally and personally. Britten consistently produced fine works throughout his life and one of the early high points in his career was to perform his own Piano Concerto at the Proms in 1937. However, he got itchy feet and he and his friend Peter Pears, the tenor, decided to leave the country and set off for Canada, later settling in Long Island in the United States. They returned in 1942 and Britten continued to write, quickly making a name for himself writing opera. The first real triumph was Peter Grimes, which is now regarded as a classic, and this was followed by The Rape of Lucretia (for eight singers and twelve instrumentalists) and Albert Herring, another full-scale masterpiece. Britten moved house from Snape to the nearby Aldeburgh, and with Peter Pears set up his own festival, which from 1948 has become a highly respected and much loved annual event. Britten found the Maltings in Snape to be a wonderful venue for music, and after it was burnt down in 1969 he immediately had it rebuilt. It remains one of the finest halls for live performance and recording in the world. Prolific by nature, Britten has left us with a startling array of works in many forms – operas, orchestral music, songs, instrumental works and concertos. He also struck up a friendship with the celebrated cellist Rostropovich and this inspired the wonderful Suites for Unaccompanied Cello (1965/67/71), as well as the lesser known Symphony for Cello and Orchestra (1963). Britten died in 1976 following a series of heart problems. He left his mark on the history of music as one of the finest of all twentieth-century composers, with a particular artistry and gift for writing music that can be appreciated by everyone. Variations on a Theme of Frank Bridge 1937, Orchestral One of Benjamin Britten’s most brilliant pieces and the first to win him worldwide attention was his popular set of variations on a theme by Frank Bridge. The composer was only twenty-three when he was asked to write a new work for the Boyd Neel String Orchestra, to be performed at the Salzburg Festival of 1937. Neel himself remembers that, ten days after asking Britten, ‘[he appeared] . . . with the complete score sketched out. In another four weeks it was fully scored for strings as it stands today, but for the addition of one bar.’ The theme Britten chose for these variations was from the second of the Three Idylls for string orchestra by Frank Bridge (1879–1944), who was a distinguished composer of his time as well as conductor of the London Philharmonic and London Symphony orchestras and the Covent Garden Opera. The first performance at the Salzburg Festival was a success – so much so that within two years the work had been heard over fifty times in Europe and America. It consists of an introduction, theme, ten variations, and a finale. The introduction and theme is a brief display of the theme upon which the whole work is based, and one soon becomes familiar with its five-note opening. The variations assume various forms, ranging from a march to a romance, from a waltz to a funeral march, yet at all times the main theme can be heard somewhere in the music, be it as a solo from the violins or as a background to another melody. In the slow (Lento) conclusion it is played by all the violins on the G string. Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings Serenade for Tenor, Horn and Strings: ‘Hymn’ 1943, Orchestral Perhaps Britten’s masterpiece, this serenade is based on seven poems about evening and darkness, including Keats’s sonnet ‘Sleep’. Albert Herring 1947, Opera Albert Herring is a social comedy about a young man who is elected May King because no virgins can be found in the village to be May Queen. " },{ "id": "/classical/BSme", "url": "/classical/BSme/", "title": "Bedrich Smetana", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-07T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1824, "died": 1884, "image": "/images/classical/15.jpg", "from": "Bohemia, Czechoslovakia", "schools": "Romantic, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Like Beethoven, poor old Smetana was deaf for much of his life and for his last few years he was absolutely stone deaf, having no sense of hearing whatsoever. Tinnitus, a common complaint these days for people who have subjected their ears to sustained loud music, was also another of Smetana’s afflictions and again, like Beethoven, he was troubled by a constant high-pitched whining noise incessantly ringing in his head. However, this was not to deter the composer from writing absolutely wonderful music that is extremely colourful and also draws on the folk idiom from his native land. Much of his music is overtly nationalistic in character, the obvious examples being included in his set of symphonic poems ‘Ma Vlast’ (My Country), one of which depicts a musical journey down the river towards the sea, appropriately called Vltava. Smetana is known as the ‘father’ of Czech music and he came from an intensely musical family. There’s a famous story that he took part in a performance of a Haydn string quartet at just five years of age and gave his first piano recital just a year later! He was an ambitious but lazy young man and one good example of his desire to be famous is to be found in a now famous entry in his diary that boldly stated: ‘I wish to become a Mozart in composition and a Liszt in technique’. His earlier works didn’t receive a very good response, but, never to be worn down or dejected, he made it his business to try and get in with the right people. He made contact with Berlioz and Robert and Clara Schumann, and on one occasion even wrote to Liszt enclosing a set of piano pieces dedicated to his hero, at the same time asking for a loan. Liszt proffered some good advice and tried to help him get a publishing deal but tactfully chose to ignore the plea for money. Undeterred, Smetana decided to open up his own music school in Prague in search of recognition and fulfilment, but neither were satisfied due to the unstable political climate, particularly for musicians, who mainly made their way to Paris or Vienna. A succession of jobs followed, including one in Sweden, during which time he got married and had four children of which, sadly, only one was to survive. His wife, Katerina, died young from tuberculosis and Smetana soon remarried and in 1861 moved back to Prague. His life followed a somewhat troubled course, for he gained mixed receptions to his compositions and from 1874 began suffering from the syphilis that was to result in his terrible deafness. He died at the age of sixty in a mental asylum. His music is now recognised as being some of the finest to have emerged from Czechoslovakia, and lovers of Slavonic folk-style music will find much to enjoy here. String Quartet No. 1 String Quartet No. 1 in E Minor: 4th Movement Chamber Music Smetana has always been categorised as a nationalistic composer, and there is not one work of his in which his native Czech influences cannot be heard. His String Quartet No. 1 is no exception, being sharp and spiky, with a sense of urgency that keeps us moving ever forwards. String Quartet No. 2 String Quartet No. 2 in D Minor: 4th Movement Chamber Music Smetana has always been categorised as a nationalistic composer, and there is not one work of his in which his native Czech influences cannot be heard. His second String Quartet is no exception, being rather sedate, as if one were strolling through the Bohemian countryside. Bartered Bride The Bartered Bride: Polka 1866, Opera Smetana is often considered to be the father of Czech musical nationalism, although he was only twenty-four when the patriotic revolutions of 1848–9 swept through Europe. From 1863 to 1866 he worked on his second opera, ‘The Bartered Bride’, a simple comedy of Czech peasant life in a style strongly influenced by Czech folk music. To Czech listeners, this work is more than just an opera: it has become almost a symbol of the Czech people themselves. Happily, however, it captivates non-Czech listeners as well, with its clever use of melodies, orchestral brilliance and temperamental style. The music of the overture is taken largely from the lively finale of the second act, when the townspeople witness the signing of a contract in which the hero deliberately gives the (false) impression that he is selling his claim to his own fiancée. It opens with a brilliant flourish for full orchestra which is followed by a lively theme spun out very delicately by only the second violins. Soon they are joined by the first violins, and finally by the cellos and double basses building up to a climax of excitement, at which point a new dance theme is introduced. The overture concludes with reappearances of the original orchestral theme. Fields and Forests From Bohemia’s Fields and Forests 1875, Orchestral ‘Má Vlast’ (‘My Country’) is a collection of six orchestral works that Smetana hoped would convey all the beauty and nature of the Bohemian landscape and episodes from the history of the land. The best known section is ‘From Bohemia’s Woods and Fields’, which evokes beautiful pastoral images. " },{ "id": "/classical/Baroque", "url": "/classical/Baroque/", "title": "Baroque School", "layout": "post", "lastmod": "2017-09-23T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The Baroque Period, 1600–1750 Baroque was a style that was characterised by a tendency to decorate and embellish. It is also seen as an expressive period, though not in an emotional sense (as with the Romantic era), but rather where, although there were still rules to follow creatively, brilliant and sparkling art was produced. In architecture, designs went up on a grand scale, with constructions such as the Palace of Versailles near Paris and the piazza in Rome by Bernini, who was considered the leading Baroque sculptor. In music, composers such as Vivaldi, Bach and Handel were producing compositions that would serve to inspire nearly all those that followed them, though, contrary to what one might think, they themselves did not just sit around waiting to be inspired. Most of the composers of the time were in the employ of patrons, usually aristocrats or religious leaders who required works to be written for special occasions and events. Bach, for example, was contractually obliged to produce almost one new work every week, and Handel wrote pieces such as his famous ‘Water Music’ while composing for the King of England. Chamber music was the popular format of the time, with a concentration on strings as a rule. Although orchestras were occasionally used, a concert was usually performed to a private (and probably very rich) audience by a few musicians. The piano as we know it today had not yet been invented, and the popular instrument was the harpsichord. This produced sounds of the same volume regardless of how hard a key was hit, and the result was music whose volume did not vary as much as Classical or Romantic, and was therefore less emotional. However it was expressive, bright and energetic with an intelligent feel that made the whole Baroque movement an influential and important period in music. Composers \tComposer \t\tHome \t\tCountry \t\tBorn \t\tDied \t \t \t\tAntonio Vivaldi \t\tVenice \t\tItaly \t\t1678 \t\t1741 \t\t \t\tJohann Sebastian Bach \t\tEisenach \t\tGermany \t\t1685 \t\t1750 \t\t \t\tGeorge Frideric Handel \t\tHalle \t\tGermany \t\t1685 \t\t1759 \t\t " },{ "id": "/classical/CDeb", "url": "/classical/CDeb/", "title": "Claude Debussy", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-19T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1862, "died": 1918, "image": "/images/classical/26.jpg", "from": "Paris, France", "schools": "Romantic, French", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Debussy was born in Paris and was something of a child prodigy. He came from humble origins, the son of a shopkeeper, but was obviously given great encouragement by his parents: he started piano lessons at the age of seven and went on to study at the celebrated Paris Conservatoire from the age of twelve. Ten years later he won the coveted Prix de Rome, which enabled him to spend a number of years in quiet isolation writing at the Villa Medici in Rome. Debussy’s life was generally troublesome, particularly in his relationships with women: his wife, Lilly Texler, attempted suicide when he left her for another woman, and following their divorce in 1904 Debussy was plagued by ill health, most particularly with cancer of the rectum. He was a master of orchestration and his music never fails to conjure up vivid images in the listener’s mind. Much of the music is deemed to be programmatic – musical representation of a picture, a poem, a story – and obvious examples are to be found in La Mer and Nuages, where the music is unmistakably conjuring up images of the sea and of clouds sweeping across the sky. Debussy loved the music of Wagner and so it is curious that this did not inspire him to write more than a couple of operatic works – of which ‘Pélleas et Mélisande’ is the most famous. Debussy is best known for his wonderful orchestral works, the piano music and superb collections of songs. Small wonder that he is regarded as being perhaps the most influential of all twentieth-century composers. Nocturnes Nocturnes: ‘Fêtes’ 1883, Orchestral In the 1880s, the young Claude Debussy used to regularly go to the famous Tuesday night get-togethers in the home of the poet Stephen Mallarmé, where he met artists, painters, poets and sculptors with ideas and feelings similar to his own. Debussy’s Impressionist painter friends had begun to throw away the clear and precise techniques of a previous generation, and to replace it with misty visions that dissolved in light, while his poet friends were beginning to rub over the logic of language in favour of a musically suggestive succession of words. In short, the European attitudes and approaches to art were changing, and Debussy was very much a part of it. In his Nocturnes, Debussy took aspects of nature as his subject and sought to be inspired by them. The music is broken into three sections, ‘Clouds’, ‘Festivals’ and ‘Sirens’, which are designed to be treated individually. Debussy described the first piece as: ’ . . . the unchanging aspect of the sky, with the slow and melancholy passage of clouds dissolving into a vague greyness, tinged with white.’ The clouds are beautifully depicted in music by high woodwinds weaving soft patterns that change slightly, like clouds, as the music progresses. In ‘Fêtes’, we start with a burst of light and excitement, creating a real festival feel. About halfway through there comes the sound of a very distant march over which comes a fanfare of muted trumpets. The final section, ‘Sirens’, uses eight women’s voices to represent the original sirens who tried to lure Ulysses to their island, and is often left out from this work as the choir is used only at the end. It is best described by Debussy himself: ‘Then amid the billows silvered by the moon, the mysterious song of the Sirens is heard; it laughs and passes.’ Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune 1894, Orchestral Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun) is a little musical tone poem based on a poem by Mallarmé of the same name. It is a bewildering mass of exotic melody and elusive harmony that remains Debussy’s most famous and popular orchestral masterpiece. Although Mallarmé was twenty years older than Debussy, the two were good friends and kindred spirits, each devoted to destroying the conventionalities of his art, though not in a violent sense. In 1887 a definitive edition of the poem was published, which Debussy certainly bought before becoming a regular guest at Mallarmé’s famous Tuesday evening get-togethers, which were attended by many of the great artists, critics and intellectuals of the day. It was at these evenings that the musician and the poet discussed how music could best be used to evoke the music of Mallarmé’s words and, as a result, the prelude came into being. It was first performed in December 1894 by the Société Nationale de Musique to a hugely receptive audience which instantly demanded an encore. It is a misty, evocative piece which draws heavily on a main flute theme that captures the sensuous, symbolist quality of the poem’s language. The words are assumed to be those of the faun who, waking up in a sunlit forest, tries to remember a dream or experience, he doesn’t know which, of an encounter with two beautiful nymphs who resisted his embraces. Later, as he falls asleep, he murmurs: ‘Farewell! Oh Nymphs, I go to see the shades that ye already be.’ The clear flute line, probably played by the faun himself, is soon enveloped in the warmth of velvet horns, woodwinds and a harp. Later on a hush falls over the orchestra and a new, more sensuous melody is sung by the woodwinds with references to the original theme of the flute. Eventually, the whole ‘dream’ fades into thin air. Clair de Lune 1895, Keyboard Works Taken from ‘Suite Bergamasque’, ‘Moonlight’ is a representation through music of the pale and mystical qualities of moonlight. First the evening is still and then clouds go for a spot of rippling as they pass by. Pelléas et Mélisande 1902, Opera Written in 1902, this is a complete opera based on Maeterlinck’s work of the same name, being a symbolist play about a love that is doomed. It is predominantly quiet, making for hypnotic and evocative listening. La Mer La Mer: 1st Movement 1903, Orchestral Debussy was always fascinated by the sea and even considered becoming a sailor when he was younger, before music captured his heart. However, in 1903, he began work on ‘La Mer’ (The Sea) with a view to putting together three separate orchestral works that would evoke all his personal feelings for the oceans. Shortly before he finished this work, he wrote to his publisher, saying ‘The sea has been very good to me. She has shown me all her moods.’ A rough draft of the music was finished at 6 ‘o clock in the evening on 6 March 1905, but it wasn’t until the summer of the same year that Debussy fully orchestrated it while on holiday in Eastbourne. Its first performance was in October 1905 in Paris and it was readily received by the audience. Shortly afterwards Debussy again wrote to his publisher about his inspiration and expressed some interesting opinions. ‘Here I am again with my old friend, the sea; it is always endless and beautiful. But people don’t respect the sea sufficiently. To wet in it bodies deformed by daily life should not be allowed. Truly, these arms and legs which move in ridiculous rhythms – it is enough to make the fish weep.’ Later he begins to give us an insight into the music, when he speaks of ’ . . . the sea which is stirred up, wants to dash across the land, tear out the rocks, and has tantrums like a little girl, singular for one of her importance.’ The music is made up of three pieces. The first section, ‘From Dawn until Noon on the Sea’, begins with low strings and harps to give the feel of the sea at day-break. As the waters begin to wake, an interesting development passage becomes quite magical, and eventually English horn and muted trumpet announce a theme that reappears in the final movement. The second movement is called ‘The Play of the Waves’ and starts delicately before lashing into a sporting fury. The third section, however, is the most dramatic, being called ‘Dialogue of the Wind and the Sea’. Here we hear forces beginning to gather as a storm seems about to break, but suddenly there is silence, broken by the call of an oboe, horn and bassoon. The horns answer and soon the whole orchestra joins in, building to a strong climax. " },{ "id": "/classical/Classical", "url": "/classical/Classical/", "title": "Classical School", "layout": "post", "lastmod": "2017-09-27T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The Classical Period, 1750–1827 As a rule, when people talk about ‘classical music’ they are usually referring to any music that is played by orchestras and musicians wearing white tie and tails, or any other ‘serious’ music that doesn’t automatically fall into the specific categories of pop, rock, jazz, ethnic or new age. However, this is not strictly the case. The term actually describes the music that was written between 1750 and 1827 encompassing the works of composers such as Mozart and Beethoven, although the umbrella title encompasses many different styles: Baroque, Romantic, Impressionistic and Nationalistic schools are just a few examples. The great masters of the Classical period are Mozart, Haydn, Schubert and Beethoven and there is no doubt that, without them, the music of today would be very different. Their works have formed the standard repertoire of classical musicians around the world for the last hundred and fifty years. By 1750, the orchestra had come into its own as a medium for which it was worth writing music and, with the invention of the modern pianoforte (literally meaning ‘soft-loud’ ) in 1709, composers found that they could produce increasingly expressive and varied music which could then be orchestrated and performed. Music became more dramatic and emotional, with powerful instrumental displays being the norm. By listening to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, for example, one can get an idea of the basics of the Classical period and appreciate how it differs from other categories of music. Because the term definitely describes its own particular era it proves that one cannot simply sum up largely different styles with the word ‘classical’. Composers \tComposer \t\tHome \t\tCountry \t\tBorn \t\tDied \t \t \t\tJoseph Haydn \t\tRohrau-on-the-Leitha \t\tAustria \t\t1732 \t\t1809 \t\t \t\tWolfgang Amadeus Mozart \t\tSalzburg \t\tAustria \t\t1756 \t\t1791 \t\t \t\tLudwig van Beethoven \t\tBonn \t\tGermany \t\t1770 \t\t1827 \t\t \t\tFranz Schubert \t\tVienna \t\tAustria \t\t1797 \t\t1828 \t\t \t\tStrauss Family \t\tVienna \t\tAustria \t\t1804 \t\t1916 \t\t " },{ "id": "/classical/DSho", "url": "/classical/DSho/", "title": "Dimitri Shostakovich", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-11-06T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1906, "died": 1975, "image": "/images/classical/44.jpg", "from": "St Petersburg, Russia", "schools": "Modern, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Shostakovich was born into a musical family who quickly recognised his prodigious talent. He studied at the St Petersburg Conservatoire and became an outstanding pianist. He faced the dilemma of whether to concentrate on being a pianist or a composer and elected for the latter, but once remarked: ‘If the truth be told, I should have been both.’ A complex character, Shostakovich was fiercely critical of his own work and set himself inordinately high standards. He destroyed many of his earliest works, but quickly found fame with his First Symphony, performed in Leningrad in May 1926. However, in pursuit of fulfilling his own creative muse he soon faced opposition to many of his works. Audiences and critics alike found the music offensive, bourgeois, sensationalistic and incompatible with established Russian cultural traditions. This naturally upset Shostakovich, but he reacted by continuing to write great music that in the course of time has become standard repertoire for orchestras and performers throughout the world. In 1936, following the harsh criticism of his 1934 opera Lady Macbeth and a catastrophic rehearsal period of his subsequently withdrawn Fourth Symphony (only later to be performed in 1961!), he acknowledged the reaction and replied: ‘I think art should be addressed to the people. They must be able to love and understand it; that is altogether essential. I try to use clear language – sometimes I succeed, sometimes not.’ Whatever the reaction, Shostakovich did make a conscious effort to change his style and make his music more accessible, even to the point of inscribing at the top of his Symphony No. 5: ‘A Soviet artist’s practical creative response to just criticism’. This is a truly marvellous work and has a slow movement of a beauty and intensity that has rarely been equalled by any composer in this century. Shostakovich also had a talent for writing for films and for theatre productions. His music for the ballet The Bolt shows another side to his creative genius, as does The Age of Gold, depicting the story of a Russian football team’s visit to Europe. The music for the film Hamlet, written in 1963, is also a great example of his work in this style. Shostakovich didn’t serve in the war –- his eyesight was poor and he was refused entry into the army on health grounds; instead he settled in Moscow with his family and took up a job at the Moscow Conservatoire. The postwar years saw Shostakovich come in for another bout of criticism for his failure to write music that provided inspiration to the Russian people. The authorities claimed his music was ‘too difficult and not in line with the ideals of social realism’. He weathered this storm again, and responded by writing some very patriotic works including his oratorio The Song of the Forests and the cantata The Sun Shines over our Land. However, he continued to write music for his own satisfaction and to fulfil his own personal creative aspirations – hence the vast catalogue of piano music, string quartets and the later symphonies. The string quartets require special mention: these are intensely personal works, almost autobiographical in nature, and listening to them can leave one both physically and emotionally drained. Shostakovich was mad about sport and was a frequent visitor to football matches in particular, often much happier to travel hundreds of miles to an away game than to travel to give a concert. His health began to fail in the mid-sixties but he kept writing throughout all the troubles in his life and this period of ill health caused no lack of creativity. In fact, he wrote a number of exceptional works during this period, including the last four string quartets and the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Symphonies. Shostakovich came to London to attend the first British performance of his Fifteenth Symphony (containing little quotes from the famous William Tell Overture and Wagner’s Ring), conducted by his son Maxim. This was at the Royal Festival Hall in London, and it was quite clear that he was feeling frail. He died a few years later in a Moscow hospital, on 9 August 1975. Audiences are quite often frightened by the sight of Shostakovich’s works in programmes – for some reason, aside from the reputation attached to his compositions by the Soviet authorities, the actual name Shostakovich sounds rather imposing. Don’t be put off! Try the two Piano Concertos for a gentle and pleasant introduction to his music and work on through to the Fifth Symphony and perhaps the String Quartet No. 3. If you enjoy these works there is no reason why you shouldn’t enjoy the rest of the catalogue – Shostakovich was a masterful composer who has a very relevant voice in the world of twentieth-century music. Age of Gold The Age of Gold 1932, Ballet Definitely a modern ballet, this work tells the story of a Russian football team on a visit to Europe. Piano Concerto No. 1 Concerti, Orchestral It is only in recent years that the general music lover has been able to appreciate the full range of Shostakovitch’s immense range as an artist. Since the sensational success of his first symphony, composed when he was only eighteen, his orchestral works have become known the world over whereas other areas of his music have been relatively ignored. His vocal scores, for example, being written in Russian, are hard going for the non-Russian speaker. Shostakovitch was a ‘composaholic’ and would start a new work as soon as he had finished the previous one. This First Piano Concerto was begun only four days after he had completed his twenty-four Preludes for solo piano. The concerto is a bit unusual, being written for piano, trumpet (in B flat) and string orchestra, and is in four movements, giving the appearance of a single-movement work broken up into four sections. The popularity of this concerto rests, however, not its orchestration or form, but on its striking and attractive themes. It is full of sudden changes of mood that is typical of the composer’s early work and contains a strong sense of parody with obvious musical quotes. It begins with a distant relation of the opening theme of Beethoven’s ‘Appassionata’ Sonata, and the finale has references to the same composer’s ‘Rage over a Lost Penny’, together with a slice of Haydn’s D Major Piano Sonata. There are other quotations from Shostakovitch’s own ‘Hamlet’ incidental music and from the slightly earlier revue music ‘Conditionally Killed’, as well as the European folk song ‘Ach du Lieber Augustin’ – Augustin being a mythological character who seems to survive any catastrophe, largely due to the fact that he is permanently drunk. With such a collection of quotes and influences, only a genius could have moulded this variety into an acceptable whole. The miracle is that Shostakovitch succeeded, and constructed a distinctive and indestructible work in the process. Katerina Izmaylova 1936, Opera When Shostakovotch first wrote this opera in 1936, it was called ‘Lady Macbeth of the Mtensk District’. It brought him his first official criticism from the Soviet newspaper ‘Pravda’, which described it as ‘discordant and chaotic’. It is the story of a woman who murders her father-in-law and future husband with the help of her lover. A powerful and intense work, it was revived in 1963 under the name ‘Katerina Izmaylova’. Symphony No. 5 Symphony No. 5 in D Minor: 4th Movement 1937, Symphonies, Orchestral Shostakovitch’s Fifth Symphony was written at a time when he seemed to have fallen out of favour with the Soviet public and critics. Firstly, his opera ‘Lady Macbeth of the Mtensk District’ was denounced by Pravda, the national Soviet newspaper, as a ‘monstrosity’, and only nine days later the same paper described the music of his ballet ‘The Clear Stream’ as failing to depict the real peasants of a Soviet collective farm but, rather, as some ‘tinsel peasants from a pre-Revolutionary chocolate box’. As a Communist Party member himself, Shostakovitch was deeply hurt at this time and underwent some serious soul-searching as to whether he should compose music that would have greater appeal to the Soviet masses – music that was simpler, more tuneful, momentous, optimistic and heroic. It would seem that this is, in fact, what he did when he composed his Fifth Symphony, which is of heroic proportions, with an expansively emotional slow movement, some catchy rhythms and an opening perhaps deliberately designed to recall the works of Beethoven. Whatever caused this turnabout in his writing, the symphony was a success, and the first performance in Leningrad in 1937 was attended by Alexei Tolstoy, who wrote: ‘The powerful rousing sounds of the finale stirred the audience. All rose to their feet, infused with joy and happiness streaming from the orchestra like a spring breeze. We cannot but trust the Soviet listener. His reaction to music is a just verdict. Our listener is organically unreceptive to decadent, gloomy . . . art, but he responds enthusiastically to good art that is clear, bright, joyful, optimistic and viable.’ The first movement (Moderato) opens with a jagged theme that is similar to Beethoven’s ‘Great Fugue’. Started off by cellos and double basses, it is immediately imitated by the violins. The Allegretto of the second movement is a traditional frolicsome dance which contrasts sharply with the slow Largo of the third movement. This is probably the most stirring of the four sections, with a simple, natural theme being slowly developed to a climax of tremendous intensity before relaxing back into the deep calm of the beginning. The finale is a hugely exciting, thundering musical volcano, where the listener truly feels that he is being swept up and along by its sheer force. Piano Quintet in G Minor Piano Quintet in G Minor Op. 57 1940, Chamber Music Although this quintet begins rather solemnly, the seriousness is soon thrown aside, as we fly through scherzos and Russian dances, ending with a superb finale that was intended to depict a circus parade. Symphony No. 10 Symphony No. 10 in E Minor 1953, Symphonies, Orchestral Many say that this is Shostakovitch’s finest work, and also his most personal. He even uses a note-pattern based on the letters of his name – DSCH (D, E flat, C and B natural). Although the first and third movements are slow and sombre, the second movement and the finale are glittering and spectacular. Hamlet 1965, Orchestral Shostakovitch wrote this impressive score for a film of the great Shakespearean tragedy in 1963. " },{ "id": "/classical/EElg", "url": "/classical/EElg/", "title": "Edward Elgar", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-17T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1857, "died": 1934, "image": "/images/classical/24.jpg", "from": "Broadheath, England", "schools": "Romantic, English Music", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Elgar was born near Worcester in 1857 and died there in 1934. He came from a very musical family; his father was an organist and owned a music shop, and, growing up in such a strong musical environment, it is not really surprising that young Edward quickly became proficient at playing a whole range of instruments, including the piano, violin, cello and double bass, as well as the bassoon and trombone. What is surprising, though, is that, for the most part, Elgar was largely self-taught. It was not until quite a bit later that his true quality as a composer began to emerge, following a lengthy period when he made a living as a teacher, a violinist and the bandmaster to the staff of a lunatic asylum. Elgar was an ambitious man and tried to make a career in London but failed and moved back to his former home in Worcester, where he decided to concentrate on his work as a composer. He wrote a number of pieces for choral societies in the area, which were performed at festivals throughout Britain, and finally his big break came in 1899, when he composed ‘The Enigma Variations’. This was enormously well received and established his reputation as being one of the finest British composers to have lived – a reputation that has remained to this day. In addition to his greatest large-scale masterpieces, Elgar composed a number of shorter works for string instruments that are no less enjoyable and are definitely well worth exploring. They are very often to be found on compilation recordings. Violin Concerto in B Minor Violin Concerto in B Minor Op. 61: 3rd Movement Concerti, Orchestral This concerto for violin is similar to Elgar’s cello concerto but, quite simply, far grander and a lot more alive. Nimrod Enigma Variations Op. 36: ‘Nimrod’ 1898, Orchestral In the late autumn of 1898 Elgar’s wife, Caroline Alice, heard her husband playing a tune that she did not recognise, and when she asked him what it was, he replied that it was nothing much, but perhaps something might be made of it in the future. In fact he went on to produce probably his most famous work, ‘The Enigma Variations’, which is a collection of fourteen pieces, each representing this original theme played in the manner and character of Elgar’s friends. The actual ‘Enigma’ of the title has died with the composer, for he always enjoyed riddles and mystery: ’ . . . the enigma I will not explain – its “dark saying” must be left unguessed and I warn you that the apparent connection between the Variations and the Theme is often of the slightest texture; further, through and over the whole set another and larger theme “goes” but is not played. So the principal theme never appears.’ For more than eighty years now, music and puzzle lovers have tried to solve the riddle of this ‘larger theme’, but without success. A US magazine even ran a competition with big prizes for the best replies. Dream of Gerontius The Dream of Gerontius 1900, Choral This is a slow and reflective choral work inspired by a meditation on the immortality of the soul by Cardinal Newman. There are some exquisite moments for both soloists and choir. Pomp and Circumstance Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1 1901, Orchestral ‘Land of Hope and Glory’, the main theme of Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance March No. 1, must be one of England’s most patriotic pieces and second only to ‘Rule Britannia’ as an anthem of serious heart-swelling national pride. Introduction and Allegro 1905, Orchestral In the style of a concerto grosso (a string quartet is set against a full string orchestra), this is a work that begs the listener to walk out in the open air and enjoy the countryside. It was composed while Elgar was on a walking holiday in the Malvern Hills. Cello Concerto in E Minor Cello Concerto in E Minor Op. 85: 1st Movement 1919, Concerti, Orchestral This concerto was written towards the end of Elgar’s career, and the composer seems to have captured the ‘twilight of the empire’ feel with an aching slow movement. Some see this work as a summary of all Elgar had learnt over his life. " },{ "id": "/classical/EGri", "url": "/classical/EGri/", "title": "Edvard Grieg", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1843, "died": 1907, "image": "/images/classical/20.jpg", "from": "Bergen, Norway", "schools": "Romantic, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Some say Grieg is Norway’s most famous composer; less charitable musicologists might say ‘Norway’s only famous composer’. Whatever their views, Grieg is held in high regard in classical circles as being the composer of one of the most popular piano concertos of all time. He has also given us an insight into the folk culture and character of his native land through his music in just the same way that Dvorák, Smetana, Copland, Sibelius and Vaughan Williams have done for their respective countries. Originally of Scottish descent on his father’s side, it seems that Grieg may have received his extraordinary musical abilities from his mother, who was an accomplished pianist. She gave her son piano lessons from the age of six and Grieg showed such excellent promise that he was sent off to study at the illustrious Leipzig Conservatoire, where he was heavily influenced by Robert Schumann. He found his time in Leipzig totally absorbing and made a point of attending concerts and utilising his time as a student to the very best advantage. In 1863 he moved to Copenhagen, the cultural capital of Scandinavia, and it was here that Grieg really became interested in folk culture. He spent the next few years travelling between each of the three countries (Denmark, Finland and Norway) and in 1865 composed the famous Peer Gynt Suite for Henrik Ibsen’s drama. This was one of his earliest known compositions and it was followed by his First Violin Sonata and the Piano Sonata. Grieg eventually settled in Norway in 1866 and founded the Norwegian Academy of Music – a bold step for a man of just twenty-three years of age. He felt passionately about promoting the works of all Norwegian composers and frequently arranged concerts and concert tours to widen the appreciation of this music. Just two years later Grieg wrote his celebrated Piano Concerto in A minor, the opening of which most people will recognise when they hear it. It really is a marvellous work and is surprisingly the only piece of considerable length and development that Grieg composed. He was a master at producing short folk-style pieces and never felt driven to write in the long extended forms that many of his contemporaries were employing. He did have a go at writing a second piano concerto but soon gave up, realising that works on this scale were not his strong point. He appears to have been an endearing man, treasuring his nationalistic traditions and taking an active stance in promoting new and young talent by founding the Norwegian Academy of Music. He was also a marvellous after-dinner speaker with a wit that was much appreciated by all who heard him. He was for the most part of his life a lonely figure, despite marrying his cousin Nina Hagerup in 1866. He still stands alone as being the only composer of note to have emerged from Norway. Piano Concerto in A Minor Piano Concerto in A Minor Op. 16: Allegro molto moderato 1869, Concerti, Orchestral ‘The Chopin of the North’ was one great pianist’s name for Edvard Grieg, and certainly this piano concerto does recall Chopin, who was Grieg’s favourite composer. Spiritually, as well as musically, the two had much in common. In Chopin’s mazurkas and polonaises we hear the voice of his native Poland alternately lamenting and exulting over the tragedy and the heroism of his suffering people. Although Grieg’s Norway had no such tragic history, his country was not happy under the rule of the Swedish king, and their longing for independence gained a national musical voice in the personage of Grieg, whose music was the first to sing an unmistakable language of the North. Grieg was only twenty-five and newly married when he wrote this concerto during a summer holiday in Denmark. It was first performed in Copenhagen in April 1869, but in the following year Grieg visited Liszt, who made some suggestions as to how the piece might be improved, which the Norwegian readily incorporated. In fact, Grieg continued revising his concerto well into later life, even though it had become one of the most popular concertos around. The first movement (Allegro moderato) begins with brilliant crashing chords and octaves from the piano that cover the entire keyboard from top to bottom before sweeping up in waves to allow the woodwinds softly to introduce the main theme. A second theme is brought up by the cellos and taken up by the soloist before the entire orchestra enters, and the movement ends with an exciting cadenza for the piano. The second movement (Adagio) is slow and tender, and is really an introduction for the powerful finale. This is, quite literally, a whirlwind of music built around the rhythm of a popular Norwegian folk dance. Its conclusion is majestic. Four Norwegian Dances Four Norwegian Dances Op. 35 Orchestral These short, yet delightful dances were once described as ‘gorgeous lollipops’. Lyric Pieces Keyboard Works A collection of endlessly enjoyable piano pieces – some of which are light and charming whilst others are deeply affecting. Homage March Sigurd Jorsalfar: ‘Homage March’ 1872, Orchestral Though credited to Grieg, the Homage March was originally written by Wagner in 1864 to be played by a military band for King Ludwig II of Bavaria. However, it gained popularity when Grieg reorchestrated it for incorporation in his music for the play ‘Sigurd Jorsalfar’ in 1872. Sigurd Jorsalfar 1872, Orchestral Written in 1872, Sigurd Jorsalfar is based on an episode from a Scandinavian saga called the ‘Heimskringla’ and is sometimes known as ‘Sigurd the Crusader’. When King Magnus Barefoot died in 1103 he arranged that his three sons Olaf, Oystein and Sigurd should rule Norway jointly. Olaf died young and the country was left with a dual monarchy, giving Sigurd the chance to set off on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem (‘Jorsalfar’ means ‘traveller to Jerusalem’). The play deals with the rivalry between the two brothers before Sigurd sets off on his travels. Grieg was aware that audiences often had difficulty in listening to both words and music at the same time. As a result, he produced incidental music that often finished at the exact point that someone would start speaking. Peer Gynt: ‘Morning’ Peer Gynt Suite No. 1: ‘Morning’ 1876, Orchestral Unquestionably Grieg’s most famous work, the Peer Gynt Suites nos. 1 and 2 were written as incidental music for a theatrical production of Ibsen’s drama. They are made up of eight pieces, though in performance only four are usually played. ‘Morning’, from Suite No. 1, is instantly recognisable by the lilting flute opening that delivers the theme for the rest of the movement. The piece is fittingly titled, as one can imagine a sunrise bring accompanied perfectly by this music. Peer Gynt: ‘Arabian Dance’ Peer Gynt Suite No. 2: ‘Arabian Dance’ 1876, Orchestral Unquestionably Grieg’s most famous work, the Peer Gynt Suites nos. 1 and 2 were written as incidental music for a theatrical production of Ibsen’s drama. They are made up of eight pieces, though in performance only four are usually played. The ‘Arabian Dance’, from Suite No. 2, is a lively and aggressive piece with violent displays from the strings. Holberg Suite Holberg Suite Op. 40: ‘Prelude’ 1884, Chamber Music This suite for strings, officially called ‘From Holberg’s Time’, is full of charm and cleverly re-creates the atmosphere of the eighteenth century. Symphonic Dances 1898, Orchestral Originally written as a piano duet, these four pieces were later orchestrated and are often seen as the Norwegian equivalent of Dvorák’s ‘Slavonic Dances’. " },{ "id": "/classical/FCho", "url": "/classical/FCho/", "title": "Frederic Chopin", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-03T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1810, "died": 1849, "image": "/images/classical/11.jpg", "from": "Warsaw, Poland", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Both Chopin and Liszt were astounding virtuoso pianists and their works now provide the backbone of the repertoire for concert pianists wishing to perform music from the Romantic era. Following a period in Victorian times when their music was regarded as being too sugary and sentimental, they are now held in high regard and enjoyment of their works is worldwide. Chopin was always fascinated by music and took up the piano, quickly becoming proficient enough to be hailed as a ‘Wunderkind’ (child prodigy) at the age of sixteen. He took a great interest in the folk music of the day, and this features strongly in nearly all of the music he wrote. He went to study at the Warsaw Conservatoire, and by the time he was nineteen had already composed a large catalogue of piano music – nocturnes, polonaises, waltzes and the two concertos for piano and orchestra. Following visits to Europe and the personal dilemma of whether or not he should return to his native Poland, he eventually decided in 1831 to settle in Paris. Life was hard and he was desperately short of money, barely scraping a living. Fortunately, however, he eventually found favour in the Rothschild family, who frequently employed him to play at soirées. This opened up a new circle of wealthy people in Paris who also wished to employ Chopin to give lessons at their houses. During this time he was also constantly composing, and added to his already quite extensive catalogue of concert pieces, including nocturnes, mazurkas and the popular G minor Ballade No. 1. Chopin was always dogged by ill health, and following his meeting the ‘femme fatale’ George Sand he agreed to go away with her and her children to the island of Majorca. It was here that Chopin was suspected of contracting tuberculosis, and because of this they were evicted from their rented accommodation and had to stay in a damp and unwelcoming disused monastery. Chopin was extremely depressed at this time, and was moved to writing the now famous funeral march as the slow movement to his Piano Sonata in B flat minor. His condition deteriorated and they all had to pack up and travel to Marseilles, where fortunately he received excellent medical attention that apparently saved his life. Following an almost complete recovery, Chopin, George Sand and the children went back to Paris, but in order to avoid society gossip they decided to live in separate flats near each other. Chopin undertook a series of private recitals (at very high fees) and found a few talented pupils, and life started to take a turn for the better. He was not only prolific but writing extremely fine music. However, in 1847 domestic troubles reared their ugly head once more, and after a particularly bad spate of arguments the couple decided to go their separate ways. Chopin eventually went to England but wasn’t at all happy there, and it became increasingly apparent that his creative muse had finally dried up. He wrote in a letter to a friend that he felt ‘played out’ and ‘incapable of bringing forth new sounds’ – a very sad state of affairs lasting some eleven months until his death. His funeral was held at the Madeleine in Paris where, at his own request, Mozart’s Requiem was sung. Nocturne in E Minor Nocturne in E Minor Op. 72, No. 1 1827, Keyboard Works Composed in 1827, this Nocturne is often described as being ‘posthumous’, for it was only discovered in 1863, in Warsaw. Twelve Études Twelve Études Op. 10: No. 5 in G Flat Major 1830, Keyboard Works Written when Chopin was only twenty, these ‘studies’ followed the principle that exercises to improve piano technique should also involve playing enjoyable pieces. Ballade No. 1 in G Minor Ballade No. 1 in G Minor Op. 23 Keyboard Works This Ballade, with its use of ‘rubato’ and highly embellished themes, is certainly a showcase for all the features of a Chopin composition. Of particular interest is a passage that occurs about five minutes into the piece, which is highly reminiscent of his ‘Minute’ waltz. Berceuse Berceuse in D Flat Major Op. 57 Keyboard Works This Berceuse, or ‘cradle-song’, is a delightful and enchanting exercise that clearly gives us another insight into the charm of the young romantic piano genius. Études Op. 25 Étude in A Flat Major Op. 25, No. 1 Keyboard Works Chopin said about this study: ‘Imagine a little shepherd who takes refuge in a peaceful grotto from an approaching storm. In the distance rushes the wind and the rain, while the shepherd gently plays a melody on his flute.’ Mazurka in C Minor Mazurka in C Minor Op. 30, No. 1 Keyboard Works Chopin wrote over fifty mazurkas for the piano – a mazurka being a traditional Polish dance in triple time where the second beat is usually accentuated either in the music or by a tap of the heel of the dancer. He often varied the traditional style by either changing the speed or incorporating another Polish dance – the Kuiaviak – into the composition. Nocturne in C Sharp Minor Nocturne in C Sharp Minor Op. 27, No. 1 Keyboard Works This Nocturne is charming in its apparent simplicity, though on closer inspection one will appreciate the skill required to fit in the trills over a seemingly endless bass line. Nocturne in E Flat **Nocturne in E flat Major Op. 9, No. 2 ** Keyboard Works Chopin wrote twenty-one nocturnes in all, this being perhaps the most famous one. This ‘night-piece’ has been arranged for brass bands and even musical saws, yet on the piano it is a wonderfully unhurried affair where the right hand plays an embellished tune over uncluttered left-hand chords. Polonaise in A Major Polonaise in A Major Op. 40, No. 1 Keyboard Works Though a ‘major’ key is usually associated with bright and cheerful melodies, this piano polonaise (based on the traditional Polish dance) seems to move between the happy and the morose before reaching the end of a particular phrase. As always with his more sedate work, Chopin paces the music with a good use of ‘rubato’, producing overall an essentially gentle work with a tone of hidden menace. Waltz in E Flat Waltz in E Flat Major Op. 18 Keyboard Works Chopin wrote altogether nineteen waltzes, of which this is a delightful example. Funeral March **Sonata No. 2 in B Flat Minor Op. 35: ‘Funeral March’ ** 1839, Keyboard Works The first two movements of this sonata seem to shoot along with a sense of unstoppable urgency, but the proceedings are suddenly cut short by the powerful solemnity of the funeral march of the third movement, which is often played separately – especially at funerals. However, this sonata must not be thought of as serious, for at times it is certainly a show-stopper. Prelude No. 24 Prelude in D Minor Op. 28, No. 24 1839, Keyboard Works A marvellous work once desribed as being: ‘full of the sounds of great guns!’ Prelude No. 4 Prelude in E Minor Op. 28, No. 4 1839, Keyboard Works Robert Schumann once said of these preludes, composed in 1838: ‘I must signal them as most remarkable. . . . these are sketches, the beginning of studies, or, if you will, ruins, eagle’s feathers all strangely intermingled.’ The fourth prelude is gentle and almost melancholy, being described as: ’ . . . a little poem, the exquisitely sweet, languid pensiveness of which defies description. The composer seems to be absorbed in the narrow sphere of his own ego, from which the wide noisy world is, for the time, shut out.’ Scherzo in B Flat Minor Scherzo in B Flat Minor Op. 31, No. 1 1839, Keyboard Works Chopin’s scherzos often feel like one-movement sonatas on account of the way in which they are closely worked and thematically compartmentalised. Themes aside, however, they include all the Chopin trademarks such as genuine tunefulness and literally showers of notes. Minute Waltz Waltz in D Flat Major Op. 64, No. 1 (‘Minute’) 1847, Keyboard Works This is definitely Chopin’s most famous piano work and possibly one of the hardest to play if the title is to be believed. The composer himself was reputed to have performed it in sixty second, but usually about a minute and a half is required. To be able to ‘waltz’ to this successfully is another matter altogether! " },{ "id": "/classical/FDel", "url": "/classical/FDel/", "title": "Frederick Delius", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-20T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1862, "died": 1934, "image": "/images/classical/27.jpg", "from": "Bradford, England", "schools": "Romantic, English Music", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Delius was an extraordinary character, born into a very wealthy family, the son of a highly successful Prussian industrialist who settled in Bradford. He rebelled against his father’s wishes for him to follow in his footsteps and ended up running an orange plantation in Florida. His time in the United States had a great effect on him and it was whilst sailing down a river one summer’s evening that he heard some Negroes singing in close harmony, which inspired him to write music himself. He had lessons with a local teacher, whom Delius claimed taught him more in three months than he had learnt in three years in Leipzig, where he undertook a formal training in music. Delius was a truly cosmopolitan character, travelling the world throughout his life, enjoying collecting the influences of different cultures that went to make up his own style – something of a cross between the best of both the English and French schools of composers writing at the time. He spent quite a time in Scandinavia, France and Germany and frequently visited England for performances of his works, many of which were championed by the great conductor Sir Thomas Beecham. His music is largely rhapsodic in nature – some would say it has no form – but for his devotees that is exactly what is attractive about it. Usually dreamy, colourful and atmospheric, this is music that has proved to be extremely influential on those who have followed. His use of chords and sense of harmony is very individual and his orchestrations produce wonderfully evocative textures that have blatantly been copied by today’s film-score composers. Delius wrote beautifully for the orchestra and also had a good degree of success composing for the voice; his other works include sonatas and concertos for both violin and cello as well as a selection of songs. In a Summer Garden Orchestral Quiet and thoughtful, Delius’s In a Summer Garden evokes the image of an evening in an English country garden, which is created by a smooth and layered foundation of string sounds over which we occasionally hear the bird-calls of an oboe and flute. Summer Night on the River Orchestral Delius seems to have found a lot of inspiration in the seasons, particularly those of summer and spring. Summer Night on the River lives up to its title perfectly where, with eyes closed, we can almost imagine an exceptionally lazy time afloat, probably engaged in some twilight punting, gently pushing through the lilies and swans. Brigg Fair 1907, Orchestral Very much an ‘English Rhapsody’, this orchestral work is an exact and unpretentious set of variations on a Lincolnshire folk song. On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring 1912, Orchestral Although this symphonic poem is based on a Norwegian folk song, with a title clearly indicating a season, the music seems to conjure up an Edwardian image of tea on the lawn on an English summer afternoon. The piece is short but highly evocative. " },{ "id": "/classical/FLis", "url": "/classical/FLis/", "title": "Franz Liszt", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1811, "died": 1886, "image": "/images/classical/13.jpg", "from": "Sopron, Hungary", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Franz Liszt was universally renowned for being the most gifted pianist in the world, and his awesome technique led him to write fiendishly difficult music. Chopin was, it appears, quite disparaging of Liszt’s talents, and is quoted as saying that ‘he is an excellent binder who puts other people’s works between the covers’. There is an element of truth in this remark, as Liszt was a prodigious arranger of other composer’s works – eventually amounting to some nine hundred transcriptions. At the time that he wrote these pieces he was also about the only person who could actually perform them! However, it is now accepted that he was also a composer of some fine music in his own right and he holds a high ranking position in the field of romantic piano music. The story of Liszt’s life makes very interesting reading. One of the themes that keeps recurring in all the history books is that he was blessed with remarkable sexual athleticism. He lived for a long time with a Countess who was the mother of his children, one of whom later went on to marry the celebrated opera composer Richard Wagner. Liszt had a following all over Europe which gave him the sort of adulation and fanaticism accorded to the pop stars of the 1960s, and tales of his sexual exploits are rife. When he was just eleven years old the family moved to Vienna, where he was placed with two of the finest tutors of the day: Czerny for lessons in piano and Mozart’s rival Salieri for composition. As a youngster Liszt gave successful concerts in Vienna, and his talent and work was admired by Beethoven and Schubert, amongst others, who agreed with the popular notion that he was the young prodigy following in the footsteps of Mozart – quite an accolade! Liszt was constantly in demand as a concert pianist and he spent many years travelling around Europe, delighting audiences wherever he went. Throughout this time he was always trying to come to terms with his spirituality. He had been brought up with a strong church background and his father had at one time been a Franciscan novice. However, his religious upbringing did not stop him from living with his lover, the Countess Marie d’Agoult, and having children out of wedlock. They finally separated in 1844, and following this break-up Liszt took the children to live with his mother in Paris. Career-wise this was a time of enormous success for Liszt, and in 1847 he met a woman who almost made him settle down for good. This was the Princess Carolyne Sayn-Wittgenstein, whom he had met in Kiev. She persuaded him to stop touring and concentrate on a more stable career as a composer. This he duly did, with spectacular results, writing what are now regarded as some of his finest compositions. He spent most of this period in Weimar and stayed there until the tragic deaths of his son Daniel (aged only twenty) and daughter Blandine (aged twenty-eight). It was at this time that he finally had the urge to get married – this time to the Princess of Rome. Sadly the marriage was not to take place, as the Pope denied her the right to divorce her existing husband. Liszt then became heavily involved with the church again and even went as far as taking the four minor orders of the Catholic Church, whilst all the time concentrating on writing religious music. However, he never actually became a priest and spent his last years giving master classes on the piano and advising and teaching the up and coming composers of the day, who included such people as Borodin, Fauré, Saint-Saëns and Debussy. Liszt had a greater talent for writing for the orchestra than Chopin and he was the first to develop the symphonic poem – an extended one-movement piece of music depicting a story or a painting, for example. He was also the first to give a complete concert of solo piano music – now called a piano recital. He was quite rightly hailed as being one of the finest keyboard virtuosi ever to have lived, not only performing his own works but also pioneering some of the great works of his predecessors Bach, Beethoven and Schubert. Piano Concerto No. 1 Piano Concerto No. 1 in E Flat Major: Allegro maestoso 1849, Concerti, Orchestral Liszt wrote his First Piano Concerto with the deliberate intention of writing a show-stopper that would bring the audience cheering to their feet. Riddled with pounding cadenzas, wrenching melodies and delightful accompaniments, this really is a work for a showman. Les Préludes Les Préludes: No. 3 1856, Orchestral This symphonic work is based on a poem by Lamartine which attempts to represent life as a series of preludes to some unknown future existence. A gorgeous tune rides through the moods of the music, which range from passion to pageantry. Hungarian Rhapsodies Hungarian Rhapsodies for Orchestra No. 2 1858, Orchestral Liszt, along with Bartók, has long been credited with the rediscovery of Hungarian folk music, especially when he wrote his nineteen Hungarian Rhapsodies. These seem to capture perfectly the Gypsy melodies and rhythms with which the composer was so enamoured. " },{ "id": "/classical/FMen", "url": "/classical/FMen/", "title": "Felix Mendelssohn", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1809, "died": 1847, "image": "/images/classical/10.jpg", "from": "Hamburg, Germany", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography The opening to Mendelssohn’s Violin Concerto has a beautifully understated lyrical romanticism about it that makes it among the most popular of all concertos for any instrument. Mendelssohn only lived for thirty-eight years, but during that short time he composed a significant number of the enduring popular classic favourites, including the Wedding March from A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the Hebrides Overture (Fingal’s Cave) and the Violin Concerto, all of which are regularly performed in concert halls around the world. Felix Mendelssohn was the son of a wealthy banker and received an extremely high-powered education from the very finest teachers in Paris and Berlin, including the poet Goethe. His mother, Lea, taught him the rudiments of music and he was soon hailed as being another Mozart. The talent he demonstrated both on the piano and as a composer and improviser certainly invites comparison between the two. His talents were developed by an immense amount of hard work and application: his father insisted on his getting up at five o’clock every morning to start work. Mendelssohn composed his now famous Octet for double string quartet at just sixteen years of age, and a year later produced the Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Not satisfied, however, with a career just as a composer, he studied philosophy at the University of Berlin and continued in his search for knowledge, all the while mixing in the highest academic and artistic circles. He became friends with the poet Heine, and later with other composers such as Chopin and Robert Schumann. He went to England in the spring of 1829 and Sir Walter Scott took him on a voyage to Scotland and the Hebrides, where he found the inspiration for the overture of the same name. From this time he was composing some very fine music indeed and by 1833 he had completed four symphonies, a couple of string quartets and the first volume of Songs Without Words for solo piano. He was naturally prolific and his music has a youthful spontaneity and freshness about it quite unlike that of any other composer of his generation. Mendelssohn was also keen on conducting and travelled all over the world, working with many of the finest orchestras in performances of his own pieces and those of others that he admired, including Bach, Handel and Beethoven. He got married whilst in France in 1837 to a beautiful young French girl, ten years his junior. They had five children, and the strain of this, coupled with his intensely busy schedule as a conductor and composer, led to his poor health; he was always under par and was reputed to have been a pretty sickly sort chap. Mendelssohn’s music found favour with the Prussian and British royal families, and the composer very much enjoyed giving private performances at Buckingham Palace in England and for Frederick Wilhelm lV in Berlin. He wrote a lot of piano music – a couple of concertos and four volumes of the Songs Without Words – and apart from the symphonies and the famous overtures he also wrote two excellent oratorios, St Paul in 1836 and Elijah ten years later. It was following a splendid performance of Elijah in Berlin that Mendelssohn returned to Leipzig suffering from complete exhaustion: he had a series of fits and died on 4 November 1847. His music displays the unique qualities of warmth and romanticism whilst at the same time retaining the clarity of texture and tunefulness of the early classicists. His music is very appealing and is now finding something of a resurgence in popularity. Octet Octet for Strings in E Flat Major Op. 20 1825, Chamber Music Amazingly, Mendelssohn was only sixteen when he wrote this piece for two string quartets. His youthful enthusiasm can be heard in each of the four lengthy movements, which sound as if the young composer has only just discovered the joys of music and wishes to share them with the world. A Midsummer Night’s Dream A Midsummer Night’s Dream: Overture 1827, Orchestral Mendelssohn was, amazingly, only seventeen years old when he wrote the Overture to one of his favourite Shakespearean comedies, yet he did not write the other four parts (Scherzo – Intermezzo – Nocturne – Wedding March) until nearly twenty years later. In a letter to his sister, Fanny, when he was young, Mendelssohn said: ‘I have grown accustomed to composing in our garden; there I completed two piano pieces . . . Today or tomorrow I am going to dream there the ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. This is, however, an enormous audacity . . .’ The Overture is indeed the most famous part of all the incidental music the composer wrote for Shakespeare’s play, and is best summed up by Mendelssohn himself when he wrote: ‘It follows the play closely . . . so that it may perhaps be very proper to indicate the outstanding situations of the drama in order that the audience may have Shakespeare in mind . . . I think that it should be enough to point out that the fairy rulers, Oberon and Titania, appear throughout the play with all their people . . . at the end, after everything has been satisfactorily settled, and the principal players have joyfully left the stage, the elves follow them, bless the house and disappear with the dawn. So the play ends, and my Overture too.’ A great fan of Shakespeare, Mendelssohn was keen to supply music for the whole play and composed much background music – some complicated, some merely a single note to emphasise a word or gesture. The Overture captures many aspects of the play, from fairy music played on high violins to the braying of Bottom when he has an ass’s head. The Scherzo provides a bit of orchestral magic, with shimmering strings and laughing woodwind chords, while the Intermezzo has a more agitated feel, coming in at the end of Act II, where one of the men has fallen in love with the wrong woman. At the close of the next act, the Nocturne maintains a sleepy mood, as the lovers in the play have fallen into a magic sleep, hauntingly represented by a solo horn. The final Wedding March is full of grand and regal splendour, particularly effective in a large theatre. Hebrides Overture The Hebrides Overture (‘Fingal’s Cave’) Op. 26 1830, Overtures As his letters and paintings testify, Mendelssohn was a keen and sensitive observer of the outside world. In July 1829 he travelled to Scotland with the writer Carl Klingmann and was profoundly stirred by the country’s sombre beauty and romantic history. At some point during this holiday Mendelssohn took the steamer from Oban to the island of Mull, where he spent the night before embarking for Staffa and Iona. From Mull he wrote to his family, saying: ‘So that you can understand how extraordinarily the Hebrides have affected me, the following came into my head here . . .’ and he went on to quote the opening of what was to become the Hebrides Overture. The initial idea was thus conceived before Mendelssohn visited Staffa, with its famed Fingal’s Cave, and his original title for the overture, ‘The Lonely Island’, may well refer to Mull. He certainly disliked the title ‘Fingal’s Cave’, which his publishers gave the work after it had reached its final form in 1832. One of the greatest of musical seascapes, the overture re-creates the sounds and rhythms of the ocean, its swellings and ebbings, its violent storms and mysterious shimmering calms. Particularly magical is the way in which the second main theme is brought up by the clarinets and fleetingly recalled by the flute in the last few bars. Italian Symphony Symphony No. 4 in A Major Op. 90 (‘Italian’) 1830, Symphonies, Orchestral Mendelssohn was often criticised for being too happy and too rich, and many have wondered what kind of music he would have produced had he been a poor, tormented and passionate artist like Mozart or Berlioz. However, his talent is undeniable, and his Italian Symphony is a masterpiece as well as being, according to the composer himself ‘ . . . the jolliest piece I have ever done’. In 1830 the twenty-one year old Mendelssohn travelled into Italy and found the country instantly inspiring. In letters home he said that he felt like a young prince making his entry into a country full of festive air, and if the listener retains this notion while listening to the symphony he will agree that it is truly reflected in the music. The first movement (Allegro vivace) opens with a call to adventure by the violins over a background phrase from the woodwinds, after which the music enchantingly unfolds like the Italian landscape unfolding before the young composer. The mock sluggishness of the second movement (Andante con moto) was inspired by a religious procession it is known Mendelssohn witnessed in Naples, and is cleverly achieved by plodding strings and chanting woodwinds. The third movement (Con moto moderato) is a graceful exercise and is often compared with the composer’s Overture for ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’. This sets up the listener nicely for the finale, in the form of an old Italian dance, which reflects the hectic fun of the Roman carnival experienced by Mendelssohn during his four-month stay in the capital. Scottish Symphony Symphony No. 3 Op. 56 (‘Scottish’): 2nd Movement 1833, Symphonies, Orchestral ‘We went into the palace where Queen Mary lived and loved. There is a little room to be seen there, with a winding staircase leading up to it. . . . The adjoining chapel is now roofless; grass and ivy grow abundantly in it; and before the ruined altar Mary was crowned Queen of Scotland. Everything around is broken and mouldering, and the bright sky shines in. I believe I found the beginnings of my ‘Scotch’ Symphony there today.’ This is what Mendelssohn, on holiday in Scotland, wrote in his diary on 30 July 1829, and later in the day jotted down the opening bars of what was to become one of his greatest works. It is set in the traditional four movements, yet, interestingly, Mendelssohn specifically directed that they be played without a pause to prevent any applause between them. Violin Concerto in E Minor Violin Concerto in E Minor Op. 64: Allegro molto appassionato 1844, Concerti, Orchestral In July 1838 Mendelssohn wrote to his old friend Ferdinand David, saying: ‘I would like to write you a violin concerto for next winter. One in E minor keeps running through my head, and the opening gives me no peace.’ Like many other great composers, Mendelssohn had a specific performer in mind when he wrote his concerto, and therefore consulted him frequently. One of the leading virtuosos of the day, Ferdinand David was much admired by other musicians, including Mendelssohn’s friend Robert Schumann. The concerto was only finished six years after its inception during a family holiday Mendelssohn took in the summer of 1844. The composer had a reputation for being a perfectionist and would often make minute alterations until they were to his, and David’s, liking; changes were even made after the work had been sent to the publishers. It was first performed in March 1845, though Mendelssohn was too ill to attend its debut. The solo violin opens the concerto with a passionate melody upon which the rest of the movement is based. In order to give a feeling of radiance, the first solo is played entirely on the E string, the highest and most brilliant string on the instrument. The second, slower movement (Andante) follows without a pause from the first, and is introduced by a single bassoon note held over from the final chord of the preceding section. It is soon joined by other instruments to supply the backing for the simple, yet profound violin solo. Again with no pause, we are led straight into the finale with an increase in pace (Allegretto non troppo; Allegro molto vivace) that allows the violin to dance through and dominate the closing bars, full of melodic verve and rhythmic drive. Elijah 1846, Choral A dramatic oratorio in the style of Handel, Elijah tells the story of the prophet of the same name taken from the Old Testament. The work is full of powerful choruses. Songs without Words: ‘Spring Song’ Songs without Words No. 6: ‘Spring Song’ 1832, Keyboard Works The ‘Songs without Words’ are an inspiring set of lyrical piano pieces that seem to explore moods rather than themes. The most famous are ‘Spring Song’ and ‘The Bee’s Wedding’. They have been arranged for various instruments, including flute and harp. " },{ "id": "/classical/FSch", "url": "/classical/FSch/", "title": "Franz Schubert", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-09-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1797, "died": 1828, "image": "/images/classical/07.jpg", "from": "Vienna, Austria", "schools": "Classical", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Schubert’s father was by profession a teacher, but he was also a very keen amateur musician and taught his son to play the violin from an early age. Franz was one of eleven children, of whom only three survived beyond infancy, and his elder brother Ignaz taught him to play the piano. Young Franz was an extremely bright child and excelled at everything he turned his hand to. Although aware of the exceptional talent that his son showed, his father insisted that Franz should get a proper job and attend a teachers’ training college. Franz reluctantly agreed and this led to his eventually accepting a job as a teacher alongside his father, although very much against his wishes. However, the composer in him was not to be suppressed and Schubert was throughout this period continually writing music. In 1814 he wrote perhaps his first great masterpiece, ‘Gretchen am Spinnrad’, which is now one of his most famous songs. He was incredibly prolific at this time and in the year following, 1815, he wrote five operas (none of which is much good) and an astonishing 150 songs (pretty well all of which are fantastic). Schubert was an extraordinarily bright child and his intellectual gifts stayed with him. He was an excellent improviser and would often entertain at soirées, social gatherings and dinner parties by composing on the spot and playing dance music. He used this rare gift to his further advantage by his ability to remember what he’d played and write it down. This explains how he built such a vast catalogue of music in his tragically short thirty-one years. He spent most of his life living in and around Vienna and loved the very active social life that he led. He held appointments in many courts of the aristocracy and was a very popular man socially, always being invited out to dine with friends and colleagues. He developed syphilis in 1822, couldn’t finish the illustrious Eighth Symphony, and then spent a rather miserable six years being in and out of hospital until his death in 1828 from typhoid. However, during these last five or six years of ill health he wrote some of his finest and most well-loved works, including the ‘Great’ C major Symphony, the Octet in F (for string quintet, clarinet, bassoon and horn) and the song cycles Die schöne Müllerin, Schwanengesang and Die Winterreise. Although he’d been an extremely popular man he was quickly forgotten, and it is only in the last hundred years or so that both he and his work have been valued alongside the other great classical Viennese composers Mozart, Haydn and Beethoven. Symphony No. 5 in B Flat Symphony No. 5 in B Flat: 1st Movement 1816, Symphonies, Orchestral Incredibly, Schubert was only nineteen when he wrote this enchanting little symphony, which is sometimes referred to as ‘The Symphony without Trumpets and Drums’. The orchestra for which he wrote it was so small that today we would call it a chamber orchestra – an outgrowth of the string quartet that used to meet in Schubert’s home. At the time he composed the work, Schubert had gone through a major artistic crisis concerning the effects on him of the great symphonist Beethoven. His previous symphony, the ‘Tragic’, had been written very much under the influence of Beethoven, yet Schubert had come up against a temporary hatred of the man’s music. In his diary, the young composer described Beethoven’s influence as: ’. . . that eccentricity which joins and confuses the tragic with the comic, the agreeable with the repulsive, heroism with howlings, . . . so as to goad people to madness instead of dissolving them to love, to incite them to laughter instead of lifting them to God.’ However, Schubert returned later to his love of Beethoven, but only after having firmly established his own strong personality. After his death, the manuscript of the symphony was lost and it was nearly forty years later that the orchestral parts were rediscovered by two Englishmen in Vienna. Its first public performance was, therefore, in London’s Crystal Palace, in February 1873. The first movement (Allegro) begins pianissimo with a four-bar theme from the first violins before we are led gracefully into the bulk of the section, which has some wonderful dialogues between string choir and woodwinds. The Andante con moto of the slow second movement is very much in the style of Mozart, as is the third (Allegro molto), which often reminds the listener of Mozart’s great G Minor Symphony. In the finale (Allegro vivace) we are treated to a masterpiece of symphonic genius, with a grace and charm that is so well developed and natural in growth that the listener might forget to be impressed, surrendering to the spontaneous joy that Schubert had obviously felt himself. Trout Quintet Piano Quintet in A Major (‘The Trout’) 1819, Chamber Music This is one of the jolliest pieces of chamber music Schubert ever wrote, and certainly evokes the title image with its leaping accompaniment and sparkling tune. This is Schubert at his most smiling and serene. Unfinished Symphony Symphony No. 8 in B Minor (‘Unfinished’) 1822, Symphonies, Orchestral It will probably never be known why Schubert left his B Minor Symphony incomplete. He began it in October 1822, finished the first two movements, which are among the greatest and most compact in symphonic history, and almost completed the sketch for his scherzo – even going as far as to orchestrate the first nine bars – before putting it aside for reasons unknown. A popular theory as to why it was never completed is that Schubert may have recognised so many points of resemblance between this music and Beethoven’s Second Symphony (one of Schubert’s all-time favourites) that he became worried he would be accused of copying, and therefore made a conscious decision not to carry on. The symphony was first performed in December 1865 in Vienna, thirty-seven years after Schubert’s death. The symphony begins (Allegro moderato) with a mysterious, yearning theme for cellos and double basses, which develops into an explosion of emotion before the movement closes with a return to the opening bars. After all the feeling of the first movement, the opening of the second (Andante con moto) seems to promise peace and tranquillity, yet melancholy and yearning recur with a tender clarinet melody, which is followed by a stormy passage. The closing section is tinged with sadness. Ballet Music Rosamunde 1823, Ballet This ballet was written around the drama ‘Rosamunde, Princess of Cypress’ and took Schubert only nineteen days to compose. Rather than write a unique overture, Schubert took a previously written one, which he tacked on the rest of the music. Die schöne Müllerin 1823, Songs Like the ‘Winter Journey’, ‘The Beautiful Maid of the Mill’ is a set of songs on the subject of hopeless love. The songs have a bubbly piano accompaniment that represents both the mill stream and the hope in the heart of the love-struck young man. Octet Octet in F Major 1824, Chamber Music Schubert was commissioned to write a chamber work modelled on Beethoven’s Septet and, instead of tossing it off lightly, as one would with a commissioned work rather than an inspired one, he put all his energies into creating a serious piece. His Octet is altogether a well-crafted piece of chamber music. String Quartet No. 13 in A Minor Chamber Music A very Classical work, Schubert’s String Quartet is well paced, as if he were following some unwritten rules for making chamber music. Die Winterreise 1827, Songs The ‘Winter Journey’ is a set of songs, lasting about forty minutes, which is both sombre and tragic yet, at moments, quite uplifting. Great C Major Symphony Symphony No. 9 in C Major: Andante 1828, Symphonies, Orchestral Nicknamed the Great C Major Symphony to distinguish it from Symphony No. 6, which is also in C Major, this is probably Schubert’s finest orchestral work. Even though it is rather long and grand, the main impression is one of good humour. " },{ "id": "/classical/FStr", "url": "/classical/FStr/", "title": "Strauss Family", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-01T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1804, "died": 1916, "image": "/images/classical/09.jpg", "from": "Vienna, Austria", "schools": "Classical", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Nineteenth-century Vienna was hailed as the capital city of dance music as a result of the efforts of the Strauss family. Johann the elder (1804–1849) was the son of an inn-keeper, but quickly became a prominent figure leading his own orchestras in cafes, ballrooms and dance-halls and writing and arranging all his own music. After a few years his repertoire added up to more than two hundred dances, a hundred and fifty of which were waltzes. Johann had three sons who all followed in his footsteps, the most famous of which was ‘Johann ll’ (1825–1899), who wrote such all-time favourites as The Blue Danube, Tales from the Vienna Woods and the ever popular Emperor Waltz. The other two brothers were less famous but equally active in the world of music, with Josef (1827–1870) writing Music of the Spheres and Dynamiden, both of which are frequently performed today, and Eduard (1835–1916) making more of a name as a conductor. The music from the Strauss family is probably the most popular light classical music in the repertoire – audiences love it and there are frequently concerts dedicated solely to performances of these works, the most famous being the televised New Year’s Day concert live from Vienna. As well as the waltzes already listed, the family were also renowned for writing marches and polkas. The most famous of these are Johann Strauss senior’s Radetzky March and Johann Strauss II’s Pizzicato Polka. These never fail to engage audiences in clapping along and joining in with the chorus. Blue Danube Waltz By the Beautiful Blue Danube 1847, Orchestral Written in 1847, The Blue Danube is definitely Johann Strauss II’s most famous waltz. It has a swinging tune and warm orchestration which instantly evokes an image of couples in full evening dress, swirling each other around in grand Viennese dance halls. It was used to great effect in the film ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ to accompany space-ships slowly tumbling around in space. Radetzky March 1848, Orchestral Written by Johann Strauss the Elder in 1848, this march was named after an Austrian field-marshal and came to symbolise the Hapsburg monarchy. Annen-Polka 1852, Orchestral While he was on tour in London in 1867, Johann II found that this polka was one of England’s most favoured pieces and, at Covent Garden, it was played a total of eighty-two times during sixty-three concerts. Tritsch-Tratsch-Polka 1858, Orchestral Short and light, Tritsch-Tratsch is less a piece of dance music, more a novelty orchestral item, full of lively sound-effects such as corks popping, rifle-shots and rolls of thunder. Perpetuum Mobile Perpetuum Mobile: musikalischer Scherz 1861, Orchestral On 5 February 1861, an amazing spectacle took place when three balls were held on the same night in Vienna, each one’s orchestra being conducted by a different member of the Strauss family – Johann II, Josef and Eduard. The evening was sensational, involving 300 musicians playing fifty dances, including fourteen waltzes, ten quadrilles, nine French polkas, eight polka-mazurkas, eight quick-polkas and a schottisch. The whole event was entitled ‘Carnival’s Perpetual Motion: or Non-Stop Dance’ and this inspired Johann to write his musical jest based on this title. Morgenblätter 1863, Orchestral On the 12th of January 1864 a large ball was held in the Sofienbad-Saal, for which Johann Strauss II had submitted a waltz entitled Morgenblätter (‘Morning Papers’). However, Jacques Offenbach (of ‘Cancan’ fame) was visiting the area and also intended to submit a waltz for the ball. A friendly rivalry grew up and, at the ball, Strauss conducted the orchestra for both works, Offenbach’s entry being called Abendblätter (‘Evening Papers’). Tales from the Vienna Woods 1868, Orchestral This charming waltz is really the result of the friendly rivalry that existed between Johann II and Josef: after Josef produced some classics, including ‘Music of the Spheres’, in the summer of 1868, Johann came up with ‘Tales from the Vienna Woods’ and others. The two combined with their brother Eduard in July of the same year to produce ‘Shooting Quadrille’, each man writing two sections. Thunder and Lightning Polka 1868, Orchestral During the summer of 1868 there was a certain agressive yet friendly rivalry between the brothers Johann II and Josef Strauss, where each would try to match the other’s compositions with a finer work. After Josef had produced some classics, including the ‘Music of the Spheres’, Johann responded by writing the Thunder and Lightning polka, though he originally called it ‘Shooting Star’. Die Fledermaus Die Fledermaus: Overture 1874, Orchestral A complete operetta, Die Fledermaus (‘The Bat’) is a blend of catchy tunes and basic farce, full of witty lines, mistaken identity and clever disguises for the performers. To be fully appreciated, it must be seen in a proper production with singers able to perform comedy. Roses from the South 1880, Orchestral The theme for Roses from the South is taken from Johann Strauss II’s seventh operetta, ‘The Queen’s Lace Handkerchief’, which was originally inspired by the poet Cervantes’ waltz aria ‘Wo die wilde Rose erblüht’. A Night in Venice A Night in Venice: Overture 1882, Orchestral Written in 1882, A Night in Venice represents a rather sad period in the life of Johann Strauss II, for he had just become divorced from his wife Lili, and though she had plagued him for many years he was still depressed. In fact, the opening night of the operetta had to be moved to another venue, as it was with the theatre manager of that particular site that Lili had commited adultery. Gypsy Baron The Gypsy Baron: Overture 1884, Orchestral Written in 1884, this operetta was probably Johann Strauss II’s most successful. A contemporary review remarked: ‘The man who for decades has delighted the music-loving world through his creations, appears now to have reached the zenith of his creative power.’ Emperor Waltz 1889, Orchestral In 1889 Johann Strauss II signed a one-week contract to conduct concerts in Berlin, and before he set off he sent his Berlin publisher one of his latest waltzes. He had named this waltz ‘Hand in Hand’, the title referring to a recent toast made by the Austrian Emperor during a visit to the German Kaiser Wilhelm II, where he had stressed the importance of friendship between the two nations. Strauss’s publisher, however, decided on a diplomatic change of name to ‘Emperor Waltz’, as this would keep both monarchs happy. The piece was first performed less than six weeks later and was an enormous success. Vienna Blood 1899, Opera Though often referred to as an original Strauss operetta, the work was actually compiled from the music of Johann Strauss II with composer’s consent. Completed in 1899, it deals with romantic intrigue in Vienna, and is named after a Strauss waltz from 1871 which is incorporated in the overall work. " },{ "id": "/classical/GFau", "url": "/classical/GFau/", "title": "Gabriel Fauré", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-14T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1845, "died": 1924, "image": "/images/classical/22.jpg", "from": "Paris, France", "schools": "Romantic, French", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Fauré is best known for one work in particular, his Requiem, which is regularly performed all over the world. He is also famous for a tune within the Pavane for chorus with orchestra. This piece is invariably to be found in compilation albums of popular classical favourites. He was born into a large family, one of six children, and having little contact with his parents was looked after by the nanny. Fauré’s talent at music became apparent very early on and he was given a free place at a special music school in Paris, where he was taught by another eminent French composer, Camille Saint-Saëns. He excelled at his studies and started writing music in a very original style, showing a remarkable talent for composing for the human voice, and it is for this medium that he really excelled. He was a very gifted organist and held a number of prestigious jobs in Paris, one as the assistant to Widor (whose Toccata is very popular as the playout music to many people’s wedding ceremonies in Britain). The piano was his other favourite instrument, and he composed two wonderful quartets for violin, viola, cello and piano in 1879 and 1886 respectively. These are among the most charming pieces in the whole chamber music catalogue for this combination. One or two of his solo works for piano have also found their way into the repertoire of many concert pianists and these include the Barcarolle and Nocturne, whilst his collections of songs contain so many gems it is hard to know which to mention: popular favourites include Nell, Les Berceaux and Claire de Lune. In 1896 Fauré was appointed to be the chief organist at the Madeleine and also a professor of composition at the Paris Conservatoire. He is reputed to have been a fine teacher and was instrumental in developing the talents of Ravel, Schmitt and Nadia Boulanger, among others. Some years later he was promoted Director of the Conservatoire, a job which carried mixed blessings as it gave him less time for his own composition. Sadly Fauré went deaf in 1910, and for the last fourteen years of his life this was a severe handicap for him, having a marked effect on his output. Much of the music from this period is very sombre, bare and transparent in texture and requires sympathetic performance. Fauré died in 1924 but has left us with the most beautiful collection of music that ensures his place as one of the truly great French composers to have emerged in the late nineteenth century, paving the way for the prodigious talents of Debussy and Ravel. Pavane 1887, Orchestral Fauré was always attracted to the cool straight-forwardness of ancient Greek civilisation and wrote many works in this classical style. This is his best known, being a beautiful flute melody played over plucked strings. Requiem 1889, Choral Definitely one the best loved of all choral works, this is essentially a reflective piece. The solo treble movement, ‘Pie Jesu’, is stunning and often performed separately. Pelléas et Mélisande Suite 1898, Orchestral Fauré wrote a lot of instrumental music for the theatre, the most notable being for Maeterlinck’s ‘Pelleas and Melisande’ – a play based on doomed love. Debussy, Sibelius and Schoenberg all wrote music based on this play, strangely enough, all within five years of one another. " },{ "id": "/classical/GGer", "url": "/classical/GGer/", "title": "George Gershwin", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-11-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1898, "died": 1937, "image": "/images/classical/40.jpg", "from": "New York, USA", "schools": "Modern, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography George Gershwin was the second son of Moishe Gershovitza, a Russian Jew who had settled in the United States in about 1890 and promptly changed his name to Morris Gershvin. Moishe was an intensely ambitious man who was striving to better himself and his family’s situation: rumour has it that they moved house some twenty-eight times in less than twenty years and that during that time Moishe had as many jobs! George was given the first name Jacob, whilst his elder brother Ira was originally called Israel (later to be known as Izzy). Young George showed his first real interest in music when he heard an automatic piano playing Rubinstein’s ‘Melody in F’, and from then on he developed an uncontrollable fascination with the subject. The family acquired a piano, which was originally intended for Ira’s use, but George was able immediately to sit down and work out some of the popular tunes and ragtime music that he was particularly keen on at the time. He had lessons with a local lady and then went on to study with Charles Hambitzer, who had a profound effect on his development. It was already quite obvious that George was destined for great things – either as a concert pianist or as a composer – and it was no secret that he was happiest playing pop and jazz music. He left school at the age of fifteen and immediately got a job as a staff pianist at the Tin Pan Alley firm of Jerome H. Remick & Co. He was only required to accompany song-pluggers and was soon dissatisfied with his lot, particularly as his own first attempts at songwriting were turned down by the company. However, undeterred, George kept writing, and scored his first publishing hit with a song called ‘When you want ‘em you can’t get ‘em: when you’ve got ‘em you don’t want ‘em’, which was published in 1916. He went on to write a quick succession of hits, including songs that were also incorporated in other people’s shows – a famous example being the song ‘Swanee’, used in Al Jolson’s show Sinbad. Gershwin really hit the headlines with his ever-popular Rhapsody in Blue – a jazzy concerto for piano with orchestra (or band), first performed in 1924. There followed a series of commissions, and the Piano Concerto in F was written and performed just one year later and this is now a standard in the concert repertoire. George’s brother Ira was a very talented lyric writer and the two collaborated on songs and shows throughout George’s tragically short career. Lady, Be Good! starring the Astaires, was one of their first hits. One of George’s best-known works is the folk-opera Porgy and Bess, written in 1935, and this contains the ever-popular song ‘Summertime’. His rhapsodic symphonic work An American in Paris is also a big favourite with audiences, whilst serious concert pianists often include his remarkable Three Preludes in their programmes. Rhapsody in Blue 1924, Orchestral It is amazing that George Gershwin ever wrote this, his most famous work, at all, because it seems he didn’t have the nerve to do it. It took all the powers of persuasion of his friend Paul Whiteman to convince the twenty-five-year-old composer to carry on with the ‘jazz concerto’ that he himself had asked Gershwin to write for a concert less than a month away. Gershwin was attracted to the idea through his love of jazz, but his time was fully occupied with work on a musical comedy called ‘Sweet Little Devil’, which was due for its first performance in Boston. It was, in fact, while he was on the way to the premiere of the musical that he got his inspiration for the Rhapsody. In his words: ‘It was on the train, with its steely rhythms, its rattlety-bang that is often so stimulating to a composer . . . I frequently hear music in the very heart of noise. And then I suddenly heard – and even saw on paper – the complete construction of the Rhapsody, from beginning to end. . . . I heard it as a sort of musical kaleidoscope of America – of our vast melting pot . . . of our blues, our metropolitan madness. By the time I reached Boston I had a definite plot of the piece.’ Gershwin didn’t have time to complete the work before its performance, but he had written enough for the twenty-two-piece jazz orchestra for them to provide a suitable accompaniment for the solo piano, which he would be playing, and improvising (!) on the first night. ‘Rhapsody in Blue’ opens with a now famous clarinet solo that begins with a quite incredible wail as it produces some low trills before shooting skyward into a jazzy theme. A little later a saxophone takes over the theme, before the piano enters with a variation on the original melody. What makes this a most exceptional piece is that, whilst there are so many themes coupled with a definite jazz feel, one could still (if not a musical purist) classify it as piano concerto. What is most incredible is that Gershwin, the soloist for the evening, had to improvise his solo part almost from nothing, and the show was still a roaring success. Piano Concerto in F Piano Concerto in F Major: 3rd Movement 1925, Concerti, Orchestral When George Gershwin first performed his Rhapsody in Blue under rather rushed circumstances in 1924, a certain Dr Walter Damrosch, who was the conductor of the New York Symphony, was so impressed that he instantly asked the young composer to write a piano concerto for his orchestra on the understanding that he, Gershwin, would also be the soloist. Gershwin happily agreed, and there is a story that, directly afterwards, he ran to a music shop and bought a book to find out exactly what a concerto was! The result was the Concerto in F, which was originally called the New York Concerto. He completed it in November 1925, and later said to a friend: ‘Many persons had thought that the “Rhapsody” was only a happy accident. Well, I went out, for one thing, to show them that there was plenty more where that had come from. I made up my mind to do a piece of “absolute” music. The “Rhapsody”, as its title implied, was a “blues” impression. The Concerto would be unrelated to any program. And that is how I wrote it. I learnt a great deal from that experience. Particularly in the handling of instruments in combination.’ The first movement (Allegro) is quick and pulsating, representing the spirit of American life. The principal theme is announced by a bassoon with a second theme coming from the piano. The second section is a slower and more poetic, and is often referred to as an American blues. The finale starts violently and continues in the same way. Cuban Overture Overtures An exciting piece of Caribbean imagery, ‘The Cuban Overture’ deserves to be better known. Three Preludes for Piano Three Preludes for Piano: No. 3 Keyboard Works Typically Gershwin, these Three Preludes for Piano are pacy and energetic, as if one were running down a hectic New York street while soaking up the surroundings. At the same time, the embellished melodies seem to evoke some of the rhapsodic qualities of Liszt. An American in Paris 1928, Overtures By the time George Gershwin was asked to write an orchestral work for the New York Symphony Society he had left behind his past of Broadway musical comedies and was beginning to be recognised as a serious composer. There was even a story that he had sent a telegram to Stravinsky in Paris asking whether the Russian would take him on as a pupil and what the fee might be. Stravinsky asked what Gershwin’s annual income was and, when he received an impressive six-figure amount, Stravinsky is said to have replied: ‘How about my taking lessons from you?’ In March 1928 Gershwin, his brother Ira and his wife, and his sister went to Paris and immediately found themselves involved with interviews, parties and meetings with important people such as Stravinsky, Prokofiev and Alexander Tansman, who helped George hunt down and steal four French taxi horns(!). According to George, the squeaky horns were typically Parisian and represented the happy chaos of the traffic in Paris. He had decided to use them for his latest commission, which he was going to call ‘An American in Paris’, having been so inspired by the city. By November, now back in New York, he completed the work and described it thus: ‘My purpose here is to portray the impression of an American visitor in Paris, as he strolls about the city, and listens to various street noises and absorbs the French atmosphere. The opening . . . section is followed by a rich blues . . . Our American friend perhaps after strolling into a cafe and having a couple of drinks has . . . a spasm of homesickness. . . . the homesick American, having left the cafe and reached the open air, has disowned his spell of the blues and once again is an alert spectator of Parisian life.’ At the conclusion, the street noises and French atmosphere are triumphant. Porgy and Bess 1935, Opera A modern opera consisting predominantly of a black cast, ‘Porgy and Bess’ is the story of a legless cripple who forms a relationship with Bess, a party-girl who lives for fun. Under his loving guidance she soon becomes less wayward but ultimately succumbs to temptation and leaves him. Songs such as ‘Summertime’ and ‘I Got Plenty of Nothing’ have made this opera famous, as well as the interesting device used by Gershwin whereby the white characters only speak and the black characters sing. " },{ "id": "/classical/GHan", "url": "/classical/GHan/", "title": "George Frideric Handel", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-09-25T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1685, "died": 1759, "image": "/images/classical/03.jpg", "from": "Halle, Germany", "schools": "Baroque", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Although born in Halle, Germany, Handel is often regarded as being a British composer. He spent much of his life in London and lived in a beautiful house in Brook Street where he composed many of his finest works. In 1727 he applied for British citizenship, which was immediately granted, and Handel assumed the role of composer of music for royal occasions. This led to his writing four fantastic anthems for the coronation of King George II, perhaps the most famous of which is ‘Zadok the Priest’, which has been performed at nearly every British coronation since. His music is wonderfully melodic and holds a unique place in the repertoire of the Baroque composers. Handel was the son of a rather boorish ‘barber-surgeon’ who was distinctly uneasy about his son having anything to do with the music business. It was intended by Handel senior that his son should become a lawyer, and young George Frideric was discouraged from pursuing any serious interest in music. He was already a very capable organist by the age of ten, and, after some pressure from his employer, Handel senior finally agreed to allow his son to have music lessons from an eminent organist and teacher in Halle. The boy quickly became proficient on the oboe and violin as well as the organ and harpsichord, and also took lessons in composition. It soon became clear that he was extremely gifted. It was at about this time that his father died, but his influence remained and Handel enrolled to study law at the University of Halle in 1702. He was quite obviously not interested in the law course and really started to apply himself seriously to his music. He became the organist of the cathedral, but later moved on to Hamburg where he worked at the Opera House on the Goosemarket. While he was there he struck up a friendship with a young man called Johann Mattheson. The two became very close friends and on one occasion, on hearing that the celebrated organist Buxtehude was about to retire from his job at Lübeck, they set off on a journey with the intention of one or other of them securing the job. An extraordinary turn of events then followed very much in the style of a fairy tale: it turned out that the person who was to get the job would have to marry Buxtehude’s daughter – who wasn’t exactly a prime catch. Both Handel and his friend Mattheson had a change of heart and made their way immediately back to Hamburg! Handel and Mattheson’s friendship then suffered a serious set-back. They fell out over a matter of who was to direct an opera and the situation had to be resolved by a duel in full view of the public in the Goosemarket. No one was seriously hurt and the two soon made up their differences, but Mattheson is quoted as reporting that, had he not had the fortune to have stabbed Handel directly on a broad metal coat button, the consequences could have been fatal. It is interesting to note that even in Handel’s day the idea of musical competitions was very much in evidence. In Rome, the Count Ottobini staged one such competition between Handel and Domenico Scarlatti to ascertain who was the finest performer. The results of this bizarre event are not totally clear, although it seems the general consensus of opinion was that, although Handel was second to none on the organ, both were equally gifted on the harpsichord. Handel was extremely prolific and was particularly interested in writing operas and oratorios – so interested that he set up his own opera company called the Royal Academy of Music. This was based at the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket in London and in the early days was an enormous success. This opera company was established to present operas in Italian, but in 1728 John Gay staged his ‘Beggar’s Opera’ at John Rich’s theatre in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. This opera, sung in English, was fantastically well received and appealed to a much wider audience than the previously popular Italian opera. Presenting operas based on folk culture, in English, became so popular that support for Handel’s Royal Academy of Music tailed off; within six months he became bankrupt. Handel was undeterred and set about re-forming his company, engaging new singers from Italy and staging various new works together with a selection of past successes. Things did not go too well until the time when he put on his own oratorio ‘Alexander’s Feast’ in 1735. However, he seems to have learnt his lesson from these experiences and like any good businessman turned his hand to writing what the public wanted. This led to more oratorios in English, of which ‘Messiah’ is his most famous: most people are familiar with at least the Hallelujah Chorus from this work. Handel went over to Dublin in 1741 to stage ‘Messiah’ and it brought the house down, a reaction it was to provoke wherever it was performed. A few years later he wrote another of his now best-known works, the ‘Musick for the Royal Fireworks’. These triumphs generated so much money for Handel that he was easily able to pay off the debts that had been accrued as a result of the Italian opera failures at the Royal Academy, and he therefore lived his last years in a considerable degree of comfort. The now familiar feature of famous musicians ‘doing their bit’ for the world around them was also very much in evidence in Handel’s day, and he himself donated the proceeds of an annual performance of ‘Messiah’ to the Founding Hospital as well as providing an organ for their chapel. Handel’s health began to fail in the 1750s, and although he was eventually totally blind he still gave concerts as an organ soloist and even as a conductor of his own works. The last performance he was to take part in was of ‘Messiah’ at Covent Garden, but he was taken ill after the performance and died at home in Brook Street a week later, on 14 April 1759. It was always Handel’s wish that he should have a private funeral, but this was for some reason totally ignored, and more than 3000 people were present at an elaborate state funeral service at Westminster Abbey. Harp Concerto Harp Concerto in B Flat Major Op. 4, No. 6 Concerti, Orchestral There are not many concerti written for the harp, as it has often been passed off as an atmospheric instrument for creating dream-like soundscapes. Handel, however, recognised the harp as a suitable solo instrument and wrote this charming concerto that is undemanding and thoroughly entertaining. Organ Concerto in B Flat Major Organ Concerto in B Flat Major Op. 4, No. 2: Allegro Concerti, Orchestral Though this Organ Concerto in B Flat Major was written to be performed as an interpolation in oratorio performances, it is by no means solemn; rather, it is made up of gorgeous slow movements and fast movements that combine orchestral fugues with displays of remarkable dexterity from the soloist. Organ Concerto in F Major Organ Concerto in F Major Op. 4, No. 4: Allegro Concerti, Orchestral Though this Organ Concerto in F Major was written to be performed as an interpolation in oratorio performances, it is by no means solemn; rather, it is made up of gorgeous slow movements and fast movements that combine orchestral fugues with displays of remarkable dexterity from the soloist. Water Music The Water Music 1717, Orchestral ‘On Wednesday evening at about 8, the King took water at Whitehall in an open barge wherein were also the Dutchess of Bolton, the Dutchess of Newcastle, the Countess of Godolphin (etc.) . . . and went up the river towards Chelsea. A City Company’s Barge was employed for the Musick, wherein were 50 instruments of all sorts, who played all the way the finest Symphonies, composed express for this Occasion by Mr. Hendel; which his Majesty liked so well, that he caused it to be played over three times in going and returning.’ These lines, quoted from the Daily Courant of 19 July 19 1717, fairly constitute the birth certificate of the Water Music, so dear to the English heart and so renowned abroad. Quite simply, the music is a collection of twenty to twenty-two pieces grouped into three different suites – though we do not know the order of the pieces decided by the composer himself, so this is largely left up to the performers. The first suite, in F Major, is a collection of Allegros, Andantes, Hornpipes and suchlike which serve as a wonderful Baroque ‘buffet’ to the listener and are close to the spirit of the Bach suites. It is a light and untaxing collection. The following G Major/G Minor Suite is far more intimate and delicate, creating an air of a relaxed summer evening. It has an ‘aristocratic’ air that contrasts with the frivolity of the first set yet leads us nicely to the final D Major Suite, which returns, stronger than ever, to a mood of majestic glory and jubilation that has made for the work’s tireless success. Water Music - Suite 1 Water Music - Suite 1: Overture 1717, Chamber Music ‘On Wednesday evening at about 8, the King took water at Whitehall in an open barge wherein were also the Dutchess of Bolton, the Dutchess of Newcastle, the Countess of Godolphin (etc.) . . . and went up the river towards Chelsea. A City Company’s Barge was employed for the Musick, wherein were 50 instruments of all sorts, who played all the way the finest Symphonies, composed express for this Occasion by Mr. Hendel; which his Majesty liked so well, that he caused it to be played over three times in going and returning.’ These lines, quoted from the Daily Courant of 19 July 1717, fairly constitute the birth certificate of the Water Music, so dear to the English heart and so renowned abroad. Quite simply, the music is a collection of twenty to twenty-two pieces grouped into three different suites – though we do not know the order of the pieces decided by the composer himself, so this is largely left up to the performers. The first suite, in F Major, is a collection of Allegros, Andantes, Hornpipes and suchlike which serve as a wonderful Baroque ‘buffet’ to the listener and are close to the spirit of the Bach Suites. It is a light and untaxing collection. Water Music - Suite 2 Water Music - Suite 2: Andante 1717, Chamber Music ‘On Wednesday evening at about 8, the King took water at Whitehall in an open barge wherein were also the Dutchess of Bolton, the Dutchess of Newcastle, the Countess of Godolphin (etc.) . . . and went up the river towards Chelsea. A City Company’s Barge was employed for the Musick, wherein were 50 instruments of all sorts, who played all the way the finest Symphonies, composed express for this Occasion by Mr. Hendel; which his Majesty liked so well, that he caused it to be played over three times in going and returning.’ These lines, quoted from the Daily Courant of 19 July 1717, fairly constitute the birth certificate of the Water Music, so dear to the English heart and so renowned abroad. Quite simply, the music is a collection of twenty to twenty-two pieces grouped into three different suites – though we do not know the order of the pieces decided by the composer himself, so this is largely left up to the performers. The second suite is far more intimate and delicate than the first, creating an air of a relaxed summer evening. It has an ‘aristocratic’ feel that contrasts with the frivolity of the first suite. Water Music - Suite 3 Water Music - Suite 3: Menuett 1717, Chamber Music ‘On Wednesday evening at about 8, the King took water at Whitehall in an open barge wherein were also the Dutchess of Bolton, the Dutchess of Newcastle, the Countess of Godolphin (etc.) . . . and went up the river towards Chelsea. A City Company’s Barge was employed for the Musick, wherein were 50 instruments of all sorts, who played all the way the finest Symphonies, composed express for this Occasion by Mr. Hendel; which his Majesty liked so well, that he caused it to be played over three times in going and returning.’ These lines, quoted from the Daily Courant of 19 July 1717, fairly constitute the birth certificate of the Water Music, so dear to the English heart and so renowned abroad. Quite simply, the music is a collection of twenty to twenty-two pieces grouped into three different suites – though we do not know the order of the pieces decided by the composer himself, so this is largely left up to the performers. The third suite returns, stronger than ever after the first two, to a mood of majestic glory and jubilation that has made for the work’s tireless success. Acis and Galatea 1718, Choral Written in 1718 in English, this delightful pastoral interlude is taken from Greek mythology and revolves around the ‘boy-meets-girl-meets-monster’ principle. It seems Handel was always trying to please others first and himself second, and this choral piece shows signs of just this. Nevertheless we, as the majority, continue to benefit. Harmonious Blacksmith Keyboard SuiteNo. 5 in E: ‘The Harmonious Blacksmith’ 1720, Keyboard Works A children’s favourite, here arranged for flute and strings. Sonata for Violin and Harpsichord No. 1 1724, Chamber Music It must always be remembered that Handel was a virtuoso harpsichord player, and even though the solo instrument in this work is the violin, one can still hear some creative harpsichord work in the background. Zadok the Priest 1727, Choral This choral work is solemn and majestic and was originally written as a coronation anthem for George II – its pace and feel being ideally suited for this purpose. Concerti Grossi Nos. 1–12 1739, Concerti, Orchestral Together with Bach’s ‘Brandenburg’ concertos, these twelve Concerti Grossi represent the peak of late Baroque orchestral writing and, amazingly, were composed between 29 September and 30 October 1739. Here Handel uses the Baroque technique of matching a small orchestra, or ‘concertino’, against a larger one, known as a ‘concerto grosso’. These twelve works have become as synonymous with Handel as his Water Music or his Royal Fireworks. Ode for St Cecilia’s Day 1739, Chamber Music A delightful work based on the poetry of Dryden. Hallelujah Chorus Messiah: Hallelujah Chorus 1741, Choral Quite possibly one of the most famous and lasting choral works, Handel’s Messiah, with its ‘Hallelujah!’ chorus, is performed regularly in Europe, especially around Christmas. In London, in 1741, a practically bankrupt Handel was inspired to compose music from the words of the Bible, mainly through the Old Testament Prophecy, Our Lord’s Nativity, Crucifixion, Resurrection and Everlasting Glory. He worked for twenty-two days with hardly any food or sleep until he had finished and gave it its first performance in Dublin in the same year. However, unlike performances today, the largest available choir was a combination of two cathedral groups amounting, in total, to fourteen men and six boys who, backed essentially by strings, were led by Handel, shouting and gesturing from a harpsichord. Renowned for his big effects, Handel was often criticised for being a ‘noisy’ composer and was always in favour of huge choirs and large numbers of instrumentalists. Indeed, today the work is usually performed by many vocalists, which makes Messiah one of the most powerful choral works around. Arrival of the Queen of Sheba Solomon: ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ 1749, Choral Taken from Handel’s oratorio Solomon, ‘The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba’ depicts the grand entrance of the Queen, and mirrors exactly the atmosphere and ceremony that is associated with genuine royal events. If you ever hear a live performance, you will notice that the oboe players are practically purple in their effort to sustain their notes! Music for the Royal Fireworks Music for the Royal Fireworks: Overture 1749, Orchestral After the War of the Austrian Succession, George II decided to celebrate the Aix-En-Chapelle Treaty of 1748 with a grand open-air festivity. Handel was commissioned to write a work ‘. . . with martial instruments’ to accompany a startling fireworks display as part of the jubilee to be held in London’s Green Park on 27 April 1749. The Music for the Royal Fireworks called for a massive wind ensemble (including 24 oboes, 12 bassoons, 9 horns, 9 trumpets etc . . .) for which Handel conceived a full string complement. Although plagued by roughly 12,000 people attending the event on horse-back, all went fairly smoothly through the stately overture, with its French-styled dotted rhythms, until the ‘Peace’ movement, when part of the structure built for the celebrations caught fire, and general pandemonium broke out. The opening movement is in Handel’s most vigorous style, the first dozen bars seeming simple yet being a clever and brilliant exercise in Baroque harmony. The composer goes on to use a favourite Baroque device of harmonising contrasting instrumental groups, such as oboes, violins and trumpets. The sixth and final movement was originally performed by oboes and bassoons alone, yet later Handel doubled the wind parts with string instuments and automatically included a harpsichord. " },{ "id": "/classical/GMah", "url": "/classical/GMah/", "title": "Gustav Mahler", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-18T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1860, "died": 1911, "image": "/images/classical/25.jpg", "from": "Bohemia, Czechoslovakia", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography The son of an ambitious father who had made his way from humble origins, Gustav Mahler gave a piano recital at the age of ten which caused a sensation in the town of Iglau in Bohemia. He was another child prodigy, and following this concert was sent off to the Conservatoire in Vienna to commence a formal training in music. He was an outstanding student and received all kinds of prizes and awards; this naturally pleased his father very much indeed, for it was he who was the really ambitious driving force in the family. Mahler’s childhood was marred by the unsettled relationship and constant rowing between his parents and this, in turn, later had a profound effect on his music. We know that he was an extremely sensitive being and that his music is quite often autobiographical in nature. Most of his works either portray various aspects of his character and feelings or are musical pictures of specific events in his life. He was an intense and astutely aware person who appears very much to have been ‘an old soul’, showing a wisdom and clarity of vision that was truly exceptional. His music very clearly depicts human emotions and the sounds of nature as well as reflecting his extraordinary awareness of death. Mahler was regarded as being a bit of an oddball. He was a strict vegan and only consumed water, fruit and spinach! This was naturally quite unusual for someone at the end of the nineteenth century and people that came into contact with him were always taken aback at his rather peculiar habits and eccentricities. Although he was extremely successful as a student, when Mahler failed to win the coveted Beethoven Prize (and consequently the cash that went with it) he decided to concentrate on a career as a conductor, feeling that there was more chance of commercial success in that direction. All the while, however, he continued to compose, and public performances of his works were held in high regard. He soon became a much sought-after composer and quite quickly graduated to writing for the full symphony orchestra. His First Symphony, written in 1888 when he was just twenty-eight years old, is a classic masterpiece that now has a firmy place in the repertoire of every major symphony orchestra around the world. Mahler’s talent as a conductor was unquestioned and he was always in demand. Tchaikovsky once wrote of him that he was ‘undoubtedly a genius and a man of extraordinary ability’. Brahms, too, was unfailing in his praise of Mahler, and he is quoted as saying: ‘To hear the true Don Giovanni – go to Budapest’. This is where Mahler was the resident conductor, and he was receiving rave reviews for all his performances of the Mozart, Puccini and Verdi operas. Mahler also conducted the first performance of Tchaikovsky’s Eugene Onegin. It seems that there was only one person of note who was not an admirer of Mahler in any way, shape or form, and this was the famous conductor and pianist Hans von Bülow. Von Bülow was both a close friend and a professional colleague of Brahms and Wagner, but dismissed Mahler’s offerings in one classic sentence: ‘If this is still music, I know nothing of music’, and he was to be the bane of Mahler’s life for some time. When von Bülow died in 1894 Mahler received a new creative lease of life and a greater freedom to express himself and have his works performed. Whilst composing Mahler required absolute silence and even went to the lengths of writing in solitude at a hut near Steinbach, where he would insist on the cows being stripped of their bells, farmers curtailing their activities and animals either being cooped up or sent far away so as not disturb him. The hut by the lakeside in Steinbach and his summer house in Toblach were ideal settings for one so sensitive and inspired to create works that have such a natural and spiritual quality to them. Mahler fell in love with a girl called Alma Maria Schindler, the step-daughter of the artist Carl Moll, and married her in 1902. This was not an easy relationship by any means, as Mahler was a man of extraordinary habit and had something of a dictatorial nature. He made his wife, also a highly talented musician, give up composition and he demanded total freedom for himself so that Alma should serve his every need. It was this obsessive pursuit for excellence that was the hallmark of his life – always seeking the truth and demanding the very best from everyone around him. He left Vienna in 1907 after a ten-year reign at the Opera House. This was also the year in which his eldest daughter died and that Mahler was found to have a chronic heart condition, reputedly a hereditary problem from which his mother had also suffered and died. Whilst staying in Schluderbach he became fascinated by a collection of Chinese poems and these inspired him to write the wonderful song-cycle Das Lied von der Erde, which some say is his finest creation. His last few years were shadowed by an awareness of impending death, and having been taken seriously ill in New York in 1911 he moved back to Paris, where he died later that year. Mahler specified that there should be no memorial to him and that he should be allowed to pass over quietly to a new life. In his last few days he is reputed to have said: ‘Tomorrow we shall run faster, stretch out our arms and one fine morning . . .’, thus confirming his firm religious belief that death is most certainly not the end. His wife beautifully encapsulated her last thoughts in the following: ‘I can never forget his dying hours and the greatness of his face as death drew nearer. His battle for eternal values, his elevation above trivial things and his unflinching devotion to truth are an example of the saintly life.’ Whilst listening to the works of Mahler, an insight into the life and spirit of the man himself helps to give a far greater appreciation of the music. Listen to any of the symphonies and particularly the highly emotive song ‘Abschied’ (Farewell) from Das Lied von der Erde, of which Mahler genuinely asked, ‘Can this be endured. Will people not kill themselves afterwards . . .?’ Symphony No. 1 Symphony No. 1 in D: Stürmisch bewegt 1876, Symphonies, Orchestral To his contemporaries, the new world of Mahler’s symphonies was often frightening and powerful. Even Mahler was occasionally overwhelmed by his own inspirations, with a sort of ‘panic terror’ being a recurrent theme. It was often said that he was merely a lightning rod for emotional thunderbolts that would strike him. His first symphony was written when he was a twenty-nine year old director of the Budapest Philharmonic, and is indicative of the power and vibrancy that would follow in subsequent works. This five-movement symphony is more often referred to as a symphonic poem in two parts and was described by Mahler as follows: Part I: ‘From the Days of Youth’ ‘Spring Without End’ – depicting the awakening of nature from its long winter sleep. ‘A Collection of Flowers’ ‘Under Full Sail’ Part II: ‘A Human Comedy’ ‘Stranded!’ – From an Austrian book of fairy tales. Forest animals accompany the dead hunter’s coffin to the grave; hares carry the little banner, before them march a band of Bohemian musicians, accompanied by numerous other beasts in a funeral procession of farcical poses. The music is intended to express alternating moods of ironical frivolity and uncanny gloom. ’ From the Inferno’ – An Allegro furioso which expresses the sudden despairing outcry of a wounded heart. This first movement seems to steal its main themes from the folk songs with which Mahler grew up, as well as the ones he later wrote himself, whilst the second is a slow, naive exercise based on a poem called ‘The Trumpeter of Sackingen’. It starts with a serenading trumpet that sets the main theme. Part I is then rounded off by a sedate, waltz-like conclusion. The second part of the work opens with the strange fourth movement described as a bizarre funeral procession. The main theme is a minor version of the traditional nursery tune ‘Frère Jacques’, which could well be mocking the dead hunter. The finale crashes through to a heroic end. Resurrection Symphony Symphony No. 2 (‘Resurrection’) 1888, Symphonies, Orchestral Mahler’s Second Symphony is famous for its powerful ending, which begins with a wild outburst from the full orchestra that subsequently dies away to silence. Then, from a great distance, a solemn fanfare can be heard, where Mahler asks for the use of: ’. . . as many horns as possible placed very far away, to play very loudly.’ Mahler later wrote that this was supposed to represent: ‘the end of all living things . . . The Last Judgement is announced and the ultimate terror of this Day of Days has arrived.’ It is a powerful work and typically Romantic. Symphony No. 4 Symphony No. 4 in G Major: Bedachtig 1892, Symphonies, Orchestral Mahler’s Fourth Symphony is seen as one of his most modest and intriguing works. It uses as its inspirational source the composer’s own deeply felt love for the simplicity of German folk art. Taking a poem from a folk collection called ‘The Boy’s Magic Horn’, Mahler was inspired to write a song called ‘All Heavenly Joys are Ours’, which is performed at the end of the fourth (and last) movement. As a result, the first three movements are used to anticipate the major themes of the fourth and to prepare the listener effectively for it. The symphony was first performed in Munich in 1902. The first movement opens with a striking rhythm of staccato flutes and sleigh-bells, which are also prominent in the final movement. This melody is soon taken up by French horns, woodwinds and lower strings, the whole being rounded off by a return to the original chirpy theme. The second movement starts as a leisurely folksy scherzo that soon takes on a more eerie mood, which Mahler once described as ‘Death leading the music’. He went on to say that: ‘The ‘scherzo’ is so uncanny, almost sinister, that your hair may stand on end . . . ‘ The third, slow movement (Poco adagio) was inspired by reclining stone figures in a church graveyard, the image of which, Mahler uses to anticipate the main theme of the finale. The fourth movement is intended to convey a heavenly scene of pure, eternal blue which is assisted by a solo clarinet phrase that matches the first vocal line. The poem is then performed, punctuated with occasional refrains from the orchestra, echoing the original, light passage from the first movement. Symphony No. 5 Symphony No. 5 in C sharp minor: Trauermarsch 1902, Symphonies, Orchestral When Mahler conducted the first performance of his Fifth Symphony in Cologne in 1904, it ended up being described as ‘the giant symphony’. Mahler’s use of a gigantic orchestra for subtle chamber music effects, coupled with his tendency to amplify certain sections of his music radically, make ‘giant’ an understandable description. Although Mahler had completed this work in the summer of 1902, his perfectionist nature forced him to revise the music constantly, practically up to the year of his death (1911). In a letter to a friend, Mahler wrote: ‘The Fifth is now finished. I have been forced to reorchestrate it completely. I fail to comprehend how at that time [1902] I could have blundered so, like a green-horn. Obviously, the routine I had acquired in my first four symphonies completely deserted me. It is as if my totally new musical message demanded a new technique.’ What makes this work particularly interesting is that, although it is in five movements, it is clearly divided into three parts. The work opens with a solo trumpet slowly introducing one of the main ‘Funeral March’ themes, soon to be joined by the full orchestra. As the movement dies on a solo flute, we enter the stormier second movement, which draws on themes from the opening section. Part II is made up of a scherzo that is effectively a waltz with a rich variety of themes, including a striking horn. Part III contains the two final movements, the first (or fourth) being slow and yearning, contrasted against a fresh and lively Rondo finale with a bouncy cello theme being picked up by the violins, violas and basses which builds eventually to a stately hymn of triumph. Symphony of a Thousand Symphony No. 8 in E Flat Major (‘Symphony of a Thousand’) 1906, Symphonies, Orchestral In August 1906 Mahler wrote to a friend, saying: ‘I have just finished my Eighth! It is the biggest thing I have done so far . . . I cannot describe it in words. Imagine that the whole universe begins to vibrate and resound. These are no longer human voices, but planets and suns revolving.’ The first half of the symphony is based on the ancient Latin hymn ‘Veni Creator Spiritus’ and the second half on the concluding scene of Goethe’s ‘Faust’. The symphony earned its nickname ‘Symphony of a Thousand’ due to the vast number of performers required for its delivery, which involve an extended orchestra and numerous choirs. At the first performance, slightly over one thousand poeple were used. Das Lied von der Erde 1908, Orchestral This was written towards the end of Mahler’s career and is possibly one of his greatest works – if not the greatest. Though the work is technically a symphony, Mahler refused to give it a numerical title because he had a superstition that a composer should not exceed Beethoven’s total of nine symphonies. Instead of giving it a number, he called it ‘The Song of the Earth’ and subtitled it ‘A Symphony for Tenor, Contralto and Orchestra’. The work was composed during the summer of 1908, after Mahler had been told by his doctors that, if he did not give up the physical exertions of conducting, he would not have long to live. Being the man he was, however, he completely ignored this advice and, on top of his duties as conductor of the Metropolitan Opera, he accepted the position of full-time conductor of the New York Philharmonic. He then conducted forty-six Philharmonic concerts, diving into his work with a determination that some referred to as verging on the suicidal. The Song of the Earth is based on a poem called ‘The Chinese Flute’ by the German poet Hans Bethge. Mahler was fascinated by the tragic moods occasioned by leaving people and parting in general. In setting the poem to music, he sought to emphasise the nostalgic mood in which even visions of youth and love only sharpen the pain of eternal farewell. The symphonic cycle ends with a sevenfold echo of the word ‘forever’ (‘ewig’ in German), whilst the opening movement is dominated by the line ‘Dark is life, is death.’ Symphony No. 9 Symphony No. 9 in D Major 1910, Symphonies, Orchestral This, Mahler’s last completed symphony, was composed in 1910 during his first season as conductor for the New York Philharmonic. A year later he was dead, and this work reflects the complex emotions of an artist who is fully aware that he has only a little time to live. " },{ "id": "/classical/HBer", "url": "/classical/HBer/", "title": "Hector Berlioz", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-09-30T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1803, "died": 1869, "image": "/images/classical/08.jpg", "from": "Isère, France", "schools": "Romantic, French", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Berlioz has for many years been portrayed as being something of a wild, passionate mysterious Frenchman whose music has never really been understood. He is most famous for his Symphonie Fantastique, but he did write a number of other very fine works that can be heard both on the concert platform and on record. As a boy, Berlioz showed a keen interest in music, and whilst his parents were keen for him to have piano lessons he preferred the flute and the guitar and became quite proficient on both these instruments. His father was a doctor and was responsible for his son’s education, which is why the young boy was never really given the encouragement to pursue a career in music. Instead he was bundled off to medical school in Paris, very much under sufferance. He disliked studying medicine and, after falling out with his parents on a number of occasions, eventually entered the Paris Conservatoire to follow his interest in music. Being a man of great determination, he set his sights on winning the coveted Prix de Rome, a goal he achieved in 1830. He was a great lover of going to the opera, concerts and plays and it was during a visit to the theatre that he first saw the young actress Harriet Smithson, with whom he later fell in love and whom he married some years later, in 1833. Harriet was the source of much inspiration for Berlioz, in particular for his famous work the Symphonie Fantastique, which was first performed in December 1829. Berlioz was immensely proud of this work and commented that the piece was ‘entirely autobiographical in intent’. It is one of the most famous examples of a piece of ‘programme music’, incorporating all kinds of emotions and scenes within the piece including macabre visions of witchcraft, passion and pastoral reveries. In contrast to this work, the great violin virtuoso of the day Paganini (also a fine viola player) commissioned Berlioz to write a piece for viola and orchestra. However, Paganini was not greatly impressed with the result, to the point of not even wanting to play the solo part in the first performance. Viola players these days, though, are delighted to have this four-movement work, Harold in Italy, in their repertoire. In his lifetime, Berlioz never really achieved much success with his works, which is why he was never well off financially. His operas Benvenuto Cellini and Les Troyens were failures, as was La Damnation de Faust, a concert work that is occasionally staged. Berlioz is now remembered for a handful of truly excellent pieces and for being a romantic idealist who influenced a number of other composers through his fairly radical approach to composition, both formally and orchestrally. Symphonie Fantastique Symphonie Fantastique Op. 14: Reveries 1830, Symphonies, Orchestral This work, originally written with a 200-piece orchestra in mind, was inspired by Berlioz’s obsession with an English actress, Harriet Smithson, who had been performing Shakespearean tragedies in Paris. After attending a performance of Romeo and Juliet, with Smithson in the role of Juliet, Berlioz declared: ‘I shall marry that woman, and on that drama I will write my greatest Symphony.’ The work is a ‘symphonic story’ about an artist who falls obsessively in love with a woman who lives up to all his ideals yet, whenever he pictures her in his mind’s eye, her image is accompanied by a melody. The work is all set in the artist’s feverish and love-sick imagination. Originally called ‘Episode in the Life of an Artist (Grand Fantastic Symphony in Five Parts)’, the symphony revolves around the ‘beloved’s melody’, which emerges in various transformations in each of the five movements. It begins with ‘Reveries and Passions’, where the artist is filled with fiery love and jealous passions, and ends with ‘Dream of a Witches Sabbath’, where, poisoned with opium, he dances with her in a devilish orgy to his own death. Overture King Lear Overture King Lear Op. 4 1831, Overtures The Romantic fascination with madness and Berlioz’s personal love of Shakespeare are combined in this overture, which savours the storms of Lear’s rage, grief and insanity. It has a violent principal theme that recalls the opening Lear motif, accompanied by a sweet lyrical phrase from the first violins. The music grows ever wilder as it approaches its climax and end. Harold in Italy Harold in Italy Op. 16: ‘Pilgrim’s March’ 1833, Symphonies, Orchestral One of Berlioz’s greatest works, its full title is ‘Harold in Italy, Symphony in Four Movements for Viola and Orchestra’. It was originally intended as a viola concerto to be played by Paganini, the virtuoso violinist, who had become a close friend of the composer after a particularly triumphant performance of his ‘Symphonie Fantastique’. However, not being a player of the instrument, Berlioz was unable to produce a viola part that satisfied Paganini and, in fact, rather disappointed the violinist, who left for Nice and did not talk to Berlioz for three years. The work continued regardless, with Berlioz attempting to portray through the viola part a ‘melancholy dreamer’ in the style of Byron’s ‘Childe Harold’ – hence the title of the work. A flowing solo viola theme tinged with melancholy depicts Harold in a mountainous setting and later, in the Allegretto, a hymn-like melody is chanted by the strings as we find Harold amongst pilgrims singing their evening prayer. The fourth movement is an intense Allegro frenetico entitled ‘Brigand’s Orgy: Memories of Past Scenes’, where, in between the episodes of a wild and brilliant dance, the orchestra recalls the first three movements of the symphony. Romeo and Juliet 1838, Symphonies, Orchestral As was the case with his Symphonie Fantastique, the inspiration for this work came from the portrayal of Shakespeare’s Juliet by Harriet Smithson (an English actress whom Berlioz later married). Berlioz was utterly overwhelmed, exclaiming: ’. . . from the Third Act on . . . suffering as if an iron fist had seized my heart, I said to myself with complete conviction: “Ah, I am lost! “’ However, it was only five years later that he had the opportunity to write the score, when he was given a large amount of money by Paganini, the virtuoso violinist who was a great admirer of Berlioz. Romeo and Juliet is scored for chorus, vocal solos and a full orchestra, yet is not an opera but a series of discontinuous episodes from the play that particularly appealed to Berlioz, the most famous being The Love Scene, Queen Mab or the Dream Sprite and Romeo Alone – His Sadness – Concert and Ball – Festivities in the Capulet’s Palace. Berlioz, in true Romantic style, uses swelling strings, which results in a passionate song of violas and cellos in unison that embody the spirit of all-consuming love. He allows the listener to identify the main characters of the play by the use of telling and evocative themes, the most powerful being where Juliet is first introduced to us by a graceful, reticent phrase for the oboe against a magical background of soft strings being delicately plucked. There is also a whisper of trembling, muted violins. Ultimately, one can understand this as the work of a man who once said: ‘Love can give no idea of music; music can give an idea of love’. Overture Roman Carnival Overture Roman Carnival 1843, Overtures Berlioz wrote this overture as an afterthought to serve as an introduction to the second act of his opera ‘Benvenuto Cellini’. It is used as an anticipation to a lively dance which takes place on the Piazza Colonna in Rome during the second act. The overture starts with a wild flourish that bursts with even greater power into the main saltarello (a kind of dance) theme, which seems to fade away towards the end but then suddenly returns in dazzling orchestral colour. Overture The Corsair Overture The Corsair Op. 21 1845, Overtures This is essentially an ‘adventure piece’, based on Lord Byron’s ‘The Corsair’ and a near-death experience that Berlioz had had while at sea in an intense storm. During his recovery on the French Riviera, he planned, and practically composed, this overture. Hoping to encapsulate the spirit of his own adventure with the ‘burning poetry’ of Byron, Berlioz sought to re-create in music the violent seas and horrendous conditions in which he himself had been involved. This he successfully achieved, opening the work with a sharp ‘crack’ of two chords followed by fiery strings that alternate with agitated chords from the woodwinds. With a nod to Byron’s love of contrast, the orchestra suddenly drops to a soft and delicate volume before exploding into an extended symphonic movement and the original fiery pace. Later, a graceful curving theme emerges that is presented and developed by the violins before being woven into a more complex orchestral fabric. There is no question that the spirit of storm, adventure and Berlioz’s romantic fantasy are ingeniously captured in this work. Hungarian March The Damnation of Faust: ‘Hungarian March’ 1846, Orchestral Taken from his choral work The Damnation of Faust, this March is usually known as the ‘Rakoczy March’ after the Hungarian revolutionary leader, and is designed to affect audiences in the same way as ‘Land of Hope and Glory’ overwhelms listeners on the Last Night of the Proms. The Damnation of Faust The Damnation of Faust: ‘Dance of the Sylphs’ 1846, Orchestral, Choral When Goethe’s ‘Faust’ was first published in French in 1827, Berlioz became obsessed with the book, saying: ‘I could not put it down. I read it . . . at meals, in the theatre, in the street, everywhere.’ He was inspired to set eight episodes of the book to music, as well as the more famous ‘The Damnation of Faust’, a work in itself. It was very badly received at its first performance, practically bankrupting the composer, yet seven years after his death it became a popular and much requested piece. The ‘Dance of the Sylphs’ is the first movevment of this work: Faust is transported to the banks of the River Elbe, where Mephisto lulls him to sleep with a lullaby. The music proceeds to introduce a chorus of gnomes and sylphs as a variation on the lullaby theme before finally becoming a waltz for the sylphs alone. The Trojans 1858, Opera It is a strongly held opinion that nowhere is Berlioz’s preoccupation with passion better represented than in The Trojans, based on Virgil’s ‘Aeneid’. It tells the tale of Queen Dido and Aeneas, the Trojan soldier, at Carthage after the fall of Troy. " },{ "id": "/classical/IStr", "url": "/classical/IStr/", "title": "Igor Stravinsky", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1882, "died": 1971, "image": "/images/classical/36.jpg", "from": "Oranienbaum, Russia", "schools": "Modern, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Another outstanding musician from the twentieth century, Stravinsky has been one of the most innovative composers to have emerged in the last hundred years. He was born into a very musical family, his father being a highly successful bass-baritone in the Imperial Opera company. Although he was encouraged in music as a boy and showed considerable talent, his parents refused to allow him to pursue a musical career and forced him into studying criminal law and legal philosophy at the University of St Petersburg. It did not take long, however, for Igor Stravinsky to make his own mind up and decide that he was going to be a composer. He organised private lessons in composition with Rimsky-Korsakov, who had also been Prokofiev’s tutor, and when his father died a few years later young Igor went all out to make his mark as a major figure in the world of music. His early orchestral work Fireworks was heard by Diaghilev, who was planning a series of Russian operas and ballets to be staged in Paris in 1909. Diaghilev was so impressed with Stravinsky’s work that he commissioned him to write The Firebird, a ballet based on a Russian fairy tale. This association with Diaghilev and the Russian Ballet Company continued, with Stravinsky writing Petrushka the following year, followed by the controversial The Rite of Spring in 1913. The first performance of The Rite of Spring caused a riot: the audience was so shocked at the nature of the music and its subject – ritual sacrifice in primeval times – that they ended up shouting and screaming so loudly that the dancers could no longer hear the orchestra playing. It is an extraordinary piece of writing for the orchestra that has a profound effect on audiences in the concert hall to this day, and there are sections from within this two-part work that have been the source of inspiration for numerous composers ever since, from both the classical field and the world of music for movies. After the Russian Revolution in 1917, Stravinsky decided to remain in exile and not return to his homeland. The first work that he wrote following this decision was the marvellous music/theatre piece The Soldier’s Tale, scored for a chamber ensemble and including parts for a dancer and narrators. Stravinsky made a resolution to include no references to his native land in this music, and it was not until Diaghilev made contact again that Stravinsky had any connection with anything to do with Russia. He composed the music for another ballet entitled Pulcinella and this also avoided any Russian stylistic references, being based as a neo-classical piece of music on Western-European traditions. Later that same year, 1920, the family moved from Switzerland to France and Stravinsky also developed a side-line career as both a pianist and a conductor. The next twenty years were very busy for him, writing and touring. Sadly, in 1938, his daughter died of consumption, while both his wife and his mother lasted only one more year, succumbing to the same complaint. The following year Stravinsky decided to leave France in search of a new life. He went to the United States and took up a post at Harvard University, where he gave a set of six lectures on the Poetics of Music. He was very happy in America and in 1940 was joined by Vera de Bosset, a lady with whom he had fallen in love some eighteen years earlier. They married and lived in Hollywood, where Stravinsky was inspired to write two of his finest works, The Symphony in C and the Symphony in Three Movements. A few years later, in 1948, having signed a new publishing agreement with Boosey and Hawkes, Stravinsky was commissioned to write an opera, The Rake’s Progress. This took no less than three years to complete and was first performed in Venice in 1951 to great critical acclaim. His music from this period then took a turn away from the style that everyone had come to expect of him. He had been introduced to the works of the writers from the Second Viennese School and, having an interest in Webern’s music in particular, started writing pieces using his own version of serialistic techniques. In his last years Stravinsky was a much admired conductor and appeared with many of the leading international symphony orchestras. He also made recordings of many of his works, which are still available in the catalogues and are well worth exploring. A bout of ill health followed and Stravinsky died in New York in 1971, aged eighty-nine, and was buried in Venice. The Firebird Suite 1909, Ballet ‘The Firebird’ is one of Stravinsky’s most popular ballets and also one of his most magical works. The music accompanies a ballet of a fairy story based on a combination of Russian legends dealing with the characters of a young prince, a firebird, a fairy and a green-taloned monster called Kashchei. In the story, the prince is walking through a forest at night when he sees the magical Firebird plucking golden fruit from a silver tree. She tries to hide but the prince grabs her. Begging to be released, she offers the prince one of her golden plumes as a pledge to come to his aid should he ever need it, and the prince is so moved to pity that he lets her go. When day breaks the prince finds himself in the park of an old castle, though he does not know that he is in the castle of the Kashchei. Twelve beautiful girls come out to play with golden apples and it is clear that they are princesses, but the prince is particularly captivated by a thirteenth. Unable to hide any longer, he leaps out of the shadows, and the girls begin to dance. As it gets lighter they go back into the castle, but the prince is so in love that he wrenches open the gates and runs in. He is captured by the monster but he summons the Firebird, who throws his captors into a wild dance. She then takes the prince to a buried casket, which contains a huge egg that houses the monster’s soul. This he crashes to the ground, killing the monster, and all the evil things disappear into darkness. There is general rejoicing and the prince marries the thirteenth princess. The suite is divided into five sections and follows the story-line perfectly. They are: Introduction; Kashchei’s Enchanted Garden, Dance of the Firebird The Supplication of the Firebird The Princesses’ Game with the Golden Apples The Princesses’ Khorovod (dance) Infernal Dance of King Kashchei Interestingly, Stravinsky’s writing became much harsher after this lush work, and he would often refer to ‘The Firebird’ as ‘that great audience lollipop’. Petrushka Petrushka: ‘Peasant with Bear’ 1911, Ballet ‘Petrushka’ is the second of Stravinsky’s three great ballets and was composed almost directly after ‘The Firebird’, yet is a marked contrast to it. In ‘The Firebird’ we can hear how Stravinsky could use the orchestra to weave musical colour into a rich tapestry – almost a reminder that he was once a pupil of the great Rimsky-Korsakov. With ‘Petrushka’, however, we are met with harsh, grating sounds. Grotesque action from the dancers is matched by grotesque music. During 1910, while staying by Lake Geneva, Stravinsky had a day-dream of a puppet who, having come to life, was deliberately annoying an orchestra by crashing about on a piano while the orchestra was fighting back with loud trumpet blasts. He could not think what to do with this idea, until ‘One day I jumped for joy. I had indeed found my title – “Petrushka” – the unhappy hero of every fair in all countries.’ Later, when Serge Diaghilev came to stay with him, the two artists decided that a ballet could easily come of the music in Stravinsky’s head. In the composer’s words: ‘While he [Diaghilev] remained in Switzerland, we worked out together the general lines of the subject and the plot in accordance with the ideas I suggested. We settled the scene of the action: the fair, with its crowd, its booths, the little traditional theatre, the character of the magician, with all his tricks, and the coming to life of the dolls – Petrushka, his rival and the dancer – and their love tragedy, which ends with Petrushka’s death.’ The popular European tale of the puppet makes perfect ballet material and, in Stravinsky’s version, is in four parts. The ballet opens with a fair-ground scene with the orchestra giving the atmosphere of a bustling crowd until a wizard begins a puppet show with three puppets: Petrushka, the beautiful Ballerina and the evil Blackamoor. They perform a wild Russian dance. In the next scene we see Petrushka locked in a cell, trying to escape, while trombones scream out his frustration. At one point his beloved Ballerina enters, but she is not interested in him and leaves. The third scene is set in the Blackamoor’s rooms, where he is wooing the Ballerina. Petrushka jealously leaps in, only to be chased away. In the final section we return to the fair where, before the curtain of the puppet theatre goes up, we see the Blackamoor kill Petrushka with a scimitar. A policeman arrives, but the wizard shows everyone that the puppet was only made of sawdust. However, as the wizard is taking Petrushka away, the puppet’s spirit appears above the theatre, terrifying the wizard away into the darkness. The Rite of Spring 1913, Orchestral Music has never been the same since May 1913, when Stravinsky’s ballet ‘The Rite of Spring’ exploded on the stage in Paris. It caused a riot in the audience: there were whistles, catcalls, arguments and insults; people punched each other, and for years afterwards the young Stravinsky treasured the ripped collar of his shirt as a precious relic of that battle. According to the American poet and critic Carl Van Vechten: ‘It was war over art for the rest of the evening and the orchestra played on unheard, except occasionally when a slight lull occurred.’ In fact things had got so out of hand that a young man who had stood up behind Van Vechten became so excited that he was beating his fists on the writer’s head. Van Vechten went on to say: ‘My emotion was so great that I didn’t feel the blows for some time. They were perfectly synchronised with the music. When I did, I turned round. His apology was sincere. We had both been carried beyond ourselves.’ The reason for all this chaos was not due to the ballet, but to the music, which was very new, exciting and crazed, with clashing chords, clashing keys, clashing rhythms and a generally overpowering orchestra that could neither be fought nor ignored. The first idea for the work came into Stravinsky’s mind when he was finishing his ballet ‘The Firebird’. In his imagination he saw ‘a solemn pagan rite: wise elders seated in a circle, watching a young girl dance herself to death. They were sacrificing her to the god of spring,’ The ballet is divided into two parts, the first being ‘The Adoration of the Earth’, where, among other events, we witness the arrival of the wise men. Much of this part is wild and exciting, with frantic chords bursting from the orchestra, filling the air with tension and breathlessness. Part Two is ‘The Sacrifice’, which deals with the events leading up to and including the dance itself, divided into sections such as ‘Glorification of the Chosen One’ and ‘Ritual of the Ancestors’. The music moves through some very strange time signatures and is similar to the first section with its violence and chaos. The last scene, ‘Ritual Dance of the Chosen One’, is rhythmically the most complex yet not the loudest. Overall, this is one of the most ground-breaking works ever written. The Nightingale 1914, Opera This opera is a gorgeously exotic version of the Hans Christian Anderson fairy-tale about a Chinese emperor who falls in love with a nightingale. The music has many mock-Chinese effects and the setting is almost like a pantomime. The Soldier’s Tale 1917, Orchestral Drawing on a set of Russian folk tales dealing with the devil, Stravinsky had come across a story that took his fancy, and, with a friend, decided to set about staging it. However, he was hampered by the times he was living in, for post-World War One Europe was slowly rebuilding itself and money was short. Stravinsky hit upon the idea of putting together a small touring company that would be inexpensive yet efficient. The cast was limited to four: a Soldier, a Devil, a Princess and a Narrator, and the set was kept to an absolute minimum. The actual orchestra was made up of only seven members, with an emphasis on percussion. Stravinsky arranged the work as follows: The Soldier’s March: We hear fragments of a march describing the trek of a soldier going off for a fortnight’s leave. At one point he sits down by a river and begins to play a violin. The Soldier’s Violin: While the soldier is playing, the devil comes in disguise and offers to exchange the violin for a magic book. For three days the soldier teaches the devil the violin, while the devil shows the soldier how to use the magic book. But the three days were really three years, and his fiancée has married another. The book brings him no happiness, so he goes off and comes to a land where the King’s daughter is ill; whoever cures her can have her hand in marriage. Royal March: The devil is already at the palace and he and the soldier have a game of cards. The soldier deliberately loses all his material wealth, thus depriving the devil of his power. The soldier takes the violin and starts to play. Little Concert: The devil collapses and the soldier goes to the princess’s room. Three Dances – Tango, Waltz and Ragtime: The soldier cures the princess with his playing and she falls into his arms. At this point the devil enters and tries to take the violin, but the soldier begins playing again. The Devil’s Dance: The devil finds himself unable to stop dancing and he continues wildly until he collapses. The princess drags the devil away while he swears revenge. Chorale: The princess persuades the soldier that they should visit his childhood home, even though he has been warned not to. As he crosses the frontier, the devil appears with the violin and begins to play. The Devil’s Triumphal March: The soldier hangs his head and follows the devil off-stage. The violin fades away and the percussion goes on alone. Pulcinella 1919, Ballet One spring afternoon in 1919, Stravinsky and Serge Diaghilev, the ballet producer, were walking together in the Place de la Concorde in Paris when Diaghilev suggested that the composer look at some eighteenth-century music by Pergolesi with a view to orchestrating it for a ballet. From this point there began a love affair between Stravinsky and the eighteenth century which lasted over thirty years. The composer was in a dilemma, however, for at the time he was known as a nationalistic composer producing Russian music for the Russian people, yet here he was harking back to the pre-Revolutionary Russia which the new regime was desperately trying to forget. Flying in the face of all his critics, as he usually did anyway, Stravinsky pursued his ideas and chose twenty excerpts from Pergolesi and arranged them for a chamber orchestra, with three singers for the operatic sections. He then wrote out the libretto for the ballet based on the legendary hero Pulcinella. ‘All the local girls are in love with Pulcinella, but the young men to whom they are betrothed are mad with jealousy and plot to kill him. The minute they think they’ve succeeded, they borrow costumes resembling Pulcinella’s to present themselves to their sweethearts in disguise. But Pulcinella – cunning fellow! – had changed places with a double who pretended to succumb to their blows. The real Pulcinella, disguised as a magician, now resuscitates his double. At the very moment when the four young men, thinking they are rid of their rival, come to claim their sweethearts, Pulcinella appears and arranges all the marriages. He himself weds Pimpinella . . .’ From the twenty sections of his ballet, Stravinsky arranged an eight-movement suite that was performed with the same orchestral forces, with the voices replaced by suitable instruments. Symphony of Psalms 1930, Orchestral, Choral Stravinsky was a devout Christian, and this is one of his most deeply felt and personal scores, setting texts from Psalms 38, 39 and 150. Many listeners have likened this music to the stillness and devotion of Russian religious paintings. Violin Concerto in D 1931, Concerti, Orchestral Stravinsky adopted a strange form for this concerto, using a Toccata, Aria I, Aria II and Capriccio structure rather than a more traditional one. He wrote the first two movements in Nice and the rest in the Isère Valley. Symphony in Three Movements 1943, Symphonies, Orchestral Commissioned by the New York Philharmonic, this symphony combines the violence of Stravinsky’s ‘The Rite of Spring’ with a certain neoclassical feel. Though only loosely based on a symphonic structure, it is still referred to as a symphony, and the music itself is based on Stravinsky’s visual impressions, personal experiences and strong emotional reactions to the events of the Second World War. The Rake’s Progress 1951, Opera Written as a musical homage to Mozart, one of Stravinsky’s heroes, this opera is the story of a young man who falls into the hands of the devil and is saved from eternal suffering and torture only by the devotion and love of his betrothed. " },{ "id": "/classical/JBac", "url": "/classical/JBac/", "title": "Johann Sebastian Bach", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-09-24T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1685, "died": 1750, "image": "/images/classical/02.jpg", "from": "Eisenach, Germany", "schools": "Baroque", "tags": "", "content": "Biography In the early part of the sixteenth century, the Bach family were quite well known throughout Northern Germany as accomplished musicians and they achieved widespread fame when young Johann Sebastian’s talents came to light. As a boy he apparently had a fantastic soprano singing voice and always took the lead roles in the church and school choirs. He started composing fairly early on in his life and his first main works, including the Preludes and Variations for organ, were composed between the ages of seventeen and twenty. The organ was an instrument for which Bach wrote superlatively – he was a great lover of church music in general and was regarded as one of the finest organists of the day. Brought up with a strong association with the church, he was always involved in church music, both as a singer and an organist. He wrote many of his marvellous series of cantatas for the Sunday services at the Church of St Thomas in Leipzig, and these works are probably the finest of their type. Bach was always in demand and held a succession of excellent jobs throughout his lifetime. These included much celebrated posts at the courts of Duke Wilhelm Ernst of Weimar and Prince Leopold of Cöthen. His last employment was as the Cantor of the Thomasschule in Leipzig. Life, however, was not always a bed of roses. In the early years Bach was heavily influenced by the composer Buxtehude (another great writer for the organ) and he left his first job as organist at Arnstadt to go and have lessons with the maestro. This turned into a four-month sabbatical, causing trouble with Bach’s employers when he returned: not only had his presence been missed for four consecutive months, but he had come back writing in quite an advanced and unusual style that wasn’t exactly what was required. It was actually great music that was just a little ahead of its time. So Bach moved on to the job in Weimar, which afforded him greater artistic freedom. His main duties were as court organist and chamber musician to the reigning Duke Wilhelm Ernst, and he subsequently secured the job of Konzertmeister (conductor) to the court orchestra in his last three years of service. It was at the beginning of this period of work that he wrote some of his most famous organ pieces, including the marvellous Passacaglia and Fugue in C minor. The top job at these various courts was invariably that of Kappelmeister, and this position became vacant in 1716 at Weimar. Much to Bach’s annoyance he did not get offered the job, and so he immediately started looking for another position, ending up at the court of Prince Leopold of Cöthen. Bach spent many happy years in Cöthen and created some of his finest music in this period: the Brandenburg Concertos, the violin concertos, the suites for orchestra and much of the chamber music. Today Bach is revered all over the world as one of the greatest composers ever to have lived, producing what has been described as ‘pure’ music. His skill at writing for keyboard instruments and for choirs also had a significant effect on all composers who followed him, even to the present day. Fugue in G Minor Fugue in G Minor, BWV 578 Keyboard Works Bach wrote more than forty works for solo organ to be used before or after a church service, the most famous being his Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. This Fugue in G Minor is in a similar vein and shows that Bach was without doubt a fine organist as well as composer. Italian Concerto Italian Concerto in F, BWV 971: Moderato Keyboard Works Instantly recognisable, the Italian Concerto represents Bach at his Baroque best. Note how the piano could easily be replaced by a harpsichord inasmuch as the distinction between soft and loud is stressed more by the amount of notes used than the strength at which they are played. In Bach’s time the piano was a fairly new instrument that allowed the performer to vary the volume of the music by the speed at which he played a note (the word ‘piano’ comes from the Italian ‘piano-forte’, which literally means ‘soft-loud’). It is evident that the late Baroque composers did not fully utilise this when one compares their piano works with those of the Romantics such as Chopin or Liszt. Partita No. 1 Partita No. 1 in B Flat Major, BWV 825 Keyboard Works The six movements of Bach’s Partita are typically Baroque and popular pieces for piano students. Toccata and Fugue in D Minor Toccata and Fugue in D Minor, BWV 565 Keyboard Works This must be one of the most famous works ever written for a church organ and is instantly recognisable from numerous films such as ‘20,000 Leagues under the Sea’ and Disney’s ‘Fantasia’. It is an exciting and exhilarating work that tests not only the performer, but also the audience. Brandenburg Concerto No. 1 Brandenburg Concerto No. 1, BWV 1046: Adagio 1718, Concerti, Orchestral The world has long marvelled that Bach’s set of six ‘Brandenburg’ concertos should have been wasted on the pompous and arrogant Prussian nobleman the Margrave of Brandenburg, to whom Bach had to write grovelling letters for patronage. Sadder still is the fact that these six pieces stayed unused in the Margrave’s library for thirteen years; they were discovered after his death and recognised as works of genius. It is agreed that Concerto No. 1 in F Major is certainly the most exciting and attractive of all the Brandenburgs, yet the least performed today. This is because its most prominent solo part is written for an instrument that is now obsolete – a violino piccolo: a small-sized violin tuned a major third higher than a normal violin. Today, we can’t be sure exactly how this instrument is supposed to sound, though there is no doubt that this was not a feeble instrument but a powerful treble tool. Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 Brandenburg Concerto No. 2, BWV 1047: Allegro 1718, Concerti, Orchestral The world has long marvelled that Bach’s set of six ‘Brandenburg’ concertos should have been wasted on the pompous and arrogant Prussian nobleman the Margrave of Brandenburg, to whom Bach had to write grovelling letters for patronage. Sadder still is the fact that these six pieces stayed unused in the Margrave’s library for thirteen years; they were discovered after his death and recognised as works of genius. Concerto No. 2 in F Major proved to be far too demanding for the musical staff of the Margrave, as it was written with a virtuoso trumpet player in mind. The particular trumpet used, however, was known as a ‘clarino’ and had no valves like the modern trumpet. Brandenburg Concerto No. 3 Brandenburg Concerto No. 3, BWV 1048 1718, Concerti, Orchestral The world has long marvelled that Bach’s set of six ‘Brandenburg’ concertos should have been wasted on the pompous and arrogant Prussian nobleman the Margrave of Brandenburg, to whom Bach had to write grovelling letters for patronage. Sadder still is the fact that these six pieces stayed unused in the Margrave’s library for thirteen years; they were discovered after his death and recognised as works of genius. The third concerto, in G major, was composed around 1718 and is written in the true style of the ensemble concerto with no one instrument, or group of instruments, standing out above the others. Scored for 3 violins, 3 violas, 3 cellos and continuo, it is almost certain that, as Bach’s favourite instrument was the viola, he himself played the viola part in early performances. In Bach’s day, the most modern concerto form was in three movements: fast, slow, fast. But as the fast movements were always the more exciting and brilliant, this third Brandenburg has no slow middle movement but, rather, two slow chords, where he probably expected one or more of the players to improvise. The first movement (Allegro) opens with a strong rhythmic theme that reappears with regularity in differing forms. The movement is varied in arrangement, with sometimes the whole ensemble playing together contrasted with sections where the instrumental groups are matched against one other. One bar of an Adagio takes us without a pause into the finale, which takes the form of a jig, or ‘gigue’, as it was known at the time. It opens with a violin theme that is quickly picked up by the rest of the group and, with clever, swirling harmonies, sweeps the listener along in a torrent. Brandenburg Concerto No. 6 Brandenburg Concerto No. 6, BWV 1051 1718, Concerti, Orchestral The world has long marvelled that Bach’s set of six ‘Brandenburg’ concertos should have been wasted on the pompous and arrogant Prussian nobleman the Margrave of Brandenburg, to whom Bach had to write grovelling letters for patronage. Sadder still is the fact that these six pieces stayed unused in the Margrave’s library for thirteen years; they were discovered after his death and recognised as works of genius. Music historians seem to be in agreement that the sixth Brandenburg concerto, in B Flat Major, was written with two specific performers in mind: Bach himself and Prince Leopold of Cöthen. The Prince was an accomplished harpsichord and violin player, but excelled at the viola da gamba – this being a like cello with guitar frets. Originally scored for a mere seven instruments, it is now more commonly performed by a full orchestra. Double Violin Concerto Double Violin Concerto, BWV 1043 1718, Concerti, Orchestral Unlike a normal solo concerto, Bach’s ‘double violin’ concerto was written with the idea of two violins accompanied by a harpsichord, cello and double bass, the ensemble then being supported by an entire orchestra. This small-group arrangement was known as a concertino, and the work as a whole was usually referred to as a concerto grosso. It was written, along with many other works, for Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Cöthen, where Bach was stationed during the period 1717–23. The prince himself is known to have been a fine cellist. Written in the traditional Baroque fast, slow, fast structure, the concerto opens with a vivace full of dynamic rhythm and pace, with a theme that is started off by the second violin. After some twenty bars of full orchestral introduction, the entire orchestra falls quiet to allow the soloists and concertino group to be heard. The movement continues in a similar vein, alternating between the small group and the orchestra. The slow second section is seen by many as being the crown of this work, with displays essentially from the two soloists, while the lively finale (Allegro) is dominated by a freer style with little contrast between the two groups. Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 Brandenburg Concerto No. 4, BWV 1049 1719, Concerti, Orchestral The world has long marvelled that Bach’s set of six ‘Brandenburg’ concertos should have been wasted on the pompous and arrogant Prussian nobleman the Margrave of Brandenburg, to whom Bach had to write grovelling letters for patronage. Sadder still is the fact that these six pieces stayed unused in the Margrave’s library for thirteen years; they were discovered after his death and recognised as works of genius. Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G Major is the lightest of the set, both in spirit and in physical sound. To the twentieth-century ear, this masterpiece seems to conjure up all the grace and sparkle of eighteenth-century architecture, painting and manners which is embraced by the term Rococo. Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 Brandenburg Concerto No. 5, BWV 1050: Allegro 1720, Concerti, Orchestral The world has long marvelled that Bach’s set of six ‘Brandenburg’ concertos should have been wasted on the pompous and arrogant Prussian nobleman the Margrave of Brandenburg, to whom Bach had to write grovelling letters for patronage. Sadder still is the fact that these six pieces stayed unused in the Margrave’s library for thirteen years; they were discovered after his death and recognised as works of genius. This Fifth Brandenburg Concerto is in D major and is often seen as the first ever harpsichord concerto. Scored for solo harpsichord, flute and violin, the keyboard is so prominent that it is hardly surprising musicologists have taken this view. Suite for Orchestra No. 2 Suite for Orchestra No. 2, BWV 1067 1721, Orchestral Made up of seven movements, this is Bach’s only surviving work written for solo flute and orchestra, and could effectively be called a flute concerto. I. Overture. Though with a slow introduction, this opening movement is full of trills and jagged rhythms. II. Rondeau. A simple theme is cleverly repeated four times and sounds better on each return. III. Sarabande. Essentially a stately dance. IV. Bourrée. The only movement to use a three-part form with the actual bourrée in the middle. V. Polonaise. Strangely enough this movement doesn’t sound remotely Polish, though the definition of Polonaise is ‘Polish dance’. However, its theme is both graceful and enigmatic. VI. Menuet. A leisurely variation on the preceding Polonaise. VII. Badinerie. A light-hearted chuckling ending to this masterful suite. Air on the G String Suite for Orchestra No. 3, BWV 1068: Air on the G String 1722, Orchestral This is practically without doubt the most well known of all Bach’s works, having been immortalised in TV advertisements for cigars. Technically speaking the second movement of a five-part suite, this slow piece with a delightful walking bass line has been used as the source for many interpretations and variations, most notably by the French jazz pianist Jacques Loussier. Gavotte from Suite No. 3 Suite for Orchestra No. 3, BWV 1068: Gavotte 1 1722, Orchestral A gavotte was originally a French folk dance, which made its way, via ballrooms, to the dance passages of instrumental Baroque works. Taken from Bach’s Suite for Orchestra No. 3 (whose second movement is the famous ‘Air on the G String’), this gavotte is a sturdy rhythmic piece with a contrasting middle section. Suite for Orchestra No. 3 Suite for Orchestra No. 3, BWV 1068: Overture 1722, Orchestral This is probably Bach’s most famous suite, as the second movement is the popular ‘Air on the G String’. The opening overture was once described by the poet Goethe as an image of ‘ . . . important people descending a grand flight of steps’. The Air has been popularised by film and television to the extent that many are familiar with the individual movement, but not the suite as a whole. Suite for Orchestra No. 4 Suite for Orchestra No. 4, BWV 1069 1725, Orchestral The C Major Suite is certainly Bach’s most ‘modern’ and the only one which it is believed was composed in Leipzig. Some years after its composition, Bach rewrote this work adding three trumpets and drums to give it a more festive feel, presumably for some special event for which it had been commissioned. St Matthew Passion St Matthew Passion, BWV 244 1729, Choral This Passion is the account by St Matthew of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection, set for soloists, chorus and orchestra. The actual biblical text is treated as a drama, similar in style to that of an oratorio, with additional sections reflecting on the meaning of the biblical events interspersed in cantata style. The congregation is brought into the performance by means of chorales. It is a solemn and majestic work, best heard live to appreciate fully its full and devotional sound. Sleepers Awake Sleepers Awake (Cantata 140) 1731, Choral Like most of Bach’s work, this is a cantata written as part of a church service. About twenty minutes long, it contrasts solo arias with full choral sections and is an inspiration even to non-Christians. Mass in B Minor – ‘Gloria’ Mass in B Minor, BWV 232: ‘Gloria’ 1733, Choral Some say that this Mass is Bach’s supreme achievement in church music, the pinnacle of his art, and it is indeed a fine and powerful choral work. Written in 1733, it is an enormous setting of the Latin Mass treated in the manner of a Passion, with solos, ensembles and choruses. Goldberg Variations Goldberg Variations, BWV 988 1742, Keyboard Works The Goldberg Variations is the usual name given to a set of thirty variations on an original theme which Bach wrote for the double-keyboard harpsichord in 1742. Interestingly, they were commissioned from Bach by one of his pupils, one J. G. Goldberg, whose noble patron needed music as a cure for insomnia. " },{ "id": "/classical/JBra", "url": "/classical/JBra/", "title": "Johannes Brahms", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-08T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1833, "died": 1897, "image": "/images/classical/16.jpg", "from": "Hamburg, Germany", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Brahms’s talents were recognised very early in his life. His father was a musician, playing the french horn in the militia band in Hamburg and the double bass in ad hoc groups that performed in taverns and at various social functions in and around the city. The first musical training young Brahms received was in the form of piano lessons, and by the age of ten he was quite obviously showing signs of possessing an extraordinary talent. An American impresario who was in Hamburg at the time was extremely taken with him and immediately proposed a big tour of the United States, but this was wisely refused by his teacher. Responsibility for Brahms’s future development and tuition was then handed over to the highly respected Eduard Marxsen, who later became his mentor. Brahms left school at the age of fifteen in order to earn some money. He did occasional concerts but also worked for publishers, arranging popular music of the day. In 1853, when Brahms was twenty, the Hungarian violinist Eduard Reményi offered him the opportunity of making a tour giving concerts together, and this proved to be the big turning point in the composer’s career. Through meeting up with various celebrated musicians and people with influence, such as Joachim and Franz Liszt, Brahms eventually met Robert and Clara Schumann. Robert Schumann was someone whom he held in the highest regard, and his wife Clara was also an extremely gifted pianist. They both loved Brahms’s work and soon all three became very close friends. Robert Schumann was not of stable health and his mental breakdown in 1854 came as no surprise to those who knew him well. It was at this point that Brahms showed his deep concern for the Schumann family, and he was at Clara’s side throughout this very difficult period in her life. When Robert Schumann eventually died in 1856, Brahms made it known that he was very much in love with Clara, but although the bond was never to be broken they decided not to spend their lives together. This had a significant effect on Brahms’s music: in nearly all of the pieces from this time on there is quite clearly a mood of heartfelt emotional yearning, giving the works an intensity that has rarely been equalled by other composers. Despite occasional ups and downs, Brahms’s career was very successful. He eventually settled in Vienna, where he established a fine reputation both as a conductor of the great classical masterpieces and as a composer. The works that really established him on the international scene were the German Requiem and the Alto Rhapsody. He then went on to write the four symphonies, the two piano concertos and a marvellous collection of chamber music, piano pieces and songs. Brahms became quite a rich man in his later years and although he was not one to flaunt his wealth he very much enjoyed the good life – holidays in villas throughout Europe with celebrated friends and acquaintances, smoking expensive cigars and eating well. He had a tendency to find very young girls attractive and at one time was deeply smitten with the Schumann’s third daughter, Julie, although it was quite obvious that he was never going to forget his former love, Clara. Clara died in 1896 and while this didn’t come as a great shock to Brahms he was deeply affected by her death. His own health deteriorated and on seeking medical advice he found out that he had an advanced state of cancer of the liver, from which he died just one year later. Brahms has become one of the best-loved composers of romantic music. All of his works are beautifully crafted – from the piano miniatures and songs to the extravagantly architectured symphonies and great choral works. The most endearing aspect of his music is the lovely, reflective, autumnal, yearning quality to the later chamber music, and more than one hearing is recommended. Brahms Lullaby Cradle Song (‘Brahms Lullaby’) Keyboard Works One of the most famous lullabies in the world, the ‘Cradle Song’ is a delightful piano piece that has been arranged for many different instruments. Four Ballades Four Ballades Op. 10: No. 3 Keyboard Works Brahms will always be remembered not just for his music, but also for his forbidden love of his friend Robert Schumann’s wife, Clara. Much his music was written (albeit secretly) for her, including these four Ballades for piano. The mood of the music is neither happy nor sad, as if the composer had given up his hope, but not his longing. The Hungarian Dances Orchestral Altogether Brahms wrote twenty-one Hungarian Dances for piano duet, all based on folk themes of the country. He arranged three of the for orchestra, of which the first is the most famous. It is in a full-blooded gypsy style that was used to great effect in a hilarious shaving scene in the film ‘The Great Dictator’ Waltz No. 15 **Waltz No. 15, Op. 39 ** Keyboard Works Close in sound to Schumann’s piano music, this is a gentle and wistful piano waltz. Symphony No. 1 Symphony No. 1 in C Minor Op. 68: Un poco sostenuto 1876, Symphonies, Orchestral Brahms’s early friends and admirers always felt that he was a born symphony writer – much against Brahms’s own view of himself, who once said to a friend: ’ I shall never write a symphony. You have no idea how the likes of us feel when we hear the tramp of a giant like him behind us.’ By ‘him’, Brahms was referring to Beethoven, of whom the young composer was in great awe. At the age of twenty-one, Brahms first heard Beethoven’s stunning Ninth Symphony and was so deeply moved that he tried to write a symphony himself in the same key; he struggled for some time before giving up. Eventually, in 1862, some friends saw an early version of the first movement and were surprised at its storminess. It is thought that this mood stems from Brahms’s emotional conflict between his admiration for his friend Robert Schumann, and his deep love for Schumann’s wife, Clara. Whatever the reasons, it was fourteen years later, in 1876, before the work was first performed. As described, the first movement (Allegro) is a powerful display of musical emotion, with pounding kettle drums backing themes that soar and dive. It differs only in pace from the second movement (Andante), which is equally passionate, with occasional plaintive interludes from the woodwinds. The third movement is a songlike display essentially from the clarinets and flutes. The finale is often compared with the last movement of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony, which Brahms held in such esteem. A German Requiem 1868, Choral Brahms wrote this, his largest vocal work, after the death of his mother. As opposed to the standard religious texts used for a typical Requiem, Brahms, as an atheist, opted for Bible texts of mourning and, as a result, produced a sombre work that is highly accessible. Symphony No. 2 Symphony No. 2, Op. 73: 4th Movement 1877, Symphonies, Orchestral This symphony begins in a relaxed manner yet accelerates with rushing strings and fiery brass work. The Academic Festival Overture 1880, Overtures Although the title is rather pompous, Brahms wrote this riotous melody in gratitude for receiving a university degree. In the music he pokes a bit of fun at the assembled dignitaries, who were obviously expecting some majestic work befitting the formality of the occasion. Piano Concerto No.2 Piano Concerto No.2 in B Flat Major 1881, Concerti, Orchestral This piano concerto is possibly one of the most gigantic concertos ever written, yet when he finished it, in 1881, Brahms modestly wrote to a friend saying: ‘I wish I were sending you something different and better than this hasty line, but there’s no help for it right now; what I wanted to tell you is that I have written a tiny little piano concerto with a tiny little wisp of a scherzo.’ The friend responded with a six-page letter praising the work, saying that this second piano concerto, compared with the first, was like comparing a mature man to a youth. Like many German composers, Brahms was much inspired by Italy, where he went for the second time when he was forty-seven, travelling around the country and also visiting Sicily. On his return he sketched the main themes of the concerto on the eve of his birthday, finishing the whole work a couple of months later. The Italian influence is subtly noticeable in certain parts where one can feel ‘the Italian spring turning to summer’ , which is what Brahms attempted, gently, to convey. The introductory movement (Allegro non troppo) opens with a beautiful horn passage that summons the other instruments. The piano plays between the horns, building a theme that is merely an introduction, for soon enough it launches into a solo cadenza, from which certain ideas are taken and developed in a stormy middle section. Symphony No. 3 Symphony No. 3 Op. 90 1883, Symphonies, Orchestral This symphony is often compared with Beethoven’s ‘Pastoral’ (No. 6) for its tranquillity. Symphony No. 4 Symphony No. 4 Op. 98 1885, Symphonies, Orchestral Brahms was fifty-two when he completed his Fourth Symphony in 1885. The work was composed in the Alpine town of Murzzuschlag, which was at such an altitude that spring came late, autumn early and local fruit barely had time to ripen before winter set in. In fact, when he sent the finished product to a friend of his he enclosed a letter, saying: ‘On the whole, unfortunately my pieces are pleasanter than I am and need less setting to rights! But the cherries never get ripe for eating in these parts, so don’t be afraid if you don’t like the taste of the thing. I’m not at all eager to write a bad number four.’ Clarinet Quintet in B Minor Clarinet Quintet in B Minor Op. 115 1891, Chamber Music The best of Brahms’s huge catalogue of chamber music, this quintet was written for a friend towards the end of the composer’s life. It has a serene, almost autumnal feel that creates a relaxed and mellow atmosphere. " },{ "id": "/classical/JHay", "url": "/classical/JHay/", "title": "Joseph Haydn", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-09-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1732, "died": 1809, "image": "/images/classical/04.jpg", "from": "Rohrau-on-the-Leitha, Austria", "schools": "Classical", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Unlike Mozart, Haydn did not come from a musical background. He was taught to read music by a cousin and joined the choir of St Stephen’s Cathedral in Vienna, from which he was dismissed at the age of sixteen. He had a difficult start in life and, at the beginning of his career, certainly fitted the image of the hard-at-work composer, starving in a garret and struggling to make ends meet. He managed to obtain one or two lessons in singing and composition from Nicola Porpora, a relatively famous Italian composer, developed his technique and started writing small-scale works in the form of chamber music, mainly string quartets. Haydn established a good reputation fairly quickly and landed a job as the director of music to Count Morzin. The money was poor, but at least it was a secure start for the young composer. Shortly after getting married Haydn was made redundant, but fate was to play a hand when he was offered a job at the court of Prince Esterházy, where he stayed until 1790 and wrote much of his finest music. He eventually ended up with the prestigious job of Kapellmeister to the Esterházys, who looked after Haydn very well. The musicians there were thought to be the best in the country at the time, and consequently he was inspired to write great music for the orchestra, the choir and small groups of instrumentalists playing chamber music and providing harmoniemusik (background music) for state functions and banquets. Haydn was very loyal to his employer, possibly to the detriment of his career, in that he turned down many opportunities to travel the world. However, after his period of employment with the Esterházys ended, he went to London at the invitation of the famous violinist-impresario Salomon and this was a great success. Haydn became friendly with the royal family, his lifestyle was lavish and he had a most comfortable existence – unlike Mozart! This disparity is most clearly reflected when comparing the music of the two composers. Haydn’s is generally less emotionally charged and often has a happier quality to it, whereas with Mozart there’s often an inner sadness and poignancy showing through. Haydn was writing at the time when Mozart was at his best, and the two held each other in high regard, occasionally even performing together. In fact there is a famous story of a conversation that Haydn had with Mozart’s father during which Haydn acclaimed Mozart as being the ‘greatest composer I know, personally or by reputation’. Haydn’s music played a significant role in the long-term development of classical music, particularly in the fields of the symphony, the oratorio and the string quartet. He wrote an astonishing 104 symphonies, 80 string quartets and numerous oratorios, including the celebrated Creation and The Seasons. In addition there are piano, violin, cello and wind instrument concertos, instrumental works, piano sonatas, masses and a whole host of small-scale pieces for odd combinations of instruments. The Cello Concerto in C Major 1763, Concerti, Orchestral Composed in the earliest days of Haydn’s associations with the Eszterházy family, this Cello Concerto in C Major would have been performed with a small orchestra consisting of possibly no more than fifteen members. The Cello Concerto in D Major 1763, Concerti, Orchestral Composed in the earliest days of Haydn’s associations with the Eszterházy family, this Cello Concerto in D Major would have been performed with a small orchestra consisting of possibly no more than fifteen members. String Quartet (‘The Razor’) String Quartet (‘The Razor’), Op. 55: 1st Movement 1787, Chamber Music Of all Haydn’s chamber music, the medium he best perfected was most definitely the string quartet, and he is effectively credited with having invented the form. With the emphasis on the fact that chamber music should be fun to play (after all, Haydn used to sit with friends – including Mozart – and play quartets for hours!), Haydn’s quartets are delightful yet civilised. ‘The Razor’ is typical of the man’s style, whilst the ‘Emperor’ is certainly one of his most charming quartets. Symphony No. 88 Symphony No. 88 in G Major 1787, Symphonies, Orchestral Haydn wrote his eighty-eighth symphony for a violinist called Johann Peter Tost, who was the leader of the second violins in Haydn’s own orchestra in Esterhazá. It is a grand exercise in the use of as many musical devices that the composer was aware of: a particular stroke of genius is the way in which the trumpets and drums are silent in the first movement so as to create a huge impact on their entrance in the Largo of the second. The Lark String Quartet Op. 64, No. 5 (‘The Lark’) 1790, Chamber Music Even though Haydn wrote over a hundred symphonies, his best medium was without doubt the string quartet; indeed, ‘The Lark’ is one of his most famous. Haydn always believed that chamber music should be, first and foremost, fun to play. This is true of this work, being a lively piece that shows his mature style at full stretch. Surprise Symphony Symphony No. 94 in G Major (‘The Surprise’) 1792, Symphonies, Orchestral This particular symphony is more commonly referred to as ‘The Surprise’ symphony on account of the story that Haydn, fully aware that a long concert could send parts of the audience to sleep, threw in a loud chord during the second movement to wake up any dozers. Today, however, listeners would probably not notice the ‘surprise’, as it is quite tame compared with what occurs in more recent music, yet at the time it was considered to be rather daring and even ‘wild’. Clock Symphony Symphony No. 101 in D Major (‘The Clock’) 1794, Symphonies, Orchestral When Haydn wrote the ‘The Clock’, he was sixty-two years old and living in London. He had already written a hundred symphonies, yet he still managed to surprise and delight his audiences without actually repeating himself musically. After its first performance, on 3 March 1794, the London Morning Chronicle wrote: ’ . . . a grand Overture by HAYDN; the inexhaustible, the wonderful, the sublime HAYDN! The first two movements were encored and the character that pervaded the whole composition was heartfelt joy. Nothing can be more original than the subject of the first movement; and having found a happy subject, no man knows like HAYDN how to produce incessant variety without once departing from it. . . . we never heard a more charming effect than was produced by the trio to the minuet. It was HAYDN; what can we, what need we say more?’ Set in the traditional four movements, it is the Andante (third movement), with its familiar tick-tock rhythm, that earned the 101st Symphony its nickname ‘The Clock’. As a matter of interest, in Vienna in 1793 Haydn wrote twelve pieces for an elaborate musical clock owned by his patron Prince Eszterházy, of which one is incredibly similar to the Minuet of the Symphony that so enchanted the original London audience. Military Symphony Symphony No. 100 in G Major (‘Military’): Adagio 1794, Symphonies, Orchestral When this symphony was first performed in 1794, the audiences found it brilliant yet also horrifying, as it was designed to sum up all the terrors of war – specifically the Napoleonic Wars, which had just begun. Subtitled the ‘Military’, it has four movements that are both stirring and inspiring. Trumpet Concerto Trumpet Concerto in E Flat Major 1796, Concerti, Orchestral Haydn’s last and finest concerto was written as an experiment for a trumpet-playing friend of his in Vienna. The type of trumpet used for the first performance is, however, no longer in existence, for the ‘new’ trumpet of the time had keys rather than valves, and could be likened, in some ways, to a saxophone. The concerto is still performed today to great acclaim. Emperor Quartet String Quartet No. 77 in C Major (‘Emperor’): 1st Movement 1799, Chamber Music Of all Haydn’s chamber music, the medium he best perfected was most definitely the string quartet, and he is effectively credited with having invented the form. With the emphasis on the fact that chamber music should be fun to play (after all, Haydn used to sit with friends – including Mozart – and play quartets for hours!), Haydn’s quartets are delightful yet civilised. The ‘Emperor’ is certainly one of his most delightful while ‘The Razor’ is typical of the man’s style. The Creation 1801, Choral Haydn was never truly comfortable writing music for voices rather than instruments, and this has resulted in his choral work being witty, neat and ordered, rather than wild, reckless and passionate. The Creation is a good example of this, where the opening chorus ‘The Heavens are Telling the Glory of God’ seems to lack a cohesion of voices yet has a delightful Baroque/Classical splendour. The Seasons 1801, Choral Along with The Creation, The Seasons is seen as the greatest of Haydn’s choral works and was once described as ‘ . . . a work effervescent with the optimism of old age.’ " },{ "id": "/classical/JSib", "url": "/classical/JSib/", "title": "Jean Sibelius", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-22T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1865, "died": 1957, "image": "/images/classical/29.jpg", "from": "Tavastehus, Finland", "schools": "Modern, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Sibelius holds a very special place in the history of Scandinavian music, not least because he is really the only composer of note to have come from Finland but also because he had a very serious interest in Finnish mythology and culture which he has portrayed in his music. The son of a doctor, Sibelius was christened Johan Julius Christian but adopted the name Jean having found a set of visiting cards belonging to his seafaring uncle, who had Gallicised the name. Jean’s father died of cholera when the boy was just two years old and young Sibelius was brought up by his grandmother, who placed him at a Finnish-speaking school – this was quite unusual at the time, as much of Finland was Swedish speaking owing to their being governed by a Swedish-speaking minority. He started composing at the age of ten. A piece for violin and cello entitled Water Drops was followed by a number of other smaller chamber works that have a youthful naivety about them and are rarely heard these days. Sibelius was very keen on playing the violin, always having a passionate yearning for being a professional violinist, and apparently even went to the lengths of auditioning for the string section of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra. As was the case with many composers, his early studies at university were in a totally unrelated subject – in his case, law; but he soon gave this up in favour of a course in music. It was at Helsinki University that he struck up a friendship with the Italian composer Ferruccio Busoni, who later gave Sibelius an introduction to Brahms. After a couple of years Sibelius wrote the Kullervo Symphony, which really established him as a first-rate composer, and this was followed by a selection of wonderful works including Finlandia, the Valse Triste and a string of symphonies, all of which hold firm places in the repertoire of most internationally renowned symphony orchestras. Sibelius was a colourful character who liked nothing better than to be drinking vast quantities of alcohol and smoking fat cigars. Both these activities were severely curtailed when he developed a serious illness in 1908 and had to undergo a series of operations for what was suspected to be cancer of the throat. It appears that these operations were successful as he lived for almost another fifty years, although his composing really stopped around 1926 when he wrote the incidental music for a performance of Shakespeare’s The Tempest. Sibelius was a keen traveller and made regular visits to England, France, Germany and Italy, and he was also in demand as a conductor, which it seemed was compensation for his not becoming a concert violinist. He was honoured with numerous awards, amongst which were the Chair of Composition at the Imperial Academy (1912) and an Honorary Doctorate at Yale University following his enormous successes in the USA. En Saga 1892, Orchestral In the same way that Finlandia evokes the Finnish landscape, En Saga, though with no clear-cut story-line, uses bare harmonies and strong orchestration to re-create the stark and heroic world of the Scandinavian sagas. The Swan of Tuonela 1893, Orchestral A sad piece concerning a swan that sings only once, just before its death. Finlandia 1900, Orchestral A powerful exercise in nationalistic music, Finlandia is a strong orchestral work whose central melody is perhaps better known as the hymn ‘Be Still, my Soul’. Symphony No. 2 Symphony No. 2 in D Major Op. 43 1901, Symphonies, Orchestral At the end of the last century Sibelius was fairly young and his country, Finland, was a part of Russia – yet a restless and definitely unhappy part. Although the Russian takeover had been relatively recent, for more than eight hundred years previously the Finns had been under the political rule of Sweden, and this had led to a strong national desire for independence. Therefore, when Russia began to put restrictions on free speech, the right of assembly and political representation, the old hopes for a true national identity burst into flame. When Sibelius returned from his studies in Western Europe he found himself roped into a tide of young writers, painters, poets, musicians, theatre people and such-like who had rediscovered their Finnish heritage. As a result his subsequent compositions began to show this influence to the extent that, today, he is seen as being the leading nationalist Finnish composer. Audiences used to remark that they could hear melodies from traditional Finnish folk songs in his music, yet Sibelius would honestly reply that he had never heard any. Therefore, when he first listened to the national epic called ‘Kalevala’ he was moved and delighted to hear how close his own work came to the thousand-year-old musical language of his countrymen. Sibelius’s Second Symphony is a brilliant patriotic exercise, which was once described by a professor of music as a picture of ‘Finland’s struggle for political liberty.’ Critics have said that the first movement depicts Finnish pastoral life, while the second, though charged with patriotic feeling, senses the coming of brutal rule and therefore brings with it a timid soul. The third portrays the awakening of national feeling whilst the finale brings hope. The first movement (Allegretto) opens with quietly repeated chords from the strings whilst oboes and clarinets play a simple, folky tune. In the second section we hear a lament from two bassoons until chords from the brass section cut them off at their peak. The Vivacissimo of the third movement has an intensely nostalgic theme that builds and builds in a crescendo, leading directly into the finale. This Allegro moderato is like a mighty chant of triumph, as if the country has finally burst its chains. The ending is incredibly powerful and overwhelming. Violin Concerto in D Minor Violin Concerto in D Minor Op. 47: 3rd Movement 1903, Concerti, Orchestral Sibelius is probably Finland’s most famous composer, and he is often seen as the only man who was fully capable of expressing landscape, folklore and all things Finnish. Yet in this work, if there is any reference to his homeland, it is kept well hidden. Only occasionally can one hear certain melodies that it is known were loved by Sibelius, as they would recall for him ancient Finnish runes. Sibelius was thirty-eight when he wrote his violin concerto and had already written several works including two symphonies. However, he was not happy with the first version that he finished in 1903 and completely revised the music, allowing it to be performed in 1905 in Berlin with Richard Strauss conducting. In the first movement (Allegro moderato) the solo violin introduces a sad theme backed by quiet, muted strings. This theme is soon picked up by darker woodwinds before a second melody becomes apparent from the cellos and bassoons. The second section (Adagio di molto) begins with little phrases from the woodwinds before the violin enters with a song-like solo. The finale, however, is a wild, dance-like movement which was once described as ‘a polonaise for polar bears.’ In order that the violin may be fully heard in its lower ranges, Sibelius cut down the accompaniment to almost chamber music level, but the violin still manages to shoot like a rocket around the backing. The whole work ends fantastically with skyward sweeps of the violin and sharp chords from the orchestra. Valse Triste 1904, Orchestral A sombre work that is the last moments of a dying woman reliving her past. It is a waltz for strings that was written as part of the incidental music for a drama entitled Kuolema (‘Death’). Pelléas et Mélisande 1905, Orchestral Sibelius wrote a lot of instrumental music for the theatre, the most notable being for Maeterlinck’s ‘Pélleas and Mélisande’ and Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’. Symphony No. 5 Symphony No. 5 Op. 82 1916, Symphonies, Orchestral After a fairly gloomy opening sequence, the orchestra soon picks up until we get to the finale that strides along forcefully, accompanied by bell-like chanting from the horns. The Tempest 1926, Orchestral Sibelius wrote a lot of instrumental music for the theatre, the most notable being for Shakespeare’s ‘The Tempest’ and Maeterlinck’s ‘Pelléas and Mélisande’. " },{ "id": "/classical/LBee", "url": "/classical/LBee/", "title": "Ludwig van Beethoven", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-09-28T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1770, "died": 1827, "image": "/images/classical/06.jpg", "from": "Bonn, Germany", "schools": "Classical", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Most people leave school music lessons knowing one thing about Beethoven – that he was deaf. He is portrayed in the musical history books as having been something of a tempestuous, moody, creative genius, and this really isn’t far off the mark. He was born in Bonn in 1770, again from a musical family, and showed an enormous talent very early on. Like Mozart’s father, Herr Beethoven senior was quick to spot this talent and sought to exploit his son’s gifts at every possible opportunity. Family life was not without its troubles –- Beethoven’s mother was for a time an alcoholic, and his father also suffered with the same problem for the whole of the latter part of his life. This made its mark on the young man and undoubtedly played a part in developing his own highly charged, emotionally dramatic style of music; it may have had some bearing on the fact that he, too, later developed a drink problem. Beethoven had little formal education to speak of and was left with only very basic skills in reading and writing. There is a school of thought that suggests Beethoven’s profound ill temper could have been due to his inner sense of embarrassment and frustration at not being able to express himself very clearly, and this may well have been the case. He did, however, have a very good musical training and quickly became proficient on a number of instruments including the piano, organ, violin and viola. Beethoven had some fine teachers in Bonn, but he also went to Vienna in his late teens to study with Mozart. Following the death of both his parents, he ended up making a living as both a teacher and a viola player in orchestras and opera houses in and around Bonn. Thinking it would be a good career move, he too went off to Vienna, possibly due to an encounter with Haydn, who was extremely impressed with young Beethoven’s work. After a time, Beethoven settled down in Vienna and developed a very good reputation both as a performer and a composer. Although from something of a lowly social background, he eventually started to move in the highest circles and received patronage and wrote works at the commission of a number of the aristocracy. He was quite prolific and wrote nine great symphonies and five brilliant piano concertos, as well as a whole host of chamber music, piano music and songs. Beethoven’s deafness manifested itself in about 1802, when he was just thirty-two years of age. It did not seem to slow down his creative output, even though he was also dogged by quite severe ill health for much of this middle to late period of his life. Rumour had it that Beethoven’s deafness was due to the effects of syphilis and alcoholism, but these ideas were dispelled only a matter of twenty years ago, and now popular belief is that he had some kind of mysterious viral disease. The syphilis theory may have developed from the undoubted fact that Beethoven had countless affairs, mainly with married women from the ranks of the aristocracy. Whatever the disease, it can only have fuelled his frustration and loneliness, and quite possibly was one of the main causes for his volatile, rather bitter nature. Beethoven’s ill health stayed with him for many years and by 1827 he was totally bedridden, suffering from pleurisy, pneumonia and dropsy. He died on 27 March that year and was buried in Vienna. If you are a lover of orchestral music, then the symphonies and piano concertos are all wonderful pieces. The piano sonatas vary from being very easy on the ear to extremely challenging and intellectually stimulating. As a rule of thumb, the higher the opus number, and consequently the later the work, the more complex Beethoven’s power of expression became. The string quartets are well worth listening to and, from the chamber music that he wrote, the Septet Op. 20 is highly recommended. Für Elise Keyboard Works One of Beethoven’s most famous piano pieces, this delightful little work has an instantly recognisable opening. It has been arranged for numerous different instruments. Pathetique Sonata Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, ‘Pathetique’, Op. 13 1798, Keyboard Works The title does not actually mean ‘pathetic’, but rather ‘sonata full of feeling’, and the work is a good example of Beethoven’s concern for the dramatised presentation of private feeling in music. The first movement is turbulent whilst the second is serene. The final rondo breaks out into frenzied runs and emphatic dischords. Septet Septet in E Flat Major Op. 20 1800, Chamber Music This is a cheerful six-movement work for clarinet, bassoon, horn and string quartet. It is uncomplicated and untaxing, being written purely for delight and entertainment. Moonlight Sonata Piano Sonata No.14 in C Sharp Minor Op. 27, No. 2 (‘Moonlight’): Adagio sostenuto 1801, Keyboard Works This is probably Beethoven’s most famous sonata and is often played by piano students. The opening Adagio is both emotive and instantly recognisable. Eroica Symphony No. 3 in E Flat Major (‘Eroica’): 1st Movement 1804, Symphonies, Orchestral Beethoven’s Symphony No. 3, the ‘Eroica’, is often seen as his greatest symphony, though sometimes holding joint first place with the Ninth. It was written in 1804, and Beethoven intended to portray in its music the heroism and idealism of Napoleon Bonaparte, whom he worshipped as the great liberator, the smasher of ancient tyrannies and cramping conventions, for at the time Napoleon was the chief military and political defender of the French Revolution. Beethoven saw France’s message of ‘Liberty, Equality and Fraternity’ as being not just for France, but for all men, and consequently held Bonaparte in extremely high esteem. However, when the work was finished and the composer was on the verge of having the final manuscript sent to Paris with the name ‘Bonaparte’ at the top, Beethoven’s friend brought him the news that Napoleon had just crowned himself Emperor of France. Flying into a tremendous rage, Beethoven exclaimed: ‘Is he then too nothing more than an ordinary human being? Now he too will trample on all the rights of man and indulge only his ambition. He will exalt himself above all others, become a tyrant!’ The Symphony was quickly retitled ‘Sinfonia Eroica: Composed to Celebrate the Memory of a Great Man’. Set in four movements, the symphony has no introduction, merely two staccato chords that launch into the main theme. The second movement is the great ‘Funeral March’, which has often confused purists who expect such a movement to come at the end of a symphony. But Beethoven wasn’t writing a biography, he was depicting heroism – or, rather, heroic grief. It is an epic lament over the heroes that have fallen in the defence of everyone’s freedom. The following scherzo is a welcome change from the preceding sobriety, being full of life and laughter, whilst the finale recalls the principal theme from the first movement. Funeral March Symphony No. 3: 2nd Movement (‘Funeral March’) 1804, Symphonies, Orchestral This Funeral March is the second movement of Beethoven’s Third Symphony, the ‘Eroica’, initially written as musical praise for Napoleon Bonaparte, before the composer was dramatically disillusioned. It has often confused purists, who expect such a movement to come at the end of a symphony, but Beethoven wasn’t writing a biography, he was depicting heroism – or, rather, heroic grief. It is an epic lament over the heroes that have fallen in the defence of everyone’s freedom. Appassionata Piano Sonata No. 23 in F Minor Op. 57 (‘Appassionata’) 1805, Keyboard Works ‘The Appassionata’ marks a peak in Beethoven’s artistic development where emotion is not dramatised, but rather used to drive the work along. Fidelio 1805, Opera Never having been too interested in vocal music, this was the only opera Beethoven ever wrote. It is a passionate tale of revolutionary idealism and the power of true love. Fidelio is often considered a little heavy going. Leonore Overture ‘Leonore’ No. 1 1805, Overtures One of four overtures Beethoven’s wrote to his only opera ‘Fidelio’, this makes a pleasant introduction to the overall work. Symphony No. 4 Symphony No. 4 in B Flat Major Op. 60 1806, Symphonies, Orchestral Although this is Beethoven’s most gentle symphony, it was written in the explosive year of 1806, when Napoleon was rampaging around Europe, toppling old thrones, setting up new ones, redrawing boundaries and creating new states. Coriolan Overture ‘Coriolan’ Op. 62 1807, Overtures A heroic overture written for a tragedy by Heinrich Collin called Coriolan. Pastoral Symphony Symphony No. 6 in F Major Op. 68 (‘Pastoral’) 1808, Symphonies, Orchestral Certainly one of Beethoven’s most admired symphonies, the ‘Pastoral’ conjures up delightful images of babbling brooks and peasants larking about. Symphony No. 5 Symphony No. 5 in C Minor Op. 67: Allegro con brio 1808, Symphonies, Orchestral Like Beethoven himself, this Fifth Symphony is music of concentrated energy, struggle and triumph. In its emotional voltage it is an intensely forward-looking work, embodying one of the most powerful musical trends of the following hundred years. Beethoven laboured some four years, 1804–8, on his Fifth Symphony, and interrupted himself to compose another symphony which was completed earlier, and hence numbered Fourth, and also to write his Violin Concerto and Fourth Piano Concerto. The Fifth Symphony was first performed on 22 December 1808 in Vienna at an incredible concert in the Theater an der Wien, which consisted entirely of new Beethoven works: the Fifth Symphony, the Fourth Piano Concerto with Beethoven as the soloist, the aria ‘Ah! Perfido’, three numbers from his Mass in C Major, and the Fantasy in C Minor for Piano, Chorus and Orchestra! The opening of the first movement (Allegro con brio) is a savage, imperious onslaught of just four notes that will be instantly recognisable from numerous films and adverts. More rhythm than melody, it is one of the briefest, the most powerful, and certainly the most symphonic themes ever written. It is reported that Beethoven pointed out this theme to a friend and declared: ‘Thus fate knocks at the door!’ The second movement (Andante con moto) is less vibrant and more of an exercise in orchestral grace and charm that spins off into freedom and fantasy. It contrasts sharply with the Allegro of the third movement, which has a well-paced, menacing theme. The final movement, also an Allegro, draws on the full orchestra, which leads to a coda of excitement, power and brilliance. Emperor Concerto Piano Concerto No. 5 in E Flat Major Op. 73 (‘Emperor’) 1809, Concerti, Orchestral Beethoven himself had taken the solo part in the earliest performances of his first four piano concertos. His earliest triumphs in Vienna had been as a virtuoso performer of his own works but, by the time he had finished his Fifth, or ‘Emperor’, Concerto, he had grown too deaf to perform. This could be one reason why this concerto was his last. He finished it in 1809, the year of the Austrian defeat at Wagram, and the year of Napoleon’s siege and occupation of Vienna. When the bombardment of the city grew too loud, Beethoven would go down to the cellar of his brother Carl’s house and cover his head with pillows. This was not because he was scared, but rather to protect his ears and what little hearing he had left. For the first Viennese performance, in 1812, Beethoven entrusted the solo part to his brilliant pupil Carl Czerny, and the story goes that a member of the audience, a French army officer, was so carried away by the music that he acclaimed it ‘ . . . an emperor among concertos’, from which the concerto’s nickname probably originated. The concerto begins with a decisive chord from the orchestra, after which the piano comes in, rather unusually, with a sweeping cadenza – this being normally reserved for the close of a movement. The piano continues its outbursts, which Beethoven wrote out very carefully, as the style of a cadenza was usually left to the soloist. The second movement (Adagio un poco mosso) has a songlike, evening feel about it, as the pianist steals a melody from the violins to produce a series of gentle variations that, almost without a break, leads us into the finale (Rondo: Allegro). This is a marvellous exposition of dynamism and exhilaration that comes across as being spontaneous and impulsive. Archduke Trio Piano Trio in B Flat Major Op. 97 (‘Archduke’): Allegro moderato 1810, Chamber Music A relaxed chamber work that doesn’t seek to strive forcefully to the end. It was written seventeen years before Beethoven’s death, and the listener will appreciate the maturity of the writing. Ode to Joy **Symphony No. 9 in D Minor Op. 125: 4th Movement ‘Ode to Joy’ ** 1817, Symphonies, Orchestral Beethoven’s Ninth (and last) Symphony is famous in its own right, yet probably best known for its closing chorus based on Friedrich von Schiller’s ode ‘To Joy’. The poem had always appealed to Beethoven, and it was when he was twenty-two that he first planned to set it to music. However, he was fifty-four when he finished this symphony, and died only three years later. At the first performance, in Vienna in May 1824, Beethoven was far too deaf to think of conducting. He sat in the middle of the orchestra, trying to follow the performance with his copy of the music, though he always seemed to be losing his place. At the conclusion there was tremendous applause, which Beethoven obviously could not hear. This scene was described as follows: ‘The master . . . heard nothing at all, and was not even sensible to the applause of the audience . . . but continued standing with his back to the audience and beating the time until Miss Unger . . . induced him to face the people, who were still clapping their hands and giving way to the greatest demonstrations of pleasure. His turning about, and the sudden conviction . . . that he had not done so before because he could not hear what was going on acted like an electric shock on all present, and a volcanic explosion of sympathy and admiration followed.’ In the final movement the melody of the chorus is introduced without words by cellos and basses, and some instrumental variations follow. Suddenly, a voice cries out some introductory lines (written by Beethoven himself) to the ode, which leads the entire chorus into the full poem delivered with an explosion of noise and power. It must be remembered that Beethoven lived through a chaotic period in European history, watching the rise and fall of Napoleon, a man whom Beethoven truly admired until his illusions were shattered. In this Ninth Symphony, Beethoven was able to look back over the battles, the victories and the defeats, sum them together, and crown his nine symphonies with the stunning hope and optimism of the great chorale finale. Piano Sonata No. 31 in A Flat **Piano Sonata No. 31 in A Flat Major Op. 110 ** 1821, Keyboard Works One of Beethoven’s more accessible sonatas, this begins with a slow movement, proceeding to a scherzo, a sobbing ‘aria dolente’ (‘grief-stricken song’) and, finally, a fugue. It sounds as if it was written in a single afternoon, though it did, in fact, take Beethoven weeks of work. String Quartet Op. 127 String Quartet in E Flat Major Op. 127 1825, Chamber Music Although famous for his symphonies, Beethoven produced a large amount of chamber music that deserves recognition. The listener can hear the potential symphony in all the quartets, which have been described as ‘ . . . relaxed rather than striving’. Opus 127 is grand and enjoyable, beginning with a simple falling theme that moves along quite sedately, interrupted by brief, sprightly bursts. " },{ "id": "/classical/LJan", "url": "/classical/LJan/", "title": "Leoš Janáček", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-15T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1854, "died": 1928, "image": "/images/classical/23.jpg", "from": "Hukvaldy, Czechoslovakia", "schools": "Romantic, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography A much underrated composer, Janácek ranks among the greatest of creative forces ever to have emerged from Czechoslovakia. Rather oddly he wrote nothing of any great consequence until he was in his sixties, but from that point on he never looked back. His music has an incredible rhythmic vitality about it whilst at times also being hauntingly romantic. Janácek was fascinated by Czechoslovakian folk culture, and this proved to be a tremendous source of inspiration which is clearly reflected in his music. He was one of a family of fourteen and by all accounts an extremely bright child whose talent for music was recognised by his father quite early on. His parents were not well off and they sent young Leos off to the monastery school, where there was a talented teacher of music from whom Janacek was to gain an extremely good grounding in the subject. He eventually decided to train as a music teacher and ended up teaching at the monastery school where he himself had been a pupil. Not surprisingly, being a teacher didn’t provide the creative stimulus for which he yearned, and this is evident in his early compositions which are, in the main, pretty dull and lacking in any kind of real character. Janácek was well aware of this and had the necessary self-motivation to get some money together and head off for Prague, where he took a crash course at the Organ School in search of both knowledge and inspiration. He left after a year with an impressive set of certificates and qualifications and then moved around various respected seats of learning, with the wish to start his own music college always in the back of his mind. He had rather radical and, at the time, unconventional theories about music – two of which were that music should follow speech rhythms and that it should also relate to birdsong. He felt passionately about this, and his ideas proved not to be quite as strange as they may at first have seemed: a number of composers since have modelled their works in this way with quite beautiful results – listen to Messiaen’s Oiseaux Exotiques for a stunning example of birdsong translated into music. Time rolled on but Janácek failed to make any significant impact on the music business, though he continued to pursue his interest in speech rhythms and nationalistic folk music. His big break finally came in 1916, when the National Opera in Prague agreed to stage his opera Jenufa. It was a complete success and before long the opera was being performed all over Europe. In the remaining twelve years of his life Janácek went on to write maybe a dozen really excellent pieces, a mixture of operas, choral, solo and chamber music. At the age of sixty-four, whilst still married, he fell deeply in love with another woman, who played a significant role in inspiring the old man to compose probably his finest works – one of which is the string quartet appropriately entitled ‘Intimate Letters’. Jenufa 1904, Opera The script for this opera is intensely tragic and the music matches it perfectly. It tells the story of a young girl who has a baby by an unscrupulous ne’er-do-well. Living in shame, she keeps the baby hidden from her neighbours until, one day, her mother drowns the child in the river, putting it under the ice. In a horrifying climax, the ice melts and the tiny corpse is found. Taras Bulba Taras Bulba: ‘Death of Andrey’ 1918, Orchestral ‘Taras Bulba’ is a story by Gogol which Janácek set to music in 1915 to celebrate the fact that ‘there is no fire nor suffering in the whole world which can break the strength of the Russian people’, which is symbolised in the death by fire of the hero of the tale. This is a symphonic work in three movements that portrays in some detail the events of the story. Taras Bulba is a captain in the Zaporozhy Cossacks whose two sons, Andri and Ostap, are fighting with him in a war against the Poles. In the first movement, Taras actually executes Andri for helping a Polish girl who is his fiancée – an example of true patriotism. Ostap, the other son, dies in the second movement after having been captured by the enemy. Taras witnesses the public execution and then slips away unnoticed. In the final movement Taras avenges his son’s death but ultimately is taken prisoner himself. Nailed to a tree, he is condemned to death by burning. As the flames rise, he sees his men make a daring escape from the Poles. In his final vision, he prophesies the eventual triumph of his people. The music finishes with a set of rousing chords that rise higher and higher, leading to a grand theme that expresses perfectly the undying spirit of the Russian people. Glagolitic Mass 1926, Choral Janácek wrote this powerful choral work with a view to having it performed outdoors, though this rarely occurs. Sinfonietta Sinfonietta: Allegretto 1926, Orchestral Like his Czech predecessors such as Dvorák and Smetana, Janácek was fascinated by the folk melodies of his native land, and used to spend much of his time investigating the popular musical traditions of Czechoslovakia. However, he almost never used actual folk tunes, preferring to build his own personal style on rhythmic and melodic traits of the folk music found in the area where he was born, near the Polish border. This Sinfonietta, therefore, is a simple, unpretentious work in a folk vein and is characteristic of many of his earlier works. The first movement (Allegretto – Allegro – Maestoso) is played, essentially, by eleven trumpets, two tubas and kettle-drums and consists of a series of very short, often repeated phrases, whereas the following section is somewhat longer and uses more of the orchestra. Muted strings create a flowing melody which is taken up by woodwinds and brass to create a climax for the third movement (Moderato – Con moto – Prestissimo). The penultimate section has a light, dance-like quality and changing rhythms that leads neatly to the final movement, which opens with three flutes introducing the new main theme which is passed around the orchestra while the strings maintain a murmuring background accompaniment. The whole work ends with a complete run-through of the first movement but with extra woodwinds and strings. Intimate Letters String Quartet No. 2 (‘Intimate Letters’) 1928, Chamber Music This is the second of two string quartets of a very personal nature as far as the composer was concerned: they are based on over 600 letters Janácek wrote to a young married woman in the last years of his life. Wandering of a Soul Violin Concerto (‘Wandering of a Soul’): Andante 1928, Concerti, Orchestral The violin concerto ‘Wandering of a Soul’ was inspired by the violin theme from the opening of one of Janácek’s operas – ‘From the House of the Dead.’ " },{ "id": "/classical/MMus", "url": "/classical/MMus/", "title": "Modeste Mussorgsky", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1839, "died": 1881, "image": "/images/classical/17.jpg", "from": "Karevo, Russia", "schools": "Romantic, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Mussorgsky has been described as ‘Russia’s most individual and human musical genius’, and it is a tragedy that his life should have been cut so short by alcoholism at the relatively young age of forty-two. Mussorgsky studied the piano from the age of five and showed considerable talent. Like many of the now famous composers he gave a concert as a youngster that signalled the extraordinary talent that he possessed, but although everyone around him was aware of his gift Mussorgsky chose to ignore it, disliking the idea of the hard work and discipline that would be required to bring it to fruition. The family moved away to St Petersburg when Mussorgsky was just ten years old. He was sent to the Military Academy and, although he showed a serious interest in early Russian church music, it seems that he was unable to concentrate on anything very much other than demolishing his liver by frequent bouts of excessive drinking. During this time at the Academy Mussorgsky met one of the most famous composers in Russia at the time, Borodin, who over a period of a few months introduced him to a number of the other celebrated composers of the day including Cui, Balakirev and Dargomizhky. Keeping such illustrious musical company obviously played an important part in inspiring Mussorgsky to write himself. His early efforts were not particularly good and his first two piano sonatas and a symphony have either been lost or were abandoned almost immediately. However, after a couple of years Mussorgsky realised a life in the army was quite definitely not for him and he became profoundly interested in the arts – mainly music and literature. He became increasingly interested in composition but started to find it difficult to deal with the problems of real life. He apparently developed a bizarre sense of humour largely based on self-mockery and eventually found solace only in drinking alcohol. The situation worsened when the Tsar Alexander l liberated the serfs and the Mussorgsky family became impoverished. Modeste Mussorgsky had to take a job as a government clerk, and depression caused his first serious collapse at the hands of alcoholism. He was living in a commune with five other artistic young men but had to leave because of his ill health and later moved in with his brother, who was tremendously supportive and encouraged his composing career. Mussorgsky wrote some wonderful songs during this period and completed his opera based on Pushkin’s play Boris Godunov. The first drafts of the opera were not very well received and Mussorgsky reworked it to the point where it is now a much respected full-length opera that is frequently performed all around the world. He had also struck up a friendship with another composer, Rimsky-Korsakov, with whom he later shared a flat and who also made some revisions to Boris Godunov, helping it achieve the popularity it deserves. Mussorgsky’s career from then on was a mixture of ups and downs, the ups being good short bursts of creative work and the downs dreadful binges of drinking, losing jobs and being unable to complete his work through the effects of the drink. He died following an epileptic fit and a few bouts of raging madness in the military hospital at St Petersburg on 28 March 1881. Much of Mussorgsky’s music is worth exploring and, in addition to the famous Pictures at an Exhibition (based on the drawings of a friend of his) and the Night on a Bare Mountain, he wrote some excellent songs which now rank alongside those of Schubert, Schumann and Wolf. Many people found his style of orchestration rather austere and a number of composers since have reorchestrated his works with varying degrees of success. His close friend Rimsky-Korsakov has, of course, revamped the opera Boris Godunov and the famous Night on a Bare Mountain, whilst Ravel has splendidly orchestrated Pictures at an Exhibition. One other very different version of this piece is that by the seventies pop group Emerson, Lake and Palmer, who made the music accessible to a much wider audience than before. Night on the Bare Mountain 1867, Orchestral In November 1861 Mussorgsky wrote to a friend, saying: ‘I have received an extremely interesting commission which I must prepare for next summer. It is this: a whole act to take place on Bare Mountain . . . a witches’ Sabbath, separate episodes of sorcerers, a solemn march for all this nastiness, a finale – the glorification of the Sabbath in which Mengden [the author] introduces the commander [the devil] of the whole festival on Bare Mountain. . . . it may turn out to be a very good thing.’ The Bare Mountain to which Mussorgsky referred is actually called Mount Triglav, which is near Kiev, and is well known in Russian legend for its witches’ Sabbath is held there every year on St John’s Night (June 23–4), being a festival of evil spirits, sorcerers and the suchlike. Six years later, however, Mussorgsky had barely started his symphonic poem, yet managed to finish it that same year. Unfortunately, the composer was prone to revising his works, or, to be more specific, having other people revise them. Consequently the work we know today as A Night on the Bare Mountain is, in fact, quite an overhauled version of the original (which is lost) by Mussorgsky’s fellow Russian composer Rimsky-Korsakov, and is often referred to as a Rimsky–Mussorgsky work. The music is broken up into the following sections as outlined by Rimsky-Korsakov: Subterranean sounds of supernatural voices – Appearance of the spirits, followed by that of Satan himself – Glorification of Satan and celebration of the Black Mass – The Sabbath revels – At the height of the orgies the bell of the village church, sounding in the distance, disperses the spirits of darkness – Daybreak. It begins with wild, whirring sounds from the violins, through which a powerful trombone stalks its way. The woodwinds chatter, shriek and whine as the oboes take up the witches’ theme. After the climax of the Sabbath orgy, the orchestra falls almost silent and we hear the bell that heralds the dawn. Boris Godunov 1869, Opera This opera was originally written in the style of a historical pageant filled with bustling crowd-scenes rather than arias, but Mussorgsky soon found himself more interested in Tsar Boris – a man full of self-hatred and no self-esteem – to the point that work was revised (and re-orchestrated by Rimsky-Korsakov) to become a powerful and moving operatic study of the man. Pictures at an Exhibition 1873, Orchestral Initially this work was written as a piano suite, and it wasn’t until Maurice Ravel orchestrated it that it was made truly available to a general public, some forty-two years after Mussorgsky’s death. In 1873 Mussorgsky was deeply distressed to learn that his close friend Victor Hartmann, a Russian architect and painter, had died at the age of thirty-nine. Shortly afterwards a mutual friend, the critic Vladimir Stassov, organised an exhibition of Hartmann’s watercolours and drawings at the St Petersburg Academy of Arts, and Mussorgsky found the whole experience deeply moving. As a tribute to his friend the composer decided to take ten of the pictures as subjects for a piano suite, and thereby produced probably his most famous work. It even has a place in ‘rock’ history: Emerson, Lake and Palmer worked their own version in the 19’70s. Pictures at an Exhibition is a clever arrangement of ten ‘pictures’ interspersed with four ‘promenades’, where the composer wanted to give the overall feel of actually walking through the exhibition. As Stassov explains: ‘The composer here portrays himself walking now right, now left, now as an idle person, now urged to go near a picture; at times his joyous appearance is dampened, he thinks in sadness of his dead friend . . .’ The music opens with a solo trumpet theme before going into the first ‘picture’, called ‘The Gnome’. A ‘promenade’ takes us to the next ‘picture’ before we walk on to look at two more. A brief stroll takes us to two pictures that Hartmann had given to the composer which have now strangely disappeared. Finally, we arrive at the ‘Great Gate of Kiev’, which is a design the architect submitted for the possibility of being built. A procession complete with prancing horses is the cause for a re-emergence of the ‘promenade’ theme which initially opened the work. Khovanshchina **Khovanshchina: Intermezzo ** 1886, Opera Sometimes seen as a follow-up work to Boris Gudunov, this opera tells the story of the military revolt of the princes Khovansky against the modernisation and Westernisation of Russia. " },{ "id": "/classical/MRav", "url": "/classical/MRav/", "title": "Maurice Ravel", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1875, "died": 1937, "image": "/images/classical/33.jpg", "from": "Ciboure, France", "schools": "Romantic, French Impressionist", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Like Debussy, Ravel was brought up in Paris and studied at the Paris Conservatoire. After a few years he joined the composition class of the eminent composer Gabriel Fauré. Ravel was prolific and has left us with a fine collection of orchestral, piano, vocal and chamber music. He, too, had problems in his lifetime. He served in an ambulance corps at the front in the First World War, but was demobilised owing to ill health in 1917. Following a serious car accident in 1935, he suffered from an unusual kind of mental paralysis and died two years later after an unsuccessful operation on his brain. His experiences made him a man of nervous disposition and he was consistently plagued by insomnia, but he was a great socialite and enjoyed being in the company of friends – never happier than when sitting around drinking in bars and cafes. He loved both gourmet and simple French cooking and meals would always be followed by strong French cigarettes. Debussy was a great admirer of Ravel’s talent and once said of him that he ‘possessed the finest ear that ever existed’. Much of Ravel’s music is more direct and immediately dramatic in style than that of Debussy. Listen to Bolero or La Valse for an extraordinary display of Ravel’s skill in writing for the orchestra, or, better still, go and hear them performed live in the concert hall and you will experience a truly spectacular event. Both Debussy and Ravel wrote a great deal of music for the piano and, if you are a fan of that instrument and keen on this evocative French style of music, you will find a rich catalogue of varied music from each. Ravel’s Gaspard de la Nuit and Miroirs are quite remarkable and are frequently heard on the concert platform today. They also both wrote one great string quartet each: lovers of chamber music will not be disappointed. Another favourite is the Introduction and Allegro for flute, harp, clarinet and string quartet, which must rank as being one of the finest examples of French Impressionistic chamber music in the catalogue. Ravel had to work hard to achieve the recognition he deserved. In many ways his music is very forward looking and he, like Debussy, has been the source of much inspiration for many composers who have followed. Pavane pour une infante défunte 1899, Keyboard Works A ‘pavane’ (or ‘pavan’ in English) is a slow and stately dance from the sixteenth century which can often be found mentioned in Shakespeare. Ravel’s ‘Pavan for a Dead Infanta’ was originally a piano piece, written in 1899, though it was later orchestrated. (An ‘Infanta’ is the daughter of the Spanish sovereign who is not an heiress to the throne.) String Quartet String Quartet: 1st Movement Chamber Music Ravel’s String Quartet is beautifully Romantic, the music being full of swells and lulls. Introduction and Allegro 1906, Chamber Music Not to be confused with Elgar’s work of the same name, Ravel’s ‘Introduction and Allegro’ is instantly evocative of the sea and travel in general. It is interesting to note that the harp is effectively given a ‘front seat’ in the ensemble. Daphnis and Chloé Suite No. 2 1909, Ballet In 1909 the Russian ballet director Serge Diaghilev commissioned Ravel to write the music for a ballet on the story of Daphnis and Chloe, a pastoral romance by the fourth century Greek writer Longus. Ravel readily accepted and produced such an impressive work that Stravinsky, a long-time colleague of Diaghilev’s, was moved to describe it as ‘not only Ravel’s best work, but also one of the most beautiful products of all French music.’ As a ballet, Daphnis and Chloé was never really popular, and it became far more famous for its music, which Ravel described as ‘a great choreographic symphony’. However, the story is classically romantic and tells of the adventures surrounding the love between the two title characters. The ballet starts with a scene in a meadow by a sacred wood on a bright afternoon, and almost immediately we hear one of the basic themes, this being a soft chant on three horns – often referred to as the Voice of Nature. This chant is then echoed by a wordless, off-stage chorus which crops up time and again throughout the work, almost ‘humanising’ the orchestra. Soon the love theme comes in as a solo horn melody and the story begins. A group of young men and women are making offerings to the nymphs and among them are Daphnis and Chloe who, as yet, do not know that they love each other. A dancing competition takes place between Daphnis and a shepherd, where the winner receives a kiss from Chloe. Daphnis wins with a light and graceful dance, and the two fall into each other’s arms. Suddenly, Chloe is captured by pirates and Daphnis faints with grief, only to be woken by the nymphs, who take him to the god Pan, whom Daphnis begs for help. The chorus returns and in the distance we hear fanfares from horns and trumpets until the full orchestra launches us into the camp of the pirates. The pirates dance until Chloe is brought in, her hands tied behind her back. The pirate chief tries to woo Chloe, but Pan appears and takes her away. At this point we return to the wood and a beautiful solo horn announces the sunrise. Daphnis and Chloe are now reunited, but at one point she runs off, only to be lured back by Daphnis’s playing of a pan-pipe, to which she dances. At the end there is a wonderfully joyous scene where the stage is full of lively dancing. La Valse 1919, Orchestral In 1906 Ravel became gripped with the idea of writing a symphonic version of a Viennese waltz as a homage to the great waltz writer Johann Strauss II. He planned to call it ‘Wien’ (Vienna), but didn’t start work on it until 1919 when he spent the winter in the south of France. He was very pleased with its progress and wrote to a friend saying: ‘I’m working again at “Wien”. It’s going great guns. I was able to take off at last, and in high gear. I’m waltzing madly!’ However, at this point, a small scandal occurred: Ravel was awarded the Legion of Honour by the French government, only to refuse it on the grounds that it was ‘absurd’. Ravel once again wrote to his friend: ‘What an absurd affair! Who could have played this trick on me? . . . And I must finish “Wien” by the end of the month.’ Because the working title was considered untactful in post-World War One Europe, the piece was renamed ‘La Valse’, and was first performed in December 1920. The music opens with the turbulence of muted double basses while a thudding beat is created by the low notes of harps and the other double basses. Soon we can picture dancing couples as small fragments of a waltz melody begin to emerge, first from a pair of bassoons and then from the strings. A general moodiness seems to dominate until the violins begin to remove their mutes, thereby creating a swell of volume, building to a dazzling climax for the whole orchestra. A trumpet soon comes in with a new waltz melody and, once again, the dance begins to grow increasingly wild and tense until the whole work ends with a final, violent eruption. Bolero 1928, Orchestral Ravel’s Bolero was made famous with the British public when Jane Torvill and Christopher Dean skated to victory with a dance routine worked around this march-like piece. It was a good choice of music for skating as it had originally been commissioned by the beautiful and wealthy Ida Rubenstein in 1928 for her ballet company, where she danced the principal part in a Spanish Inn scene. The story of the music is a simple one; a woman dances alone on a table surrounded by men who are unable to take their eyes off her. As her dancing becomes wilder, the men become more excited and tense, pounding with their hands on tables and with their feet on the wooden floor. Finally everything gets completely out of hand, knives are drawn and there is a violent pub brawl. The Bolero is a surprise, as it has no movements or contrasts; it is truly an orchestral ‘piece’, which Ravel described in a letter to the ‘London Daily Telegraph’: ‘I am particularly desirous that there should be no misunderstanding about this work. Before its first performance I issued a warning to the effect that what I had written was a piece . . . consisting wholly of “orchestral tissue without music” – of one very long, gradual crescendo. There are no contrasts and there is practically no invention save the plan and manner of its execution. The themes are altogether impersonal . . . folk tunes of the usual Spanish-Arabian kind and the orchestral writing is simple . . . throughout. I have carried out exactly what I intended, and it is for the listeners to take it or leave it.’ The music is simply built on a single melody of two sixteen-bar phrases. Two military drums punch out the characteristic bolero rhythm while a flute takes up the melody. This melody is then repeated by a solo clarinet, followed by a solo bassoon and a small clarinet. At the conclusion, the music suddenly changes key to finish off with a sequence of violent discord. " },{ "id": "/classical/MTip", "url": "/classical/MTip/", "title": "Michael Tippett", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-11-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1905, "died": 1998, "image": "/images/classical/43.jpg", "from": "London, England", "schools": "Modern, English Music", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Tippett’s music has only recently found widespread popularity. This is due to a number of reasons, perhaps the first of which is that it is by its very nature not immediately accessible to the casual listener. Tippett writes in a style all of his own, often using flourishes of notes that can sound cluttered and clumsy in the wrong hands. When performed well, however, it can sound extremely atmospheric and inspired, having an intensity not dissimilar to the music of Benjamin Britten. Tippett was born in London but spent much of his early years abroad, as his family lived for long periods in the south of France, in Corsica and in Florence. He went to the Royal College of Music when he was only seventeen years old and studied composition with Charles Wood whilst having conducting lessons with two of Britain’s most distinguished maestros, Sir Adrian Boult and Sir Malcolm Sargent. Tippett’s career didn’t really take off until he was about thirty years old. His earlier works weren’t of much substance and the first pieces that he was satisfied with were the First String Quartet and the Sonata for Piano (1937). The Second World War interrupted his career in more ways than one – firstly by the fact that musical life was very disturbed, as orchestras, concerts and publishing houses were all directly affected by the unsettled times, and secondly because, as a conscientious objector refusing to do any approved war work, he was sentenced to three months’ imprisonment for not complying with his conditional exemption. However, the war did prove to be a source of inspiration and he wrote an oratorio entitled A Child of our Time that was not performed until 1944. It is a marvellous work that makes a very strong protest at the inhumane persecution that was going on during the war period. Tippett wrote the libretto himself, having first sought the advice of T. S. Eliot, whom he had initially approached to write the text for him. Eliot was so impressed with Tippett’s first drafts that he recommended him to continue alone, which is exactly what he did. Following this troubled period in his life things progressed well, with an abundance of commissions and no shortage of inspiration bringing forth operas, string quartets, piano sonatas, symphonies, concertos and various other works for more esoteric combinations of instruments, often including the voice. Sir Michael is truly one of this country’s finest composers, who has not only expressed himself in a unique way but also maintained a caring interest in all aspects of social problems throughout the world and reflected them in his writing. Fantasia Concertante Fantasia Concertante on a Theme of Corelli Orchestral Archangelo Corelli (1653–1713) was an Italian violinist who wrote chiefly for his instrument, on which he was an absolute virtuoso. He was chief musician to a Cardinal in Rome. Tippett’s Fantasia takes one of Corelli’s themes and weaves clever variations around it, still maintaining the original Baroque feel. A Child of our Time 1941, Choral An oratorio for soloists, chorus and orchestra, this is not a biblical tale as one might traditionally expect, but rather a story from the twentieth century. It tells the tale of an act of supreme heroism against the Nazis during the Second World War and its subsequent brutal punishment. The choruses are definitely worth listening out for. The Midsummer Marriage 1955, Choral This opera is one of Tippett’s most ‘living’ works and is very much in the style of Mozart’s ‘The Magic Flute’. It is probably most notable for its ‘Ritual Dances’, with their chattering trumpets and whistling flutes, which positively fly with enthusiasm. " },{ "id": "/classical/Modern", "url": "/classical/Modern/", "title": "Modern School", "layout": "post", "lastmod": "2017-10-31T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Modern Music 1910– Unlike the Baroque, Romantic and Classical periods, the Modern era is both one of the hardest and the easiest periods of musical history to define. In terms of time-scale it is easy, being simply all the music that has been written since roughly 1910; in terms of the actual music itself, explanation becomes more difficult. The styles of the prominent composers are massively varied, ranging from the blues-influenced work of Gershwin to Berg’s minimalist First Symphony, or from Bartók’s nationalistic folk music to Stravinsky’s wild and turbulent The Rite of Spring. What can safely be said, however, is that it was at this time that music really began to change, with numerous composers experimenting and developing new ideas and approaches in order to throw off the restrictive chains of previous times. New instruments were introduced and and orchestration began to be transformed, with composers such as Schoenberg redefining the previously accepted ‘scales’ and ‘tonal’ patterns, influencing others, such as Berg, to progress to newer and more daring musical techniques. More importantly, attitudes began to change and people became more prepared to give time to new styles. Currently, we live in the age of electronic music, where actual music production has become simpler than ever before with computers playing a large role. As a result, it could be said that for the first time there are no rules left in music, rendering the future delightfully unpredictable. Composers \tComposer \t\tHome \t\tCountry \t\tBorn \t\tDied \t \t \t\tJean Sibelius \t\tTavastehus \t\tFinland \t\t1865 \t\t1957 \t\t \t\tRalph Vaughan Williams \t\tDown Ampney \t\tEngland \t\t1872 \t\t1958 \t\t \t\tArnold Schoenberg \t\tVienna \t\tAustria \t\t1874 \t\t1951 \t\t \t\tBéla Bartók \t\tNagyszentmiklos \t\tHungary \t\t1881 \t\t1945 \t\t \t\tZoltán Kodály \t\tKecskemét \t\tHungary \t\t1882 \t\t1967 \t\t \t\tIgor Stravinsky \t\tOranienbaum \t\tRussia \t\t1882 \t\t1971 \t\t \t\tAnton Webern \t\tVienna \t\tAustria \t\t1883 \t\t1945 \t\t \t\tAlban Berg \t\tVienna \t\tAustria \t\t1885 \t\t1935 \t\t \t\tSergei Prokofiev \t\tSontsovka \t\tRussia \t\t1891 \t\t1953 \t\t \t\tGeorge Gershwin \t\tNew York \t\tUSA \t\t1898 \t\t1937 \t\t \t\tAaron Copland \t\tNew York \t\tUSA \t\t1900 \t\t1991 \t\t \t\tWilliam Walton \t\tOldham \t\tEngland \t\t1902 \t\t1983 \t\t \t\tMichael Tippett \t\tLondon \t\tEngland \t\t1905 \t\t1998 \t\t \t\tDimitri Shostakovich \t\tSt Petersburg \t\tRussia \t\t1906 \t\t1975 \t\t \t\tBenjamin Britten \t\tLowestoft \t\tEngland \t\t1913 \t\t1976 \t\t " },{ "id": "/classical/NRim", "url": "/classical/NRim/", "title": "Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-13T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1844, "died": 1908, "image": "/images/classical/21.jpg", "from": "Novgorod, Russia", "schools": "Romantic, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Often very much underrated, Rimsky-Korsakov not only wrote many very fine and now popular works but he played an extremely important role in the development and history of Russian music. Many of the famous Russian composers were taught by him and his extraordinary talent for orchestration is undeniable. He came from a musical family and like most children of the day started learning the piano at quite an early age, when it was soon discovered that he possessed the rare gift of having perfect pitch. No one really took much notice of any talent that he displayed and he was sent off to naval college in St Petersburg, where he mixed with a number of people who were interested in music. His enthusiasm and enjoyment of music grew to the point that he moved into a circle of illustrious composers and began writing seriously himself: the other members of this clique were Cui, Borodin, Balakirev and Mussorgsky, and they became known as ‘The Five’. Rimsky became close friends with Mussorgsky and the two encouraged each other and bounced ideas around to their mutual benefit. Rimsky wrote nothing of any great stature during these early years and was regarded by many purely as a talented amateur, but he was gaining knowledge and developing his compositional technique all the while. In 1871 his real talent was recognised and he was made a professor at the St Petersburg Conservatory (although he later admitted that he was only a few pages ahead of his students when it came to harmony and counterpoint!) and in 1873 he was also given quite a prestigious job in the navy as the Inspector of Military Bands. Rimsky shared a flat with Mussorgsky, and as the latter was a chronic alcoholic life was invariably difficult. When eventually his flat-mate died in 1881, Rimsky carried on with the task of orchestrating Mussorgsky’s opera Boris Godunov, and this is quite often the version that is performed today. The years rolled by, and Rimsky wrote three works in 1888 that have now become the most popular of his output – Capriccio Espagnol, Sheherazade and the Russian Easter Festival Overture. He carried on writing operas and he eventually became regarded as the leading creative force in Russia at the time. Nowadays, however, apart from the orchestral pieces already mentioned, most people know Rimsky-Korsakov for his amusing little piece The Flight of the Bumblebee, which has since been transcribed for almost every instrument imaginable as a showpiece of extraordinary virtuosity. Rimsky wrote an enormous amount of music, but we rarely get to hear very much of it due to the preoccupation with the two or three favourites from among the works of Mussorgsky, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev, Stravinsky and Rachmaninov – the great Russian school of composers. Dance of the Tumblers **The Snow Maiden: ‘Dance of the Tumblers’ ** 1882, Orchestral The Dance of The Tumblers is taken from Rimsky-Korsakov’s 1882 opera ‘The Snow Maiden’, which tells the story of the legendary Snow Maiden – the daughter of Fairy Spring and King Frost. In the opera, she is wooed in vain by the Sun God. Capriccio Espagnol Capriccio Espagnol: Alborada 1887, Orchestral Rimsky-Korsakov loved orchestral colour, and used it like a great painter would exploit a canvas. ,He had a gift for composition that had been refined by years of patient self-analysis and study. He was much admired by the likes of Tchaikovsky who once wrote to Rimsky-Korsakov saying: ‘I do not know how to express all my respect for your artistic temperament. I am a mere artisan in music, but you will be an artist in the fullest sense of the word.’ This was high praise indeed, especially when one considers that Rimsky was only in his early twenties at the time. His Capriccio Espagnol stems from sketches written down in 1886 for a work for violin and orchestra based on numerous Spanish themes. A year later, however, he changed his mind completely, and decided to make the work a display piece for the entire orchestra – the end result being a five-part collection. At its first performance in October 1887 it was an undeniable success, with the audience demanding a complete encore, even though the work was fairly lengthy. Once again, Tchaikovsky wrote to the now thirty-year-old composer, saying: ‘Your Spanish Caprice is a colossal masterpiece of instrumentation, and you may regard yourself as the greatest master of the present day.’ The five movements, to be played without any breaks, opens with a morning serenade for the whole orchestra that leads into an Andante of variations around a theme for the French horn. The third section is almost a repetition of the first, but with an altered orchestration, whilst the following movement, called Scene and Gypsy Song, introduces a series of cadenzas for various instruments, before the Gypsy song is heard on a harp. The finale is based on a southern Spanish dance traditionally played on guitar, and closes with a coda from the first movement. Russian Easter Festival Overture 1888, Overtures In Russian, the Easter period is referred to as ‘The Bright Holiday’, and when Rimsky-Korsakov designed his overture he planned it to be a carefully calculated explosion of orchestral colour which, he felt, would reflect popular Russian feelings on this important Christian feast. He wished to capture somehow the solemn pageantry of Christian ritual mixed with the ancient pagan memories celebrating the rebirth of nature. Rimsky took his melodies from a collection of best-known canticles of the Greek Orthodox Church and began his composition in early 1888, completing it in the summer of the same year. In order to fully appreciate his overture, Rimsky felt that the listener must have attended at least once an Easter morning service in a great orthodox cathedral: ’. . . thronged with people from every walk of life, with several priests conducting the cathedral service.’ His main theme is based on the biblical passage concerning Isaiah’s prophecy of the resurrection of Christ, and is introduced by a unison of woodwinds before being picked up by trombones and, finally, a tuba. The orchestra swells suddenly to an almost blinding brilliance and then dims as suddenly before an allegro outburst of Easter rejoicing. The composer accompanied his music with some text, partly from the New Testament, and partly from himself, in early printings of the work. Scheherazade Scheherazade: ‘The Sea and Sinbad’s Ship’ 1888, Symphonies, Orchestral A thousand years ago, a collection of stories were famous in Arabia and could be heard from the mouths of poets, beggars and professional story-tellers in the market-places of Egypt and Persia. These stories were known as ‘The Thousand and One Nights’ and their origins could be found in poetry and folklore. No one knows their exact origins. They were revived in the eighteenth century via a French adaptation in 1704. This was Europe’s first glimpse of the now famous ‘Arabian Nights’, and the French version ran in instalments for fourteen years, bringing love-stories, legends, amusing stories, fables and parables to an eager public, who delighted in the additional poetry and songs that would accompany the text. This, then, served as the inspiration for Rimsky-Korsakov’s ‘Scheherazade’ – the name of the story-teller – in which the composer seems to have re-created the stories in wonderful orchestral colour, the whole work coming over like some rich and jumbled dream. The music was composed in the summer of 1888 and first performed the next season at St Petersburg. On the score, Rimsky put the following note: ‘The Sultan, persuaded of the falseness and faithlessness of all women, had sworn to put to death each of his wives after the first night. But the Sultana Scheherazade saved her life by arousing his interest in tales, which she told him during a thousand and one nights. Driven by curiosity, the Sultan put off his wife’s execution from day to day and at last gave up his bloody plan altogether. For her stories, she borrowed from poets their verses, from folksongs their words and she strung together fairy tales and adventures.’ Each of the four movements has a title from the ‘Nights’, the first being ‘The Sea and Sinbad’s Ship’, where the main theme of the Sultana’s voice is introduced on a solo violin. The second, slow movement is ‘The Story of the Kalendar Prince’, while the third is probably musically the most interesting, being titled ‘The Young Prince and the Young Princess’. The opening violin song suggests that the story is most definitely a romantic one and the woodwinds decorate the strings beautifully. Soon they are all joined by a harp, which draws the orchestra with it to produce an intensely rich and colourful musical display. The finale, ‘Festival at Baghdad; The Sea; The Ship Goes to Pieces Against a Rock Surmounted by a Bronze Warrior’, combines all the events of the title with Scheherazade’s violin theme, the movement moving through confusion and fear and then eventually dying away like a passing dream. The Flight of the Bumblebee 1900, Opera An incredibly popular piece taken from the opera ‘The Legend of Tsar Saltan’, The Flight of the Bumblebee has been arranged for practically every instrument – even the tuba. The Golden Cockerel 1909, Opera One of the most frequently staged of Rimsky-Korsakov’s operas, The Golden Cockerel is a delightful fairy-tale about a lazy king who relies on a pet cockerel to warn him of any danger. " },{ "id": "/classical/PTch", "url": "/classical/PTch/", "title": "Peter Ilyitch Tchaikovsky", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1840, "died": 1893, "image": "/images/classical/18.jpg", "from": "Votkinsk, Russia", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography If you see a concert advertised as a ‘Tchaikovsky Night’ you can expect two things: firstly that you will hear the 1812 Overture, the First Piano Concerto, Romeo and Juliet or Swan Lake and quite probably one the of Symphonies nos. 4, 5 or 6, with maybe a bit of the Nutcracker Suite thrown in for good measure; secondly that the concert hall will undoubtedly be full, because these are all great works that have found a place in the hearts of audiences all around the world. Tchaikovsky’s style is marked by wonderful tunes, luscious harmonies and dramatic colourful orchestrations, and if you are a lover of mainstream classical music then this is the music for you. Tchaikovsky was rather strange as a young boy and, it seems, became even stranger as time went on. There was a piano in the house where he was born, and his parents were somewhat taken aback to hear him being able to play on this instrument the tunes that he’d heard and become familiar with on their St Petersburg music box. They sent him off for formal piano lessons and, with such an exceptional ear for music, he naturally made progress straight away. However, the family were suffering great difficulties at this time. Tchaikovsky’s father had problems with his job and it was necessary to send Peter and his brother to a boarding school. This had a profound effect on Peter, which was compounded by the death of his mother from cholera just shortly after the family had found security again in St Petersburg in 1854. Tchaikovsky never really found his direction and ended up as a clerk in the Ministry of Justice. Having always been a man of slightly odd habits, he was known to be partial to chewing up official documents, an activity that was not well received by his colleagues. He eventually left his rather formal occupation in search of enjoyment and satisfaction in a musical career and, having such an extraordinary talent, success was not long in coming: he soon found himself a respectable job at the Moscow Conservatoire. Having kicked the habit of chewing documents, Tchaikovsky then suffered all sorts of physical and mental problems, including hallucinations, hypochondria, colitis and tingling sensations in his extremities. Nevertheless he continued his work and wrote some wonderful (and some not so wonderful) music. The early symphonies are generally regarded as pieces of little stature, but of course works such as Swan Lake, Romeo and Juliet, the 1812 Overture and the Symphonies nos. 4, 5 and 6 have found their way to being all-time favourites. Tchaikovsky was homosexual, but in the back of his mind there was always the desire to get married. He did so in 1877, to an attractive but very odd girl by the name of Antonina Milyukova, who was apparently a nymphomaniac and thought she had the power to bring Tchaikovsky round. However, after just five days Tchaikovsky wrote a letter to his brother saying, ‘physically she is totally repulsive to me!’ and, of course, things went from bad to worse. He ended up running away to his sister’s estate at Kamenka and made an unsuccessful attempt to take his own life. It was at this point that another woman entered his life who this time was to behis saviour – Nadezhda von Meck, a very wealthy widow who was extremely fond of music. She looked after Tchaikovsky by giving him an annual allowance of 6,000 roubles, although it appears that the two hardly ever met in person, preferring to correspond in lengthy, explicit letters to each other. In 1896 Tchaikovsky’s wife Antonina died in a lunatic asylum (to which she had been committed due to sexual derangement) and his relationship with Madame von Meck seemed to provide all he needed out of a relationship with someone of the opposite sex – security, understanding and affection without any physical contact. This all went towards helping him find his creative genius once more, and he was moved to write the opera Eugene Onegin and the Symphony No. 4 in 1878. Following a break in the relationship with Madame von Meck and the death of his father, Tchaikovsky spent his last twelve years as something of a nomad. He lived mainly in hotels and was a man of extreme habits. He would always awake at seven in the morning, have a cup of tea and then read the Bible. At 9.30 precisely he would begin composing and then spend the afternoons walking, using the evenings for yet more composing and proof reading. It was not until about 1888 that he started to write anything of great note – the early part of the decade had been a bit bleak – but with the Symphony No. 5, his symphonic poem Hamlet and the wonderful ballet score for Sleeping Beauty, Tchaikovsky was at his most inspired and producing very great work indeed. In 1893 he producede the work that he considered to be his finest, the Symphony No. 6 (The Pathetique). Tchaikovsky admitted to having found writing it an intense and emotional experience, and was frequently moved to tears whilst composing. It received a strangely cool reception in St Petersburg, which I suppose is not surprising as it is a work of extraordinary vision that needs more than one hearing to fully appreciate. In November of the same year Tchaikovsky foolishly drank a glass of water straight from the tap, knowing full well that it was the middle of the cholera season. He died four days later, on 6 November 1893. In certain highbrow circles, Tchaikovsky’s music is looked down upon for the reason that it is considered over indulgent and too obvious in its expression – the very reason that it is amongst the most popular of all music the world over. Much of it would be ideal as film soundtracks, and the main theme from the Fantasy Overture Romeo and Juliet has been used on television for all kinds of commercials and romantic background music. If you do see a concert advertising the music of Tchaikovsky, do go and try it and keep in mind all the troubles and the inner problems he faced throughout his life – you’ll find it a moving and enjoyable experience. Andante Cantabile String Quartet No. 1 in D Major: Andante Cantabile _ Taken from Tchaikovsky’s First String Quartet in D Major, this movement is Romantic in the most pastoral sense. The atmosphere is completely relaxed and mellow, yet very much typical of the man’s style. Romeo and Juliet **Fantasy Overture ‘Romeo and Juliet’ ** 1869, Overtures The composers who have been inspired, or thought they were inspired, by Shakespeare make an endless list. Of those on that list, Tchaikovsky is one of the very few whose music speaks with the elemental passion and strife that grip in the same way as the words of Shakespeare. Yet, incredible as is may seem, Romeo and Juliet was only the fourth of Tchaikovsky’s published orchestral works. He composed it when he was twenty-nine, and it certainly stands out amongst his works as a sudden blaze of inspiration, revealing a unique genius which, though it seldom burned with a steady flame, reached peaks of intensity. A thorough search through biographies and histories has failed to reveal an explanation for this masterpiece. All that is known is that, during the winter of 1868–9, the composer was involved in a mild relationship with a great singer of the time, Désirée Artét, who had come to Moscow with an Italian touring opera. Tchaikovsky was incredibly attracted to her and discussed the prospect of marriage, much to the concern of his friends. However, it could not have been a serious affair, for within a month the singer had married a popular baritone in Warsaw, where she had gone to sing after her stay in Moscow. Nevertheless, Tchaikovsky was an artistic and sensitive man for whom anything slightly emotional could be interpreted as ‘inspiration’ The overture begins with a hymn-like passage for the woodwinds that recalls the peace of Friar Lawrence, but this is soon broken by a fiery Allegro as the ancient feud between the Montagues and Capulets rages through the orchestra. A love theme is introduced on a solo clarinet, which develops into a tender communication between the lovers that is constantly interrupted by the fury of street brawls. Mixing in the Lawrence theme, the orchestra combines all these opposing musical forces to rise to a great fury, but is overwhelmed by the love music that dies away to a lament, ending with sharp tragic chords from the orchestra. Eugene Onegin Eugene Onegin: ‘Waltz’ 1879, Opera Based on Pushkin’s poem of the same name, this is the moving story of a young girl who is humiliated after declaring a teenage passion. 1812 Overture 1812 Overture Op. 49 1880, Overtures In 1880 Nicholas Rubinstein asked Tchaikovsky to write a new piece for the All Russian Art and Industrial Exhibition to be held in Moscow. Initially Tchaikovsky was rather reluctant but changed his mind when he learnt that the new Cathedral of Christ the Redeemer, built to commemorate the turning away of Napoleon’s armies in 1812, was expected to be consecrated at the time of the exhibition. He soon realised exactly what was required – something to rouse the emotions and encourage patriotic fervour. After starting work, he wrote to a friend saying about the overture: ‘It will be very noisy!!’ It was written to be played in the open air and he included in the music not just a full symphony orchestra, but bells, canons, plenty of percussion and a full military band. Being a completely professional composer and a fine craftsman, Tchaikovsky achieved exactly what he wanted, and this is certainly one his more famous works. Serenade for Strings Serenade for Strings Op. 48 1880, Orchestral In October 1880 Tchaikovsky wrote a letter to his friend and patron, Nadeja von Meck, describing two works he had just completed. One of these was a serenade written for a string orchestra in four movements. He was very proud of the work, saying: ‘I wrote [it] from an inward impulse: I felt it; and I venture to hope that this work is not without artistic qualities.’ The fact that the work became a serenade was something of an accident, as the preliminary sketches had left the composer somewhere between a symphony and a string quartet. However, the final form was an inspiration to all his admirers, being sophisticated yet undemanding. The opening section, ‘Piece in the Form of a Sonatina’, has a slow introduction that picks up to a lively and energetic Allegro moderato. Part two takes us into one of Tchaikovsky’s favourite musical forms, the waltz, and its graceful, lilting melodies make it one of the most popular and charming waltzes he ever wrote. It contrasts nicely with the third movement, which, though initially somewhat wistful, does become livelier in the middle section. The finale is an Allegro con spirito, though it does begin with a slow introduction based on a Russian folk tune. This movement recalls the main theme from the first movement in its original form to round off the work very effectively. Sleeping Beauty The Sleeping Beauty 1890, Ballet The story of the sleeping beauty must be one of the most famous fairy tales of all time that will never fade in popularity: a princess, put under a spell on her twentieth birthday by the wicked fairy Carabosse, who can only be brought back to life by the kiss of a handsome prince. This is definitely one of Tchaikovsky’s greatest scores and, along with his other ballet music such as ‘Swan Lake’ and ‘The Nutcracker’, proves him as one of the finest writers in this genre. Dance of the Reed Flutes Nutcracker Suite Op. 71a: ‘Dance of the Reed Flutes’ 1892, Ballet Taken from Tchaikovsky’s famous ballet The Nutcracker, the Dance of the Reed Flutes is the seventh movement of the suite. In the ballet, we witness a dance of ‘mirlitons’ – a kind of French crunchy pastry filled with whipped cream, usually eaten with tea or coffee, yet ‘mirliton’ is also the French name for the sort of children’s instrument that the English call a ‘kazoo’. ‘Dance of the Kazoos’ is, however, a rather unflattering name for this piece and, as there is no English name for this pastry, ‘Dance of the Reed Flutes’ has become the popular title. The music is a trio for orchestral flutes. Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy Nutcracker Suite Op. 71a: ‘Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy’ 1892, Ballet Tchaikovsky based what was to become his most famous ballet on a children’s Christmas story which tells the tale of a young girl named Clara who receives, as a Christmas present, a grotesque nutcracker. Later that night she sneaks downstairs to find the living-room greatly transformed, as the Christmas tree has grown tremendously and all the toys have come to life. Suddenly the room is invaded by an army of mice and all the toys rally against them, led by the nutcracker. At a crisis in the battle Clara throws her slipper at the king mouse and saves the day, at which point the nutcracker suddenly turns into a handsome young prince who invites her to the Kingdom of Sweets. At the Palace of the Sugar Plum Fairy a great festival has been prepared especially for Clara, and the ballet ends with a stately grand duet for the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Prince. The music takes the main players and represents them with instruments suitable for their characters. The Sugar Plum Fairy is heard as a celesta, which is a delicate instrument with soft and gleaming bell-like tones. Ultimately, this is Tchaikovsky at his most light-hearted and capricious, where every melody has a unique charm and wit. Nutcracker March Nutcracker Suite Op. 71a: ‘Nutcracker March’ 1892, Ballet Taken from Tchaikovsky’s famous ballet The Nutcracker, the March is the work’s second movement and is set in a playful mood, with spritely rhythms emphasised by cymbals, plucked cellos and double basses. Pathétique Symphony No. 6 (‘Pathétique’) 1892, Symphonies, Orchestral For many years the exact ‘program’ of the Sixth Symphony remained a mystery. Early this century, however, a note was discovered among the composer’s papers saying: ’ The ultimate essence of the plan of the symphony is LIFE. First part – impulsive passion, confidence, thirst for activity. Must be short. (Finale – DEATH result of collapse.) Second part love; third disappointments; fourth ends dying away (also short).’ What is clear from this, his final symphony, is that Tchaikovsky was, by this time, an absolute master of symphonic form as well as master of his own wild emotions. Breaking from tradition, there is no slow movement but, rather, a strange dance in 5/4 time. Similarly, the last movement, traditionally loud and boisterous, is, in fact, slow and quiet. The first movement unfolds its scarcely powerful principal theme from the quietest of introductions, which, after extensive development, dies away like a funeral march. A change of pace (Allegro con grazia) is found in the second section as the orchestra takes us through a dance that, in 5/4 time, sounds rather like a waltz with a limp. A little way into the third movement (Allegro molto vivace) we hear the advance of a distant march that grows louder, defiant and arrogant, sweeping away everything before it. There is a sense of terrible power that rises to a furious climax, which rings more of a fall to destruction than any form of triumph. The final movement (Andante) could almost be described as funeral music, except that it offers little hope of eternal rest, or, in fact, anything at all beyond the grave. The opening phrase of the strings is like a pathetic sigh for the blackness and nothingness of the end. The symphony eventually fades to an inaudible whisper. Tchaikovsky died nine days after its first performance, aged fifty-three. Swan Lake 1895, Ballet With ‘The Nutcracker’, Tchaikovsky’s ‘Swan Lake’ is one of the most famous pieces of ballet music ever written and throws us into the romantic world of moonlight, grottoes, misty forests and dark secrets. " },{ "id": "/classical/RSch", "url": "/classical/RSch/", "title": "Robert Schumann", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1810, "died": 1856, "image": "/images/classical/12.jpg", "from": "Zwickau, Germany", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Schumann is depicted as being a dreamy, totally impractical artist and the archetypal representative of the Romantic music movement. He was born into a very wealthy family and his father was a bookseller and publisher. Not surprisingly, young Schumann had an avid interest in the literary world – an interest that started at school, where he was totally absorbed in both books and music. He was already composing by this time, mainly piano music, and his early works show a wonderful youthful spontaneity that he later lost. New medical evidence suggests that quite early on in his life he contracted syphilis (yes, another one!), the mercury treatment for which may have led to his right hand becoming crippled. Another theory for this affliction is that he was overworking his hands in the pursuit of a perfect piano technique, but, whatever the reason, the result was that his career as a concert pianist was terminated, to be instantly replaced by a career as a composer. Schumann wrote a large number of works in a very short space of time, and many of these pieces are now among the standard repertoire of today’s concert pianists. He also developed his skills as a writer about music and he is renowned for his outspoken but usually well-informed critical judgements on the music and art of the day. Wieck, his teacher, had a beautiful daughter, Clara, with whom Schumann fell in love. When Clara’s father found out about the affair he was furious and forbade his daughter to marry. The situation became acrimonious, to the point of Robert Schumann’s bringing a law suit against Wieck forbidding him to interfere any further in their relationship. Robert and Clara were married in 1840, and this turbulent episode is undoubtedly typical of Schumann’s passion and pursuit of romantic notions. Clara was very good for Schumann: she was a loyal and excellent critic of his work, always encouraging and supportive of his endeavours. She also encouraged him to write symphonies, something that he had always yearned to do, as he considered the symphony to be the real ‘truth’ in music. After a few years, however, things took a turn for the worse and Schumann placed extraordinary constraints on his wife, claiming that he needed absolute silence whilst composing. This caused a problem, as Clara was herself one of the leading concert pianists of the day and needed to practise. These and other problems eventually led to Schumann suffering from a nervous breakdown and terrible hallucinations, which may well have been due to the effects of his syphilis. They decided after a time that life was becoming too stressful, so Schumann quit his job at the Leipzig Conservatoire and the couple moved to Dresden in search of peace and quiet. After a few years Schumann decided to take up another job in Düsseldorf. This also turned out to be a disaster and only made his mental and emotional problems worse, and following a few particularly severe bouts of depression and hallucinations he threw himself into the Rhine in an attempt to commit suicide. He was unsuccessful and was sent to a mental asylum in Bonn, where he spent the last few years of his life. He has left us, however, with a lot of great music, especially in the fields of piano music and song. It is also widely accepted that he made a truly significant contribution to the development of lieder (German songs) – in particular establishing the piano as an equal partner in the work rather than simply as the accompaniment. Carnaval Carnaval: ‘Arlequin’ 1835, Keyboard Works This piece is typical of the works Schumann wrote for his wife, Clara, who was an accomplished pianist in her own right. ‘Carnaval’ is the story of a costume party, where the guests, including Paganini and Chopin, end up rounding on a gang of kill-joys and kick them out in a fantastic march. Scenes of Childhood Scenes of Childhood: ‘Dreaming’ 1838, Keyboard Works Written in 1838, ‘Scenes of Childhood’ is a set of thirteen short piano pieces depicting childhood life. They have been arranged for several instruments, including clarinet and strings. Dichterliebe Dichterliebe Op. 48 1841, Songs Described as Schumann’s greatest song cycle, the Dichterliebe (‘Poet’s Love’) is a musical representation of the hope entertained by a young poet that his beloved will respond to him. Tragically (or typically – for Schumann), the phrases he sings are constantly mocked, until he eventually accepts the loss of his love. It is a tale of happiness snatched beyond recovery. Symphony No. 4 in D Minor Symphony No. 4 in D Minor Op.120: Ziemlich langsam 1841, Symphonies, Orchestral Schumann composed his D Minor Symphony during the first wonderfully happy year of his marriage to Clara Wieck (which almost never took place because of the serious opposition of Clara’s father, who had tried everything possible to stop the marriage). The tension and stress incurred from the strenuous courtship was replaced by a huge sense of contentment that served as a major source of inspiration and creative drive. The two of them kept a joint diary, and in the spring of 1841 Clara wrote about Robert’s work on a new symphony: ‘As yet I have heard nothing of it, but from seeing Robert’s bustling and hearing the chord of D Minor sound wildly in the distance, I know in advance that another work is being wrought in the depths of his soul.’ A few days later she added: ‘Robert is composing steadily. He has already completed three movements and I hope the symphony will be ready by his birthday.’ In fact, the work was finished not on Schumann’s birthday (8 June), but on Clara’s (13 September), which was also the day of the christening of their first child, Marie. It was written in four movements yet designed to be played without interruption. The first movement is a slow introduction with a thoughtful melody that crops up many times throughout the work, while the second, more romantic section has a mournful tune sung by oboe and cellos alternated with the original melody from the first movement. However, the mood and pace changes as we enter the third movement, which is a more vigorous and light-hearted scherzo. The finale rounds off the work with a recapitulation of the themes from the initial section. Piano Concerto in A Minor Piano Concerto in A Minor Op. 54: Allegro affettuoso 1845, Concerti, Orchestral Schumann’s Piano Concerto is in many ways a symbol of his relationship with his adored wife Clara. He’d planned a piano concerto some two years before they were married but nothing came of it until a short while after their marriage, when he produced a Fantasy in A Minor for her to play (she was, in fact, an accomplished pianist). Initial attempts to have the work published failed, even when Schumann tried different titles such as ‘Allegro affetuoso’ or ‘Concert Allegro’ – but nobody wanted it. Four years later he added an intermezzo and a finale, changing the shape of the work to the extent that Clara wrote in their joint diary: ‘It has now become a concerto which I mean to play next winter. I am very glad about it for I have always wanted a great bravura piece by him.’ A month later she added: ‘Robert has finished his concerto . . . I am happy as a king at the thought of playing it with orchestra.’ At its premiere in December 1845, Clara was, of course, the soloist, and she performed again that winter with their friend Felix Mendelssohn conducting. The concerto was often seen as a symbol of the love that Robert and Clara shared. The first movement (Allegro affetuoso) opens with a furious cascade of chords for the soloist followed by a plaintive melody from the oboes, which forms the principal theme of the concerto. Being a three-movement work, the second movement (Andantino grazioso) serves as an interlude that is both playful and sensitive, and seems to be made up of three miniature parts itself. Towards the end, the opening notes of the first movement’s theme return to create a link with the finale, this being delightfully light-footed and also based on the initial melody. The idea of having a main theme as a base for variations and alterations throughout a work was very popular in the Romantic period, and this concerto is a great example of its success. Rhenish Symphony Symphony No. 3 in E Flat Major (‘Rhenish’): Feierlich 1851, Symphonies, Orchestral Of his four symphonies, the ‘Rhenish’ is certainly Schumann’s most descriptive. It was written in 1850, soon after Robert and his beloved wife, Clara, moved to the Rhenish city of Düsseldorf. Quite simply, the symphony is a glorification of the life, the landscape and the Rhineland’s most famous building: the cathedral at Cologne. Schumann received his ultimate inspiration for this work during one of his many visits to the cathedral, where he witnessed the rather solemn ceremony of the elevation of the Archbishop of Cologne to the rank of Cardinal. This made such a deep impression on him that he recalled the event and its surroundings in the fourth movement of this symphony, writing at the top of the music: ‘[To be played] In the character of the accompaniment to a solemn ceremony.’ At the time when Schumann saw the cathedral it was in a state of serious disrepair, and critics of the day suggest that, to the Romantics, this represented a mute call to action, a plaintive appeal to fulfil some medieval dream and the faith it embodied. The symphony is arranged in five movements, and if one listens to the solemn fourth movement one can almost see the dilapidated edifice that so inspired the Romantics. " },{ "id": "/classical/RStr", "url": "/classical/RStr/", "title": "Richard Strauss", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-21T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1864, "died": 1949, "image": "/images/classical/28.jpg", "from": "Munich, Germany", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Almost without exception, everyone will recognise the music from the film 2001: A Space Odyssey: it’s a movie classic theme tune and has a dramatic intensity that’s captured the imagination of the public the world over. Richard Strauss was reputed to be the last of the great German Romantics. He epitomises the true spirit of the Romantic composers: whilst others around him were experimenting and moving away from the traditions that had been set before them, Strauss developed from where Brahms and Schumann had left off. He successfully combines the elements of drama, intensity and apocalyptic beauty in his music whilst still adhering to the essential principles of writing melody, harmony and rhythm in a conventional way – unlike most of his contemporaries. This is gripping music and although much of it was written only forty or fifty years ago is music to which we can all relate today. Strauss was born into a highly musical family. His father was an exceptional horn player and started Richard’s piano lessons when his son was only four. The boy began composing just two years later, with some considerable degree of success – there was an obvious talent here. He was an extremely bright young man who sailed through school and university, eventually studying philosophy and aesthetics alongside music. He was a tall and good looking, and very much dressed the part of a businessman; in his later years it is common knowledge that he would only undertake conducting engagements if the money was right! His career started when a connection was made with the celebrated Hans von Bülow, with whom it seems nearly all the eminent Romantic composers came into contact at one time or another. This association led to his being offered a succession of jobs in Munich, where he met his wife Pauline, a singer from the Munich Opera. He quickly developed a marvellous reputation as a conductor and was very much in demand right up to his last days. However, as was the case with most other composers, the first performances of his works invariably provoked extreme reactions, and this was obviously something that deeply upset and angered Strauss at the time. He is now, of course, looked upon with some degree of reverence, particularly for his tone poems, which demonstrate his remarkable gift of writing for the orchestra in a vivid, colourful and exciting way. He was also very keen on writing operas and amongst his triumphs in this field are Der Rosenkavalier, Salome, Elektra and Arabella. Throughout the period in his life when he was at his most prolific he held a succession of prime jobs in Berlin and Vienna, and was never one to be forced into doing things against his will. This inevitably led to his being involved in a number of difficult situations, but by and large he managed to find ways around such problems, only leaving one post acrimoniously – that of the directorship of the Vienna Opera, from which he resigned in 1924. His earlier works and those written in the last four or five years of his life are the ones that demonstrate his best creative output, and they really are well worth exploring for lovers of colourful, exciting, highly charged late romantic music. Till Eulenspiegel Till Eulenspiegels lustige Streiche 1865, Orchestral Till Eulenspiegel, famous rebel and prankster, may have been a real historical person but we will never know, for he must already have been a legend by the time the first existing accounts of his adventures were published in 1515. This anonymous book was republished in 1519 and quickly translated into several languages. The French were much taken by the character and his name – Eulenspiegel was adapted as a new French word for rogue, espiègle – and when his stories were reprinted in a new version in the nineteenth century it is quite likely that Strauss’s imagination was inspired. It is possible that Strauss had intended to write an opera around the the rogue hero’s adventures, but it seems that he was put off by the failure of his previous work in this genre – Guntram – and therefore opted for the relative safety of a tone poem. The tone poem opens with the first of the character’s themes, over which, on the score of a friend, Strauss wrote: ‘Once upon a time there was a clowning rogue . . .’. It is followed by the second of his themes, which is extended and developed into one of the most celebrated French horn melodies ever written. Strauss completed his sentence here, writing over the second theme ‘. . . whose name was Till Eulenspiegel.’ The introduction finishes with a short climax and we dive straight into the hero’s adventures. The original themes are cleverly transformed as we seem to hear Till spread chaos as he charges through the market-place on horse-back. After each prank, he mocks the people chasing him, thumbing his nose (a serious insult in those days!!) as he scampers out of reach. Eventually he is caught for his tricks and sentenced to death. His final prank is that he refuses to lie quiet after he is dead and buried (!) and this is cleverly reproduced in Strauss’s ending, where we hear again the impudent Till theme that seems to imply that his spirit will live on and on. Don Juan 1889, Orchestral The story of Don Juan is a famous piece of folklore that seems to have come down to us from the sixteenth century. It is the story of a man who is completely irresistible to women and takes advantage of his obvious charm and appeal to bed as many as he possibly can. However, a moral code is upheld as he is eventually dragged down to hell by a stone statue that rather rudely disrupts a dinner party to take the philanderer away. This is a story that has always fascinated people, either as potential ‘victims’, or as the hero himself, yet Strauss used as his inspirational source not a classic rendition of the tale, but a contemporary (i.e. Romantic) one in the form of Nicolaus Lenau’s ‘Don Juan, A Dramatic Poem’. It is clear that this would be the Romantic composer’s choice for, in this version, the Don is not merely an aristocratic bounder, but a dreamer and philosopher who, in reality, is searching for the ideal women, as he longs: ’ . . . to enjoy in one woman, all women, since he cannot possess them as individuals.’ Yet sadly he continues to meet with empty experiences, boredom, disillusionment and, finally, loathing. The music takes a light theme that represents the Don on his way to adventure. This theme is reproduced many times as he moves from one woman to the next in search of his ideal. At one point his theme transforms into a phrase of greater nobility played on four horns, possibly to remind us that this is no common man we are dealing with, before returning to the hunt. However, the tragic end is inevitable, as the orchestra approaches a tremendous climax, only to be cut short to a terrible pause. A trumpet note completes the work. Also sprach Zarathustra 1896, Orchestral Made famous as the introductory music to the film ‘2001: A Space Odessy’, this work has since been thoroughly exploited in television, film and theatre for its stunning opening bars, which are instantly effective and awesome. Strauss’s flamboyant tone poem ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’ was inspired by a book so extraordinary that it might almost have been called a tone poem in its own right. The book in question was a philosophical work written by Friedrich Nietzsche in 1883, and the general public was most surprised to find someone ‘setting’ philosophy to music. Yet Strauss was drawn to Nietzsche by deeper bonds of temperament and artistic sensibility than by any system of logic. From the eighty odd chapters of the book, Strauss chose eight that he found suggestive and inspiring, and composed the eight-part work (plus the famous introduction) between 4 February and 24 August 24 1896. After its completion he wrote to a friend, attempting to explain his work: ‘I did not intend to write philosophical music or to portray in music Nietzsche’s great work. I meant to convey, by means of music, an idea of the development of the human race from its origin, through the various phases of its development, religious and scientific, up to [the] idea of the superman.’ The music opens with a depiction of dawn that has a startling grandeur, yet is a simple theme given out by four trumpets. The eight sections are: Of the Otherworldsmen Of the Great Yearning Of Joys and Passions The Dirge Of Learning The Convalescent The Dance Song Somnambulist’s Song This work is famous on three counts: firstly, its opening theme is unforgettable; secondly, it is one of the most strangely inspired works that existed at the time; lastly, the final section concludes with a chord so strange that, after the first few performances, some members of the audience were left confused and somewhat disturbed. Der Rosenklavier 1911, Opera ‘The Knight of the Rose’ is a complete operatic comedy written as a homage to Mozart, and is set in a similar style to ‘Cosi Fan Tutti’ with its elegant aristocrats. It has some of Strauss’s most delightful music. Four Last Songs 1948, Orchestral Strauss wrote these songs as one reflecting on the end of life with no malice or regrets. Beautiful harmonies are meltingly arranged for the orchestra. " },{ "id": "/classical/RVau", "url": "/classical/RVau/", "title": "Ralph Vaughan Williams", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-23T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1872, "died": 1958, "image": "/images/classical/30.jpg", "from": "Down Ampney, England", "schools": "Modern, English Music", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Vaughan Williams was introduced to music from a very early age, with his mother and aunt encouraging him to learn the organ, piano and violin. By the time he was nine they had also enrolled him for a correspondence course in the theory of music. He was born into a very well-connected family and his father was a clergyman, who sadly died when young Ralph was only three. By the age of fifteen he had already decided that he was going to be a composer, and this was at the forefront of his mind throughout his whole time at Charterhouse School. He went on to study with Sir Hubert Parry (composer of ‘Jerusalem’) at the Royal College of Music and on finishing his course there decided to continue to study at Trinity College, Cambridge. Ever striving for more knowledge, he went back to the Royal College and worked with Charles Stanford (another respected English composer) and later travelled to Berlin to study with Max Bruch. This was not enough for Vaughan Williams and he ended up having a course of lessons from the French composer Maurice Ravel. Vaughan Williams had no financial worries and was able to pursue these activities under relaxed and unpressured circumstances. However, he took a highly professional attitude to his work and composed some very fine music. He was much acclaimed all over the world and went down particularly well in the United States of America where he was hailed as the ‘Grandfather of English Music’. The symphonies are perhaps his best-known pieces and, like Beethoven, he wrote nine, two of which stand out above the rest: No. 2 (‘London’) and No. 3 (‘Pastoral’). He also had an avid interest in folk-song and hymns, which led to his revising the English Hymnal in I906. Much of his work is based upon traditional folk-song ideas, and this characterises the music as being quintessentially English. Songs of Travel Songs Based on English folk songs, the cycle Songs of Travel is exactly what its title suggests. Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis 1910, Orchestral Around the beginning of this century, Ralph Vaughan Williams and his musical friends were acutely aware that English music had been fairly sterile for the past two hundred years or so, since the death of Purcell, so it is hardly surprising that he wanted to undertake a composition that would have some nationalistic significance. When he was asked to edit a new edition of the ‘English Hymnal’, Vaughan Williams searched through as many sources of English church music as he could find, and was rewarded with nine melodies by the English Renaissance composer Thomas Tallis, written in 1567. The third melody, ‘Why do the heathen rage and the people imagine a vain thing?’, appealed particularly to Vaughan Williams, and he used it to form his Fantasia. It is essentially a peaceful yet powerful work, written for two small orchestras and a string quartet all separated from each other. It was intended that the woro be performed in a cathedral, and it is clear that Vaughan Williams had in mind the Renaissance practice of taking two, three or even four choirs and placing them in large spaces of the building so that they could alternate with and echo each other. The Fantasia opens with a quiet introduction, and soon the main Tallis melody is introduced by cellos, violas and second violins all playing together. This is immediately followed by a more passionate version by the violins, after which a brief interlude takes place where the separate orchestras answer each other back and forth. Later a solo violin takes up the tune. It is soon joined by other members of the string quartet and eventually the two other orchestras, until the whole work builds to a passionate climax. The brief conclusion recalls some fragments of the introduction before dying away in a whisper. London Symphony A London Symphony (No. 2): 4th Movement 1914, Symphonies, Orchestral Ralph Vaughan Williams was both a Romantic and a nationalist – particularly before 1915 – and, considering how both styles became unfashionable towards the mid-twentieth century, it is a tribute to his genius that his London Symphony still holds us and moves us as it does today. Actually, this was probably the peak of his musical nationalism, which relaxed quite noticeably in the years after the First World War. The work was created from a combination of English folk song, the sixteenth-century Tudor composers, the spirit of Purcell and his ownpersonal intense English style, and Vaughan Williams makes no apologies for his patriotic approach, saying: ’ . . . if the roots of your art are firmly planted in your own soil and that soil has anything individual to give you, you may still gain the whole world and not lose your own souls.’ The four-movement work is best described in Vaughan Williams’s own words. ‘The first [movement] begins with a slow prelude; this leads to a vigorous allegro – which may perhaps suggest the noise and hurry of London with its always underlying calm. . . . The second [slow] movement has been called “Bloomsbury Square on a November Afternoon”. This may serve as a clue to the music, but it is not a necessary explanation of it. . . . If the hearer will imagine himself standing on Westminster Embankment at night, surrounded by the distant sounds of the Strand, with its great hotels on one side and the “New Cut” on the other, with its crowded streets and flaring lights, it may serve as a mood in which to listen to this [third] movement. . . . The last movement consists of an agitated theme in triple-time alternating with a march movement at first solemn and, later on, energetic. At the end . . . comes a suggestion of the noise and fever of the first movement . . . then the “Westminster Chimes” are heard once more . . .’ The Lark Ascending 1914, Orchestral This work is a wonderfully imaginative ‘flight’ of fancy in which one can almost visualise the lark disappearing into the clean air on a country afternoon. " },{ "id": "/classical/RWag", "url": "/classical/RWag/", "title": "Richard Wagner", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-06T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1813, "died": 1883, "image": "/images/classical/14.jpg", "from": "Leipzig, Germany", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography One of the most influential composers of all time, Wagner unquestionably changed the course of both opera and classical music in general. He developed the concept of what he described as ‘total art work’, using the mediums of music and drama to convey political, psychological, emotional and ethical issues within the framework of a work of art – his ‘music dramas’, as he preferred them to be called. Wagner’s works are on a grand scale, usually using a very large orchestra and a huge chorus. The music is normally continuous, unlike in most other operas, where there are individual arias and choruses, sometimes interspersed with dialogue. Seeing a Wagner opera is more akin to taking part in an epic movie, and the intensity and dramatic impact of these works is totally absorbing. He is most famous for his cycle of operas The Ring, four ‘music dramas’ based on the story of a power struggle between ancient gods, giants, dwarves and humans. This is strong stuff and can be approached on two levels: either simply as a piece of extraordinary music drama, or as a study of the parallels Wagner was drawing between myth and reality, good and evil, primitive and contemporary society. It must be left to the listener to judge whether or not Wagner was making political statements within his work and, as you can imagine, this has been the subject of much discussion amongst musicians, opera goers and musicologists for the last hundred years. A number of recordings exist of the preludes to his operas and these will give you an idea as to the flavour of the music. For a true picture of the vocal impact that Wagner’s music can have, do explore any of the recordings that are available presenting highlights of some of the more popular sections of his works. Titles to look out for include: Tannhäuser, Lohengrin, Tristan und Isolde, Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg, Parsifal and The Ring. The Flying Dutchman 1841, Opera One of Wagner’s earlier successes, The Flying Dutchman clearly shows the composer’s interest in legend: it tells the supernatural story of a haunted sailor who must forever sail the seas until redeemed by the love of a good woman. Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg: Prelude 1845, Opera Die Meistersinger is a comedy opera of love and triumph, where the hero must win a singing contest to win the girl. Tannhäuser 1845, Opera Like Die Meistersinger, this opera has a song contest, yet is steeped in heavy religious overtones. Here Comes the Bride Lohengrin: ‘Here Comes the Bride’ 1853, Opera Wagner, always fascinated by legend, set this opera in a land of knights in armour and endless chivalry. The Ride of the Valkyries 1870, Orchestral Taken from ‘Die Walküre’, the second part of Wagner’s masterpiece ‘The Ring of the Nibelung’, ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ is a powerful and rumbustious piece that was used to great effect in the film ‘Apocalypse Now’. Siegfried Idyll 1870, Orchestral Taking German folk tunes as his source, Wagner wrote this orchestral tone poem to celebrate Christmas Day 1870, the birth of his son Siegfried and, above all, the love for his wife, Cosima. " },{ "id": "/classical/Romantic", "url": "/classical/Romantic/", "title": "Romantic School", "layout": "post", "lastmod": "2017-11-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The Romantic Period, 1800–1910 In literature, art and music, Romanticism is seen as being a style that puts an emphasis on the imagination, emotions and creativity of the individual artist, and it was most popular in the nineteenth century. It was inspired, to a large extent, by social change in Europe and the United States, resulting in a reaction to the traditional restraints of the previous Classical era. The early Romantics wished to stress through their art the importance of how the individual feels about the world, either natural or supernatural. It was also a nostalgic movement, with artists looking back to an imagined idyllic past of breath-taking landscapes, natural beauty and sanitised historical scenes. Musically, there was a preoccupation with nationalistic roots and folk music, with composers such as Janácek and Grieg drawing heavily on the culture of their countries for inspiration. Emotion, however, was the popular theme of the time, and it was here that we began to see the emergence of the ‘sensitive artist’. It became acceptable for people, especially men, to express themselves in ways in which a restrictive society had previously prevented them from doing. Thus it was that Chopin might burst into tears while reading a particularly moving poem, or Berlioz would run through the Italian countryside laughing his head off from sheer ecstasy. Many operas and ballets were written at this time, usually based on classic or mythological tales. It was a great period of experimentation and therefore it is difficult to define its end correctly, as the transition from Romantic to Modern was a vague one with huge overlaps. Nevertheless, the Romantic period as a whole was essential to the development of European music as it suddenly made possible a whole new range of expression to emerge, resulting in some incredibly powerful and moving works. Composers \tComposer \t\tHome \t\tCountry \t\tBorn \t\tDied \t \t \t\tHector Berlioz \t\tIsère \t\tFrance \t\t1803 \t\t1869 \t\t \t\tFelix Mendelssohn \t\tHamburg \t\tGermany \t\t1809 \t\t1847 \t\t \t\tFrederic Chopin \t\tWarsaw \t\tPoland \t\t1810 \t\t1849 \t\t \t\tRobert Schumann \t\tZwickau \t\tGermany \t\t1810 \t\t1856 \t\t \t\tFranz Liszt \t\tSopron \t\tHungary \t\t1811 \t\t1886 \t\t \t\tRichard Wagner \t\tLeipzig \t\tGermany \t\t1813 \t\t1883 \t\t \t\tBedrich Smetana \t\tBohemia \t\tCzechoslovakia \t\t1824 \t\t1884 \t\t \t\tJohannes Brahms \t\tHamburg \t\tGermany \t\t1833 \t\t1897 \t\t \t\tModeste Mussorgsky \t\tKarevo \t\tRussia \t\t1839 \t\t1881 \t\t \t\tPeter Ilyitch Tchaikovsky \t\tVotkinsk \t\tRussia \t\t1840 \t\t1893 \t\t \t\tAntonín Dvořák \t\tBohemia \t\tCzechoslovakia \t\t1841 \t\t1904 \t\t \t\tEdvard Grieg \t\tBergen \t\tNorway \t\t1843 \t\t1907 \t\t \t\tNikolai Rimsky-Korsakov \t\tNovgorod \t\tRussia \t\t1844 \t\t1908 \t\t \t\tGabriel Fauré \t\tParis \t\tFrance \t\t1845 \t\t1924 \t\t \t\tLeoš Janáček \t\tHukvaldy \t\tCzechoslovakia \t\t1854 \t\t1928 \t\t \t\tEdward Elgar \t\tBroadheath \t\tEngland \t\t1857 \t\t1934 \t\t \t\tGustav Mahler \t\tBohemia \t\tCzechoslovakia \t\t1860 \t\t1911 \t\t \t\tClaude Debussy \t\tParis \t\tFrance \t\t1862 \t\t1918 \t\t \t\tFrederick Delius \t\tBradford \t\tEngland \t\t1862 \t\t1934 \t\t \t\tRichard Strauss \t\tMunich \t\tGermany \t\t1864 \t\t1949 \t\t \t\tSergei Rachmaninov \t\tOneg \t\tRussia \t\t1873 \t\t1943 \t\t \t\tMaurice Ravel \t\tCiboure \t\tFrance \t\t1875 \t\t1937 \t\t " },{ "id": "/classical/SPro", "url": "/classical/SPro/", "title": "Sergei Prokofiev", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-11-01T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1891, "died": 1953, "image": "/images/classical/39.jpg", "from": "Sontsovka, Russia", "schools": "Modern, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography One of the most popular and attractive of the Soviet composers, Prokofiev has a unique voice that finds a place at the very top of most people’s list of favourite twentieth-century composers. His music is witty, dramatic, poignant, brittle and ironic in flavour, yet always accessible and presented in a style that everyone can appreciate and enjoy. Interestingly enough, although Prokofiev’s style is essentially twentieth century and Russian in character, children from all nationalities find his music particularly captivating, with the Troika from the suite Lieutenant Kijé and his narrated musical Peter and the Wolf being two all-time favourites. Prokofiev was born into a very rich family in the Ukraine. His father was an immensely successful businessman and his mother an accomplished amateur musician. He went to the Conservatoire at St Petersburg at the age of thirteen, having amazed everyone with his prodigious talent – he wrote his first short piano pieces at the age of five and his first opera aged nine. He was immediately placed in the capable hands of Rimsky-Korsakov, who taught him until the outbreak of war in 1914. Prokofiev’s First Piano Concerto and Sonata No. 1 remain in the repertoire of many concert pianists today; these are essentially student works, but already show an extraordinary personality and individuality in their construction. 1917 saw the creation of his ‘Classical Symphony’, a work that cleverly combines a fusion of classical rhythms and melodic ideas with Prokofiev’s uniquely twentieth-century Russian idiom. Prokofiev lived in the USA for fifteen years from 1918, and his works received mixed reactions during that time. He was incredibly prolific and from this period came the opera The Love for Three Oranges, the Piano Concertos nos. 3, 4 and 5, the Symphonies nos. 4 and 5 and the ballet The Prodigal Son. Prokofiev found greater favour from European audiences, and this period seems to have been a marvellous time of development that led on to another a highly productive fifteen years, when he was resident again in Russia. The Russian authorities were strict about the development of music, literature and art at this time and, strange as it may seem, Prokofiev was called up in front of the Central Committee in 1948 on charges of ‘formalistic deviations’ and democratic musical tendencies – despite having scored the classic Romeo and Juliet ballet music, Cinderella, Peter and the Wolf and the Second Violin Concerto. In order to avoid confrontations and problems he wrote a letter admitting the charges and promising to rethink his work. The compositions that followed do not have the original spark of ingenuity and are positively bland in character compared with his earlier works, but they won him the Stalin Prize in 1951 and were pieces that the authorities approved of, even if Prokofiev was writing with handcuffs on. He died just two years later, on 7 March 1953. Classical Symphony Symphony No. 1 (‘Classical Symphony’) Op. 25 1916, Symphonies, Orchestral It seems quite amazing that Prokofiev could have composed such a light-hearted piece as his 1916 ‘Classical Symphony’ at a time when the First World War was at its height, the czarist government of his homeland was crumbling, and the Russian Revolution was just beginning. He even found himself dodging bullets during the February Revolution in Petrograd without being put off his care-free mood. The motive behind this work was to produce a symphony in the style of Haydn, whom some call ‘the father of the symphony’ – partly in tribute to the great composer, but also as an intellectual exercise. In his autobiography, Prokoviev wrote: ‘It seemed to me that, had Haydn lived in our day, he would have retained his own style while accepting something of the new at the same time. That was the kind of symphony I wanted to write: a symphony in the classical style. And when I saw that my idea was beginning to work, I called it the ‘Classical Symphony’, in the first place because it was easier . . . and in the secret hope that I would prove to be right if the symphony really did turn out to be a piece of classical music. I composed the symphony in my head during my walks in the country.’ Written in classic four-movement symphonic style, the first movement (Allegro) follows the traditional first-movement form which served Haydn and Mozart so well, with a delightful violin theme played very softly with only the tip of the bow. The second section, a Larghetto, features a sparkling solo flute which leads into a surprisingly bland third movement. The finale, however, is well worth waiting for, with its persistent driving force and dashing sound. The Prodigal Son Ballet The plot of this ballet is taken from the biblical tale of a boy who leaves home thinking he can survive in the big, wide world, only to come crawling back to his family. There is some superbly sleazy music in the scene where the son is mixing with thieves and ne’er-do-wells. Love for Three Oranges The Love for Three Oranges: ‘March’ 1921, Opera Prokofiev’s opera ‘The Love for Three Oranges’ is based on the highly amusing folk tale about a prince whom nobody can make laugh. Piano Concerto No. 3 in C Piano Concerto No. 3 in C Major Op. 26: 3rd Movement 1921, Concerti, Orchestral Prokofiev completed his Third Piano Concerto during the summer of 1921 in the small town of St Brevin on the coast of Brittany, though he had been planning it, on and off, since 1911. However, all the ideas he came up with at the time he ended up using in other works, most notably in his ‘white’ works, where the music is deliberately written in a way where, if played on a piano, only the white keys are used. When he finally decided to devote his time seriously to the third concerto, he found that he already had several themes to play with, and, not wanting to let them go to waste, put them all together with other, more unique material to eventually complete the work. The following winter Prokofiev gave the first performance of his Third Piano Concerto with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. The first movement (Andante; Allegro) begins with a short introduction before a theme is introduced on a solo clarinet, which is then taken up by the violins for a few bars. Eventually the piano comes in and a lively play between orchestra and soloist follows. The second movement consists of a single theme and five variations with precise and delicate play from the piano. The finale begins with a staccato theme for bassoons against pizzicato strings. This is suddenly interrupted by a blustery piano, which goes on to ‘argue’ with the orchestra until it eventually takes over the theme and brings the whole section to a climatic ending and a brilliant coda. Lieutenant Kijé Lieutenant Kijé: ‘Troika’ 1933, Orchestral Prokofiev was a great fan of satire and sentiment, yet had never found a subject upon which he could work these feelings. After settling for good in the USSR in the early 1930s, he was anxious to begin work on purely Soviet subjects yet, as he wrote in his autobiography: ’ . . . the musical idiom in which one could speak of Soviet life was not yet clear to me. . . . It was clear to no one at this period and I did not want to make a mistake.’ However, in 1933, he was invited to write the soundtrack for the film ‘Lieutenant Kijé’: ‘This gave me a welcome opportunity to try my hand, if not at a Soviet subject, then at music for Soviet audiences, and mass audiences at that.’ It was just what Prokofiev needed, for the story was perfect material for him, dealing with a satire on official bungling in early nineteenth-century Russia. The story goes that the Czar makes a mistake while reading a military report and assumes that there exists a lieutenant name Kijé. No one dares to point out this error, so a fictional military man has to be invented, complete with parents, a wife and a career and, finally, a burial to get rid of him. The symphonic suite is Prokofiev’s adaptation of his soundtrack and is in five movements. The Birth of Kijé: Kijé is introduced to the world by a fanfare on a military cornet. A military drum and lively piccolo announce the satirical march. Romance: There are two alternative versions of this movement, one for baritone solo, the other for the orchestra alone. Kijé’s Wedding: There is a deliberately bland feel to this movement, suggesting that part of the festivities take place in a tavern. Troika: Here we hear the tavern song again, but this time accompanied by sleigh bells to suggest the motion of the traditional Russian three-horse sleigh. The Burial of Kijé: Kijé’s exit from this world is merry rather than sad, considering how happy his creators must have been to get rid of him. The music is a summary of his life, beginning with the cornet fanfare of his birth and travelling through his romance and wedding. At the end, the solo cornet fades away to silence. Romeo and Juliet Romeo and Juliet Op. 24: ‘Romeo and Juliet’ 1935, Ballet Towards the end of 1934 Prokofiev was commissioned to write a ballet by the Bolshoi Theatre in Moscow and, having signed the contract, set straight to work. From then on, a string of bad luck makes it amazing that he bothered, or succeeded, to finish the work at all. The music was written over the summer of 1935, but when it was shown to the Bolshoi they declared that it was impossible to dance to, and promptly tore up the contract. Then Prokofiev was hit by a wave of bad publicity when people learnt that he had changed the ending of the play to a happy one, in which Romeo arrives at the tomb at just the right time to find Juliet alive and well. In his defence, he explained that his decision was purely choreographic, saying: ‘Living people can dance, the dying cannot.’ He did, however, change the ending back to the original when someone mentioned to him that the final passages of music were not, in fact, particularly happy anyway. During rehearsal for its first ever performance, after the Leningrad Ballet School had agreed to stage the work, problems arose once again, as Prokofiev and the choreographer could not agree on anything – the latter demanding that the composer write more music, while Prokofiev accused the choreographer of not being able to organise the dancers to the music. The dancers complained that they could not always hear what was going on and that the rhythms were all wrong. The full ballet was eventually staged in December 1946, though, in the words of Galina Ulanova, the Juliet of the first night: ‘Never was story of more woe, Than this of Prokofiev’s Romeo.’ Split into two suites of seven pieces each, the music mirrors the play perfectly, with each main character having a phrase or theme by which they are represented. As a result, a conversation between the lovers, for example, is achieved by a clever interchange between a flute (Juliet) and a violin (Romeo). Peter and the Wolf: The Cat 1936, Orchestral Peter and the Wolf is a ‘symphonic tale for orchestra’ with a narrator, which was written with the intention of teaching children the instruments of the orchestra. Each character is musically represented in a manner that instantly evokes the animal or person in question. The story itself has suspense, humour and a happy ending, making a perfect work for children. The cat, musically portrayed by a clarinet, seems to slope along with a nonchalant air, seemingly oblivious to the potential danger that lurks. Peter and the Wolf: The Grandfather 1936, Orchestral Peter and the Wolf is a ‘symphonic tale for orchestra’ with a narrator, which was written with the intention of teaching children the instruments of the orchestra. Each character is musically represented in a manner that instantly evokes the animal or person in question. The story itself has suspense, humour and a happy ending, making a perfect work for children. The grandfather, represented by the bassoon, warns Peter of the dangers of the forest. His tone is full of authority yet tinged with affection. Cinderella 1945, Ballet Prokofiev’s Cinderella is a marvellous ballet based on the traditional children’s story. " },{ "id": "/classical/SRac", "url": "/classical/SRac/", "title": "Sergei Rachmaninov", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-24T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1873, "died": 1943, "image": "/images/classical/31.jpg", "from": "Oneg, Russia", "schools": "Romantic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Imagine the steamy scene on the station platform in the classic film ‘Brief Encounter’ and hear in your mind the evocative romantic music that so heightened that emotional moment. It was Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No.2, one of the most popular pieces of all time and essential in your collection. It’s a brilliant example of music from the romantic period and ranks amongst Rachmaninov’s greatest triumphs. He was born into an aristocratic family on the estate of Oneg, between St Petersburg and Moscow. However, the family’s fortunes were declining and when Rachmaninov was nine the estate was sold and his parents split up. Sergei was the fifth of six children and showed exceptional talent very early on, probably inherited from his father, who was also an excellent pianist. Rachmaninov was sent to the St Petersburg Conservatoire in 1883 at just ten years of age, but stayed for only a couple of years before moving on to the celebrated Moscow Conservatoire to study with Sverev. Sverev was a master pianist and a highly respected teacher who insisted that his pupils lived with him so that he could supervise their overall development and take them to concerts and the opera, also giving them the chance to mingle with the artistic celebrities of the day. Rachmaninov shared a room with another boy and they took turns to use the piano, on which they had to practise in three-hour stretches. Sverev omitted to look after Rachmaninov’s undoubted talent as a composer, and this appears to be the one glaring failing in his otherwise meticulous and highly productive method of instruction. After attending a summer school for students of advanced harmony and composition, Rachmaninov composed a study in F sharp minor for piano. Sverev was so impressed with the piece that he played it to Tchaikovsky, who was also extremely taken by the work. This led to Rachmaninov’s being allowed to have formal lessons in composition, but these were not very successful, and after falling out with both his composition teacher and Sverev Rachmaninov decided to leave the Conservatoire a year early. He passed his final exams with honours and was awarded a Gold Medal for his composition exam. Sverev was at the presentation ceremony and, despite their former falling out, he was so delighted to see his young protégé receiving such a high accolade that he gave him his own gold watch, a memento that Rachmaninov was to treasure for the rest of his days. Rachmaninov did not have an easy life: he had moderate successes as a composer but none of these provided him with any kind of a stable income to fund a secure base from which to work. Alongside doing a bit of accompanying and teaching (which he loathed) he set to work on a symphony which received its first performance in 1897, conducted by Glazunov (another Russian composer). The performance was a complete disaster. It was not only one of his weaker pieces but it also received a very second-rate performance. Rachmaninov realised this and went into a severe depression, only to be brought out some months later by a wealthy friend who provided him with the opportunity of a conductorship at the Moscow Opera House. The move to Moscow so inspired Rachmaninov that he started to produce very good work again, but after a tour to England, where he received wonderful reviews for his tone poem The Rock and the now famous Prelude in C sharp minor for piano, he returned to Russia and immediately slipped back into his depression. A psychologist named Dahl helped him out of this phase by some form of auto-suggestion along the lines: ‘You are going to start writing and it will be excellent’. It worked: Rachmaninov went on to complete the Piano Concerto No. 2, got married and had two lovely children. His life then seemed to be a relatively happy mixture of work as a composer, a conductor and a concert pianist He has been hailed as probably one of the finest pianists since Liszt, and we are fortunate to have recordings of him performing his own works in the current catalogues. Rachmaninov and his family moved around quite a lot in the following years, settling in the USA in 1918 and in Switzerland in 1931. The last thirty or so years of his life were spent mainly as a concert pianist, as he was finding composition increasingly difficult. He was struck down with cancer in the early 1940s and he died one month after his last recital, on 28 March 1943. He is buried in the Kensico Cemetery in New York. Rachmaninov is the natural successor to Tchaikovsky in the Russian romantic music school. Whilst pointing you enthusiastically towards such popular works the Second and Third Piano Concertos, the Second Symphony and a few of the Preludes, I can also recommend a closer look at many of his other works. Piano Concerto No. 1 Piano Concerto No. 1 in F Sharp Minor Op. 1 1891, Concerti, Orchestral Rachmaninov’s First Piano Concerto was also the first major work he composed, and is often seen as a highly personal piece – so personal in fact that he sometimes felt uncomfortable performing it. Having written it in 1891 he always felt that it needed reworking, yet found he never had the time nor the inspiration. However, in 1917 the Bolsheviks assumed power and Rachmaninov, once a supporter of the revolution, soon became disillusioned with the new regime, having lost nearly all he owned. Recalling Tolstoy’s advice that ‘only by hard work can one lessen the weight of life’s burdens’, he decided that this would be the time to rewrite his concerto. He set to work and recomposed it from start to finish, retaining its youthful freshness, but presenting the ideas and themes with all the sophistication of a mature technique. He became so involved with his work that he practically lost track of the major political upheavals that were going on around him, until the day came when, attempting to compose a new work, he found he was completely drained, creatively as well as physically. The fact that Rachmaninov was also a fantastic virtuoso pianist is evident in this fine work. Piano Prelude No. 1 Piano Prelude Op. 32, No. 1 1892, Keyboard Works Rachmaninov was only nineteen when he wrote what later became one of his most famous piano works (he wrote twenty-four preludes altogether). It plagued him all his life, as the work was constantly requested at his concerts, even when he wanted to show off newer material. Piano Concerto No. 2 Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor Op. 18: Moderato 1900, Concerti, Orchestral The story of Rachmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto is a lesson in turning a seemingly bad and hopeless situation around to create a work of genius. In 1897 the twenty-four-year-old Rachmaninov had just seen his First Symphony go down as an abysmal failure, and this had come to him as something of a shock. At the same time he had begun to become bored with the artist’s lifestyle of cafes and restaurants that was, arguably, expected of him, and as he lost interest in his life he also lost confidence in his ability to compose. Even when, on a visit to London, he was invited to perform a piano concerto of his own (though, at the time, he had only written one) with the Philharmonic, he could not be pulled out of his depression – though he did accept the offer. Rachmaninov did not consider his First Piano Concerto worthy of performance and his depression worried his friends so much that they sent him to a Dr Dahl, who was famous for his work in hypnotism. The transformation was amazing, and Rachmaninov soon found himself composing a second piano concerto with a new lease of life. When it was completed, in 1900, he dedicated it to Dr Dahl. The first movement (Andante) opens with the solo piano playing a long series of chords, the melody being picked up by dark-voiced cellos as the piano accompanies them. A second theme is introduced on the piano but is soon passed to a French horn over some trembling strings. We round off with a short coda and a sudden conclusion. The second section is also very Romantic, full of yearning and melody, with a clever duet at one point between the right hand of the pianist and the woodwinds. The bright finale begins with some low rhythmic mutterings from the orchestra, when the piano suddenly splashes in with a driving pace which eventually subsides to return to the original melody. The conclusion is a glittering whirlwind climax with the orchestra and soloist seemingly racing each other to the finish. Symphony No. 2 Symphony No. 2 in E Minor Op. 27: 4th Movement 1907, Symphonies, Orchestral ‘I have escaped from my friends’, said Rachmaninov with a smile of satisfaction to an acquaintance who ran into him in the streets of Dresden during the winter of 1906–7, ‘please don’t give me away.’ It was certainly a strange thing to say, yet Rachmaninov had a real need to remove himself from his immediate social and physical environs purely because he was constantly in demand as a guest, speaker, performer and such-like. His time had become so rarely his own that his professional duties, i.e. composition, were being neglected. Thus it was that in the autumn of 1906 he took his wife and daughter and, telling as few people as he could get away with, caught a train from Moscow for the West to find peace, quiet and inspiration. After the huge failure of his First Symphony, Rachmaninov had put off the writing of second for some time, yet now he felt that he was capable of having another go. He began work in Dresden in October 1906 and had finished the first draft by New Year’s Day 1907. The piece was given its premiere in St Petersburg in January 1908, conducted by Rachmaninov himself, and became one of his most popular works. The first movement (Largo; Allegro moderato) introduces on the strings the main theme for the entire work, which eventually rounds off with a passionate coda. The second section (Allegro molto) begins with a strong four-horn melody that is quickly grabbed and enhanced by the violins. It contrasts nicely with the Adagio of the third movement, a slow melodic section that is often cut from performances. The finale opens with a wild burst of energy which, at a later point, recalls the themes of the first movement. The work has an exuberant conclusion. Piano Concerto No. 3 Piano Concerto No. 3 in D Minor Op. 30: 3rd Movement 1909, Concerti, Orchestral Rachmaninov finished his Third Piano Concerto in 1909, barely in time for his first tour of the United States. He himself was the soloist for the world premiere in New York on 28 November 1909, which successfully took place with the Symphony Society of New York. The second performance was more interesting, however, for it was conducted by none other than Gustav Mahler; Rachmaninov was again at the piano, the orchestra this time being the New York Philharmonic. The preparations for the concert remained long in Rachmaninov’s memory, largely due to the impact of Mahler’s forceful personality, and years later he recalled: ‘At that time, Mahler was the only conductor whom I considered worthy to be classed with Nikisch [a famous conductor of the time]. He touched my composer’s heart straight away by devoting himself to my Concerto until the accompaniment, which is rather complicated, had been practised to the point of perfection, although he had already gone through a long rehearsal.’ After a particularly gruelling practise, Rachmaninov remembered a particular incident: ‘At last we had finished. I went up to the conductor’s desk, and together we examined the score. The musicians in the back seats began quietly to pack up their instruments and to disappear. Mahler blew up: “What is the meaning of this?” The leader: “It is after half past one, Master.” “That makes no difference! As long as I am sitting, no musician has a right to get up!” The work opens with two bars of orchestral accompaniment before the pianist enters with a sad melody that seems to twist and turn on itself before being developed by a combination of violas and two French horns. The second movement (Adagio) is dominated by the soloist and leads directly into the finale, which recalls the initial themes of the concerto and builds to a climax and conclusion of great brilliance. Thirteen Preludes Thirteen Preludes Op. 32 1910, Keyboard Works This set of thirteen preludes for solo piano was written in the summer of 1910, and many of them echo much of his liturgical work that he composed around the same time. However, not all are religious, as Rachmaninov often found inspiration in paintings and sculpture, such as in Prelude No. 10, which is based on a self-portrait by Arnold Bocklin called ‘The Return’ Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini: 18th Variation 1934, Concerti Nicolò Paganini is probably the greatest violinist that ever lived and always serves as one of the best examples of Romantic virtuosity. He was worshipped by his public for his dashing personality and almost supernatural technique as well as for his highly technical compositions. This rhapsody was inspired by a theme from Paganini’s ‘Twenty-Four Caprices for Solo Violin’ and may be familiar to many as the source of ‘The South Bank Show’ title music, which is, in fact, by Andrew Lloyd-Webber. Like Paganini, Rachmaninov made a striking physical impression on stage: tall and sombre with an unsmiling dignity, totally absorbed in his powerful projection of the music in hand. Had he lived in another age, rather than the turn of this century, his public manner would surely have given birth to romantic legends, as was the case with Paganini, especially as he had an unexplained fondness for the ‘Dies irae’ – a portion of the Mass for the Dead describing the terrors of the Last Judgement. The music consists of an introduction, the main theme, and twenty-four variations, the seventh, tenth and twenty-fourth of which add, for no apparent reason, the chant of the ‘Dies irae’. The main theme is initially stated, appropriately enough, by the violins and then reinforced by the piano. Having a strong rhythmic feel, it readily offers itself as the basis for the subsequent variations, even when slowed down to an Andante cantible. The variations become increasingly brilliant towards the end, where the ‘Dies irae’ combines with fragments of the Paganini theme. " },{ "id": "/classical/WMoz", "url": "/classical/WMoz/", "title": "Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-09-27T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1756, "died": 1791, "image": "/images/classical/05.jpg", "from": "Salzburg, Austria", "schools": "Classical", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Apart from the fact that he was a true genius, Mozart was a completely normal chap in every other way: in addition to writing music, his main preoccupations in life were wine, women and song! He liked nothing better then to be out socialising, having a few beers with his friends, and he positively delighted in writing and performing the popular music of the day; in fact Mozart was the eighteenth-century equivalent of the pop stars of today. He wrote music for the people, and it is only the social stigmas that have been built up over the last few hundred years that have placed such music in the hands of the upper middle classes and alienated it from everyday folk. Good examples of his down-to-earth approach to life are to be found in the drinking songs that he wrote while out with his friends: these were recently unearthed by scholars at Harvard University and have to some extent been hushed up in an attempt to avoid shattering people’s illusions about this most hallowed of composers. The first in a set of three songs, apparently written while actually in a bar, graphically depicts Mozart’s vulgar sense of humour. The title is ‘Lick my Backside, Quickly, Quickly!’ and it is followed in the same set by other songs with lines too obscene to mention. So forget the vision of this handsome, beautifully dressed court musician, earnestly at work over the score of an opera or mass, and remember that here we have a man of exceptional talent who, underneath it all, was at his most comfortable socially with his drinking partners, singing their equivalent of today’s rugby songs. Mozart was born into a very musical family in Salzburg on 27 January 1756, the son of a highly talented violinist-composer, Leopold, who was in the service of the Prince Archbishop of Salzburg. Being a professional musician himself, Leopold quickly spotted the precocious talent of his son, and many of the standard textbooks on classical music contain romantic stories of the three-year-old Mozart practising the piano and starting to compose his first pieces. From the age of six, Mozart was travelling around Europe giving concerts in palaces and the courts of the aristocracy, as well as a series of public concerts, all of which were very well received. For some reason all this fame and adulation never made Mozart anything like a rich man. He was constantly in financial trouble, and had to beg for money from friends and write music very much ‘to order’ just to make a living. Mozart married – against the wishes of his father – a girl called Constanze. They had a baby nine months later which did not survive for very long. A troublesome period in Mozart’s life then followed wherein he began to be desperately short of money. It was at about this time, when he was living in Vienna, that he joined the Freemasons, an association that was later to be something of a lifeline for him. Although he’d fallen out with his father at the time of his marriage, the young Mozart was deeply affected by his death. This was in the year that Wolfgang had composed one of his most successful operas, The Marriage of Figaro; but, even though things were, on the face of it, going very well musically, Mozart still was not making very much money and any he did make never lasted long. He was depressed at having to make ends meet by teaching, and even that was proving to be more and more difficult, so he had to start borrowing money from friends and from the wealthier Masons at his lodge. This situation continued right up until Mozart’s death at the tragically young age of thirty-five. Things got worse in the last few years of his life, when his wife became very ill and doctors’ fees were added to his financial and emotional burdens. One of the last pieces that Mozart was to write was, coincidentally, his Requiem, and sadly this was never completed. His funeral was definitely not that of a celebrated composer. He was buried in an unmarked grave; none of the mourners from the service went from the cathedral to the churchyard where he was buried and the location of his grave is still unknown to this day. The film ‘Amadeus’ did a fantastic job in bringing the music of probably the most celebrated composer of all time to the attention of millions of people the world over. The story of Mozart’s life made great viewing and, even if it was a little over the top in places, it depicted the character and antics of this unquestioned genius in a very down-to-earth way. For those who are keen to know the historical accuracy of the film, it is probably true to say that the strong emphasis given to the feud and rivalry between Mozart and the composer Salieri was rather exaggerated. Whilst there was a definite sense of competition between the two of them, the film did overplay this angle for dramatic effect. The sound-track, however, is an excellent introduction to Mozart’s music. There are extracts from several of the symphonies, the Requiem, the piano concertos and some memorable bits from the operas. If you haven’t seen ‘Amadeus’, make the effort to rent the video. You won’t be disappointed. Cassation Cassation in B Flat, K 99: Allegro 1769, Orchestral Though Mozart is famed for his symphonies, concerti and operas, there exists a vast catalogue of miscellaneous orchestral music that often goes unnoticed, eclipsed by his greater achievements. These works include serenades, divertimenti, marches and cassations. No musician has ever been able to clearly define exactly what a cassation is, only that it is closely related to a suite and a sonata in terms of its movement structure. Some take a definition from the French verb ‘casser’ meaning ‘to break’, as a cassation was often played over an entire evening with the movements being broken up. Others point to the Italian word ‘cassa’ meaning ‘drum’, connecting this with the opening ‘march’ movement. However, it may derive from the old Austrian dialect expression ‘gassatim gehen’, which means to roam about at night courting and serenading girls at their windows; in a letter to a friend, Mozart’s wife speaks of ‘gassationen’ and describes it as ‘ . . . an ugly, incomprehensible provincial expression!’ If one considers what is known of Mozart’s character and life style, it is quite likely that the last explanation of the word was the one he intended, and indeed the light and frivolous nature of the Cassation in B Flat Major is certainly testimony to the roguish personality of the man himself. Written in 1769, this is a delightful, throw-away piece for orchestra that is pure entertainment. Divertimento in D Divertimento in D, K 136 1772, Chamber Music Though famous for his symphonies, concerti and other classical genres, Mozart also produced a large volume of miscellaneous orchestral work that came under the headings of cassations, divertimenti and general symphonic pieces. This Divertimento in D (literal translation: ‘an amusement’) is typical of Mozart’s style in as much as it is light-hearted and written purely as entertainment music. Eine Kleine Nachtmusik Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, K 525: First Movement 1772, Chamber Music This is perhaps one of Mozart’s best-known works and falls easily into the category of ‘entertainment music’, keeping in line with his personal nature and character. All composers of the time produced such pieces, but certain divertimentos written in Salzburg in 1772, when Mozart was only sixteen, show this type of music raised to a high level, not least in terms of craftsmanship. Intended for a quintet of solo strings, there is no reason why it could not be performed by a tiny chamber orchestra. Originally it had five movements, including two minuets, though one of them seems to have been lost sometime before the year 1800. The piece opens with a simple, yet now instantly recognisable theme, and the listener is somehow drawn along by the impetus and travels eagerly with the exposition into its delightful, ‘chuckling’ development section. The second movement (Andante) is slow and lyrical, managing to be delicately sentimental with no hint of sadness, and so keeps the audience in the right frame of mind for the remaining movements (Allegretto and Allegro), which seem to romp along with charm and simplicity. This is a perfect work of its kind and deservedly one of Mozart’s best-known pieces. Violin Concerto Violin Concerto, K 216: Allegro 1775, Concerti, Orchestral This is one of five violin concerti that Mozart wrote in 1775, and critics have often said that it is the most strikingly ‘French’ of the set. It is scored for 2 oboes, 2 horns and a standard string ensemble, which, in Mozart’s day, would probably have been supplemented by a harpsichord or piano. Flute Concerto in D Major Flute Concerto in D Major, K 314: Allegro 1777, Concerti, Orchestral Mozart probably wrote this flute concerto, set in three movements, just before he went to Paris in the autumn of 1777. What is certain, however, is that he originally wrote it when he was twenty-one for an Italian oboist, Guiseppe Ferlandi, and transposed it for the flute when he was offered a lucrative commission from the amateur flautist De Jean. Serenade Serenade for Wind in E Flat Major, K 375: Allegro maestoso 1782, Chamber Music Written in 1782, this Serenade for Wind Instruments in E Flat Major helped Mozart get his first engagement at the court of Joseph the II. Mozart had been at the house of the Baroness Waldstein overviewing a performance of this particular chamber work. The same evening he met Joseph von Strack, who was a chamberlain to the Emperor, and they struck up a formal acquaintance which led to Mozart’s being involved in a rather bizarre evening at the Viennese Palace. For the sole purpose of entertaining some Russian guests, Emperor Joseph had organised a piano competition between the Austrian Mozart and the Italian Clementi, who happened to be on a concert tour at the time, and the two virtuosos performed a large range of known pieces as well as some improvisations on themes suggested by the Grand Duchess. The audience took part by betting on their favourite pianist, and the final decision was made at the end of the evening by the Emperor, who proclaimed Mozart the winner – to which Clementi readily agreed. Unfortunately, Mozart never received a full royal appointment as he had hoped, for the Emperor was a great fan of the then court-composer Salieri, and saw no reason to change. To understand the music of the Serenade a little better, one must consider that, according to his diaries, Mozart had known that the Chamberlain would be present at the Baroness’s house and had ‘knocked up’ the piece with the sole intention of impressing him so as to win an invitation to the palace. But whatever his motives, the Serenade is a real crowd-pleaser, royal or otherwise. Marriage of Figaro The Marriage of Figaro, K 492 1782, Opera In 1782, the French playwright Beaumarchais wrote The Marriage of Figaro, which was considered to be rather daring and risqué for its time. During a private reading for the French King Louis XVI, the monarch flew into a rage, shouting, ‘This is detestable . . . this will never be played!’ But it was played, first in private, with Louis’s queen, Marie Antoinette, as Susanna, and finally in public, to sensational acclaim. Today, the play is a classic, but Mozart’s overture is still as fresh as the day it was written. It starts in a breathless whisper. The whisper becomes a wisp of a theme, so swift that it is gone before you know it. But suddenly, the full force of the complete orchestra hits the listener with festive trumpets and drums, and the quick contrast is continued with giggling violins, rippling flutes and oboes that seem to reflect the subtitle of the play: ‘The Madcap Day’. Halfway through, at the climax, Mozart composed a slow middle section with a sentimental tune for a solo oboe. But after the score was finished he thought better of it, ripped out the sheet with the slow movement, and substituted a cut which now leads us from the brief climax of the overture straight into the opening whisper, so that the madcap mood continues, its swirling humour uninterrupted from start to finish. It all ends with rushing scales and a brilliant fanfare for the full orchestra. Horn Concerto No. 3 Horn Concerto No. 3 in E Flat Major, K 447: Allegro Concerti, Orchestral This Horn Concerto is one of four concerti Mozart wrote for the E flat horn, probably for a player called Ignaz Leutgab, a Salzburg musician for whom a great deal of horn music was written at the time. Horn Concerto No. 4 Horn Concerto No. 4 in E Flat Major, K 495: Rondo Concerti, Orchestral This Horn Concerto is one of four concerti Mozart wrote for the E flat horn, probably for a player called Ignaz Leutgab, a Salzburg musician for whom a great deal of horn music was written at the time. Turkish March Turkish March from Piano Sonata in A Major, K 331 Keyboard Works The Turkish March, or ‘Rondo’, as it is sometimes known, makes up the final movement of one Mozart’s more unusual piano sonatas. The Sonata for Piano in A Major (K331) was one of Mozart’s tentative steps towards introducing more ‘exotic’ themes to a polite Western audience. The March has a light and bouncy feel and follows on neatly from the previous frivolous movements; it is far better heard in the context of the whole work, which was written in Mozart’s favourite key. Piano Concerto No. 20 in D Minor Piano Concerto No. 20 in D Minor, K 466 1785, Concerti, Orchestral Though Mozart was strictly a Classical composer, this is often seen as one of his most romantic works. Written in 1785, this concerto was first performed exactly a day after its completion by Mozart himself; there was no time for a rehearsal, yet the work was well received by the audience, which included Mozart’s father Leopold. It is in three movements (Allegro – Romance – Allegro assai), and the music swings between plaintive figures for the solo piano to fiery displays for the entire orchestra. Mozart wrote only two piano concerti in the minor mode. Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Piano Concerto No. 21 in C Major, K 497 1785, Concerti, Orchestral On the crest of his greatest triumphs as a composer and performer and at the peak of his most prosperous season in Vienna, Mozart composed this concerto with the sole purpose of showing off his own enthusiastic virtuosity at the piano. Essentially an assertive work, it could hardly be described as serene, except perhaps in the slow second movement. The first movement (Allegro) opens with a clever dramatic use of repressed excitement as the strings introduce the principal theme in a restrained whisper. This builds to a full orchestral sound, which drops suddenly to gentle woodwind phrases that seem to invite the soloist to join in the music; this he does, using a theme of his own rather than the original, first aired by the orchestra. The second movement (Andante) is a slow lament played principally by the strings. It contrasts sharply with the third and final movement (Allegro vivace assai), which serves as a bubbling and humorous platform upon which the soloist can give an impressive display. The concerto closes with brilliant sweeping scales for the pianist. Piano Concerto No. 23 in A Piano Concerto No. 23 in A Major, K 488: Adagio 1786, Concerti, Orchestral This piano concerto was written in 1786 and is in A Major, which was Mozart’s favourite key for the piano; he produced some of his happiest sounding pieces in this key. The first movement (Allegro) is a sunny beginning to this work, though the Adagio of the second movement is a stark contrast, being slow and solemn. It is designed to alter the atmosphere to one of sobriety before the work leaps back, racing through the last spritely movement (Allegro assai), to a typically Mozartian conclusion. Don Giovanni **Don Giovanni, K 527: Overture ** 1787, Opera ‘Don Giovanni’ was the Italian equivalent of Don Juan, and Mozart wonderfully reproduced this story as semi-tragic opera. The title character does exactly what he pleases, seducing whoever takes his fancy, without a care for anyone but himself. Eventually this tragic rogue is dragged down to hell by a stone statue, yet even as he is being taken away he emits a defiant laugh. Jupiter Symphony Symphony No. 41 in C Major (‘Jupiter’), K 551 1788, Symphonies, Orchestral Mozart composed this symphony (together with symphonies nos. 39 and 40), one of his most famous, in a period of only two months. At the same time he had just written some begging letters to a well-to-do merchant friend that show him sinking deeper and deeper into debt and depression. Like Symphony No. 39, the ‘Jupiter’, thought by many to be Mozart’s greatest, is so radiant and alive that one would imagine that, at the time he wrote it, he was the happiest, most successful man in the world. The very opening bars establish the two basic moods of the symphony: a heroic theme for full orchestra alternated with a serene, reflective phrase for strings alone. The first movement closes with a quote from a comic aria that Mozart had composed some time earlier for inclusion in somebody else’s opera. In contrast, the second movement (Andante) is full of suppressed agitation, while the muted violins create a special mood of intimacy. All this drops by the wayside, however, in comparison with the final movement, which is a full orchestral work-out that shows off the composer’s undoubted natural talent and flair for putting together a joyful play of musical forces. Symphony No. 39 Symphony No. 39 in E Flat Major, K543: 4th Movement 1788, Symphonies, Orchestral Mozart wrote this symphony (together with symphonies nos. 40 and 41), one of his most famous, in a period of only two months. At the same time he had just written some begging letters to a well-to-do merchant friend that show him sinking deeper and deeper into debt and depression. Yet, even in that soul-destroying environment, he was able to produce a composition such as Symphony No. 39, which is a flood of golden melody and one of the most cheerful and heartwarming symphonies ever written. Opening with a simple theme, it soon develops into a full orchestral sound that grows and spreads spontaneously, with no apparent goading from the composer. The second movement, however, is a slower Andante that seems thoughtful and restrained. It has a richly coloured middle section, which contributes to the passionate feel created by a move to essentially minor keys. The third and final movements provide a return to the lively feel of the opening movement. At times, the full orchestra creates a festive joyousness that is rife with energetic humour and high spirits. Symphony No. 40 Symphony No. 40 in G Minor, K 550 1788, Symphonies, Orchestral Mozart wrote this symphony (together with symphonies nos. 39 and 41), one of his most famous, in a period of only two months. At the same time he had just written some begging letters to a well-to-do merchant friend that show him sinking deeper and deeper into debt and depression. At this period the use of a minor key was a rare occurrence, and Mozart particularly drew on G Minor as a key through which to express intense suffering and tragic emotions. With its famous principal theme introduced by the violins, the symphony moves through excitement to poignancy. Even the last two movements which, though fast and alive (Allegretto and Allegro assai), seem to convey a grim hectic humour that, according to some, is next door to tragedy. Cosi Fan Tutti Cosi Fan Tutti, K 588 1790, Opera Written in 1790 and produced in Vienna, this opera mocks women’s vows and is a comedy based on their fickleness. The title means ‘So Do All Women’, and the opera is sometimes subtitled ‘School for Lovers’. Clarinet Concerto Clarinet Concerto in A Major, K 622 1791, Concerti, Orchestral Mozart had always been fascinated by the clarinet ever since, at the age of seven, he had heard the clarinets of the famous Mannheim orchestra. He was most captivated by the dynamic range of the instrument, with its rainbow span of tone colour and tonal range. During the last years of his life he developed a close friendship with the virtuoso clarinettist Anton Stadler, who was a member of the Imperial Court orchestra, and this ensured that Mozart became quite a master of the instrument by the time he died. This Clarinet Concerto was his penultimate composition, shortly before his death in 1791. What makes the work more interesting, however, is that it was written for Stadler’s own special clarinet, which could play four semi-tones lower than the standard instrument. Unfortunately, the earliest printed editions have been revised to cater for a normal clarinet, in some cases the music being pushed an octave higher. Consequently, the music has lost much of its original feel, and it is only recently that a clarinet based on Stadler’s has been produced so as to allow the concerto to be performed as it was intended. The Magic Flute The Magic Flute, K 620 1791, Opera The Magic Flute revolves around the adventures of the bird-catcher Papageno, and is a mixture of comedy and unearthly, fairy-tale events, involving a magic battle between light and darkness. Requiem Requiem, K 626 1791, Choral Mozart’s Requiem Mass could be described as his most infamous work due to the fact that he died before its completion. The link between this work and his death is shrouded in mystery and well explored in Peter Shaffer’s film ‘Amadeus’, where a faceless figure dressed in black hires Mozart to write a Requiem without ever explaining for whom it was to be performed. " },{ "id": "/classical/WWal", "url": "/classical/WWal/", "title": "William Walton", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-11-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1902, "died": 1983, "image": "/images/classical/42.jpg", "from": "Oldham, England", "schools": "Modern, English Music", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Born in Lancashire, Walton won a place as a chorister at Christ Church, Oxford, and left at the age of sixteen having already gained his degree. While he was at the university he made a number of acquaintances who were to become extremely influential in his career, most importantly Sacheverell Sitwell. Walton lived with the Sitwell family for some time and derived enormous benefit from the cross-cultural influences to which he was subjected. They introduced him to Constant Lambert, a much respected composer of the day, who played a significant part in developing Walton’s own style of composition. The Sitwells devised a special piece of home entertainment in the form of a work entitled Façade: poems by Edith Sitwell were set to music by Walton and arranged for a small, diverse collection of instruments shielded from the audience by a curtain through which a megaphone was inserted for the narration of the poems. From the unlikely drawing-room setting of the first performance, this has now probably become Walton’s most famous piece. Walton went through an intensely creative period following the success of Façade and produced such fine works as the overture Portsmouth Point, the Viola Concerto and Belshazzar’s Feast. A few years later, in 1935, came the Symphony No. 1, which is still regarded as one of the most important symphonic works written by a British composer during the inter-war years. Walton then found a new outlet for his work in the form of film music and wrote the scores to a number of famous movies, including Henry V, Hamlet and Richard lll – these three stemming from a fruitful collaboration with Laurence Olivier. After the war, Walton’s music lost something of its former glory and sense of British inspiration. He had moved to Italy during this period and this may have had something to do with the inherent change in style. However, the opera Troilus and Cressida is a fine work, although not often performed today. Walton once said of himself that he was ‘a classical composer with a strong feeling for lyricism’, and this is definitely the case. His works are well worth exploring if you are a fan of British music in general. Façade Façade: ‘Popular Song’ 1923, Chamber Music Walton took some poems by Edith Sitwell and arranged them for performance by a single reciter and a small instrumental ensemble for a performance in 1923. Subsequent performances varied the number of ‘settings’ (as Walton called them), as more than forty were written. The music became so well known that in 1931 two orchestral suites and a ballet were produced. " },{ "id": "/classical/ZKod", "url": "/classical/ZKod/", "title": "Zoltán Kodály", "layout": "composer", "lastmod": "2017-10-28T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "born": 1882, "died": 1967, "image": "/images/classical/35.jpg", "from": "Kecskemét, Hungary", "schools": "Modern, Nationalistic", "tags": "", "content": "Biography Kodály was almost an exact contemporary of his compatriot Bartók, and in many ways their lives and music show a number of similarities. They worked very closely together on their collections of folk music and, like Bartók, Kodály incorporated many of these themes and influences in his works. Kodály had an unsettled childhood, being moved around by his family, until at the age of eight he went to the Budapest Academy to study music. He was an outstanding student and his early compositions show a distinct reverence of Brahms, whose music he loved. Later on, following the close association with Bartók and the folk music collection, his own music became altogether more Hungarian in style, and his first really great work came in 1925 with Suite from the opera Háry János, followed in 1933 by the Dances from Galánta. Kodály loved travelling and was a frequent visitor to Europe and the United States, all the while maintaining an active stance as a highly respected professor of music at the Academy in Budapest. However, just before the Second World War he resigned from his job, having earned the reputation of being the most influential teacher ever to have lived in Hungary. His methods of teaching were adopted throughout the country and he was regarded as something of a musical institution. Only a handful of Kodály’s works are regularly performed today, of which the two pieces mentioned above are the most popular. However, Kodály had an extraordinary gift for writing music that is not only exciting to listen to but also exciting to watch. A marvellous example of this is the Solo Sonata for Cello, which is a real tour de force and should not be missed if you see it advertised in a concert programme. In a similar vein is the wonderful Duo for Violin and Cello, which embodies similar characteristics. For the orchestra, Kodály was never afraid to use unusual colours of sound within his orchestrations, and particularly interesting in the Háry János Suite is the use of the Hungarian instrument the cimbalom (a sort of harp or zither whose strings are struck with padded mallets). He also used the saxophone to great effect – another instrument neglected by many a classical composer. Do give this music a try – it is terrific and would be a welcome addition to any classical collection. Peacock Variations Variations on a Hungarian Folksong (‘The Peacock’) Orchestral Along with Bartók, Kodály (pronounced ‘Kodai’) was Hungary’s finest twentieth-century interpreter of the country’s traditional folk music. The Peacock Variations, though musically layered and textured, are still full of folk influences, such as the gypsy violin scales upon which the main melody is based. The Spinning Room Opera This is an opera based on the story of a village romance where a young man has to hide from the law whilst being hunted for a crime he did not commit. His loved one helps to prove his innocence. Psalmus Hungaricus 1923, Choral Kodaly took Psalm No. 55 (‘Give Ear unto my Prayer, O Lord’) and arranged it for solo tenor, chorus and orchestra with the words sung in Hungarian. It was commissioned for the fiftieth anniversary of the unification of Budapest, Hungary’s capital city, and is a masterpiece of nationalism and religious fervour. Háry János Suite 1930, Opera Definitely Kodály’s most famous work, this opera tells the amusing tale of a boastful, drunken soldier who continually lies about his adventures, such as single-handedly defeating Napoleon, and his countless love triumphs. The use of the cimbalom (a Hungarian instrument similar to the zither) gives the opera its unique Hungarian feel. Dances of Galánta 1933, Orchestral This work provides a bright and vibrant show-stopping experience. " },{ "id": "/classical/musicalforms", "url": "/classical/musicalforms/", "title": "The Musical Forms", "layout": "page", "lastmod": "2023-05-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Movement A movement is the term given to the main division of a piece of music. It is a complete section that makes sense in its own right, but that is most normally performed within the context of the whole piece. Overture There are now two types of overture: First, the sort that is meant specifically to be played at the start of an opera, oratorio or ballet and, second, the sort that is specifically written to be played on its own at the start of a regular orchestral concert. Just to confuse matters, however, it is quite common to hear overtures from operas performed out of context at the start of concerts. In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries an overture implied a piece in three movements: Italian overtures would be quick-slow-quick, while french overtures would be slow-quick-slow. Later in the eighteenth century it was the composer Gluck who decided that an overture should be used ‘to prepare the audience for the plot of the play’. Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven and later, Wagner all thought this was a good idea and that is how it remains today. Concerto Usually second in a standard orchestral concert programme, a concerto is a piece for a solo instrumentalist (or a few solo instrumentalists) playing with an orchestra. In the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries the word concerto merely implied a piece for lots of people playing together. By the end of the seventeenth century, however, it was generally accepted that a concerto would feature a small group of string players (the concertante, soli, or concertato) playing in alternation with a larger body (the ripieno). The title concerto grosso was introduced, meaning ‘great concerto’, and the best examples of this type are Bach’s Brandenburg Concertos, which feature a small group of soloists playing alongside, and in alternation with, a small orchestra. The idea developed to the point where Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven wrote concertos purely for a single soloist with orchestra - and this was sometimes called a virtuoso concerto (a virtuoso being someone who is highly skilled in the art of performance), but is now simply called a concerto. Symphony The word symphony comes from the Greek meaning ‘sounding together’, but like the overture and the concerto it changed its meaning as time went on. Hande put a spanner in the works when he called an instrumental piece in his oratorio Messiah `The Pastoral Symphony’, whe it would have made like much simpler to have just called it an overture to the second act. Symphonies as we know them developed from the sonata form, which was a basic structure for writing pieces in the seventeenth century. As a rule, a symphony would be four movements, although there are plenty of exceptions! The usual pattern for these four movements is fast, slow, minuet, fast; but, as time went on, smome composers changed this format to suit their own particular creative needs, so that the term symphony has been applied to almost all kinds of largish-scale orchestral works that do not feature a soloist. Symphonic Poem The composer Liszt is reputed to have invented this term, otherwise known as the ‘tone poem’ in certain circles. Essentially, a symphonic poem is a piece for orchestra that has some kind of literary, dramatic or pictorial association. It is in one continuous movement that the composer moulds into whatever form he so desires for optimum creative freedom to suit his subject matter. Music with such connotation can also be known as programme music. The famous writers of symphonic poems are Liszt, Richard Strauss and Smetana, among others. Suite A suite is the name given to a piece consisting of a chain of dance movements. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries it was one of the most important forms of music and there are four types of dance which conventionally appear in suites of the Baroque era: the allemando, the courante, the sarabande and the gigue. Interestingly these have four different countries of origin: the allemande from Germany, the courante from France (or Italy), the sarabande from Spain and the gigue from either England or Ireland. Bach wrote a number of French Suites for keyboard instruments and orchestral suites utilizing the forces of a small chamber orchestra. Later examples can be found in Grieg’s Peer Gynt and Stravinsky’s Firebird - and these do not strictly conform to the original dance forms but are more contemporary adaptations of the same. Minuet and Trio The minuet and trio is another dance type of movement often inserted into later forms of the suite. The minuet originated in France and was one of the approved dances at the court of Louis XIV. It was a gracefu, stately dance, but as time went on Haydn and Mozart livened the whole thing up and in the hands of Beethoven the character changed so much that he eventually replaced it with an even faster movement called the scherzo. Minuets were expanded to contain another short section within the piece called the trio. This comes as the middle section before a repetition of the original minuet. There are lovely examples of minuet and trios in Mozart’s Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and his Clarinet Quintet K.485, an actual interesting feature of the latter neing that Mozart actually incorporated two trio sections within the whole movement. Sonata The word sonata literally means ‘sounded’ as opposed to sung. In the seventeenth and early part of the eighteenth centuries there were two varieties: the sonata da camera (chamber sonata) and the sonata da chiesa (church sonata). Both were written for string instruments with keyboard accompaniment, the difference being that the chamber type was based on a series of movements featuring dance rhythms while the church type was altogether more serious in character. Without getting too technical, it all started to settle down at about the time of Mozart and Beethoven when the established composers decided on a four-movement work rather like the symphony: fast, slow, minuet or schero and finally a fast finale-type movement. Unlike symphonies, however, a sonata is usually played by one or two players. Sonatina A sonatina is usually either a short sonata or a lightweight, less developed piece in basically the same form. Sonata Form This is the term given to a basic ‘blueprint’ for composers to follow in order to give a structure to a single movement within a piece of their music. Later composers found this all a bit restrictive and went on to do their own thing. However, the composers in the seventeenth century were very keen on this idea and their works do more often than not stick to the rules of the sonata form. The piece is split up into three basic sections: the exposition, the development and the recapitulation. AS in the first part of a play we are introduced to the main characters, in the exposition we hear the main tunes, quite often two (the first and second subjects) and this section will be linked by a short bridge passage to the development section in which the composer usually winds things up emotionally and develops the tunes (often to the point where we cannot recognize them) thereby creating tension and drama. The recapitulation is where it all calms down again, often repeating a lot of exposition with a few small changes. Quite often there is also a coda added at the end - a short passage to bring the piece to a close. Theme and Variations This is the form that has been commonly adopted by many composers whereby the initial theme is presented and then modified several times over, usually melodically, rhythmically and harmonically. Sometimes composers took a tune by someone else and did their own set of variations on that particular theme. For example, numerous composers have been inspired to write variations on Paganini’s 24th Caprice, ranging from Rachmaninoff to Andrew Lloyd Webber. " },{ "id": "/classical/musicitself", "url": "/classical/musicitself/", "title": "The Music Itself", "layout": "page", "lastmod": "2023-05-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Melody This, of course, is another name for the ‘tune’, but in some circles can also be called a ‘subject’; hence the first tune in a piece of music may also be referred to as the ‘first subject’ and so on. Key This will be mentioned a lot, as most music written between the fifteenth century and the middle of the twentieth century is referred to as being ‘in the key of…’. This really means that the piece is based on the notes of a particular major or minor scale with the first note in such a scale giving its letter-name to the key in question. Scale The word scale comes from the Latin word scala and literally means ‘a ladder’. When applied to music it is the stepwise arrangement of ntoes within a particular key. There are many kinds of scale, but the ones that are most commonly referred to include major scales (generally happy-sounding) and minor ones (definitely sadder and more mysterious in character). Take it from this that most pieces in a major key are generally brighter in character than those in minor keys. Other types of scale that are mentioned are ‘whole-tone’ and ‘pentatonic’ scales. These tend to be used by the modern and Impressionist composers and have also been developed by jazz composers. They have a distinctly ‘different’ sound to them. Chords Two or more notes sounding together are known as a chord. Chords can take a number of forms. There are those which sound basically acceptable to all of us (such as those found in the music of Haydn and Mozart) and these are known as diatonic. They take their form in a ragular way from notes in normal scales. However, with the advent of romantic composers and those that followed, more and more use of unusual notes within chords was introduced to produce more emotional effects, some composers even using direct clashes of notes (discords) to create tension in their music. When chords move from one to another, it is called a progression and again, there are standard progressions to which we can all relate; but many composers were searching for new progressions to make their music sound different and consequently more interesting. Modulation This is another expression used commonly in the programme notes of a standard concert, and what it means is moving away from the already established keys of the music. So if a piece is based on the key of A-major and, halfway through, the composer subtly moves the music into F-sharp minor or any other key, one would say that the music had modulated. Dynamics and Expression Marks Dynamics within a piece of music are the words or indications given by composers to assist the performs in playing the piece in exactly the right level of sound the composer envisaged. There are all sorts of symbols used within the sheet music to denote these inflections. A dictionary of music would provide a comprehensive guide on these. " },{ "id": "/classical/performers", "url": "/classical/performers/", "title": "The Performers", "layout": "page", "lastmod": "2023-04-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Orchestra Orchestras come in four basic types: the standard symphony orchestra (comprising large forces of strings, wind instruments, a brass section and percussion), the chamber orchestra (a scaled-down version of the above), the original instrument orchestra (using instruments of the period in which the composer was writing and the exact number envisaged by the composer), and the string orchestra (consisting of violins, violas cellos and double basses). The orchestra has developed through the centuries usually by increasing the number of players and the term can also be applied to a large body of wind and brass instruments - the wind orchestra, which some would malign as being a glorified military band! Conductor Originally, the job of the present-day conductor was undertaken by either the leader of the orchestra (the principal violinist) or the harpsichordist. Concertos were conducted by the soloist in close liaison with the leader and there was never a need for an independent person to wave the baton. However, as music became more complex it was necessary for someone to take control of the proceedings and direct both the rehearsals and the concert performance. There are more than a few orchestral players who might now try to persuade you that the role of the conductor was created when musicians spotted an opportunity of receiving higher fees and taking all the glory while not even having to play a single note, but there is only a small grain of truth in this! The conductor of an orchestra has enormous power, for it is he or she who has control of the overall shape of the piece - the speed (or tempo) at which the piece should be played and the level of sound that each section of the orchestra should perform at. More importantly the conductor is responsible for inspiring the players to give their best. This is a rare and highly valued quality and is why top conductors receive very big fees compared to the players. As you can imagine, this is sometimes the basis for friction, but is usually kept in abeyance as conductors like to maintain as good a relationship with their players as possible. Soloist The soloist is the singer or instrumentalist taking the solo part in a work with orchestra. The term can sometimes also be applied to a duo; for example, where there is a violinist playing music for violin and piano, the pianist will often be labelled as the accompanist while the violonist is the soloist. Soloists appear taking the solo part in works called concertos and are often outstandingly gifted performers. Necessary qualities include an extremely fine technique and unique creativity. They are quite often flamboyant characters and a strong personality is most definitely an advantage. Some of the famous soloists of the past few years include the singers Luciano Pavarotti, Kiri Te Kanawa, Placido Domingo and Jose Carreras, and instrumentalists Nigel Kennedy, Vladimir Ashkenazy and James Galway. String Quartet The string quartet consists of four people playing two violins, a viola and a cello. It was really established as a standard combination by the eighteenth century. The standard structure for a string quartet as established in the Classical era is four movements, with the first movement in sonata form, allegro, in the tonic key; a slow movement in a related key and a minuet and trio follow; and the fourth movement is often in rondo form or sonata rondo form, in the tonic key. Some of the finest works for the quartet were composed by Mozart, Haydn, Schubert and Beethoven, while more modern composers like Bartok and Shostakovich have also made exceptional contributions to the repertoire. Piano Trio Confusingly, a piano trio is not a piece for three pianos. The standard combination of a piano trio includes a violin and a cello with piano. Works titled “Piano Trio” tend to be in the same overall shape as a sonata. Initially this was in the three movement form, though some of Haydn’s have two movements. Again, Mozart, Haydn, Beethoven and Schubert were the ones who really provided the ‘standard’ repertoire. Other composers who have been inspired to write excellent works for this combination include Schumann, Brahms, Debussy and Ravel. Chamber Music Chamber music is the term given to ‘serious’ music two or more players up to the size of a smallish orchestra (of about fifteen players). There are a number of standard combinations that the mainstream classical composers wrote for, two of which, the string quartet and the piano trio, are described in more detail above. The remaining combinations are: violin and piano duo, cello and piano duo, string trio (violin, viola and cello), string quintet (cas string quartet with either an added viola or cell), piano quintet (string quartet and piano), string sextet (two violins, two violas and two cellos) an wind quintet (flute, oboe, clarinet, horn and bassoon). In addition to these are other more diverse combinations for which various composers felt inspired to write. " },{ "id": "/classical/terms", "url": "/classical/terms/", "title": "Glossary of Terms", "layout": "page", "lastmod": "2017-12-01T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "This is a glossary of terms used quite commonly across the world of classical music. \tÉtude \tA study, designed to be a display of the performer's technique \tA \tAt, to, by \tA capella \tUnaccompanied vocal music \tA piacere \tAt pleasure \tA tempo \tIn time, i.e. resume normal speed after a deviation. \tAccelerando \tGradually getting faster \tAd lib \tAt pleasure: speed and manner of performance left to the decision of the performer. \tAdagietto \tRather slow \tAdagio \tSlow \tAdagissimo \tVery slow \tAffrettando \tHurrying; pressing forwards \tAgitato \tAgitated \tAlla breve \tUsually indicates two (quickish) minim beats to a bar. \tAllargando \tGetting slower, with the implication of a bigger tone \tAllegretto \tRather lively, but less than Allegro \tAllegro \tLively, fast \tAllemande \tA Baroque dance and a standard movement in the eighteenth-century suite \tAndante \tAt a walking pace \tAndantino \tA little faster than Andante \tAnglaise \tAn English rustic dance, or what certain eighteenth-century continental composers thought such a dance might be. It had no definite rhythmical pattern, except that it was in simple time. \tAnimato \tAnimated \tAria \tA song or song-like composition, usually in three sections \tArietta \tAn Aria shortened by not having a middle section \tAssai \tVery \tAttacca \tGo on at once. \tBagatelle \tA short, unpretentious piece \tBallad \tA song where each verse is sung to the same tune. \tBallade \tA title given by some composers, such as Chopin and Brahms, to a Romantic piece of music, usually for piano but sometimes for orchestra \tBaroque \tThe Baroque Period, 1600—1750 Baroque was a style that was characterised by a tendency to decorate and embellish. It is also seen as an expressive period, though not in an emotional sense (as with the Romantic era), but rather where, although there were still rules to follow creatively, brilliant and sparkling art was produced. In architecture, designs went up on a grand scale, with constructions such as the Palace of Versailles near Paris and the piazza in Rome by Bernini, who was considered the leading Baroque sculptor. In music, composers such as Vivaldi, Bach and Handel were producing compositions that would serve to inspire nearly all those that followed them, though, contrary to what one might think, they themselves did not just sit around waiting to be inspired. Most of the composers of the time were in the employ of patrons, usually aristocrats or religious leaders who required works to be written for special occasions and events. Bach, for example, was contractually obliged to produce almost one new work every week, and Handel wrote pieces such as his famous 'Water Music' while composing for the King of England. Chamber music was the popular format of the time, with a concentration on strings as a rule. Although orchestras were occasionally used, a concert was usually performed to a private (and probably very rich) audience by a few musicians. The piano as we know it today had not yet been invented, and the popular instrument was the harpsichord. This produced sounds of the same volume regardless of how hard a key was hit, and the result was music whose volume did not vary as much as Classical or Romantic, and was therefore less emotional. However it was expressive, bright and energetic with an intelligent feel that made the whole Baroque movement an influential and important period in music. \tBen, Bene \tWell \tBerceuse \tEither (i) a cradle song or (ii) a soft instrumental work marked by a constant rocking movement \tBolero \tA bright Spanish dance in triple time \tBourrée \tA French dance a bit like a Gavotte, only faster \tBrillante \tBrilliant \tCadenza \tA special section, usually found at the end of a concerto, where the soloist is given the opportunity to show off his skills and abilities. \tCalando \tDecreasing both tone and speed \tCanon \tA composition where a theme is started by one instrument, to be followed by another playing exactly the same theme, except at a fixed interval higher or lower than the original, e.g. 'London's Burning'. \tCantabile, cantando \tIn a singing style \tCantata \tA sacred or secular work for a solo voices, chorus and orchestra \tCanzona \t(i) A song. (ii) A short instrumental piece from the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. \tCanzonet \tA little song for two or three voices. \tCapo \tThe beginning (da capo: from the beginning) \tCapriccio \tA piece in a free, light-hearted style \tCassation \tNo musician has ever been able to clearly define exactly what a 'cassation' is, only that it is closely related to a 'suite' and a 'sonata' in terms of its movement structure. Some take a definition from the French verb 'casser' meaning 'to break', as a cassation was often played over an entire evening with the movements being broken up. Others point to the Italian word 'cassa' meaning 'drum', connecting this with the opening 'march' movement. However, the derivation may be from an old Austrian dialect expression, 'gassatim gehen', which means to roam about at night courting and serenading girls at their windows. \tCavatina \tA short vocal piece, a little like an aria \tClassical \tThe Classical Period, 1750—1827 As a rule, when people talk about 'classical music' they are usually referring to any music that is played by orchestras and musicians wearing white tie and tails, or any other 'serious' music that doesn't automatically fall into the specific categories of pop, rock, jazz, ethnic or new age. However, this is not strictly the case. The term actually describes the music that was written between 1750 and 1827 encompassing the works of composers such as Mozart and Beethoven, although the umbrella title encompasses many different styles: Baroque, Romantic, Impressionistic and Nationalistic schools are just a few examples. The great masters of the Classical period are Mozart, Haydn, Schubert and Beethoven and there is no doubt that, without them, the music of today would be very different. Their works have formed the standard repertoire of classical musicians around the world for the last hundred and fifty years. By 1750, the orchestra had come into its own as a medium for which it was worth writing music and, with the invention of the modern pianoforte (literally meaning 'soft-loud' ) in 1709, composers found that they could produce increasingly expressive and varied music which could then be orchestrated and performed. Music became more dramatic and emotional, with powerful instrumental displays being the norm. By listening to Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, for example, one can get an idea of the basics of the Classical period and appreciate how it differs from other categories of music. Because the term definitely describes its own particular era it proves that one cannot simply sum up largely different styles with the word 'classical'. \tCoda \tA passage added to the end of a movement to make a satisfactory finish \tCodetta \tA small coda \tCol legno \tA direction to string players to use the wood of the bow \tCol, Coll', Colla, Collo \tWith \tColla parte \tA direction to, for example an accompanist, to play the same part as another instrument. \tColla voce \tA direction to follow the solo instrument or voice \tCome \tAs \tCome prima \tAs at first \tCome sopra \tAs above \tComodo \tConvenient (usually linked with tempo: at a convenient pace) \tCon \tWith \tCon Anima \tWith deep feeling \tCon bravura \tWith boldness and spirit \tCon brio \tWith vigour \tCon sodino/sordini \tWith the mute/mutes \tConcertante \tTerm applied to music that is soloistic \tConcerto \tA work, usually in three movements, for one or more solo instruments and an orchestra \tConcerto grosso \tA work for a group of soloists (concertino) contrasted with an orchestra (ripieno). It was popular with Handel. \tContrafagotto \tDouble bassoon \tCorda \tA string \tCorrente \tAn eighteenth-century Italian dance \tCourante \tThe French equivalent of the corrente, though somewhat slower \tCrescendo \tGradually getting louder \tDa \tFrom \tDa Capo/DC \tFrom the beginning \tDecisio \tDecisively, firmly \tDecrescendo \tGradually getting quieter \tDelicato \tDelicately \tDiminuendo \tBecoming gradually softer \tDiminution \tA term used for the reproduction of a theme with shorter note values \tDolce \tTenderly, sweetly \tDolente \tSadly \tDolore \tGrief, sorrow \tDoppio \tDouble \tDoppio movimento \tTwice as fast \tDouble counterpoint \tTwo themes written in such a way that they sound just as good when either is used as the top or the bass part \tDuo \tA duet \tE, Ed \tAnd \tEcossaise \tA Scottish dance in 2/4 time \tEnergico \tWith energy \tEntr'acte \t(i) The interval between acts at an opera. (ii) Music played in that interval \tEpisode \t(i) In a fugue: any passage in which the subject is not heard. (ii) In ternary or rondo forms: the contrasting sections between the occurrence of the main themes \tEspressivo \tWith expression \tExposition \tThe opening part of a work where the main themes are introduced — or 'exposed' \tFacile \tEasy \tFancy \tThe Old English equivalent of a fantasia \tFantasia \tAn instrumental piece that has no definite form and sounds like it is being improvised, often leading into another piece \tFinale \tThe last movement \tForte (f) \tLoud \tForte piano (fp) \tLoud, then soft \tFortissimo (ff) \tVery loud \tForza \tForce \tForzando (fz) \tForcing; a sudden accent \tFuga \tA fugue \tFugato \tMusic in a fugal style \tFughetta \tA short fugue, often with no middle section \tFugue \tA style of musical writing where a short theme is written for two or more voices or parts. It is divided into three sections: (i) exposition: the parts enter alternately with the theme; (ii) middle section: the theme is reproduced in other keys; (iii) final section: returning to the original key. \tFuoco \tFire \tFurioso \tFuriously \tGalliard \tAn early dance that is fast and in triple time \tGavotte \tA dignified French dance in 2/2 time \tGeneral pause/GP \tA rest for the whole orchestra, usually unexpected \tGigue/Jig \tA bright and lively dance, usually in 6/8 or 12/8 time \tGiocoso/Gioioso \tBright and merry \tGiusto \tStrict, exact \tGlee \tUnique to England, a piece in three or more parts for unaccompanied men's voices. \tGlissando \tA sliding effect: the rapid playing of a scale or succession of notes \tGrandioso \tGrandly \tGrave \tVery slow, solemn \tGrazioso \tGracefully \tGround bass \tA piece where a bass-line is repeated a number of times but the upper parts have continuous variation \tHornpipe \tA lively English dance originally in triple time but later in quadruple time \tIdyll \tA quiet and pastoral piece \tImpetuoso \tImpetuously \tImpromptu \tA piece of a free and casual nature \tIncalzando \tIncreasing speed and tone \tIntermezzo \t(i) An interlude. (ii) A lyrical piano piece \tInvention \tA short piece built on a single musical idea \tJig/Gigue \tA bright and lively dance, usually in 6/8 or 12/8 time \tL'istesso tempo \tThe speed of the beat remains the same though the time signature or note value changes \tLacrimoso \tSadly, tearfully \tLamentoso \tMournfully \tLargamente \tBroadly \tLarghetto \tLess slow and dignified than largo \tLargo \tSlow and stately \tLegatissimo \tAs smoothly as possible \tLegato \tSmoothly \tLeggiero \tLight, delicate \tLegno \tCol legno A direction to string players to use the wood of the bow. \tLeitmotif \tAn operatic or symphonic theme that represents an idea or character \tLento \tSlow \tLoco \tAn indication to play notes at their normal pitch (for example, after an indication to play them an octave higher or lower) \tLontano \tAs from a distance \tLoure \tAn old and slow French dance \tLunga pausa \tA long pause \tLusingando \tIn a coaxing style \tMa \tBut \tMa non troppo \tBut not too much \tMadrigal \tOriginally an Italian style of vocal composition for three to eight unaccompanied voices. It became popular with sixteenth- and seventeenth-century English composers. \tMaestoso \tMajestically \tMancando \tWaning, dying away \tMarcato \tMarked, accented \tMarch \tA strong rhythmical piece in duple or quadruple time, often used in processions \tMarcia \tA march \tMartellato \tHammered out \tMarziale \tMartial \tMazurka \tA Polish dance in triple time \tMeno \tLess \tMeno mosso \tLess movement, slower at once \tMesto \tSadly \tMezza voce \tIn an undertone \tMezzo-forte (mf) \tModerately loud \tMezzo-piano (mp) \tModerately soft \tMinuet \tA stately triple-time dance, usually followed by a second minuet (called a trio), after which the first is heard again. \tMisterioso \tMysteriously \tMisura \tMeasure. Senza misura: in free time \tModerato \tModerate time \tModern \tModern Music 1910— Unlike the Baroque, Romantic and Classical periods, the Modern era is both one of the hardest and the easiest periods of musical history to define. In terms of time-scale it is easy, being simply all the music that has been written since roughly 1910; in terms of the actual music itself, explanation becomes more difficult. The styles of the prominent composers are massively varied, ranging from the blues-influenced work of Gershwin to Berg's minimalist First Symphony, or from Bartók's nationalistic folk music to Stravinsky's wild and turbulent The Rite of Spring. What can safely be said, however, is that it was at this time that music really began to change, with numerous composers experimenting and developing new ideas and approaches in order to throw off the restrictive chains of previous times. New instruments were introduced and and orchestration began to be transformed, with composers such as Schoenberg redefining the previously accepted 'scales' and 'tonal' patterns, influencing others, such as Berg, to progress to newer and more daring musical techniques. More importantly, attitudes began to change and people became more prepared to give time to new styles. Currently, we live in the age of electronic music, where actual music production has become simpler than ever before with computers playing a large role. As a result, it could be said that for the first time there are no rules left in music, rendering the future delightfully unpredictable. \tMolto \tMuch. Di molto: very much \tMorendo \tDying away \tMosso \tMoved, agitated \tMotet \tA sacred choral piece \tMoto \tMovement \tMoto perpetuo \tInstrumental music made up of a continuous flow of short, quick notes \tNobilmente \tNobly. A term popular with Elgar \tNocturne \tA dreamy and atmospheric piano piece. Popular with Chopin \tNon \tNot \tNon tanto \tNot so much \tNon troppo \tNot too much \tNovelette \tA romantic piece with no particular form, first used by Schumann \tObbligato \tIndispensable, cannot be omitted \tOctet \tA work for eight solo instruments or voices \tOpera \tA play set to music, usually for solo voices and accompanied by an orchestra. Grand opera has continuous music, while light opera includes a certain amount of dialogue. \tOpus/Op. \tA work, a published composition \tOratorio \tA musical setting of a sacred text for solo voices, chorus and orchestra \tOssia \tOr. The word indicates that there is an alternative version of the passage. \tOstinato \tFrequently repeated \tOttava \tOctave \tOttava bassa \tAn octave lower \tOverture \tAn orchestral introduction to an opera or oratorio \tParlando/Parlante \tTo be sung as if speaking to someone \tPartita \tPractically the same as a suite, though it sometimes implies a set of variations. \tPassacaglia \tA development of a ground bass in slow triple time where the bass theme is heard in the other parts \tPassepied \tOften found as part of a suite, this is a quick dance in 3/8 or 6/8 time. \tPassionato \tPassionately \tPastorale \t(i) In a pastoral style. (ii) A gently moving instrumental work \tPatetico \tWith feeling and pathos \tPavan \tA solemn and stately dance in duple time which often supplied the thematic material for a galliard. \tPedal point \tA sustained or repeated note, usually in the bass, that supplies the foundation around which other parts can move and harmonise. \tPerdendosi \tDying away \tPesante \tHeavy, ponderous \tPiù \tMore \tPiù allegro \tQuicker, more lively \tPiù lento \tMore slowly \tPiù mosso \tMore movement, quicker \tPiacevole \tPleasing, agreeable \tPianissimo (pp) \tVery softly \tPiano (p) \tSoft \tPizzicato \tPlucked (in string music) \tPochettino \tA very little \tPochissimo \tAs small as possible \tPoco \tA little \tPoco a poco \tLittle by little \tPoi \tThen \tPolonaise/Polacca \tA moderately paced Polish dance that actually sounds much faster than it really is. The phrases end on the third beat of the bar. \tPonticello \tThe bridge of a string instrument \tPortamento \tA term to express the effect produced on a string instrument or the human voice when gliding with extreme smoothness from note to note. \tPrelude \tA small piece that serves as an introduction. Often written for piano \tPrestissimo \tAs fast as possible \tPresto \tVery quickly \tPrima volta \tFirst time \tPrimo \tFirst \tQuasi \tAs if, almost \tQuasi recitativo \tLike a recitative \tQuasi una fantasia \tIn the style of a fantasia \tRallentando \tBecoming gradually slowe. \tReel \tOriginally of Scandinavian origin, a lively and popular dance of Scotland and the North of England \tRequiem \tA Mass for the dead set to music \tRhapsody \tA free piece of music in the manner of a fantasia, usually for piano \tRigaudon \tAn old French dance in a lively duple or quadruple time \tRigoroso \tStrictly \tRinforzando (rf) \tReinforcing \tRipetizione \tRepetition \tRisoluto \tResolute, bold \tRisvegliato \tWith increased animation \tRitardando \tGradually slower \tRitenuto \tHeld back \tRitmico \tRhythmically \tRomantic \tThe Romantic Period, 1800—1910 In literature, art and music, Romanticism is seen as being a style that puts an emphasis on the imagination, emotions and creativity of the individual artist, and it was most popular in the nineteenth century. It was inspired, to a large extent, by social change in Europe and the United States, resulting in a reaction to the traditional restraints of the previous Classical era. The early Romantics wished to stress through their art the importance of how the individual feels about the world, either natural or supernatural. It was also a nostalgic movement, with artists looking back to an imagined idyllic past of breath-taking landscapes, natural beauty and sanitised historical scenes. Musically, there was a preoccupation with nationalistic roots and folk music, with composers such as Janácek and Grieg drawing heavily on the culture of their countries for inspiration. Emotion, however, was the popular theme of the time, and it was here that we began to see the emergence of the 'sensitive artist'. It became acceptable for people, especially men, to express themselves in ways in which a restrictive society had previously prevented them from doing. Thus it was that Chopin might burst into tears while reading a particularly moving poem, or Berlioz would run through the Italian countryside laughing his head off from sheer ecstasy. Many operas and ballets were written at this time, usually based on classic or mythological tales. It was a great period of experimentation and therefore it is difficult to define its end correctly, as the transition from Romantic to Modern was a vague one with huge overlaps. Nevertheless, the Romantic period as a whole was essential to the development of European music as it suddenly made possible a whole new range of expression to emerge, resulting in some incredibly powerful and moving works. \tRondo \tA work where the main theme alternates with episodes in an A B A C A-type structure, where A is the main theme and B and C are the episodes. \tRound \tA canon for three or more voices, e.g. Three Blind Mice \tRubato \tStolen. It implies some distortion of the strict mathematical tempo, or a stretching, broadening or slowing down. \tSarabande \tA slow dance in simple triple time. It was a standard movement of the eighteenth-century suite. \tScherzando \tPlayfully \tScherzo \tA joke, a playful, light-hearted and fairly quick instrumental piece \tScherzoso \tPlayfully \tSec \tDetached \tSegue \tGo on immediately with what follows \tSemplice \tSimply \tSempre \tAlways \tSenza \tWithout \tSenza sordini \tWithout mutes \tSforzando/Sforzato \tForcing, accented \tSiciliano \tA slow dance in 6/8 or 12/8 \tSimile \tIn a like manner \tSimple time \tA time-signature where the main beat is divisible by two \tSin/Sino \tUntil \tSlargando/Slentando \tGradually slower \tSmorzando \tDying away \tSoave \tGentle, smooth \tSolenne \tSolemn \tSonata \tA work, usually instrumental and in three or four movements, for a soloist or small ensemble \tSonatina \tA small sonata, usually with fewer movements, and those movements being shorter than traditional sonata movements \tSonore \tSonorous, full-toned \tSopra \tAbove \tSordini \tMutes \tSospirando \tSighing \tSostenuto \tSustained \tSotto \tBelow \tSotto voce \tIn an undertone \tSpiccato \tDetached, with a springing bow \tSpiritoso \tSpirited \tStaccatissimo \tVery detached \tStaccato \tDetached \tStrepitoso \tNoisy, boisterous \tStretto \tIn a fugue or canon: two or more voices entering with the subject in quick succession \tStringendo \tGradually faster \tSubito \tSuddenly \tSuite \tA group of pieces nearly always made up of dances. Usually all in the same key, the basic dances comprising a classical suite were allemande, courante, sarabande and gigue; other possible movements were Gavotte, Bourrée, Minuet and Passepied. \tSul \tOn \tSul G \tOn the G string \tSul ponticello \tNear the bridge: a direction to string players \tSymphonic poem \tA term reputedly invented by Liszt and often referred to as a 'tone poem': a piece for orchestra based on a literary or dramatic work. \tSymphony \t(i) An orchestral work on a large scale but with the same structure as a sonata. (ii) An instrumental prelude or interlude in a vocal work \tTanto \tSo much \tTarantella \tA very lively Italian dance in 6/8 time \tTasto solo \tA term used in connection with figured bass to indicate that the bass line is to be played alone, without harmony \tTempo \tThe speed \tTempo comodo \tAt a convenient speed \tTempo giusto \tIn strict time \tTempo primo/Tempo I \tResume the original speed \tTempo rubato \tRubato Stolen. It implies some distortion of the strict mathematical tempo, or a stretching, broadening or slowing down. \tTeneramente \tTenderly \tTenerezza \tTenderness \tTenuto \tHeld \tTernary form \tA structure in three sections, the first being repeated, sometimes with alterations, after the second \tTime signature \tThe sign at the beginning of a piece indicating what metre (not speed) it should be played in \tToccata \tA piece for keyboard instruments designed to display the technical ability of the performer \tTone poem \tSymphonic poem A term reputedly invented by Liszt and often referred to as a 'tone poem': a piece for orchestra based on a literary or dramatic work. \tTosto \tSwift, rapid \tTranquillo \tCalm, tranquil \tTre \tThree \tTremolando/Tremolo \tThe rapid repetition of a note or chord \tTrio \t(i) Three performers. (ii) Music written for three performers. (iii) The middle section of a minuet or scherzo, so called because it was originally written for three players. \tTrionfale/Trionfante \tTriumphant \tTroppo \tToo much \tTutta forza \tThe whole power, as loud as possible \tTutti \tAll \tUn/Una/Uno \tOne \tUna corda \tTerm for the left (or soft) pedal on a piano \tUnis. \tInstruction in orchestral music to show that the strings play in unison again after having been divided \tVeloce \tSwift, quick \tVibrato \tThe obtaining of a bigger and richer tone by a slight fluctuation of pitch on a single note \tVigoroso \tBoldly, vigorously \tVivace, vivo \tQuick, lively \tVivacissimo \tVery lively, with extreme vivacity \tVoce \tVoice \tVolante \tFlying \tVolti subito/VS \tTurn the page quickly " },{ "id": "/comics/2-sisters", "url": "/comics/2-sisters/", "title": "2 Sisters: A Super-Spy Graphic Novel", "layout": "page", "description": "A tale of spying and skull-duggery involving two sisters, but spread across several eras in time and space.", "author": "Matt Kindt", "lastmod": "2024-01-31T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/2sisters.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Two sisters grow up on a farm. They are very close to each other, and share everything, all their thoughts, dreams and ideas. Until one of them gets roped in to spy for her country. Now this is the part which gets confusing. Is she spying for the British government against the Nazis in WWII? Or in Spain? Ancient Rome? Pirates? The author has tried to depict this story as one that is old as time, and keeps repeating, cutting across nations and generations. But always of two sisters who grew up on farms and are very close. Beyond a point, the back and forth gets hard to keep track of amidst the story, and I lost interest. I kept reading in the hope of some grand elucidation which ties it all together. But I was left wanting. The artwork and characterizations are outstanding. The story is unfortunately beyond my intellectual capacity. " },{ "id": "/comics/300", "url": "/comics/300/", "title": "300", "layout": "page", "description": "The armies of Persia -- a vast horde greater than any the world has ever known -- are poised to crush Greece, an island of reason and freedom in a sea of madness and tyranny. Standing between Greece and this tidal wave of destruction are a tiny detachment of but three hundred warriors.", "author": "Frank Miller", "lastmod": "2023-01-26T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/300.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Powerfully lean and mean - just like the warriors of the title - this epic graphic novel is hyper-violent but also ruggedly stylish. Leonides and his trusted Spartan battalion are all that stand in the way of the waves of military forces invading the enlightened ancient nation of Greece. The book is full of extreme warfare scenes, with literal mountains of body parts, along with terse but well-written dialogue - a tour-de-force from the talented Mr. Miller. This was adapted almost exactly into the seminal movie of the same name; the movie director almost used the comic as a story board for the scenes of the movie. Which is exactly how a work of perfection should be treated. The scenes from the movie (and by extension, the book) are now stuff of legend. " },{ "id": "/comics/4-kids-walk-into-a-bank", "url": "/comics/4-kids-walk-into-a-bank/", "title": "4 Kids Walk Into A Bank", "layout": "page", "description": "Paige has a choice; either let her dad get tangled up with a bunch of bumbling crooks, or do their heist for them.", "author": "Tyler Boss, Thomas Mauer, Matthew Rosenberg", "lastmod": "2024-01-31T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/4KWIAB.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "A heartfelt story of an incredibly bright girl who does the wrong thing for the right reasons. Brought up by a single father and with a circle of friends who are exclusively boys, Paige is generally the toughest and smartest person in the room; in most rooms. When a bunch of ne’er-do-wells knocks on her door and barge in, she acts, and they come off worse in the tussle. But, as it turns out, they are a gang of thugs planning to rob a bank, and need her father’s help to do it. She doesn’t want her father to get caught up in the hijinks, and she ropes in her friends and pulls off the job on her own… Equal parts hilarious and touching, this irreverent story goes through different genres and themes. Each book starts off with Paige and her friends playing a game together, either D&D or a video game or something similar. But the story quickly builds up from there and gets into the main plot, which goes through several twists and turns to land at an ending that will leave you shaken. The artwork is outstanding, and drifts through several styles in the course of a single issue. The story is beautiful, and even the lettering style used for each character tells you something of the kind of person they are. Top notch stuff, absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/comics/amar-chitra-katha", "url": "/comics/amar-chitra-katha/", "title": "Amar Chitra Katha", "layout": "page", "description": "The definitive authority on Indian history and mythology", "author": "Ananth Pai (editor)", "lastmod": "2022-04-14T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/ACK.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "For most Indian children, this is the authoritative bible on all things related to history and mythology. All the numerous luminaries in Indian history, both significant and minor have an album in their name. All stories of Hindu, Buddhist, Jain and Sikh mythology have an issue. I even have an issue describing the mythological back story behind every sculpture in a specific temple. Amar Chitra Katha has done an immense service to popularize Indianness and inject pride in our collective history and culture. Their full colour issues and striking artwork has become the definitive authority on the look of historical and mythological characters. On the flip side, the stories are largely sanitized. They often omit the more questionable traits and characteristics of their protagonists, and entirely leave out even tangential references to sex, which are actually rampant in mythology. I should also mention Tinkle, a spin-off children’s magazine / comic, which started off in the 80’s and is still going strong. It has its own set of recurring characters, and comprises short stories, informational articles as well as 1-4 page humourous short comic strips. Characters like Shikari Shambu, Suppandi, Tantri the Mantri and Kalia the crow tend to stick for their quirky quality. " },{ "id": "/comics/arrival", "url": "/comics/arrival/", "title": "The Arrival", "layout": "page", "description": "A beautifully illustrated story of the life of an immigrant in a foreign land, told exclusively through pictures. No words at all.", "author": "Shaun Tan", "lastmod": "2023-05-19T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/arrival.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The Arrival is a migrant story told as a series of wordless images that might seem to come from a long forgotten time. A man leaves his wife and child in an impoverished town, seeking better prospects in an unknown country on the other side of a vast ocean. The Arrival is Shaun Tan’s masterpiece, a completely silent tale for all ages. A wordless book — except the title — it’s about immigration and the wonder and largely dark strangeness and anxiety of that passage. There is also a lot of generous sentiment for helping out people in need, as is also demonstrated across the world and will have to continue to be demonstrated for a long time. The book brings out the strangeness, the anxiety, the fear, the cautious hopefulness associated with venturing out into the unknown, evidenced brilliantly by Tan in sepia-toned and darker shadings. Especially worth noting are the creation of small and large fantastical creatures, symbolic of the newness and strangeness the immigrants face, at once both welcoming and frightening. A thoughtful read which makes one think about immigration including the fears and difficulties that come along with being alone in a strange place. " },{ "id": "/comics/asterix", "url": "/comics/asterix/", "title": "Asterix", "layout": "page", "description": "Absolutely the best, by Toutatis!", "author": "Rene Goscinny and Albert Uderzo", "lastmod": "2021-09-19T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/asterix.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I was exposed to Asterix very early, when I was just learning to read. Unfortunately, it didn’t make much of an impact then, because I simply was just too young. The humour in Asterix derives from multiple sources Clever use of language, especially puns Mocking stereotypes Situational Slapstick The first three require an adult’s world view to be fully appreciated, and they comprise the reason why Asterix is one of the best comics ever written. Once I was much older and re-read the albums, I was hooked. I have read each several times and each time I find something new to appreciate and be amused about. The earlier Asterix story lines have a bit of silliness and the artwork was still evolving. It took Goscinny a few albums to hone his story telling skills, and Uderzo almost exactly as long to perfect the look of the characters and settings. From then on, the books were an absolute delight and a treat to read. My first salary was spent in buying all the volumes available. I still believe this was the best use of the money. " },{ "id": "/comics/blackbird", "url": "/comics/blackbird/", "title": "Blackbird", "layout": "page", "description": "There is a magical world hiding in Los Angeles and Nina Rodrigues knows it. When an enormous other-worldly beast kidnaps her sister, Nina must confront her past and her demons - not to mention the ruthless cabals in harge of the city's magic - to get her sister back and reclaim her life.", "author": "Sam Humphries and Jen Bartel", "lastmod": "2023-07-01T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/blackbird.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The story is centered on Nina Rodrigues, a twenty-something drifter girl with a traumatic past. She spends her waking hours tending bar at a seedy watering hole, drinking herself, popping pills and researching online on the mysterious “cabals” of paragons, magicians who live beyond the shadows. She knows they are real, but that just causes her family to label her “Crazy baby”. But a dead mother, drunkard father and ill grandmother leaves her bunking with her more responsible sister. When her sister is kidnapped by a giant lion-lizard-monster thing, she knows the magical world is real, and now has to navigate the cabals jockeying with each other for territory who are ready to use her as a pawn. All too suddenly she finds that she is more entrenched in the world than she bargained for… The artwork in this series is absolutely gorgeous. The whole series has a noir feeling, with the whole world existing in luxurious shades of teal and purple. The characters are drawn out magnificently; the proportions, positioning and alignment is near photo-realistic. The story is a little muddled and all over the place. When Nina was twelve, she had a premonition where she foresees an earthquake, but then she is the only one who is killed in the earthquake. Her mother strikes a bargain to make her a paragon, but then puts a spell on her to make her forget she is a paragon. If that is confusing, the next part even more so; her mother herself fakes her death and becomes a paragon, which leaves Nina unmoored until she is sixteen, when she turns a corner and graduates high school. But then when the story starts she is again unmoored and drifting… All this before the main story, where her mother wants to supress her, but her mother’s political opponents support her in a grand fight against her own family… At this point the story became too muddled to follow. The idea that paragons use crystals and a bracelet called “cirque” to make magic is not much more unhinged than using a wand, so I’ll accept that, but there being entire skyscrapers in Los Angeles out of sight of civilians is harder to swallow. I just appreciate the absolutely sublime artwork and leave it at that. " },{ "id": "/comics/blankets", "url": "/comics/blankets/", "title": "Blankets", "layout": "page", "description": "An autobiographical account of Craig's coming to terms with his faith and reconciling it with his sexuality", "author": "Craig Thompson", "lastmod": "2023-07-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/blankets.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "This is a beautifully illustrated graphic novel with an insightful story. It is often cited as an example of how graphic novels are a more poignant form of literature than books of prose. The protagonist, author Craig Thompson, is raised in a very conservative born-again christian family in Wisconsin. As someone who loves Jesus and reads his Bible daily, Craig has developed a fear of sexuality, finely tuned by his parents, his teachers, and his church. For many, many years he is the perfect Christian boy - one who never ever masturbates because it’s a sin and feels extreme guilt and shame for drawing one single picture of a naked woman. He really and truly feels like he is “making Jesus sad” when he thinks lustful thoughts. Then he meets a girl at Christian Camp. Her name is Raina, she is beautiful and obviously really likes Craig. Can Craig kiss Raina? Can he sleep in the same bed next to her? Can he bring himself to make love to her? Or has his religion screwed his sexuality up so badly that he’s beyond repair? This book is magnificent. The illustrations are sparse but suit the mood of the book, while bringing out the deepest emotions of the characters. Only a truly great artist would be able to emote as much with a simple brush stroke. Throughout the book, Craig is at the middle of a war brewing within him, between his church sponsored indoctrination and his heart’s wishes. Several casualities in this war; Craig goes through frantic periods where he literally burns everything he owns that he thinks is ‘sinful’ or a ‘temptation’, which includes stuff that is very personal and valuable. The ending, while sad, is all too realistic. The book handled a lot of things tastefully, when it would have been very easy to make the book hateful or angry or vengeful. Strongly recommend. " },{ "id": "/comics/commando", "url": "/comics/commando/", "title": "Commando", "layout": "page", "description": "A thousand battles in the war against the Jerries and the Nips.", "lastmod": "2022-05-01T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/commando.webp", "tags": "", "content": "Commando was a series of comic books telling stories mostly from World War 2. The stories centre around a team, or a unit, who achieve something against all odds. Chock full of quaint military jargon interspersed with soldier’s slang (Jerries = German, for example), the books made for some entertaining reading. Some stories were based on the front lines, some involved resistance fighters behind the lines, and some stories were based in PoW camps. Stories spanned all fronts, Europe, North Africa, Asia and even the Pacific. I believe most were fictional, but some had a preface specifying real events on which the storuy was based. Similar to Commandom were the War Picture Library series. While the commando comics were better known, I liked the stories in War picture library better. Both Commando and War Picture Library books were printed in black and white on cheap paper, about half the size of most regular comics. Conservatively speaking, there were thousands published, and I have probably read only a fraction. But it does tend to get repetitive and predictable, so one tends to lose interest rapidly. " },{ "id": "/comics/copperhead", "url": "/comics/copperhead/", "title": "Copperhead", "layout": "page", "description": "In this beautiful space western, the grimy mining planet Copperhead gets a new Sherriff, single mom Clara. And she has her hands full from the get go.", "author": "Jay Faerber, Scott Godlewski", "lastmod": "2024-02-01T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/copperhead.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Space is cool. Westerns are cool. Whenever the two genres are married, the coolness multiplies. That is definitely the case in this excellent and all too brief series. Clara, a single mom with a mysterious background travels from a great distance to arrive at the remote town to take up a job as the Sherriff. She is immediately called upon to deal with a series of crises: Resentful deputy, corrupt mayor, violent hillbillies and shady business tycoon. All the western cliche elements are ticked off like in a bingo card. But what makes the whole series worthwhile is the outstanding artwork, and incredible alien character designs. Even as you breeze through the all too short series quickly, you will be left asking for more. The end is rather abrupt, almost like the authors ran out of story to tell. But still, it’s a great read. " },{ "id": "/comics/daddys-girl", "url": "/comics/daddys-girl/", "title": "Daddy's Girl", "layout": "page", "description": "Heart-wrenching tome that uses child-like illustration to explore the adolescence of a young girl, Lily, whose life is being destroyed by sexual abuse.", "author": "Debbie Drechsler", "lastmod": "2023-07-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/daddys-girl.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Daddy’s Girl is a collection of short stories which deal with the frank subject matter of a girl’s sexual abuse at the hands of her father. These individual stories — mostly centering around a young girl named Lily, though another follows a different young girl named Fran — add up to create a fictionalized account of Drechsler’s own experiences. Each of these stories is told intimately through first person narration, leaving the reader wondering if they are reading a story or a memoir. The abuse in the stories is treated matter-of-factly, which makes it all the more shocking. The abuse itself is usually not central to the stories in this collection, which mainly deal with the girl’s attempts to cope with this abuse. Throughout each of these stories, Drechsler’s art is thick with detail, both in the characters and in the backgrounds and scenery around them. The ominous darkness of the artwork makes each scene even more wrought with tension. Daddy’s Girl is not an easy read or a fun read. Its subject matter is as heavy and dark as the artwork, and the two combine to make the reader exceedingly uncomfortable. But it is a worthwhile read, for it portrays the subject so brilliantly and elegantly that the reader cannot help but empathize. " },{ "id": "/comics/eastofwest", "url": "/comics/eastofwest/", "title": "East of West", "layout": "page", "description": "Sci-Fi, Western, Biblical End-of-Days, American Civil War, Magic and Horror... this epic series combines several genres into an intricate tale", "author": "Jonathan Hickman, Nick Dragotta", "lastmod": "2023-06-06T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/eastofwest.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "East of West takes place in the 2060’s, in an alternate America, where the American Civil War lasted significantly longer and was much bloodier. It ended only when a comet struck right at the center of America, which finally brought all the warring parties to a negotiating table, to sign an Armistice. But the brutal war and irreconcilable differences have split America into seven nations: The Union, The Confederacy, Republic of Texas, Kingdom of New Orleans, Endless Nation, People’s Republic of America, and Armistice, where the comet struck. The uneasy truce holds, but soon after, three leaders make a prophecy shortly before they die, the exact same prophecy predicting the end of times. This prophecy, dubbed “The Message”, becomes the guiding gospel for a group called the Chosen, a collection of significant people from each of the seven nations, who have been put together by the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, with the intention of hastening the upcoming end of times. And that is the premise, the backstory that is laid out before the very first issue starts the story. The story starts with Death, the fourth horseman, on a quest for vengeance. He was betrayed and his family was killed by the other three horsemen, for the “crime” of having fallen in love with a mortal human, and worse, having a child. Now, he is working his way back to the other horsemen and the Chosen, in classic Western-hero fashion, for his revenge. But as we later learn, his wife and child are still alive; his wife held prisoner by her own family, and his son has been raised by the Chosen in a virtual reality, trained from birth to one-day become the Beast of the Apocalypse. Within this overarching plot-line are several other plot-lines involving the scheming, conniving, back-stabbing and manoeuvring of the Chosen, and indeed, their adversaries. And there are some Machiavellian characters whose agenda remain a mystery to all. There are entire volumes filled with complex political intrigue. Given the large cast of characters, it is a challenge to keep track of the affliations (if any) of each one. Often some obscure minor angle from twenty issues ago will suddenly become central to the plot. Quite some investment from the reader is needed to track every such angle. The artwork is absolutely stunning, and the landscapes and other-worldly creatures are a treat to look at. Some things worth noting are the sci-fi elements; the flying trains, robot dogs and horses, the gigantic war machines are all absolutely magnificent. The fantasy elements are just as imposing; the demons are all teeth and raw flesh, the stuff nightmares would be scared of. It is hard to recommend this series, and equally hard not to, and often for the same reasons. But if nothing else, read it for the splendid artwork. " },{ "id": "/comics/everything-is-teeth", "url": "/comics/everything-is-teeth/", "title": "Everything is Teeth", "layout": "page", "description": "When Evie was a child, she spent her summers in coastal Australia, and becomes obsessed with Sharks... both their beauty and their brutality. Through her entire childhood, they never released their hold on her imagination.", "author": "Evie Wyld, Joe Sumner", "lastmod": "2023-07-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/eit.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Everything is Teeth. Everything is teeth, which is to say that the young Evie, terrified by, obsessed, and completely captivated with sharks, tends to associate all of her fears about her young self and her loved ones with the possibility of sharks mutilating her and them. Evie’s brother gets a shark jaw bone as a gift. Evie’s childhood curiosity, coupled with a very early viewing of Spielberg’s Jaws, and fueled by her very vivid imagination, grow into an obseesion. She reads about the most brutal shark killing stories, so she imagines terrible things, and these nightmares (both real and imagined), sometimes makes this seem like a horror comic. Evie learns everything she can about sharks, but most of it has to do with the terrible pain and suffering they can inflict on anyone they come in contact with. She knows stories of them, but they are never warm and cuddly shark stories. She listens mainly to everything horrific about sharks, which feeds her fears. Meanwhile, difficult things happen in her family, and they are not discussed openly, and she is aware of them without fully being able to articulate how they affect her, so they become interpreted through the lens of her shark fears. Wyld’s family both encourages and discourages her interest in sharks, and that inextricably intertwines all the emotional family events with the fear of sharks. The wonderful and strange artwork by Joe Sumner matches the story perfectly. The sharks, and the injuries & mutilations they cause are shown in realistic detail, while Evie and all the people she encounters are much more sparse sketches. An excellent and quick read. " },{ "id": "/comics/exit-wounds", "url": "/comics/exit-wounds/", "title": "Exit Wounds", "layout": "page", "description": "Koby Franco, a taxi driver, is roped in to follow up on his estranged father, by a woman who claims to have been his father's lover...", "author": "Rutu Modan", "lastmod": "2023-07-20T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/exit-wounds.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Koby is a taxi driver in Tel Aviv, is approached by Numi, a soldier, who believes his father may have died in a terrorist attack. Koby has no contact with his father, and hasn’t any interest in tracking him down. But at Numi’s insistence, he tracks down all survivors of the attack and talks to them. As they chase every lead, they uncover more than they bargained for, as the seamier side of Koby’s father’s personality comes out. In the meanwhile, Koby and Numi’s own relationship blossoms. The artwork is very reminiscent of Herge’s style in Tintin, all clean lines and solid colours. The story telling is top notch. Given the cover, it would seem to be either a political commentary, or a thriller with terrorists… but with even pacing and smooth build-up, the story is essentially a romance. A good read. " },{ "id": "/comics/fables", "url": "/comics/fables/", "title": "Fables", "layout": "page", "description": "An epic series, where characters from all the fairy-tales, legends, myths and stories of yore have to live in our modern world.", "author": "Bill Willingham", "lastmod": "2023-08-24T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/fables.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The characters in all the fairy-tales lived in universes parallel to our own, but have been chased out of their home worlds by a mysterious army lead by a shadowy emperor dubbed the ‘adversary’. Using a network of gateways, they find their way into our modern world, and are all living either in an apartment complex in New York City, dubbed Fabletown, or on a farm upstate. They have their own shadow government, led by the mayor King Cole, assisted ably by his deputy mayor Snow White. Magic, legends, fairy-tales, horrors, and everything in between feature in this epic series, which encompasses everything from murder mysteries, to political thrillers to action and war stories. You will fall in love all over again with the Big Bad Wolf (known in this world as Bigby), Jack of the beanstalk, Prince Charming, Sindbad and several other characters from everyone’s childhood. The broad story follows the residents of Fabletown as the first repel an attack by the adversary’s forces, following which, they take their war to the adversary himself, using modern weaponry combined with ancient magic. But once they free the homelands, they find that there are worse things which were held in check by the adversary, things which are now unleashed across both fabletown and the homelands. The story-writing is among the best ever, and the artwork, done by several artists through the life of the series, is excellent. There are several spin-off series, focusing on adventures of Cinderella, Jack and Bigby Wolf, each of which is worth reading. Be warned, when you start this series, be prepared to stop all other activities in life. You will NOT be able to stop reading until you are done with all 150+ issues, spread across 22 trade paperbacks. The story and the artwork will completely suck you in, and you will find it hard to take breaks to eat, sleep, or even breathe! With that disclaimer, this comic series is, and I cannot stress this enough, AN ABSOLUTE MUST READ! " },{ "id": "/comics/fell", "url": "/comics/fell/", "title": "Fell", "layout": "page", "description": "Detective Richard Fell is transferred to Snowtown, an inner city which feels like a third world country in this short but brilliant neo-noir series.", "author": "Warren Ellis, Ben Templesmith", "lastmod": "2023-08-22T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/fell.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Fell is called upon to join the three and a half detectives manning Snowtown’s precinct (one detective has no legs) to bring some semblance of order to the chaotic world. Just across the river from a glitzy modern city, the whole of Snowtown is on the wrong side of the tracks. With violence commonplace, the residents protect their own using a symbol as talisman, a red S crossed out. Fell goes above and beyond to make the world a marginally better place, solving cases with powers of deduction and reasoning like a veritable Sherlock Holmes with a digital camera. Each issue is a self-contained story, where he works a case. The series ends abruptly, and it feels like there is a lot of untold stories, espeially the creepy recurring nun with a Nixon mask. The entire feel of the comic is very noir, with most scenes set at either twilight or night, and stories involving the seedy underbelly. I wish Warren Ellis would return to this series and take it to a logical conclusion, Fell deserves that. An excellent, albeit short read. " },{ "id": "/comics/fun-home", "url": "/comics/fun-home/", "title": "Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic", "layout": "page", "description": "Alison Bechdel writes a poignant story of life with her father growing up, of the fun(eral) home he owned, and the closet he never came out of...", "author": "Alison Bechdel", "lastmod": "2023-08-24T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/fun-home.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The whole comic is a series of anecdotes from Alison’s life growing up, of all her interactions with her father. He worked as an English teacher, and was the director a funeral parlour in the small town they lived in. Through her juvenile eyes, he was mostly just aloof and detached, with odd tastes in hobbies and odder friendships. Throughout, she and her father are at constant logger heads. But only after Alison herself goes to college, and comes out as lesbian, does she finally have a revelation; her dad was gay, but never came out of the closet. But just as she is ready to have that heart-to-heart with her father, he dies in an accident, which Alison believes was actually a suicide. The narrative is non-linear and stream-of-consciousness, and delves deeply into Alison’s sexual development and journey. The book constantly pops up near the top of lists of “must read” graphic novels. It is not an easy read, but the story is compelling and the artwork is magnificent, with a lot of attention to detail and period-appropriate throwbacks. On the whole, worth reading once, but not a book one would thumb through repeatedly. " },{ "id": "/comics/global-frequency", "url": "/comics/global-frequency/", "title": "Global Frequency", "layout": "page", "description": "Short-lived series from Warren Ellis, with a great premise", "author": "Warren Ellis", "lastmod": "2023-05-18T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/gf.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "This fast-paced thriller of planetary terrors and world annihilation introduces The Global Frequency, an independent defense intelligence organization that secretly defuses the lingering threats and dormant experiments of the 20th century. Unknown to the world at large, this secret society of 1,001 specialty sleeper agents is called upon to prevent the impending threats of Armageddon that were created by careless governments and immoral scientists over the last century. In this hard-hitting first volume, various expert operatives are sent on desperate individual missions to thwart an alien virus invasion, destroy a nuclear-powered cyborg, and deactive a hidden Ebola bomb. Miranda Zero, the mysterious leader/benefactor/recruiter of Global Frequency is is always at hand to call in the correct specialist, with her catch phrase: “You’re on the global frequency!” The albums all have excellent artwork, each drawn by a different artist. Where the series falls short is the storyline. While the premise is intruiging, the whole enterprise seems very contrived. We know nothing about the Global Frequency itself, it’s just there, the characters are just there and have been part of the group for years. The villains are just one-dimensional and exist only to serve as villains. Except for Miranda herself, no other character appears in more than one album, so no backstory or character development ever happens. Each story follows a standard pattern; a end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it scenario, a few specialists tapped with the repeated “You’re on the Global Frequency” line, and a race against time to defuse the situation. After a dozen albums, I think even the author got bored. " },{ "id": "/comics/here", "url": "/comics/here/", "title": "Here", "layout": "page", "description": "A unique and unusual comic, where every page in the entire book shows the exact same spot, but explores all the people, creatures, things and events that have ever passed that spot, from the pre-historic past, to the distant future.", "author": "Richard McGuire", "lastmod": "2023-09-07T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/here.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "It takes a few pages in to figure out what is going on in “Here”. But once understanding dawns, the book has you transfixed. The spot itself is unstuck in time, and is eternal. People come, people go. They have conversations, relationships, pets and meetings. The decor changes, the house is remodeled, the house is first built. People born, people die, experience the same emotions. But the spot itself is always there, the same angle. Every page has a little nuance, some corner with a little nugget which is referencing something from 10 pages ago, or maybe something 100 pages from there. USA founding father Benjamin Franklin makes a brief appearance, as the house that was at the spot once belonged to his son. He is mentioned many more times, though. And as he observes, ‘Life has a flair for rhyming events.’ Equal parts funny and poignant, this book makes you think on every page, despite having very few words to be read at all. Needless to say, the artwork is outstanding. There is so much detail in each page, right down to the angle of the sunset at a specific time of the year. Reading (or more accurately, perusing) this book is an unmissable experience. " },{ "id": "/comics/in-real-life", "url": "/comics/in-real-life/", "title": "In Real Life", "layout": "page", "description": "Anda is living her best self in Coarsegold online, a MMORPG. She's a leader, a fighter and a hero. But her life changes when she meets a poor Chinese kid who plays Coarsegold for a living...", "author": "Cory Doctorow, Jen Wang", "lastmod": "2023-08-07T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/in-real-life.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "This is a comic about games and economics, and how the real life social and policital environment eventually filters into games and their economics. Anda is a sixteen year old high-schooler, who starts playing MMORPG Coarsegold Online, after listening to a talk given by a girl-gamer in her school. She slowly works her way up and reaches a high level, and takes up paying jobs to eradicate gold farmers: gamers who retrieve items to be sold online illegally. But during one of these jobs, she meets one of these farmers and befriends him. Raymond is a chinese teen, the same age has her, but he “works” sixteen hours a day in sweatshop like conditions, to farm for items in the game, and gets paid a pittance and no benefits. Inspired by a strike at her father’s workplace, Anda convinces Raymond to protest and demand worker’s rights, but that just causes him to lose his job, making things worse. Anda’s mother discovers the payments Anda has been receiving for her jobs, and without quite understanding the nature of the game, she cuts her out. And as if things could not get worse, Anda gets suspended from the guild too. Does she regain her internet access? Does she get back into the guild? And most importantly, does she help Raymond get back his job? The story is easy reading, and demonstrates the naivete of Anda trying to solve problems with the social and economic conditions in China, a world removed from her own. The artwork is absolutely gorgeous, and the game landscapes are magnificent. A good, quick read, and a worthwhile one. " },{ "id": "/comics/lighter", "url": "/comics/lighter/", "title": "Lighter Than My Shadow", "layout": "page", "description": "Lighter Than My Shadow is a hand-drawn story of struggle and recovery from a taboo illness, an exposure of those who are so weak as to prey on the vulnerable, and an inspiration to anybody who believes in the human power to endure towards happiness.", "author": "Katie Green", "lastmod": "2023-07-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/lighter.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "‘Lighter Than My Shadow’ is a poignant memoir of the author’s battle with an eating disorder and as a victim of sexual assault. The emotive comic book recounts her struggles with eating disorders, the anxieties and pressures of growing up — particularly body image anxieties, the burden on her family, and her striving to recover. The pictures are drawn in sober, grey nuances and are simple but beautiful. This underlines the isolated situation of Katie, who doesn’t love how she looks or who she is, and is very uncertain about everything. The story draws you in, making you a participant in her internal turmoil using a tornado of black squiggly lines that hover over her head, sometimes small, and other times taking over the entire panel / page. The concern and helplessness of Katie’s family and friends is also told thoughtfully, as they are unable to control the situation or do anything at all to help Katie. In the introduction, the author says of the book: It exists because I wanted nobody else to feel as lost, confused and alone as I felt. I wanted to be honest about how hard recovery is, and how long it takes, at the same providing that it is possible. This is a long book, at over 500 pages, but it is a compelling and thought-provoking read. I would strongly recommend this. " },{ "id": "/comics/lucky-luke", "url": "/comics/lucky-luke/", "title": "Lucky Luke", "layout": "page", "description": "Poor lonesome cowboy, who can shoot faster than his shadow", "author": "Rene Goscinny and Morris", "lastmod": "2022-07-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/luckyluke.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "During WW2 Americans helped fight Europe’s war, thereby elevating it to a world war. They also inadvertently exported their pop culture to Europe, espdcially the romantic idea of a cowboy on his horse, living a hard life on a lawless land meting out his own form of justice. This was seen in the immense popularity of Spaghetti westerns from Italy, and Lucky Luke, from France. Lucky Luke is collaboration between writer Goscinny of Asterix fame and artist Morris. The main protagonist is Lucky Luke, a smart honest cowboy who is often roped in by various law enforcement agencies (Sheriffs, Pinkertons, Jailors, Governors, to name a few). The whole series is fantastic, because the writing is on point, complete with thorough historical research, the artwork is outstanding, and it is just outrageously funny. The humour is largely situational, and derives from both bumbling adversaries as well as the clever quips of Lucky’s horse Jolly Jumper. There were several volumes in this series, definitely worth reading. " },{ "id": "/comics/mooncop", "url": "/comics/mooncop/", "title": "Mooncop", "layout": "page", "description": "One solitary boy-in-blue is protecting and serving on a lunar colony, which is slowly winding down, thereby making him redundant.", "author": "Tom Gauld", "lastmod": "2023-06-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/mooncop.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "It’s a tiny story about a cop who works on the moon. But the lunar colony is slowly winding down, like a small town circumvented by a new super highway. As our hero, the Mooncop, makes his daily rounds, his beat grows ever smaller, the population dwindles. A young girl runs away, a dog breaks off his leash, an automaton wanders off from the Museum of the Moon. He’s lonely and melancholy but peaceful and calm. The drawings are so chilly and isolating and the narrative is quaint and touching and funny and quirky. The reader feels the despondency and lack-of-purpose, mixed in with a peacefulness experienced by the protagonist. A simple and thoughtful read. " },{ "id": "/comics/nimona", "url": "/comics/nimona/", "title": "Nimona", "layout": "page", "description": "Adorable characters with just the right amount of snark. Sci-Fi and fantasy meld in this page-turner full of adventure, humor, awesome characters, giggle-inducing names, and plot twists", "author": "ND Stevenson", "lastmod": "2023-06-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/nimona.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Notorious villain — Ballister Blackheart — gets a new sidekick to help him wreak havoc, obtain vengeance, and fight the Institution. But his new sidekick, Nimona, is an impulsive shapeshifter with a mysterious past and a her own. Plus, he also has a love/hate relationship with his friend-turned-nemesis — Sir Ambrosius Goldenloin. This is a fun, quick read with a lot of heart: featuring a villain who likes to play by the rules; his spunky sidekick who, well… doesn’t; their “good-guy” arch-nemesis; and an organization of heroes that may be less heroic than it appears. Sir Ballister and Nimona set out to expose Sir Ambrosius and the Institution, causing absolute mayhem along the way. The story starts as a whimsical, frivolous parody of traditional heroic notions of good and evil — and, with a sleight of hand, goes on to rework them as something entirely nuanced and authentic. What you’ll get is an interesting romp that is equal parts witty humor, action-adventure, and pathos soaked drama. The art perfectly suited the tone of the story, and the rich and contrasting colors made the artwork stand out in the best ways. If you’re looking for a humorous adventure that gets surprisingly deep, don’t miss out on “Nimona”. " },{ "id": "/comics/opticnerve", "url": "/comics/opticnerve/", "title": "Optic Nerve", "layout": "page", "description": "A series of comics with realistic artwork and a wry tone", "author": "Adrian Tomine", "lastmod": "2023-09-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/opticnerve.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Adrian Tomine’s Optic Nerve series are a collection of 32 stories, which was collected into albums by Drawn & Quarterly. Each story is distinct and features an incident, or a period in the life of the protagonists of the story. The stories often feature Asian-American characters, and are usually set in Northern California. Some of the stories are slice of life, whereas some describe a specific incident. Many of the stories are autobiographical, as I later found out. What stands out are the sparse and realistic artwork, which convey the tone and the emotions as well as the writing itself. The whole series is a quick read, but the story will linger long after you’ve closed the book. " },{ "id": "/comics/phantom", "url": "/comics/phantom/", "title": "The Phantom", "layout": "page", "description": "You never find the Phantom, he finds you. - Old Jungle Saying", "author": "Lee Falk", "lastmod": "2022-09-03T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/phantom.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "This series created by Lee Falk told the story of a shadowy masked figure deep in the African jungle, who maintains law and order. He was arguably the first masked crusader who did not have any special powers, but handled himself largely by using his wits and athleticism. It predates Batman by several years. The origin story is fascinating. 400 years ago, a man is marooned by pirates on the African coast, and vows to protect the downtrodden and dedicates his life, and those of his descendants the cause. Their headquarters are a skull shaped castle, and is called to action by messages conveyed by beating drums. He roms through the jungle with his white horse Hero, and his pet wolf Devil. He uses a pair of automatic pistols he wears in hip holsters, but generally uses the guns only to disarm or disable opponents. He wears a signet ring, with which he marks the bad guys, and leaves an indelible skull mark on them. The artwork was excellent, but the writing was truly outstanding. The enigma of the Phantom, the ghost who walks, is built up using small aphorisms, marked “Old Jungle Saying”. The phantom is immortal. The character, and the comic, both. " },{ "id": "/comics/pride-of-baghdad", "url": "/comics/pride-of-baghdad/", "title": "Pride of Baghdad", "layout": "page", "description": "Story is based on true events that occurred during the 2003 invasion of Iraq, where a pride of lions escaped from the Baghdad Zoo", "author": "Brian K. Vaughan", "lastmod": "2023-06-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/prideofbaghdad.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Brian K. Vaughan shows us war from the perspective of a pride of lions who escaped from the Baghdad Zoo after a bombing raid in 2003. Questions of survival and the true meaning of freedom are examined and presented in a way that may make you reexamine your current definitions. We see the bombing from the point of view of the lions. When the war started, the keepers fled the zoo, and the animals who survived the bombs suddenly found themselves free. But one of the older lions is worried about the dangers that lurk beyond the gates. But after a vicious fight with the apes in the zoo, the lions decided to leave and start walking. They explore part of the desert and meet a wise turtle at the Tigris River. The turtle is old enough to remember the previous Iraq war: “There’s black stuff under the earth, boy. Poison. When the walkers fight, they send it spewing into the sky, and spilling into the sea.” The lions see a long line of military tanks, and decide to hide and go the other direction. They find the rubble of a city and meet other wild animals, including a group of beautiful white horses. The lions are able to climb to the top of a building and look out over the city, seeing the horizon for the first time since they were captured in the wild. And then, well, this story has a sad ending, as most war tales do. The artwork is beautiful and colorful, and I think it’s a great way to tell the story. A truly unique look at war. A short read, and a definitely a must. " },{ "id": "/comics/pumpkinheads", "url": "/comics/pumpkinheads/", "title": "Pumpkinheads", "layout": "page", "description": "Tender and hilarious story about two irresistible teens discovering what it means to leave behind a place―and a person―with no regrets.", "author": "Rainbow Rowell", "lastmod": "2023-06-02T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/pumpkinheads.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Deja and Josiah are seasonal best friends. Every autumn, all through high school, they’ve worked together at the best pumpkin patch in the whole wide world. (Not many people know that the best pumpkin patch in the whole wide world is in Omaha, Nebraska, but it definitely is.) They say good-bye every Halloween, and they’re reunited every September 1. But this Halloween is different—Josiah and Deja are finally seniors, and this is their last season at the pumpkin patch. Their last shift together. Their last good-bye. Josiah’s ready to spend the whole night feeling melancholy about it. Deja isn’t ready to let him. She’s got a plan: What if—instead of moping and the usual slinging lima beans down at the Succotash Hut—they went out with a bang? They could see all the sights! Taste all the snacks! And Josiah could finally talk to that cute girl he’s been mooning over for three years . . . Deja convinces shy Josiah to go talk to her, but it turns out that ‘fudge girl’ is harder to track than they thought. What starts as a mission to find ‘fudge girl’ turns into a night of adventure. This is a very cute read with a gentle romance built in. Deja and Josie were both lovable. Deja is the kind of friend everyone needs… funloving and caring, but (for the most part) still isn’t afraid to say what she feels. Deja’s more of an extrovert as she’s been around the block a time or two, whereas Josie is more introverted and unsure of himself. They make a great pair, accepting one another for who they are. Friendship is a beautiful theme throughout. The illustrations are gorgeous, which really bring out the autumnal atmosphere and the characters’ emotions. A quick read and leaves one warm and fuzzy. " },{ "id": "/comics/ronin", "url": "/comics/ronin/", "title": "Ronin", "layout": "page", "description": "A disgraced 13th-century warrior is mystically given a second chance to avenge his master's death... in a futuristic New York City run by corrupt oligarchs", "author": "Frank Miller", "lastmod": "2023-07-18T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/ronin.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "A samurai revenge epic in a sci-fi setting. In the 13th century feudal Japan, the demon Agat kills Lord Ozaki. The nameless Samurai, now a masterless Ronin, fights and nearly kills the demon, but is trapped, along with the demon in an enchanted sword…. … until they are both released in 21st century New York City, a lawless wasteland run by bike groups and thugs. An oasis of sanity is Aquarius, a biotech company run by corrupt oligarchs. When released, the Samurai inhabits the body of a limbless mutant with telekinetic powers, a ward of Aquarius corporation, and Agat now possesses the chief of Aquarius. The complex storyline continues as Billy/Ronin takes out the chiefs of the local gang of thugs, the corrupt heads of Aquarius, Virgo — the AI running Aquarius — and finally Agat himself, levelling most of NYC in the process. Frank Miller’s complex storyline incorporates speculative science fiction, post-apolcalyptic horror, supernatural forces and samurai action. The artwork is heavily influenced by both Manga as well as the French/Belgian bandes desinees styles. A true mash-up in every sense of the term, Miller writes, pencils, and inks the six-issues that were released in 1983 along with colors by Lynn Varley. There were all these weird little occurances and subtle nuances in the art that made it totally engrossing and mesmerizing. There have been several aborted attempts to make this into a movie or tv series, or even an animation show of some sort, but nothing has taken shape in the 40 years since this came out. The animated TV show Samurai Jack borrows heavily from this, with a nearly identical setup of a Samurai fighting a demon in a post-apocalyptic future. Animation director Genndy Tartakovsky has stated that Ronin was one of the major influences. Definitely worth reading. " },{ "id": "/comics/sandcastle", "url": "/comics/sandcastle/", "title": "Sandcastle", "layout": "page", "description": "A mysterious beach traps people and causes people to age very rapidly.", "author": "Pierre Oscar Levy, Frederick Peeters", "lastmod": "2024-02-01T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/sandcastle.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Early one morning, a young lady arrives at a secluded beach, and goes out for a swim. Later that morning, several families arrive, including kids ranging from toddlers to teens. A homeless Algerian refugee had spent his night in the underbrush near the beach, and also arrives there. Soon they find that there are several unusual occurrences. They find the body of the woman who arrived first, except she is now an old lady, and has died while swimming. They first notice that the children seem to be maturing rather rapidly. They attempt to leave the beach, but are unable to. In their accelerated world, communities, allegiances, prejudices and parental instincts are all brought to the forefront and tested as they each deal with the fallout of their trying circumstances. This book was originally written in French, and I read the English translated version. The beautifully drawn comic brings out all the emotions of the characters magnificently; the rage, frustration, anger, hatred and love just leaps out from the characters’ faces. This was later also made into a movie called ‘Old’, but I doubt M Night Shyamalan has done justice to this stark and impressive comic. A good read. " },{ "id": "/comics/secret-service", "url": "/comics/secret-service/", "title": "Secret Service (Kingsman)", "layout": "page", "description": "Gary, the archetypal 'troubled' teen, lives with his mother and her abusive boyfriend in public housing, and spends his time getting in and out of trouble. Then his suave uncle Jack offers him an opportunity to be something of consequence... a super spy.", "author": "Mark Millar, Dave Gibbons", "lastmod": "2024-02-01T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/secret-service.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Gary ‘Eggsy’ London has grown up poor, lived all his life in public housing, and fritters his time hanging out with his ne’er do well friends. When he lands in the clink one more time, his uncle bails him out, and gives him the opportunity of a lifetime: Enroll in a school for MI-6 super spies. Eggsy excels in the school, finishing at the top of his class despite being up against several grammar school posh nobs. In his final assignment he captures a Colombian drug lord, and is promoted to full agent. Meanwhile, Jack is investigating Dr. James Arnold, a billionaire cell phone entrepreneur who has been kidnapping several celebrities. When Jack gets killed by Arnold, Gary realizes that several top secret service agents are in cahoots with Arnold. He ropes in his fellow trainees and runs a flawless mission to bring down Arnold. The fast-paced and humour tinged writing is mixed in with true-blue spy action; very James Bond-esque but with much better story telling. There are no unnecessary beautiful women who are superflouos to the plot, the storyline is grittier, and features several exotic locales. The spiffy soundtrack is lacking, though, but that is more than made up for in the magnificent artwork and character portrayals. That said, the movie moguls have picked this series up for big screen adaptation, and quite frankly, have done an excellent job of the adaptation. The casting was on point, and the rebranding of the series as “Kingsman” rather than the more mundane “Secret Service” is also an excellent touch. Outside of the more cosmetic changes, the storyline is kept largely the same. " },{ "id": "/comics/smile", "url": "/comics/smile/", "title": "Smile", "layout": "page", "description": "Raina has an accident at 11, where she breaks her two front teeth. This starts a years long ordeal across several dental and orthodontal treatments... to get back her smile.", "author": "Raina Telgemeier", "lastmod": "2023-07-25T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/smile.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Poet Ogden Nash said, “Some tortures are physical/And some are mental,/But the one that is both/Is dental.” Raina Telgemeier tells of her own particular journey of adolescent woe which came in the form of a seemingly endless tangle of dentists, endontists, periodontists, orthodonists, with their promises to perfect her teeth. In sixth grade, Telgemeier got braces to fix a run-of-the-mill overbite. Then, while horsing around with her friends, she fell, and knocked out her two front teeth. This one misstep plunged her into a four-year ordeal of painful procedures, torturous surgeries, not-to-mention a perpetually changing appearance at a time when every kid is having a crisis of confidence. (As if puberty isn’t traumatic enough!) Follow this lost heroine as she battles pimples, overcomes destructive friendships with hypercritical mean girls, endures painful oral surgeries, and finally finds her way to feeling at home in her own skin when she reaches high school. This story hit particularly close to home for me. My daughter, at the start of sixth grade, tripped and fell flat on her face while playing with her friends on a Sunday afternoon. She got the exact same injury as Raina; the front two teeth were knocked out. We rushed her to a dentist, a neighbor who opened her clinic for us to handle the emergency. She managed to reconnect the teeth back at the exact spot where they used to be; and over the next few months, the teeth healed and took root enough for her to start eating normal foods. But the teeth still needed work, specifically new crowns. Since crowns can only be changed AFTER any corrective braces are removed, she is currently undergoing correction. I got my daughter this book when she was recovering from the initial injury. Raina’s complicated journey worried her, but she enjoyed the book, nonetheless. The artwork is all straight lines and solid bold colours. Raina is an expert at capturing motion and expressions. The basic character design is simple, but she uses that simple structure to bring out the most complex emotions very effectively. Strongly recommend this book. " },{ "id": "/comics/spinning", "url": "/comics/spinning/", "title": "Spinning", "layout": "page", "description": "A moving account of the author's coming of age years as a competitive figure skater, while negotiating rocky adolescent traumas, including coming out...", "author": "Tillie Walden", "lastmod": "2023-09-13T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/spinning.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Tillie Walden had a set routine growing up: Every single weekday she would wake up early in the morning while it was still dark, grab her ice skates and head to the skating rink. After school, it was back to the rink for group practice. Weekends, she traveled around the state to competitions, with full make-up and glitter and tights. Rinse and repeat, ad infinitum. Tillie was good, very good at figure skating. And she absolutely hated it. Skating was her central identity. She was nobody if she was not the figure skater. It was her escape from all the stresses of normal adolescence, family, school, bullies. Later, she switched schools, and got into art, and began to question the rigid and close-minded environment of figure skating. Truth was, good as she was, she was nowhere close to the upper echelons, the olympic hopefuls. So what was the point? Beautifully illustrated, the comic provides an insight into the cut-throat world of figure skating, and the lives of competitive athletes in general. The author uses a muted colour palette, using shades of blue and white with occasional bits of yellow to set a mellow mood. The overall tone of the book is sad and sombre, as the latter half focuses on her and her family coming to terms with her sexuality. An excellent and moving read. " },{ "id": "/comics/sunny-side-up", "url": "/comics/sunny-side-up/", "title": "Sunny Side Up", "layout": "page", "description": "Summer holidays in Florida means beaches! Disney World! Parties! Or not...", "author": "Jennifer L. Holm", "lastmod": "2023-06-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/sunnysideup.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Sunny is spending the summer with her grandfather who lives in a retirement village down in florida. It’s full of… old people. Really old people. And grandpa’s idea of an adventure is going to pick up his pills. Luckily, Sunny isn’t the only kid around. She meets Buzz, a boy who is completely obsessed with comic books, and soon they’re having adventures of their own, facing off against golfball-eating alligators, runaway cats, and mysteriously disappearing neighbors. The real question, though, is why Sunny is in Florida at all. The story is slowly divulged through a series of flashbacks, as the reader pieces together that her brother is in rehab, and she has been sent over to the Pine Palms retirement community to keep her out of the way, so to speak. The book has lovely and captivating full-color drawings that capture the era and the characters to perfection. A good read. " },{ "id": "/comics/tarzan", "url": "/comics/tarzan/", "title": "Tarzan", "layout": "page", "description": "Aaaahhhhh oooooo oo oo ooooo oooo wwwwwww", "lastmod": "2021-11-08T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/tarzan.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Tarzan was huge when I was growing up. The Joe Kubert editions were all over, easily accessible in stores and libraries. I read several Tarzan comics before I started reading the source material, Edgar Rice Burroughs’ pulp novels from the thirties. The idea of a jungle man, brought up by apes would seem cool and adventurous for someone young. But the material does not hold up well as we age. Setting aside the obviously racist “white saviour” angle, the irony of the situation is stark. White folk struggled to survive in the tropical climes of Africa and died in droves of diseases such as malaria. Add to that the story of a boy, brought up by apes, still teaches himself to read and write by observing books in his parents’ cabin. To top it off, he invents rope, and the idea of using traps, with no prior knowledge or training, entirely by himself. Incredulity apart, Tarzan comes across as needlessly cruel to the animal world. He routinely puts himself in situations where he would be attacked by bigger animals seeking prey, and then proceeds to kill them with his dagger. Every book reads like a moral fable about how the “civilized” world is actually more ruthless because of man’s greed and avarice, and the “wild” jungle is preferable. It was ok when we were kids, but it does NOT hold up now. " },{ "id": "/comics/tintin", "url": "/comics/tintin/", "title": "Tintin", "layout": "page", "description": "Earliest comic book I remember reading", "author": "Herge", "lastmod": "2021-09-17T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/tintin-16x9.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "When I was about six or so, I was just learning to read. There was a public library two doors down from my house, and they had a collection of dog-eared Tintin albums. They were my favourite! I couldn’t follow the stories much, but the pictures, the art was what drew me in. He was doing so many things. Planes, cars, ships, motorbikes! Submarines! Swords, guns and knives. Oceans, mountains, deserts, jungles. “Titin”, as I called him then, was the greatest comic book ever written. I have since learned how to read, and expanded my scope to include several comics, but I still believe Tintin is one of the greatest. " },{ "id": "/comics/tloeg", "url": "/comics/tloeg/", "title": "The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen", "layout": "page", "description": "A \"super-hero\" caper set in the last years of the Victorian era, based on \"super\" characters from the literature and pulp-fiction of that time.", "author": "Alan Moore", "lastmod": "2023-04-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/tloeg.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Imagine a steam-punk world at the end of 19th century, inhabited by the heroes and anti-heroes created by the authors of the Victorian era: Poe, Doyle, RL Stevenson, Stoker, Verne, Wells, Haggard, Wilde. And then this unlikely band of misfits are banded together to fight a greater enemy… absolute gold! I cannot stress how much I enjoyed reading this series of graphic novels. The references to the books and characters that have piqued my childhood imagination now all come together, and work together? Oh wow wow wow wow. I also loved the way Alan Moore brought in some interesting angles: the group is led by a woman, Wilhelmina Harker (nee Murray), from Bram Stoker’s seminal work. Captain Nemo from 20,000 leagues and Mysterious Island is decidedly Indian… Of course, the books do hint at the same. Allan Quartermain is an opium addicted drunk hobo, and Mr. Hyde is… funny? Good story, splendid art, great prose and wonderful characters make for a great story. Strongly recommend. " },{ "id": "/comics/underwire", "url": "/comics/underwire/", "title": "Underwire", "layout": "page", "description": "Hilarious collection of autobiographical slice-of-life shorts from a mother of two, making observations on modern life & parenthood", "author": "Jennifer Hayden", "lastmod": "2023-09-11T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/underwire.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "This is how slice of life comics ought to be. Each “slice” is a page or two long, and relates one anecdote. No topic is off limits for the funny, witty Jennifer Hayden. Stories about her daughter growing up, battling adolescence, and her love-hate relationship with school. Or stories from Jennifer reconnecting with old friends, weird dreams she had, or even embarrasing stories from her own life. Jennifer is funny, witty, pulls no punches and holds nothing back in the stories she shares. Every aspect of the comic is easy to relate to because Jennifer writes the stories like she’s talking directly to us. At times we’re crying and at other times we’re rolling in the floor laughing with each other. The artwork is raw and unpretentious, reminiscent of Al Jaffee. She captures the essence of the anecdote she is relating without embellishment. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/comics/unterzakhn", "url": "/comics/unterzakhn/", "title": "Unterzakhn", "layout": "page", "description": "A peek into the lives of twin Jewish girls in the turn of the last century in the lower east side of New York.", "author": "Leela Corman", "lastmod": "2023-07-28T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/unterzakhn.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Fanya and Esther are twin sisters, children of Jewist Eastern European immigrants growing up in the Yiddish quarter of the Lower East Side of New York in the 1910’s. The world is an interesting place, as they enounter a world with women struggling to raise kids, see lady doctors, get an abortion, and just survive in a man’s world. The narrative jumps back and forth in time, as it highlights how Esther’s journey leads her to a whorehouse, and then through a seedy nightclub to the musical hall stage. Fanya learns to read, and becomes an assistant to a gynecologist, but later, bitter and disillusioned, she reconnects with her wildly successful sister. A compelling, heart-warming, bitter-sweet story told through stark black-and-white pictures. The artwork is drawn not as much to be anatomically correct as to convey emotion. The bold sketchy black and white art really worked for this story, and I liked the juxtaposition of their young innocence against the hard earned wisdom of their later years. An excellent read. " },{ "id": "/comics/v-for-vendetta", "url": "/comics/v-for-vendetta/", "title": "V for Vendetta", "layout": "page", "description": "An anarchist goes about righting a very wrong fascist England, in a post-apocalyptic dystopian future", "author": "Alan Moore and David Lloyd", "lastmod": "2023-08-16T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/v-for-vendetta.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "This book first started as a strip in a magazine in the early eighties, and became a 10-issue series once DC comics took it under their wing. It is not an easy read. There are no laughs, no gags, no comic relief. Just hard-hitting, thought-provoking, and a little depressing socio-political drama. The story is set in a dystopian future in the late nineties, in a world living in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust. The US and the Soviet Union have obliterated each other, taking most of Asia, Africa and mainland Europe with them. After years of turmoil, a extreme right-wing fascist government comes to power, and promptly eradicates all non-whites, LGBTQs, socialists and liberals. They rule the remainder with an iron hand, with a lot of the 1984 big-brother overtones. An unnamed anarchist, going by the code name V, starts wreaking havoc in this society. Donning a wig, cape and a Guy Fawkes mask, he goes about blowing up government buildings one by one, and eliminating senior figures in the government. While the government scrambles to catch him, identify him and recover from his shenanigans, the common populace wake up and start revolting against the government. We slowly find out that V is a survivor of a series of horrific scientific experiments conducted by the government, and V is has carefully planned out his Vendetta against the government; one that involves destroying it from within. In the backdrop of this, V rescues a young girl, Evey, and builds her up as his protege. Will his plan work, and what lies in store for England? Will “England Prevail” ? This is considered one of the seminal works amongst graphic novels, and is usually near the top in all “Must Read” lists. The overall tone of the comic is grim, and the artwork and colouring suits the tone perfectly. The story telling is absolutely top notch, as one would expect from the past master of the craft, Alan Moore. My only gripe is that there are so many layers to his central character who remains an enigma to the end. How did he get to the start of the story? How did he get his abilities? And most importantly, how did he achieve all he did? We are left a little confused and dissatisfied because of that. This is, and I cannot stress this enough, an absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/comics/watchmen", "url": "/comics/watchmen/", "title": "Watchmen", "layout": "page", "description": "Seminal graphic novel which chronicles the fall-from-grace of a beloved set of super-heroes, victims of their all-too-human failings.", "author": "Alan Moore", "lastmod": "2023-04-16T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/watchmen.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Oft cited as the best work by its author, Alan Moore, this is the comic book which redefined the genre completely, and demonstrated what the medium is capable of. It elevated the comic book beyond the “comic” tag, and established the concept of a “graphic” novel. The fundamental theme of the book is that no one is completely evil or good. Everyone has reasons for being the monster, good person, or something in between, always haunted by past traumas. Much of the complex, brilliant plot is directly connected to the protagonists’ backstories, which makes it even more compelling, because the reader is expecting and getting what she/he is waiting for. Especially the evolution from weak to superhuman, more and less powerful, and the thereby modified morality, ambitions, and personal goals of the characters are used to demonstrate the inner fragmentation of human psyches, no matter how demolished and totally wasted they already were before. I am utterly unqualified to delve into the intricacies of the complex and layered story line and much less review the same. In most circles, this is considered one of the greatest, if not the absolute greatest comic books ever written. I wouldn’t go so far, but few other comics provide such a the deep, thought-provoking plot all the while mixing it up with jokes and subtle parodies. An absolute must read, and a must on all bookshelves. " },{ "id": "/comics/we3", "url": "/comics/we3/", "title": "We3", "layout": "page", "description": "A military experiment goes awry, an experiment involving tactical pet animals...", "author": "Grant Morrison, Frank Quitely", "lastmod": "2023-08-21T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/we3.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "A military weapons program makes cybernetically enhanced animals, codenamed Animal Weapon 3. Their creations are three heavily armoured and neurologically enhanced pets, a dog, a cat and a rabbit. Between the three of them, they pack enough firepower to flatten entire battalions, and with their enhanced brains, can even talk and express thoughts. Following the success of the project, they are scheduled to be decommissioned, permanently. With a little help from the scientist, they escape the lab, into the strange and confusing world outside, and try to find their way “HOME”, while being pursued by the full might of their creators, the ruthless military. Do they succeed? Do they reach “HOME”? This brilliant comic is chock-full of action, violence and feeling, and takes you through the whole gamut of emotions. Throughout, the underlying pro-animal, anti-weapons morals are reiterated, without being preachy. The definite must read, and a great place to start someone off when they are first getting into graphic novels. " },{ "id": "/comics/y-the-last-man", "url": "/comics/y-the-last-man/", "title": "Y: The Last Man", "layout": "page", "description": "The adventures of the only man to survive the apparent simultaneous death of every male mammal on Earth, barring his pet monkey...", "author": "Brian K. Vaughan", "lastmod": "2023-05-19T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/comics/YTheLastMan.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The Last Man is a comic book series by Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra published by Vertigo beginning in 2002. Winner of three Eisner Awards and one of the most critically acclaimed, best-selling comic books series of the last decade, this comic series is that rare example of a page-turner that is at once humorous, socially relevant and endlessly surprising. Yorick is an amateur escape artist, and the titular “last man”. Ampersand is his pet monkey. The two of them are the only survivors of a plague that killed every mammal with a Y chromosome. Being the last man on earth isn’t as fun as it sounds, and Yorick now has to embark on a journey to Australia, to reunite with his girlfriend, and the only woman he wants to be with, in a world with only women. This is an endlessly addictive, fully entertaining 60 issue series. Intruiging concept, compelling characters, memorable moments, and simple, unadorned artwork. This series is an absolute must read. " },{ "id": "/games/adventure", "url": "/games/adventure/", "title": "Adventure (Collosal Cave)", "layout": "page", "description": "You are in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike", "lastmod": "2023-09-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/games/xyzzy.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I discovered this game by accident while poking around an ancient Unix system. This system predated the concept of networking, or even graphics. The system had about 50 serial consoles, each with an ancient flickering green-on-black monitor and a keyboard where some keys worked, occasionally. There were several games in **/usr/games** on the system, but only two ones which grabbed my attention. The first was fortune, which spit out a quote or a witty one-liner, though some very conscientious sysadmin had disabled the fortune -o variant at some point. The other was adventure. adventure, also known as Collosal Cave Adventure has been around for a very long time, and is surprisingly available in modern unix and unix-like systems too, to keep the nostalgia alive for old fogies, no doubt. The game is a console turn-based game. The system presents the user with a scenario, and then prompts the user for an action. The action is textual phrase, and it can be a movement, like “north” or “southeast”, or a verb+noun combination, like “pick cage”, or “eat food”. The user starts of on a road, next to an old building. Someways off is the entrance of the “collosal cave”, which has several chambers, with treasure, fierce adversaries and several puzzles to solve. You are free to move around, as long as you’re allowed by the aforementioned adversaries, and explore the cave, performing magic and collecting treasures. Don’t get caught in the maze of twisty little passages, though. I have never figured out how to escape that mess. A sample description would be like: YOU ARE IN A SPLENDID CHAMBER THIRTY FEET HIGH. THE WALLS ARE FROZEN RIVERS OF ORANGE STONE. AN AWKWARD CANYON AND A GOOD PASSAGE EXIT FROM EAST AND WEST SIDES OF THE CHAMBER. A CHEERFUL LITTLE BIRD IS SITTING HERE SINGING. > One possible action to the above would be “catch bird”, but that will work only if you have collected a wicker cage in a previous location. And so on… We had 24 hour access to the unix system, and this game provided several hours of escapism for late night insomniacs. But for all that, I don’t believe I progressed too far beyond the first few rooms of the collosal cave. A wonderful, simple game. " },{ "id": "/games/arkanoid", "url": "/games/arkanoid/", "title": "Arkanoid", "layout": "page", "description": "Bricks, by another name, and a backstory of some sort...", "lastmod": "2023-09-07T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/games/arkanoid.png", "tags": "", "content": "Breakout. Space Invaders. Bricks. Arkanoid. All variations of the essential same game. You control a bat, move it left and right, and bounce a ball off a wall of bricks. Break all the bricks and move to the next level. Goodies occasionally fall from the broken bricks, which can do stuff like make the bat bigger, give additional balls, additional lives, make the bat sticky… and much more. Frankly, I never got the hang of this, despite trying in earnest. The level of hand-eye co-ordination required is immense, and there are folks who are excellent at playing this game, or one of its variants. I am not one of them. Still, in the early days when games were very hard to come by, and they were few and far between, this was played as a breather from the more interesting and complex games on offer. Interesting tidbit: The game “Breakout”, the oldest variant of the theme, was first designed by Apple co-founder Steve Wozniak. " },{ "id": "/games/bombjack", "url": "/games/bombjack/", "title": "Bomb Jack", "layout": "page", "description": "A truly superlative and addictive arcade-style platformer with smooth graphics and fast gameplay", "lastmod": "2023-09-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/games/bombjack.png", "tags": "", "content": "This is probably the first ever computer game which rose to the level of obsession, thanks in part to a Bomb Jack competition that was held in the mid-80’s by Computer Point, the dealer for ZX Spectrum+. The premise is simple. Bomb Jack is a standard platformer, which just three controls: Left, Right and Jump. You play the titular Bomb Jack, a cape-wearing bomb defuser, who has to defuse a set of bombs to get through each level. There are several baddies resembling thugs, insects and UFOs which Bomb Jack has to avoid while collecting (defusing) bombs. The levels feature bright colourful landmarks as backgrounds: The Sphinx, with the Pyramid of Giza in the background The Acropolis A medieval castle, probably Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany A modern cityscape, likely Wall Street in New York An open field under a dark evening sky On each of these backgrounds, a set of platforms and bombs are arranged. There are about 12 different patterns for the platforms. The backgrounds start repeating after the five above, and the platforms after the 12 are exhausted. The pace of the game increases in the higher levels, and the baddies also get faster, making the gameplay progressively more challenging. A few bonuses are also available: One is a spinning “P”, which freezes all the baddies for a few seconds, so Bomb Jack can remove them. Of course, they start respawning after the few seconds are done. There are always two P’s on each level. One when you’re midway to clearing the bombs, and one when there is exactly one bomb left. An “E”, which gives an extra life. This one shows up at random. A “B” which gives extra points. This one is random too. But beware, there can only be one bonus on screen. If you don’t collect the “B” or “E”, no “P”s are forthcoming. There is always one bomb which has a lit fuse. Capturing all the lit-fuse bombs, in order, gives a huge bonus at the end of the level. This game was a huge obsession, and I’ve sunk uncountable hours into mastering this. Of all the games on the Spectrum, this was one of the most fast-paced and responsive, with very smooth graphics. It is still amazing that all this was achieved on an 8-bit computer with a measly 48K of RAM. Absolute gold! " },{ "id": "/games/brucelee", "url": "/games/brucelee/", "title": "Bruce Lee", "layout": "page", "description": "Platformer where you control the titular Bruce Lee as he works his way through a maze and beats up all the baddies he encounters.", "lastmod": "2023-09-06T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/games/brucelee.gif", "tags": "", "content": "This is a standard platformer, where you play the titular Bruce Lee, as he kicks and punches his way through a complex maze involving ladders, conveyer belts, hazardous fountains and electric arcs, all while collecting low-hanging yellow fruit. The fruit also double up as keys, with doors only opening after all fruit have been collected. Bruce Lee has a variety of attacks and blocks, involving ducks, punches, kicks and flying kicks. Two baddies pop up on every screen, and always make a beeline for our hero; a short, fast-moving one who hits Bruce with a stick, and a taller one. Both are relatively easy to dispatch, but respawn immediately after said dispatch. Once you get the hang of the keys and attach combos, going through this game is fairly straightforward. What I like about this game is the complex map. Several times you have to double back to take a path that has now opened up because you completed an action three screens away. There are maps you revisit, moving through an area of the screen which was inaccessible the last time through. Given the nature of the game, there is a definite end, and getting there involves facing a boss, a huge character throwing fireballs. The graphics are quite classy, and the gameplay is smooth and the motion is fluid. As always, incredible stuff for a little 48K 8-bit spectrum. " },{ "id": "/games/civ2", "url": "/games/civ2/", "title": "Sid Meier's Civilization II", "layout": "page", "description": "Turn-based strategy game, where the player evolves his kingdom from an agrarian society to a space-faring race.", "lastmod": "2023-09-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/games/civ2.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Civilization II models the historical development of the human civilization. Each player picks one of a 20-odd historical civilizations, and plays as a significant leader from that civilization. The computer plays as competing civilizations, on a custom or randomly generated map. Each turn represents a certain number of years in human development. Players begin in 4000BC, as a small settlement on a few tiles. The rest of the map remains unexplored, and the player does not have visibility beyond his own tiles and a few neighbouring tiles. Players slowly develop skills, make discoveries and invent technologies, while building the cities in their nation. They will encounter other civilizations which could be friendly, or hostile. Diplomatic relations can be established, technologies stolen, wars could be fought, and treaties signed. The goal of the game is to either wipe out all other civilizations, or become the first space-faring civilization. There are many approaches to play this game. One can be super aggressive, and have an all out war with every other nation encountered, until everyone is eradicated. Another approach would be to have a strong diplomatic ties, and use those ties to keep stealing their technological advances. The best approach would be a blend, by being agressive sometimes with some enemies, and have diplomatic relations with some others for mutual benefit. The game makes you think, and gives you a great insight into the development of civilization and humanity as a whole, culturally, scientifically, politically, and technologically. Based on the rules of this game, there is an open-source equivalent, called Freeciv. Definitely worth playing, strongly recommend. " },{ "id": "/games/jetpac", "url": "/games/jetpac/", "title": "Jet Pac", "layout": "page", "description": "Addictive arcade-style platform shooter with magnificent graphics and gameplay, with some fantastic baddie designs", "lastmod": "2023-09-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/games/jetpac.gif", "tags": "", "content": "In JetPac, you control an intrepid spaceman, who goes planet to planet collecting treasures while avoiding and shooting up the irate aliens. He starts off by assembling his rocket, and refueling it, and then moving on to the next planet. The planets only differ in the design of the aliens, and the pattern of their motion. On each planet, the spaceman collects treasures and refuels the rocket. There are some very clever bits of gameplay which are fascinating. One, the screen wraps around. Going off the side of the screen just brings you around to the other. Of course, this applies to the spaceman, the aliens and even the shots fired by the spaceman. Second, the animation of aliens exploding (or the Spaceman himself, in that unfortunate eventuality) is very well done. Third, the graphics and colouring is very crisp and well defined. The movement of both the spaceman and the aliens is smooth and responsive. The fuel canisters and treasures slowly and smoothly waft down from the sky. There are about 10 different alien designs, with about just as many movement patterns. There are 4 spaceship designs, and every five planets, a new spaceship has to be reassembled. So essentially, there are about 20 or so unique levels. The 21st level is identical to the first. This game has provided endless hours of fun, and I remain continually amazed at what the developers have managed to wring out from a measly 48KB RAM with an 8-bit processor. " },{ "id": "/games/nibbles", "url": "/games/nibbles/", "title": "Nibbles", "layout": "page", "description": "The good old snake game, implemented in QBasic with source code distributed with MS-DOS 5 onwards...", "lastmod": "2023-09-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/games/nibbles.gif", "tags": "", "content": "When DOS first came out, packaged along with it was GWBASIC, an interpreter for the BASIC language which was a good starting point to learn programming in the 80s. Microsoft also brought out a commercial tool called QuickBASIC, with a great IDE and a compiler, which did away with the line numbering concepts, and brought in more functional programming to do away with BASIC’s notorious GOTO statement. QBasic was a pared-down free version of QuickBASIC, bundled along with MS-DOS 5.0 and later. To demonstrate what QBasic was capable of, bundled along with it were a few programs, and the magnificent NIBBLES.BAS NIBBLES is the classic snake game. You are a continuously moving snake, and you can turn left or right. Your aim is to eat all the numbers which pop up on screen, while trying not to crash into any walls, or even your own tail. The catch is that as you eat more, you grow progressively longer. The game is written for an 80x25 text screen, and by some clever use of ASCII block symbols, the screen is effectively 80 by 50. As you move to higher levels, the game progressively gets more complex, with walls, and obstacles which keep popping up. There is even a two player version, where there are two snakes on screen, with different keys to control each snake. The game is essentially a throwaway, with source released and no commercial entanglements. Despite that, the game is truly engaging and addictive. One could spend hours nudging the snake this way and that to get to those numbers. Hours and hours. There was nothing essentially original about this game. Snake games existed well before this, and have continued to exist to this day with MMORPG versions like Slither.IO. But NIBBLES.BAS was the most engaging, not half because of an audience which got addicted to it out of sheer boredom in the pre-solitaire world. " },{ "id": "/games/saboteur2", "url": "/games/saboteur2/", "title": "Saboteur 2", "layout": "page", "description": "A Ninja fights her way through a building full of baddies... and big cats.", "lastmod": "2023-09-08T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/games/sab2.png", "tags": "", "content": "The premise of this game is so intruiging. You play a female ninja warrior tasked with sabotaging the baddies’ building. You start of on a hang-glider, flying over the building. You choose when to jump off, and then work your way from the roof to the basement, through a veritable maze of ladders & lifts. You are given multiple missions to execute, stuff like collect a computer tape, or destroy the android. All the while, you have to contend with baddies accompanied by panthers, using Ninja moves and shurikens. There are several Ninja-type weapons strewn throughout the building, which have to be collected and used. Once the mission is done, reach the basement and a motorcycle awaits our heroine, who then rides it to smash through a fence and escape. Rinse and repeat, for the next mission. The premise is excellent, but what makes this game is the outstanding artwork and graphics. The gameplay is reminiscent of Prince of Persia, though this game likely predates PoP by a few years. The downside is the slow and jerky movement of the characters. The controls are not very responsive, which is probably because the graphics are as good as they are. Another irritant is that there are myriad set of keys to be used for different actions, for example, there are different keys to be used on the glider, the motorbike, and while fighting. Still, the game provides hours of entertainment to explore the building and contend with the many, many baddies. Top notch stuff. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1804", "url": "/panorama/1804/", "title": "Break, break, break", "layout": "page", "author": "Tennyson, Lord Alfred", "lastmod": "2012-12-18T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2024-09-18T00:00:00-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Break, break, break,    On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter    The thoughts that arise in me. O, well for the fisherman’s boy,    That he shouts with his sister at play! O, well for the sailor lad,    That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on    To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand,    And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break,    At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead    Will never come back to me. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1805", "url": "/panorama/1805/", "title": "My Heart's In The Highlands", "layout": "page", "author": "Burns, Robert", "lastmod": "2024-09-17T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe, My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; A-chasing the wild-deer, and following the roe, My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1806", "url": "/panorama/1806/", "title": "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud [Daffodils]", "layout": "page", "author": "Wordsworth, William", "lastmod": "2022-11-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed — and gazed — but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1807", "url": "/panorama/1807/", "title": "Kubla Khan", "layout": "page", "author": "Coleridge, Samuel Taylor", "lastmod": "2014-11-06T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man   Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round; And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean; And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!   The shadow of the dome of pleasure   Floated midway on the waves;   Where was heard the mingled measure   From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!   A damsel with a dulcimer   In a vision once I saw:   It was an Abyssinian maid   And on her dulcimer she played,   Singing of Mount Abora.   Could I revive within me   Her symphony and song,   To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1808", "url": "/panorama/1808/", "title": "Rime of the Ancient Mariner", "layout": "page", "author": "Coleridge, Samuel Taylor", "lastmod": "2014-11-08T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "PART I It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. ‘By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May’st hear the merry din.’ He holds him with his skinny hand, ‘There was a ship,’ quoth he. ‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’ Eftsoons his hand dropt he. He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years’ child: The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. ‘The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon—’ The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o’ertaking wings, And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled. And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound! At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God’s name. It ate the food it ne’er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through! And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner’s hollo! In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine.’ ‘God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look’st thou so?’—With my cross-bow I shot the ALBATROSS. PART II The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariner’s hollo! And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work ‘em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow! Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. ‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, ‘Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch’s oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. And some in dreams assurèd were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. PART III There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist; It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in. As they were drinking all. See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel! The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven’s Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face. Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres? Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a DEATH? and are there two? Is DEATH that woman’s mate? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she, Who thicks man’s blood with cold. The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; ‘The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!’ Quoth she, and whistles thrice. The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out; At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip— Till clomb above the eastern bar The hornèd Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly,— They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow! PART IV ‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.’— Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay dead like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. An orphan’s curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man’s eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die. The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside— Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, The charmèd water burnt alway A still and awful red. Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. PART V Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained. My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost. And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere. The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about! And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between. And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge, And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge. The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up-blew; The mariners all ‘gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew. The body of my brother’s son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me. ‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!’ Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! ‘Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest: For when it dawned—they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed. Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning! And now ‘twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel’s song, That makes the heavens be mute. It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath. Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also. The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean: But in a minute she ‘gan stir, With a short uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air. ‘Is it he?’ quoth one, ‘Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross. The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.’ The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.’ PART VI First Voice ‘But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing— What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing?’ Second Voice Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast— If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.’ First Voice ‘But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?’ Second Voice ‘The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner’s trance is abated.’ I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: ‘Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; The dead men stood together. All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray. And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen— Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade. It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring— It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— On me alone it blew. Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? We drifted o’er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray— O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway. The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon. The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deck— Oh, Christ! what saw I there! Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light; This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart— No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot’s cheer; My head was turned perforce away And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast. I saw a third—I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away The Albatross’s blood. PART VII This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, ‘Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?’ ‘Strange, by my faith!’ the Hermit said— ‘And they answered not our cheer! The planks looked warped! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf’s young.’ ‘Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look— (The Pilot made reply) I am a-feared’—’Push on, push on!’ Said the Hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead. Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot’s boat. Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound. I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit. I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. ‘Ha! ha!’ quoth he, ‘full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.’ And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. ‘O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!’ The Hermit crossed his brow. ‘Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou?’ Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach. What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer! O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely ‘twas, that God himself Scarce seemèd there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, ‘Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!— To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends And youths and maidens gay! Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all. The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom’s door. He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1809", "url": "/panorama/1809/", "title": "I had a Hippopotamus", "layout": "page", "author": "Barrington, Patrick", "lastmod": "2014-11-09T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I had a Hippopotamus, I kept him in a shed And fed him upon vitamins and vegetable bread I made him my companion on many cheery walks And had his portrait done by a celebrity in chalk His charming eccentricities were known on every side The creatures’ popularity was wonderfully wide He frolocked with the Rector in a dozen friendly tussles Who could not but remark on his hippopotamuscles If he should be affected by depression or the dumps By hippopotameasles or the hippopotamumps I never knew a particle of peace ‘till it was plain He was hippopotamasticating properly again I had a Hippopotamus, I loved him as a friend But beautiful relationships are bound to have an end Time takes alas! our joys from us and rids us of our blisses My hippopotamus turned out to be a hippopotamisses My house keeper regarded him with jaundice in her eye She did not want a colony of hippotami She borrowed a machine gun from from her soldier nephew, Percy And showed my hippopotamus no hippopotamercy My house now lacks that glamour that the charming creature gave The garage where I kept him is now as silent as the grave No longer he displays among the motor tyres and spanners His hippopomastery of hippopotamanners No longer now he gambols in the orchards in the spring No longer do I lead him through the village on a string No longer in the morning does the neighbourhood rejoice To his hippopotamusically-modulated voice. I had a hippopotamus but nothing upon earth Is constant in its happines or lasting in its mirth No joy that life can give me can be strong enough to smother My sorrow for that might-have-been-a-hippopota-mother " },{ "id": "/panorama/1810", "url": "/panorama/1810/", "title": "Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening", "layout": "page", "author": "Frost, Robert", "lastmod": "2014-11-11T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound’s the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1811", "url": "/panorama/1811/", "title": "The Professor", "layout": "page", "author": "Ezekiel, Nissim", "lastmod": "2014-11-13T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Remember me? I am Professor Sheth. Once I taught you geography. Now I am retired, though my health is good. My wife died some years back. By God’s grace, all my children Are well settled in life. One is Sales Manager, One is Bank Manager, Both have cars. Other also doing well, though not so well. Every family must have black sheep. Sarala and Tarala are married, Their husbands are very nice boys. You won’t believe but I have eleven grandchildren. How many issues you have? Three? That is good. These are days of family planning. I am not against. We have to change with times. Whole world is changing. In India also We are keeping up. Our progress is progressing. Old values are going, new values are coming. Everything is happening with leaps and bounds. I am going out rarely, now and then Only, this is price of old age But my health is O.K. Usual aches and pains. No diabetes, no blood pressure, no heart attack. This is because of sound habits in youth. How is your health keeping? Nicely? I am happy for that. This year I am sixty-nine and hope to score a century. You were so thin, like stick, Now you are man of weight and consequence. That is good joke. If you are coming again this side by chance, Visit please my humble residence also. I am living just on opposite house’s backside. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1812", "url": "/panorama/1812/", "title": "Funeral Blues", "layout": "page", "author": "Auden, W.H.", "lastmod": "2014-11-14T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; For nothing now can ever come to any good. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1813", "url": "/panorama/1813/", "title": "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time", "layout": "page", "author": "Herrick, Robert", "lastmod": "2014-11-16T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,   Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today   Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,   The higher he’s a-getting, The sooner will his race be run,   And nearer he’s to setting. That age is best which is the first,   When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst   Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time,   And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime,   You may forever tarry. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1814", "url": "/panorama/1814/", "title": "The Echoing Green", "layout": "page", "author": "Blake, William", "lastmod": "2014-11-17T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The sun does arise, And make happy the skies. The merry bells ring To welcome the spring. The skylark and thrush, The birds of the bush, Sing louder around, To the bells’ cheerful sound, While our sports shall be seen On the echoing green. Old John with white hair Does laugh away care, Sitting under the oak, Among the old folk. They laugh at our play, And soon they all say: \"Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth-time were seen On the echoing green.\" Till the little ones weary No more can be merry; The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mother Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest; And sport no more seen On the darkening green. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1815", "url": "/panorama/1815/", "title": "To a Skylark", "layout": "page", "author": "Wordsworth, William", "lastmod": "2014-11-19T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky! Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound? Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground? Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will, Those quivering wings composed, that music still! To the last point of vision, and beyond, Mount, daring warbler! -that love-prompted strain, (‘Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond), Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain: Yet mightst thou seem, proud privilege! to sing All independent of the leafy Spring. Leave to the nightingale her shady wood; A privacy of glorious light is thine, Whence thou dost pour upon the world a flood Of harmony, with instinct more divine; Type of the wise who soar, but never roam; True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1816", "url": "/panorama/1816/", "title": "The Lake Isle of Innisfree", "layout": "page", "author": "Yeats, William Butler", "lastmod": "2014-11-21T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree, And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made: Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee; And live alone in the bee-loud glade. And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow, Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings; There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow, And evening full of the linnet’s wings. I will arise and go now, for always night and day I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore; While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey, I hear it in the deep heart’s core. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1817", "url": "/panorama/1817/", "title": "To a Skylark", "layout": "page", "author": "Shelley, Percy Bysshe", "lastmod": "2014-11-22T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "        Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!               Bird thou never wert,         That from Heaven, or near it,               Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.         Higher still and higher               From the earth thou springest         Like a cloud of fire;               The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.         In the golden lightning               Of the sunken sun         O’er which clouds are bright’ning,               Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.         The pale purple even               Melts around thy flight;         Like a star of Heaven               In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight:         Keen as are the arrows               Of that silver sphere,         Whose intense lamp narrows               In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see–we feel that it is there.         All the earth and air               With thy voice is loud.         As, when night is bare,               From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.         What thou art we know not;               What is most like thee?         From rainbow clouds there flow not               Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.         Like a poet hidden               In the light of thought,         Singing hymns unbidden,               Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:         Like a high-born maiden               In a palace tower,         Soothing her love-laden               Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:         Like a glow-worm golden               In a dell of dew,         Scattering unbeholden               Its aerial hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:         Like a rose embowered               In its own green leaves,         By warm winds deflowered,               Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.         Sound of vernal showers               On the twinkling grass,         Rain-awakened flowers,               All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.         Teach us, sprite or bird,               What sweet thoughts are thine:         I have never heard               Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.         Chorus hymeneal               Or triumphal chaunt         Matched with thine, would be all               But an empty vaunt– A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.         What objects are the fountains               Of thy happy strain?         What fields, or waves, or mountains?               What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?         With thy clear keen joyance               Languor cannot be:         Shadow of annoyance               Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.         Waking or asleep,               Thou of death must deem         Things more true and deep               Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?         We look before and after,               And pine for what is not:         Our sincerest laughter               With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.         Yet if we could scorn               Hate, and pride, and fear;         If we were things born               Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.         Better than all measures               Of delightful sound,         Better than all treasures               That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!         Teach me half the gladness               That thy brain must know,         Such harmonious madness               From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1818", "url": "/panorama/1818/", "title": "Ode to a Nightingale", "layout": "page", "author": "Keats, John", "lastmod": "2014-11-24T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains     My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains     One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: ‘Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,     But being too happy in thine happiness,–         That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees             In some melodious plot     Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,         Singest of summer in full-throated ease. O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been     Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green,     Dance, and Provencal song, and sunburnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South,     Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,         With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,             And purple-stained mouth;     That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,         And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget     What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret     Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,     Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;         Where but to think is to be full of sorrow             And leaden-eyed despairs,     Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,         Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow. Away! away! for I will fly to thee,     Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of Poesy,     Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night,     And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,         Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;             But here there is no light,     Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown         Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,     Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet     Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;     White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;         Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;             And mid-May’s eldest child,     The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,         The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. Darkling I listen; and, for many a time     I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme,     To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die,     To cease upon the midnight with no pain,         While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad             In such an ecstasy!     Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain —         To thy high requiem become a sod. Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!     No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard     In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path     Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,         She stood in tears amid the alien corn;             The same that oft-times hath     Charm’d magic casements, opening on the foam         Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Forlorn! the very word is like a bell     To toll me back from thee to my sole self! Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well     As she is fam’d to do, deceiving elf. Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades     Past the near meadows, over the still stream,         Up the hill-side; and now ‘tis buried deep             In the next valley-glades:     Was it a vision, or a waking dream?         Fled is that music — Do I wake or sleep? " },{ "id": "/panorama/1819", "url": "/panorama/1819/", "title": "The West Wind", "layout": "page", "author": "Masefield, John", "lastmod": "2014-11-26T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "IT’S a warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries; I never hear the west wind but tears are in my eyes. For it comes from the west lands, the old brown hills. And April’s in the west wind, and daffodils. It’s a fine land, the west land, for hearts as tired as mine, Apple orchards blossom there, and the air’s like wine. There is cool green grass there, where men may lie at rest, And the thrushes are in song there, fluting from the nest. \"Will ye not come home brother? ye have been long away, It’s April, and blossom time, and white is the may; And bright is the sun brother, and warm is the rain,– Will ye not come home, brother, home to us again? \"The young corn is green, brother, where the rabbits run. It’s blue sky, and white clouds, and warm rain and sun. It’s song to a man’s soul, brother, fire to a man’s brain, To hear the wild bees and see the merry spring again. \"Larks are singing in the west, brother, above the green wheat, So will ye not come home, brother, and rest your tired feet? I’ve a balm for bruised hearts, brother, sleep for aching eyes,\" Says the warm wind, the west wind, full of birds’ cries. It’s the white road westwards is the road I must tread To the green grass, the cool grass, and rest for heart and head, To the violets, and the warm hearts, and the thrushes’ song, In the fine land, the west land, the land where I belong. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1820", "url": "/panorama/1820/", "title": "A River", "layout": "page", "author": "Ramanujan, A.K.", "lastmod": "2014-11-27T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "In Madurai, city of temples and poets, who sang of cities and temples, every summer a river dries to a trickle in the sand, baring the sand ribs, straw and women’s hair clogging the watergates at the rusty bars under the bridges with patches of repair all over them the wet stones glistening like sleepy crocodiles, the dry ones shaven water-buffaloes lounging in the sun The poets only sang of the floods. He was there for a day when they had the floods. People everywhere talked of the inches rising, of the precise number of cobbled steps run over by the water, rising on the bathing places, and the way it carried off three village houses, one pregnant woman and a couple of cows named Gopi and Brinda as usual. The new poets still quoted the old poets, but no one spoke in verse of the pregnant woman drowned, with perhaps twins in her, kicking at blank walls even before birth. He said: the river has water enough to be poetic about only once a year and then it carries away in the first half-hour three village houses, a couple of cows named Gopi and Brinda and one pregnant woman expecting identical twins with no moles on their bodies, with different coloured diapers to tell them apart. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1821", "url": "/panorama/1821/", "title": "The Bees", "layout": "page", "author": "Shakespeare, William", "lastmod": "2014-11-29T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "                so work the honey-bees, Creatures that by a rule in nature teach The act of order to a peopled kingdom. They have a king and officers of sorts; Where some, like magistrates, correct at home, Others, like merchants, venture trade abroad, Others, like soldiers, armed in their stings, Make boot upon the summer’s velvet buds, Which pillage they with merry march bring home To the tent-royal of their emperor; Who, busied in his majesty, surveys The singing masons building roofs of gold, The civil citizens kneading up the honey, The poor mechanic porters crowding in Their heavy burdens at his narrow gate, The sad-eyed justice, with his surly hum, Delivering o’er to executors pale The lazy yawning drone. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1822", "url": "/panorama/1822/", "title": "Character of a Happy Life", "layout": "page", "author": "Wotton, Sir Henry", "lastmod": "2014-11-30T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "HOW happy is he born or taught     That serveth not another’s will, Whose armor is his honest thought,     And simple truth his highest skill; Whose passions not his masters are;     Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world with care     Of princes’ grace or vulgar breath; Who envies none whom chance doth raise,     Or vice; who never understood The deepest wounds are given by praise,     By rule of state but not of good; Who hath his life from rumours freed,     Whose conscience is his strong retreat, Whose state can neither flatterers feed     Nor ruins make accusers great; Who God doth late and early pray     More of his grace than goods to send, And entertains the harmless day     With a well-chosen book or friend. This man is free from servile bands     Of hope to rise or fear to fall, Lord of himself, though not of lands,     And having nothing, yet hath all. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1823", "url": "/panorama/1823/", "title": "The Pulley", "layout": "page", "author": "Herbert, George", "lastmod": "2014-12-02T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "   When God at first made man, Having a glass of blessings standing by; ‘Let us’, said he, ‘pour on him all we can: Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,        Contract into a span’.    So strength first made a way; The beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure: When almost all was out, God made a stay, Perceiving that alone of all his treasure        Rest in the bottom lay.    ‘For if I should’, said he, ‘Bestow this jewel also on my creature, He would adore my gifts instead of me, And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature:        So both should losers be.    ‘Yet let him keep the rest, But keep them with repining restlessness: Let him be rich and weary, that at least, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness        May toss him to my breast.’ " },{ "id": "/panorama/1824", "url": "/panorama/1824/", "title": "Light Shining out of Darkness", "layout": "page", "author": "Cowper, William", "lastmod": "2014-12-04T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "God moves in a mysterious way     His wonders to perform; He plants His footsteps in the sea,     And rides upon the storm. Deep in unfathomable mines     Of never-failing skill, He treasures up His bright designs,     And works His sovereign will. Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,     The clouds ye so much dread Are big with mercy, and shall break     In blessings on your head. Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,     But trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence     He hides a smiling face. His purposes will ripen fast,     Unfolding every hour; The bud may have a bitter taste,     But sweet will be the flower. Blind unbelief is sure to err,     And scan His work in vain: God is His own interpreter,     And he will make it plain. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1825", "url": "/panorama/1825/", "title": "The Tiger", "layout": "page", "author": "Blake, William", "lastmod": "2014-12-05T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And water’d heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? " },{ "id": "/panorama/1826", "url": "/panorama/1826/", "title": "Sleep", "layout": "page", "author": "Wordsworth, William", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "A FLOCK of sheep that leisurely pass by, One after one; the sound of rain, and bees Murmuring; the fall of rivers, winds and seas, Smooth fields, white sheets of water, and pure sky; I have thought of all by turns, and yet do lie Sleepless! and soon the small birds’ melodies Must hear, first uttered from my orchard trees; And the first cuckoo’s melancholy cry. Even thus last night, and two nights more, I lay, And could not win thee, Sleep! by any stealth: So do not let me wear to-night away: Without Thee what is all the morning’s wealth? Come, blessed barrier between day and day, Dear mother of fresh thoughts and joyous health! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1827", "url": "/panorama/1827/", "title": "The Darkling Thrush", "layout": "page", "author": "Hardy, Thomas", "lastmod": "2014-12-09T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I leant upon a coppice gate   When Frost was specter-gray, And Winter’s dregs made desolate   The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky   Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh   Had sought their household fires. The land’s sharp features seemed to be   The Century’s corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy,   The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth   Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth   Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among   The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong   Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,   In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul   Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carollings   Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things   Afar or nigh around, That I could think there troubled through   His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew   And I was unaware. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1828", "url": "/panorama/1828/", "title": "Uphill", "layout": "page", "author": "Rossetti, Christina", "lastmod": "2014-12-10T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Does the road wind up-hill all the way?     Yes, to the very end. Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?     From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place?     A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face?     You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?    Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?    They will not keep you standing at that door. Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?    Of labour you shall find the sum. Will there be beds for me and all who seek?    Yea, beds for all who come. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1829", "url": "/panorama/1829/", "title": "On his Blindness", "layout": "page", "author": "Milton, John", "lastmod": "2014-12-12T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "When I consider how my light is spent      Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,      And that one talent which is death to hide      Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent  To serve therewith my Maker, and present      My true account, lest he returning chide,      \"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?\"      I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent  That murmur, soon replies: \"God doth not need     Either man’s work or his own gifts: who best     Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed     And post o’er land and ocean without rest:     They also serve who only stand and wait.\" " },{ "id": "/panorama/1830", "url": "/panorama/1830/", "title": "Night of the Scorpion", "layout": "page", "author": "Ezekiel, Nissim", "lastmod": "2014-12-13T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I remember the night my mother was stung by a scorpion. Ten hours of steady rain had driven him to crawl beneath a sack of rice. Parting with his poison - flash of diabolic tail in the dark room - he risked the rain again. The peasants came like swarms of flies and buzzed the name of God a hundred times to paralyse the Evil One. With candles and with lanterns throwing giant scorpion shadows on the mud-baked walls they searched for him: he was not found. They clicked their tongues. With every movement that the scorpion made his poison moved in Mother’s blood, they said. May he sit still, they said. May the sins of your previous birth be burned away tonight, they said. May your suffering decrease the misfortunes of your next birth, they said. May the sum of all evil balanced in this unreal world against the sum of good become diminished by your pain. May the poison purify your flesh of desire, and your spirit of ambition, they said, and they sat around on the floor with my mother in the centre, the peace of understanding on each face. More candles, more lanterns, more neighbours, more insects, and the endless rain. My mother twisted through and through, groaning on a mat. My father, sceptic, rationalist, trying every curse and blessing, powder, mixture, herb and hybrid. He even poured a little paraffin upon the bitten toe and put a match to it. I watched the flame feeding on my mother. I watched the holy man perform his rites to tame the poison with an incantation. After twenty hours it lost its sting. My mother only said Thank God the scorpion picked on me And spared my children. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1831", "url": "/panorama/1831/", "title": "Seven ages of man", "layout": "page", "author": "Shakespeare, William", "lastmod": "2014-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. Then, the whining schoolboy with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice In fair round belly, with good capon lin’d, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws, and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side, His youthful hose well sav’d, a world too wide, For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again towards childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1832", "url": "/panorama/1832/", "title": "The Village Blacksmith", "layout": "page", "author": "Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth", "lastmod": "2014-12-17T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Under a spreading chestnut-tree     The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,     With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms     Are strong as iron bands. His hair is crisp, and black, and long,     His face is like the tan; His brow is wet with honest sweat,     He earns whate’er he can, And looks the whole world in the face,     For he owes not any man. Week in, week out, from morn till night,     You can hear his bellows blow; You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,     With measured beat and slow, Like a sexton ringing the village bell,     When the evening sun is low. And children coming home from school     Look in at the open door; They love to see the flaming forge,     And hear the bellows roar, And catch the burning sparks that fly     Like chaff from a threshing-floor. He goes on Sunday to the church,     And sits among his boys; He hears the parson pray and preach,     He hears his daughter’s voice, Singing in the village choir,     And it makes his heart rejoice. It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,     Singing in Paradise! He needs must think of her once more,     How in the grave she lies; And with his hard, rough hand he wipes     A tear out of his eyes. Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,     Onward through life he goes; Each morning sees some task begin,     Each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done,     Has earned a night’s repose. Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,     For the lesson thou hast taught! Thus at the flaming forge of life     Our fortunes must be wrought; Thus on its sounding anvil shaped     Each burning deed and thought. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1833", "url": "/panorama/1833/", "title": "Miss Gee", "layout": "page", "author": "Auden, W.H.", "lastmod": "2014-12-18T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Let me tell you a little story   About Miss Edith Gee; She lived in Clevedon Terrace   At number 83. She’d a slight squint in her left eye,   Her lips they were thin and small, She had narrow sloping shoulders   And she had no bust at all. She’d a velvet hat with trimmings,   And a dark grey serge costume; She lived in Clevedon Terrace   In a small bed-sitting room. She’d a purple mac for wet days,   A green umbrella too to take, She’d a bicycle with shopping basket   And a harsh back-pedal break. The Church of Saint Aloysius   Was not so very far; She did a lot of knitting,   Knitting for the Church Bazaar. Miss Gee looked up at the starlight   And said, ‘Does anyone care That I live on Clevedon Terrace   On one hundred pounds a year?’ She dreamed a dream one evening   That she was the Queen of France And the Vicar of Saint Aloysius   Asked Her Majesty to dance. But a storm blew down the palace,   She was biking through a field of corn, And a bull with the face of the Vicar   Was charging with lowered horn. She could feel his hot breath behind her,   He was going to overtake; And the bicycle went slower and slower   Because of that back-pedal break. Summer made the trees a picture,   Winter made them a wreck; She bicycled to the evening service   With her clothes buttoned up to her neck. She passed by the loving couples,   She turned her head away; She passed by the loving couples,   And they didn’t ask her to stay. Miss Gee sat in the side-aisle,   She heard the organ play; And the choir sang so sweetly   At the ending of the day, Miss Gee knelt down in the side-aisle,   She knelt down on her knees; ‘Lead me not into temptation   But make me a good girl, please.’ The days and nights went by her   Like waves round a Cornish wreck; She bicycled down to the doctor   With her clothes buttoned up to her neck. She bicycled down to the doctor,  And rang the surgery bell; ‘O, doctor, I’ve a pain inside me,   And I don’t feel very well.’ Doctor Thomas looked her over,   And then he looked some more; Walked over to his wash-basin,  Said,’Why didn’t you come before?’ Doctor Thomas sat over his dinner,   Though his wife was waiting to ring, Rolling his bread into pellets;   Said, ‘Cancer’s a funny thing. ‘Nobody knows what the cause is,   Though some pretend they do; It’s like some hidden assassin   Waiting to strike at you. ‘Childless women get it.   And men when they retire; It’s as if there had to be some outlet   For their foiled creative fire.’ His wife she rang for the servent,   Said, ‘Dont be so morbid, dear’; He said: ‘I saw Miss Gee this evening   And she’s a goner, I fear.’ They took Miss Gee to the hospital,   She lay there a total wreck, Lay in the ward for women   With her bedclothes right up to her neck. They lay her on the table,   The students began to laugh; And Mr. Rose the surgeon   He cut Miss Gee in half. Mr. Rose he turned to his students,   Said, ‘Gentlemen if you please, We seldom see a sarcoma   As far advanced as this.’ They took her off the table,   They wheeled away Miss Gee Down to another department   Where they study Anatomy. They hung her from the ceiling   Yes, they hung up Miss Gee; And a couple of Oxford Groupers   Carefully dissected her knee. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1834", "url": "/panorama/1834/", "title": "Macavity: the Mystery Cat", "layout": "page", "author": "Eliot, T.S.", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw - For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law. He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair: For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity’s not there! Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity, He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity. His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare, And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity’s not there! You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air - But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there! Mcavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin; You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in. His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed; His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed. He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake; And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake. Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity, For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity. You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square - But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there! He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.) And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s. And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled, Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled, Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair - Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there! And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty’s gone astray, Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way, There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair - But it’s useless to investigate - Mcavity’s not there! And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say: `It must have been Macavity!’ - but he’s a mile away. You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs, Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums. Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity, There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity. He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer: At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN’T THERE! And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone) Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1835", "url": "/panorama/1835/", "title": "Nothing Gold Can Stay", "layout": "page", "author": "Frost, Robert", "lastmod": "2023-07-06T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1836", "url": "/panorama/1836/", "title": "The Walrus and The Carpenter", "layout": "page", "author": "Carroll, Lewis", "lastmod": "2014-12-23T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The sun was shining on the sea,   Shining with all his might: He did his very best to make   The billows smooth and bright – And this was odd, because it was   The middle of the night. The moon was shining sulkily,   Because she thought the sun Had got no business to be there   After the day was done – ‘It’s very rude of him.’ she said,   ‘To come and spoil the fun!’ The sea was wet as wet could be,   The sands were dry as dry. You could not see a cloud, because   No cloud was in the sky: No birds were flying overhead –   There were no birds to fly. The Walrus and the Carpenter   Were walking close at hand: They wept like anything to see   Such quantities of sand: ‘If this were only cleared away,’   They said, ‘it would be grand.’ ‘If seven maids with seven mops   Swept it for half a year, Do you suppose,’ the Walrus said,   ‘That they could get it clear?’ ‘I doubt it,’ said the Carpenter,   And shed a bitter tear. ‘O Oysters, come and walk with us!   The Walrus did beseech. ‘A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,   Along the briny beach: We cannot do with more than four,   To give a hand to each.’ The eldest Oyster looked at him,   But never a word he said: The eldest Oyster winked his eye,   And shook his heavy head – Meaning to say he did not choose   To leave the oyster-bed. Out four young Oysters hurried up.   All eager for the treat: Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,   Their shoes were clean and neat – And this was odd, because, you know,   They hadn’t any feet. Four other Oysters followed them,   And yet another four; And thick and fast they came at last,   And more, and more, and more – All hopping through the frothy waves,   And scrambling to the shore. The Walrus and the Carpenter   Walked on a mile or so, And then they rested on a rock   Conveniently low: And all the little Oysters stood   And waited in a row. ‘The time has come,’ the Walrus said,   ‘To talk of many things: Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax –   Of cabbages – and kings – And why the sea is boiling hot –   And whether pigs have wings.’ ‘But wait a bit,’ the Oysters cried,   ‘Before we have our chat; For some of us are out of breath,   And all of us are fat!’ ‘No hurry!’ said the Carpenter.   They thanked him much for that. ‘A loaf of bread,’ the Walrus said,   ‘Is what we chiefly need: Pepper and vinegar besides   Are very good indeed – Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear,   We can begin to feed.’ ‘But not on us!’ the Oysters cried,   Turning a little blue. ‘After such kindness, that would be   A dismal thing to do!’ ‘The night is fine,’ the Walrus said,   ‘Do you admire the view?’ ‘It was so kind of you to come!   And you are very nice!’ The Carpenter said nothing but   ‘Cut us another slice- I wish you were not quite so deaf-   I’ve had to ask you twice!’ ‘It seems a shame,’ the Walrus said,   ‘To play them such a trick. After we’ve brought them out so far,   And made them trot so quick!’ The Carpenter said nothing but   ‘The butter’s spread too thick!’ ‘I weep for you,’the Walrus said:   ‘I deeply sympathize.’ With sobs and tears he sorted out   Those of the largest size, Holding his pocket-handkerchief   Before his streaming eyes. ‘O Oysters,’ said the Carpenter,   ‘You’ve had a pleasant run! Shall we be trotting home again?’   But answer came there none – And this was scarcely odd, because   They’d eaten every one. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1837", "url": "/panorama/1837/", "title": "Mosquito", "layout": "page", "author": "Lawrence, David Herbert", "lastmod": "2014-12-25T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "When did you start your tricks Monsieur? What do you stand on such high legs for? Why this length of shredded shank You exaltation? Is it so that you shall lift your centre of gravity upwards And weigh no more than air as you alight upon me, Stand upon me weightless, you phantom? I heard a woman call you the Winged Victory In sluggish Venice. You turn your head towards your tail, and smile. How can you put so much devilry Into that translucent phantom shred Of a frail corpus? Queer, with your thin wings and your streaming legs How you sail like a heron, or a dull clot of air, A nothingness. Yet what an aura surrounds you; Your evil little aura, prowling, and casting a numbness on my mind. That is your trick, your bit of filthy magic: Invisibility, and the anæsthetic power To deaden my attention in your direction. But I know your game now, streaky sorcerer. Queer, how you stalk and prowl the air In circles and evasions, enveloping me, Ghoul on wings Winged Victory. Settle, and stand on long thin shanks Eyeing me sideways, and cunningly conscious that I am aware, You speck. I hate the way you lurch off sideways into air Having read my thoughts against you. Come then, let us play at unawares, And see who wins in this sly game of bluff. Man or mosquito. You don’t know that I exist, and I don’t know that you exist. Now then! It is your trump It is your hateful little trump You pointed fiend, Which shakes my sudden blood to hatred of you: It is your small, high, hateful bugle in my ear. Why do you do it? Surely it is bad policy. They say you can’t help it. If that is so, then I believe a little in Providence protecting the innocent. But it sounds so amazingly like a slogan A yell of triumph as you snatch my scalp. Blood, red blood Super-magical Forbidden liquor. I behold you stand For a second enspasmed in oblivion, Obscenely ecstasied Sucking live blood My blood. Such silence, such suspended transport, Such gorging, Such obscenity of trespass. You stagger As well as you may. Only your accursed hairy frailty Your own imponderable weightlessness Saves you, wafts you away on the very draught my anger makes in its snatching. Away with a pæan of derision You winged blood-drop. Can I not overtake you? Are you one too many for me Winged Victory? Am I not mosquito enough to out-mosquito you? Queer, what a big stain my sucked blood makes Beside the infinitesimal faint smear of you! Queer, what a dim dark smudge you have disappeared into! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1838", "url": "/panorama/1838/", "title": "Jerusalem [And did those feet in ancient time]", "layout": "page", "author": "Blake, William", "lastmod": "2014-12-25T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "And did those feet in ancient time Walk upon Englands mountains green: And was the holy Lamb of God, On Englands pleasant pastures seen! And did the Countenance Divine, Shine forth upon our clouded hills? And was Jerusalem builded here, Among these dark Satanic Mills? Bring me my Bow of burning gold: Bring me my arrows of desire: Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold! Bring me my Chariot of fire! I will not cease from Mental Fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand: Till we have built Jerusalem, In Englands green & pleasant Land. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1839", "url": "/panorama/1839/", "title": "The Battle of Blenheim", "layout": "page", "author": "Southey, Robert", "lastmod": "2014-12-28T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " It was a summer evening,      Old Kaspar’s work was done,  And he before his cottage door      Was sitting in the sun,  And by him sported on the green      His little grandchild Wilhelmine.    She saw her brother Peterkin      Roll something large and round,  Which he beside the rivulet     In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found,     That was so large, and smooth, and round.   Old Kaspar took it from the boy,     Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head,     And, with a natural sigh, \"‘Tis some poor fellow’s skull,\" said he,     \"Who fell in the great victory.   \"I find them in the garden,     For there’s many here about; And often when I go to plough,     The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men,\" said he,     \"Were slain in that great victory.\"   \"Now tell us what ‘twas all about,\"     Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up     With wonder-waiting eyes; \"Now tell us all about the war,     And what they fought each other for.\"   \"It was the English,\" Kaspar cried,     \"Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for,     I could not well make out; But everybody said,\" quoth he,     \"That ‘twas a famous victory.   \"My father lived at Blenheim then,     Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground,     And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled,     Nor had he where to rest his head.   \"With fire and sword the country round     Was wasted far and wide, And many a childing mother then,     And new-born baby died; But things like that, you know, must be     At every famous victory.   \"They say it was a shocking sight     After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here     Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be     After a famous victory.   \"Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,     And our good Prince Eugene.\" \"Why, ‘twas a very wicked thing!\"     Said little Wilhelmine. \"Nay… nay… my little girl,\" quoth he,     \"It was a famous victory.   \"And everybody praised the Duke     Who this great fight did win.\" \"But what good came of it at last?\"     Quoth little Peterkin. \"Why that I cannot tell,\" said he,     \"But ‘twas a famous victory.\" " },{ "id": "/panorama/1840", "url": "/panorama/1840/", "title": "The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna", "layout": "page", "author": "Wolfe, Charles", "lastmod": "2014-12-30T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,     As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot     O’er the grave where our hero we buried.   We buried him darkly at dead of night,     The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam’s misty light     And the lanthorn dimly burning.    No useless coffin enclosed his breast,     Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest     With his martial cloak around him.   Few and short were the prayers we said,     And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,     And we bitterly thought of the morrow.   We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed     And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o’er his head,     And we far away on the billow!   Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s gone     And o’er his cold ashes upbraid him,– But little he’ll reck, if they let him sleep on     In the grave where a Briton has laid him.   But half of our heavy task was done     When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun     That the foe was sullenly firing.   Slowly and sadly we laid him down,     From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,     But left him alone with his glory. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1841", "url": "/panorama/1841/", "title": "Paul Revere's Ride", "layout": "page", "author": "Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth", "lastmod": "2014-12-31T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Listen my children and you shall hear Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five; Hardly a man is now alive Who remembers that famous day and year. He said to his friend, \"If the British march By land or sea from the town to-night, Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch Of the North Church tower as a signal light,– One if by land, and two if by sea; And I on the opposite shore will be, Ready to ride and spread the alarm Through every Middlesex village and farm, For the country folk to be up and to arm.\" Then he said \"Good-night!\" and with muffled oar Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore, Just as the moon rose over the bay, Where swinging wide at her moorings lay The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship, with each mast and spar Across the moon like a prison bar, And a huge black hulk, that was magnified By its own reflection in the tide. Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street Wanders and watches, with eager ears, Till in the silence around him he hears The muster of men at the barrack door, The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, And the measured tread of the grenadiers, Marching down to their boats on the shore. Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church, By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread, To the belfry chamber overhead, And startled the pigeons from their perch On the sombre rafters, that round him made Masses and moving shapes of shade,– By the trembling ladder, steep and tall, To the highest window in the wall, Where he paused to listen and look down A moment on the roofs of the town And the moonlight flowing over all. Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead, In their night encampment on the hill, Wrapped in silence so deep and still That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread, The watchful night-wind, as it went Creeping along from tent to tent, And seeming to whisper, \"All is well!\" A moment only he feels the spell Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread Of the lonely belfry and the dead; For suddenly all his thoughts are bent On a shadowy something far away, Where the river widens to meet the bay,– A line of black that bends and floats On the rising tide like a bridge of boats. Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. Now he patted his horse’s side, Now he gazed at the landscape far and near, Then, impetuous, stamped the earth, And turned and tightened his saddle girth; But mostly he watched with eager search The belfry tower of the Old North Church, As it rose above the graves on the hill, Lonely and spectral and sombre and still. And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height A glimmer, and then a gleam of light! He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight A second lamp in the belfry burns. A hurry of hoofs in a village street, A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark, And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet; That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light, The fate of a nation was riding that night; And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight, Kindled the land into flame with its heat. He has left the village and mounted the steep, And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep, Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides; And under the alders that skirt its edge, Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge, Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides. It was twelve by the village clock When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. He heard the crowing of the cock, And the barking of the farmer’s dog, And felt the damp of the river fog, That rises after the sun goes down. It was one by the village clock, When he galloped into Lexington. He saw the gilded weathercock Swim in the moonlight as he passed, And the meeting-house windows, black and bare, Gaze at him with a spectral glare, As if they already stood aghast At the bloody work they would look upon. It was two by the village clock, When he came to the bridge in Concord town. He heard the bleating of the flock, And the twitter of birds among the trees, And felt the breath of the morning breeze Blowing over the meadow brown. And one was safe and asleep in his bed Who at the bridge would be first to fall, Who that day would be lying dead, Pierced by a British musket ball. You know the rest. In the books you have read How the British Regulars fired and fled,— How the farmers gave them ball for ball, From behind each fence and farmyard wall, Chasing the redcoats down the lane, Then crossing the fields to emerge again Under the trees at the turn of the road, And only pausing to fire and load. So through the night rode Paul Revere; And so through the night went his cry of alarm To every Middlesex village and farm,— A cry of defiance, and not of fear, A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, And a word that shall echo for evermore! For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, Through all our history, to the last, In the hour of darkness and peril and need, The people will waken and listen to hear The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed, And the midnight message of Paul Revere. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1842", "url": "/panorama/1842/", "title": "King Canute", "layout": "page", "author": "Thackeray, William Makepeace", "lastmod": "2015-01-02T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "KING CANUTE was weary hearted; he had reigned for years a score, Battling, struggling, pushing, fighting, killing much and robbing more; And he thought upon his actions, walking by the wild sea-shore. ‘Twixt the Chancellor and Bishop walked the King with steps sedate, Chamberlains and grooms came after, silversticks and goldsticks great, Chaplains, aides-de-camp, and pages, - all the officers of state. Sliding after like his shadow, pausing when he chose to pause, If a frown his face contracted, straight the courtiers dropped their jaws; If to laugh the king was minded, out they burst in loud hee-haws. But that day a something vexed him, that was clear to old and young: Thrice his Grace had yawned at table, when his favorite gleemen sung, Once the Queen would have consoled him, but he bade her hold her tongue. \"Something ails my gracious master,\" cried the Keeper of the Seal. \"Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys served to dinner, or the veal?\" \"Psha!\" exclaimed the angry monarch, \"Keeper, ‘tis not that I feel. \"‘Tis the HEART, and not the dinner, fool, that doth my rest impair: Can a king be great as I am, prithee, and yet know no care? Oh, I’m sick, and tired, and weary.\"-Some one cried, \"The King’s arm-chair!\" Then towards the lackeys turning, quick my Lord the Keeper nodded, Straight the King’s great chair was brought him, by two footmen able-bodied; Languidly he sank into it: it was comfortably wadded. \"Leading on my fierce companions,\" cried he, \"over storm and brine, I have fought and I have conquered! Where was glory like to mine?\" Loudly all the courtiers echoed: \"Where is glory like to thine?\" \"What avail me all my kingdoms? Weary am I now and old; Those fair sons I have begotten, long to see me dead and cold; Would I were, and quiet buried, underneath the silent mould! \"Oh, remorse, the writhing serpent! at my bosom tears and bites; Horrid, horrid things I look on, though I put out all the lights; Ghosts of ghastly recollections troop about my bed at nights. \"Cities burning, convents blazing, red with sacrilegious fires; Mothers weeping, virgins screaming vainly for their slaughtered sires.-\" Such a tender conscience,\" cries the Bishop, \"every one admires. \"But for such unpleasant bygones, cease, my gracious lord, to search, They’re forgotten and forgiven by our Holy Mother Church; Never, never does she leave her benefactors in the lurch. \"Look! the land is crowned with minsters, which your Grace’s bounty raised; Abbeys filled with holy men, where you and Heaven are daily praised: YOU, my lord, to think of dying? on my conscience I’m amazed!\" \"Nay, I feel,\" replied King Canute, \"that my end is drawing near.\" \"Don’t say so,\" exclaimed the courtiers (striving each to squeeze a tear). \"Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, and may live this fifty year.\" \"Live these fifty years!\" the Bishop roared, with actions made to suit. \"Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, thus to speak of King Canute! Men have lived a thousand years, and sure his Majesty will do’t. \"Adam, Enoch, Lamech, Cainan, Mahaleel, Methusela, Lived nine hundred years apiece, and mayn’t the King as well as they?\" \"Fervently,\" exclaimed the Keeper, \"fervently I trust he may.\" \"HE to die?\" resumed the Bishop. He a mortal like to US? Death was not for him intended, though communis omnibus: Keeper, you are irreligious, for to talk and cavil thus. \"With his wondrous skill in healing ne’er a doctor can compete, Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, start up clean upon their feet; Surely he could raise the dead up, did his Highness think it meet. \"Did not once the Jewish captain stay the sun upon the hill, And, the while he slew the foemen, bid the silver moon stand still? So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, if it were his sacred will.\" \"Might I stay the sun above us, good sir Bishop?\" Canute cried; \"Could I bid the silver moon to pause upon her heavenly ride? If the moon obeys my orders, sure I can command the tide. \"Will the advancing waves obey me, Bishop, if I make the sign?\" Said the Bishop, bowing lowly, \"Land and sea, my lord, are thine.\" Canute turned towards the ocean-\"Back!\" he said, \"thou foaming brine. \"From the sacred shore I stand on, I command thee to retreat; Venture not, thou stormy rebel, to approach thy master’s seat: Ocean, be thou still! I bid thee come not nearer to my feet!\" But the sullen ocean answered with a louder, deeper roar, And the rapid waves drew nearer, falling sounding on the shore; Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back the king and courtiers bore. And he sternly bade them never more to kneel to human clay, But alone to praise and worship That which earth and seas obey: And his golden crown of empire never wore he from that day. King Canute is dead and gone: Parasites exist alway. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1843", "url": "/panorama/1843/", "title": "Ulysses", "layout": "page", "author": "Tennyson, Lord Alfred", "lastmod": "2015-01-03T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "    It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour’d of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’ Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.     This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.     There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, ‘Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’ We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1844", "url": "/panorama/1844/", "title": "Composed Upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802", "layout": "page", "author": "Wordsworth, William", "lastmod": "2015-01-05T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pass by A sight so touching in its majesty: This City now doth, like a garment, wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie Open unto the fields, and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air. Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill; Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep! The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1845", "url": "/panorama/1845/", "title": "Sonnet on Chillon", "layout": "page", "author": "Byron, Lord George Gordon Noel", "lastmod": "2015-01-07T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art– For there thy habitation is the heart– The heart which love of thee alone can bind; And when thy sons to fetters are consign’d, To fetters, and the damp vault’s dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom, And Freedom’s fame finds wings on every wind. Chillon! thy prison is a holy place, And thy sad floor an altar-for ‘t was rod, Until his very steps have left a trace Worn, as if thy cold pavement were a sod, By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1846", "url": "/panorama/1846/", "title": "Death the Leveller", "layout": "page", "author": "Shirley, James", "lastmod": "2015-01-08T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The glories of our blood and state   Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against Fate;   Death lays his icy hand on kings:         Sceptre and Crown         Must tumble down,   And in the dust be equal made With the poor crookèd scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field,   And plant fresh laurels where they kill: But their strong nerves at last must yield;   They tame but one another still:         Early or late         They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow,   Then boast no more your mighty deeds! Upon Death’s purple altar now   See where the victor-victim bleeds.         Your heads must come         To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1847", "url": "/panorama/1847/", "title": "On the death of Mr. Robert Levet A Practiser in Physic", "layout": "page", "author": "Johnson, Samuel", "lastmod": "2015-01-10T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Condemn’d to hope’s delusive mine,     As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts, or slow decline,     Our social comforts drop away. Well tried through many a varying year,     See Levet to the grave descend; Officious, innocent, sincere,     Of ev’ry friendless name the friend. Yet still he fills affection’s eye,     Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind; Nor, letter’d arrogance, deny     Thy praise to merit unrefin’d. When fainting nature call’d for aid,     And hov’ring death prepar’d the blow, His vig’rous remedy display’d     The power of art without the show. In misery’s darkest caverns known,     His useful care was ever nigh, Where hopeless anguish pour’d his groan,     And lonely want retir’d to die. No summons mock’d by chill delay,     No petty gain disdain’d by pride, The modest wants of ev’ry day     The toil of ev’ry day supplied. His virtues walk’d their narrow round,     Nor made a pause, nor left a void; And sure th’ Eternal Master found     The single talent well-employ’d. The busy day, the peaceful night,     Unfelt, uncounted, glided by; His frame was firm, his powers were bright,     Tho’ now his eightieth year was nigh. Then with no throbbing fiery pain,     No cold gradations of decay, Death broke at once the vital chain,     And free’d his soul the nearest way. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1848", "url": "/panorama/1848/", "title": "The Dying Gladiator", "layout": "page", "author": "Byron, Lord George Gordon Noel", "lastmod": "2015-01-12T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "     I see before me the Gladiator lie:      He leans upon his hand – his manly brow      Consents to death, but conquers agony,      And his droop’d head sinks gradually low –      And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow      From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,      Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now      The arena swims around him – he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail’d the wretch who won.      He heard it, but he heeded not – his eyes      Were with his heart, and that was far away;      He reck’d not of the life he lost nor prize,      But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,      There where his young barbarians all at play,      There was their Dacian mother – he, their sire,      Butcher’d to make a Roman holiday –      All this rush’d with his blood – Shall he expire And unavenged? Arise! ye Goths, and glut your ire! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1849", "url": "/panorama/1849/", "title": "The Passing of Arthur", "layout": "page", "author": "Tennyson, Lord Alfred", "lastmod": "2015-01-13T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "That story which the bold Sir Bedivere, First made and latest left of all the knights, Told, when the man was no more than a voice In the white winter of his age, to those With whom he dwelt, new faces, other minds.     For on their march to westward, Bedivere, Who slowly paced among the slumbering host, Heard in his tent the moanings of the King:     ‘I found Him in the shining of the stars, I marked Him in the flowering of His fields, But in His ways with men I find Him not. I waged His wars, and now I pass and die. O me! for why is all around us here As if some lesser god had made the world, But had not force to shape it as he would, Till the High God behold it from beyond, And enter it, and make it beautiful? Or else as if the world were wholly fair, But that these eyes of men are dense and dim, And have not power to see it as it is: Perchance, because we see not to the close;– For I, being simple, thought to work His will, And have but stricken with the sword in vain; And all whereon I leaned in wife and friend Is traitor to my peace, and all my realm Reels back into the beast, and is no more. My God, thou hast forgotten me in my death; Nay–God my Christ–I pass but shall not die.’     Then, ere that last weird battle in the west, There came on Arthur sleeping, Gawain killed In Lancelot’s war, the ghost of Gawain blown Along a wandering wind, and past his ear Went shrilling, ‘Hollow, hollow all delight! Hail, King! tomorrow thou shalt pass away. Farewell! there is an isle of rest for thee. And I am blown along a wandering wind, And hollow, hollow, hollow all delight.’ And fainter onward, like wild birds that change Their season in the night and wail their way From cloud to cloud, down the long wind the dream Shrilled; but in going mingled with dim cries Far in the moonlit haze among the hills, As of some lonely city sacked by night, When all is lost, and wife and child with wail Pass to new lords; and Arthur woke and called, ‘Who spake? A dream. O light upon the wind, Thine, Gawain, was the voice–are these dim cries Thine? or doth all that haunts the waste and wild Mourn, knowing it will go along with me?’     This heard the bold Sir Bedivere and spake: ‘O me, my King, let pass whatever will, Elves, and the harmless glamour of the field; But in their stead thy name and glory cling To all high places like a golden cloud For ever: but as yet thou shalt not pass. Light was Gawain in life, and light in death Is Gawain, for the ghost is as the man; And care not thou for dreams from him, but rise– I hear the steps of Modred in the west, And with him many of thy people, and knights Once thine, whom thou hast loved, but grosser grown Than heathen, spitting at their vows and thee. Right well in heart they know thee for the King. Arise, go forth and conquer as of old.’     Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: ‘Far other is this battle in the west Whereto we move, than when we strove in youth, And brake the petty kings, and fought with Rome, Or thrust the heathen from the Roman wall, And shook him through the north. Ill doom is mine To war against my people and my knights. The king who fights his people fights himself. And they my knights, who loved me once, the stroke That strikes them dead is as my death to me. Yet let us hence, and find or feel a way Through this blind haze, which ever since I saw One lying in the dust at Almesbury, Hath folded in the passes of the world.’     Then rose the King and moved his host by night, And ever pushed Sir Modred, league by league, Back to the sunset bound of Lyonnesse– A land of old upheaven from the abyss By fire, to sink into the abyss again; Where fragments of forgotten peoples dwelt, And the long mountains ended in a coast Of ever-shifting sand, and far away The phantom circle of a moaning sea. There the pursuer could pursue no more, And he that fled no further fly the King; And there, that day when the great light of heaven Burned at his lowest in the rolling year, On the waste sand by the waste sea they closed. Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight Like this last, dim, weird battle of the west. A deathwhite mist slept over sand and sea: Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew Down with his blood, till all his heart was cold With formless fear; and even on Arthur fell Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought. For friend and foe were shadows in the mist, And friend slew friend not knowing whom he slew; And some had visions out of golden youth, And some beheld the faces of old ghosts Look in upon the battle; and in the mist Was many a noble deed, many a base, And chance and craft and strength in single fights, And ever and anon with host to host Shocks, and the splintering spear, the hard mail hewn, Shield-breakings, and the clash of brands, the crash Of battleaxes on shattered helms, and shrieks After the Christ, of those who falling down Looked up for heaven, and only saw the mist; And shouts of heathen and the traitor knights, Oaths, insults, filth, and monstrous blasphemies, Sweat, writhings, anguish, labouring of the lungs In that close mist, and cryings for the light, Moans of the dying, and voices of the dead.     Last, as by some one deathbed after wail Of suffering, silence follows, or through death Or deathlike swoon, thus over all that shore, Save for some whisper of the seething seas, A dead hush fell; but when the dolorous day Grew drearier toward twilight falling, came A bitter wind, clear from the North, and blew The mist aside, and with that wind the tide Rose, and the pale King glanced across the field Of battle: but no man was moving there; Nor any cry of Christian heard thereon, Nor yet of heathen; only the wan wave Brake in among dead faces, to and fro Swaying the helpless hands, and up and down Tumbling the hollow helmets of the fallen, And shivered brands that once had fought with Rome, And rolling far along the gloomy shores The voice of days of old and days to be.     Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere, And whiter than the mist that all day long Had held the field of battle was the King:     ‘Hearest thou this great voice that shakes the world, And wastes the narrow realm whereon we move, And beats upon the faces of the dead, My dead, as though they had not died for me?– O Bedivere, for on my heart hath fallen Confusion, till I know not what I am, Nor whence I am, nor whether I be King. Behold, I seem but King among the dead.’     Then spake the bold Sir Bedivere: ‘My King, King everywhere! and so the dead have kings, There also will I worship thee as King. Yet still thy life is whole, and still I live Who love thee; but who hates thee, he that brought The heathen back among us, yonder stands, Modred, unharmed, the traitor of thine house.’     Then spake the King: ‘My house hath been my doom. But call not thou this traitor of my house Who hath but dwelt beneath one roof with me. My house are rather they who sware my vows, Yea, even while they brake them, owned me King. And well for thee, saying in my dark hour, When all the purport of my throne hath failed, That quick or dead thou holdest me for King. King am I, whatsoever be their cry; And one last act of kinghood shalt thou see Yet, ere I pass.’ And uttering this the King Made at the man: then Modred smote his liege Hard on that helm which many a heathen sword Had beaten thin; while Arthur at one blow, Striking the last stroke with Excalibur, Slew him, and all but slain himself, he fell.     So all day long the noise of battle rolled Among the mountains by the winter sea; Until King Arthur’s Table, man by man, Had fallen in Lyonnesse about their lord, King Arthur. Then, because his wound was deep, The bold Sir Bedivere uplifted him, And bore him to a chapel nigh the field, A broken chancel with a broken cross, That stood on a dark strait of barren land: On one side lay the Ocean, and on one Lay a great water, and the moon was full.     Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: ‘The sequel of today unsolders all The goodliest fellowship of famous knights Whereof this world holds record. Such a sleep They sleep–the men I loved. I think that we Shall never more, at any future time, Delight our souls with talk of knightly deeds, Walking about the gardens and the halls Of Camelot, as in the days that were. I perish by this people which I made,– Though Merlin sware that I should come again To rule once more; but, let what will be, be, I am so deeply smitten through the helm That without help I cannot last till morn. Thou therefore take my brand Excalibur, Which was my pride: for thou rememberest how In those old days, one summer noon, an arm Rose up from out the bosom of the lake, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, Holding the sword–and how I rowed across And took it, and have worn it, like a king; And, wheresoever I am sung or told In aftertime, this also shall be known: But now delay not: take Excalibur, And fling him far into the middle mere: Watch what thou seest, and lightly bring me word.’     To him replied the bold Sir Bedivere: ‘It is not meet, Sir King, to leave thee thus, Aidless, alone, and smitten through the helm– A little thing may harm a wounded man; Yet I thy hest will all perform at full, Watch what I see, and lightly bring thee word.’     So saying, from the ruined shrine he stept, And in the moon athwart the place of tombs, Where lay the mighty bones of ancient men, Old knights, and over them the sea-wind sang Shrill, chill, with flakes of foam. He, stepping down By zigzag paths, and juts of pointed rock, Came on the shining levels of the lake.     There drew he forth the brand Excalibur, And o’er him, drawing it, the winter moon, Brightening the skirts of a long cloud, ran forth And sparkled keen with frost against the hilt: For all the haft twinkled with diamond sparks, Myriads of topaz-lights, and jacinth-work Of subtlest jewellery. He gazed so long That both his eyes were dazzled as he stood, This way and that dividing the swift mind, In act to throw: but at the last it seemed Better to leave Excalibur concealed There in the many-knotted waterflags, That whistled stiff and dry about the marge. So strode he back slow to the wounded King.     Then spake King Arthur to Sir Bedivere: ‘Hast thou performed my mission which I gave? What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’     And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: ‘I heard the ripple washing in the reeds, And the wild water lapping on the crag.’     To whom replied King Arthur, faint and pale: ‘Thou hast betrayed thy nature and thy name, Not rendering true answer, as beseemed Thy fealty, nor like a noble knight: For surer sign had followed, either hand, Or voice, or else a motion of the mere. This is a shameful thing for men to lie. Yet now, I charge thee, quickly go again, As thou art lief and dear, and do the thing I bade thee, watch, and lightly bring me word.’     Then went Sir Bedivere the second time Across the ridge, and paced beside the mere, Counting the dewy pebbles, fixed in thought; But when he saw the wonder of the hilt, How curiously and strangely chased, he smote His palms together, and he cried aloud:     ‘And if indeed I cast the brand away, Surely a precious thing, one worthy note, Should thus be lost for ever from the earth, Which might have pleased the eyes of many men. What good should follow this, if this were done? What harm, undone? Deep harm to disobey, Seeing obedience is the bond of rule. Were it well to obey then, if a king demand An act unprofitable, against himself? The King is sick, and knows not what he does. What record, or what relic of my lord Should be to aftertime, but empty breath And rumours of a doubt? But were this kept, Stored in some treasure-house of mighty kings, Some one might show it at a joust of arms, Saying, \"King Arthur’s sword, Excalibur, Wrought by the lonely maiden of the Lake. Nine years she wrought it, sitting in the deeps Upon the hidden bases of the hills.\" So might some old man speak in the aftertime To all the people, winning reverence. But now much honour and much fame were lost.’     So spake he, clouded with his own conceit, And hid Excalibur the second time, And so strode back slow to the wounded King.     Then spoke King Arthur, breathing heavily: ‘What is it thou hast seen? or what hast heard?’     And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: ‘I heard the water lapping on the crag, And the long ripple washing in the reeds.’     To whom replied King Arthur, much in wrath: ‘Ah, miserable and unkind, untrue, Unknightly, traitor-hearted! Woe is me! Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widowed of the power in his eye That bowed the will. I see thee what thou art, For thou, the latest-left of all my knights, In whom should meet the offices of all, Thou wouldst betray me for the precious hilt; Either from lust of gold, or like a girl Valuing the giddy pleasure of the eyes. Yet, for a man may fail in duty twice, And the third time may prosper, get thee hence: But, if thou spare to fling Excalibur, I will arise and slay thee with my hands.’     Then quickly rose Sir Bedivere, and ran, And, leaping down the ridges lightly, plunged Among the bulrush beds, and clutched the sword, And strongly wheeled and threw it. The great brand Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the Northern Sea. So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur: But ere he dipt the surface, rose an arm Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, And caught him by the hilt, and brandished him Three times, and drew him under in the mere. And lightly went the other to the King.     Then spoke King Arthur, drawing thicker breath: ‘Now see I by thine eyes that this is done. Speak out: what is it thou hast heard, or seen?’     And answer made the bold Sir Bedivere: ‘Sir King, I closed mine eyelids, lest the gems Should blind my purpose, for I never saw, Nor shall see, here or elsewhere, till I die, Not though I live three lives of mortal men, So great a miracle as yonder hilt. Then with both hands I flung him, wheeling him; But when I looked again, behold an arm, Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful, That caught him by the hilt, and brandished him Three times, and drew him under in the mere.’     And answer made King Arthur, breathing hard: ‘My end draws nigh; ’tis time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight, And bear me to the margin; yet I fear My wound hath taken cold, and I shall die.’     So saying, from the pavement he half rose, Slowly, with pain, reclining on his arm, And looking wistfully with wide blue eyes As in a picture. Him Sir Bedivere Remorsefully regarded through his tears, And would have spoken, but he found not words; Then took with care, and kneeling on one knee, O’er both his shoulders drew the languid hands, And rising bore him through the place of tombs.     But, as he walked, King Arthur panted hard, Like one that feels a nightmare on his bed When all the house is mute. So sighed the King, Muttering and murmuring at his ear, ‘Quick, quick! I fear it is too late, and I shall die.’     But the other swiftly strode from ridge to ridge, Clothed with his breath, and looking, as he walked, Larger than human on the frozen hills. He heard the deep behind him, and a cry Before. His own thought drove him like a goad. Dry clashed his harness in the icy caves And barren chasms, and all to left and right The bare black cliff clanged round him, as he based His feet on juts of slippery crag that rang Sharp-smitten with the dint of armed heels– And on a sudden, lo! the level lake, And the long glories of the winter moon.     Then saw they how there hove a dusky barge, Dark as a funeral scarf from stem to stern, Beneath them; and descending they were ware That all the decks were dense with stately forms, Black-stoled, black-hooded, like a dream–by these Three Queens with crowns of gold: and from them rose A cry that shivered to the tingling stars, And, as it were one voice, an agony Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills All night in a waste land, where no one comes, Or hath come, since the making of the world.     Then murmured Arthur, ‘Place me in the barge.’ So to the barge they came. There those three Queens Put forth their hands, and took the King, and wept. But she, that rose the tallest of them all And fairest, laid his head upon her lap, And loosed the shattered casque, and chafed his hands, And called him by his name, complaining loud, And dropping bitter tears against a brow Striped with dark blood: for all his face was white And colourless, and like the withered moon Smote by the fresh beam of the springing east; And all his greaves and cuisses dashed with drops Of onset; and the light and lustrous curls– That made his forehead like a rising sun High from the dais-throne–were parched with dust; Or, clotted into points and hanging loose, Mixed with the knightly growth that fringed his lips. So like a shattered column lay the King; Not like that Arthur who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings.     Then loudly cried the bold Sir Bedivere: ‘Ah! my Lord Arthur, whither shall I go? Where shall I hide my forehead and my eyes? For now I see the true old times are dead, When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Such times have been not since the light that led The holy Elders with the gift of myrrh. But now the whole Round Table is dissolved Which was an image of the mighty world, And I, the last, go forth companionless, And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.’     And slowly answered Arthur from the barge: ‘The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May He within himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend? For so the whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. But now farewell. I am going a long way With these thou seest–if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—- To the island-valley of Avilion; Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.’     So said he, and the barge with oar and sail Moved from the brink, like some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs. Long stood Sir Bedivere Revolving many memories, till the hull Looked one black dot against the verge of dawn, And on the mere the wailing died away.     But when that moan had past for evermore, The stillness of the dead world’s winter dawn Amazed him, and he groaned, ‘The King is gone.’ And therewithal came on him the weird rhyme, ‘From the great deep to the great deep he goes.’     Whereat he slowly turned and slowly clomb The last hard footstep of that iron crag; Thence marked the black hull moving yet, and cried, ‘He passes to be King among the dead, And after healing of his grievous wound He comes again; but–if he come no more– O me, be yon dark Queens in yon black boat, Who shrieked and wailed, the three whereat we gazed On that high day, when, clothed with living light, They stood before his throne in silence, friends Of Arthur, who should help him at his need?’     Then from the dawn it seemed there came, but faint As from beyond the limit of the world, Like the last echo born of a great cry, Sounds, as if some fair city were one voice Around a king returning from his wars.     Thereat once more he moved about, and clomb Even to the highest he could climb, and saw, Straining his eyes beneath an arch of hand, Or thought he saw, the speck that bare the King, Down that long water opening on the deep Somewhere far off, pass on and on, and go From less to less and vanish into light. And the new sun rose bringing the new year. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1850", "url": "/panorama/1850/", "title": "An Irish Airman foresees his Death", "layout": "page", "author": "Yeats, William Butler", "lastmod": "2015-01-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I know that I shall meet my fate Somewhere among the clouds above; Those that I fight I do not hate Those that I guard I do not love; My country is Kiltartan Cross, My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor, No likely end could bring them loss Or leave them happier than before. Nor law, nor duty bade me fight, Nor public man, nor cheering crowds, A lonely impulse of delight Drove to this tumult in the clouds; I balanced all, brought all to mind, The years to come seemed waste of breath, A waste of breath the years behind In balance with this life, this death. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1851", "url": "/panorama/1851/", "title": "O Captain! My Captain!", "layout": "page", "author": "Whitman, Walt", "lastmod": "2015-01-16T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done; The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won; The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:     But O heart! heart! heart!       O the bleeding drops of red,         Where on the deck my Captain lies,           Fallen cold and dead. O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells; Rise up–for you the flag is flung–for you the bugle trills; For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths–for you the shores a-crowding; For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;     Here Captain! dear father!       This arm beneath your head;         It is some dream that on the deck,           You’ve fallen cold and dead. My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still; My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will; The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done; From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;     Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!       But I, with mournful tread,         Walk the deck my Captain lies,           Fallen cold and dead. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1852", "url": "/panorama/1852/", "title": "To India -- My Native Land", "layout": "page", "author": "Derozio, Henry Louis Vivian", "lastmod": "2015-01-18T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "My country! In thy day of glory past A beauteous halo circled round thy brow, And worshipped as a deity thou wast. Where is that glory, where that reverence now? Thy eagle pinion is chained down at last, And groveling in the lowly dust art thou: Thy minstrel hath no wreath to weave for thee Save the sad story of thy misery! Well–let me dive into the depths of time, And bring from out the ages that have rolled A few small fragments of those wrecks sublime, Which human eyes may never more behold; And let the guerdon of my labour be My fallen country! One kind wish from thee! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1853", "url": "/panorama/1853/", "title": "Where the Mind is Without Fear", "layout": "page", "author": "Tagore, Rabindranath", "lastmod": "2015-01-20T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;     Where knowledge is free;     Where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls;     Where words come out from the depth of truth;     Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;     Where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;     Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action–     Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1854", "url": "/panorama/1854/", "title": "The Patriot", "layout": "page", "author": "Nissim Ezekiel", "lastmod": "2015-01-21T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I am standing for peace and non-violence. Why world is fighting fighting Why all people of world Are not following Mahatma Gandhi, I am simply not understanding. Ancient Indian Wisdom is 100% correct, I should say even 200% correct, But modern generation is neglecting- Too much going for fashion and foreign thing. Other day I’m reading newspaper (Every day I’m reading Times of India To improve my English Language) How one goonda fellow Threw stone at Indirabehn. Must be student unrest fellow, I am thinking. Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I am saying (to myself) Lend me the ears. Everything is coming - Regeneration, Remuneration, Contraception. Be patiently, brothers and sisters. You want one glass lassi? Very good for digestion. With little salt, lovely drink, Better than wine; Not that I am ever tasting the wine. I’m the total teetotaller, completely total, But I say Wine is for the drunkards only. What you think of prospects of world peace? Pakistan behaving like this, China behaving like that, It is making me really sad, I am telling you. Really, most harassing me. All men are brothers, no? In India also Gujaratis, Maharashtrians, Hindiwallahs All brothers - Though some are having funny habits. Still, you tolerate me, I tolerate you, One day Ram Rajya is surely coming. You are going? But you will visit again Any time, any day, I am not believing in ceremony Always I am enjoying your company. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1855", "url": "/panorama/1855/", "title": "Patriotism", "layout": "page", "author": "Scott, Sir Walter", "lastmod": "2015-01-23T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,    \"This is my own, my native land!\" Whose heart hath ne’er within him burn’d As home his footsteps he hath turn’d    From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no Minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1856", "url": "/panorama/1856/", "title": "The Patriot", "layout": "page", "author": "Browning, Robert", "lastmod": "2015-01-25T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "AN OLD STORY I It was roses, roses, all the way, With myrtle mixed in my path like mad. The house-roofs seemed to heave and sway, The church-spires flamed, such flags they had, A year ago on this very day! II The air broke into a mist with bells, The old walls rocked with the crowds and cries. Had I said, \"Good folks, mere noise repels - But give me your sun from yonder skies!\" They had answered, \"And afterward, what else?\" III Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun, To give it my loving friends to keep. Nought man could do have I left undone, And you see my harvest, what I reap This very day, now a year is run. IV There’s nobody on the house-tops now - Just a palsied few at the windows set - For the best of the sight is, all allow, At the Shambles’ Gate - or, better yet, By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow. V I go in the rain, and, more than needs, A rope cuts both my wrists behind, And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds, For they fling, whoever has a mind, Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds. VI Thus I entered Brescia, and thus I go! In such triumphs, people have dropped down dead. \"Thou, paid by the World, - what dost thou owe Me?\" God might have questioned; but now instead ‘Tis God shall requite! I am safer so. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1857", "url": "/panorama/1857/", "title": "Ireland, Ireland", "layout": "page", "author": "Newbolt, Sir Henry", "lastmod": "2015-01-26T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Down thy valleys green and sad, Still thy spirit wanders wailing, Wanders wailing, wanders mad. Long ago that anguish took thee, Ireland, Ireland, green and fair, Spoilers strong in darkness took thee, Broke thy heart and left thee there. Down thy valleys, Ireland, Ireland, Still thy spirit wanders mad; All too late they love that wronged thee, Ireland, Ireland, green and sad. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1858", "url": "/panorama/1858/", "title": "Easter, 1916", "layout": "page", "author": "Yeats, William Butler", "lastmod": "2015-01-28T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I have met them at close of day Coming with vivid faces From counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses. I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words, Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, Being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. That woman’s days were spent In ignorant good will, Her nights in argument Until her voice grew shrill. What voice more sweet than hers When young and beautiful, She rode to harriers? This man had kept a school And rode our winged horse. This other his helper and friend Was coming into his force; He might have won fame in the end, So sensitive his nature seemed, So daring and sweet his thought. This other man I had dreamed A drunken, vain-glorious lout. He had done most bitter wrong To some who are near my heart, Yet I number him in the song; He, too, has resigned his part In the casual comedy; He, too, has been changed in his turn, Transformed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. Hearts with one purpose alone Through summer and winter seem Enchanted to a stone To trouble the living stream. The horse that comes from the road. The rider, the birds that range From cloud to tumbling cloud, Minute by minute change; A shadow of cloud on the stream Changes minute by minute; A horse-hoof slides on the brim, And a horse plashes within it Where long-legged moor-hens dive, And hens to moor-cocks call. Minute by minute they live: The stone’s in the midst of all. Too long a sacrifice Can make a stone of the heart. O when may it suffice? That is heaven’s part, our part To murmur name upon name, As a mother names her child When sleep at last has come On limbs that had run wild. What is it but nightfall? No, no, not night but death; Was it needless death after all? For England may keep faith For all that is done and said. We know their dream; enough To know they dreamed and are dead. And what if excess of love Bewildered them till they died? I write it out in a verse – MacDonagh and MacBride And Connolly and Pearse Now and in time to be, Wherever green is worn, Are changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1859", "url": "/panorama/1859/", "title": "The Bangle Sellers", "layout": "page", "author": "Naidu, Sarojini", "lastmod": "2015-01-29T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Bangle sellers are we who bear Our shining loads to the temple fair… Who will buy these delicate, bright Rainbow-tinted circles of light? Lustrous tokens of radiant lives, For happy daughters and happy wives. Some are meet for a maiden’s wrist, Silver and blue as the mountain mist, Some are flushed like the buds that dream On the tranquil brow of a woodland stream, Some are aglow wth the bloom that cleaves To the limpid glory of new born leaves Some are like fields of sunlit corn, Meet for a bride on her bridal morn, Some, like the flame of her marriage fire, Or, rich with the hue of her heart’s desire, Tinkling, luminous, tender, and clear, Like her bridal laughter and bridal tear. Some are purple and gold flecked grey For she who has journeyed through life midway, Whose hands have cherished, whose love has blest, And cradled fair sons on her faithful breast, And serves her household in fruitful pride, And worships the gods at her husband’s side. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1860", "url": "/panorama/1860/", "title": "The Soldier", "layout": "page", "author": "Brooke, Rupert", "lastmod": "2015-01-31T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "If I should die, think only this of me: That there’s some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam, A body of England’s, breathing English air, Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home. And think, this heart, all evil shed away, A pulse in the eternal mind, no less Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given; Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day; And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness, In hearts at peace, under an English heaven. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1861", "url": "/panorama/1861/", "title": "The Inchcape Rock", "layout": "page", "author": "Southey, Robert", "lastmod": "2015-02-02T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The Ship was still as she could be; Her sails from heaven received no motion, Her keel was steady in the ocean. Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flow’d over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell. The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung. When the Rock was hid by the surge’s swell, The Mariners heard the warning Bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok The Sun in the heaven was shining gay, All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds scream’d as they wheel’d round, And there was joyaunce in their sound. The buoy of the Inchcpe Bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck, And fix’d his eye on the darker speck. He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover’s mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape Float; Quoth he, \"My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok.\" The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the bell from the Inchcape Float. Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound, The bubbles rose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, \"The next who comes to the Rock, Won’t bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.\" Sir ralph the Rover sail’d away, He scour’d the seas for many a day; And now grown rich with plunder’d store, He steers his course for Scotland’s shore. So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky, They cannot see the sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away. On the deck the Rover takes his stand, So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, \"It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.\" \"Canst hear,\" said one, \"the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore.\" \"Now, where we are I cannot tell, But I wish we could hear the Inchcape Bell.\" They hear no sound, the swell is strong, Though the wind hath fallen they drift along; Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, \"Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!\" Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side, The ship is sinking beneath the tide. But even is his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear; A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell, The Devil below was ringing his knell. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1862", "url": "/panorama/1862/", "title": "Lochinvar", "layout": "page", "author": "Scott, Sir Walter", "lastmod": "2015-02-03T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword, (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) \"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?\"– \"I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;– Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide– And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.\" The bride kiss’d the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh, With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,– \"Now tread we a measure!\" said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whisper’d, \" ‘Twere better by far To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.\" One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! \"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,\" quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting ‘mong Grfmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? " },{ "id": "/panorama/1863", "url": "/panorama/1863/", "title": "The Slave's Dream", "layout": "page", "author": "Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth", "lastmod": "2015-02-05T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Beside the ungathered rice he lay,   His sickle in his hand; His breast was bare, his matted hair   Was buried in the sand. Again, in the mist and shadow of sleep,   He saw his Native Land. Wide through the landscape of his dreams   The lordly Niger flowed; Beneath the palm-trees on the plain   Once more a king he strode; And heard the tinkling caravans   Descend the mountain-road. He saw once more his dark-eyed queen   Among her children stand; They clasped his neck, they kissed his cheeks,   They held him by the hand!– A tear burst from the sleeper’s lids   And fell into the sand. And then at furious speed he rode   Along the Niger’s bank; His bridle-reins were golden chains,   And, with a martial clank, At each leap he could feel his scabbard of steel   Smiting his stallion’s flank. Before him, like a blood-red flag,   The bright flamingoes flew; >From morn till night he followed their flight,   O’er plains where the tamarind grew, Till he saw the roofs of Caffre huts,   And the ocean rose to view. At night he heard the lion roar,   And the hyena scream, And the river-horse, as he crushed the reeds   Beside some hidden stream; And it passed, like a glorious roll of drums,   Through the triumph of his dream. The forests, with their myriad tongues,   Shouted of liberty; And the Blast of the Desert cried aloud,   With a voice so wild and free, That he started in his sleep and smiled   At their tempestuous glee. He did not feel the driver’s whip,   Nor the burning heat of day; For Death had illumined the Land of Sleep,   And his lifeless body lay A worn-out fetter, that the soul   Had broken and thrown away! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1864", "url": "/panorama/1864/", "title": "The Pied Piper of Hamelin", "layout": "page", "author": "Browning, Robert", "lastmod": "2015-02-06T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "         I Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick,     By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied;     But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so     From vermin, was a pity.          II     Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats,     And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats,     And licked the soup from the cooks’ own ladle’s, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women’s chats     By drowning their speaking     With shrieking and squeaking ln fifty different sharps and flats.          III At last the people in a body     To the town hall came flocking: \"Tis clear,\" cried they, ‘our Mayor’s a noddy;     And as for our Corporation–shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can’t or won’t determine What’s best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you’re old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we’re lacking, Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you packing!\" At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.          IV An hour they sat in council,     At length the Mayor broke silence: \"For a guilder I’d my ermine gown sell,     I wish I were a mile hence! It’s easy to bid one rack one’s brain– I’m sure my poor head aches again, I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!\" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? \"Bless us,’ cried the Mayor, \"what’s that?\" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) \"Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!\"          V \"Come in!\"–the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin, No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smiles went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one:\"It’s as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the trump of doom’s tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!\"          VI He advanced to the council-table: And, \"Please your honors,\" said he, \"I’m able, By means of a secret charm, to draw     All creatures living beneath the sun,     That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And People call me the Pied Piper.\" (And here they noticed round his neck     A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same check;     And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe; And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon this pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.) \"Yet,\" said he, \"poor piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham,     Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats; I eased in Asia the Nizam     Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: And as for what your brain bewilders–     If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?\" \"One? Fifty thousand!\" was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.          VII Into the street the Piper stept,     Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept     In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,     Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,     Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives– Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser     Wherein all plunged and perished!     Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar, Swam across and lived to carry     (As the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, \"At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press’s gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: And it seemed as if a voice     (Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery     Is breathed) called out, ‘Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast dry-saltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!’ And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said ‘Come bore me!’ –I found the Weser rolling o’er me.\"          VIII You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple. Go,\" cried the Mayor, \"and get long poles! Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!\"– when suddenly, up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, \"First, if you please, my thousand guilders!\"          IX A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! \"Beside,\" quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, \"Our business was done at the river’s brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think. So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something for drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!          X The Piper’s face fell, and he cried \"No trifling! I can’t wait, beside! I’ve promised to visit by dinnertime Bagdat, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cooks pottage, all he’s rich in, For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion.\"          XI \"How?\" cried the Mayor, \"d’ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!          XII Once more he stept into the street     And to his lips again     Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane; And ere he blew three notes (such sweet Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning     Never gave the enraptured air) There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls, Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.          XIII The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step or cry, To the children merrily skipping by, –Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper’s back. But how the Mayor was on the rack And the wretched Council’s bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its water’s Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed– Great was the joy in every breast. \"He never can cross that mighty top! He’s forced to let the piping drop And we shall see our children stop! When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain-side shut fast. Did I say all? No! One was lame,     And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame     His sadness, he was used to say,– \"It¹s dull in our town since my playmates left! I can¹t forget that I’m bereft Of all all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand, Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles’ wings: And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!\"          XIV Alas, alas for Hamelin!     There came into many a burgher’s pate     A text which says that heaven¹s gate     Opens to the rich at as easy rate As the needle’s eye takes a camel in! The mayor sent East, West, North and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth     Wherever it was men’s lot to find him Silver and gold to his heart¹s content If he’d only return the way he went,     And bring the children behind him. But when they saw ‘twas a lost endeavor, and Piper and dancers were gone forever, They made a decree that lawyers never     Should think their records dated duly If, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, And so long after what happened here     On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six: And the better in memory to fix The place of the children’s last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper’s Street– Where any one playing on pipe or tabor Was sure for the future to lose his labor. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern     To shock with mirth a street so solemn, But opposite the place of the cavern     They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That, in Transylvania there’s a tribe Of alien people who ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbors lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why they don’t understand.          XV So, Willy, let you and me be wipers Of scores out with all men – especially pipers! And, whether pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we’ve promised them ought, let us keep our promise. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1865", "url": "/panorama/1865/", "title": "The Ballad of East and West", "layout": "page", "author": "Kipling, Rudyard", "lastmod": "2015-02-08T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face,             tho’ they come from the ends of the earth! Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side, And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the Colonel’s pride: He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a troop of the Guides: \"Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?\" Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar: \"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. At dusk he harries the Abazai – at dawn he is into Bonair, But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai. But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal’s men. There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen.\" The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell   and the head of the gallows-tree. The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat – Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, Till he was aware of his father’s mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, Till he was aware of his father’s mare with Kamal upon her back, And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. \"Ye shoot like a soldier,\" Kamal said.  \"Show now if ye can ride.\" It’s up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go, The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho’ never a man was seen. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course – in a woful heap fell he, And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. He has knocked the pistol out of his hand – small room was there to strive, \"‘Twas only by favour of mine,\" quoth he, \"ye rode so long alive: There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row: If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly.\" Lightly answered the Colonel’s son:  \"Do good to bird and beast, But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, Belike the price of a jackal’s meal were more than a thief could pay. They will feed their horse on the standing crop,   their men on the garnered grain, The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. But if thou thinkest the price be fair, – thy brethren wait to sup, The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, – howl, dog, and call them up! And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, Give me my father’s mare again, and I’ll fight my own way back!\" Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. \"No talk shall be of dogs,\" said he, \"when wolf and gray wolf meet. May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?\" Lightly answered the Colonel’s son:  \"I hold by the blood of my clan: Take up the mare for my father’s gift – by God, she has carried a man!\" The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuzzled against his breast; \"We be two strong men,\" said Kamal then, \"but she loveth the younger best. So she shall go with a lifter’s dower, my turquoise-studded rein, My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain.\" The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, \"Ye have taken the one from a foe,\" said he;   \"will ye take the mate from a friend?\" \"A gift for a gift,\" said Kamal straight; \"a limb for the risk of a limb. Thy father has sent his son to me, I’ll send my son to him!\" With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest – He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. \"Now here is thy master,\" Kamal said, \"who leads a troop of the Guides, And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, Thy life is his – thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. So, thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and all her foes are thine, And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the peace of the Border-line, And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power – Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur.\" They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God. The Colonel’s son he rides the mare and Kamal’s boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear – There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. \"Ha’ done! ha’ done!\" said the Colonel’s son.   \"Put up the steel at your sides! Last night ye had struck at a Border thief –   to-night ‘tis a man of the Guides!\" Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God’s great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face,                 tho’ they come from the ends of the earth! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1866", "url": "/panorama/1866/", "title": "The Highwayman", "layout": "page", "author": "Noyes, Alfred", "lastmod": "2015-02-10T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "                                    PART ONE THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding–                   Riding–riding– The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,                   His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shuters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,                   Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord’s daughter,                   The landlord’s red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say– \"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight,                   Watch for me by moonlight, I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.\" He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i’ the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,                   (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!) Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.                                     PART TWO He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out o’ the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon, When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching–                   Marching–marching– King George’s men came matching, up to the old inn-door. They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window;                   And hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! \"Now, keep good watch!\" and they kissed her.                   She heard the dead man say– Look for me by moonlight;                   Watch for me by moonlight; I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way! She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,                   Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight;                   Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love’s refrain .     Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear; Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding,                   Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still! Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight,                   Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him–with her death. He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,                   The landlord’s black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat, When they shot him down on the highway,                   Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat. And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, A highwayman comes riding–                   Riding–riding– A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard; He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred; He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,                   Bess, the landlord’s daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1867", "url": "/panorama/1867/", "title": "The Village Schoolmaster", "layout": "page", "author": "Goldsmith, Oliver", "lastmod": "2015-02-11T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way With blossom’d furze unprofitably gay, There, in his mansion, skill’d to rule, The village master taught his little school; A man severe he was, and stern to view, I knew him well, and every truant knew; Well had the boding tremblers learn’d to trace The days disasters in his morning face; Full well they laugh’d with counterfeited glee, At all his jokes, for many a joke had he: Full well the busy whisper, circling round, Convey’d the dismal tidings when he frown’d: Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declar’d how much he knew; ‘Twas certain he could write, and cipher too: Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And e’en the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing too, the person own’d his skill, For e’en though vanquish’d he could argue still; While words of learned length and thund’ring sound Amazed the gazing rustics rang’d around; And still they gaz’d and still the wonder grew, That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot Where many a time he triumph’d is forgot. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1868", "url": "/panorama/1868/", "title": "The Solitary Reaper", "layout": "page", "author": "Wordsworth, William", "lastmod": "2015-02-13T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Behold her, single in the field,     Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself;     Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No Nightingale did ever chaunt     More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt,     Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?–     Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things,     And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again? Whate’er the theme, the Maiden sang     As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work,     And o’er the sickle bending;– I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1869", "url": "/panorama/1869/", "title": "Lord Ullin's Daughter", "layout": "page", "author": "Campbell, Sir Thomas", "lastmod": "2015-02-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, \"Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry!\"– \"Now, who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy weather?\" \"O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, And this, Lord Ullin’s daughter.– \"And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. \"His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?\"– Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,– \"I’ll go, my chief–I’m ready:– It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady: \"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I’ll row you o’er the ferry.\"– By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armèd men, Their trampling sounded nearer.– \"O haste thee, haste!\" the lady cries, \"Though tempests round us gather; I’ll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.\"– The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,– When, O! too strong for human hand, The tempest gather’d o’er her. And still they row’d amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore,– His wrath was changed to wailing. For, sore dismay’d through storm and shade, His child he did discover:– One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, And one was round her lover. \"Come back! come back!\" he cried in grief \"Across this stormy water: And I’ll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!–O my daughter!\" ‘Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore, Return or aid preventing: The waters wild went o’er his child, And he was left lamenting. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1870", "url": "/panorama/1870/", "title": "The Scholar", "layout": "page", "author": "Southey, Robert", "lastmod": "2015-02-16T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "My days among the Dead are past;     Around me I behold, Where’er these casual eyes are cast,     The mighty minds of old: My never-failing friends are they, With whom I converse day by day. With them I take delight in weal     And seek relief in woe; And while I understand and feel     How much to them I owe, My cheeks have often been bedew’d With tears of thoughtful gratitude. My thoughts are with the Dead; with them     I live in long-past years, Their virtues love, their faults condemn,     Partake their hopes and fears, And from their lessons seek and find Instruction with an humble mind. My hopes are with the Dead; anon     My place with them will be, And I with them shall travel on     Through all Futurity; Yet leaving here a name, I trust, That will not perish in the dust. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1871", "url": "/panorama/1871/", "title": "Abou Ben Adhem", "layout": "page", "author": "Hunt, James Leigh", "lastmod": "2015-02-18T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw, within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom, An Angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence in the room he said, \"What writest thou?\" The Vision raised its head, And with a look made of all sweet accord Answered, \"The names of those who love the Lord.\" \"And is mine one?\" said Abou. \"Nay, not so,\" Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low, But cheerily still; and said, \"I pray thee, then, Write me as one who loves his fellow men.\" The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed the names whom love of God had blessed, And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1872", "url": "/panorama/1872/", "title": "The Vagabond", "layout": "page", "author": "Stevenson, Robert Louis", "lastmod": "2015-02-19T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Give to me the life I love,   Let the lave go by me, Give the jolly heaven above   And the byway nigh me. Bed in the bush with stars to see,   Bread I dip in the river - There’s the life for a man like me,   There’s the life for ever. Let the blow fall soon or late,   Let what will be o’er me; Give the face of earth around   And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,   Nor a friend to know me; All I seek, the heaven above   And the road below me. Or let autumn fall on me   Where afield I linger, Silencing the bird on tree,   Biting the blue finger. White as meal the frosty field -   Warm the fireside haven - Not to autumn will I yield,   Not to winter even! Let the blow fall soon or late,   Let what will be o’er me; Give the face of earth around,   And the road before me. Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,   Nor a friend to know me; All I ask, the heaven above   And the road below me. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1873", "url": "/panorama/1873/", "title": "Horatius", "layout": "page", "author": "Macaulay, Thomas Babbington", "lastmod": "2015-02-21T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "A Lay Made About the Year Of The City CCCLX I Lars Porsena of Closium By the Nine Gods he swore That the great house of Tarquin Should suffer wrong no more. By the Nine Gods he swore it, And named a trysting day, And bade his messengers ride forth, East and west and south and north, To summon his array. II East and west and south and north The messengers ride fast, And tower and town and cottage Have heard the trumpet’s blast. Shame on the false Etruscan Who lingers in his home, When Porsena of Clusium Is on the march for Rome. III The horsemen and the footmen Are pouring in amain From many a stately market-place, From many a fruitful plain, From many a lonely hamlet, Which, hid by beech and pine, Like an eagle’s nest, hangs on the crest Of purple Apennine; IV From lordly Volaterræ, Where scowls the far-famed hold Piled by the hands of giants For godlike kings of old; From seagirt Populonia, Whose sentinels descry Sardinia’s snowy mountain-tops Fringing the southern sky; V From the proud mart of Pisæ, Queen of the western waves, Where ride Massilia’s triremes Heavy with fair-haired slaves; From where sweet Clanis wanders Through corn and vines and flowers; From where Cortona lifts to heaven Her diadem of towers. VI Tall are the oaks whose acorns Drop in dark Auser’s rill; Fat are the stags that champ the boughs Of the Ciminian hill; Beyond all streams Clitumnus Is to the herdsman dear; Best of all pools the fowler loves The great Volsinian mere. VII But now no stroke of woodman Is heard by Auser’s rill; No hunter tracks the stag’s green path Up the Ciminian hill; Unwatched along Clitumnus Grazes the milk-white steer; Unharmed the water fowl may dip In the Volsminian mere. VIII The harvests of Arretium, This year, old men shall reap; This year, young boys in Umbro Shall plunge the struggling sheep; And in the vats of Luna, This year, the must shall foam Round the white feet of laughing girls Whose sires have marched to Rome. IX There be thirty chosen prophets, The wisest of the land, Who alway by Lars Porsena Both morn and evening stand: Evening and morn the Thirty Have turned the verses o’er, Traced from the right on linen white By mighty seers of yore. X And with one voice the Thirty Have their glad answer given: \"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena; Go forth, beloved of Heaven; Go, and return in glory To Clusium’s royal dome; And hang round Nurscia’s altars The golden shields of Rome.\" XI And now hath every city Sent up her tale of men; The foot are fourscore thousand, The horse are thousands ten. Before the gates of Sutrium Is met the great array. A proud man was Lars Porsena Upon the trysting day. XII For all the Etruscan armies Were ranged beneath his eye, And many a banished Roman, And many a stout ally; And with a mighty following To join the muster came The Tusculan Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name. XIII But by the yellow Tiber Was tumult and affright: From all the spacious champaign To Rome men took their flight. A mile around the city, The throng stopped up the ways; A fearful sight it was to see Through two long nights and days. XIV For aged folks on crutches, And women great with child, And mothers sobbing over babes That clung to them and smiled, And sick men borne in litters High on the necks of slaves, And troops of sun-burned husbandmen With reaping-hooks and staves, XV And droves of mules and asses Laden with skins of wine, And endless flocks of goats and sheep, And endless herds of kine, And endless trains of wagons That creaked beneath the weight Of corn-sacks and of household goods, Choked every roaring gate. XVI Now, from the rock Tarpeian, Could the wan burghers spy The line of blazing villages Red in the midnight sky. The Fathers of the City, They sat all night and day, For every hour some horseman come With tidings of dismay. XVII To eastward and to westward Have spread the Tuscan bands; Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote In Crustumerium stands. Verbenna down to Ostia Hath wasted all the plain; Astur hath stormed Janiculum, And the stout guards are slain. XVIII I wis, in all the Senate,                [wis: know] There was no heart so bold, But sore it ached, and fast it beat, When that ill news was told. Forthwith up rose the Consul, Up rose the Fathers all; In haste they girded up their gowns, And hied them to the wall. XIX They held a council standing, Before the River-Gate; Short time was there, ye well may guess, For musing or debate. Out spake the Consul roundly: \"The bridge must straight go down; For, since Janiculum is lost, Nought else can save the town.\" XX Just then a scout came flying, All wild with haste and fear: \"To arms! to arms! Sir Consul: Lars Porsena is here.\" On the low hills to westward The Consul fixed his eye, And saw the swarthy storm of dust Rise fast along the sky. XXI And nearer fast and nearer Doth the red whirlwind come; And louder still and still more loud, From underneath that rolling cloud, Is heard the trumpet’s war-note proud, The trampling, and the hum. And plainly and more plainly Now through the gloom appears, Far to left and far to right, In broken gleams of dark-blue light, The long array of helmets bright, The long array of spears. XXII And plainly and more plainly, Above that glimmering line, Now might ye see the banners Of twelve fair cities shine; But the banner of proud Clusium Was highest of them all, The terror of the Umbrian, The terror of the Gaul. XXIII And plainly and more plainly Now might the burghers know, By port and vest, by horse and crest, Each warlike Lucumo. There Cilnius of Arretium On his fleet roan was seen; And Astur of the four-fold shield, Girt with the brand none else may wield, Tolumnius with the belt of gold, And dark Verbenna from the hold By reedy Thrasymene. XXIV Fast by the royal standard, O’erlooking all the war, Lars Porsena of Clusium Sat in his ivory car. By the right wheel rode Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name; And by the left false Sextus, That wrought the deed of shame. XXV But when the face of Sextus Was seen among the foes, A yell that rent the firmament From all the town arose. On the house-tops was no woman But spat towards him and hissed, No child but screamed out curses, And shook its little fist. XXVI But the Consul’s brow was sad, And the Consul’s speech was low, And darkly looked he at the wall, And darkly at the foe. \"Their van will be upon us Before the bridge goes down; And if they once may win the bridge, What hope to save the town?\" XXVII Then out spake brave Horatius, The Captain of the Gate: \"To every man upon this earth Death cometh soon or late. And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds, For the ashes of his fathers, And the temples of his gods, XXVIII \"And for the tender mother Who dandled him to rest, And for the wife who nurses His baby at her breast, And for the holy maidens Who feed the eternal flame, To save them from false Sextus That wrought the deed of shame? XXIX \"Haul down the bridge, Sir Consul, With all the speed ye may; I, with two more to help me, Will hold the foe in play. In yon strait path a thousand May well be stopped by three. Now who will stand on either hand, And keep the bridge with me?\" XXX Then out spake Spurius Lartius; A Ramnian proud was he: \"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand, And keep the bridge with thee.\" And out spake strong Herminius; Of Titian blood was he: \"I will abide on thy left side, And keep the bridge with thee.\" XXXI \"Horatius,\" quoth the Consul, \"As thou sayest, so let it be.\" And straight against that great array Forth went the dauntless Three. For Romans in Rome’s quarrel Spared neither land nor gold, Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, In the brave days of old. XXXII Then none was for a party; Then all were for the state; Then the great man helped the poor, And the poor man loved the great: Then lands were fairly portioned; Then spoils were fairly sold: The Romans were like brothers In the brave days of old. XXXIII Now Roman is to Roman More hateful than a foe, And the Tribunes beard the high, And the Fathers grind the low. As we wax hot in faction, In battle we wax cold: Wherefore men fight not as they fought In the brave days of old. XXXIV Now while the Three were tightening Their harness on their backs, The Consul was the foremost man To take in hand an axe: And Fathers mixed with Commons Seized hatchet, bar, and crow, And smote upon the planks above, And loosed the props below. XXXV Meanwhile the Tuscan army, Right glorious to behold, Come flashing back the noonday light, Rank behind rank, like surges bright Of a broad sea of gold. Four hundred trumpets sounded A peal of warlike glee, As that great host, with measured tread, And spears advanced, and ensigns spread, Rolled slowly towards the bridge’s head, Where stood the dauntless Three. XXXVI The Three stood calm and silent, And looked upon the foes, And a great shout of laughter From all the vanguard rose: And forth three chiefs came spurring Before that deep array; To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, And lifted high their shields, and flew To win the narrrow way; XXXVII Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines; And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves Sicken in Ilva’s mines; And Picus, long to Clusium Vassal in peace and war, Who led to fight his Umbrian powers From that gray crag where, girt with towers, The fortress of Nequinum lowers O’er the pale waves of Nar. XXXVIII Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus Into the stream beneath; Herminius struck at Seius, And clove him to the teeth; At Picus brave Horatius Darted one fiery thrust; And the proud Umbrian’s gilded arms Clashed in the bloody dust. XXXIX Then Ocnus of Falerii Rushed on the Roman Three; And Lausulus of Urgo, The rover of the sea; And Aruns of Volsinium, Who slew the great wild boar, The great wild boar that had his den Amidst the reeds of Cosa’s fen, And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, Along Albinia’s shore. XL Herminius smote down Aruns: Lartius laid Ocnus low: Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow. \"Lie there,\" he cried, \"fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale, From Ostia’s walls the crowd shall mark The track of thy destroying bark. No more Campania’s hinds shall fly To woods and caverns when they spy Thy thrice accursed sail.\" XLI But now no sound of laughter Was heard among the foes. A wild and wrathful clamor From all the vanguard rose. Six spears’ lengths from the entrance Halted that deep array, And for a space no man came forth To win the narrow way. XLII But hark! the cry is Astur: And lo! the ranks divide; And the great Lord of Luna Comes with his stately stride. Upon his ample shoulders Clangs loud the four-fold shield, And in his hand he shakes the brand Which none but he can wield. XLIII He smiled on those bold Romans A smile serene and high; He eyed the flinching Tuscans, And scorn was in his eye. Quoth he, \"The she-wolf’s litter Stand savagely at bay: But will ye dare to follow, If Astur clears the way?\" XLIV Then, whirling up his broadsword With both hands to the height, He rushed against Horatius, And smote with all his might. With shield and blade Horatius Right deftly turned the blow. The blow, though turned, came yet too nigh; It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh: The Tuscans raised a joyful cry To see the red blood flow. XLV He reeled, and on Herminius He leaned one breathing-space; Then, like a wild cat mad with wounds, Sprang right at Astur’s face. Through teeth, and skull, and helmet So fierce a thrust he sped, The good sword stood a hand-breadth out Behind the Tuscan’s head. XLVI And the great Lord of Luna Fell at that deadly stroke, As falls on Mount Alvernus A thunder smitten oak: Far o’er the crashing forest The giant arms lie spread; And the pale augurs, muttering low, Gaze on the blasted head. XLVII On Astur’s throat Horatius Right firmly pressed his heel, And thrice and four times tugged amain, Ere he wrenched out the steel. \"And see,\" he cried, \"the welcome, Fair guests, that waits you here! What noble Lucomo comes next To taste our Roman cheer?\" XLVIII But at his haughty challange A sullen murmur ran, Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, Along that glittering van. There lacked not men of prowess, Nor men of lordly race; For all Etruria’s noblest Were round the fatal place. XLIX But all Etruria’s noblest Felt their hearts sink to see On the earth the bloody corpses, In the path the dauntless Three: And, from the ghastly entrance Where those bold Romans stood, All shrank, like boys who unaware, Ranging the woods to start a hare, Come to the mouth of the dark lair Where, growling low, a fierce old bear Lies amidst bones and blood. L Was none who would be foremost To lead such dire attack; But those behind cried, \"Forward!\" And those before cried, \"Back!\" And backward now and forward Wavers the deep array; And on the tossing sea of steel To and frow the standards reel; And the victorious trumpet-peal Dies fitfully away. LI Yet one man for one moment Strode out before the crowd; Well known was he to all the Three, And they gave him greeting loud. \"Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! Now welcome to thy home! Why dost thou stay, and turn away? Here lies the road to Rome.\" LII Thrice looked he at the city; Thrice looked he at the dead; And thrice came on in fury, And thrice turned back in dread: And, white with fear and hatred, Scowled at the narrow way Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, The bravest Tuscans lay. LIII But meanwhile axe and lever Have manfully been plied; And now the bridge hangs tottering Above the boiling tide. \"Come back, come back, Horatius!\" Loud cried the Fathers all. \"Back, Lartius! back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall!\" LIV Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back: And, as they passed, beneath their feet They felt the timbers crack. But when they turned their faces, And on the farther shore Saw brave Horatius stand alone, They would have crossed once more. LV But with a crash like thunder Fell every loosened beam, And, like a dam, the mighty wreck Lay right athwart the stream: And a long shout of triumph Rose from the walls of Rome, As to the highest turret-tops Was splashed the yellow foam. LVI And, like a horse unbroken When first he feels the rein, The furious river struggled hard, And tossed his tawny mane, And burst the curb and bounded, Rejoicing to be free, And whirling down, in fierce career, Battlement, and plank, and pier, Rushed headlong to the sea. LVII Alone stood brave Horatius, But constant still in mind; Thrice thirty thousand foes before, And the broad flood behind. \"Down with him!\" cried false Sextus, With a smile on his pale face. \"Now yield thee,\" cried Lars Porsena, \"Now yield thee to our grace.\" LVIII Round turned he, as not deigning Those craven ranks to see; Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, To Sextus nought spake he; But he saw on Palatinus The white porch of his home; And he spake to the noble river That rolls by the towers of Rome. LVIX \"Oh, Tiber! Father Tiber! To whom the Romans pray, A Roman’s life, a Roman’s arms, Take thou in charge this day!\" So he spake, and speaking sheathed The good sword by his side, And with his harness on his back, Plunged headlong in the tide. LX No sound of joy or sorrow Was heard from either bank; But friends and foes in dumb surprise, With parted lips and straining eyes, Stood gazing where he sank; And when above the surges, They saw his crest appear, All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, And even the ranks of Tuscany Could scarce forbear to cheer. LXI But fiercely ran the current, Swollen high by months of rain: And fast his blood was flowing; And he was sore in pain, And heavy with his armor, And spent with changing blows: And oft they thought him sinking, But still again he rose. LXII Never, I ween, did swimmer, In such an evil case, Struggle through such a raging flood Safe to the landing place: But his limbs were borne up bravely By the brave heart within, And our good father Tiber Bare bravely up his chin. LXIII \"Curse on him!\" quoth false Sextus; \"Will not the villain drown? But for this stay, ere close of day We should have sacked the town!\" \"Heaven help him!\" quoth Lars Porsena \"And bring him safe to shore; For such a gallant feat of arms Was never seen before.\" LXIV And now he feels the bottom; Now on dry earth he stands; Now round him throng the Fathers; To press his gory hands; And now, with shouts and clapping, And noise of weeping loud, He enters through the River-Gate Borne by the joyous crowd. LXV They gave him of the corn-land, That was of public right, As much as two strong oxen Could plough from morn till night; And they made a molten image, And set it up on high, And there is stands unto this day To witness if I lie. LXVI It stands in the Comitium Plain for all folk to see; Horatius in his harness, Halting upon one knee: And underneath is written, In letters all of gold, How valiantly he kept the bridge In the brave days of old. LXVII And still his name sounds stirring Unto the men of Rome, As the trumpet-blast that cries to them To charge the Volscian home; And wives still pray to Juno For boys with hearts as bold As his who kept the bridge so well In the brave days of old. LXVIII And in the nights of winter, When the cold north winds blow, And the long howling of the wolves Is heard amidst the snow; When round the lonely cottage Roars loud the tempest’s din, And the good logs of Algidus Roar louder yet within; LXIX When the oldest cask is opened, And the largest lamp is lit; When the chestnuts glow in the embers, And the kid turns on the spit; When young and old in circle Around the firebrands close; When the girls are weaving baskets, And the lads are shaping bows; LXX When the goodman mends his armor, And trims his helmet’s plume; When the goodwife’s shuttle merrily Goes flashing through the loom; With weeping and with laughter Still is the story told, How well Horatius kept the bridge In the brave days of old. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1874", "url": "/panorama/1874/", "title": "The Sun Rising", "layout": "page", "author": "Donne, John", "lastmod": "2015-02-23T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "        Busy old fool, unruly Sun,         Why dost thou thus, Through windows, and through curtains, call on us? Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?         Saucy pedantic wretch, go chide         Late schoolboys, and sour prentices,     Go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,     Call country ants to harvest offices, Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime, Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.         Thy beams, so reverend and strong         Why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, But that I would not lose her sight so long:         If her eyes have not blinded thine,         Look, and tomorrow late, tell me     Whether both th’ Indias of spice and mine     Be where thou leftst them, or lie here with me. Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday, And thou shalt hear: \"All here in one bed lay.\"         She is all states, and all princes I,         Nothing else is. Princes do but play us; compar’d to this, All honour’s mimic, all wealth alchemy.         Thou, sun, art half as happy ‘s we,         In that the world’s contracted thus;     Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be     To warm the world, that’s done in warming us. Shine here to us, and thou art everywhere; This bed thy centre is, these walls, thy sphere. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1875", "url": "/panorama/1875/", "title": "The Night Piece: To Julia", "layout": "page", "author": "Herrick, Robert", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee;      And the elves also,      Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No Will-o’-th’-Wisp mis-light thee, Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee;      But on, on thy way,      Not making a stay, Since ghost there’s none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber?      The stars of the night      Will lend thee their light, Like tapers clear without number. Then Julia let me woo thee, Thus, thus to come unto me;      And when I shall meet      Thy silv’ry feet, My soul I’ll pour into thee. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1876", "url": "/panorama/1876/", "title": "John Anderson My Jo", "layout": "page", "author": "Burns, Robert", "lastmod": "2015-02-26T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "John Anderson my jo, John,     When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven,     Your bonny brow was brent; But now your brow is bled, John,     Your locks are like the straw, But blessings on your frosty pow,     John Anderson my jo! John Anderson my jo, John,     We clamb the hill thegither And monie a cantie day, John,     We’ve had wi’ ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John,     And hand in hand we’ll go, And sleep thegither at the foot,     John Anderson my jo! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1877", "url": "/panorama/1877/", "title": "She Walks in Beauty", "layout": "page", "author": "Byron, Lord George Gordon Noel", "lastmod": "2015-02-28T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "She walks in beauty like the night     Of cloudless climes and starry skies, And all that’s best of dark and bright     Meet in her aspect and her eyes; Thus mellowed to the tender light     Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One ray the more, one shade the less     Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress     Or softly lightens o’er her face, Where thoughts serenely sweet express     How pure, how dear their dwelling place. And on that cheek and o’er that brow     So soft, so calm yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow     But tell of days in goodness spent A mind at peace with all below,     A heart whose love is innocent. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1878", "url": "/panorama/1878/", "title": "Believe Me, if all those Endearing Young Charms", "layout": "page", "author": "Moore, Thomas", "lastmod": "2015-03-01T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,     Which I gaze on so fondly to-day Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,     Like fairy-gifts fading away, Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,     Let thy loveliness fade as it will, And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart     Would entwine itself verdantly still. It is not while beauty and youth are thine own,     And they cheeks unprofaned by a tear, That the fervor and faith of a soul can be known,     To which time will but make thee more dear; No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets,     But as truly loves on to the close, As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,     The same look which she turned when he rose. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1879", "url": "/panorama/1879/", "title": "Lines to an Indian Air", "layout": "page", "author": "Shelley, Percy Bysshe", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I arise from dreams of thee   In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low,   And the stars are shining bright I arise from dreams of thee,   And a spirit in my feet Hath led me — who knows how? —   To thy chamber window, Sweet! The wandering airs they faint   On the dark, the silent stream — The champak odors fail   Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale’s complaint,   It dies upon her heart; As I must on thine,   Oh, beloved as thou art! O lift me from the grass!   I die! I faint! I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain   On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas!   My heart beats loud and fast;— Oh! press it to thine own again,   Where it will break at last. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1880", "url": "/panorama/1880/", "title": "Sohrab and Rustum - An Episode", "layout": "page", "author": "Arnold, Matthew", "lastmod": "2015-03-04T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "And the first grey of morning fill’d the east, And the fog rose out of the Oxus stream. But all the Tartar camp along the stream Was hush’d, and still the men were plunged in sleep; Sohrab alone, he slept not; all night long He had lain wakeful, tossing on his bed; But when the grey dawn stole into his tent, He rose, and clad himself, and girt his sword, And took his horseman’s cloak, and left his tent, And went abroad into the cold wet fog, Through the dim camp to Peran-Wisa’s tent.     Through the black Tartar tents he pass’d, which stood Clustering like bee-hives on the low flat strand Of Oxus, where the summer-floods o’erflow When the sun melts the snows in high Pamere: Through the black tents he pass’d, o’er that low strand, And to a hillock came, a little back From the stream’s brink, the spot where first a boat, Crossing the stream in summer, scrapes the land. The men of former times had crown’d the top With a clay fort: but that was fall’n; and now The Tartars built there Peran-Wisa’s tent, A dome of laths, and o’er it felts were spread. And Sohrab came there, and went in, and stood Upon the thick piled carpets in the tent, And found the old man sleeping on his bed Of rugs and felts, and near him lay his arms. And Peran-Wisa heard him, though the step Was dull’d; for he slept light, an old man’s sleep; And he rose quickly on one arm, and said:—     ‘Who art thou? for it is not yet clear dawn. Speak! is there news, or any night alarm?’     But Sohrab came to the bedside, and said:— ‘Thou know’st me, Peran-Wisa! it is I. The sun is not yet risen, and the foe Sleep; but I sleep not; all night long I lie Tossing and wakeful, and I come to thee. For so did King Afrasiab bid me seek Thy counsel and to heed thee as thy son, In Samarcand, before the army march’d; And I will tell thee what my heart desires. Thou know’st if, since from Ader-baijan first I came among the Tartars and bore arms, I have still served Afrasiab well, and shown, At my boy’s years, the courage of a man. This too thou know’st, that while I still bear on The conquering Tartar ensigns through the world, And beat the Persians back on every field, I seek one man, one man, and one alone— Rustum, my father; who I hoped should greet, Should one day greet, upon some well fought field, His not unworthy, not inglorious son. So I long hoped, but him I never find. Come then, hear now, and grant me what I ask. Let the two armies rest to-day; but I Will challenge forth the bravest Persian lords To meet me, man to man; if I prevail, Rustum will surely hear it; if I fall— Old man, the dead need no one, claim no kin. Dim is the rumour of a common fight, Where host meets host, and many names are sunk; But of a single combat Fame speaks clear.’     He spoke; and Peran-Wisa took the hand Of the young man in his, and sigh’d, and said:—     ‘O Sohrab, an unquiet heart is thine! Canst thou not rest among the Tartar chiefs, And share the battle’s common chance with us Who love thee, but must press for ever first, In single fight incurring single risk, To find a father thou hast never seen? That were far best, my son, to stay with us Unmurmuring; in our tents, while it is war, And when ’tis truce, then in Afrasiab’s towns. But, if this one desire indeed rules all, To seek out Rustum—seek him not through fight: Seek him in peace, and carry to his arms, O Sohrab, carry an unwounded son! But far hence seek him, for he is not here. For now it is not as when I was young, When Rustum was in front of every fray: But now he keeps apart, and sits at home, In Seistan, with Zal, his father old. Whether that his own mighty strength at last Feels the abhorr’d approaches of old age; Or in some quarrel with the Persian King. There go!—Thou wilt not? Yet my heart forebodes Danger or death awaits thee on this field. Fain would I know thee safe and well, though lost To us; fain therefore send thee hence, in peace To seek thy father, not seek single fights In vain;—but who can keep the lion’s cub From ravening, and who govern Rustum’s son? Go: I will grant thee what thy heart desires.’     So said he, and dropp’d Sohrab’s hand, and left His bed, and the warm rugs whereon he lay; And o’er his chilly limbs his woollen coat He pass’d, and tied his sandals on his feet, And threw a white cloak round him, and he took In his right hand a ruler’s staff, no sword; And on his head he set his sheep-skin cap, Black, glossy, curl’d, the fleece of Kara-Kul; And raised the curtain of his tent, and call’d His herald to his side, and went abroad.     The sun by this had risen, and clear’d the fog From the broad Oxus and the glittering sands. And from their tents the Tartar horsemen filed Into the open plain; so Haman bade; Haman, who next to Peran-Wisa ruled The host, and still was in his lusty prime. From their black tents, long files of horse, they stream’d: As when some grey November morn the files, In marching order spread, of long-neck’d cranes Stream over Casbin and the southern slopes Of Elburz, from the Aralian estuaries, Or some frore Caspian reed-bed, southward bound For the warm Persian sea-board: so they stream’d. The Tartars of the Oxus, the King’s guard, First, with black sheep-skin caps and with long spears; Large men, large steeds; who from Bokhara come And Khiva, and ferment the milk of mares. Next, the more temperate Toorkmuns of the south, The Tukas, and the lances of Salore, And those from Attruck and the Caspian sands; Light men and on light steeds, who only drink The acrid milk of camels, and their wells. And then a swarm of wandering horse, who came From far, and a more doubtful service own’d; The Tartars of Ferghana, from the banks Of the Jaxartes, men with scanty beards And close-set skull-caps; and those wilder hordes Who roam o’er Kipchak and the northern waste, Kalmucks and unkempt Kuzzaks, tribes who stray Nearest the Pole, and wandering Kirghizzes, Who come on shaggy ponies from Pamere; These all filed out from camp into the plain. And on the other side the Persians form’d;— First a light cloud of horse, Tartars they seem’d, The Ilyats of Khorassan, and behind, The royal troops of Persia, horse and foot, Marshall’d battalions bright in burnish’d steel. But Peran-Wisa with his herald came, Threading the Tartar squadrons to the front, And with his staff kept back the foremost ranks. And when Ferood, who led the Persians, saw That Peran-Wisa kept the Tartars back, He took his spear, and to the front he came, And check’d his ranks, and fix’d them where they stood. And the old Tartar came upon the sand Betwixt the silent hosts, and spake, and said:—     ‘Ferood, and ye, Persians and Tartars, hear! Let there be truce between the hosts to-day. But choose a champion from the Persian lords To fight our champion Sohrab, man to man.’     As, in the country, on a morn in June, When the dew glistens on the pearled ears, A shiver runs through the deep corn for joy— So, when they heard what Peran-Wisa said, A thrill through all the Tartar squadrons ran Of pride and hope for Sohrab, whom they loved.     But as a troop of pedlars, from Cabool, Cross underneath the Indian Caucasus, That vast sky-neighbouring mountain of milk snow; Crossing so high, that, as they mount, they pass Long flocks of travelling birds dead on the snow, Choked by the air, and scarce can they themselves Slake their parch’d throats with sugar’d mulberries— In single file they move, and stop their breath, For fear they should dislodge the o’er hanging snows— So the pale Persians held their breath with fear.     And to Ferood his brother chiefs came up To counsel; Gudurz and Zoarrah came And Feraburz, who ruled the Persian host Second, and was the uncle of the King These came and counsell’d, and then Gudurz said:—     ‘Ferood, shame bids us take their challenge up, Yet champion have we none to match this youth. He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart. But Rustum came last night; aloof he sits And sullen, and has pitch’d his tents apart. Him will I seek, and carry to his ear The Tartar challenge, and this young man’s name. Haply he will forget his wrath, and fight. Stand forth the while, and take their challenge up.’     So spake he; and Ferood stood forth and cried.— ‘Old man, be it agreed as thou hast said! Let Sohrab arm, and we will find a man.’     He spake: and Peran-Wisa turn’d, and strode Back through the opening squadrons to his tent. But through the anxious Persians Gudurz ran, And cross’d the camp which lay behind, and reach’d, Out on the sands beyond it, Rustum’s tents. Of scarlet cloth they were, and glittering gay Just pitch’d; the high pavilion in the midst Was Rustum’s, and his men lay camp’d around. And Gudurz enter’d Rustum’s tent, and found Rustum; his morning meal was done, but still The table stood before him, charged with food— A side of roasted sheep, and cakes of bread, And dark green melons; and there Rustum sate Listless, and held a falcon on his wrist, And play’d with it; but Gudurz came and stood Before him; and he look’d, and saw him stand, And with a cry sprang up and dropp’d the bird, And greeted Gudurz with both hands, and said:—     ‘Welcome! these eyes could see no better sight. What news? but sit down first, and eat and drink.’     But Gudurz stood in the tent-door, and said:— ‘Not now! a time will come to eat and drink, But not to-day; to-day has other needs. The armies are drawn out, and stand at gaze; For from the Tartars is a challenge brought To pick a champion from the Persian lords To fight their champion—and thou know’st his name— Sohrab men call him, but his birth is hid. O Rustum, like thy might is this young man’s! He has the wild stag’s foot, the lion’s heart; And he is young, and Iran’s chiefs are old, Or else too weak; and all eyes turn to thee. Come down and help us, Rustum, or we lose!’     He spoke; but Rustum answer’d with a smile:— ‘Go to! if Iran’s chiefs are old, then I Am older; if the young are weak, the King Errs strangely; for the King, for Kai Khosroo, Himself is young, and honours younger men, And lets the aged moulder to their graves. Rustum he loves no more, but loves the young— The young may rise at Sohrab’s vaunts, not I. For what care I, though all speak Sohrab’s fame? For would that I myself had such a son, And not that one slight helpless girl I have, A son so famed, so brave, to send to war, And I to tarry with the snow-hair’d Zal, My father, whom the robber Afghans vex, And clip his borders short, and drive his herds, And he has none to guard his weak old age. There would I go, and hang my armour up, And with my great name fence that weak old man, And spend the goodly treasures I have got, And rest my age, and hear of Sohrab’s fame, And leave to death the hosts of thankless kings, And with these slaughterous hands draw sword no more.’     He spoke, and smiled; and Gudurz made reply:—- ‘What then, O Rustum, will men say to this, When Sohrab dares our bravest forth, and seeks Thee most of all, and thou, whom most he seeks, Hidest thy face? Take heed lest men should say: Like some old miser, Rustum hoards his fame, And shuns to peril it with younger men.’     And, greatly moved, then Rustum made reply:— ‘O Gudurz, wherefore dost thou say such words? Thou knowest better words than this to say. What is one more, one less, obscure or famed, Valiant or craven, young or old, to me? Are not they mortal, am not I myself? But who for men of nought would do great deeds? Come, thou shalt see how Rustum hoards his fame! But I will fight unknown, and in plain arms; Let not men say of Rustum, he was match’d In single fight with any mortal man.’     He spoke, and frown’d; and Gudurz turn’d, and ran Back quickly through the camp in fear and joy— Fear at his wrath, but joy that Rustum came. But Rustum strode to his tent-door, and call’d His followers in, and bade them bring his arms, And clad himself in steel; the arms he chose Were plain, and on his shield was no device, Only his helm was rich, inlaid with gold, And, from the fluted spine atop, a plume Of horsehair waved, a scarlet horsehair plume. So arm’d, he issued forth; and Ruksh, his horse, Follow’d him like a faithful hound at heel— Ruksh, whose renown was noised through all the earth, The horse, whom Rustum on a foray once Did in Bokhara by the river find A colt beneath its dam, and drove him home, And rear’d him; a bright bay, with lofty crest, Dight with a saddle-cloth of broider’d green Crusted with gold, and on the ground were work’d All beasts of chase, all beasts which hunters know: So follow’d, Rustum left his tents, and cross’d The camp, and to the Persian host appear’d. And all the Persians knew him, and with shouts Hail’d; but the Tartars knew not who he was. And dear as the wet diver to the eyes Of his pale wife who waits and weeps on shore, By sandy Bahrein, in the Persian Gulf, Plunging all day in the blue waves, at night, Having made up his tale of precious pearls, Rejoins her in their hut upon the sands— So dear to the pale Persians Rustum came.     And Rustum to the Persian front advanced, And Sohrab arm’d in Haman’s tent, and came. And as afield the reapers cut a swath Down through the middle of a rich man’s corn, And on each side are squares of standing corn, And in the midst a stubble, short and bare— So on each side were squares of men, with spears Bristling, and in the midst, the open sand. And Rustum came upon the sand, and cast His eyes toward the Tartar tents, and saw Sohrab come forth, and eyed him as he came.     As some rich woman, on a winter’s morn, Eyes through her silken curtains the poor drudge Who with numb blacken’d fingers makes her fire— At cock-crow, on a starlit winter’s morn, When the frost flowers the whiten’d window-panes— And wonders how she lives, and what the thoughts Of that poor drudge may be; so Rustum eyed The unknown adventurous youth, who from afar Came seeking Rustum, and defying forth All the most valiant chiefs; long he perused His spirited air, and wonder’d who he was. For very young he seem’d, tenderly rear’d; Like some young cypress, tall, and dark, and straight, Which in a queen’s secluded garden throws Its slight dark shadow on the moonlit turf, By midnight, to a bubbling fountain’s sound— So slender Sohrab seem’d, so softly rear’d. And a deep pity enter’d Rustum’s soul As he beheld him coming; and he stood, And beckon’d to him with his hand, and said:—     ‘O thou young man, the air of Heaven is soft, And warm, and pleasant; but the grave is cold! Heaven’s air is better than the cold dead grave. Behold me! I am vast, and clad in iron, And tried; and I have stood on many a field Of blood, and I have fought with many a foe— Never was that field lost, or that foe saved. O Sohrab, wherefore wilt thou rush on death? Be govern’d! quit the Tartar host, and come To Iran, and be as my son to me, And fight beneath my banner till I die! There are no youths in Iran brave as thou.’     So he spake, mildly; Sohrab heard his voice, The mighty voice of Rustum, and he saw His giant figure planted on the sand, Sole, like some single tower, which a chief Hath builded on the waste in former years Against the robbers; and he saw that head, Streak’d with its first grey hairs;—hope filled his soul, And he ran forward and embraced his knees And clasp’d his hand within his own, and said:—     ‘O, by thy father’s head! by thine own soul! Art thou not Rustum? speak! art thou not he?’     But Rustum eyed askance the kneeling youth, And turn’d away, and spake to his own soul:—     ‘Ah me, I muse what this young fox may mean! False, wily, boastful, are these Tartar boys. For if I now confess this thing he asks, And hide it not, but say—Rustum is here— He will not yield indeed, nor quit our foes, But he will find some pretext not to fight, And praise my fame, and proffer courteous gifts, A belt or sword perhaps, and go his way. And on a feast-tide, in Afrasiab’s hall, In Samarcand, he will arise and cry: ‘I challenged once, when the two armies camp’d Beside the Oxus, all the Persian lords To cope with me in single fight; but they Shrank, only Rustum dared; then he and I Changed gifts, and went on equal terms away.’ So will he speak, perhaps, while men applaud; Then were the chiefs of Iran shamed through me.’     And then he turn’d, and sternly spake aloud:— ‘Rise! wherefore dost thou vainly question thus Of Rustum? I am here, whom thou hast call’d By challenge forth; make good thy vaunt, or yield! Is it with Rustum only thou wouldst fight? Rash boy, men look on Rustum’s face and flee For well I know, that did great Rustum stand Before thy face this day, and were reveal’d, There would be then no talk of fighting more. But being what I am, I tell thee this— Do thou record it in thine inmost soul: Either thou shalt renounce thy vaunt and yield, Or else thy bones shall strew this sand, till winds Bleach them, or Oxus with his summer-floods, Oxus in summer wash them all away.’     He spoke; and Sohrab answer’d, on his feet:— ‘Art thou so fierce? Thou wilt not fright me so! I am no girl, to be made pale by words. Yet this thou hast said well, did Rustum stand Here on this field, there were no fighting then. But Rustum is far hence, and we stand here. Begin! thou art more vast, more dread than I, And thou art proved, I know, and I am young— But yet success sways with the breath of Heaven. And though thou thinkest that thou knowest sure Thy victory, yet thou canst not surely know. For we are all, like swimmers in the sea, Poised on the top of a huge wave of fate, Which hangs uncertain to which side to fall. And whether it will heave us up to land, Or whether it will roll us out to sea, Back out to sea, to the deep waves of death, We know not, and no search will make us know; Only the event will teach us in its hour.’     He spoke, and Rustum answer’d not, but hurl’d His spear; down from the shoulder, down it came, As on some partridge in the corn a hawk, That long has tower’d in the airy clouds, Drops like a plummet; Sohrab saw it come, And sprang aside, quick as a flash; the spear Hiss’d, and went quivering down into the sand, Which it sent flying wide;—then Sohrab threw In turn, and full struck Rustum’s shield; sharp rang, The iron plates rang sharp, but turn’d the spear. And Rustum seized his club, which none but he Could wield; an unlopp’d trunk it was, and huge, Still rough—like those which men in treeless plains To build them boats fish from the flooded rivers, Hyphasis or Hydaspes, when, high up By their dark springs, the wind in winter-time Hath made in Himalayan forests wrack, And strewn the channels with torn boughs; so huge The club which Rustum lifted now, and struck One stroke; but again Sohrab sprang aside, Lithe as the glancing snake, and the club came Thundering to earth, and leapt from Rustum’s hand. And Rustum follow’d his own blow, and fell To his knees, and with his fingers clutch’d the sand; And now might Sohrab have unsheathed his sword, And pierced the mighty Rustum while he lay Dizzy, and on his knees, and choked with sand; But he look’d on, and smiled, nor bared his sword, But courteously drew back, and spoke, and said:—     ‘Thou strik’st too hard! that club of thine will float Upon the summer-floods, and not my bones. But rise, and be not wroth! not wroth am I; No, when I see thee, wrath forsakes my soul. Thou say’st, thou art not Rustum; be it so! Who art thou then, that canst so touch my soul? Boy as I am, I have seen battles too— Have waded foremost in their bloody waves, And heard their hollow roar of dying men; But never was my heart thus touch’d before. Are they from Heaven, these softenings of the heart? O thou old warrior, let us yield to Heaven! Come, plant we here in earth our angry spears, And make a truce, and sit upon this sand, And pledge each other in red wine, like friends, And thou shalt talk to me of Rustum’s deeds. There are enough foes in the Persian host, Whom I may meet, and strike, and feel no pang; Champions enough Afrasiab has, whom thou Mayst fight; fight them, when they confront thy spear! But oh, let there be peace ’twixt thee and me!’     He ceas’d, but while he spake, Rustum had risen, And stood erect, trembling with rage; his club He left to lie, but had regain’d his spear, Whose fiery point now in his mail’d right-hand Blazed bright and baleful, like that autumn-star, The baleful sign of fevers; dust had soil’d His stately crest, and dimm’d his glittering arms. His breast heaved, his lips foam’d, and twice his voice Was choked with rage; at last these words broke way.—     ‘Girl! nimble with thy feet, not with thy hands! Curl’d minion, dancer, coiner of sweet words! Fight, let me hear thy hateful voice no more! Thou art not in Afrasiab’s gardens now With Tartar girls, with whom thou art wont to dance; But on the Oxus-sands, and in the dance Of battle, and with me, who make no play Of war; I fight it out, and hand to hand. Speak not to me of truce, and pledge, and wine! Remember all thy valour; try thy feints And cunning! all the pity I had is gone; Because thou hast shamed me before both the hosts With thy light skipping tricks, and thy girl’s wiles.’     He spoke, and Sohrab kindled at his taunts, And he too drew his sword; at once they rush’d Together, as two eagles on one prey Come rushing down together from the clouds, One from the east, one from the west; their shields Dash’d with a clang together, and a din Rose, such as that the sinewy woodcutters Make often in the forest’s heart at morn, Of hewing axes, crashing trees—such blows Rustum and Sohrab on each other hail’d. And you would say that sun and stars took part In that unnatural conflict; for a cloud Grew suddenly in Heaven, and dark’d the sun Over the fighters’ heads; and a wind rose Under their feet, and moaning swept the plain, And in a sandy whirlwind wrapp’d the pair. In gloom they twain were wrapp’d, and they alone; For both the on-looking hosts on either hand Stood in broad daylight, and the sky was pure, And the sun sparkled on the Oxus stream. But in the gloom they fought, with bloodshot eyes And labouring breath; first Rustum struck the shield Which Sohrab held stiff out; the steel-spiked spear Rent the tough plates, but fail’d to reach the skin, And Rustum pluck’d it back with angry groan. Then Sohrab with his sword smote Rustum’s helm, Nor clove its steel quite through; but all the crest He shore away, and that proud horsehair plume, Never till now defiled, sank to the dust; And Rustum bow’d his head; but then the gloom Grew blacker, thunder rumbled in the air, And lightnings rent the cloud; and Ruksh, the horse, Who stood at hand, utter’d a dreadful cry;— No horse’s cry was that, most like the roar Of some pain’d desert-lion, who all day Hath trail’d the hunter’s javelin in his side, And comes at night to die upon the sand. The two hosts heard that cry, and quaked for fear, And Oxus curdled as it cross’d his stream. But Sohrab heard, and quail’d not, but rush’d on, And struck again; and again Rustum bow’d His head; but this time all the blade, like glass, Sprang in a thousand shivers on the helm, And in the hand the hilt remain’d alone. Then Rustum raised his head; his dreadful eyes Glared, and he shook on high his menacing spear, And shouted: Rustum!—Sohrab heard that shout, And shrank amazed; back he recoil’d one step, And scann’d with blinking eyes the advancing form, And then he stood bewilder’d; and he dropp’d His covering shield, and the spear pierced his side. He reel’d, and staggering back, sank to the ground; And then the gloom dispersed, and the wind fell, And the bright sun broke forth, and melted all The cloud; and the two armies saw the pair— Saw Rustum standing, safe upon his feet, And Sohrab, wounded, on the bloody sand.     Then, with a bitter smile, Rustum began:— ‘Sohrab, thou thoughtest in thy mind to kill A Persian lord this day, and strip his corpse And bear thy trophies to Afrasiab’s tent. Or else that the great Rustum would come down Himself to fight, and that thy wiles would move His heart to take a gift, and let thee go. And then that all the Tartar host would praise Thy courage or thy craft, and spread thy fame, To glad thy father in his weak old age. Fool, thou art slain, and by an unknown man! Dearer to the red jackals shalt thou be Than to thy friends, and to thy father old.’     And, with a fearless mien, Sohrab replied:— ‘Unknown thou art; yet thy fierce vaunt is vain. Thou dost not slay me, proud and boastful man! No! Rustum slays me, and this filial heart. For were I match’d with ten such men as thee, And I were that which till to-day I was, They should be lying here, I standing there. But that belovèd name unnerved my arm— That name, and something, I confess, in thee, Which troubles all my heart, and made my shield Fall; and thy spear transfix’d an unarm’d foe. And now thou boastest, and insult’st my fate. But hear thou this, fierce man, tremble to hear: The mighty Rustum shall avenge my death! My father, whom I seek through all the world, He shall avenge my death, and punish thee!’     As when some hunter in the spring hath found A breeding eagle sitting on her nest, Upon the craggy isle of a hill-lake, And pierced her with an arrow as she rose, And follow’d her to find her where she fell Far off;—anon her mate comes winging back From hunting, and a great way off descries His huddling young left sole; at that, he checks His pinion, and with short uneasy sweeps Circles above his eyry, with loud screams Chiding his mate back to her nest; but she Lies dying, with the arrow in her side, In some far stony gorge out of his ken, A heap of fluttering feathers: never more Shall the lake glass her, flying over it; Never the black and dripping precipices Echo her stormy scream as she sails by— As that poor bird flies home, nor knows his loss, So Rustum knew not his own loss, but stood Over his dying son, and knew him not.     But, with a cold, incredulous voice, he said:— ‘What prate is this of fathers and revenge? The mighty Rustum never had a son.’     And, with a failing voice, Sohrab replied:— ‘Ah yes, he had! and that lost son am I. Surely the news will one day reach his ear, Reach Rustum, where he sits, and tarries long, Somewhere, I know not where, but far from here; And pierce him like a stab, and make him leap To arms, and cry for vengeance upon thee. Fierce man, bethink thee, for an only son! What will that grief, what will that vengeance be? Oh, could I live, till I that grief had seen! Yet him I pity not so much, but her, My mother, who in Ader-baijan dwells With that old king, her father, who grows grey With age, and rules over the valiant Koords. Her most I pity, who no more will see Sohrab returning from the Tartar camp, With spoils and honour, when the war is done. But a dark rumour will be bruited up, From tribe to tribe, until it reach her ear; And then will that defenceless woman learn That Sohrab will rejoice her sight no more, But that in battle with a nameless foe, By the far-distant Oxus, he is slain.’     He spoke; and as he ceased, he wept aloud, Thinking of her he left, and his own death. He spoke; but Rustum listen’d, plunged in thought. Nor did he yet believe it was his son Who spoke, although he call’d back names he knew; For he had had sure tidings that the babe, Which was in Ader-baijan born to him, Had been a puny girl, no boy at all— So that sad mother sent him word, for fear Rustum should seek the boy, to train in arms. And so he deem’d that either Sohrab took, By a false boast, the style of Rustum’s son; Or that men gave it him, to swell his fame. So deem’d he; yet he listen’d, plunged in thought And his soul set to grief, as the vast tide Of the bright rocking Ocean sets to shore At the full moon; tears gather’d in his eyes; For he remember’d his own early youth, And all its bounding rapture; as, at dawn, The shepherd from his mountain-lodge descries A far, bright city, smitten by the sun, Through many rolling clouds;—so Rustum saw His youth; saw Sohrab’s mother, in her bloom; And that old king, her father, who loved well His wandering guest, and gave him his fair child With joy; and all the pleasant life they led, They three, in that long-distant summer-time— The castle, and the dewy woods, and hunt And hound, and morn on those delightful hills In Ader-baijan. And he saw that Youth, Of age and looks to be his own dear son, Piteous and lovely, lying on the sand, Like some rich hyacinth which by the scythe Of an unskilful gardener has been cut, Mowing the garden grass-plots near its bed, And lies, a fragrant tower of purple bloom, On the mown, dying grass—so Sohrab lay, Lovely in death, upon the common sand. And Rustum gazed on him with grief, and said:—     ‘O Sohrab, thou indeed art such a son Whom Rustum, wert thou his, might well have loved! Yet here thou errest, Sohrab, or else men Have told thee false—thou art not Rustum’s son. For Rustum had no son; one child he had— But one—a girl; who with her mother now Plies some light female task, nor dreams of us— Of us she dreams not, nor of wounds, nor war.’     But Sohrab answer’d him in wrath: for now The anguish of the deep-fix’d spear grew fierce, And he desired to draw forth the steel, And let the blood flow free, and so to die; But first he would convince his stubborn foe— And, rising sternly on one arm, he said:—     ‘Man, who art thou who dost deny my words? Truth sits upon the lips of dying men, And falsehood, while I lived, was far from mine. I tell thee, prick’d upon this arm I bear That seal which Rustum to my mother gave, That she might prick it on the babe she bore.’     He spoke; and all the blood left Rustum’s cheeks, And his knees totter’d, and he smote his hand Against his breast, his heavy mailed hand, That the hard iron corslet clank’d aloud; And to his heart he press’d the other hand, And in a hollow voice he spake, and said:—     ‘Sohrab, that were a proof which could not lie! If thou show this, then art thou Rustum’s son.’     Then, with weak hasty fingers, Sohrab loosed His belt, and near the shoulder bared his arm, And show’d a sign in faint vermilion points Prick’d; as a cunning workman, in Pekin, Pricks with vermilion some clear porcelain vase, An emperor’s gift—at early morn he paints, And all day long, and, when night comes, the lamp Lights up his studious forehead and thin hands:— So delicately prick’d the sign appear’d On Sohrab’s arm, the sign of Rustum’s seal. It was that griffin, which of old rear’d Zal, Rustum’s great father, whom they left to die, A helpless babe, among the mountain-rocks; Him that kind creature found, and rear’d, and lov’d— Then Rustum took it for his glorious sign. And Sohrab bared that image on his arm, And himself scann’d it long with mournful eyes, And then he touch’d it with his hand and said:—     ‘How say’st thou? Is that sign the proper sign Of Rustum’s son, or of some other man’s?’     He spoke; but Rustum gazed, and gazed, and stood Speechless; and then he utter’d one sharp cry: O boy—thy father!—and his voice choked there. And then a dark cloud pass’d before his eyes, And his head swam, and he sank down to earth. But Sohrab crawl’d to where he lay, and cast His arms about his neck, and kiss’d his lips, And with fond faltering fingers stroked his cheeks, Trying to call him back to life; and life Came back to Rustum, and he oped his eyes, And they stood wide with horror; and he seized In both his hands the dust which lay around, And threw it on his head, and smirch’d his hair,— His hair, and face, and beard, and glittering arms; And strong convulsive groanings shook his breast, And his sobs choked him; and he clutch’d his sword, To draw it, and for ever let life out. But Sohrab saw his thoughts, and held his hands And with a soothing voice he spake, and said:—     ‘Father, forbear! for I but meet to-day The doom which at my birth was written down In Heaven, and thou art Heaven’s unconscious hand. Surely my heart cried out that it was thou, When first I saw thee; and thy heart spoke too, I know it! but fate trod those promptings down Under its iron heel; fate, fate engaged The strife, and hurl’d me on my father’s spear. But let us speak no more of this! I find My father; let me feel that I have found! Come, sit beside me on this sand, and take My head betwixt thy hands, and kiss my cheeks, And wash them with thy tears, and say: My son! Quick! quick! for number’d are my sands of life And swift; for like the lightning to this field I came, and like the wind I go away— Sudden, and swift, and like a passing wind. But it was writ in Heaven that this should be.’     So said he, and his voice released the heart Of Rustum, and his tears broke forth; he cast His arms round his son’s neck, and wept aloud, And kiss’d him. And awe fell on both the hosts, When they saw Rustum’s grief; and Ruksh, the horse, With his head bowing to the ground and mane Sweeping the dust, came near, and in mute woe First to the one then to the other moved His head, as if enquiring what their grief Might mean; and from his dark, compassionate eyes, The big warm tears roll’d down, and caked the sand. But Rustum chid him with stern voice, and said:—     ‘Ruksh, now thou grievest; but, O Ruksh, thy feet Should first have rotted on their nimble joints, Or ere they brought thy master to this field!’     But Sohrab look’d upon the horse and said;— ‘Is this, then, Ruksh? How often, in past days My mother told me of thee, thou brave steed, My terrible father’s terrible horse! and said, That I should one day find thy lord and thee. Come, let me lay my hand upon thy mane! O Ruksh, thou art more fortunate than I; For thou has gone where I shall never go, And snuff’d the breezes of my father’s home. And thou hast trod the sands of Seistan And seen the River of Helmund, and the Lake Of Zirrah; and the aged Zal himself Has often stroked thy neck, and given thee food, Corn in a golden platter soak’d with wine, And said; O Ruksh! bear Rustrum well!—but I Have never known my grandsire’s furrow’d face, Nor seen his lofty house in Seistan, Nor slaked my thirst at the clear Helmund stream: But lodged among my father’s foes, and seen Afrasiab’s cities only, Samarcand, Bokhara, and lone Khiva in the waste, And the black Toorkmun tents; and only drunk The desert rivers, Moorghab and Tejend, Kohik, and where the Kalmuks feed their sheep, The northern Sir; and this great Oxus stream, The yellow Oxus, by whose brink I die.’     Then, with a heavy groan, Rustum bewail’d:— ‘Oh, that its waves were flowing over me! Oh, that I saw its grains of yellow silt Roll, tumbling in the current o’er my head!’     But, with a grave mild voice, Sohrab replied:— ‘Desire not that, my father! thou must live. For some are born to do great deeds, and live, As some are born to be obscured, and die. Do thou the deeds I die too young to do, And reap a second glory in thine age; Thou art my father, and thy gain is mine. But come! thou seest this great host of men Which follow me; I pray thee, slay not these! Let me entreat for them; what have they done? They follow’d me, my hope, my fame, my star. Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace. But me thou must bear hence, not send with them, But carry me with thee to Seistan, And place me on a bed, and mourn for me, Thou, and the snow-hair’d Zal, and all thy friends. And thou must lay me in that lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above my bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all. That so the passing horseman on the waste May see my tomb a great way off, and cry: Sohrab!, the mighty Rustum’s son, lies there, Whom his great father did in ignorance kill— And I be not forgotten in my grave.’     And, with a mournful voice, Rustum replied:— ‘Fear not! as thou hast said, Sohrab, my son, So shall it be; for I will burn my tents, And quit the host, and bear thee hence with me, And carry thee away to Seistan, And place thee on a bed, and mourn for thee, With the snow-headed Zal, and all my friends. And I will lay thee in the lovely earth, And heap a stately mound above thy bones, And plant a far-seen pillar over all, And men shall not forget thee in thy grave. And I will spare thy host: yea, let them go! Let them all cross the Oxus back in peace! What should I do with slaying any more? For would that all whom I have ever slain Might be once more alive; my bitterest foes And they who were call’d champions in their time, And through whose death I won that fame I have— And I were nothing but a common man, A poor, mean soldier, and without renown, So thou mightest live too, my son, my son! Or rather would that I, even I myself, Might now be lying on this bloody sand, Near death, and by an ignorant stroke of thine, Not thou of mine! and I might die, not thou; And I, not thou, be borne to Seistan; And Zal might weep above my grave, not thine; And say: O son, I weep thee not too sore, For willingly, I know, thou met’st thine end.— But now in blood and battles was my youth, And full of blood and battles is my age, And I shall never end this life of blood.’     Then, at the point of death, Sohrab replied.— ‘A life of blood indeed, thou dreadful man! But thou shalt yet have peace; only not now, Not yet! but thou shalt have it on that day, When thou shalt sail in a high-masted ship, Thou and the other peers of Kai Khosroo, Returning home over the salt blue sea, From laying thy dear master in his grave.’     And Rustum gazed in Sohrab’s face, and said.— ‘Soon be that day, my son, and deep that sea! Till then, if Fate so wills, let me endure.’     He spoke; and Sohrab smiled on him, and took The spear, and drew it from his side, and eased His wound’s imperious anguish; but the blood Came welling from the open gash, and life Flow’d with the stream;—all down his cold white side The crimson torrent ran, dim now and soil’d, Like the soil’d tissue of white violets Left, freshly gather’d, on their native bank, By children whom their nurses call with haste Indoors from the sun’s eye; his head droop’d low, His limbs grew slack; motionless, white, he lay— White, with eyes closed; only when heavy gasps, Deep heavy gasps quivering through all his frame, Convulsed him back to life, he open’d them, And fix’d them feebly on his father’s face; Till now all strength was ebb’d, and from his limbs Unwillingly the spirit fled away, Regretting the warm mansion which it left, And youth, and bloom, and this delightful world.     So, on the bloody sand, Sohrab lay dead; And the great Rustum drew his horseman’s cloak Down o’er his face, and sate by his dead son. As those black granite pillars, once high-rear’d By Jemshid in Persepolis, to bear His house, now ’mid their broken flights of steps Lie prone, enormous, down the mountain side— So in the sand lay Rustum by his son.     And night came down over the solemn waste, And the two gazing hosts, and that sole pair, And darken’d all; and a cold fog, with night, Crept from the Oxus. Soon a hum arose, As of a great assembly loosed, and fires Began to twinkle through the fog; for now Both armies moved to camp, and took their meal; The Persians took it on the open sands Southward, the Tartars by the river marge; And Rustum and his son were left alone.     But the majestic river floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hush’d Chorasmian waste, Under the solitary moon: he flow’d Right for the polar star, past Orgunjè, Brimming, and bright, and large; then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents; that for many a league The shorn and parcell’d Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles— Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain-cradle in Pamere, A foil’d circuitous wanderer:—till at last The long’d-for dash of waves is heard, and wide His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars Emerge, and shine upon the Aral Sea. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1881", "url": "/panorama/1881/", "title": "She is not Fair to Outward View", "layout": "page", "author": "Coleridge, Hartley", "lastmod": "2015-03-06T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "She is not fair to outward view   As many maidens be, Her loveliness I never knew   Until she smiled on me; O, then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light! But now her looks are coy and cold,   To mine they ne’er reply, And yet I cease not to behold   The love-light in her eye: Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1882", "url": "/panorama/1882/", "title": "The Charge of the Light Brigade", "layout": "page", "author": "Tennyson, Lord Alfred", "lastmod": "2015-03-08T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death     Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!” he said. Into the valley of Death     Rode the six hundred. II “Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismayed? Not though the soldier knew     Someone had blundered.     Theirs not to make reply,     Theirs not to reason why,     Theirs but to do and die.     Into the valley of Death     Rode the six hundred. III Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them     Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of hell     Rode the six hundred. IV Flashed all their sabres bare, Flashed as they turned in air Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while     All the world wondered. Plunged in the battery-smoke Right through the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reeled from the sabre stroke     Shattered and sundered. Then they rode back, but not     Not the six hundred. V Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them     Volleyed and thundered; Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell. They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of Death, Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them,     Left of six hundred. VI When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made!     All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade,     Noble six hundred! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1883", "url": "/panorama/1883/", "title": "The Cornfield", "layout": "page", "author": "Furtado, Joseph", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "One autumn morn I chanced to cross A field of corn And there it was— That blessed morn—. To sinful me The grace was given On earth to see The ways of Heaven: I saw a bird And heard a voice I ne’er before Had seen or heard. I did rejoice, Yet with my joy Was Holy Awe At what I saw; And what I said I know not well, For, strange to tell, I instantly Was on my knee. The bird saw too Yet did not stir; And, ‘Who are you To ask me, sir?. It said, and I Did thus reply. Grown bolder now, I know not how: ‘An untaught poet Of trees and birds Whom no man knoweth And, wanting words, But dreams and sings Of simple things’— ‘Peace ! all Heaven knoweth; From Heaven come I: Come, simple poet’, The bird rejoined. So, I drew near And heard it say— That blessed day— To an ear of corn, A tiny ear ‘Grow quick, my dear! There’s dearth and death on every hand, In every breath Upon this land— Grow quick, my dear!’ Then was revealed At every ear, Throughout the field, A bird, and clear A voice, ‘Spare, spare !’ Was it my prayer That blessed morn While I did cross The field of corn ? Perchance it was: To sinful me Such grace was given— On earth to see The ways of Heaven. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1884", "url": "/panorama/1884/", "title": "Ballad of a River", "layout": "page", "author": "Fernando, Patrick", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Dawn fires the surface into gold, Gold-eyed the herons stilt and stalk. At silver noon the waters hold Wheelings of a mirrored hawk. I’ve not seen water lie so still As here. Perhaps an otter may Disturb its peace, or white-cranes till The green edge, wading tall-knee-deep. In gusts of wind, a faint wood hum— Plucked leaves and broken petals dance, The wind departs, the wood is dumb, And floating yellows gather brown. To think up to a mile ago This river bounded like a hound, Convulsed and nearly wrecked our boat, And lies here gentle as a pond ! A rich practical man I’m told Demanded, why this idleness? He got no answer and compelled The river into harness. Like frightened birds the minutes fled Pursued by roaring steel and fire. The river slaved and profits grew To almost overtake desire. Until, they say, one windy night, In deepest vigils of the owl, The river rose and foaming white Descended like a murderer. At dawn the waters shone restored The wreckage stood like blasted rocks Round which the burnished mirror showed Artistry of a wild brown hawk. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1885", "url": "/panorama/1885/", "title": "Written in London. September, 1802", "layout": "page", "author": "Wordsworth, William", "lastmod": "2023-03-09T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "O Friend! I know not which way I must look For comfort, being, as I am, opprest, To think that now our life is only drest For show; mean handy-work of craftsman, cook, Or groom! — We must run glittering like a brook In the open sunshine, or we are unblest: The wealthiest man among us is the best: No grandeur now in nature or in book Delights us. Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore: Plain living and high thinking are no more: The homely beauty of the good old cause Is gone; our peace, our fearful innocence, And pure religion breathing household laws. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1886", "url": "/panorama/1886/", "title": "When I have Fears", "layout": "page", "author": "Keats, John", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "When I have fears that I may cease to be   Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charact’ry,   Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,   Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace   Their shadows with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!   That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power   Of unreflecting love—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1887", "url": "/panorama/1887/", "title": "Futility", "layout": "page", "author": "Owen, Wilfred", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Move him into the sun— Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields half-sown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know. Think how it wakes the seeds— Woke once the clays of a cold star. Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides Full-nerved, still warm, too hard to stir? Was it for this the clay grew tall? —O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth’s sleep at all? " },{ "id": "/panorama/1888", "url": "/panorama/1888/", "title": "A Fisherman Mourned by His Wife", "layout": "page", "author": "Fernando, Patrick", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "When you were not quite thirty and the sun Had not yet tanned you into old-boat brown, When you were not quite thirty and had not begun To be embittered like the rest, nor grown obsessed with death, then would you come Hot with continence upon the sea Chaste as a gull flying pointed home, In haste to be with me! Now that, being dead, you are beyond detection. And I need not be discreet, let us confess. It was not love that married us no affection, But elders’ persuasion, not even loneliness, Recall how first you were so impatient and afraid, My eyes were open in the dark unlike in love, Trembling, lest in fear, you’ll let me go a maid, Trembling on the other hand for my virginity. Three months the monsoon thrashed the sea, and you Remained at home; the sky cracked like a shell In thunder, the rain broke through, At last when the pouring ceased the storm winds fell, When gulls returned new plumed and wild, When in our wind-torn flamboyante New buds broke. I was with child. My face was wan while telling you and voice fell low And you seemed full of guilt and not to know Whether to repent or rejoice over the situation You nodded at the ground and went to sea. But soon I was to you more than God or temptation. And so were you to me. Men come and go, some say they understand. Our children weep, the youngest thinks you’re fast asleep: There is fear and wonderment. You had grown so familiar as my hand, That I cannot with simple grief Assuage dismemberment. Outside the wind despoils of leaf Tree that it used to nurse; Once more the flamboyante is torn, The sky cracks like a shell again. So someone practical has gone To make them bring the hearse Before the rain. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1889", "url": "/panorama/1889/", "title": "Sîta", "layout": "page", "author": "Dutt, Toru", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Three happy children in a darkened room! What do they gaze on with wide-open eyes? A dense, dense forest, where no sunbeam pries, And in its centre a cleared spot.—There bloom Gigantic flowers on creepers that embrace Tall trees; there, in a quiet lucid lake The while swans glide; there, “whirring from the brake, The peacock springs; there, herds of wild deer race; There, patches gleam with yellow waving grain; There, blue smoke from strange altars rises light, There, dwells in peace, the poet-anchorite. But who is this fair lady? Not in vain She weeps.—for lo! at every tear she sheds Tears from three pairs of young eyes fall amain, And bowed in sorrow are the three young heads. It is an old, old story, and the lay Which has evoked sad Sîta from the past Is by a mother sung… ‘Tis hushed at last And melts the picture from their sight away, Yet shall they dream of it until the day! When shall those children by their mother’s side Gather, ah me! as erst at eventide? " },{ "id": "/panorama/1890", "url": "/panorama/1890/", "title": "My Grandmother's House", "layout": "page", "author": "Das, Kamala", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "There is a house now far away where once I received love… That woman died, The house withdrew into silence, snakes moved Among books, I was then too young To read, and, my blood turned cold like the moon. How often I think of going There, to peer through blind eyes of windows or Just listen to the frozen air, Or in wild despair, pick an armful of Darkness to bring it here to lie Behind my bedroom door like a brooding Dog… you cannot believe, darling, Can you, that I lived in such a house and Was proud, and loved…. I who have lost My way and beg now at strangers’ doors to Receive love, at least in small change? " },{ "id": "/panorama/1891", "url": "/panorama/1891/", "title": "The Train", "layout": "page", "author": "Menezes, Armando", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Earth lies a violin to my bow: And as I rush, A thousand shapes of music grow Out of the hush. The leaping flame within me draws, As it shoots lone, Between each throbbing pause and pause. Tone upon tone. Strange orchestrated sounds unroll From waiting woods; And as my passion thrills the soul Of solitudes, I hear a far-off rapture sweep Me as I pass; Loud waters dying in the deep, Low sighs of grass; Long echoes rolling to the ridge, Or valley green; The different notes of tunnel, bridge, Or cleft ravine; The fury of neglected stations— A shrieking wind Shrill with a million execrations Of hag or fiend; The murmurous silence when I stop, Live with the noise Of water drowsing drop by drop Or human voice. A little pause, and off I go… My simple art Touches to music with my bow Earth’s silent heart. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1892", "url": "/panorama/1892/", "title": "The Warrior's Return", "layout": "page", "author": "Dutt, Shoshee Chunder", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "When Maharajah Jeswant Singh, being defeated by Aurungzeb, fled for refuge to his own capital, his wife, with Spartan haughtiness, refused him admittance, saying “This man is an impostor, for the brave never return with dishonour. My husband sleeps on the field of battle.” Heard ye that lofty pealing sound   Upon the balmy air, The exulting shout that best proclaims   The deeds which heroes dare? In triumph blow their trumpets proud,   The clouds repeat their voice; Go, greet the laurell’d victors home,   And bid our realms rejoice. Let poets tune their golden harps,   Let maidens wear their smile, And young and old their cares lay by,   And cease to mourn awhile. What! hear’st thou not their joyous din?   Behold, above the vale, Their haughty plumes and ensigns red   Are fluttering in the gale; And helmets cleft, and canvas torn,   Proclaim the fighting done; And neighing steeds, and bloody spears,   Announce the battle won. Alas! the vision mocks my sight;   I see no gallant throng, No trophies meet my longing eyes;   Bid cease the joyous song. That recreant slave is not my lord;   Ne’er thus the brave return; Go, bid the city-gates be barr’d,   And leave me lone to mourn. I know him not, I never knew   A low, ignoble love; My warrior sleeps upon the moor,   His soul hath soar’d above. Upon the battle-field he lies,   His garments stain’d with gore; With sword in hand prepared he sleeps   To fight the battle o’er. His shiver’d shield, his broken spear,   Around him scatter’d lie; The iron-breasted Moslems shook   To see my hero die. Where helmets rang, where sabres smote,   He found his gory bed; Join, mourners, join, and loudly raise   The requiem of the dead. Expel yon vile impostor hence;   I will not trust his tale; Our warriors on the crimson field   Their chieftain’s loss bewail. The mountain-torrent rushing down   Can ne’er its course retrace, And souls that speed on glory’s path   Must ever onward press: Aye, onward press—to bleed and die,   Triumphant still in death; Impostor, hence! in other lands   Go draw thy coward breath. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1893", "url": "/panorama/1893/", "title": "Aurangzeb at his Father's Bier", "layout": "page", "author": "Dutt, Hur Chunder", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The monarch lay upon his bier,   Censers were burning low As through the lofty arches streamed   the setting sun’s red glow, Still grasped he in his hand the blade   which well fought fields had won And Aurangzeb beside him knelt;   Usurper, proud and son. Remorse had stricken his false heart   and quenched his wonted fire With gloomy brow and look intent   he gazed upon his sire, Can tyrant death make him afraid?   hot tears burst from his eyes As thus his grief found vent in words   to the warrior trains surprise “Father thou wert the goodliest king   that e’er the sceptre swayed, How could I then lift up my hand   against thee undismayed? How could I send thee here to pine,   usurp the peacock throne O had I perished in the womb   that deed were left undone. Look all is changed that was estranged   awake my sire, my king, Look soldiers in their war array   thy son in fetters bring, Thy rebel son who will abide   thy word whate’er it be And fearless meet the rack or steel;   rise up once more and see. Thou will not hear—thou will not speak;   it is the last long sleep.— And am I not a king myself   what mean these stirrings deep, O foolish eyes what means this rheum,   I will not call them tears My heart which nothing e’er could daunt   is faint with boding fears. The past appears! a checker’d field   Of guilt and shame and war, What evil influence ruled my birth,   What swart malignant star? Why did I barter peace of mind   For royal pomp and state? Mad for the baleful meteor’s gleam   With worldly joys elate Remembered voices speak my name   and call me parricide The murdered Dara beckons me—   he was thy joy and pride. And thus I fling the dear bought crown   but whither can I fly? The awful thought still follows me   that even kings will die.” " },{ "id": "/panorama/1894", "url": "/panorama/1894/", "title": "On Killing A Tree", "layout": "page", "author": "Patel, Gieve", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "It takes much time to kill a tree, Not a simple jab of the knife Will do it. It has grown Slowly consuming the earth, Rising out of it, feeding Upon its crust, absorbing Years of sunlight, air, water, And out of its leperous hide Sprouting leaves. So hack and chop But this alone wont do it. Not so much pain will do it. The bleeding bark will heal And from close to the ground Will rise curled green twigs, Miniature boughs Which if unchecked will expand again To former size. No, The root is to be pulled out — Out of the anchoring earth; It is to be roped, tied, And pulled out — snapped out Or pulled out entirely. Out from the earth-cave, And the strength of the tree exposed, The source, white and wet, The most sensitive, hidden For years inside the earth. Then the matter Of scorching and choking In sun and air, Browning, hardening, Twisting, withering, And then it is done. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1895", "url": "/panorama/1895/", "title": "King Porus - Legend of Old", "layout": "page", "author": "Dutt, Michael Madhusudan", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I Loudly the midnight tempest sang, Ah! it was thy dirge, fair Liberty! And clouds in thundering accents roar’d Unheeded warning from on high; The rain in darksome torrents fell, Hydaspes’ waves did onward sweep, Like fiery Passion’s headlong flow, To meet th’ awaken’d calling deep; The lighting flashed bright— dazzling,like Fair women’s glance from ‘neath her veil;’ And on the heaving, troubled air, There was a moaning sound of wail But, Ind! thy unsuspecting sons Did heedless slumber,— while the foe Came in stealthy step of death,— Came as the tiger, noiseless, slow, To close at once its victim’s breath! Alas! they knew not ‘midst this gloom’ This war of elements was burst,— Like to an earthquake in the womb Of a volcano,— deep and low— A deadlier storm—on them to burst! II ‘Twas morn; the Lord of Day From gold Sumero’s palace bright, Look’d his own sweet dime, But lo! the glorious flag, To which the world in awe once bow’d, There in defiance waved On India’s gales— triumphant—proud!— Then, rose the dreadful yell,— Then lion-like, each warrior brave Rushed on the coming foe, To strike for freedom—or the grave! Oh Death! upon thy gory altar What blood-libations freely flow’d! Oh Earth! on that bright morn, what thousands Rendered to thee the dust they ow’d! But ‘fore the Macedonians driven’ Fell India’s hardy sons,— Proud mountain oaks by thunders riven,— That for their country’s freedom bled— And made on gore their glorious bed! III But dauntlessly there stood King Porus, towering ‘midst the foe’ Like a Himala-peak With its eternal crown of snow: And on his brow did shine The jewell’d regal diadem. His milk-white elephant Was deck’d with many a brilliant gem. He reck’d not of the phalanx That ‘round him closed—but nobly fought’ And like the angry winds that blow And lofty mountain pines lay low, Amidst them dreadful havoc wrought, And thinn’d his crown and country’s foe! The hardiest warriors, at his deeds, Awe—struck quail’d like wind-shaken reeds: They dared not look upon his face, They shrank before his burning gaze, For in his eye the hero shone That feared not death;—but high—alone A being as if of lightning made, That scorch’d all that is gazed upon— Trampling the living with the dead. IV Th’ immortal Thund’rer’s son, Astonish’d eyed the heroic king; He saw him bravely charge Like his dread father,— fulmining:— Tho’ thousands’ round him closed, He stood—as stand the ocean rock Amdist the lashing billows Unmoved at their fierce thoundering shock. But when th’ Emathian conqueror Saw that with gaping wounds he bled, ‘Desist—desist!’—he cried— ‘Such noble blood should not be shed!’ Then a herald was sent Where bleeding and faint, Stood, ‘midst the dying’ and the dead, King Porus,— boldly, undismayed: ‘Hail, brave and warlike prince!’ Thy generous rival bids thee cease— Behold! there flies the flag, That lulls dread war, and wakens peace!’ V Like to a lion chain’d, That tho’ faint—bleeding—stands in pride— With eyes, where unsubdued Yet flash’d the fire—looks that defied; King Porus boldly went Where ‘midst the gay and flittering crowd’ Sat god-like Alexander; While ‘round’ Earth’s mightiest monarchs bow’d. King Porus was no slave; he stooped not—bent not there his knee,— But stood, as stands an oak, In Himalayan majesty. ‘The mighty king of Macedon:’ ‘Ev’n as a King,’ replied In royal pride, Ind’s haughty son. The conqu’ror pleas’d, Him forth releas’d: Thus India’s crown was lost and won. VI But where, Oh! where is Porus now? And where the noble hearts that bled For freedom—with the herioc glow In patriot bosoms nourished— —Hearts, eagle-like that recked not death, But shrank before foul Thraldom’s breath? And where art thou—fair Freedom!—thou Once goodness of Ind’s sunny clime When glory’s halo round her brow Shone radiant, and she rose sublime, Like her own towering Himalye To kiss blue clouds thron’d on high! Clime of the sun!—How like a Dream— How like bright sun-beams on a stream That melt beneath gray twilight’s eye— That glory hath now flitted by! The crown that once did deck thy brow Is tramped down—and thou sunk low; Thy pearl, thy diamond and thy mine Of glistening gold no more is thine. Alas!—each conquering tyrant’s lust Has robb’d thee of thy very dust! Thou standest like a lofty tree Shorn of fruits — blossoms — leaves and all— Of every gale the sport to be. Despised and scorned e’en in thy fall? " },{ "id": "/panorama/1896", "url": "/panorama/1896/", "title": "The Diverting History of John Gilpin", "layout": "page", "author": "Cowper, William", "lastmod": "2023-05-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "John Gilpin was a citizen    Of credit and renown, A train-band captain eke was he,    Of famous London town. John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear,    “Though wedded we have been These twice ten tedious years, yet we    No holiday have seen. “To-morrow is our wedding-day,    And we will then repair Unto the ‘Bell’ at Edmonton,    All in a chaise and pair. “My sister, and my sister’s child,    Myself, and children three, Will fill the chaise; so you must ride    On horseback after we.” He soon replied, “I do admire    Of womankind but one, And you are she, my dearest dear,    Therefore it shall be done. “I am a linen-draper bold,    As all the world doth know, And my good friend the calender    Will lend his horse to go.” Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said;    And for that wine is dear, We will be furnished with our own,    Which is both bright and clear.” John Gilpin kissed his loving wife.    O’erjoyed was he to find. That though on pleasure she was bent,    She had a frugal mind. The morning came, the chaise was brought,    But yet was not allowed To drive up to the door, lest all    Should say that she was proud. So three doors off the chaise was stayed,    Where they did all get in; Six precious souls, and all agog    To dash through thick and thin. Smack went the whip, round went the wheels,    Were never folks so glad! The stones did rattle underneath,    As if Cheapside were mad. John Gilpin at his horse’s side    Seized fast the flowing mane, And up he got, in haste to ride,    But soon came down again; For saddletree scarce reached had he,    His journey to begin, When, turning round his head, he saw    Three customers come in. So down he came; for loss of time,    Although it grieved him sore, Yet loss of pence, full well he knew,    Would trouble him much more. ‘Twas long before the customers    Were suited to their mind, When Betty screaming came downstairs,    “The wine is left behind!” “Good lack!” quoth he, “yet bring it me,    My leathern belt likewise, In which I bear my trusty sword    When I do exercise.” Now Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!)    Had two stone bottles found, To hold the liquor that she loved,    And keep it safe and sound. Each bottle had a curling ear,    Through which the belt he drew, And hung a bottle on each side,    To make his balance true. Then over all, that he might be    Equipped from top to toe, His long red cloak, well brushed and neat,    He manfully did throw. Now see him mounted once again    Upon his nimble steed, Full slowly pacing o’er the stones,    With caution and good heed. But finding soon a smoother road    Beneath his well-shod feet, The snorting beast began to trot,    Which galled him in his seat. “So, fair and softly!” John he cried,    But John he cried in vain; That trot became a gallop soon,    In spite of curb and rein. So stooping down, as needs he must    Who cannot sit upright, He grasped the mane with both his hands,    And eke with all his might. His horse, who never in that sort    Had handled been before, What thing upon his back had got,    Did wonder more and more. Away went Gilpin, neck or nought,    Away went hat and wig; He little dreamt, when he set out,    Of running such a rig. The wind did blow, the cloak did fly    Like streamer long and gay, Till, loop and button failing both.    At last it flew away. Then might all people well discern    The bottles he had slung; A bottle swinging at each side,    As hath been said or sung. The dogs did bark, the children screamed,    Up flew the windows all; And every soul cried out, “Well done!”    As loud as he could bawl. Away went Gilpin—who but he?    His fame soon spread around; “He carries weight! he rides a race!    ‘Tis for a thousand pound!” And still as fast as he drew near,    ‘Twas wonderful to view How in a trice the turnpike-men    Their gates wide open threw. And now, as he went bowing down    His reeking head full low, The bottles twain behind his back    Were shattered at a blow. Down ran the wine into the road,    Most piteous to be seen, Which made the horse’s flanks to smoke,    As they had basted been. But still he seemed to carry weight.    With leathern girdle braced; For all might see the bottle-necks    Still dangling at his waist. Thus all through merry Islington    These gambols he did play, Until he came unto the Wash    Of Edmonton so gay; And there he threw the wash about    On both sides of the way, Just like unto a trundling mop,    Or a wild goose at play. At Edmonton his loving wife    From the balcony spied Her tender husband, wondering much    To see how he did ride. “Stop, stop, John Gilpin!—Here’s the house!”    They all at once did cry; “The dinner waits, and we are tired;”    Said Gilpin—”So am I!” But yet his horse was not a whit    Inclined to tarry there; For why?—his owner had a house    Full ten miles off, at Ware. So like an arrow swift he flew,    Shot by an archer strong; So did he fly—which brings me to    The middle of my song. Away went Gilpin, out of breath,    And sore against his will, Till at his friend the calender’s    His horse at last stood still. The calender, amazed to see    His neighbour in such trim, Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate.    And thus accosted him: “What news? what news? your tidings tell;    Tell me you must and shall— Say why bareheaded you are come,    Or why you come at all?” Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit,    And loved a timely joke; And thus unto the calender    In merry guise he spoke: “I came because your horse would come;    And, if I well forebode, My hat and wig will soon be here,    They are upon the road.” The calender, right glad to find    His friend in merry pin, Returned him not a single word,    But to the house went in; Whence straight he came with hat and wig,    A wig that flowed behind, A hat not much the worse for wear,    Each comely in its kind. He held them up, and in his turn    Thus showed his ready wit: “My head is twice as big as yours,    They therefore needs must fit.” “But let me scrape the dirt away,    That hangs upon your face; And stop and eat, for well you may    Be in a hungry case.” Said John, “It is my wedding-day,    And all the world would stare If wife should dine at Edmonton,    And I should dine at Ware.” So turning to his horse, he said    “I am in haste to dine; ‘Twas for your pleasure you came here,    You shall go back for mine.” Ah! luckless speech, and bootless boast!    For which he paid full dear; For while he spake, a braying ass    Did sing most loud and clear; Whereat his horse did snort, as he    Had heard a lion roar, And galloped off with all his might,    As he had done before. Away went Gilpin, and away    Went Gilpin’s hat and wig; He lost them sooner than at first,    For why?—they were too big. Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw    Her husband posting down Into the country far away,    She pulled out half-a-crown; And thus unto the youth she said    That drove them to the “Bell,” “This shall be yours when you bring back    My husband safe and well.” The youth did ride, and soon did meet    John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop,    By catching at his rein. But not performing what he meant,    And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more,    And made him faster run. Away went Gilpin, and away    Went postboy at his heels, The postboy’s horse right glad to miss    The lumbering of the wheels. Six gentlemen upon the road,    Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear.    They raised the hue and cry. “Stop thief! stop thief! a highwayman!’”    Not one of them was mute; And all and each that passed that way    Did join in the pursuit. And now the turnpike-gates again    Flew open in short space; The toll-man thinking, as before,    That Gilpin rode a race. And so he did, and won it too,    For he got first to town; Nor stopped till where he had got up,    He did again get down. Now let us sing, Long live the King,    And Gilpin, long live he; And when he next doth ride abroad.    May I be there to see. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1897", "url": "/panorama/1897/", "title": "The Second Coming", "layout": "page", "author": "Yeats, William Butler", "lastmod": "2023-08-15T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? " },{ "id": "/panorama/1898", "url": "/panorama/1898/", "title": "Auguries of Innocence", "layout": "page", "author": "Blake, William", "lastmod": "2023-11-22T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "To see a World in a Grain of Sand And a Heaven in a Wild Flower Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand And Eternity in an hour A Robin Red breast in a Cage Puts all Heaven in a Rage A Dove house filld with Doves & Pigeons Shudders Hell thr’ all its regions A dog starvd at his Masters Gate Predicts the ruin of the State A Horse misusd upon the Road Calls to Heaven for Human blood Each outcry of the hunted Hare A fibre from the Brain does tear A Skylark wounded in the wing A Cherubim does cease to sing The Game Cock clipd & armd for fight Does the Rising Sun affright Every Wolfs & Lions howl Raises from Hell a Human Soul The wild deer, wandring here & there Keeps the Human Soul from Care The Lamb misusd breeds Public Strife And yet forgives the Butchers knife The Bat that flits at close of Eve Has left the Brain that wont Believe The Owl that calls upon the Night Speaks the Unbelievers fright He who shall hurt the little Wren Shall never be belovd by Men He who the Ox to wrath has movd Shall never be by Woman lovd The wanton Boy that kills the Fly Shall feel the Spiders enmity He who torments the Chafers Sprite Weaves a Bower in endless Night The Catterpiller on the Leaf Repeats to thee thy Mothers grief Kill not the Moth nor Butterfly For the Last Judgment draweth nigh He who shall train the Horse to War Shall never pass the Polar Bar The Beggars Dog & Widows Cat Feed them & thou wilt grow fat The Gnat that sings his Summers Song Poison gets from Slanders tongue The poison of the Snake & Newt Is the sweat of Envys Foot The poison of the Honey Bee Is the Artists Jealousy The Princes Robes & Beggars Rags Are Toadstools on the Misers Bags A Truth thats told with bad intent Beats all the Lies you can invent It is right it should be so Man was made for Joy & Woe And when this we rightly know Thro the World we safely go Joy & Woe are woven fine A Clothing for the soul divine Under every grief & pine Runs a joy with silken twine The Babe is more than swadling Bands Throughout all these Human Lands Tools were made & Born were hands Every Farmer Understands Every Tear from Every Eye Becomes a Babe in Eternity This is caught by Females bright And returnd to its own delight The Bleat the Bark Bellow & Roar Are Waves that Beat on Heavens Shore The Babe that weeps the Rod beneath Writes Revenge in realms of Death The Beggars Rags fluttering in Air Does to Rags the Heavens tear The Soldier armd with Sword & Gun Palsied strikes the Summers Sun The poor Mans Farthing is worth more Than all the Gold on Africs Shore One Mite wrung from the Labrers hands Shall buy & sell the Misers Lands Or if protected from on high Does that whole Nation sell & buy He who mocks the Infants Faith Shall be mockd in Age & Death He who shall teach the Child to Doubt The rotting Grave shall neer get out He who respects the Infants faith Triumphs over Hell & Death The Childs Toys & the Old Mans Reasons Are the Fruits of the Two seasons The Questioner who sits so sly Shall never know how to Reply He who replies to words of Doubt Doth put the Light of Knowledge out The Strongest Poison ever known Came from Caesars Laurel Crown Nought can Deform the Human Race Like to the Armours iron brace When Gold & Gems adorn the Plow To peaceful Arts shall Envy Bow A Riddle or the Crickets Cry Is to Doubt a fit Reply The Emmets Inch & Eagles Mile Make Lame Philosophy to smile He who Doubts from what he sees Will neer Believe do what you Please If the Sun & Moon should Doubt Theyd immediately Go out To be in a Passion you Good may Do But no Good if a Passion is in you The Whore & Gambler by the State Licencd build that Nations Fate The Harlots cry from Street to Street Shall weave Old Englands winding Sheet The Winners Shout the Losers Curse Dance before dead Englands Hearse Every Night & every Morn Some to Misery are Born Every Morn and every Night Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to sweet delight Some are Born to Endless Night We are led to Believe a Lie When we see not Thro the Eye Which was Born in a Night to perish in a Night When the Soul Slept in Beams of Light God Appears & God is Light To those poor Souls who dwell in Night But does a Human Form Display To those who Dwell in Realms of day " },{ "id": "/panorama/1899", "url": "/panorama/1899/", "title": "The Raven", "layout": "page", "author": "Poe, Edgar Allan", "lastmod": "2025-01-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—     While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—             Only this and nothing more.”     Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.     Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow     From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—             Nameless here for evermore.     And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;     So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating     “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—             This it is and nothing more.”     Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, “Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;     But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,     And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—             Darkness there and nothing more.     Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;     But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,     And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?” This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—             Merely this and nothing more.     Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.     “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;       Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—             ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”     Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;     Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;     But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door— Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—             Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, “Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven, Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore— Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”             Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”     Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;     For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being     Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door— Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,             With such name as “Nevermore.”     But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.     Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—     Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”             Then the bird said “Nevermore.”     Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, “Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store     Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster     Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore             Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”     But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;     Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking     Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore             Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”     This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;     This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining     On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er, But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,             She shall press, ah, nevermore!     Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.     “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee     Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore; Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”             Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”     “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!— Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,     Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—     On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore— Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”             Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”     “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—     Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,     It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”             Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”     “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting— “Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!     Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!     Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”             Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”     And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;     And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,     And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor             Shall be lifted—nevermore! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1900", "url": "/panorama/1900/", "title": "Pippa's Song", "layout": "page", "author": "Browning, Robert", "lastmod": "2025-02-10T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The year’s at the spring, And day’s at the morn; Morning’s at seven; The hill-side’s dew-pearl’d; The lark’s on the wing; The snail’s on the thorn; God’s in His heaven– All’s right with the world! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1901", "url": "/panorama/1901/", "title": "To Autumn", "layout": "page", "author": "Keats, John", "lastmod": "2025-02-11T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,   Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless   With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,   And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;     To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells   With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease,     For summer has o’er-brimm’d their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?   Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,   Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,   Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook     Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep   Steady thy laden head across a brook;   Or by a cider-press, with patient look,     Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?   Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,   And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn   Among the river sallows, borne aloft     Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;   Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft   The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,     And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1902", "url": "/panorama/1902/", "title": "The Sensitive Plant", "layout": "page", "author": "Shelley, Percy Bysshe", "lastmod": "2025-02-12T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "PART 1. A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light. And closed them beneath the kisses of Night. And the Spring arose on the garden fair, Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breast Rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love’s sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant. The snowdrop, and then the violet, Arose from the ground with warm rain wet, And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall, And narcissi, the fairest among them all, Who gaze on their eyes in the stream’s recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness; And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green; And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense; And the rose like a nymph to the bath addressed, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare: And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup, Till the fiery star, which is its eye, Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky; And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime. And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was pranked, under boughs of embowering blossom, With golden and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue, Broad water-lilies lay tremulously, And starry river-buds glimmered by, And around them the soft stream did glide and dance With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, Which led through the garden along and across, Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees, Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells As fair as the fabulous asphodels, And flow’rets which, drooping as day drooped too, Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew. And from this undefiled Paradise The flowers (as an infant’s awakening eyes Smile on its mother, whose singing sweet Can first lull, and at last must awaken it), When Heaven’s blithe winds had unfolded them, As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, Shone smiling to Heaven, and every one Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun; For each one was interpenetrated With the light and the odour its neighbour shed, Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. But the Sensitive Plant which could give small fruit Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, Received more than all, it loved more than ever, Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver,— For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; Radiance and odour are not its dower; It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, It desires what it has not, the Beautiful! The light winds which from unsustaining wings Shed the music of many murmurings; The beams which dart from many a star Of the flowers whose hues they bear afar; The plumed insects swift and free, Like golden boats on a sunny sea, Laden with light and odour, which pass Over the gleam of the living grass; The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie Like fire in the flowers till the sun rides high, Then wander like spirits among the spheres, Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears; The quivering vapours of dim noontide, Which like a sea o’er the warm earth glide, In which every sound, and odour, and beam, Move, as reeds in a single stream; Each and all like ministering angels were For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear, Whilst the lagging hours of the day went by Like windless clouds o’er a tender sky. And when evening descended from Heaven above, And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all love, And delight, though less bright, was far more deep, And the day’s veil fell from the world of sleep, And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drowned In an ocean of dreams without a sound; Whose waves never mark, though they ever impress The light sand which paves it, consciousness; (Only overhead the sweet nightingale Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, And snatches of its Elysian chant Were mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant);– The Sensitive Plant was the earliest Upgathered into the bosom of rest; A sweet child weary of its delight, The feeblest and yet the favourite, Cradled within the embrace of Night. PART 2. There was a Power in this sweet place, An Eve in this Eden; a ruling Grace Which to the flowers, did they waken or dream, Was as God is to the starry scheme. A Lady, the wonder of her kind, Whose form was upborne by a lovely mind Which, dilating, had moulded her mien and motion Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean, Tended the garden from morn to even: And the meteors of that sublunar Heaven, Like the lamps of the air when Night walks forth, Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth! She had no companion of mortal race, But her tremulous breath and her flushing face Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep from her eyes, That her dreams were less slumber than Paradise: As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sake Had deserted Heaven while the stars were awake, As if yet around her he lingering were, Though the veil of daylight concealed him from her. Her step seemed to pity the grass it pressed; You might hear by the heaving of her breast, That the coming and going of the wind Brought pleasure there and left passion behind. And wherever her aery footstep trod, Her trailing hair from the grassy sod Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep, Like a sunny storm o’er the dark green deep. I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet; I doubt not they felt the spirit that came From her glowing fingers through all their frame. She sprinkled bright water from the stream On those that were faint with the sunny beam; And out of the cups of the heavy flowers She emptied the rain of the thunder-showers. She lifted their heads with her tender hands, And sustained them with rods and osier-bands; If the flowers had been her own infants, she Could never have nursed them more tenderly. And all killing insects and gnawing worms, And things of obscene and unlovely forms, She bore, in a basket of Indian woof, Into the rough woods far aloof,– In a basket, of grasses and wild-flowers full, The freshest her gentle hands could pull For the poor banished insects, whose intent, Although they did ill, was innocent. But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris Whose path is the lightning’s, and soft moths that kiss The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did she Make her attendant angels be. And many an antenatal tomb, Where butterflies dream of the life to come, She left clinging round the smooth and dark Edge of the odorous cedar bark. This fairest creature from earliest Spring Thus moved through the garden ministering Mi the sweet season of Summertide, And ere the first leaf looked brown—she died! PART 3. Three days the flowers of the garden fair, Like stars when the moon is awakened, were, Or the waves of Baiae, ere luminous She floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant Felt the sound of the funeral chant, And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow, And the sobs of the mourners, deep and low; The weary sound and the heavy breath, And the silent motions of passing death, And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank, Sent through the pores of the coffin-plank; The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass, Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass; From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. The garden, once fair, became cold and foul, Like the corpse of her who had been its soul, Which at first was lovely as if in sleep, Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap To make men tremble who never weep. Swift Summer into the Autumn flowed, And frost in the mist of the morning rode, Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright, Mocking the spoil of the secret night. The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow, Paved the turf and the moss below. The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan, Like the head and the skin of a dying man. And Indian plants, of scent and hue The sweetest that ever were fed on dew, Leaf by leaf, day after day, Were massed into the common clay. And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and red, And white with the whiteness of what is dead, Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind passed; Their whistling noise made the birds aghast. And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds, Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds, Till they clung round many a sweet flower’s stem, Which rotted into the earth with them. The water-blooms under the rivulet Fell from the stalks on which they were set; And the eddies drove them here and there, As the winds did those of the upper air. Then the rain came down, and the broken stalks Were bent and tangled across the walks; And the leafless network of parasite bowers Massed into ruin; and all sweet flowers. Between the time of the wind and the snow All loathliest weeds began to grow, Whose coarse leaves were splashed with many a speck, Like the water-snake’s belly and the toad’s back. And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank, Stretched out its long and hollow shank, And stifled the air till the dead wind stank. And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath, Filled the place with a monstrous undergrowth, Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue, Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. And agarics, and fungi, with mildew and mould Started like mist from the wet ground cold; Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead With a spirit of growth had been animated! Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum, Made the running rivulet thick and dumb, And at its outlet flags huge as stakes Dammed it up with roots knotted like water-snakes. And hour by hour, when the air was still, The vapours arose which have strength to kill; At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt, At night they were darkness no star could melt. And unctuous meteors from spray to spray Crept and flitted in broad noonday Unseen; every branch on which they alit By a venomous blight was burned and bit. The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, Wept, and the tears within each lid Of its folded leaves, which together grew, Were changed to a blight of frozen glue. For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn; The sap shrank to the root through every pore As blood to a heart that will beat no more. For Winter came: the wind was his whip: One choppy finger was on his lip: He had torn the cataracts from the hills And they clanked at his girdle like manacles; His breath was a chain which without a sound The earth, and the air, and the water bound; He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot-throne By the tenfold blasts of the Arctic zone. Then the weeds which were forms of living death Fled from the frost to the earth beneath. Their decay and sudden flight from frost Was but like the vanishing of a ghost! And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant The moles and the dormice died for want: The birds dropped stiff from the frozen air And were caught in the branches naked and bare. First there came down a thawing rain And its dull drops froze on the boughs again; Then there steamed up a freezing dew Which to the drops of the thaw-rain grew; And a northern whirlwind, wandering about Like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out, Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy, and stiff, And snapped them off with his rigid griff. When Winter had gone and Spring came back The Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck; But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and darnels, Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. CONCLUSION. Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that Which within its boughs like a Spirit sat, Ere its outward form had known decay, Now felt this change, I cannot say. Whether that Lady’s gentle mind, No longer with the form combined Which scattered love, as stars do light, Found sadness, where it left delight, I dare not guess; but in this life Of error, ignorance, and strife, Where nothing is, but all things seem, And we the shadows of the dream, It is a modest creed, and yet Pleasant if one considers it, To own that death itself must be, Like all the rest, a mockery. That garden sweet, that lady fair, And all sweet shapes and odours there, In truth have never passed away: ’Tis we, ’tis ours, are changed; not they. For love, and beauty, and delight, There is no death nor change: their might Exceeds our organs, which endure No light, being themselves obscure. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1903", "url": "/panorama/1903/", "title": "The Arrow and the Song", "layout": "page", "author": "Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth", "lastmod": "2025-02-13T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight. I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song? Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1904", "url": "/panorama/1904/", "title": "Ode to the West Wind", "layout": "page", "author": "Shelley, Percy Bysshe", "lastmod": "2025-02-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o’er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh hear! II Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky’s commotion, Loose clouds like earth’s decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread On the blue surface of thine aëry surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith’s height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull’d by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae’s bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave’s intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic’s level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear! IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem’d a vision; I would ne’er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and bow’d One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like wither’d leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? " },{ "id": "/panorama/1905", "url": "/panorama/1905/", "title": "The Female of the Species", "layout": "page", "author": "Kipling, Rudyard", "lastmod": "2025-02-16T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride, He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside. But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail, For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man, He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can, But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail - For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws, They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws - ‘Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale - For the female of the species is more deadly than the male. Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say, For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away; But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the others tale - The female of the species is more deadly than the male. Man, a bear in most relations, worm and savage otherwise, Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise; Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act. Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low, To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe. Mirth obscene diverts his anger; Doubt and Pity oft perplex Him in dealing with an issue - to the scandal of the Sex! But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same, And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail, The female of the species must be deadlier than the male. She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast May not deal in doubt or pity - must not swerve for fact or jest. These be purely male diversions - not in these her honor dwells - She, the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else! She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate; And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same. She is wedded to convictions - in default of grosser ties; Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him, who denies! He will meet no cool discussion, but the instant, white-hot wild Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child. Unprovoked and awful charges - even so the she-bear fights; Speech that drips, corrodes and poisons - even so the cobra bites; Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw, And the victim writhes with anguish - like the Jesuit with the squaw! So it comes that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands To some God of abstract justice - which no woman understands. And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him Must command but may not govern; shall enthral but not enslave him. And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail, That the female of Her Species is more deadly than the male! " },{ "id": "/panorama/1906", "url": "/panorama/1906/", "title": "The Winners", "layout": "page", "author": "Kipling, Rudyard", "lastmod": "2025-04-29T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "What is the moral? Who rides may read.   When the night is thick and the tracks are blind, A friend at a pinch is a friend indeed;   But a fool to wait for the laggard behind Down to Gehenna, or up to the Throne, He travels the fastest who travels alone. White hands cling to the tightened rein,   Slipping the spur from the booted heel, Tenderest voices cry, “Turn again,”   Red lips tarnish the scabbarded steel, High hopes faint on a warm hearth-stone– He travels the fastest who travels alone. One may fall, but he falls by himself–   Falls by himself, with himself to blame; One may attain, and to him is the pelf–   Loot of the city in Gold or Fame Plunder of earth shall be all his own Who travels the fastest, and travels alone. Wherefore the more ye be holpen and stayed,   Stayed by a friend in the hour of toil, Sing the heretical song I have made–   His be the labour, and yours be the spoil. Win by his aid, and the aid disown– He travels the fastest who travels alone. " },{ "id": "/panorama/1907", "url": "/panorama/1907/", "title": "Invictus", "layout": "page", "author": "Henley, William Ernest", "lastmod": "2025-08-04T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Out of the night that covers me Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance, I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate I am the captain of my soul. " },{ "id": "/blog/my-first-ever-blog-entry", "url": "/blog/my-first-ever-blog-entry/", "title": "My first ever blog entry", "layout": "post", "description": "Happy new year! Yep, I've got a blog too.", "date": "2007-01-01T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1805.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Happy new year! Yep, I’ve got a blog too. It was a new year resolution I made… or rather, one of the many I made… to have a blog of my own, and maintain it regularly. And I thought, since I’ve got my own hosting space, why not make it more than just a blog ? So this site has a rather ambitious future. It’s already got my [[Personal Movie Database]], which I’ll flesh out as time goes by. I plan to add a Classical Music Encyclopedia soon. I’ll also be adding my photo galleries and trip reports. Sometime in the distant future, I’ll also be putting in a jazz music encyclopedia, and a book review section… maybe even a library or something. Sounds a bit far fetched, I admit, but now that it’s been typed down, I’ve got something to look back at and say, \"whoa, there’s that unfinished plan I gotta work on\". That’s part of the charm of having a blog, isn’t it ? " },{ "id": "/blog/publicising-the-blog", "url": "/blog/publicising-the-blog/", "title": "Publicising the Blog", "layout": "post", "description": "It's all very well to have a nifty blog, but it isn't too much fun if you don't have people reading it and commenting on it.  You might as well just write in a gilt-edged, leather bound book with a page for every date.", "date": "2007-01-03T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1807.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "It’s all very well to have a nifty blog, but it isn’t too much fun if you don’t have people reading it and commenting on it.  You might as well just write in a gilt-edged, leather bound book with a page for every date. Now, from what I can gather on the net, there are a few ways you can get people to read Ze Blog. Include a link in the e-mail signature, so people you exchange mails with would see the blog. That would be the first part of the \"awareness\" campaign. Post in communities and forums and refer to articles in your blog. A sneaky way which seems like blowing your own trumpet, but that just a matter of perspective. The easy way would be to sign up with some search engine, like Technorati Personally, I think it’s a little early for me to try any of the above. This is my second blog entry, for crying out loud! I’m going to hold off until I get this place in order. Pending tasks are: Fill in more reviews into the movie database Bring the movie database up to date. Put in the classical music encyclopedia. Once the done above, at least there’s useful content for people to read, not a couple of bland blog entries. " },{ "id": "/blog/poetry-all-done", "url": "/blog/poetry-all-done/", "title": "Poetry, all done", "layout": "post", "description": "I located my old high school poetry text book... an Oxford University Press publication entitled "Panorama - A selection of poems".", "date": "2007-01-09T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1882.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I located my old high school poetry text book… an Oxford University Press publication entitled \"Panorama - A selection of poems\". It was a good selection, with the best representatives of all types of poetry. But back then, I was required to study these poems, and at an age when the aesthetics of poetry was totally lost upon me. Science was all important then, and anything which could not be measured was just not interesting. Leafing through the poetry textbook now was a revelation. Those very same poems, discarded in the flightiness of youth as mere collections of rhyming words, reveal worlds of meaning in every syllable. It is like being blind, and suddenly seeing colour. My first step was to put in all the poems into this blog. They can be accessed by clicking the link \"Panorama\" in the menu. Not all poems from the text are on the site, just the ones I could find on the internet. It does seem that Indian poets, even those who wrote in the English language, are very poorly represented on the internet. Especially these poets: Henry Louis Vivian Derozio Patrick Fernando Toru Dutt AK Ramanujan Shoshee Chunder Dutt Hur Chunder Dutt Michael Madhusudan Dutt Ashok Mahajan Kamala Das On the other hand, it was fairly easy to find the works of Nissim Ezekiel and Rabindranath Tagore. I plan to transcribe the works of the Dutt family. They all wrote over a century ago, and any copyright on their works should have expired now. I plan to read, and re-read these poems and document my interpretation of these verses. Of course, since my site is open, just about anybody is welcome to put in their thoughts too. " },{ "id": "/blog/it-suddenly-feels-very-cramped-here", "url": "/blog/it-suddenly-feels-very-cramped-here/", "title": "It suddenly feels very cramped here...", "layout": "post", "description": "Akshay "Axeole" Anand, an old pal from high school and then grad school, has the dubious honour of being the first one to sign up onto my site!", "date": "2007-01-10T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1883.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Akshay \"Axeole\" Anand, an old pal from high school and then grad school, has the dubious honour of being the first one to sign up onto my site! Axeole, among other things, is noted for his expansive physique. Being the only one in my gang with generous dimensions in college, he was (and still is, in some circles) the butt end of all the fat boy jokes. Back in the day, we used to expend substantial amount of creativity on coming up with innovative ways to pull his leg. Take a look at this mail I sent once… Just read this on sonymusic.comWierd Al is releasing a new album. Titled "Axeole Blues", it is all setto top the charts. Songs includeI'm the Fatman (sung to the tune of "I'm the Scatman" by Scatman John)Voluminous Waist (sung to the tune of U2's "Mysterious Ways")I'm A Fatta Than Yua (sung to the tune of "In A Gadda Da Vida" by IronButterfly)Fat (Remix of old Wierd Al hit, spoof of MJ's "Bad")Humongous Me (sung to the tune of Van Halen's "Humans Being")and the masterpieceBohemian Obesity (sung to Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody")Go Axe, Go. " },{ "id": "/blog/the-hero-with-a-thousand-faces", "url": "/blog/the-hero-with-a-thousand-faces/", "title": "The Hero with a Thousand Faces", "layout": "post", "description": "This is a book written by comparative mythologist Joseph Campbell in 1949. In this, he postulates that all archetypal-hero mythology, independently evolved in various parts of the world, share a common structure which he calls the monomyth. He explains this as an unconscious force of the mind; the human mind looks up to the same kind of person as a hero.", "date": "2007-01-15T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1889.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "This is a book written by comparative mythologist Joseph Campbell in 1949. In this, he postulates that all archetypal-hero mythology, independently evolved in various parts of the world, share a common structure which he calls the monomyth. He explains this as an unconscious force of the mind; the human mind looks up to the same kind of person as a hero. His theory states that the monomyth comprises 5 basic parts: The Hero, a common man, is called to Adventure in a supernatural world, which he accepts reluctantly. He has to face a series of trials and tribulations He achieves victory in his goal, and receives as reward a great power He returns to the ordinary world. He uses his great power for the benefit of his fellow men. There are a few more aspects of the description of the hero. He has a very close human friend, who remains by his side through all his trials. He has a faithful pet animal who is completely devoted to him. He has some trouble with his father-figure… the nature of this trouble varies, but he always reconciles with the father-figure towards the end. And of course, there is the love interest. This concept has been re-used in the modern day myths, in our movies, in our books. As an illustration, I shall compare four seminal hero-myths, the Ramayana, Star Wars, Harry Potter and the Matrix. While the first three are all almost fully compliant with the monomyth, Matrix omits certain aspects. Hero has trouble with father figure Rama is exiled by his father, at a step-mother’s behest. Luke Skywalker’s \"Dark Father\" is the most evil man in the galaxy, and is hidden from him in Tatooine Harry Potter’s father is killed by the most evil wizard. Not applicable, Neo’s parents don’t feature. Hero has very close human friend Lakshmana Han Solo Ron Weasley Morpheus Hero has a faithful, supernatural pet animal Hanuman Chewbacca… well this is a bit confusing. Who’s the hero here, Han or Luke ? Hedwig Not applicable in Matrix Hero has a Love Interest Sita Leia … again, who’s the hero ? Han or Luke ? Hermione ? Bit confusing again. Trinity Hero is called to great adventure Rama’s 12 years of exile in the forest</li> Luke and Han called to join the rebellion</li> Potter’s Entry to the world of magic</li> Neo takes the red pill.</li> When the hero starts out, an elderly figure helps him and provides him with tools/weapons The sage Vishwamithra gives Rama a whole bunch of celestial weapons. Obi-Wan Ben Kenobi gives him the light sabre and his first lessons as a Jedi Hagrid gives Potter a whole bunch of stuff including, of course, his wand. Morpheus’ frees the mind of Neo, and the Oracle tells Neo his fate Series of trials and tribulations culminating in a final battle with his nemesis. Rama defeats a dozen or more asuras, culminating with the final battle against Ravana. Luke and Han are involved in a series of skirmishes with Imperial forces, culminating with the final battle against the emperor himself. Potter has a series of fights against Voldemort culminating with the final fight against the Evil Wizard himself (yeah, I know, the book hasn’t come out yet). Neo has multiple skirmishes with the agents, culminating in the final battle against the Agent Smith. He achieves his goal, and receives a great reward. This is a little tough enumerate in all the myths. Yes, all of them defeat their respective nemeses, but the boon in all cases is faith in their own capabilities. Return to the ordinary world and initial reluctance to do so. Rama returns to Ayodhya and resumes his place on the throne. He is reluctant to do so initially, because he wants Bharata to continue being king. The story ends before the return… so I dunno. Story yet to evolve. But I can hazard a guess here… maybe Potter will have return to the world of muggles and live the life of an ordinary human being. Matrix is an exception, because Neo dies in the battle against Smith. Reconciliation with the father-figure Dasaratha is dead before Rama returns, and this sadly doesn’t happen. But actually, his reconciliation is with Keikeyi, which does happen pretty early on. Darth Vader becomes good again, he becomes Anakin Skywalker again. Again, James Potter is already dead, I am not sure what the reconciliation would be. (maybe with his uncle and aunt ?). Will have to wait for the book to come out. Not applicable The following also fall into the monomyth structure, but I am not well-versed enough in any of them to do a comparative analysis. JRR Tolkien's Lord of the Rings Homer's Illiad & Odyssey Heracles (Hercules) in Greek mythology Rustam in Persian Mythology Cuchulainn in Irish Druid Mythology " },{ "id": "/blog/lord-peter-wimsey", "url": "/blog/lord-peter-wimsey/", "title": "Lord Peter Wimsey", "layout": "post", "description": "As his Whimsy takes him", "date": "2007-01-19T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1890.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Debrett's Peerage lists him as: Wimsey, Peter Death Bredon, DSO; _born_ 1890, _2nd son of_ Mortimer Gerald Bredon Wimsey, 15th Duke of Denver, and of Honoria Lucasta, _daughter of_ Francis Delagardie of Bellingham Manor, Hants. _Educated_: Eton College and Balliol College, Oxford (1st class honours, Sch. of Mod. Hist. 1912); served with H.M. Forces 1914/18 (Major, Rifle Brigade). _Author of_: "Notes on the collecting of Incunabula", "The Murderer's Vade-Mecum", etc. _Recreations_: Criminology, bibliophily; music; cricket _Clubs_: Marlborough; Egotists'. _Residences_: 110A Piccadilly, W.; Bredon Hall, Duke's Denver, Norfolk. _Arms_: Sable, 3 mice courant, argent; crest, a domestic cat crouched as to spring, proper; motto: As my Whimsy takes me. Lord Peter Wimsey is charming, suave, and arguably the most clear-thinking detective ever penned. A stately gentleman with a monocle perched on his nose, he used to play cricket while at Oxford. He is a compulsive bibliophile and spends his spare time collecting first editions of old Latin works. He does not have the superhuman abilities and encyclopedic knowledge of Sherlock Holmes, but neither is he an armchair detective like Hercule Poirot. He solves his cases by using a combination of reasoning power and an understanding of the workings of the human mind, often out-thinking the perpetrators. He could be thought of as a psychological detective. He is a creation of Dorothy L Sayers, and is said to be the most convincing male character ever created by a female author. He made his first appearance in \"Whose Body\", and he does come off looking like a \"silly ass\" on occasion. But the Bertie Wooster persona is just a sham; Lord Peter is nothing short of a detective genius. He appears in the following books, which I have NOT listed in chronological order: Whose Body - A nude corpse is found in a quiet architect's bathtub, while elsewhere a rich financier goes missing. Murder Must Advertise - Lord Peter's alter ego, Death Bredon, gets a job at an advertising agency to trace out the inexplicable death of an employee. Unnatural Death - An elderly, ailing lady died three years ago. No suspicions were aroused, except that of Lord Peter. The Unpleasantness at Bellona Club - An old gentleman dies in his armchair at Bellona Club, but no one notices for several hours. At nearly the same time, his sister also dies, and a legal battle ensues between the hiers over who died first. Clouds of Witness - Lord Peter's brother, the Duke of Denver is accused of murdering his sister Lady Mary Wimsey's fiance. While both of them are very tight-lipped about the whole affair, it's upto Lord Peter and his close friend, Inspector Parker to prove their innocence. Nine Tailors - More of a study in Campanology than a murder mystery. Campanology, or change ringing, the art of ringing church bells with mathematical precision. Lord Peter solves a mystery involving a stolen necklace using his knowledge of change ringing. Strong Poison - Lord Peter meets Harriet Vane for the first time. Harriet is in court, accused of poisoning her ex-lover. All evidence supports her guilt, while Lord Peter sets about proving her innocence. Have his Carcase - Harriet Vane finds a body on an isolated beach, with the throat cut and the blood still running. She photographs the scene and is helped by Lord Peter to solve the crime. Gaudy Night - Harriet Vane is invited to her college reunion, and rethinks her own feelings about Lord Peter, while trying to explain the extraordinary events that occur in the college. Busman's Honeymoon - Lord Peter and Harriet Vane marry and move to an old country house for their honeymoon. They find the caretaker dead in the basement, with severe head injuries. The works of Dorothy L. Sayers are very erudite and demand a certain amount of scientific thinking and literary knowledge of the reader. The vast amounts of background research done by Ms. Sayers is evident in all her books. Her mysteries were all written and set in the period between the world wars, and the themes often touch on subjects which were definitely taboo in those times. Topics such as living in, lesbianism, etc. are central to the mysteries, showing the forward thinking nature of Ms. Sayers. Another curious aspect is that her stories draw strongly from her own life experiences. The events in Harriet Vane’s life closely mimics that of Ms. Sayers, especially in the book Strong Poison. Her books reflect life in England between the world wars. They depict the society, the changing mores, and the imminent collapse of the British aristocracy. Lord Peter, though himself a member of the aristocracy, doesn’t think much of the whole system, and often doesn’t use his title when introducing himself to strangers. In Lord Peter, Ms. Sayers has created an ideal man. He has no chinks in his armour, no defects in the system. He is perfect, physically and psychologically, save for an occasional attack of shell-shock after an incident in a trench in WW 1. The books are very enjoyable, and will have you hooked from cover to cover. The stories are crafted so brilliantly, that it is very difficult to guess the murderer through the course of the book, and often the answer comes as a surprise to the reader. In all, very highly recommended. " },{ "id": "/blog/an-evening-with-god", "url": "/blog/an-evening-with-god/", "title": "An evening with God", "layout": "post", "description": "Our mother, who art in heaven...", "date": "2007-01-22T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1891.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "She sat there across the table from me, looking positively radiant. I don’t think there can be a better word to describe Her. Just radiant. Stop staring like that, you’re embarrassing Me. I can’t help being nervous. A regular date is bad enough; but this is God. She’s the alpha and the omega, Ahura Mazda and Ahrimaan. She’s the creator / protector / destroyer, omnipotent / omnipresent / omniscient… Not tonight, I’m none of those things. I’m just a regular human being. Does that help ? Yes, it does. It also explains why me, a mere mortal, have survived. On hearing Her voice, my head hasn’t exploded and my chest hasn’t caved in. Boo! Naah, don’t worry. I don’t use my scary voice unless I’m pissed. Eek, I’ll be careful then. She smiles very sweetly, and I start talking about Her job. (not a great opening, but in my defense, I was nervous). She’s been at it for ever, don’t you know. She can’t get fired, She has no competition and She has no peer-review (which follows, since She has no peer)… Hey that’s hardly fair… Wait, wait. I’ve not finished… but there is a downside too; She has no pay, no raises, no vacation, and worst, She can never quit. That’s an odd way of describing it, but yeah, in a nutshell, that is My job. Like any job, it’s got it’s ups and downs. Whew, for a moment I thought She was gonna get angry. The old testament talks at length about God’s wrath; it wouldn’t do any good to test it’s veracity now, would it ? I change the subject to Hitchhikers Guide; if the answer is 42, I’m sure She knows what the question is… _Nope, can’t tell ya. But \"We apologise for the inconvenience\". _ Har har, very funny. And to think Nietzsche said she was dead! It’s been said before, but Nietzsche is the one who’s dead. She really does have a sense of humour. There’s a lull, and I’m reluctant to ask the millions of questions buzzing in my head. Why are we here ? Is there really an afterlife and hell ? When is Armageddon ? Not to seem tongue tied, I hum a few bars from that song of Joan Osborne, and She flashes me another brilliant smile. Which one is that, the Joan Osborne version of the Bob Rivers version ? Bob Rivers!! WHAT if God smoked Cannibus ? Does she really…. What do you think, silly ? I invented the stuff, didn’t I ? We spoke of this and that, mostly just small stuff, nothing of great theological gravity. It was a wonderful and pleasant evening. Thanks for a lovely evening. Do keep in touch! And then she was… everywhere. Quite the opposite of gone, really. I see the world now through radiance coloured glasses. Sorry if I sound like some bible-thumping born-again redneck Christian, but I think I’m in love with God. " },{ "id": "/blog/the-intellectual-snob", "url": "/blog/the-intellectual-snob/", "title": "The Intellectual Snob", "layout": "post", "description": "Very familiar... where have I met them before?", "date": "2007-01-23T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1892.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "From the very first time you read \"Hoppy, The Playful Bunny\" in a nursery school, to the very last time you read \"Happy, The Playboy Bunny\" in a nursing home, you can be assured that your literary taste will be ridiculed by some unnerving, unspeakable, self-righteous entity known as the Intellectual Snob. Generally, an Intellectual Snob will know all there is to know about Stephen Hawking and Andrei Tarkovsky but absolutely nothing about Steven Seagal or Andre Agassi. People assume that the Intellectual Snob is smarter than others just because they call attention to their brilliance more often than regular folks. In truth, the average Intellectual Snob is an untalented soul, who begins life as a babbling brook of big words, quickly grows to a cascading river of meaningless mouthings until he ultimately wreaks havoc by inundating all around in a deluge of swirling trivia. It’s easy to spot an Intellectual Snob in a crowd. They’re the ones sitting in a cafe reading \"The Collected Works of Friedrich Nietzsche\". They’re the ones picking out the plaster-of-paris bust of Rene Descartes to give as a house-warming present. They’re the ones packing for a vacation to Goa because they heard that there’s a great museum there. And they’re the ones on the dance floor at the disco dancing to \"Swan Lake\". Some psychologists think that Intellectual Snobs become what they are because they secretly feel inferior. Maybe that’s why they never voice an opinion about a movie they’ve seen until they hear what that critics have to say. That’s why they subscribe to scholarly journals for the sole purpose of impressing the postmen. That’s why they tell everyone they’re watching \"Discovery Channel\" when they are really watching \"Kaun Banega Crorepathi\". An Intellectual Snob’s aloof air of superiority often causes him to be thought of as nothing but a tightly closed mind attached to a wide open mouth. In reality an Intellectual Snob is much more; he represents the paragon of Mature Wisdom having a custom vehicle registration number with his IQ on it; Warm Generosity eager to share his knowledge of correct grammar with the less fortunate; Deep Humility wearing a glow-in-the-dark top-10 college sweatshirt; and a Veritable Fountain of fatherly advice who never had children of his own because he never got married because he never found a girl who was good enough for him… or could even stand to go out with him. Strange to say, the world probably needs Intellectual Snobs. Someone has to explain what the prime minister just said in his speech that everyone heard. Someone has to read through those long newspaper articles that come between the cartoons. And most important of all, someone has to buy tickets for all those Mahesh Dattani plays. No one really knows what strange internal chemistry produces these pontifical purveyors of profound prattle. Some Intellectual Snobs seem driven by an invisible force to learn everything about Iranian cinema because they can’t seem to understand anything about cricket. Others seem compelled to acquaint themselves with poor 15th century Flemish painters because they can’t acquaint themselves with rich 21st century rock stars. Still others seem obliged to quote long passages from Shakespeare because they don’t have any thoughts of their own which bear repeating. Naturally, anyone who talks so much while saying so little is bound to slip up. But the Intellectual Snob cannot bear to have his remarks challenged, no matter how absurd they are. The true Intellectual Snob will quickly defend his pronouncements by flashing a superior smirk and replying with the same contemptuous words that he has uttered so often before: **I wouldn’t expect you to understand. " },{ "id": "/blog/silly-putty", "url": "/blog/silly-putty/", "title": "Silly Putty", "layout": "post", "description": "That fleeting moment when a motivational poster actually... motivates", "date": "2007-01-31T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1893.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Taped to the wall at the foot of my bed is a banner, with the following words written on it in a blue permanent marker: "Today is the first day of the rest of your life" No, not an original. I got the line from the movie [[American Beauty]]. Never mind that, though… it’s the position of the banner which is interesting. The banner is the first thing I see when I get up in the morning, and the last thing I meditate upon before I fall asleep. And every time, every time I read those words, I make a solemn promise to become a better person, the best person I could possibly become: — self confident; — self-reliant; — charming and suave; — calm, cool and composed; — completely at ease, even in embarrassing situations. A sort of super-me, if you will. The costumed hero version of me, who the world looks up to. The supernatural mythical human, of whom I, my current self, am the mild-mannered, awkward secret identity. At least, in theory, that is the case! On the good days, the \"solemn promise\" is forgotten by lunch-time, and on the bad days, I feel like setting the banner on fire! You know, I believe that we are like fresh putty when we are young. The stuff that kids play with, making snowmen and houses. Modeling clay. The kind which leaves your fingers smelling of turpentine when you are done with it. But as we grow older, the putty gets old too. It gets harder, less malleable. And it retains that shape of the garden gnome that we last molded it into. Grouchy and inconspicuous. And we are stuck with that. We could, of course, add a splash of turpentine to the putty and reshape it into something else… I have been searching too long for my own splash of turpentine to reshape myself into a better person. " },{ "id": "/blog/time-travel-you-sure-it-never-wioll-haven-be", "url": "/blog/time-travel-you-sure-it-never-wioll-haven-be/", "title": "Time travel... you sure it never wioll haven be ?", "layout": "post", "description": "The biggest problem with time travel is... grammar", "date": "2007-02-01T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1894.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The detractors claim that it is impossible. \"No!\", they say, \"it can never be invented\". \"Where ?\", they ask, \"are the future men in shiny suits and odd-shaped sunglasses ?\" Good valid points. But if history did get altered, would we be aware of it ? Wouldn’t the altered history become the \"only\" history, and we would remain blissfully unaware of said alteration. Best illustrated by an example, methinks. What if, say, instead of Jesus, it was Judas who was crucified ? We should have all been praying to Judas Christ… in fact, we were all praying to Judas Christ. That is, until the year 2133. That was when John Q. Smith thought it would be a nice joke to play on the world if he altered history. He stole Doc Brown’s experimental DeLorean and \"fixed\" the events 2000 years ago, so Judas kissed Jesus first. And Boom! Those silly Romans crucified Jesus, and poor Judas, who did all the hard work, is now considered treacherous and evil. No one knows about John Q Smith. No one knows it was supposed to be Judas, and not Jesus on the cross. No one knows that King James’ bible was originally a book all about Judas. Not even John Q Smith, whose own memory of the events got modified even as he was meddling. Grammatically speaking, that last sentence is completely wrong. Referring Dr. Dan Streetmentioner’s Time Traveller’s Handbook of 1001 tense formations, I could re-write that last paragraph as: \"No one (willan knows) about John Q Smith. No one (willan have known) it (when-was) supposed to be Judas, and not Jesus on the cross….\" and so on and so forth. But I shall refrain from doing so. Of course, physics has already proved the inability of time travel using something called a temporal paradox. But John Q Smith didn’t understand the paradox, and here we all are… It’s not too late. It is never too late. Stop the mockery and repeat after me: \"Lord Judas Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner\". " },{ "id": "/blog/-heads-isnt-that-punishment-enough", "url": "/blog/heads-isnt-that-punishment-enough/", "title": "10 heads... isn't that punishment enough?", "layout": "post", "description": "He was well a-head of everyone else", "date": "2007-03-08T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/1921.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The mythological villain Ravana had 10 heads. TEN HEADS !!! That’s nearly a football team of heads; a whole B-17 crew of heads. It’s a complete baseball team of heads more than the average person. I don’t think he was born with it, like some arbitrary mutation of genetic disorder. I mean, look at his brother Vibhishana. He’s regular average Joe. Hands 2 check, legs 2 check, head 1 check. But his brother Kumbhakarna, again had some abnormal physical attributes; maybe their mother wore uranium jewelry. What’s most likely though, was that he got the nine extra mugs as a boon for doing penance. People got some rather crazy things those days in exchange for doing penance. I remember reading about this dude who  prayed to Shiva and got the ability to burn anything he touched. And then he just had to go and scratch his head. Getting back to Ravana, I can’t seem to think of anything positive about having 10 heads. Ravana must have been miserable! Just imagine: He can never make an entrance. His name is announced at the banquet hall, all the guests rise and look towards the door. 5 heads enter comically sideways, followed by a body and then 5 more heads. I'll bet all those lovely apsaras hanging out with Indra were sniggering into their dainty lace handkerchiefs. He would take forever to get ready in the morning. Ten sets of teeth to brush, ten faces to wash, ten chins to shave, ten heads to comb. His breakfast would be cold before he even got to face number six. A visit to the dentist's would take weeks. Or even the opticians. "Oh Ms. Veeblefletzer, do cancel all appointments for the next week; we're having Ravana over for a general checkup." 10 heads means 10 brains. And 10 distinct personalities. Head 7 could be a hippie, head 4 a neo-nazi, head 9 sportsman, and head 1 a drunkard. Head 3 and head 8 could be having a  personality clash, head 2 is a retard and head 5 could be the silent serial killer. Man, one head is messed up enough, but imagine having 10 messed up heads. Who's gonna kiss the Apsaras ? I suppose he has some way of drawing lots or something. Or maybe he auctions the kisses :) Life must have been hell while growing up. Acne, glasses, braces, all multiplied by 10. It's a good thing he was royal, or he'd have been bullied no end. No wonder he had to abduct women by force. Can you imagine any woman voluntarily anywhere near a guy with 10 heads ? " },{ "id": "/blog/the-risque-mahabharatha", "url": "/blog/the-risque-mahabharatha/", "title": "The Risque Mahabharata", "layout": "post", "description": "Read between the lines of the Mahabharata", "date": "2007-03-15T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1933.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "We all learned the Mahabharata from myriad sources:— Amar Chitra Katha, Grandma’s knee, C. Rajagopalachari’s seminal volume, maybe even the original unabridged Sanskrit text, but mostly from the very long running TV serial. But the unfortunate truth is, all these sources fed us a censored, abbreviated version which has all the juicy parts glossed over. In fact, you’re probably asking yourself right now, “What Juicy Parts ?”. Here’s what I am going to do. I’ll briefly skim over the whole saga, highlighting all the aforementioned “juicy” parts, starting at the very beginning. It’s been widely surmised that the beginning is a very good place to start. (You’ll have to excuse me. I was forced to watch “The Sound of Music” recently :)) Something Fishy The Mahabharata starts with the story of the king Shantanu, who was of the house of Kuru and ruled Hastinapur (somewhere near present-day Meerut). Shantanu was as horny as they come. He first marries a river Goddess called Ganga and goes on to have eight kids with her, seven of whom died at birth. The eighth child was called Devavrata, and is the most interesting character in the Mahabharata. We shall come back to Devavrata in a while. At any rate, after eight kids, Ganga dumps Shantanu. Now cut to the story of Satyavati. She’s a fisherman’s kid, and has grown up all her life among piles of fish. She’s pretty good-looking, but the smell of fish kept the boys away. A passing mendicant offers to fix the smell issue in exchange for sexual favours. Satyavati gets laid by this mendicant, and the smell is all gone! She does get knocked up, though, and has a son. This son is entrusted to his biological father, the mendicant, and grows up to become Vyasa, the great sage who is accredited with writing the Mahabharata in the first place. But I’m getting ahead of myself. A few years after Shantanu broke up with Ganga, he was on a hunting trip, when he sees Satyavati and falls head-over-heels. It must be noted that by now, Shantanu was quite old, and what we have here is a classic situation of “Dirty Old Man” and “Gold Digger”. There is a catch, though. Satyavati says she’ll marry Shantanu on the condition that her offspring must continue the Kuru lineage, and not Devavrata. Did I mention the phrase “Gold Digger” ?  It’s at this point Devavrata, who is about 15 or so, renounces his claim to the throne, and vows to remain celibate his whole life to preempt the possibility that his offspring might claim the throne. This rather fearsome vow earns him the title/name Bhishma which means, literally, “terrible vow”. The Blind and the Pale Shantanu and Satyavathi had two sons, Chitrangadha and Vichitravirya. When Shantanu died, Chitrangadha, the older son, ascended the throne. Chitrangadha, unfortunately, died young and heirless. Vichitravirya, who was just a child then, ascended the throne, and Bhishma ruled as regent for a while. When it was time for Vichitravirya to marry, Bhishma set out to locate a bride for him. Bhishma invades a Swayamwara at Kashi (present day Varanasi) and defeats all the potential suitors there. He then takes off with the three princesses, Amba, Ambika and Ambalika. Amba says she’s in love with someone else, so Bhishma lets her go. We shall return to the story of Amba in a while. Ambika and Ambalika marry Vichitravirya, but the silly fellow died shortly thereafter (not sure if it was battle or tuberculosis). Anyway, no children again. Bhishma, sworn to continue the line from Satyavati’s loins, locates the sage Vyasa, Satyavati’s first son. Vyasa is requested to help propagate the Kuru line and get Ambika and Ambalika pregnant. (like anyone could ever turn down such a request :) Vyasa is the typical sage, and looks intimidating in his flowing beard. Ambika closes her eyes when Vyasa sleeps with her, and her sister Ambalika turns pale when it’s her turn. Their kids (Dhritarashtra and Pandu) are thus born blind and anaemic. Vyasa also does a maid (he was apparently on a roll) and her kid turns out fine. The maid’s kid grows up to be the wise statesman Vidura. The Bartered Bride Returning to the story of Amba, she returns to her beloved when Bhishma lets her go. But the poor sod is still licking wounds received from Bhishma, and declines her offer of love. She next makes a futile attempt to convince Bhishma to marry her. She then wants to have revenge and tries to locate a warrior to challenge Bhishma, but no one was brave enough to represent her. She challenges Bhishma herself, but he doesn’t fight women. In desperation, she demands to be reborn as a man so she can fight Bhishma. Once she gets this boon, she immediately commits suicide, and is born as Shikandi, son of the King Drupada. The catch, of course, is that Bhishma still considers him a woman and still won’t fight him/her. Eventually, though, she does succeed, and is instrumental in Bhishma’s death. But again, I am getting ahead of myself. “Calling” the gods to get babies Dhritarashtra and Pandu grew up. Dhritarashtra married this Afghan princess called Gandhari (literally, the princess of Khandahar). Being very conscientious, she blindfolds herself on betrothal and remains blind for the rest of her life in sympathy with her husband. Pandu married twice, once to Kunti, a princess from near present-day Lucknow, and a pahadi princess called Madri from present day Himachal Pradesh. Kunti, when she was younger, served the sage Durvasa diligently, and he taught her a mantra which would allow her to summon any god and sleep with her. She doubted the mantra’s capability, and to test it, she called upon Surya, the sun god. He promptly knocked up the then unmarried princess. Frantic, she is forced to set her new-born baby afloat in a basket down the river. This baby is Karna, who’s brought up by a charioteer and is superior in both strength, skill and honour to the Pandavas. Pandu was out hunting when he accidentally kills a couple of deer in the process of copulating. The deer turns out to be a sage in disguise, and he curses Pandu to die the next time he has sex. Pandu, deeply shocked, renounces the world and retires to the forest, with his wives. Kunti and Madri, denied the pleasures of their husband, use Durvasa’s mantra and call up 5 gods between them. Kunti calls on Yama, the God of righteousness and death, Vayu the wind God and Indra the king of Gods. From these gods, she begat Yudhishtira, Bhima and Arjuna, respectively. Madri called upon the Gemini twins, and begat the twins Nakula and Sahadeva. It must be noted that if she got two sons from two gods (albeit twins) and her sons were twins, that must have been one wild threesome. One hundred and one labours Poor Pandu seemed to have made an error of judgment. When one renounces the world, it includes renouncing wives. Pandu wound up having sex with Madri and died because of the curse. Madri, grief-stricken, commits suicide, leaving Kunti with 5 sons. Dhritarashtra, Pandu’s brother, had offspring trouble too. Like Kunti, Gandhari too had a boon, from Vyasa, granting her a hundred sons. But after a pregnancy which lasted 2 years, she gave birth to a shapeless lump of flesh. Vyasa came in at this point and divided this lump into a hundred and one parts, and put them in separate jars. Nine months later, each jar contained a son, except the last one which held Gandhari’s only daughter, Dushala. Mostly Mundane We’re mostly through with all the risque business. The stories of the five Pandavas and their shared wife Draupadi are too well known, and aren’t glossed over in most accounts. Arjuna-Subhadra, Bhima-Hidimbi are all regular affairs. There was this one incident where Arjuna cross-dresses and lives as a woman for a year, but even that is common knowledge. The rest of the Mahabharata deals with gambling, lies, humiliation, debts, exile, war, death, destruction, annihilation and finally redemption, culminating in the ascent to heaven. Not risque, but a really interesting read. One point to note though. Bhishma is so against LGBTQIA+ rights that he was willing to die rather than treat a trans man as a man. " },{ "id": "/blog/hello-dubya", "url": "/blog/hello-dubya/", "title": "Hello... Dubya ?", "layout": "post", "description": "If he is the best we can do for a world leader...", "date": "2007-03-17T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1934.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "He’s the most powerful man on planet earth. And he is known in many circles as \"Dubya\". George W Bush Jr. has been the president of the United states of America for a good 7 years now, since the latter half of 2000. What that means is that he has been ridiculed and mocked at for 7 years, and yet, unfazed, he sticks at his job. An Indian newspaper (The Times of India) even ran a daily comic strip called \"Dubyaman\", penned by one of my favourite columnists Jug Suraiya. Why Dubya ? His given name is George, a name that doesn’t lend itself easily to abbreviation, like Richard, or William. But still, Dubya ? I did a bit of digging around for the origin of this name, and I’ve been laughing ever since I found it. Dubya is apparently a play on his southern accent and his pronunciation of the alphabet W. He introduces himself as \"George Dubya Bush Juniah\". Fun stuff aside, I am keen to draw parallels between Bush’s rule and the rule of the entirely more sinister Big Brother in George Orwell’s 1984. Dubya Big Brother USA has waged a relentless war on what Dubya calls the sponsors of terrorism. First Afghanistan was annihilated, and then Iraq was the target. He still hasn't finished the job in Iraq, and all signs seem to indicate Iran is next. Oceania waged a relentless incessant war against an adversary. It started off with Eurasia, and later, Eastasia. USA had initially declared 3 primary adversaries, who they fashioned as the "Axis of Evil": Iran, Iraq and North Korea. Never mind that two of these were in conflict for most of the eighties, and the third had little to do with the first two. "We are at war with Eurasia. We have always been at war with Eurasia." "We are at war with Eastasia. We have always been at war with Eastasia." The "Axis" was later "expanded" to include Libya, Syria, Cuba, Belarus, Zimbabwe and Myanmar. Not to mention the Hamas-run Palestine. Someone ought to tell them that we live in a three dimensional world; there can only be 3 axes. It is convenient to have an all-inclusive list of "potential" enemies. It ensures that USA wouldn't have to stop fighting anytime soon. Oceania went a step further. All the coalition countries merged into a single administrative entity, who is at war with the other coalition country. This reduced the list of "foreign" coalitions to just two. Either Oceania fights both, or partners one against the other. The USA had a ready-made enemy face in Osama bin Laden. The CIA created him and trained him. He was/is an abandoned child of the United States, who chose to turn around and bite the hand that stopped feeding him. Oceania's enemy face was Emmanuel Goldstein. Replete with two minutes hate and everything. Of course, Winston Smith knew that Goldstein was once a party member, and a close associate of the Big Brother. The entire purpose of the war was to distract  people from them real problems affecting them: namely an incompetent government unable to control a nose-diving economy, rampant inflation and domestic crime. The entire purpose of the war was to subjugate people into accepting a substandard quality of life as the "only" life, and make them accept their lot not as problems, but as the natural order of things. I think it is very clear that the USA is heading for a totalitarian regime. The government seems intent on limiting the lifestyle and very thought of the people who elected it. And the people will come come to accept that way of life, and live it with absolute faith, and love for Dubya. Remember, DUBYA IS WATCHING YOU. " },{ "id": "/blog/black-like-me", "url": "/blog/black-like-me/", "title": "Black Like Me", "layout": "post", "description": "You never really know a person until you have lived in their skin", "date": "2007-04-04T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1947.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "\"Black Like Me\" is a non-fiction book written by American author John Howard Griffin in 1961. It tells the story of how Griffin, a white male from Texas, travels for six weeks in 1959 disguised as a black through the then racially segregated states of Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and Georgia. I first read this book about a year ago, but forgot the book on an aeroplane. Which is rather unfortunate, because I really enjoyed and treasured the book. A lot of controversy gets triggered today when a white person claims to understand the feelings of a black person. [[Natalie Portman]] immediately comes to mind. Griffin stands alone as the one white who really did understand. Griffin left his family and moved to New Orleans, Louisiana. With the help of a dermatologist, he transforms his skin pigmentation with a combination of drugs, dyes and a UV lamp. After the transformation, no one he knew before recognises him; neither the whites nor the blacks. Effectively disguised, he then embarks upon a trip across the four states, travelling through places  known to have the worst racist problems like Alabama.  In those segregated days, the blacks had their own universe and subculture, it just happened to be that they were in the same dimension as the whites. And god forbid anyone might even think of crossing over. Griffin writes about his experiences in finding food, finding places to stay, and even finding a toilet. He writes about the attitude of the black man, their feelings and thoughts, their mindset and their acceptance of their lot in life. He discovers that the blacks were treated much the same as animals. The average attitude of the white citizen was \"Animals don’t eat the same food, sleep in beds or use toilets, so why would the blacks\" ? Not even on humanitarian grounds would the whites relent. A black could starve for all they cared… but he must walk six miles past all the \"white\" stores to get himself something to eat. Sometimes, it wasn’t the individuals; a white person may be sympathetic, but the social stigma prevented them for acting out on their feelings. They would rather face a guilty conscience rather than contract the label of \"nigger-lover\". After six weeks, he is sickened to the core, and reverses his disguise. He publishes his memoirs a couple of years later. As an after-word, the book relates the backlash and controversy spawned by his book. In his hometown he was burned in effigy, and got many death-threats. But the country-wide media hailed him as a hero and a great human-rights activist. Very deep and insightful look into a world of unspeakable hate and prejudice. Do read it if you get a chance. " },{ "id": "/blog/eccentric-expatriates", "url": "/blog/eccentric-expatriates/", "title": "Eccentric Expatriates", "layout": "post", "description": "What some will do for green backs and green cards", "date": "2007-04-09T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1948.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I know it will probably sound like something out of \"Ripley’s Believe It or Not\", but I assure you that the stories I am about to relate are completely true. A guy I’ve known since we were both knee high left for the US about 15 years ago to do his Masters. Masters became PhD, PhD became job, and then green card, then citizenship etc. etc. He visited India exactly once in all these years, to get married. Last year, he bought tickets for his parents so they could visit him there. And since he spent quite some money on the tickets, he had to reduce his household expenditures. His cost-cutting measure: Get aged parents to repaint house. My next story is even better. My friend’s boss worked in Detroit, the northern tip of USA. His wife was a student in Atlanta, way South. He roomed with my friend, and married life for him was restricted to occasional cross-continent weekend trips. Not too bad, but then his wife got pregnant, had a child and brought the kid up for two years as a single parent while still doing her PhD. All along, his presence was still just restricted to weekend trips. Why didn’t he just chuck his job and find another down South ? Oh, his employers were processing his green card, don’t you know ? And finally, my last piece concerns a colleague of mine, a guy who’s worked in my team for over a year. He went to the US last year late February. Towards the latter half of the year, (September, I think) his child was due. His leave was sanctioned then. In December 2006, the project wound down, and furthermore, the company had a long vacation of 10 days. At the time of writing this, in April of 2007, HE HAS YET TO SEE HIS BABY IN THE FLESH. And he doesn’t have any plans to come back in India in the foreseeable future. Mixed emotions. I am simultaneously amused, saddened and revolted at these stories. Has the Indian, the same Indian who chanted \"Matru Devo Bhavah, Pitru Devo Bhavah\", now forgotten his values at the sight of greenbacks ? Has he sacrificed humanity for money ? Indians started emigrating en masse about twenty, thirty years ago. India had a semi-socialistic economy then, and private enterprises were largely unpredictable fly-by-night affairs. The public sector was largely comprised of bureaucratic pencil-pushers, and such jobs were hard to come by too. This was when the brain-drain started, as the smarter Indians emigrated to find their fortunes in the USA, then labeled the land of opportunities. Today, things are very different. India has a strong and growing economy. Private companies are stable, jobs are secure, and easy to come by. Salaries are high and the stock market is booming. Fortunes are there for the taking in every street corner. Salaries in India are actually higher than abroad on a purchasing power parity scale. Indeed, the land of opportunities has been redefined. So why do rational, perceivably well-balanced citizens wish to dwell a substandard life, as an expatriate in a foreign country, hanging onto jobs which they probably hate, at wages which are most likely lower than a white citizen would get ? " },{ "id": "/blog/reversation", "url": "/blog/reversation/", "title": "Reversation", "layout": "post", "description": "Is it really affirmative action when the effects are so negative?", "date": "2007-04-17T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1965.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Yep, it has reared its ugly head again. The Indian government are pushing for more affirmative action. Soon as a judicial bench clears it, the Indian government is implementing a 27 percent reservation for what is termed the \"Other Backward Classes\" in all higher degree professional education institutions. Let me take you on a little trip My supersonic ship's at your disposal If you feel so inclined. well alright. The government doesn’t seem to realize that it is at cross purposes here. On the one hand, it has declared the caste system illegal.  According to law, a person cannot be treated differently because of his or her race, colour, creed, belief or birth. I am unsure of the exact wording of this law, but that’s about the gist of it. We're gonna travel faster than light So do up your overcoat tight And you'll go anywhere you want to decide. well alright. But then, the government itself is the one who is treating people differently based on their affiliation to what is euphemistically termed classes. If a person is born into such a class of people, he has the right to avail of this \"reservation\". So, aren’t they contradicting themselves ? Aren’t they breaking the law that they have laid down, and have been elected to uphold ? On my supersonic rocket ship Nobody has to be hip Nobody needs to be out of sight. out of sight. The way I see it, Reservation is a reversal of the system. While \"Affirmative action\" is intended to bring equality among people, what it actually does is highlight the inequality. For this very reason, the system has been done away with in almost all other parts of the world. Nobody's gonna travel second class There'll be equality And no suppression of minorities. well alright. I’d like to believe that I am beyond the reach of \"Reservation\". Now that I’m a skilled labourer, and have a couple of honestly obtained degrees to back that up, I’d like to believe that I transcend reservation. But the day may not be far off when I am denied a job because I, unfortunately, have not been born into a scheduled cast, a scheduled tribe or other backward classes. " },{ "id": "/blog/technorati-claim", "url": "/blog/technorati-claim/", "title": "Technorati Claim", "layout": "post", "description": "A lame-ass attempt at being more... \"recognized\".", "date": "2007-04-18T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1974.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Well, the other day a friend mentioned that I ought to register my blog with technorati. Apparently Technorati indexes the blog and cross-references it or something. Anyway, the first part of registering is to tell technorati that this blog here is indeed mine. And to do that I need to create a blog entry with a link to my Technorati Profile. Mind you, this blog entry is just that… a technorati claim entry. Don’t read too much into it :) UPDATE (26/Jul/2017): Well, technorati is no longer a blog index. So much for that. " },{ "id": "/blog/the-longish-break", "url": "/blog/the-longish-break/", "title": "The Longish Break", "layout": "post", "description": "No blog is complete without a post about why there haven't been posts in a while", "date": "2007-06-19T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1987.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "hiatus n. (pl. hiatuses) 1 a break or gap, esp. in a series, account, or chain of proof. 2 Prosody & Gram. a break between two vowels coming together but not in the same syllable, as in though oft the ear. hiatal adj. [L, = gaping f. hiare gape] Here endeth my \"break or gap, esp. in a series\". It’s been nigh on two months since I wrote here. Though I do have a whole bunch of excuses, in all honesty, it’s just been plain laziness. I’ve finally gotten over my addiction to Quake, and substituted it with, oddly enough, an addiction to Scrabble. I’ve always associated scrabble with public school boys from Calcutta who speak with affected clipped accents and wear thick glasses. But it sure is a fun game to while away time. I suddenly know so much more about words with \"Q\" in them which do not have a \"U\" following it. Mind you, all these words are legal Scrabble words. FaqirA Hindu ascetic QaidA Muslim Leader (I actually thought it was Qazi) QanatA system of underground tunnels and wells in the Middle East QatAn evergreen shrub QindarA monetary unit of Albania QintarAlternate spelling for the monetary unit of Albania QophA Hebrew letter QwertyThe standard typewriter configuration SheqalimPlural of Sheqel SheqelAn ancient unit of weight and money TranqA drug that tranquilizes Next, I’m consulting for two companies now. While it means that there are two gangs who I bleed of moolah, it unfortunately leaves me with absolutely NO free time whatsoever. And I’ve picked up this bad habit of carrying a laptop with me wherever I go. I feel like those marketing/support folks who treat the laptop like a body attachment. I intend to drop it soon (the habit, not the laptop). Right, and then throw in motorcycle racing practice, long-distance bicycling practice and Salsa classes (no, really!), and I’ve covered about all the excuses for not keeping up with the blog. That’s also why there haven’t been any movie reviews either; there have been NO movies lately. The backlog just keeps piling and piling and piling…. " },{ "id": "/blog/the-ethics-of-medicine", "url": "/blog/the-ethics-of-medicine/", "title": "The Ethics of Medicine", "layout": "post", "description": "Euthanasia should at least be partially legal.", "date": "2007-06-20T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1988.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Earlier this month, Dr. Jack Kevorkian, also known as Dr. Death, was released from prison after serving eight years of his ten year sentence. Kevorkian was a pathologist who was a avid and vocal supporter of the practice of euthanasia. He claimed that it was the duty of doctors to help terminally ill patients to painlessly end their lives. He invented the Kevorkian euthanasia kit, a device which injects morphine and cyanide at the push of a button. He lost his medical license when he published the details of this device, and no longer had access to the drugs required for its construction. He then constructed another device, a gas mask with a canister of carbon monoxide. He claims to have \"helped\" over 130 people to their deaths with these devices, which earned him the moniker of \"Dr. Death\". Some of these 130 were not terminally ill, but manic depressives with suicidal tendencies. He was convicted in the death of one such individual. While Kevorkian decidedly went overboard, euthanasia is still a hotly debated topic. Wouldn’t a terminally ill patient prefer a quick and painless passing as opposed to a prolonged period of suffering ? Does it make sense to sustain a vegetable on life support if they do not have any scope of recovery ? And in such cases, shouldn’t the doctor be the one who helps the patient ? The ancient greek physician Hippocrates is considered the father of modern medicine. He laid down the rules of the profession roughly around the fifth century BC. Medical doctors, even today, take a suitably modified version of this oath, called the Declaration of Geneva, on the receipt of their license. Some clauses from the Hippocratic oath read: To practice and prescribe to the best of my ability for the good of my patients, and to try to avoid harming them. Never to do deliberate harm to anyone for anyone else's interest. To keep the good of the patient as the highest priority. The relevant clauses from the updated Declaration of Geneva are: I solemnly pledge to consecrate my life to the service of humanity; The health of my patient will be my first consideration; I will maintain the utmost respect for human life; I will not use my medical knowledge to violate human rights and civil liberties, even under threat; In both cases, a doctor pledges to NOT cause deliberate harm. While the former expressly prohibits euthanasia, the latter remains sufficiently vague to allow euthanasia as a loophole. Indeed, in some countries, most notably the Netherlands, euthanasia is legal if consented to by both the doctor AND the patient. In India, it is completely illegal. Further, Indian law requires that any death, including one in a hospital, must necessarily be referred to the police who will perform an investigation. I, personally, feel that euthanasia must be made legal in certain cases. It is extremely difficult to watch a loved one suffer through the final stages, so much so that death, when it does come, seems like a relief. Good people, having lived good lives, do not deserve pain and misery to their last breaths. When the doctors can do no more, I feel they must perform that one last procedure, if consented to. This shall always remain a very controversial topic. " },{ "id": "/blog/-guilty-spark-escaped", "url": "/blog/guilty-spark-escaped/", "title": "343 Guilty Spark Escaped", "layout": "post", "description": "A Covenant, a flood, Sentinels, Banshees and Warthogs. I finally destroyed the whole Halo, but...", "date": "2007-06-27T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1989.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "2 full weeks! What with fighting the Covenant, exterminating the flood, and dealing with Sentinels, my plate has been full. Not to mention strugging to fly Banshees and drive Warthogs. I finally destroyed the whole Halo, but that sneaky, chirpy little bastard escaped! I’ve been playing this game called Halo for a fortnight now. It’s not a new one; I’ve had this game on my Mac for the better part of three years now. I never got around to playing it because I am so used to playing \"keyboard-only\" First Person Shooters. Using a combination of Mouse & keyboard for motion is a paradigm shift; a new skill. Twelve years, almost to the day, since I first played Doom. Hitherto I’d given Halo the same condescending look old dogs gave new tricks. I finally succumbed and adapted to the gameplay. I can truthfully say that I’ve never enjoyed any game quite as much as this one. I am Master Chief Petty Officer SPARTAN-117 (generally addressed as \"Master Chief\"), a cyborg super-soldier far in the future. Humans are at war with an alien race called the Covenant. The story starts off aboard a spaceship called the Pillar of Autumn, which is about to crash on a mysterios ring shaped world: the Halo. Captain Keyes entrusts me with Cortana, a female AI construct who installs herself in my body CPU, and guides me throughout the game. We’re more of a team, Cortana and I, exploring the Halo and fighting myriad enemies. The game itself has the usual linear progression, and is very elegantly designed. The story is coherent and has a flow to it. Frequent cut-sequence video clips interwoven with the game play, and the many conversations between the characters: Me, Cortana, Captain Keyes, various human soldiers etc. provide the story flow. The result is a very engrossing and entertaining player experience; I spent all my free time in the last two weeks playing. Some notes about the game play; unlike most other FPS’s, the player is allowed to carry exactly two weapons and 8 grenades. There’s a wide selection of weapons to choose from; humans use pistols, sniper rifles, shotguns, automatic rifles and rocket launchers, whereas the Covenant use needlers, plasma pistols and plasma rifles. The human weapons need to be reloaded periodically, but the Covenant weapons are use and throw; just discard them when exhausted. All this adds to the challenge, since a bit of strategy is required to pick up the correct weapon. The player can’t save games. Game saving is automatic, and defined checkpoints. The player must make it from checkpoint to checkpoint at one go; any death in between will put the player back to the start of that checkpoint. This can be quite cumbersome sometimes. Let’s say there are 8 enemies to kill between two checkpoints; Seven done, but the eighth kills you. You have to start all over again. I was planning to write the whole story down here, but what’s the fun in that ? Play the game yourself; I recommend it very strongly. Right now, I’m hooked onto another game with similar player controls: Max Payne. " },{ "id": "/blog/kopi-luwak", "url": "/blog/kopi-luwak/", "title": "Kopi Luwak", "layout": "post", "description": "Surely this ought go down as the final revenge of developing nations!", "date": "2007-07-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1990.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Surely this ought go down as the final revenge of developing nations! A bit of background first. A common essence used in natural perfumes is extracted from the glands of an animal called the Civet Cat. Though it’s called a \"cat\", the animal itself is related to the mongoose. It is generally found in Africa, southern India and south-east Asia. These are wild animals, and are generally harmless. One sub-species of the civet, called the Asian Palm civet, is commonly found on coffee plantations in Indonesia, Vietnam and nearby countries. The civet subsists of coffee fruits, which it partially digests. The beans aren’t digested at all, and are excreted. Now comes the gross part (or fun part, depending on your point-of-view). This has to be the brain-child of a marketing genius. The excreted beans are collected, cleaned, and subjected to the same processing as regular coffee beans. These beans are then are sold in coffee consuming western nations, primarily US and UK. The brand is called \"Kopi Luwak\" (civet coffee in Indonesian) and marketed as the most exclusive beverage in the world. \"Only 500 pounds are produced each year!\", goes the pitch. But the best is yet to come. The stuff is priced upwards of $600/lb. Did I mention marketing genius ? I can just see the nouveau riche at the clubs boasting about their uber-expensive morning fix. I can see the business executives standing in line at Starbucks asking for a grande kopi luwak with room for cream. All for some coffee defecated by a fetid mongoose half a world away!!! " },{ "id": "/blog/maximum-payne", "url": "/blog/maximum-payne/", "title": "Maximum Payne", "layout": "post", "description": "Painkillers, drug addicts, mobsters, occult, nightmares, nightmares, nightmares....", "date": "2007-07-15T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1991.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I’ve spent two whole weeks subsisting on painkillers and dealing with crazed drug addicts, mobsters obsessed with the occult, corrupt police officers, beautiful female assassins, and my own inner demons and recurring nightmares about my dead wife and child. I’m talking about a dark film noir, a graphic novel and third-person shooter all rolled into one: Max Payne. I play the eponymous Max Payne, the hero of the adventures as he takes on the whole city’s baddies with that odd half-smile, half-wince expression affixed on his face. The story in Max Payne starts off over three years ago. He’s a cop and family man, living the typical American dream in New York. His wife works at the DA’s office, where she comes across an extraordinary report about a secret military research. That evening, Max comes home to find his wife and infant daughter brutally murdered at the hands of junkies high on a new designer drug called Valkyr. Max goes underground for the DEA unearthing information about this drug, until his cover is blown and all ties with cops are severed. Starting with the little information on hand, he mows his way right to the top, to the rarefied atmosphere where the masterminds behind Valkyr live. The story is built up through a browseable graphic novel, panels of which are interspersed throughout the game play. Max’s voice-over both narrates the story and reads out the graphic novel. Occasional cut-sequences also build the story. Every now and then, when I kill a baddie, a slow motion camera revolves around his falling body. But what makes this game really unique is the capability of \"Bullet Time\", a la \"The Matrix\" movies. I have the ability to slow down any action sequence to bullet-time. While this means I can’t quite shoot as fast, I now have much more time to aim shots perfectly. More importantly, I have the ability to perform manoeuvres like shoot-dodging, which means I can leap through the air, in slow motion, dodging the baddies’ bullets while continuously firing my own guns. In all, a very engrossing and entertaining couple of weeks, where my world seemed dark and full of foreboding, with the futility of a honest life in a corrupt world meeting me at every street corner. Very enjoyable, ironic though that may seem. " },{ "id": "/blog/life-universe-and-the-fourth-floor", "url": "/blog/life-universe-and-the-fourth-floor/", "title": "Life, Universe and the Fourth Floor", "layout": "post", "description": "Philosophical time in an elevator", "date": "2007-08-07T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/2007.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "One of the less lauded beauties of today’s technological evolution are the multi-storied high-rise buildings. Take a moment to think about it. Level after level of offices with rooms and cubicles all containing people working to earn their daily bread. People scuttling around like ants, dwarfed by their own creation. People above people, people below people, shuttling up and down in tiny 6x6x7 ft elevators. It’s mind-boggling how many people one of these tall monstrosities pack in on an average day. I’ve worked in a fair number of these places. First there was Novell, then Intel and then there was NEC, just to mention a few. Surprisingly enough, at all of these places, I was always seated in the fourth floor. I dunno what it is with me and the fourth floor. Some odd inexplicable affinity that cannot be passed off as mere coincidence. Unfortunately, the fourth floor always falls in that odd category of being too far to walk up, and just a little too close to warrant a lift. I’ve come up with a nice balance for this… I take the lift while going up, and walk down. This morning, while I was going up, I was all alone in the lift. I was thinking about the things to do, the people to meet and the mails to send and BAM!…. the lift stopped. Somewhere between the second and third floors, all lights went off, the fan stopped, and an emergency light came on. It took a minute to wrench my train of thoughts to the situation at hand… I did a quick double take, and took a breather. The lift had stopped, and I was in it. All alone. A very bad place place for someone as claustrophobic as me to be in. I took another long breather to prevent the nausea from sinking in, and hit the alarm button. I held it down for a good 3 minutes. I banged on the walls. I jumped up and down. I screamed and yelled. Anything to take my mind away from the nasty thoughts of being interred forever from coming up. But there was no response. I was stuck, and nauseous. My cell phone had no signal, and no one noticed the noises I had made. I had nothing to do but wait for the lift to move again of its own accord. I sat on the floor, and thought. It wouldn’t be a lie if I said my life flashed before my eyes. Yes, that tends to happen to phobic people. There’s a reason why a phobia is defined as an \"irrational fear\". Sitting down helped a great deal. I sat and thought about everything. Now suddenly all my planning of the day’s tasks seemed so… frivolous. I thought about the place I was in. The lift. The building. The city. The planet and it’s microscopic insignificance in the cosmic scale. The universe. The big bang. Evolution. The Zen of existence. The missing link. How even more microscopic and insignificant I was in that lift stuck between two floors when measured on the same, cosmic scale. How the fact that my being stuck here would never matter, never affect the future of… anything. It would never go down in history, never be remarked upon, never at all. It made no difference. For the rest of the universe, it was life as usual. Just another slight immeasurable increase in entropy. And then… Poof, the lights came on, and the lift started moving down. I stood up hurriedly and took another long breath to prevent the head-rush. The lift stopped, and the doors opened. I stepped out into the stale, gloomy air of the basement. And this time, I took the stairs. " },{ "id": "/blog/grade-that", "url": "/blog/grade-that/", "title": "Grade that!", "layout": "post", "description": "A unique grading system and some rampant sexism.", "date": "2007-08-28T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/2092.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I’d caught up with some old college friends a while ago, and the reminiscences of our alternate culture and lifestyle were interesting. We had our own slang, replete with convoluted expressions which bore an extraordinary resemblance to contemporary spoken gibberish. Take, for example, our grading system. The instruction division, in its infinite wisdom, had chosen to adopt a grading system which would award a student one of five grades for each course. These grades were the first five alphabets, A thru E. The students, feeling the need for a more fine-grained grading system, came up with their own supplement, which included grades such as CT, Sack B, Fight C etc. Lets say that students who scored between 50% to 65% in a course were awarded the grade B by the institute. The students grading system worked thus: 50% to 53% was a "Fight B", meaning he had to put a fight to get the 'B' grade. 54% to 61% was a "Sack B", meaning he wasn't in danger of dropping to a lower grade, nor was he honour-bound to "fight" for an A. 62% to 65% was a "A Missed", meaning the poor chap tried to make an A, but missed. "CT" refers to the course topper, and usually just one student in an entire course got that. My own CGPA would tell the casual observer that I’d made a lifetime of \"Sack C\"’s with an occasional B or an A thrown in. And that’s not quite far from the truth. The scope of this system extended beyond grading. I remember back in 1999 (I think), a few of us fresh grads were hanging out in a sidewalk cafe and discussing the relative \"hotness\" of the women passers-by in these terms: Grad1: The one in red... I would say a B Missed. Grad2: Are you blind, man ? She's obviously a Sack B. Jeez. Grad1: Oh come on... her hair's a mess, clothes fit bad, and she could do with a few more pounds. Grad2: Oh alright. But I still think she's atleast a Fight B. " },{ "id": "/blog/and-the-pendulum-swings-on", "url": "/blog/and-the-pendulum-swings-on/", "title": "And the pendulum swings on...", "layout": "post", "description": "A little bit of racing, a lot of cycling, some reading and unopenable eyes", "date": "2007-09-26T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/2095.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "It’s been an eventful month. So much has happened that I seemed to have lived about three lives through it. Now, capping it all off, I’m down with a virulent eye infection and have been bedridden and quarantined. The last thing I ought to be doing is making blog entries. Using computers, in addition to television and books, is verboten…. strictly. Still, utter boredom has sent me scurrying to the keyboard. For starters, I participated in the inaugural MRF FMSCI Road Challenge, a motorcycle racing competition at the Kari Motor Speedway in Coimbatore a month ago. Though there were only a handful of participants in the RD350 category, I did manage a respectable third in both races. Got me name in the papers, I did! Check these links out: From the Hindu, dated 26th August and From the Hindu, dated 27th August. Look under results, RD350 category. Next, I got back from the race and promptly left for the mountains, with my bicycle in tow. I proceeded to then ride the bike from Manali to Leh, over a period of eight days. I had a fantastic time and enjoyed myself immensely. It’s a shame that I’d done both my prior trips on a motorcycle. The bicycle is certainly the best way to enjoy the mountains. I’ve got a huge number of photographs and I’ll post up a trip log soon after I’ve organised them. I must mention the excellent book I took along with me on the ride, Umberto Eco’s \"Foucault’s Pendulum\". I have rarely been as enthralled by a book. Eco’s subtle and magnificent style is unmatched, and throughout the trip, my nose was buried in its pages. It’s a book that is simultaneously about everything, and about nothing. It’s humour, mystery, occult, scientific and literary all at the same time, straddling the widest array of genres a single book possibly can. I got back a couple of weeks ago, and found the boys all heading to the race track again, this time to Sriperumbudur. I’ll be damned if I was going to miss the event, so I tagged along. The weekend turned out to be completely disastrous for all the Bangalore boys. Christy had a bad crash and broke his hand, Sanju’s bike acted up yet again, I had a relatively minor crash (sprained thumb) and Abhi’s bike practically didn’t move at all. Throw in a brief cycling trip last Sunday morning to Varathur lake in Whitefield, and that’ll bring us to now, and I’m sitting bleary eyed in bed, doing the one thing I oughtn’t be doing… staring at a laptop screen. " },{ "id": "/blog/french-foreign-legion", "url": "/blog/french-foreign-legion/", "title": "French Foreign Legion", "layout": "post", "description": "The military force that erases your identity and gives you a new one", "date": "2008-05-11T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1992.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "They are one of the most colourful and enigmatic military force in the world. Though an integral part of the French Army, they are unique in that they have no French citizens serving. Soldiers generally surrender their passports on volunteering, and assume a different identity. Even French citizens who wish to sign up are required to assume a foreign identity. This clause has often been put to use in the past. Many gentlemen for whom things became a little too warm in their home countries quietly sidled over to the Legion and disposed off their \"Wanted\" identities. The legion got a reputation as a haven for criminals of all descriptions, from political activists to rapists and murderers. This is no longer the case today, though. The Legion performs a thorough background check on all volunteers and DO NOT admit criminals, though the word on the street is that they are willing to overlook minor crimes. Despite this, they are extremely loyal to France and French interests. They have a reputation of being among the bravest fighting force in the world, and would fight till the last man was standing. There is the oft repeated story of how 67 men faced 2000 enemies in Mexico. The standoff lasted for a day, and their numbers were reduced to just 5. At this point, the five men affixed bayonets to their rifles and charged! Incredible! The legion was formed in the earlier half of the nineteenth century to protect French interests abroad. Algeria was generally considered the home of the Legion, and they were based out of there until the fall of the French colonial empire. They have fought in numerous wars across Spain, Mexico, Prussia, northern Africa and both World Wars. More recently, the Legion was active in Bosnia and the Gulf War. Their distinctive uniform comprises red-and-green epaulettes, a blue sash and the unique hat called a \"Kepi Blanc\". The cylindrical, beaked hat is to be earned, much like stripes; the enlisted man only gets to wear a beret. A kerchief is also often worn with the Kepi Blanc to prevent sunburn at the back of the neck. The Kepi Blanc-with-Kerchief is the distinguishing mark of the Legionnaire. The legionnaires have a code of honour, which must be recited at the investiture when they are awarded the Kepi Blanc. \t Legionnaire, you are a volunteer serving France with honour and fidelity. Every legionnaire is your brother-in-arms regardless of his nationality, race, or religion. You will demonstrate this by the strict solidarity which must always unite members of the same family. Respectful of traditions, devoted to your leaders, discipline and comradeship are your strengths, courage and loyalty your virtues. Proud of your status as legionnaire, you display this in your uniform which is always impeccable, your behaviour always dignified but modest, your living quarters always clean. An elite soldier, you will train rigorously, you will maintain your weapon as your most precious possession, you are constantly concerned with your physical form. A mission is sacred, you will carry it out until the end respecting laws, customs of war, international conventions and, if necessary, at the risk of your life. In combat, you will act without passion and without hate, you will respect the vanquished enemy, you will never abandon your dead or wounded, nor surrender your arms. Interesting is the last clause, which says that they must never surrender their arms. Maybe it would be prudent to do so… you do live to fight another day, get another chance to serve the legion. That aside, I have often wondered, at difficult and trying times in my life, if I should just throw it all aside and volunteer for the legion. A new life, a new start and an opportunity to not repeat the mistakes of this one. While very romnatic, it remained just a dream. A pipe dream even, since I am surely too old to volunteer now. " },{ "id": "/blog/land-of-hope-and-gloria", "url": "/blog/land-of-hope-and-gloria/", "title": "Land of hope and Gloria", "layout": "post", "description": "The British looted all wealth, and the word \"loot\", from India! - Shashi Tharoor", "date": "2008-05-11T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/1966.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "It was said that The sun never set on the British Empire. Of course, the oft-quoted rebuttal to that statement is \"Even god didn’t trust the British in the dark\". In its heyday, the British Empire spanned about a quarter of the land-mass of Earth, and about a quarter of the world population were subjects of the monarchs of the House of Windsor. Now even though that’s a pretty impressive statistic, the statement \"sun never sets\" is quite grandiose. It implies that the British Empire spanned the Earth so completely, that the time-zone difference between the biggest gaps were less than a few hours. Is that true ? First, let’s have a look at the map, shamelessly filched from Wikipedia. The legend, though not visible clearly, basically indicates colonies, dominions, colonies of dominions, puppet governments etc. Starting from the east at the International Date line, let’s traverse the map to the west. Polynesia (Samoa, Fiji, Tonga, Vanuatu, Solomon Islands). Asia Pacific (New Zealand, Papua New Guinea, Australia, Hong Kong, Shanghai) South-east Asia (Malaysia, Singapore, Thailand) South Asia (Myanmar, India, Bangladesh, Tibet, Bhutan, Nepal, Pakistan, Afghanistan) Middle East (Yemen, Oman, UAE, Iraq, Jordan, Lebanon, Israel, Palestine) Africa (Egypt, Sudan, Eritrea, Djibouti, Parts of Somalia, Kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Zambia, Malawi, Zimbabwe, South Africa, Namibia, Botswana, Nigeria, Parts of Cameroon, Togo, Ghana, Sierra Leone) Europe (England, Scotland, Ireland, Wales, Cyprus and a few Mediterranean Islands) South America (Guyana) Central America (Belize, Many of the Carribean Islands, collectively known as the West Indies) North America (Canada, Eastern and Mid-west USA, and Washington) Now, the world is divided into 360 degrees of longitude, and each degree is 4 minutes long. So to ratify the claim that the \"Sun never set\", let us calculate, approximately, the greatest longitudinal distance between two parts of the British Empire. I think we can safely skip the land masses, since the British Empire was nearly contiguous there. The biggest gap between two parts of the empire is never more than an hour in time zone, so let’s just tackle the two biggest gaps in land mass, the Atlantic Ocean and the Pacific Ocean. The Atlantic is easy. Canada stretches from approximately 50W to 140W, which means that that Canada is only 50 degrees away from Greenwich. Closer to the Equator, Sierra Leone is at 13 degrees west, and Guyana at 59 degrees. That’s only 46 degrees, so the Atlantic is pretty much covered. The western-most part of the British empire is again Canada, clocking in a 140 degrees west. The eastern-most part would be some of the polynesian islands, but let’s just account for New Zealand, which is 174 degrees east of the Greewich meridian. Distance in degrees from Canada: again, 46. Conclusion: There were never two parts of the British empire which were more than THREE hours apart. The sun, indeed, never set on the British Empire. It reminds me of a song by the band \"The Kinks\", called Victoria: Let her sun never set Victoria, victoria, victoria, toria Land of hope and gloria Land of my victoria Land of hope and gloria Land of my victoria Victoria, toria   " },{ "id": "/blog/a-little-less-rubber", "url": "/blog/a-little-less-rubber/", "title": "A little less rubber", "layout": "post", "description": "Living on the wild side... with a puncture.", "date": "2008-05-26T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/2191.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I got my first ever puncture on a tubeless tyre last week. Technically, I just discovered it last week; the aberrant nail embedded itself uninvited in my tyre about 3 months back. I got these tubeless tyres about 3 years ago. I was unhappy with the OEM tyres, Bridgestone Dueler H/T. Their grip left a lot to be desired, especially when the tread had worn down a bit. Plus, the tyre wall on those were rather… weak, and were quite prone to punctures. A puncture on the Bolero, like on the Bullet, invariably means that you have to replace the tube, because you can be sure the neck will snap almost immediately. When the Bridgestone tyres had done a little over 50k, I switched to the tubeless Yokohama Geolander A/T plus II tyres on my car. Size 235/75R15. They were rather more expensive than the Bridgestones, but I’d read very good reviews of Yokohama on the ‘net, so I decided to give it a shot. That was forty thousand kilometres ago. Now, the Yokohamas themselves are pretty worn, and show just marginal deterioration in grip. And until last week, I’d never had a puncture. A few months back, I’d noticed one of the rear wheels tended to have low pressure. I’d inflate it to 30psi, and in a couple of weeks it would drop to about 17psi. I kept re-inflating this once every fortnight or so, until last week I decided to get it checked. After some tomfoolery with a mug of water, the puncture guy located a nail deeply wedged into the tyre. Air was just barely trickling out from beside the nail. After some more tomfoolery with nose-pliers and scissors, he extracted the nail. The tyre deflated almost immediately when he did that. He first set about making the hole a little bigger. Mind you, given the nail itself was about 3mm in dia, it was already quite a biggie. He then stuck some of that gooey brown stuff on a skewer and stuffed it into the hole. And that was it. Re-inflate and bob’s your uncle. This process took about 15 mins, tops. And that includes removing the wheel and fitting it back. I have to tell ya, switching to tubeless was an excellent move. I can barely believe that I ‘ve driven around for months with that nail in the tyre. That includes 3 long trips! " },{ "id": "/blog/to-bee-an-onion", "url": "/blog/to-bee-an-onion/", "title": "To Bee an Onion", "layout": "post", "description": "Say stung tongue... 5 times, fast.", "date": "2008-12-13T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/2193.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I got stung by a bee in a rather delicate place. Oh no, it’s not what you think, not that delicate place. This is the other one… maybe it would be better if I told you the full story. It all started, harmlessly enough, with lunch. It was a rather substantial lunch, involving about the same amount of food as the annual domestic product of Portugal. So after lunch, these guys want to wash it down with fruit juice. Now this juice guy really loves his work… he puts a little bit of himself into every drink he makes. All too literally, and that, my friend is the problem. He FINGERS everything. The fruits, the ice, the water, the sugar, the glasses, you name it. All handled by him, physically, using his fingers. I positively refused to drink any juice made by him, but the others laughed off my petty peeves. He’s old school, they said. We’ve grown up on stuff like this, they said. We Indians are immune to this, they said. Old school, my arse. He is old, all right. He is so old that he’s actually dead. He just hasn’t realised it yet. And like most dead people, hygiene isn’t really a burning issue for him.  But with lunch weighing down heavily upon me, and the sun competing with a furnace, I experienced what is medically termed \"a weak moment\". I succumbed. I ordered a buttermilk. How badly can he screw up an innocuous drink like that ? So he goes to the fridge and takes out a packet of curd, and a bowl of some chopped vegetables. He picks up some bits from the bowl at random, with his fingers, and adds it to the vessel. He then wipes his brow, and adds some more bits. He then proceeds to open the packet with his fingers, and adds it to the vessel too. He then adds a glass of water, and some ice, which again, he picks up with his fingers. He adds all of this to his mixer, and lets it go for about 10 seconds. He then adds some salt, and no prizes for guessing how he did that. He then lifts the jug, and pours it into a glass, and hands it to me, with the air of a bartender who’s just juggled a bottle around for five minutes without spilling a drop. The glass has something black floating on the top.  Raghu counters with \"That’s just the onions\". Famous last words, as it turned out. A space traveller once said that jumping through hyperspace was unpleasantly like being drunk. When asked what was unpleasant about being drunk, he said \"Ask a glass of water\". This glass of buttermilk, and more specifically the floating \"black something\", also known as Raghu’s onions, definitely didn’t like jumping through hyperspace. I got stung on the tongue, and that is what I’m gonna name my rock band, if I ever start one. While I’m like yelling and screaming, Raghu says, \"Go on, it can’t taste all as bad as that.\" As it turns out, the sting wasn’t too bad. It hurt real bad for a day after that, and I was lisping for about three days till the swelling came down. But I surely will have my revenge on Raghu’s onions. " },{ "id": "/blog/have-you-eaten", "url": "/blog/have-you-eaten/", "title": "Have you eaten ?", "layout": "post", "description": "In the western world, friends are greeted in a distant, and somewhat cold fashion.", "date": "2008-12-14T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/2195.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "In the western world, friends are greeted in a distant, and somewhat cold fashion. If you think about it for a second, the usual greeting is \"how are you\", \"how do you do\" or some variation thereof. And irrespective of the truth, the standard answer must be \"fine\" or some variation thereof. It would be quite unacceptable to answer with a \"not good. I’ve got this crick in my back and a shooting pain along my right thigh blah blah\". I mean, can you get more impersonal ? What is worst, it’s a terrible conversation opener. \"How are you ?\" \"Fine, and you ?\" \"Oh, Fine\". Then what next ? What’s there to talk about ? It’s at this point that people switch to some really inane topic like the weather, or worse. Ugh. Which is why I really like the south Indian greeting… \"Oota aaithaa ?\", \"Chaaputaacha ?\", \"Aahaaram kazhichuo ?\". This is much more personal, positive and negative answers are equally acceptable and above all, it’s a fantastic opener for further conversation, because all one has to do is build on the response. I am planning to use this in all conversations henceforth. So don’t be surprised if I run into you sometime in life and say: "Hi... have you eaten?"   " },{ "id": "/blog/now-thats-dire", "url": "/blog/now-thats-dire/", "title": "Now, that's Dire!", "layout": "post", "description": "Knopfler vs Ranikhet... a rant", "date": "2008-12-14T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/2196.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Recently I listened to this song where the guy sang… o.k., well, he didn’t actually sing as much as he read the lyrics, if it can be called \"lyrics\" at all. Here’s how it went: getting crazy on the waltzers but it's the life that i choose sing about the six-blade sing about the switchback and a torture tattoo and i been riding on a ghost train where the cars they scream and slam and i don't know where i'll be tonight but i'd always tell you where i am It doesn’t end there, though. He \"talks\" on for about four more verses, where he takes a short break for a guitar solo, and then he comes back with a vengeance to \"say\" the finale. Now, I’ve had people rave to me about how deep and philosophical these lyrics are supposed to be, so I spent a considerable amount of time to decipher them. After hours of pondering over the lyrics, I concluded that there was only one possibility. He is singing about the switchback. It’s so simple, and he actually says it too: \"Sing about the switchback\". Now it makes perfect \"sense\", if you happen to know what the switchback is. And this guy makes his living by writing and \"singing\" his songs. Maybe that’s why he called his band Dire Straits. Don’t get me wrong, though. There are plenty of people who are crazy about his music, and he’s probably a millionaire many times over. There’s this colleague of mine, a guy called Shyam, who swears by Dire Straits. Shyam eloped with his laptop a few of weeks ago. Last I heard he was holed up in Ranikhet, and he’s taken his wife along too, for good measure. So you know the general mental state of Dire Straits fans. Ranikhet is a small town just a few km west of absolutely nowhere. It is the exact opposite of Bangalore, geographically and in many other ways. It’s not even in the same time zone as Bangalore. Bangalore follows the Indian Standard Time, and Ranikhet is in about 1922. When I say it’s small, I mean it’s really small. There is just one shop in Ranikhet. It’s called \"the switchback\".  No seriously, it doesn’t really have a name, it’s just known to the locals as \"Sethji ka dukaan\". It is the most happening place socially, and you can hang out there discussing the weather over cups of chaai with the \"in\" crowd of Ranikhet. Because, in Ranikhet, the weather is the most important topic. Other topics are mostly spin-offs from the weather. Most conversations go on like this: A: Nice weather we're having. Hope it doesn't rain like last year. B: Last year we had the elections this time. We had a nice party after the results came out. A: I had to be carried home from that party. But the weather had cleared up by then. B: Nice weather we're having.... The shop doesn’t sell anything except switchbacks, but since no one really knows what they are, the shop doesn’t do much business. Buying something more mundane like groceries in Ranikhet involves a complex procedure which, for future reference, you may wish to write down: 1. Get into the car. 2. Drive to Delhi. No wait, I’m thinking about getting out of town (Aren’t we all, mate ?). Groceries cannot be bought in Ranikhet. They have to be grown, and that is an impossible task unless you are a farmer. Then again, if you aren’t a farmer, you have no business being in Ranikhet in the first place. To be fair, Ranikhet isn’t entirely bad. They never had any Y2K problems, for one. They also do not have any twin towers for Osama to target. What we should do is have a Dire Straits concert live in Ranikhet. " },{ "id": "/blog/the-ploy-of-giving", "url": "/blog/the-ploy-of-giving/", "title": "The Ploy of Giving", "layout": "post", "description": "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentis
(I fear the greeks, even when they bring gifts.)
- Virgil, \"Aeneid\" ii. 48", "date": "2008-12-14T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/2194.jpg", "tags": "", "content": " "timeo Danaos et dona ferentis" (I fear the greeks, even when they bring gifts.)             - Virgil, "Aeneid" ii. 48 What would one term as an \"ideal\" gift ? And how does one find the appropriate gift for a given occasion ? Having done considerable research on the subject of gifts, I’ve realised that there are three approaches one can take in such situations; the traditional, the romantic, and the practical. Traditional gifts are downright horrendous. A few years back there was this huge family gala affair, my grandparents hit 80. It’s called a Sadabhishekam for reasons beyond the scope of this effort (a convenient escape I adopt when the actual reason is \"I don’t know\"). I went with my mother to shop for a gift. My mother wanted to get them a pair of brass oil lamps. Oh, you can’t have missed these. Vegetable oil, smoldering cotton wick, abysmally dim light, nasty smell. We’ve seen them in all shapes and sizes just about anywhere. I suggested that she get them a gas lamp instead. Self igniting, brilliant light, 80 hours on a single cylinder which can be replaced at any corner hardware store, doubles up as a good gas stove, it can’t get better than this. Especially considering the number of power-cuts one has in Madras. After hours of arguing, my mother held out. And for their Sadabhisekam my grandparents got, from different people, 7 silver and brass lamp sets in sizes ranging from 6 inches to 3 feet, all of which are neatly packed in water-proof packing and stored in the attic in my grandparents house. Gold necklaces, diamond earrings and other assorted jewelry also fall in the \"traditional\" section. They chiefly differ from lamps in that lamps reach the attic, whereas these, being a few rungs higher on the fiscal ladder, reach a bank vault. To sum up, traditional gifts cost a lot and do nothing. Or even if they do something, they do it very badly. The romantic category is a tricky one. All I know is that it has a lot of cute useless things which have little or no value. I have this vague idea that stuffed toys, perfume and roses come in this category. If only I knew more about this… Finally, the practical section. Very simple, straightforward, rules apply here. The concept is fundamentally biblical. \"Do onto others as you would others to you\". Decide on your budget, and go get what you would like, wrap it up and gift it. This is a clean principle, and usually works quite well for friends. Mind you, this is not guaranteed to work with friends of the other sex, so watch your step. I cannot extrapolate on that, since I don’t know much about the \"other sex\" either. It doesn’t matter which way you go, but always remember to wrap your gift well.  The wrapping should never betray the nature of the contents.  That will spare the recipients from having to conceal their feelings of dismay with looks of gratitude. " },{ "id": "/blog/what-is-humour", "url": "/blog/what-is-humour/", "title": "What is Humour ?", "layout": "post", "description": "No laughing matter.", "date": "2008-12-14T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/2197.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Contrary to popular opinion, humour is no laughing matter. There has been plenty of research on the subject of what comprises humour. The psychology of humour has been puzzling scientists for aeons now.   Q: What do you call a boomerang that doesn't come back ? A: A stick. It’s quite probable that the last one drew some reaction from you, either a grin or a groan. At what point did you realise that it was a joke ? What did you need to know that it was a joke ? And most importantly, what is amusing about it ? Sometimes it’s some incongruity, some departure from standard thinking. At other times, it’s a standard situation viewed from a different perspective. But this is just the tip if the iceberg. There are many aspects to defining what humour is. Humour is classified into many types. The most common is slapstick. This is a predominantly \"visual\" form of humour. Circus clowns thrive on it. The most classic examples for slapstick humour can be found in visual media… plays, cartoons and movies. Even today, the best known examples are Charlie Chaplin movies and Tom & Jerry. It’s very difficult to do slapstick in prose, and very few writers can actually manage it. Situation comedy, or sitcom for short, is another common form. It’s humour that pertains to a specific situation or chain of circumstances.  The very nature of this type of humour makes it tedious to quote an example. A situation has to be built first, to exploit this form. Television today thrives on this form of humour. The most common type of TV sitcom today can be described as \"Six attractive young people hang out together.\" Variations to the theme include \"Five attractive…\" and \"Four attractive…\". As of last count, there are 4 sixes, 2 fives and 3 fours on TV today. You average \"racial-type\" jokes come under this category. Blonde jokes, Irish Jokes, Sardar, Polish, Newfie jokes all have a situation, the situation being that they are dumb. Probably the best suited for one-liners is the pun. Someone once said \"The pun is the lowest form of humour if you don’t think of it first\". I couldn’t have put it better myself. Puns usually elicit a groan, not a grin. Q: What do you call half a dozen Sardars with influenza ? A: Six sick Sikhs. (sic) How did this one affect you ? Bitter comedy is the least \"humorous\" of all types of jokes. They are paradoxical, because though they are amusing, they will never amuse you. It is not possible to laugh at one of these jokes. Q: How do you get 33 Ethiopians into a Maruti car ? A: Throw a piece of bread in. Funny… or was it ? Satire is another important form. A faux-pas, or a bad habit, or generally someone or something that’s disliked is ridiculed. Maybe it’s the engineer in me (or even the mathematician ;-) that’s trying to rationalise humour, and draw out some formulas for it. But it’s like Heisenberg’s Uncertainty principle. I dare not poke further into the psychology of humour, or I will lose it forever. " },{ "id": "/blog/mans-best-dogma", "url": "/blog/mans-best-dogma/", "title": "Man's best dogma", "layout": "post", "description": "A dog. Four-legged pet. Faithful. Obedient. Man's best friend.  Everybody likes dogs. Right?", "date": "2008-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/2198.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "A dog. Four-legged pet. Faithful. Obedient. Man’s best friend. Everybody likes dogs. Right? WRONG ! I am no Jack London or James Herriot writing about noble beasts. I hate dogs. Dogs are loathsome, odoriferous, noisy, mercenary gluttons who might obey you so long as they are sure of a culinary benefit in the offing. Definitely one of God’s more despicable creations. “Get away from her, you bitch !” – Sigourney Weaver as Ellen Ripley in “Aliens” Pick a culture, pick a language. The equivalent of “Dog” is always also a curse word. The ancients who formulated our languages knew what vile creatures dogs were. They knew dogs are not meant to be pets. Take the Bible, for example. There are very few references to dogs as pets. But there are numerous references to dogs as unclean, carnivorous, blood-thirsty, dangerous and destructive creatures. The only dog I remember in Hindu mythology is somewhere near the end of the Mahabharata. There’s this cur which follows Yudhishtira to heaven and then turns out to be his father or something. Weird ! Anyway, we’re digressing. The point I am trying to make is that dogs should not be pets. They are barely tame, carnivorous, beasts who should be in zoo cages alongside leopards and rhinos. Not lazing on front porches. But my life didn’t quite turn out that way. I live in a suburb of a city where every other house has a dog, and often more than one. In my earliest recollections, running errands for my mother always involved the challenge of charting a route to my destination such that my encounters with vicious mutts were kept to a minimum. It used to make even an uninteresting job, such as posting a letter, so much more fun. “There’s a fierce rivalry, nay, a cold war between the two most widely read newspapers in New York – The Times and The Post. On one occasion, The Post called The Times a ‘Yellow Dog’. The next issue of The Times carried a small rebuttal on the corner of the front page – ‘In reference to The Post honouring us with an undeserved title, we would like to say that we will treat them as any Dog would treat any Post.’” Just as I was about to enter my teens, I lost a major battle in my war against the canine breed. My kid brother, using fierce tantrums and wild arguments to defeat my feeble protests, managed to convince my parents to get a dog. My parents, even my severely orthodox, obsessed with hygiene, South-Indian Brahmin parents, relented. Horror of horrors. The enemy now had a foothold inside my last line of defence… “Home Sweet Home”. With great difficulty I survived the next few years until it was time to go away to college. Ah, college. Far away from home and Caninus Domesticum. Although the campus had its share of mangy mongrels, those gentle beasts were fairly easy to get along with. They had seen generations of students with furrowed brows. They kept to themselves, never showing undue interest in anyone without a packet of biscuits. DOG, n.: A kind of additional or subsidiary Deity designed to catch the overflow and surplus of the world’s worship. This Divine Being in some of his smaller and silkier incarnations takes, in the affection of Woman, the place to which there is no human male aspirant. – Ambrose Bierce, “The Devil’s Dictionary” In the meantime, the number of dogs at home kept waxing and waning, and my college life was dotted with letters and photographs to that effect. I found these to be something to a conversation piece with women, who are fascinated with the four-legged creatures. Here I am, a fully-grown male of their species, and they are more interested in the pups at home. Well, at least the creatures infesting the homestead had some use. Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men; As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs and demi-wolves, are clept All by the name of dogs: – Shakespeare “Macbeth”, 3 (i) When I passed out and came back home, it was like returning to Old McDonald’s Dog Farm. “Here a Dog, there a Dog, everywhere a Dog Dog”. I had but to hold up a biscuit and whistle, and I felt like the pied piper of Hamlin. Old dogs, young dogs, big dogs, small dogs, white dogs, brown dogs, hairy dogs, short-tailed dogs, wagging dogs, they all came bounding up to me. “Yes, Lord,” she said, “but even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.” – Matthew 15:27 Today, the rate of food consumption in my house is huge. Each day, the dogs eat 2 loaves of bread, 2 litres of milk, 1 kg of raagi and 2 kg’s of rice. I’m just talking of the dogs’ food consumption here. “Dogs eat crumbs” ? That’s a laugh. To sum up, I’ve had plenty of exposure to those canine fiends. Dogs are NOT all that they are made up to be. All those flowery adjectives you find in those James Herriot books are just myths… old wives’ tales. I am not making this up. Here’s the truth, the gory truth. Myth 1: Dogs are faithful. The truth is, dogs are practical. They have a streak of realism in them. They stick by the master, ‘cause they know that’s where their next meal is coming from. Myth 2: Dogs are obedient. Like hell they are. They are mercenary. They are obedient only if there’s something in it for them… something edible. Myth 3: If properly trained, dogs are well mannered. All my dogs are properly trained. That doesn’t stop them from raising a ruckus on the slightest pretext. 5 minutes of peace IS too much to ask for. Myth 4: Dogs are love… There they go again, barking their fool heads off to glory. What is it this time .. ? Hey… What the… Hey, get away from my car. I’m calling the cops. Go get him, Heidi. Er… let me get back to you later. " },{ "id": "/blog/oh-for-a-greeting", "url": "/blog/oh-for-a-greeting/", "title": "Oh for a greeting!", "layout": "post", "description": "Hello.", "date": "2008-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/2199.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Hello. Just \"Hello\". Just plain vanilla, run-of-the-mill \"Hello\". I mean, can a greeting be more innocuous? It’s not flighty, like a \"Hola\", nor is it frivolous, like a \"Hey\", nor is it excessively familiar, like a \"Hi\".   A proper stiff-necked greeting if ever there was one.  And sadly enough, I was censured by my colleagues for using it as the opening line in an official e-mail to a customer.   What is this world coming to? Ok, I know that there is something called propriety, etiquette, and a standard template for all this bureaucratic communication.   But can’t one just put in a simple \"Hello\", just to be nice? It seems border-line rude to start off with \"Attached are the reports for blah blah…\"  I protest against this. I will be nice. It’s my style, my flair. My way of doing things. I will start official e-mails with a \"Hello\".   And these oaths of mine are purely academic, since I will also never be allowed to send an official e-mail henceforth. " },{ "id": "/blog/lucky-luke", "url": "/blog/lucky-luke/", "title": "Lucky Luke", "layout": "post", "description": "Vintage Goscinny", "date": "2009-01-14T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/2200.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "A very rare comic series. These were written originally in French, by Rene Goscinny (of Asterix fame) and pencilled by Morris. Of course, they were translated into a couple of dozen languages, which was how I got to read them in English. Goscinny really shone here, and came up with some magnificent stuff. The plots are well thought out (mostly) and character build-up is done magnificently. The basic theme is simple. Lucky Luke, a skinny wise-cracking cowboy is the fastest gun in the west.  With his faithful (and very intelligent) horse Jolly Jumper, he is the friendly neighbourhood do-rightly of the land. Like in Asterix, much of the humour stems from the fact that the his adversaries, such as they are, aren’t too bright. There are few allusions to contemporary life, but many of the people, places and events are historic rather than fictional. At the end of every book is a page which gives the history of the real people, places and events on which the story was based. It’s been a really long time since I read Lucky Luke, but here’s a brief outline of the ones I remember. Dalton City The build-up to the main plot is very well done in this one. Fenton is a big-time crook who runs his own town populated exclusively by low-lives. Lucky Luke takes over as sheriff of Fenton City, and ships the entire populace to the state penitentiary, leaving it a ghost town Now enter hardened-criminal Joe Dalton, who is breaking rocks in prison alongside his 3 brothers, Fenton and a sweet old fogie called Joe Milton. Milton gets a governor's pardon, but the half-witted telegraph kid gets the spelling wrong, and Dalton is released instead. Dalton wastes no time in getting his brothers out, and decides to rebuild "Dalton City". The rest of the story is about how Lucky gets the Daltons (and a whole lot of others) back to jail. Stagecoach Oh, this one is awesome. A Wells-Fargo stagecoach from Dallas to San Francisco is carrying an old prospector's entire haul of gold. Everybody and their pet dog are set to rob the coach, and Lucky is employed by Wells-Fargo bank to ride along for protection. An intricately carved story about hilarious wannabe highway robbers how the trip touches the lives of everybody who's in for the ride. The Tenderfoot My personal favourite. Goscinny goes all out to rip the British apart in this one. The main plot, as usual, is very well thought out. A local ranch owner dies, leaving his entire property to his grand-nephew, an English gentleman, and asks Lucky Luke to see that he gets it. The top-hatted club-man arrives, all stiff upper lip, with a valet in tow. The baddies, also after the ranch, are all set to give the "tenderfoot" a tough time. Jesse James This story features historical characters, namely Jesse James, his Shakespearean scholar brother Frank James and half-witted cousin Cole Younger. The three take on Lucky Luke, and no prizes for guessing who comes out on top. The Pinkerton detective agency make an appearance too, as a bunch of inept jokers. The Dashing White Cowboy This story runs a bit like a detective novel. A group of stage actors tour the country putting up shows in the town saloons. Coincidentally, the town banks always get robbed during the show, so Lucky Luke tours with them to investigate this string of coincidences. Apache Canyon Union soldiers and Apache Indians are still fighting in this one, and Lucky Luke steps in to make the peace. Recently, a certain \"Tara Press\" has started re-printing these classics. From the inner cover: Tara Press is a trade imprint of India Research Press of Flat-6, Khan Market, New Delhi - 110 003. www.indiaresearchpress.com I managed to get the following titles. They cost about 200 bucks apiece. I could not find any others in print. The Tenderfoot The Dashing White Cowboy Jesse James Ma Dalton Western Circus If anybody does find any other titles, especially \"The Stagecoach\", please do let me know. " },{ "id": "/blog/horror-movies", "url": "/blog/horror-movies/", "title": "Horror Movies", "layout": "post", "description": "Ahhrrrr!", "date": "2009-01-31T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/3001.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Ms. Shilly Ash hates horror movies! All of them, from the classics (nightmare on elm street) through the campy (wrong turn) right up to the new-age slasher (saw). How does one quantize the entertainment value of gobs of red stuff, screams, and monsters with face-masks? How can I put a price on the exhilarating thrill combined with feelings of revulsion that arise in the viewer? And how, oh dear God, how do I imbibe in somebody a love of the bizzare, occult and gruesome ? OK, so we don’t watch as many movies any more, and have a huge backlog of titles in the TBD list, but I do wish we didn’t have an entire genre taboo! " },{ "id": "/blog/hindi-movies", "url": "/blog/hindi-movies/", "title": "Hindi Movies", "layout": "post", "description": "Running around trees, singing songs", "date": "2009-02-05T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/3002.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Mr. Shilly Ash is a snob… well, at least when it comes to hindi movies! It so happened that in his younger days, Mr. Shillyash used to watch hindi movies right, left, and centre without any discretion as to what to watch. As a result, he ended up watching some, ahem, ‘interesting’ movies because of which he vowed never to see hindi movies again. Then, he met me and realized that I am a big fan. (The difference of course, is that I use some discretion!). In the course of our relationship, he sat through all the movies that I recommended as must-watch, but the paradigm still exists. How does one fight this paradigm? How does one explain that beyond the apparent idiocy, there exists a world that is intelligent, sensitive, thought-provoking, and sometimes… just entertaining. Dear God, how do I highlight the unfairness of the paradigm that after watching an unbearable English movie which might have been recommended by ‘credible’ sources makes him say “this is just like a Hindi movie”. " },{ "id": "/blog/tinted-visor-vs-trigonometry", "url": "/blog/tinted-visor-vs-trigonometry/", "title": "Tinted Visor vs. Trigonometry", "layout": "post", "description": "When Wolfram Alpha, Google and Wikipedia all came through... to prove me wrong.", "date": "2009-06-03T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/2201.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I suppose after the initial hype, everybody just relegated \"Wolfram Alpha\" to a cute toy, and not by any stretch a \"replacement for google\" as it was touted. Today, I had a chance to put Wolfram Alpha to good use. And it worked beautifully. On the way to work today, the sun just seemed too bright. I barely open my eyes, even with my mildly tinted visor. It didn’t seem as bright yesterday, but today was really harsh. It got me thinking about the sun’s declination. On the 21st of June, summer solstice, the declination of the sun at the tropic of cancer (approximately Calcutta) is zero degrees. So maybe today, May 28th, maybe the declination in Bangalore is zero. I wanted to verify this hypothesis. First Google yielded very little information. Even Wikipedia was of little help. I got some information on the terminology (the words declination, solstice) and some numbers (tropic of cancer is 23.44° N, Bangalore is 12.97° N) I turned to Wolfram Alpha. I tried combination of words like sun, solstice, equator, declination. It threw about a few numbers, but for the most part, it said \"I dunno how to process your input\". Ok, fine. Since everybody was being so uninformative, I decided to use a little bit of high-school trigonometry and find out the answer myself. First, let’s analyze what I already knew. I knew that the point at which the sun's declination is zero follows a sinusoidal waveform, with the peaks at the tropics and the centre at the equator. I knew that the peak was at summer solstice, which is Jun 21st. And of course, I knew a year is 365.25 days long, and Bangalore & Calcutta latitudes. Back to Wolfram. 12.97 / 23.44 = 0.5533 Bangalore is 0.5533 of the angular distance from the equator to the tropic. Arc Cosine of that = 56.40 degress It was also 0.98 radians, but I decided to use degrees in my calculations. (56.40 / 360) * 365.25 = 57.23 days So basically Bangalore is zero declination 57.23 days before and after the summer solstice. 57 days before Jun 21st = April 25th 57 days after Jun 21st = August 17th. So there we are. The sun is closest to Bangalore on those two days, April 25th and August 17th. Today is neither of those days, and the sun just happened to seem bright to me today. But it does feel good to have \"proved\" it. " },{ "id": "/blog/mr-shilly-ash-to-the-rescue", "url": "/blog/mr-shilly-ash-to-the-rescue/", "title": "Mr. Shilly Ash to the rescue!", "layout": "post", "description": "Monkey Business in the Urban Jungle", "date": "2009-10-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/3004.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "5.30pm on a Sunday evening, Mr. and Ms. Shilly Ash stepped out of the house. What was supposed to be a mundane grocery buying trip, turned out to be quite an adventure for as soon as they left the building, they realized that they’d locked themselves out. Now normally Mr. Shilly Ash is very careful, to the point of being paranoid (for which he is also scorned at by Ms. Shilly Ash), of not locking the door till the key is in his hand. Guess that day was just an error of judgement. Being locked out with all the spare keys located safely inside the house posed quite a predicament. They approached various avenues for help, none of which yielded any result. That’s when Mr. Shilly Ash had a brainwave. He would climb into the balcony of the house (luckily the window had been left open) from the balcony above and then enter the house. Dangerous as it sounded, Ms. Shilly Ash agreed there was no other choice. So they made their way to the house, and balcony, above. They surveyed the area and saw different things - he saw an easy jump, she saw a free fall. With great trepidation, she watched the mister lower himself. He somehow managed to find the right holds. She waited with bated breath, not letting the agony show when he disappeared from her vision, till the time his voice announced a safe landing. While Mr. Shilly Ash got inside the house using the open window, she ran to give him a hero’s welcome. He was her hero! who had saved the day and how! Planning the myriad different ways in which she would greet him, she saw the mister wearing a sheepish smile. The key was hanging on the door…. outside! " },{ "id": "/blog/straight-hair-at-the-beach", "url": "/blog/straight-hair-at-the-beach/", "title": "Straight hair... at the beach ?", "layout": "post", "description": "Running around trees, singing songs", "date": "2009-10-05T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/3003.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "It’s 11 at night, and we have to be up in less than 5 hours to catch a flight. We’re off to the beach! We’re off to Goa for an all too brief, four day vacation. We had no plans, no agenda. Just laze, eat, and soak up the sun. Bookings have been made, swimsuits and sunscreen have been packed, cab has been called for, and we’re all set. Well, except for Ms. Shilly-ash, who chooses just that moment to… (hold breath)… straighten her hair. She spends nearly half of the 5 hours of sleep we’ve afforded ourselves, laboriously ironing her locks. Alright, I’ll let that pass. She does want to look her best for the beach, an acceptable wish. But of course, in less than twelve hours, at 10:15 AM to be precise, we are playing in the water off Baga beach. And the salt water has reduced her diligently directed coiffure to a knotty mane. Was it worth literally losing sleep over, I ask. “Well, at least it looked great on the flight.”, she says. I’m speechless. " },{ "id": "/blog/im-feeling-sikh", "url": "/blog/im-feeling-sikh/", "title": "I'm feeling Sikh", "layout": "post", "description": "Jo Bole So Nihaal... Curd Rice", "date": "2009-12-08T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/2202.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "We’ve all done some bizarre things in the past, some laughable, and others embarrasing and best forgotten. A laughable one came back and stared me in the face recently, and I can’t believe I’d forgotten this. Like every savvy internet user, I have a e-mail ID that I provide whenever some site asks for one. An ID where I receive all the myriad newsletters, announcements, and other random ignorable e-mails. Anyway, the other day I logged into the bit-bucket account waiting for a \"click here to activate your account\" mail, and I came across a whole bunch of mails from a site called \"SPN\". Now I was curious. I don’t recollect subscribing to any such list. I open one mail at random, and I kid you not; this is how it starts. "Sat Sri Akal semidog ji. Waheguru Ji Ka Khalsa, Waheguru Ji Ki Fateh!!" A very Sat Sri Akal to you too, and Waheguru and all that, but exactly what is this very cryptic SPN ? The mail itself did not reveal much; it wished me and my family all the best for Gurupurab. But right there, nestled at the bottom of the mail was a link leading to this site: Sikh Philosophy Network Now, I’d have passed this off as a prank or something, except the mail addressed me by the standard nickname (\"semidog\") that I use in all forums. It could still be a prank, so I tried to log into the site, with my \"standard\" password. Accepted. I had a profile on the site! Member since 2nd November 2004, with my date of birth and all. Home address, private messages, the works. Now on the 2nd of November 2004, if I recall correctly, I was in Japan for a 3 week business trip. That was quite a harrowing trip; the airline lost my luggage, I was attending business meetings wearing socks and floaters, and food (or the lack of it) was quite an issue. That said, I still can’t imagine why Sikh Philosophy might have suggested itself to me. I may have been looking for the answers to life, the universe and everything, or I may have been looking for Tandoori chicken recipes. But do not be surprised if, when you next see me, I’m wearing a turban and break out into Bhangra. Tunak tunak, tunak tunak, tunak tunak bolo ta ra ra ra. " },{ "id": "/blog/thats-some-crunchy-paneer", "url": "/blog/thats-some-crunchy-paneer/", "title": "That's some crunchy paneer!", "layout": "post", "description": "If they don't have bread, let them eat Paneer", "date": "2010-02-26T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/3005.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Ms. ShillyAsh has a propensity to break things. Now, in itself, that’s not a bad thing. Lots of folk are clumsy, and it would hardly do to hold it against them. Sometimes even the most athletic ones cannot handle Bone China. I’m sure there are NSG commandos who’ve broken their share of glassware. That said, it would be prudent to lock up the crystal cupboard in her vicinity. Anyway, it isn’t her propensity to break things that’s under the scope here, but her efforts at making amends after. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Ms. ShillyAsh also has a predilection for Paneer-based dishes. Again, in itself, that is hardly note-worthy. Plenty of people love paneer. It is a very popular ingredient in many Indian curries. Now, Ms. ShillyAsh had made a big bowlful of Shahi Paneer for dinner, and put the leftover in the fridge. The next day, she takes the heavy glass bowl out of the fridge, and sticks it in the microwave. A few seconds later, a very distinct “CRACK!” is heard from the microwave.She rushes, but it’s too late. The bowl has broken, and the top half of the bowl comes away as a ring. Quite a clean break. Would it had not been so clean! Ms. ShillyAsh declares the paneer perfectly edible. “Hey, it was a clean break, right ?” “How can there be splinters of glass ?” “I am definitely not going to throw away perfectly good Paneer just because…” “I won’t hear of it”. “Admit it, you just didn’t like the Paneer in the first place.” It took the combined efforts of me, her father, her mother, an entire regiment of the NSG and three rogue elephants to pry the Paneer away from her. I emptied the remnants of the bowl, paneer and all in a large plastic bag and quickly threw it into the dumpster, while listening to her mutter about “waste of good food” and “starving Ethiopians”. She rues the lost Paneer to this day. Oh, and I may have overstated the role of the elephants and the NSG. " },{ "id": "/blog/bumper-i-hardly-know-her", "url": "/blog/bumper-i-hardly-know-her/", "title": "Bumper? I hardly know her!", "layout": "post", "description": "Crash! Boom! Bang!, as Roxette would say", "date": "2010-03-16T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/3007.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "It was with some trepidation I first handed over my car keys to Ms. Shilly Ash. All told, she did learn to drive in Delhi. A Delhi driver in a Bolero can best be likened to a medieval battering ram. The kinds that William Wallace used to bring down the gates of York. I needn’t have feared, though. Contrary to all stereotypes involving women and Delhi, Ms. Shilly Ash is an excellent driver. All control and concentration, smooth handling and safe speeds. Anyway, in an unrelated incident, a luggage auto had nearly ripped the front bumper off the Bolero, when the Bolero was parked no less. Insurance grudgingly paid for a new bumper, and we were car-less till the mechanic got the vehicle ready. On D-Day, the missus and I headed to the mechanic’s on a bike. She drove the car back, spanky new bumper and all. Being relatively new to Bangalore, she was still unfamiliar with the route, so I went ahead and she followed me. A little too closely. At a signal, I gently ease the bike to a standstill, all set to wait for the lights to turn green. Quite unexpectedly, I receive what is best described as a swift kick in the rear. I turn around and am nose to hood with Wallace’s battering ram, with the aforementioned spanky new front bumper positioned roughly where my bike’s tail-lamp assembly ought to have been. No words were exchanged. I just stared at her, speechless, while she just stared at me, aghast and contrite. " },{ "id": "/blog/hows-that-for-romance", "url": "/blog/hows-that-for-romance/", "title": "How's that for romance?!", "layout": "post", "description": ".... wait for it ....", "date": "2010-03-16T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/3006.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "‘Twas a nice, quiet evening. Ms. Shilly Ash was feeling particularly benevolent and, in a moment of weakness, decided to shower affection on Mr. Shilly Ash. So she sat him down, and just snuggled up. The change of expression on Mr. Shilly Ash’s face was encouraging. She continued… whispered sweet nothings into his ear. There was a twitch on the mister’s face - ah!, she thought, the magic is working. Mr. Shilly Ash leaned over to say something in her ear. With great anticipation, she moved her hair away from her ear. Baby, said Mr. Shilly Ash. Ya, honey? she replied - she was all for encouragement. Then came the magic words…. “I need to go to the loo”! " },{ "id": "/blog/i-hate-superheroes", "url": "/blog/i-hate-superheroes/", "title": "I hate superheroes", "layout": "post", "description": "Wearing undies on the outside doesn't make one super", "date": "2017-09-07T00:00:00-05:00", "image": "/images/blog/3010.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I’ve never been much of a super-hero comic lover. I’ve often felt that the supers, if I may collectively address them as such, were poorly thought out characters. They always seem so infallible, completely lacking the rich tapestry of flaws that round out the personality of a “normal” human being. This has been especially true of the DC Universe characters. Let’s just talk about their three favourite children. Superman Mr. Perfect goody-two-shoes who started off simple superhuman abilities. Leaping over tall buildings in a single bound is one thing. But over time, the scope of his powers extended beyond all basic concepts of physics and logic. Travel across dimensions? Into deep space? He transcends time, space and energy and yet, he retains a trivial primary charter of fighting crime in Metropolis? Why would he even bother? I would expect someone with as much power as him to be impassive… like Dr. Manhattan from the Watchmen. He would hardly bother with pedestrian concepts of right and wrong. And probably have better dress sense than wear a cape, and briefs over tights. Lastly, why does he even bother with a secret identity? Batman This was DC’s attempt at making a more relatable super hero. A tortured soul, haunted by the horrific murder of his parents, which he witnessed as a young boy. Billionaire, loner, and spends his nights fighting crime on the streets of Gotham. While marginally more plausible than alien baby from Kansas, this is also where they have lost the plot a little. So yes, he did see his parents murdered. But since then, the only parent he has had has been Alfred, his butler. Alfred has raised him and cared for him, and moulded him into the aforementioned “tortured” soul. Lemme splice that again. Rich kid, and the only authority figure is technically his employee. That’s a recipe for a spoilt brat, a deplorable 1% human being, not a vigilante masked crusader. Wonder Woman Princess Diana of Themyscira has an origin / back story that make her colleagues the caped crusader and the man of steel almost realistic. She’s essentially a greek goddess who fights crime dressed in lingerie. This is where we give up. Marvel has better character design and origin stories than the DC lot. On the whole, the characters are much more relatable, and their circumstances believable. Spiderman I like the idea of a school kid, working part time and struggling to make ends meet. He’s often torn between doing the right thing and making money. I also like J Jonah Jameson, the archetypal yellow journalist who vilifies Spiderman constantly, despite his obviously positive achievements. Peter Parker also has this tongue-in-cheek persona, and his clever one-liners are quite entertaining. Spiderman’s antagonists are kinda irritating though. Doc Ock? Green Goblin? Sandman? X-Men I like that there are a number of people, each with one power, and one or more vulnerabilities. They have to work together to fight the forces of evil. The whole is greater than the sum of the parts. I also like that there are a number of other powered folk who are not particularly convinced that they are meant to be battling evil. Or rather, they resent being treated as freaks by the non-powered people. The villains are similarly powered people, and what often tilts the odds in the X-Men’s favour is their tendency to stick together, and have each others backs. Good stuff. Captain America The origin story is a little… irritating. Super soldier serum during WWII ? Before Watson and Crick discovered the double helix? Come off it. Also, his primary weapon is an indestructible shield? Thankfully, the movies, and specifically, Chris Evans have infused this character with a lot of wit and charm, and the subtle one-liners referencing his very dated outlook and thought process add to this charm. S.H.I.E.L.D. and The Avengers S.H.I.E.L.D. has an irritating backronym because it seems so contrived. But Shield itself seems seems to be almost an infinite visibility and control into peoples lives. They have a charter that seems to be beyond that of NSA, CIA, and FBI combined, and they police the whole world. There never seems to be any paucity of funds for them (flying aircraft carriers?) and they seem to be able to do anything and go anywhere, but are not aware of something as fundamental as a rogue enemy organisation within their midst? I hope the human race goes extinct before we allow an organisation like SHIELD to exist. As for the Avengers, err… first, what are they “Avenging”? Phil Coulson’s faked death? They are a poorly named, and poorly orchestrated band of vigilantes, who seem to get successful largely by luck and the ineptitude of their opponents. There is an entire world of comics/graphic novels out there, outside the DC and Marvel cocoons, which feature no superheroes or flimsy origin stories at all. No costumed vigilantes, no mysterious super powers. These are true graphic novels, and are infinitely more entertaining than men wearing briefs over tights. " },{ "id": "/blog/a-book-a-week", "url": "/blog/a-book-a-week/", "title": "A Book A Week", "layout": "post", "description": "A new year challenge", "date": "2019-01-03T00:00:00-06:00", "image": "/images/blog/3100.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "New year’s resolutions are silly. Earth passes an arbitrary point in the cosmos during it’s orbit around the sun, and people all over the planet celebrate the event. And make resolutions that they promise to keep until the planet passes through the same arbitrary point again, but usually don’t. This year, I stoop. Walk with the masses. Baa ram ewe. I resolve to read a book a week, for this year. Take a couple of weeks off, 50 books by the year’s end. Let’s go. " },{ "id": "/selfhosted/audiorpi", "url": "/selfhosted/audiorpi/", "title": "An Audiophile's Raspberry", "layout": "page", "description": "A Raspberry Pi is a perfect device to cobble together an excellent audiophile grade digital audio source. Some HAT's and a few custom-built audio distributions complete the package.", "lastmod": "2023-05-28T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/selfhosted/audiorpi.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Disclaimer: “Audiophile” Honestly, a true blue audiophile isn’t someone who appreciates good music. They are obsessed with the purity of sound and having incredibly expensive equipment, which they obsessively keep upgrading to the next greatest thing. They look on the digital music world with disdain, and swear by tube amplifiers and vinyl records. In that context, I am not an audiophile. But I do listen to a wide range of music, and I want the music to sound good. I think digital music is a wonderful idea, and I really think it sounds as good, if not better than the average “analogue” source. I love that digital music can be streamed over the internet, and how a humble pen drive can hold more music than I can listen to in a week. I digitized my collection, with CD’s ripped into FLAC’s and MP3’s, but for the most part, I was listening to music on a good set of speakers connected to a desktop (harmon/kardon Soundsticks). The speakers were great, truly high fidelity. I could hear all the nuances of the music, and I could distinguish the a good digital rip versus a bad one. But unfortunately, a crazy voltage spike toasted the speakers and I was listening to music on earphones for the longest. Eventually I picked up a good stereo amplifier (The NAD D 3020) and a lovely pair of bookshelf speakers. The amplifier has a USB input with a built-in DAC, which is substantially better quality than a regular common or garden DAC. The manufacturer had intended this to be connected to a PC or similar, where the amplifier would show up as an external USB sound card. Enter the Raspberry Pi. I picked up a second-hand Raspberry Pi 2 off of some online site. Hooking up one of the USB ports to the amplifier is simple enough, the next step is to have a headless device work as an easy to use audio source. There are a couple of Raspberry distributions specifically meant for audio. MPD and RompR This was the first attempt at cobbling together a dedicated headless music player. MPD has all the necessary features for managing music and playlists, and maintaining collections. And of course, it plays pretty much every music format. This whole approach, though it worked, was not sustainable. RompR, though very elegant, was not responsive. And it was not maintained actively. While looking for a more up to date web interface, I came across my next solution… Volumio. Volumio The first one I tried was Volumio. This is simple, elegant, and has a beautiful interface. The music collection could be stored on an attached storage device, or a network store. This worked well for a while, but there were a few caveats Volumio has an odd underlying design, where it uses mpd to play the song, but does not use any other mpd features, like collection maintenance, playlist management etc. As a result, I cannot use any regular MPD compatible clients effectively. Volumio’s web interface is a nice responsive interface, but the web interface is the only available interface. Remote access, scripting, etc., are tricky. Playlists are tricky to build and maintain, and importing pre-made playlists is a little convoluted, or impossible. Volumio does not do (or, did not, at the time I evaluated it) internet radio channels. All told, I did use Volumio for quite a while. There is a companion app, but it turned out to be just a browser shortcut to Volumio’s web interface. Eventually, the limitations of Volumio got too hard to manage. moOde audio player There were perhaps some other distributions I considered evaluating while I was looking at an alternative to Volumio, but I never got to those. moOde is exactly was I was looking for, and ticks all the buttons. It has a nice and responsive interface, even if not as elegant as Volumio or RompR. It uses MPD under the hood, and all the the features of MPD. It provides a web interface to manage everything like MPD configuration, kernel version, file system management etc. It comes with a very nice collection of several pre-configured radio stations to suit every genre and mood (see what I did there :). moOde is well maintained, and updates with bug fixes and new features regularly. Some of the clients I use are: MPDluxe on iOS M.A.L.P on Android ncmpcpp on Linux console. I used the NAS as the primary music store for a while, then later switched to having a directly connected hard disk instead, so the NAS acts as a backup instead. One more thing: moOde is essentially a full graphical installation of Raspberry Pi OS underneath, and has all the bells and whistles that comes with. I additionally use the device for other tasks like command line collection management, backups, and trans-coding. HiFiberry Digi+ This configuration worked very well for a while, but eventually the volume control on the amplifier stopped working. This necessitated upgrading the amplifier, and I switched to the NAD C 338. This was a nicer amplifier than the previous one, with built in networking and Google cast etc., but it lacked a USB input interface. To circumvent that, I got a raspberry PI HAT called the Hifiberry Digi+. It provides two S/PDIF interfaces (optical and coaxial), allowing me the ability to feed a digital signal directly to the amplifier and leverage the amplifier’s DAC again, like before. MoOde player allowed me to simply select the output device from a list of supported devices in a drop-down menu in the web interface. It automatically reconfigured both the Linux system (ALSA) and MPD to use the Digi+ instead. I used both the coaxial and the optical, there’s nothing to choose from in audio quality or convenience between the two. So there you have it. Raspberry Pi is a perfect high-fidelity digital audio source. " },{ "id": "/selfhosted/dns", "url": "/selfhosted/dns/", "title": "A DNS hosting provider", "layout": "page", "description": "The domain name system... what it is, why we need it and how to go about doing that", "lastmod": "2023-05-25T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/selfhosted/dns.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "What is DNS? When you click on a link like this, or type in a URL in a browser’s address bar, the DNS (domain name system) provides the browser with a set of numbers, which are internet co-ordinates to reach the server. These co-ordinates are called the “IP address”, and the DNS infrastructure is an internet-wide directory which translates a domain name to an IP address. It goes without saying that DNS is crucial to how the internet is used. Without DNS, it would be impossible to reach the millions of websites, or send email, or do just about anything on the internet. This is because remembering a domain name like www.google.com is much easier than remembering a series of numbers like 142.250.183.228. Another problem is that while the domain name can stay the same, the addresses can change. The first step to self-hosting anything is to set up the infrastructure to reach the self-hosted services on the internet. To do this, we need to register a domain name. Domain names are a word, phrase, or string that is used for navigating the Internet. They are registered to individuals or legal entities in lengths of years for a set fee, dictated by the hosting provider and ICANN. They are divided into levels, where each level is separated by a period (dot). Typically, domain registrations include the top-level and second-level portion of a domain. All levels below are controlled by DNS at the discretion of the domain registrant, the person who owns the domain. Top-level domains (TLDs) are .com, .net, .info, .edu, .org, etc. The customizable part of the domain name, the part that is typically “registered” and assigned to an owner, is called the second-level domain. Third-level domains are referred to as subdomains. Generally, the owner of the second-level domain may create as many subdomains as they wish. For example, in each of these three URLs, www.google.com, photos.google.com and keep.google.com, .com is the TLD, google is the second-level domain, and www, photos and keep are the subdomains. Why DNS for self-hosting? In short, easy access. Your self-hosted services will most likely be running off a server device at home. Accessing the services within your home would be simple, since that is a private network. The device is on your home network, and have a fixed address assigned by you. But accessing the same services, outside of home, becomes much harder. For one, you would need to use the IP address provided by your internet provider. This address is likely to change frequently, and moreover, it would be a random sequence of numbers, unlike the well known address assigned in your home network. Having your own domain name to easily access your services would be very desirable, but this is also comes at a price. Unlike everything else used for self-hosting, DNS is a recurring investment, since you own the domain only for a fixed period of time, and you would need to pay a subscription. If you are just dabbling in self-hosting, then DNS registration can wait. Registering DNS hosting services are provided by several companies on the internet. The companies typically offer a handful of top-level domains to choose from, and the registrant may choose any second-level domain that is available. The payment made is for ownership of the second-level domain for a fixed period, usually in multiples of years. Historically, there were just a handful of common TLDs, and country-specific TLDs. Among the common ones, .com was intended to indicate that the domain is registered to a commercial entity, whereas .org was intended for non-profit organisations. This distinction is no longer adhered to, and more recently, several common (non-country specific) TLDs are available. Each TLD has a pricing based on demand. Once the domain is registered, the hosting service typically provides a web interface to the registrant to configure the rules to translate the domain name to IP addresses. While this is all well and good, it does provide a problem for self-hosting. Internet service providers often give their clients a random IP address from a pool that they own. So if a user manually configures his IP address on the hosting services’ website, the process would have to be repeated every time the address changes. This could be once a week, or once every time the internet is accessed, which could be as frequent as once an hour. Fortunately, there are tools which automate the process of updating the IP address. Often, hosting providers themselves provide such software tools, but using such a tool would require a specific type of server, or operating system, and is often intrusive. A generic tool which does the job is called ddclient. It supports several methods of updating the address automatically, across several hosting providers. Ensure that documentation is available to configure ddclient for the hosting provider you select. This should be a higher consideration than the pricing when selecting the provider. Personally, I use NameCheap. They may not be the cheapest, but I like their interface and they support ddclient based IP updates. Google DNS and Cloudflare are also incredibly popular service providers. Configuring There are different types of records that can be defined in the domain name server. The four most commonly used types are: A and AAAA: These are the IP address records. The single A is used for IPv4 and the AAAA for IPv6. CNAME: Canonical name. This indicates that this record is an alias, or an alternate name for another record. MX: Mail exchanger. These point to servers which handle the email for any address ending with @secondleveldomain.tld NS: Nameserver. This indicates that this domain, and all subdomains under it are served by the specified nameserver. The tools we spoke about earlier essentially update the “A” records, which point to the actual IP address of the server providing the self-hosting. We shall talk more about configuring DNS records later. Most DNS hosting providers have a setting to make the domain point to a parking page, something like “Under Construction”. Until some of the self-hosting infrastructure is up and in place, it is best to enable the parking page, and leave that on. " },{ "id": "/selfhosted/idealos", "url": "/selfhosted/idealos/", "title": "A distro, a distro... my kingdom for a distro", "layout": "page", "description": "There are 32 distributions which support Raspberry Pi today, according to distro-watch. But which one meets the needs...", "lastmod": "2023-06-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/selfhosted/puzzled-tux.png", "tags": "", "content": "Which Distribution? A distribution is a packaging flavour. There are innumerable ways of bundling software along with the operating system. Some are general purpose, and include a broad selection of software. Some are very specific, intended so that the machine does exactly one task and nothing else. And then, there is everything else in between. The best distro is simply one which does the job at hand with minimum of fuss. Our job is self-hosting, which can mean several different things to different people. At the very minimum, this is what it should have: Good networking abilities. It should provide a broad selection of network services and tools. Wireguard tunnels support. This is critical if your ISP hosts customers in a CG-NAT network, rather than provide a direct IP. Even otherwise, this is good to have for security purposes. File server capabilities. SMB/CIFS, or specifically, the samba suite. Ability to read/write several commonly used file systems Container infra. Specifically docker containers. Good documentation. This is usually only available for the most popular distros. But maybe they are popular because of good documentation… Reasonably frequent updates. Distributions have an update cycle, which can be anything between a month to a year and a half. On the other extreme is the rolling-release distros, which are updated continuously. A server flavour. Most distros tout their extensively user-friendly graphical interfaces, talking about how effective they are when compared to mainstream desktop X. But we plan to run the box as a “server”. Without a monitor, or a keyboard or mouse. Only way to do that is to start with the “server” flavour, sometimes called the “Minimal” or “CLI” flavour. Recommendation Raspberry PI There are several distributions which support the Raspberry PI natively, and have a server flavour. The Raspberry Foundation has their own flavour of Debian, called Raspberry PI OS. This even used to be called Raspbian. This is designed to run on ALL Raspberry PI’s, from the oldest version 1 to the latest and greatest. As a result, this isn’t best optimised for the newest hardware available. But on the other side, this is the reference distribution, and has extensive documentation. Most applications and guides for Raspberry PI simply assume you are running Raspberry PI OS. Ubuntu is available for Raspberry PI’s, but for version 2 onwards. This should be OK, since Raspberry PI 1’s are very old and not easy to come by. This is the most popular distribution, and has the widest documentation and support. Any issue you can possibly hit would have been hit by others before, and have details for a solution available online. The release is also sure to be more optimal than the one from Raspberry PI. ArchLinuxARM if you prefer a rolling release. Again, extensive documentation and a wide user base, but maybe not so much for ARM. The basic goal here is to provide a regular ArchLinux server on the ARM SBC. Since there are no optimizations which are specific for the SBC environment, a lot of mucking about is required to get it SBC-ready, so to speak. Things which we can get for free elsewhere Armbian is a distribution customized to several dozens of ARM based single-board computers, including the latest Raspberry PI. Frankly, it is surprising that they even bothered to support Raspberry PI, since they arose from the lack of good support for all HW that is NOT Raspberry PI. Still, this distribution is custom designed to run on SBC’s which none of the others have. DietPI is another distribution similar to Armbian in that it supports several ARM SBCs. DietPI has taken a different approach than Armbian. While they are also based on Debian, and are well optimized for the SBC environment, DietPI provides a series of console menus to perform routine tasks… installing SW, performing updates, changing system, configuration etc. The user never needs to use a shell command with DietPI. OpenSUSE, Kali, Alpine, Devuan… all have a Raspberry PI specific flavour. The ease of installation and support available for each varies, though. BSD’s do not have docker support, so they should be avoided. Any other SBC For any other ARM based SBC, the best choice, by far, is Armbian. All Armbian ports are based on either Debian or Ubuntu. They are updated frequently and have detailed documentation. All SBC’s have a server (CLI) and graphical installer flavours. Most importantly, Armbian is optimized to run on SBCs in several ways. For example, they include infra to monitor sensors on the HW they are running. Sensors are very HW specific, and the good folks at Armbian have taken the pain to support all the sensors of each SBC. Another small gesture is the enabling of zram by default, increasing the available memory at the cost of a few extra CPU cycles. This is a very useful feature to have. They have an well thought out first-boot process which expands file system, and provides an infra to set up the device even if using it in headless mode (no monitor/keyboard/mouse). They include detailed documentation on preparing the HW to install Armbian, which sometimes involves removing buggy firmware shipped from the HW manufacturer. Some SBC boards have quirks and idiosyncrasies, which do not affect all boards. Armbian seems to be the only distribution which acknowledges these issues and provides workarounds. The only downside, if it can be called that, is that they do not have a rolling release. This is more of a shortcoming of the upstream (Debian/Ubuntu) than Armbian. Ever so frequently this necessitates reinstalling the whole OS to stay cutting-edge. For those with a strong aversion to ever using a command line interface (the black screen where you can type stuff), choose DietPI. Much like Armbian, it is based on Debian under the hood. It supports several dozen SBCs and is very optimized for each of the SBCs. What is unique about DietPI is that is provides a series of console menus to perform routine tasks… installing SW, performing updates, changing system, configuration etc. The user never needs to use a shell command with DietPI. For those with an aversion to Debian and/or Ubuntu, ArchLinuxARM is an alternative. This also supports a number of SBC’s and has good installation instructions. But there are a few hiccups. It is not beginner friendly, and expects the users to have a base Linux machine to start with. There are no SBC specific optimizations. The installed system is identical to an ArchLinux desktop, for the most part. x86-64 This platform has the widest possible range of choices for a server operating system. Everything from the popular Ubuntu/Debian to cloud native distros can fit the bill. This is a matter of user preference, entirely. Each person has their favourite distribution, so a recommendation is moot. Any of the mainstream distros could work: the tried-and-tested Ubuntu, ArchLinux, Debian, RedHat/Centos and clones, Fedora or OpenSUSE. All three are well supported, and have very good documentation, and most importantly, have a “server” flavour distro. They have good installers and are well documented. Except for maybe ArchLinux which , as mentioned before, is not a beginner’s distro, but it still has very good and detailed documentation. Summing Up It seems like this page is all “Debian! Debian! Ubuntu! Ubuntu!”. Actually, I am not a great fan of the Debian-Ubuntu family of distros. But there are certain advantages one gets with going with one of these. They work well with low resources. The base operating system is pared down with no bells or whistles They are very stable. The whole OS is very well put-together, with no loose ends. The packaging is lightweight. The APT/DPKG infra is far less resource intensive that the YUM/RPM and DNF/RPM family, which just do not work well in low-memory situations Documentation is extensive. A google search with any issue will almost certainly yield a solution for any esoteric issue. And, the community is very active. With any hiccup you might face, at least one other person would have faced something similar and will have a solution on the forums. That said, it is not like the other distributions are far behind. ArchLinux (both x86 and ARM) is also a great choice, if a little more effort intensive. The downside is that installing ArchLinuxARM will result in a regular ArchLinux-like box. This is not tuned for SBCs and does not automate the processes such as file system expansion etc. Alpine Linux is another great choice, but there may be a bit of a learning curve there. Alpine is extremely light-weight, and completely pared down. But while SBC’s and Raspberry PIs are supported, their main target market is containers. One needs to jump through some hoops to get it working on an SBC. DietPI Linux, mentioned above, is another excellent choice for beginners. Under the hood it is Debian again, but that part is well curtained off from the user by a set of menus. " },{ "id": "/selfhosted/nas", "url": "/selfhosted/nas/", "title": "NAS - Network Attached Storage", "layout": "page", "description": "An easily accessible network-wide data store, and a great starting point to delving into the world of home labs and self hosting.", "lastmod": "2023-08-09T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/selfhosted/nas1.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Why NAS This is probably the best starting point when going down the self-hosting path. It’s very simple to do, and is something that is both simple to do, and is infinitely useful. SMB is the commonly used NAS protocol, and one that works quite seamlessly across Windows, MACs, Linux and Mobile devices. It acts as a single point to store all data (documents, videos, photos, music…), which can then be shared across devices in your network. Having all the data at a single point has other advantages too. Performing backups becomes easier, and the simple job of sending content from one device to another would not need to involve a cloud provider or worse, a messaging service. Pre-packaged NAS solution Open Media Vault is one of the more commonly used solutions for NAS. It provides a nice graphical interface accesible through a browser, which allows you to manage your drives, shares and users. It also comes pre-installed with tools to monitor disk health. It provides an interface to install containers so users can graphically deploy additional services, such as media servers or download managers. Installing OMV, x86 version If you are using an X86 CPU, installing OMV is very straight forward. Their website provides an ISO that can be downloaded, and they provide references to write the ISO to a suitable USB stack. Boot up the x86 box from the USB stick, and follow the on-screen installer to install OMV on your H/W. Installing OMV, ARM version Given the number of differences in base environments and SBCs, rather than provide a packaged installer, OMV chose to standardize on Debian and derivatives such as Armbian and Raspberry Pi OS. Start by installing the Debian-based OS first on the device. This guide has the steps on how that can be done. Once the box is ready, log into the box, and run the following command: wget -O - https://github.com/OpenMediaVault-Plugin-Developers/installScript/raw/master/install | sudo bash Using OMV Login Simply open a browser and point it to http://<your device ip>. The default login to be used is: Username: admin Password: openmediavault The interface may seem a little cumbersome initially, but then it is needed only to set up the device. Once the device is up and running, the access for it would be from other devices, through an interface you are familiar with. Start by doing the following operations: Change the admin password Create a user Create Shares Note that configuring a device which is already formatted is cumbersome with OMV. It is better to use a brand new hard disk, and format it using a file system which OMV supports, rather than use an existing hard disk and struggle with setting up the shares and directories. Plug in the hard drive. You may need to reboot once to see the device detected under Storage > Disks Navigate to Storage > Filesystems Click create, and create a new file system. EXT4 is ideal, though XFS and BTRFS are excellent choices too. Select the newly created filesystem and mount it Now we have to create the shares. Typically store bought NAS devices create, by default, a set of shares that serve as a good starting point. A base set of shares would typically be something like “Photos”, “Videos”, “Music”, “Documents” and “Downloads” Navigate to Storage > Shared Folders Create all the shares you would need Last step would be to make the shares available so computers and devices on the network can discover and use them. Navigate to Services > SMB/CIFS Under Settings select Enabled Under Shares, select Create and add all the shares you created in the previous step. That’s about it. The NAS should be ready to use, and can be accessed from Windows explorer by typing \\\\<your device ip>, or from MAC Finder by connecting to server named smb://<your device ip> NAS from the ground up If you really need to use a pre-existing hard disk’s data and share the same, OMV is not the best solution. The better approach would be to set up a NAS from scratch, rather than use a pre-packaged solution. Arugably, this is the easier of the two options. It gives complete flexibility to the user to set up the device as he wishes, rather than be limited by the (admittedly wide) selection offered by OMV. Still, the learning curve is definitely steep, and this is not an option for folks with an aversion to black screens full of text like cp and sudo. Install and Set Up Start by installing an OS first on the device. This guide has the steps on how that can be done. Once the box is ready, there are some preliminary configuration that needs to be done, followed by some software to be installed. The commands below assume this is a standard Debian-derivative. There are variations of these for all operating systems, though. The first command is to allow the system to recognize hard disks formatted by Windows and MAC operating systems. Sometimes, this may already be in place, but this log into the box, and run the following command: sudo apt-get install ntfs-3g hfsplus parted Now connect your drive. The drive typically shows up as a block device, named something like “sda” or similar. The name of the device can be found out by running the command dmesg. This would show an output right at the end that looks like [ 40.498216] sda: sda1 sda2 [ 40.498513] sd 0:0:0:0: [sda] Attached SCSI disk This indicates that the newly connected disk has the name “sda”, and the disk has 2 partitions named sda1 and sda2 respectively. I assume you would know which is the partition of interest. But sometimes, disks formatted in MACs have upwards of 12 partitions. In this case, the biggest partition would be the one of interest, and this can be checked by running sudo parted /dev/sda, assuming sda is the device indicated above. At the (parted) prompt, run print. This will list out all the partitions, and the sizes of each partition. $ sudo parted /dev/sda GNU Parted 3.4 Using /dev/sda Welcome to GNU Parted! Type 'help' to view a list of commands. (parted) print Model: ATA ST4000DM004-2CV1 (scsi) Disk /dev/sda: 4001GB Sector size (logical/physical): 512B/4096B Partition Table: gpt Disk Flags: Number Start End Size File system Name Flags 1 1049kB 4001GB 4001GB DataStore msftdata Mount the partition on the system. sudo mkdir -p /mnt/disk1 sudo mount /dev/sda1 /mnt/disk1 Now, all the contents of the disk should be available under /mnt/disk1. Most modern Linux operating systems automatically recognize the disk format type and mount it automatically, without having the specify the type. In necessary, you could use mount -t ntfs /dev/sda1 /mnt/disk1 above, to explicitly specify the type. Setting up the Shares First, let’s get the software that does the sharing installed first. This is called Samba, as a play on the name of the underlying protocol, SMB. sudo apt install samba samba-common The installer may ask if you want to modify smb.conf to use WINS settings from DHCP. Choose Yes and press Enter. The next step is to edit the samba configuration file and add all the shares you want. Use any text editor you prefer to edit the file /etc/samba/smb.conf. A simply editor called nano is usually packaged along with the base operating system. sudo nano /etc/samba/smb.conf Scroll down to the end of the file, and add the details of the shares you want. For example, to add two shares called “Documents” and “Videos”: [Documents] path = /mnt/disk1/Documents/ writeable = yes create mask = 0775 directory mask = 0775 public=no [Videos] path = /mnt/disk1/Videos/ writeable = yes create mask = 0775 directory mask = 0775 public=no Setting up the users To add a user called joe to the operating system, run the following commands sudo adduser joe sudo smbpasswd -a joe Both those above commands will ask for passwords to be set. The first one is a password to log into the NAS itself, and the second is to connect to the NAS’s shares. They don’t have to be the same, but it’s just easier to remember if they are. Once the shares and users are added, restart the Samba protocol to use the updated configuration. sudo systemctl restart smbd That’s about it. The NAS should be ready to use, and can be accessed from Windows explorer by typing \\\\<your device ip>, or from MAC Finder by connecting to server named smb://<your device ip>. Use the username “joe” when prompted, and the password set above when running smbpasswd. You should be able to see a list of the shares created in Explorer/Finder. Make it restartable You’ve run the commands to mount the hard disk, but to make the device mount the hard disk automatically in case it is rebooted, there is another step to be taken. First, run the command sudo blkid. This will list out all the available disks and partitions, and their unique ID’s. $ sudo blkid /dev/mmcblk0p1: UUID=\"2c86d006-3667-43c3-b2bb-01c2dadddb93\" BLOCK_SIZE=\"4096\" TYPE=\"ext4\" PARTUUID=\"878bebe6-01\" /dev/mmcblk0p2: LABEL=\"swap\" UUID=\"a19c54a4-2e66-4df5-8677-ace19f844f5f\" TYPE=\"swap\" PARTUUID=\"878bebe6-02\" /dev/sda1: UUID=\"EBF7-87AC\" BLOCK_SIZE=\"512\" TYPE=\"exfat\" PTTYPE=\"dos\" PARTLABEL=\"DataStore\" PARTUUID=\"60a5bae1-0556-4757-b208-a1864f09dd29\" From the above, I can see the partition of interest to me, sda1, and the various ID’s and labels assigned to it. There are two bits of information that are important to us here, the TYPE=XXX and the PARTUUID=XXX. Copy the part PARTUUID=\"60a5bae1-0556-4757-b208-a1864f09dd29\". Edit the file /etc/fstab using nano again, and add the following line to the end. PARTUUID=\"60a5bae1-0556-4757-b208-a1864f09dd29\" /mnt/disk1 exfat defaults,noatime 0 2 Lets break this down. The PARTUUID is the bit that was copied earlier. The next bit, /mnt/disk1 is the place where the disk’s contents should be mounted. exfat is the TYPE from the previous output above. The rest of the configuration here tells the operating system to mount the partition with default options, to not record access time, and to check this disk for errors upon boot, but only after all the base system is certified as being all good. With this, the disk should be mounted automatically at boot. It is possible to not use PARTUUID=XXX and just use /dev/sda1 instead, but if there are multiple disks connected, the disk could easily get renamed as sdb1 on the next boot. But the PARTUUID will remain unchanged. References For those who prefer vids to words: Installing OpenMediaVault 6 on a Raspberry Pi 4 A guide on setting it up the hard way: Raspberry Pi NAS! Build your own Raspberry Pi Samba Server " },{ "id": "/selfhosted/prepare_sbc", "url": "/selfhosted/prepare_sbc/", "title": "Getting the Box ready", "layout": "page", "description": "Install the base operating system and boot the self-hosting box, before the applications and services", "lastmod": "2023-07-06T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/selfhosted/prepare_sbc.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Selecting a Micro-SD card For most SBCs, the boot device is a microSD card (sometimes called a TF card). These are tiny storage devices which come in categories based on speed and size. A size of 32G is the smallest one can get nowadays. This is ample for most server boot devices. Do not buy the fastest rated card available as, invariably, the SBC’s controller is not capable of reading the data as fast the the card is capable. The premium paid would be wasted. Instead, buy a reasonably priced card, which is designed to last longer.. Accessing the card The tricky part is preparing the card by writing to the card. A few years ago, most laptops had a small slot at the bottom to insert an SD card. This was really useful to prepare the card. Some card vendors provide a SD adapter for the micro-SD card, which allowed us to simply plug in the SD adapter with the micro-SD card into the slot in the laptop. But this is no longer the case. The slot on the laptop existed to transfer photos from a camera to a laptop. Cameras used SD cards, and transferring photos simply meant plugging in the camera’s SD card into the laptop. But lately, dedicated cameras have given way to mobile cameras, and images are simply transferred through the Google/Apple cloud. Newer dedicated cameras also have built-in WiFi to transfer photos. As a result, laptop manufacturers have stopped including this slot. This can prove quite a challenge. The only option would be to buy a USB card reader. Many manufacturers sell one that reads not just the SD card, but several different card types. It might be worthwhile to get one of these card readers. It helps prepare the microSD, and also transfer photos from older cameras. It allows you to retain accessibility to MicroSD cards in the future too. Writing to the card Before using the MicroSD card, either for the first time, or reusing the card, always format it first with SD Formatter. This resets the card to a factory-default, making it good as new. Most distributions provide an img file for the base file system. This may sometimes even be compressed, and the resultant file will have an extension of “.img.xz” or “.img.bz”. Each distribution provides instructions on writing the img file to the SD card. Some recommend use of a tool called Balena Etcher, or USB Imager, or Rufus. All these tools work well. Etcher is a little heavy, the other two are very bare-bones. Often, they also provide a series of Linux shell commands to write the image, involving use of the command dd. Do not do this unless you know what you’re doing, because you are easily capable of blowing the whole system if you provide the wrong disk name. Booting & Logging in Many distros provide the capability of performing a headless first boot; that is, it allows you to set up the device without connecting a keyboard or monitor to it. This can work only if: You have connected the device using Ethernet. If you plan to use WiFi, you have to connect a keyboard/mouse/monitor to the device and set up the network manually. You know the IP address the box has been assigned. This is not too difficult to find out. IP addresses are typically handed out by routers. Routers keep a list of such addresses, so get the address from the list. If. for some reason, this does not work out, there are some tricks that can be done (like broadcast ping and ARP query) to find the addresses. Logging into the device is the final step. This allows you to do the initial setup and perform the basic configuration as a pre-cursor to setting up all subsequent applications and services. This includes creating a user account, and changing the password and network configuration etc. If the distro does not support headless initial setup, you would require to connect a monitor and keyboard and use a wizard to set up the system. This is actually very convenient to do, even if the distro supports headless setup. For headless initial setup, we would first need a SSH client. Linux and MacOS computers generally come pre-installed with SSH clients. For Windows, the most popular client is PuTTY. Download and install PuTTY first. Connect to the new device using the user name and address. Different distributions have different default login/passwords configured. Armbian allows root-login at initial setup, which is subsequently disabled. ArchLinuxARM uses username/password “alarm”. Configure the base user account, and configure super user access with “sudo” for the account. Once this is in place, we are good to move on to applications. " },{ "id": "/selfhosted/rpi", "url": "/selfhosted/rpi/", "title": "Raspberry Pi Fascination", "layout": "page", "description": "The tiny, solid-state bit of circuitry can outperform an 80's super-computer... a credit-card sized Cray X-MP4", "lastmod": "2019-02-26T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/selfhosted/rpi.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I am a huge fan of these credit-card sized devices. I love the idea that this tiny, solid-state bit of circuitry can outperform an 80’s super-computer. I am totally enamoured with how easy tinkering and tweaking is. I am absolutely thrilled with how easily they are available. But most of all, I am thoroughly enraptured by the vast ocean of applications for this magnificent piece of hardware. I own multiple raspberry pi and pi-like devices. I have the original Raspberry PI B+, with an ARMv6 clocked at 700MHz, 512MB Ram and an RJ45 fast ethernet interface. I have the Raspberry PI 3B, with a quad-core ARMv8 SoC manufactured by Broadcom, clocked at 1.2GHz and 1GB or LPDDR2 RAM. It also has a built in WiFi and Bluetooth, and 4 USB ports. My current time-sink is a PINE64 device, which isn’t a credit card sized board. It is actually about 4 times larger than the Raspberry PI. It has a quad-core ARMv8 CPU at 1.2GHZ similar to the RPi3 above, but the SoC is manufactured by a company called Allwinner. It sports 2GB LPDDR3 RAM, and what I consider the most important enhancement over both the RPi’s above: a Gigabit Ethernet interface. The three devices above run three very different flavours of Linux, and also have three very different applications running on them. They each have different tasks to do, and I am constantly tinkering and tweaking with all three, getting them to do something new, or something more exciting. They have helped me learn so much in Linux (and Unix) internals, and have provided hours, nay weeks, of fun (and occasionally, frustration) when working on a new project. I shall keep writing more about these various projects, and all the applications each of the devices run. Unsurprisingly, I am actually typing this out on the first of said devices… " },{ "id": "/selfhosted/selfhosting", "url": "/selfhosted/selfhosting/", "title": "Why Self-Hosting?", "layout": "page", "description": "What self hosting is, and why would anyone ever want to do such a thing...", "lastmod": "2023-05-01T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/front/selfhosted.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "The case for Self-Hosting There is a ton of cool free stuff on the internet. Sites which offer one the ability to create and share data, send and receive emails, maintain schedules, save bookmarks, read news, or even search the internet… and all for free. There are limits, of course, but those limits are largely higher than what one would need for personal use. The purported business model of the companies behind these sites is to offer a premium paid access to the same services, which includes benefits such as larger storage, fewer ads, or unlock some additional features not available to users in the free tier. Corporations are not altruistic by nature, and are subtly monetising the aforementioned “free” services. One of the ways that happens is that the very same data, emails, schedules, bookmarks and news subscriptions that the user stores on the “free” services are analysed in real time to put together a profile for each user, which is then sold to advertisement agencies specializing in targeted advertising. Often we wonder why a simple search for a holiday destination yields advertisements in travel deals, hotel deals, news articles about the destination… that’s targeted advertisement. The search triggers an update to the user profile, which the advertising agencies pick-up and tweak their algorithms on what should be fed to the user. In short, when something is available for “free”, the user is the product. But it doesn’t stop there. In spite of their pages of legalese outlining their terms and conditions, there is nothing that prevents these companies for using all available data about a user for any purpose, whatsoever. Advertising, all told, is relatively innocuous. But the mind boggles with nefarious ends that bad actors (either the corporations themselves, or someone else who has access to the data) could use all the data available to them. The only way to not be folded into the massive advertising juggernaut and simultaneously safeguard ourselves, would be to NOT use any of the above services. But that is akin to putting toothpaste back in a tube. The internet and the limitless benefits it offers have made it indispensable to our normal lives. Enter Self-Hosting Self-Hosting is the concept in which a user hosts their own applications, data, and more. Taking away the “unknown” factor in how their data is managed and stored, this provides those with the willingness to learn and the mind to do so to take control of their data without losing the functionality of services they otherwise use frequently. For instance, a user might love the easy access and wide-spread integration that DropBox provides, but may not be fond of having all their most sensitive data stored in a data-storage container that they do not have direct control over. Multiple alternatives, such as NextCloud and SeaFile, are available. With a little bit of jugglery with inexpensive hardware and an always on internet connection (with some caveats), the data can remain secure on their own hard disk, while still providing easy access. How Hard Is It? Truth be told, there is no single drag-and-drop way to get started with self-hosting. There is some level of fiddling with bits and bobs, and some need of running commands on a dreaded black screen with a flashing cursor. That said, it isn’t like a degree in computer engineering is mandatory for getting there either. The reality, as always, is somewhere in the middle. Any lay user without an aversion to the aforementioned fiddling and running commands can pull it off. Once the base infrastructure is in place, there are several tools available to make the whole process painless and smooth for adding further services and capabilities. Getting Started The best way to start is by setting up services to run within the home. The barrier to entry is low, and all of the effort and expenditure will when you actually start self-hosting over the internet. Having the services first run within the home network is like having a staging ground, or a sandbox, to identify what would work best to suit your needs, and what you would like have always accessible over your fingertips. Start with a simple SBC (Single Board Computer), and put some services on that to get going. There will be articles on the best options for the hosting computers, the best services to self host and how to go about all of this. Hopefully, the steps would be easy enough to follow to successfully get to self-hosting… References A quick guide on self-hosting, for those who prefer vids to words: Self-Hosting in 5 minutes Authoritative list of Self-hosted software: Awesome-selfhosted. A spin-off of the above list, containing system administration software. Awesome Sys-Admin " },{ "id": "/selfhosted/server_opts", "url": "/selfhosted/server_opts/", "title": "Home Server Options", "layout": "page", "description": "A personal server... some options which will suit the purpose", "lastmod": "2023-06-20T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/selfhosted/single-board-computers.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Servers used commercially in data centers and enterprises are huge expensive pieces of hardware, which are designed to work continuously, with zero downtime. To this end, they are generally built with multiple redundancies… they have multiple power supplies, multiple fans, and multiple hard disks configured using RAID, a technology which can tolerate one or more hard disk failures with no loss of data. All this redundancy and up-time guarantees comes at a price; a price much higher than consumer hardware which performs the same task. But that said, modern consumer hardware is also quite reliable, as long as you pick the right pieces. Start Small We do not start by trying to replicate a commercial server in performance. We start small, by using cheap hardware, and build the capabilities that are provided by commercial servers. The best place to start is with single-board computers, abbreviated as “SBCs”. Raspberry PI Family These are by far the most popular general-purpose SBCs available, and are ideally suited for building a home server. They do not use fans (unless added as after-market), and provide multiple interfaces to add in the peripherals needed to build a home server. The current generation Raspberry Pi 4 comes in 3 flavours: 2G, 4G and 8G, indicating the amount of RAM the board has on it. This is a crucial decision as, unlike desktops and servers, SBCs’ RAM cannot be upgraded. As we discussed before, RAM is indispensable. More RAM is always good. RPi boards use an SD card as their OS storage. The smallest size SD cards commonly available is 32G, which is more than enough to hold all operating system data. At the very minimum, this is what is needed to set up a raspberry pi based server: The Raspberry Pi itself. An Micro-SD card (sometimes called a TF card), 32G or more. A way to read/write to the micro-SD card. Some laptops have this built in. A good power supply. The ones made by the RPi foundation itself is very good, though a little expensive A case. Again, the one made by the foundation is good, though there are several after-market cases to choose from (optional) Ethernet patch cable (optional) a USB keyboard and mouse Storage. A decent USB3 hard disk should do. One powered independently and not through the USB is ideal. ODroid (Specifically, HC4) The ODroid family of SBC’s from Hardkernel are similar to Raspberry Pis. They also use 64-bit ARM processors from various vendors. There are several variants of the ODroid SBCs, but the one that is of most interest is the HC4. This SBC is designed specifically to be used as a home server. The HC stands for Home Cloud. This SBC features 4G RAM, and 2 SATA connectors, allowing you to connect 2 SATA disks; these are the internal disks used in desktops and laptops. The disk can simply be plugged in into a slot on top of the HC4’s case. So here we would need: The ODroid HC4. It comes with a case and power supply. There is a variant with an LCD display, but that is optional. MicroSD card, and a reader for the same (optional) Ethernet patch cable (optional) a USB keyboard and mouse Up to 2 SATA storage disks. Either HDD or SSD, or even one of each can be used. Khadas, Orange PI, Banana PI, Rock Pi and more PIs Khadas, Orange PI, Rock PI and Banana PI all make SBC’s which are similar to Raspberry PI, with better capabilities in some areas; better memory bandwidth, or peripheral bandwidth. Some have built-in storage, faster networking, more interfaces, better graphics capabilities etc. Any one of these can be used as a home server, and the list of things needs to set it up remains the same as it would for a Raspberry PI. While the obvious upside is the better performance, remember these are nowhere near as ubiquitous or well supported as the Raspberry PI is. Still, it is good enough to run most common applications for a home server. The Beefier End Mini-PC’s are essentially miniature desktops designed to be spirited away behind in monitor or a desk, but seem almost tailor-made to work in the role of a home-server. While at the outset, it seems like it would be more expensive than a Raspberry PI, it actually works out cheaper in the long run, and provides some capabilities which a SBC would not. Most Mini-PCs have upgradable RAM; in fact, they are generally sold without RAM, and the RAM has to be bought separately and installed. Similarly, they have either SATA or M.2 interfaces to install storage, providing much faster storage than USB3 based storage. There are some manufacturers who sell with Windows pre-installed. This is not very useful, as Windows isn’t the best operating system for a server, and it also drives up the price of the equipment. Some common vendors are: Intel. They make the NUC series of MiniPCs, with processors ranging from the basic Celeron to the very high-end i7 and i9 processors. The lower end processors are cheaper and fanless, though obviously not as fast. Asus. They make MiniPCs with either Intel or AMD processors, again with a range of processors. Gigabite. They make a Brix series of MiniPCs. Full on Data Centre Starter Kit Many companies sell their old servers and workstations through resellers who refurbish them and sell them at quite cheap rates. These servers, though too old for a corporate entity, is more than sufficient for a home server. But be warned. These servers would have rather finicky power requirements and may have loud and noisy fans, making them unsuitable for home use. References For those who prefer vids to words: How to choose your first home server! - Cheap and powerful home server! The SBC which started the whole revolution: Raspberry Pi Site with a very wide range of SBC options: Fab.to.Lab Online stores and marketplaces are great places to find stuff. I don’t think I really need to link to Amazon or OLX though. " },{ "id": "/selfhosted/server_req", "url": "/selfhosted/server_req/", "title": "Home Server Requirements", "layout": "page", "description": "A personal server... and a great place to start self-hosting", "lastmod": "2023-05-26T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/selfhosted/hand-server.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Any computer can be re-purposed to perform the job of a Home Server. An old PC, a small mini-PC, a single-board computer or even an older Android mobile phone can all be up for the task. But, in reality, some devices are better suited to run as servers. Always On A server needs to run constantly. An old PC could potentially run constantly, but unless it has a fancy (meaning, expensive) power supply, the strain of powering a CPU will burn out the power supply in a few months. PCs, and even mini-PCs also have large fans, which are mechanical components. Again, unless it is an fancy, expensive fan, failures are common when running continuously. This includes the CPU fans, especially the fans that are sold by the processor manufacturers along with the processor. The other big pain-point with fans is the constant whine. Even if the fans are relatively silent, the sound will carry late at night, giving one the feeling that they are trying to sleep on a plane. Not a desirable state. Single-board computers (SBCs) generally do not have fans, and do not generate much heat. If kept in a well ventilated area with good heat-sinks, they are ideal for running constantly. SBCs do not have built-in power supplies, but most vendors do sell a power supply separately. While the separate supply may not be much different from an after-market mobile phone charger, they are better at handling the strain of constant use. Investing in a UPS is always worthwhile. They are quite cheap, and unobtrusive. Processor The server operating system we would use is Linux, or perhaps one of the BSDs. Thanks to industry heavyweights investing heavily in making Linux efficient and portable, Linux runs on pretty much every processor. PCs and mini-PCs generally use what are known as x86 processors. There are a few exceptions to this, but generally, it is x86. The x86 family of processors are very well supported by Linux, as well as most self-hosted applications. Most x86 processors in the last decade are also 64-bit processors, which is the most recent standard. It is harder to find good application support for the older 32-bit standard, but unless the PC is really old (more than 10 years), that is not a concern. Single-board computers use a variety of processors. ARM is the most common, but there are options with x86, MIPS, Risc-V and a few other lesser ones. ARM is the best supported by applications. Again, the 64-bit standard is the recent one and is well supported, but the older 32-bit is still widely used. ARM has gone through many revisions over the years, and the older 32-bits are hard to find applications for. Mobile phones all generally use ARM processors, though not necessarily 64-bit. For most self-hosting use cases, processor speed is not as important for overall speed of the self-hosted applications. Maximizing the memory and optimizing the storage is much more important for faster delivery. Memory There is no substitute for memory, and more memory is always good. In PC’s and mini-PC’s, it is easy to add more memory. Adding memory to older PC’s can get tricky, because of this weird way the pricing of memory works. The newest, state of the art memory components are always expensive. But slightly older memory components, which are in wide use are very cheap. But much older memory, for technology which is 6+ years old, is again very expensive. In nearly all single-board computers, memory cannot be added. The memory is directly fixed on the board, and the best option would be to buy an SBC which as much memory as possible. Storage There are two factors in storage… size and speed. Generally, the storage to store all the applications and operating system does not need to be big, but needs to be fast. On the other hand, storage for media (movies, music, videos, photos and similar) has to be big, but not necessarily fast. Solid state SSDs come in many variants such as SATA, M.2, NVMe. They are all very fast, but can get expensive at high capacities. Almost all SBC’s come with a microSD card slot. They use the microSD card as the primary boot device, meaning it would be device which has the operating system. SD cards themselves come in many grades, with different capacities. The fastest ones available today are UHS-II V90, and these tend to be designed for photography. This isn’t a bad thing, though, since the needs of the photographer are generally aligned with ours. Some SBCs come with eMMC storage, or an adapter to plug in eMMC storage. This is preferable to SD cards, since eMMC is faster than SD. But there is no standardised eMMC slot, and often the best option is to buy the eMMC component from the same vendor as the SBC. Hard Disks Hard disks are slower than solid state devices, but can scale to much higher capacities. In fact, it is tricky to find hard disks of small capacities. I need to clarify the “slower” aspect. Hard disks have moving parts, which generally stop moving when not in use to extend the life of the parts. When you start using the hard disk again, there is a spin-up time before the data can be read, and this causes a lag of 2-3 seconds before the data is available. Once the disk is “hot”, the data access are generally quite fast. Another point to keep in mind is that hard disks come in different grades. “Desktop” hard disks are middling reliable, and fast at random access “NAS” hard disks are much more reliable than desktop, and also fast at random access “Server” hard disks are highly reliable, and fast at random access “Archival” hard disks are highly reliable, but very slow to access. They are meant to used as backup devices. “Surveillance” hard disks are middling to poor reliability, and slow to access. Hard disk vendors will generally indicate which grade a hard disk is. “NAS” or “Server” would be the ideal one to buy, but they can be expensive. Moreover, these are usually available as “internal” hard disks, intended to be used in a PC or a NAS device. The “Desktop” hard disks are cheaper, and coupled with a good backup solution can be suitable to most pockets. Most USB portable hard disks are desktop hard disks. Power for Hard Disks A note of caution on hard disk power. Portable hard disks, which connect to USB, are cheap and work well. The biggest downside with these hard disks is that they draw power from the USB host. In the case of SBCs, the SBC power supply has to now provide power to the SBC as well as the hard disk, which can cause it to stretch and either fail, or cause the hard disk to fail. The better option is to use USB hard disks which have their own power supply. These are generally marketed as desktop backup solutions, which means they generally have “archival” disks inside. This is not a bad thing, but just something to keep in mind. Speed A faster processor is always great, but the processor is almost never the weak link. Beyond a point, the processor’s capability is restrained by other factors. Network speed When talking about networking, there are two forms that are generally used in home networking: Wired and Wireless. For Wired, When possible, always choose gigabit Ethernet, or better. Some newer SBCs offer 2.5G Ethernet. This standard is not very popular, and unless the switch / router connecting to the computer also supports this, the speed will negotiate to the least common option, which is gigabit Ethernet. Avoid “fast” Ethernet because, despite its name, it is only one-tenth the speed of Gigabit Ethernet. Avoid Wireless entirely if possible. Wireless is a very finicky protocol for sustained data transfer speeds. There are too many variables, like antenna position, interference, and the presence of obstacles. Switching on a microwave oven will suddenly see speeds drop or disconnect entirely, even if the oven is nowhere near the endpoints! If Wireless is the only option, wireless AC is reasonably fast and widespread, though WiFi 6, or AX standard is also reasonably popular. It is, of course, mandatory that the access-point/router also support AX to reap the benefit of the newer standard. Storage Connectivity We spoke about SSDs and HDDs earlier, but it is equally important how the storage connects to the computer. USB1.0 is about 1.5Mbps, and USB1.1 12Mbps. You will only find these in older hardware. Do not use these for storage connectivity under any circumstances. The ports are best reserved for keyboards/mice. Typically, external hard disks spin at 5400RPM, which allows them to operate up to 100 MB/s. The high speed 7200RPM disks put out about 125 MB/s. USB2.0 is also old, and rated at 480Mbps. In reality, this translates to about 25MB/s with any hard disk. Most newer external hard disks come with a USB3.x interface, which is the newest standard. The real world speed of the interface is much higher than the hard disk itself, so the interface is not the bottleneck. Speeds of over 80 MB/s are not unusual with USB3.0. If the computer offers the option, use a SATA interface for the hard disk. SATA is a purpose built interface for hard disks and SSDs, and offers much higher speeds than USB, which is a generic standard. The newest standard is M.2, which is a standard for both storage and networking, but the speeds it offers are even higher than SATA. If the options are available, select M.2 first, else SATA, and failing that USB3. One more note on USB. Multiple devices can be connected to a single port using a hub. First, ensure that the hub is also of the same type. If the port and hard disk are both USB3, but the hub is USB2, the overall speed is USB2. Second, hubs draw power, as do any devices connected to it. If the USB device is powered from the computer, it may help to have a powered hub. To Sum Up… Bare minimum: We need something with… A reasonably fast processor. 64-bit for sure, but ARM/x86 does not matter. A good amount of memory. We could make do with 2GB, though. That would be the minimum Doesn’t need a fan. Or, if unavoidable, has a very quiet fan. Ethernet. Always better than WiFi. Storage. Any sort. The ideal specification would, in 2023, have: 8GB+ of memory. M.2 interface. SATA, if M.2 unavailable. USB3, if SATA unavailable. SSD storage. Any sort. HDD for infrequent access, and huge volumes A very good power supply solution. A gigabit ethernet interface. Uninterrupted power. References For those who prefer vids to words: What is a HomeLab and How Do I Get Started? " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas", "url": "/trips/himalayas/", "title": "The Himalayas Trip 2005", "layout": "trip", "description": "A motorcycle trip across Uttaranchal, JK, Himachal and Rajasthan", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/photos/DSC_0122.JPG", "tags": "", "content": "This is a trip log of a road trip I took across the Himalayas in the summer of 2005. Actually, this whole site started off as a hosting space for this trip log, and became a blog only much later. The Dream Ride Nainital Mukteshwar Binsar Birthi and Kala-Muni Valley of Flowers Chopta Rishikesh Srinagar Zanskar Valley Leh Nubra Valley Sarchu Gulabgarh Rajasthan " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/001", "url": "/trips/himalayas/001/", "title": "The Dream Ride", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "I’m back! My trusty RD350 and I blasted right through the most unforgettable experience in my life. Rain and sun, sands and snow, rivers, jungles and some of the highest roads in the world, we’ve survived them all. I’ve posted here the photographs and a write-up about the ride. My bike, before the ride. I never took an \"after\" picture. It was too heartbreaking. Anyway, she’s fully restored now, and looks just like she does above.   Some numbers 39: The total days, Bangalore to Bangalore 9967: Meter reading at start 16442: Meter reading at end 6475: Total distance covered, in km 385: Total fuel consumed, in litres. 16.8: Mileage, in km/l. Woohoo! Summary The first leg of the ride started on the 15th of August, from New Delhi. Prashanth, Sandy Menon and I rode through Uttaranchal, and got back to Delhi on the 26th. The second leg started on the 28th, from New Delhi again. Prashanth, Ranga, Chaithra and I rode to Srinagar, across Ladakh to Leh and back to New Delhi. The highlights were the detours into Zanskar valley and Nubra valley. I rode the last leg alone, from Delhi through Rajasthan. Dedication Prashi and I dedicate this ride to the memory of Satyajit Bhattacharya. May his soul rest in peace. Credits I filched this website design from FullAhead.org. Most of the photographs here are by me. I have used some of Prashi’s photos too, where I’ve said \"Courtesy Prashi\". The Build-Up The Train Journey " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/002", "url": "/trips/himalayas/002/", "title": "The Build-Up", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Over May-June of 2005, the idea of doing a ride in the Himalayas later in the year was conceived. After numerous team changes and route planning, the trip was finalised. 30 days of riding, starting from the 12 of August. 15 days in the Garhwal & Kumaon Himalayas, which Sandy, Prashi and I would do, followed by 15 days in Lahoul-Spiti, for which Prashi and I had definite plans. In July, heavy floods in the Simla-Manali sector saw a few more route changes, as the complete Lahoul-Spiti valley was cut off. At the same time, a group of riders from Chandigarh rode into Zanskar valley which, for a change, was NOT cut off. So now, the only concrete plan left was this: Let’s get there and see what can be done. Meanwhile, my bike got a makeover. New chain sprocket set, piston rings, connecting rods, a borrowed tank and side-shields, strengthened shock absorbers and a carrier to hold 20 litres of fuel. I had to do a marathon 650km ride in one day at run-in speed to get the new piston rings to set. Our tickets to Delhi were booked for the 12th August. On the night of 11th, two friends of ours had a nasty road accident, where one passed away and the other was in hospital requiring surgery. This left us completely shaken, and the whole ride was nearly shelved. After much consideration, we decided to get to Delhi first, and then plan forward from there. We spend the entire afternoon of the 12th in the Yeshwantpur railway station, packing the bikes and bribing every petty official in sight to load the bikes onto the night’s train. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/003", "url": "/trips/himalayas/003/", "title": "The Train Journey", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " 12th to 14th of August Bangalore to New Delhi On the evening of 12th, we staged a live performance of \"A Comedy of Errors\". I loaded my stuff into my Jeep, drove to Prashi’s and picked him up along with his luggage. Then I drove back to my place to pick up my bike keys, and got to the railway station with about 15 minutes to spare. Close Call !!! Quite a sizable crowd had assembled to see us off. Mani and Rajiv from office, Anthony and Janardhan from my garage, and Sukesh, Sam, Adrian, Grease, Lloyd, Vijay, Easha and Mahendra – in short, all the usual suspects from RTMC (Rolling Thunder Motorcycle Club). Sandy, who was supposed to be on the train with us, but opted to fly instead, was at the station too. Rather sweet of them to interrupt their Friday night drinking binges to see us off. A fairly uneventful journey with interesting company saw us through the next 36 hours. A media man from Nagpur, a civil servant from Rajasthan, a twenty-something girl into \"clinical research\" and a housewife from New Delhi listened patiently as Prashi and I rattled on about bikes and touring. We reached Hazrat-Nizamuddin on time, and quite a few palms had to be greased to get our bikes out of he station. We reached hotel Sahara International in Pahargang at about 4:30. This hotel, an old time favourite with bikers, wasn’t so friendly this time as the basement parking had been let out to a clinic. Sandy had reached earlier that day, and had already checked in. That evening, we spent in the company of Arun Madaan. Madaan rents motorcycles for touring, and we availed his services to procure a red Lightning 535 for Sandy. Although supplied with \"Full Papers\", the bike was essentially uninsured, as Madaan used a ball-point pen to change the date on the expired insurance policy. “Yeh le tera insurance. Tu bhi kya yaad rakhega yaar.” (Here’s your most memorable insurance ever) - Arun Madaan Prashi’s custom built RE 535 in the foreground, and my RD350 in the background. This was taken in Pahargang, the steps lead up to Sahara International. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/004", "url": "/trips/himalayas/004/", "title": "Nainital", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  15th of August New Delhi - Ghaziabad - Hapur - Moradabad Bypass - Kashipur - Ramnagar - Haldwani - Kathgodam - Nainital 310km We left New Delhi early in the morning, at 6AM. The streets of Delhi were completely vacant. We expected a certain amount of official presence, what with it being Independence day and all… but nothing. The few cops who were around, were gracious enough to direct us out of the melting pot that is New Delhi. Backward state or not, we saw nice smooth roads throughout UP. Our journey through the wide 4-lane highway was only marred by some severe traffic jams. Prashi enjoys the nice UP interior roads. Rather silly, the jams. Two trucks both try to squeeze through a gap meant for one, and neither can. Before either one can reverse out, traffic is backed up as far as the eye can see. One such jam reputedly took 42 hours to clear. Vestiges of this jam still remained when we got to the Moradabad bypass. A nudge here, a squeeze there, a short stretch on a dirt road elsewhere got us past these jams comfortably. There was some rain on the way. In fact, we encountered rain every day of the first leg. The only variation was in the amount of rain we had to ride through. Believe me, August is not a good month to spend in Uttaranchal. We met some Royal Beasts inside Corbett park. They were on their way back from Binsar. The red Thunderbird in the foreground has an AVL500 engine. The mother of all jams awaited us at Kathgodam, just a short way from Nainital. A large tree keeled over across the road, and traffic again was backed up for hours. We squeezed, nudged, honked and raced our way through the seemingly interminable line of traffic till the fallen tree. The local police and PWD (Public Works Department) were still working on the larger parts of the tree, but had cut a large enough path for our bikes to squeeze through. Quite a lucky break. A lot more nudging, and we reached Nainital late afternoon. My first look at the Himalayas. This photograph was taken just after we crossed the traffic jam. Independence " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/005", "url": "/trips/himalayas/005/", "title": "Independence", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The route up to Nainital. We checked into the KMVN (Kumaon Mandal Vikas Nigam) guest house at Nainital. The whole of Uttaranchal is dotted with these government owned tourist guest houses. The charges are nominal, and the locations are phenomenal. You could plan your itinerary with these. If there’s a KMVN at a town, the town’s worth visiting. Sandy Menon doing an MG Ramachandran imitation. Thalaivaa!!!! We spent the evening boating on the lake in Nainital. The whole town is on the shores of this lake, called Talli Tal. Nainital itself is very commercialised and tacky, rather like Ooty down south. Sandy and Prashi on a boat. What’s with the expressions, guys ? No wonder the boat owner started talking about honeymooning couples :-) The town of Nainital at sunset, as seen from a boat on the Lake. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/006", "url": "/trips/himalayas/006/", "title": "Mukteshwar", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  16th of August Nainital - Bhowali - Bhim Tal - Naukuchia Tal - Bhowali - Nainital - Bhowali - Mukteshwar 100km The traffic on the way up to Nainital was still held up by the aberrant tree, as none of the petrol pumps in Nainital had replenished their stocks. I’d tanked up the day before, and Sandy had an extra large tank, but Prashi was running dangerously low. We decided to head on towards Bhowali, hoping that the pumps there were stocked. The town of Bhowali. We started down towards the town of Bhowali, about 23km from Nainital. Bhowali is centrally located among the nine lakes that make up Nainital (literally, nine lakes). The pumps at Bhowali were all sold out too, so we headed on towards Bhim Tal. A very pretty lake it was too, with mountains in the backdrop. It was nice to see that all the lakes were clean and sparkling, unlike Ulsoor lake back home. Bhim Tal Boating on Bhim Tal Fuel Trouble #1 Fuel Trouble #2 " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/007", "url": "/trips/himalayas/007/", "title": "Fuel Trouble #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "From Bhim Tal, on towards Naukuchia Tal. The lake’s name literally means that it’s nine-cornered. Naukuchia Tal - The nine cornered lake. See if you can count them. There is a diversion off the road from Bhim Tal to Naukuchia Tal, to the local para-gliding school. They were off-season too, but we got an idea of the kind of scenery we would be gliding into. View from the para-gliding school. We stopped at Naukuchia Tal for lunch. A word about lunch. The staple diet all over Uttaranchal is Parathas. They are consumed as breakfast, lunch, dinner, in-between meals and midnight snacks. They can either be eaten plain, or with more Parathas. If you are allergic to Parathas, avoid Uttaranchal. Naukuchia Tal close-up. Bikes and bikers on the shores of Naukuchia Tal. - Courtesy Prashi From Naukuchia Tal, the plan was to head back to Bhowali, and on towards Mukteshwar. We reached Bhowali, and just as we pulled into the pump, Prashanth ran completely dry. Quite an interesting occurrence it would have been, except that the pump was still dry. So we were stranded, and trying to figure out how to proceed, when we heard that Nainital now had fuel. Since I still was running comfortably, as was Sandy, we both headed back to Nainital and get fuel in my 20 litre extra can. I also used to opportunity to fill up my own tank. It was interesting to ride down the ghats with an extra 20 litres of fuel on my bike. In case the irony of that slipped past anybody, let me repeat that. An RD350 fetched fuel for a stranded Bullet. Meanwhile, as Prashi waited at the petrol pump, a bullet with a Royal Beasts sticker passed by, which Prashi waved down. Prashi wanted to locate Karthik of Royal Beasts, and thought the lone rider would shed some light on his whereabouts. As Prashi approached him, the Beaster took off in fright. More on the Beaster later. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/008", "url": "/trips/himalayas/008/", "title": "Fuel Trouble #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "From Bhowali, we took the road up to Mukteshwar. We passed a lot of picturesque valleys and stepped farms on the way. The weather changed very frequently, with rains coming on in brief spells of 10 minutes or so. The lighting was generally poor, so the photography was limited. A farm house overlooks a valley. Stepped farms are the only way to grow stuff out here - Courtesy Prashi Life, universe and everything, as seen by an air filter. We reached the KMVN Tourist Rest house late in the afternoon. We seemed to be the only guests there, what with it being off-season and a non-weekend. A short trek away from the guest house is a place called Chauli Ki Jaali. It is supposed to be the suicide point to scare the bravest. But we were spared the nightmares by a thick cloud cover which blanketed the whole valley. The guest house caretaker looked like he lasted 6 rounds with Dara Singh back in the day, but was very nifty with the ladle and saucepan. He rustled up a pretty mean dinner… comprising Aloo Parathas and chicken soup. Sunset, as seen from Chauli Ki Jaali. Booze in Uttaranchal is 4 times (yes, that’s FOUR) as expensive as in Karnataka. Despite that, all brands, including the premium ones, are available easily. The booze shops here are like bank cashier strongboxes, with a thick iron mesh. A small opening in the mesh is used to transact bottles and currency. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/009", "url": "/trips/himalayas/009/", "title": "Binsar", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  17th of August Mukteshwar - Sitla - Kwarab Bridge - Almora - Binsar 65km Early in the morning, we attempted Chauli Ki Jaali a second time. We decided not to walk, but instead, take our bikes as far as they would go. We left the bikes at the gate of a large house, and walked on from there. The Jaali was still thickly shrouded, and the view, such was it was, wasn’t one. A couple of pooches stayed with us all the way, from the KMVN to the Jaali and back. Fruitless again, but maybe not for Sandy \"MGR\" Menon. Four legged friends at Chauli Ki Jaali. - Courtesy Prashi On the way back, a very pretty twenty-something girl stepped out of the house, and asked for some of the spare petrol that my RD350 always moved around with. Chivalrous sons-of-Raleigh that we are, we obliged, and were treated to some tea, biscuits, chips and half-an-hour of her company. Prashi and I feasted on \t\t\tthe former, while Sandy took full advantage of the latter. Some macro shots taken around the guest house at Mukteshwar Remember this dialogue from the movie Ghost-busters ?     Dr. Peter Venkman: This city is headed for a disaster of biblical proportions. Mayor: What do you mean, \"biblical\"? Dr Ray Stantz: What he means is Old Testament, Mr. Mayor, real wrath-of-God type stuff. Fire and brimstone coming down from the skies. Rivers and seas boiling. Dr. Egon Spengler: Forty years of darkness. Earthquakes, volcanoes… Winston Zeddemore: The dead rising from the grave. Dr. Peter Venkman: Human sacrifice, dogs and cats living together - mass hysteria. Well, I dunno about forty years of darkness, earthquakes, volcanoes and all that jazz, but we did see dogs and cats living together. The two dogs which accompanied us to the Jaali place were playing with a tiny kitten. Maybe it’s the start of something, as Dr. Venkman claims, of biblical proportions! Cats and dogs living together! Mass hysteria !!! - Courtesy Prashi More macro shots around the guest house - Courtesy Prashi Slush " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/010", "url": "/trips/himalayas/010/", "title": "Slush", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The normal route from Mukteshwar towards Almora involved going all the way back to Nainital. There’s also a much shorter kuchcha road through a place called Sitla, and it was the latter which we chose to do. The kuchcha road was more kuchcha and less road. And the pouring rains of the past few weeks hadn’t really helped either. The whole route from Mukteshwar to Sitla was one large slush track. Never having ridden in continuous slush like this before, I dropped the bike a couple of times before I got the hang of holding it up. I’m on the road again - Courtesy Prashi The slush kept getting worse, and at some places was more than a foot deep. When we reached Sitla, we and our bikes were covered with mud. From Sitla, the road was much better. Still Kuchcha, but no slush. Further, PWD was working on making it a pucca road. By the time we reached Kwarab Bridge, we were on a regular two lane road. Covered in mud - Courtesy Prashi We stopped for lunch at Almora, an extremely beautiful town lying right on a hillside overlooking a valley. Because of fog, rain, and most importantly, because we were just too plumb tired, we never got a photograph of the place. Oh well, there’s always next time. Binsar is a wildlife sanctuary. After Almora, the road winds through a thick forest. The entrance to the sanctuary is on the the highway from Almora to Baageshwar, and we ride about 11km through thick woods up to the KMVN tourist guest house. On the way up, we ran into a stranded Mahindra MM540 which had two wheels in a ditch and no traction on the other two. We tried our best to drive it out of the ditch, but only succeeded in getting it stuck further, and precariously close to a steep drop into a stream. We finally gave up and dropped the driver on the main road, so he could get another jeep to haul him out of his spot. So leaving him high and dry, we belted away. A little further up, we came across a dead buffalo, which had had its throat ripped out. Leopard attack, a local said. The roads inside the reserve were wet because of the rain, and moreover, were covered with moss. Traction was a serious problem, and all of us had a tough time staying upright. We walked up from the KMVN to the Forest Rest House in the Binsar reserve, behind which is the sunset point. We got quite a few spectacular sunset shots from there. The only other guest at the KMVN was a professor of quantum physics from a college in Delhi. Having little other company to talk to, he butted into one of our conversations about corruption, went forward into quantum physics, and finally, about an hour and an half later, reached the topic he was itching to get to all evening… Spirituality. Prashi lost his patience with Prof. Spirituality and headed off to sleep early, while Sandy and I, more out of politeness than anything else, listened to his monologue for a while longer before excusing ourselves. Prashanth does a Patel pose " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/011", "url": "/trips/himalayas/011/", "title": "Birthi and Kala-Muni", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  18th of August Binsar - Baageshwar - Chaukori - Udiyari Bend - Thal - Nachani - Quiti - Birthi 180km Early in the morning, we caught hold of a local forest guide. He accompanied Sandy and me on a short trek, lasting about a couple of hours. We reached a fire look-out tower called Zero Point. On a clear day, half of Uttaranchal would have been visible from said tower, but when we were there, we couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces. Though very little wildlife was sighted, we saw plenty of leopard foot-prints. Lots of leopard action around these parts, apparently. We did see a few langurs and caught a glimpse of some wild boar (pork with a fork) in the distance. Stopping by the woods on a foggy morning. ‘Repeat \"You are old, Father William\",’ said the Caterpillar. Alice folded her hands, and began: 'You are old, Father William,' the young man said, \t'And you hair has become very white; And yet you incessantly stand on your head- \tDo you think, at your age, it is right?' - Lewis Carroll In a minute or two, the caterpillar took the hookah out of its mouth, and yawned once or twice, and shook itself. Then it got down off the mushroom, and crawled away into the grass, merely remarking, as it went, \"One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.\" - Lewis Carroll The trekking route in Binsar By the time we got back, had breakfast and started riding, it was nearly 10. Big mistake. As it turned out, this day was the toughest ride of the Uttaranchal leg. Stiff ghat roads, pouring (POURING) rains and tricky water crossings didn’t spare us time to stop for a single photograph. It was on this stretch that Madaan’s bull started acting up. On very straight-forward regular roads, the bike kicked up not once, but twice, throwing Sandy off both times. Sandy cut both knees, bruised both shins and had aches and pains all over. His bike didn’t come through unscathed either. Both foot-pegs bent, crash guard bent and scratched, and worst of all, a broken headlight ring. The plan in the morning was to get to Munsiyari for the night. It was 6:30 in the evening by the time we reached Birthi, still a good 30km away from Munsiyari. After negotiating a mother of all water-crossings, Prashi stopped a local to ask directions, who confidently told us that the last 30km would take us a good 3 hours, and our best bet would be to halt at the KMVN right there in Birthi. A quick bit of decision making, and we were sitting comfortably in the dining room of the KMVN 15 minutes later. I may or may not remember our other meals in Uttaranchal, but I remember the one we had that night in Birthi… for once it wasn’t Aloo Parathas. We had Kichdi. That night, mother nature kicked in with all her vengeance. Severely strong rains beat down all night, and though the room was warm and comfortable, it was hardly sound-proof. We slept fitfully that night. And on the seventh day, god rested #1 And on the seventh day, god rested #2 And on the seventh day, god rested #3 And on the seventh day, god rested #4 JCB Rising to the Occasion " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/012", "url": "/trips/himalayas/012/", "title": "And on the seventh day, god rested #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  19th of August Birthi - Kala Muni - Birthi - Kwiti - Birthi 62km Now, the village of Birthi was really spectacularly beautiful. Though it was barely visible in the dim twilight the previous evening, the morning show really wowed us. As usual, KMVN has picked a perfect spot for a tourist guest house. It overlooks a massive valley, surrounded on all sides by very tall peaks. From the porch of the guest house, we could count 12 (that’s twelve) water falls in the hills all around. The hills and vales, taken from our bedroom window. Birthi is roughly what I would imagine heaven to look like. Apparently, Sandy and Prashi thought so too, and we decided to spend an extra day there. This would give sandy to recover from his falls of the day before, and also time to figure out exactly what was wrong with his bike. So while Sandy rested, Prashi and I decided to ride up to Munsiyari and back. The village of Birthi. The largest of the waterfalls was right in our backyard. A bridge built right next to the waterfall even allowed us to bathe in the spray. None of us was brave enough to venture to the bridge, though. Prashi’s Patel snap next to the Birthi waterfall. The spray from the waterfall makes a rainbow. Where’s the pot of gold ? While we were clicking away outside the guest house, a couple of girls walked into the guest house. Prashi stepped in, and came back out in a hurry! He called to Sandy and I to come in, the evil bastard. The day, 19th, turned out to be Raksha Bandhan. The girls were cousins of the caretaker, and in their enthusiasm, tied one each to Prashi too. Not wanting to rest alone with his misfortune, Prashi had called us in to get a couple each ourselves. Sandy suddenly mentioned that we, as brothers, should gift something to the girls. Since we had nothing else, we gave them money. Sandy gave them 50 each, and since I had only 100’s, gave them 100 each. The scared girls were afraid to take it initially, but then took it after the caretaker reassured them. The next thing we know, there’s a line of some 7-8 girls outside. Run !!! Hide !!! " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/013", "url": "/trips/himalayas/013/", "title": "And on the seventh day, god rested #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Late that morning, Prashi and I start riding up the road towards Munsiyari. We had no luggage except for our cameras, but that didn’t make the ride any easier. We had numerous water crossings to negotiate all morning, and the steep and winding ghat roads tired us very fast. Still the view was, for want of a better word, breath-taking. Our bikes peer over the cliff into the valley. I take on a water crossing. The road up to Munsiyari. Two hours and many water crossings later, we reached a pass through the mountains. This was Kala Muni, a mere 19km from Birthi, a little more than half-way to Munsiyari from Birthi. A small tea-shop and a dilapidated temple were all that marked the place. Well into cloud cover, visibility was pretty poor, and the place was quite chill too. Further ahead, the nice pucca road gave way to a kuchcha mud road, when Prashi and I decided we’d had enough, and turned back. It took us 2 hours, in bright daylight, without luggage, to reach Kala Muni. Our snap decision to stay in Birthi the previous day was nothing short of brilliant. The road down to Birthi " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/014", "url": "/trips/himalayas/014/", "title": "And on the seventh day, god rested #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The view from Kala-Muni… not quite. More precisely, the view below the clouds which shroud Kala-Muni. A mountain goat peers into the valley. About two seconds after this photo was taken, it jumped right in. I thought it was a goner for sure, but it was right there, about 10 feet below, nibbling at a bush. I just love this snap. It’s currently my wallpaper. Prashi negotiates a water crossing, full autocross style! " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/015", "url": "/trips/himalayas/015/", "title": "And on the seventh day, god rested #4", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "On the way down from Kala-Muni, we stopped at a village and it was there that we first heard the news. The torrential rains the previous day had caused a series of landslides, and the entire region was cut off till it was cleared. We were a little sceptical… but already started worrying about what this would do to our schedules. We did see some interesting local folk at the bad news village though. The sunshine was just too watery for this cat’s taste… it prefers the heat of the chula instead. Whoever said \"Statutory Warning: Smoking is injurious to health\" never met this old gentleman. Hale and hearty at his age. The hookah makes its rounds, and this senior citizen pulls his share. Shortly before Birthi, the road was covered with moss underneath a particularly vicious water crossing. I crossed first, and after getting about halfway across, the front wheel slipped. I put my foot down to stabilise, and my foot slipped, landing me butt first into the water. Prashi comes running to help me, and he slipped and fell too. We try to stand the bike up, and it slides another foot closer to the steep precipice. I lay there wondering how to go about getting the bike up. Tie a rope and haul it… get a Sumo and drag it… Prashi had a simpler solution. One leg on the centre stand on one side, and haul it up. It worked beautifully, and we were safely back in the KMVN in 10 minutes to deliver the bad news to Sandy. Prashi gives a demonstration on how to tackle a water crossing the right way. We had two days to reach Joshimath. If that doesn’t happen, then the Valley of Flowers was bust. Things weren’t looking up, as it started raining shortly. That would definitely have slowed any repair work that might have been started. I rode down to Kwiti with the KMVN caretaker to check on the situation, but phone lines were down as well. By the time we reached the guest house, the heavens had completely let go. It seemed like the previous night was just a teaser, and this time it was the real thing. We went to bed that evening on a very sombre note. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/016", "url": "/trips/himalayas/016/", "title": "JCB", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  20th of August Birthi - Kwiti - Nachani - Thal - Chaukori - Baageshwar 62km Sandy and Prashi rode down to the landslide to see what the scene actually was. We had to be halfway to Joshimath by the evening, or our plans were all gone to pot. A short while after they went, a JCB excavator followed them down the road. When Sandy and Prashi got back, the story they had to tell was not heartening. About a good 200 metres of road was blocked. Local folks had cut a small foot path over the slide. The path was about 2 feet wide, and at places less than 6 inches. One side was a steep drop into a river, and the mud under their feet kept slipping as they walked. A view of the path through the landslide. The intention was to take the bikes across this path. - Courtesy Prashi We had to make it through, no matter what. We planned to leave Birthi after lunch and get our bikes through the path. We reach the slide at about 2 PM, and heavens be praised! The JCB had cleared off all but the last 10 metres. Since the JCB was still working in full swing, we simply had to wait until it finished its job. The JCB at work - Courtesy Prashi By about 4 PM, the road was opened to a couple of government Gypsies and motorcycles. From there on, we rode hard and steady. We still had many water crossings and steep ghats to cover that day. Based on the route, we planned to stay at Baageshwar, which was about 3 hours ride away. Sandy’s fall a couple of days back had thrown his headlight out of whack, and it only shone directly above his head. This slowed us down considerably, since Sandy had to ride depending on Prashi’s and my headlights and fog lamps. Still, we reached Baageshwar that evening, and checked into the KMVN guest house there. We now had a comfort factor with these guest houses. We had stayed in them exclusively, and we liked the service and the prices. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/017", "url": "/trips/himalayas/017/", "title": "Rising to the Occasion", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  21th of August Baageshwar - Baijnath - Gwaldam - Karanprayag - Nandprayag - Chamoli - Joshimath 199km Sunrise at Baageshwar. This day was another day of all work and no play. We rode hard from early in the morning, since we had to reach Joshimath by the evening. Very few photographs were taken this day. Some pretty good timing saw us having lunch in Chamoli. The river valley below Chamoli. Somewhere halfway, Sandy’s Madaan Special broke a gear lever spring. So the gear lever could not be used to change gears. The only option was for Sandy to lean down, and change gears with his hand, using the neutral finder. Initially it looked rather awkward, but once Sandy got the hang of it, he handled very well, in the ghats even. Prashi’s clutch plates were slipping too, and he struggled to push the bike in the twisty mountain roads. The road to Joshimath - Courtesy Prashi In spite of the pretty view, the condition of these roads was quite bad. Tarmac showed up only occasionally, and even then was riddled with pot-holes. Despite these, we did some pretty spectacular time, and reached Joshimath in the afternoon, and had time leftover to change the spring on Sandy’s bike, clutch plates on Prashi’s bike and loaf around the town. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/018", "url": "/trips/himalayas/018/", "title": "Valley of Flowers", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  22th of August Joshimath - Govindghat - Ghangria 40km The road from Joshimath to Govindghat is one way, and changes direction every three hours or so. It first opens at 6:30 AM, and closes shortly after that. So on the dot, 6:30 AM, we hit the road. We had already checked out, and taken a minimum of luggage, no spares and no gear (well, except our helmets). I guess we really were early birds, cause the road was practically empty… if it can be called a road at all. Bad is not the word. It was barely more than a dirt track, as frequent landslides had removed all semblance of tarmac. We actually had to ride through a stretch where a landslide was… well… land was sliding. We had to swerve to avoid becoming road kill. Rolling Stones don’t gather moss, but can easily gather bikers, as we learnt the hard way. Prashi slides on land. Unfortunate choice of words ? I don’t think so. 26km from Joshimath is Govindghat. From Govindghat is a 14km trek to Ghangria. At Ghangria is a fork in the road, the left going to the Valley of Flowers and the right to a place called Hemkund Sahib. Hemkund is a very holy Gurdwara which is open for 4 months in a year - July to October. During these months, huge numbers of Sikhs do a pilgrimage to this place. Ever heard of the madding crowd ? We got to see it. It seemed like half of Punjab was there, turbans, sarson-da-saag and all. All sign boards are written in Gurmukhi, and everybody sported a kirpan. We found a parking place for the bikes and got onto the route to Ghangria. There are 2 ways to do the 14km trek from Govindghat to Ghangria - Foot and Horseback. I chose the former, but Prashi and Sandy decided to play \"Cowboys and Indians\". This town ain’t big enough for the two of us… yaw dirrrty dawg We are in Garhwal now, and the guest houses are called GMVN (Garhwal Mandal Vikas Nigam) as opposed to KMVN. We continued our patronage of them to Ghangria. 4 and a half hours later, I trudge into Ghangria, well near the other tip of India from Udupi, I find Prashi and Sandy stuffing their faces with… Masala Dosas. Though not great, they were a very welcome break from our usual Aloo Parathas. All of us were completely tired from the trip up, including our intrepid horsemen. To quote Sandy, \"The horse took my ass\". The rest of the day, we just slept, or walked around among the crowds of Sikhs and foreigners who populated Ghangria almost exclusively. Michael Schumacher rides a horse!!!!!!!!! - Courtesy Prashi At 300+ kmph, Ghangria is a blur. - Courtesy Prashi The Flower Show #1 The Flower Show #2 The Flower Show #3 The Flower Show #4 The Flower Show #5 " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/019", "url": "/trips/himalayas/019/", "title": "The Flower Show #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  23th of August Ghangria - Valley of Flowers - Ghangria - Govindghat - Joshimath 60km The route to the Valley is between those mountains. The profile of those mountains look familiar ? Yes… the Valley of Flowers is in South India. We started trekking towards the Valley of Flowers early in the morning. We literally were the first to enter the park reserve that morning. Anyway, inside the park, we took quite a few photographs, and there’s not much of a story to tell. The photographs talk for themselves. Sandy and Prashi give a Patel pose at the entrance of the Valley of Flowers national park. A list of all the 54 species of flowers that allegedly inhabit the valley. My favourite is No. 11 - Sexifraga roylei " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/020", "url": "/trips/himalayas/020/", "title": "The Flower Show #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " We could not understand this tree… how ever did it manage to grow like that ? Nice cubby hole in a tree trunk Prashi has conquered a bridge… … over this stream. Sorry about the weird angle. I was still a bit groggy when I took the snap. Got everything right except the angle. For future reference, always use a tripod with a spirit level. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/021", "url": "/trips/himalayas/021/", "title": "The Flower Show #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " And finally, the valley itself…. … in full bloom! The glacier in the background is the main source of the stream we saw earlier, and the primary water supply for the entire valley. Some assorted macro shots of flowers we saw in the valley. Quite a few different species, but nowhere close to the 54 claimed by the board. The valley is, quite literally, the happy hunting grounds for bees. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/022", "url": "/trips/himalayas/022/", "title": "The Flower Show #4", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Some more assorted macro shots. Hmm… looks like there were quite a few different flowers after all. The trekking route through the valley. The sun shines down and really picks up the colours. \"Wow. They really do. All those pinks and greens…\" - Tina Carlyle, The Mask The whole valley, as seen from a vantage point. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/023", "url": "/trips/himalayas/023/", "title": "The Flower Show #5", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The fields of flowers. Assorted flowers - Courtesy Prashi Prashi does a Patel pose in the valley. Sandy and I do some Patel posing on a glacier. This glacier has melted in the middle. The stream we saw earlier flows through that gap - Courtesy Prashi From the valley we trekked back to Ghangria. It was about 10:30 AM when we started from Ghangria down. Prashi chose to keep up his cowboy shtick, and even got himself a floppy Stetson-like black hat. All he lacked was a gun and spurs. Sandy chose to walk it down this time. To quote, \"The damn horse took my ass yesterday. And I have only one ass. I’ll walk, thank you\". Prashi, horsing around. The walk down was much, much tougher than the route up. It took me considerably longer, and when I finally reached Govindghat, at nearly 4:30PM, I was hardly in a shape to stand. But, we had to get back to Joshimath, and the road only stays open as long as the sun is up. We got the bikes started, and headed back to Joshimath post haste. No marks for guessing where we stayed… GMVN " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/024", "url": "/trips/himalayas/024/", "title": "Chopta", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  24th of August Joshimath - Auli - Joshimath - Chamoli - Gopeshwar - Chopta 125km My legs were still out of commission when we hit the cable-car station first thing in the morning. The whole ride from Joshimath to Auli takes about 22 minutes. Huh, so much for the longest cable car in Asia. On the way up, we saw the ski slopes from the cable car. Although now they were lush green fields, in winter they are covered up with 8-10 feet of snow. Prashi gives a Patel pose in the cable car. The cable car pylons overlook the ski slopes. Sandy looks down at the slopes from the ski lodge More slopes, and a ski lift. This lift ferries skiers from the bottom of the slopes to the lodge. Ski Resorts and Log Cabins " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/025", "url": "/trips/himalayas/025/", "title": "Ski Resorts and Log Cabins", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Sandy and Prashi in the cable car. After spending about an hour on top, we headed back to Joshimath. Gear up, check out, hit the road. The actions were almost automatic now. From Joshimath, we headed down to Chamoli. At Chamoli, we took a diversion from the highway to a state road. This is a road that’s visible from Joshimath. I guess it might be military access only. Those guys save the best for themselves. It keeps winding up till it disappears into a glacier on the top. The main roads in these areas are access roads to military outposts on the border. They are maintained by a military wing called the Border Roads Organisation (BRO). The lesser used roads are maintained by the Public Works Department (PWD). In Bangalore, the tourism PRO had warned us that the PWD roads are usually in much worse shape than the BRO roads. The road from Chamoli to Chopta was a PWD road, and we were very pleasantly surprised. This road was way better than the BRO maintained road from Chamoli to Joshimath. We would have done good time too… except that it started pouring. Civilisation is very sparse around these parts, and there is a good 10km between tea shops on the road. The road to Chopta - Courtesy Prashi We reached Chopta early in the afternoon, when Prashi’s bike started misfiring from all the water in the air-filter. Sandy found us a nice log cabin to stay in. Although it looked very rickety, it was pretty cosy and, more importantly, didn’t leak. We slept comfortably though it kept raining right through the evening and night. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/026", "url": "/trips/himalayas/026/", "title": "Rishikesh", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  25th of August Chopta - Ukhimath - Kund - Tilwara - Rudraprayag - Srinagar - Devaprayag - Rishikesh 220km Chopta is a really small and beautiful village. About a 3.5km trek away is a temple called Tungnath. In good weather, it would be possible to see all the Char Dham (four holy abodes) - Badrinath, Kedarnath, Gangothri and Yamunothri, from Tungnath. But this particular morning, Chopta was shrouded in thick fog, and we couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces, let alone the Char Dham. Needless to say, we were still recovering from our trek a couple of days back, and Tungnath was out of the question. We were lucky enough to get a single shot of these snow capped peaks, before the fog and clouds covered them again. After a leisurely morning, replete with bath, breakfast, and lazing around, we hit the road at 10:30 or so. We moved about 10m and stopped again… Sandy’s rear tyre was flat. An hour, lots of grunts, groans and curses later, we’d managed to replace and re-inflate the tube. On the road to Ukhimath Luckily for us, the road was great. At Kund, we joined the national highway which leads to Gaurikund. Though the traffic was rather higher here, the road was excellent, and we kept really good speeds. It was around here that my bike had its first issue. My right cylinder was misfiring. On opening the plug, we saw that it was coated thick with carbon. Damn these fancy imported NGK plugs. I replaced it with a good old MICO, and we were off. A suspension bridge across the Alakananda. The highway is dotted with exotic riverside resorts with names like \"The Glass House on the Ganges\". - Courtesy Prashi Throughout the day, we always had a deep valley with a large river on one side of the road. To start with, it was the Mandakini, which was assimilated by the Alakananda at Rudraprayag. Alakananda, in turn, joins with Bhagirathi and is assimilated into the Ganga at Devaprayag. The Ganges takes a stiff hairpin bend below us. - Courtesy Prashi The road, the bikes, and the Ganga. - Courtesy Prashi We reached Rishikesh-on-Ganga well ahead of schedule, and spent a good 2 hours of the evening in a hunt for booze, till we found out that Rishikesh is a dry town. Dog’s Tail, Carol’s Garden I’m comin’ up, so you better get the party started Women and children, NOT first " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/027", "url": "/trips/himalayas/027/", "title": "Dog's Tail, Carol's Garden", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  26th of August Rishikesh - Haridwar - Roorkee - Muzaffarnagar Bypass - Khatauli - Meerut Bypass - New Delhi 230km Rishikesh town across the Ganga. The suspension bridge in the distance is Laxman Jhula. We started early from Rishikesh to beat any traffic, but it was rather futile. As we get closer to Delhi, the traffic just seems to explode. Initially, Prashi and I maintained 100kmph. Poor Sandy seized his engine twice keeping to that speed, so we dropped our pace to about 80kmph. Damn Madaan’s 535’s. The way it was rattling, it sounded more like a dishwasher than a bullet. Sandy and Ganga - Courtesy Prashi Along the way, people were amazed to see us. Everybody has seen bullets and riders touring with a huge load of luggage. For a change, there was somebody touring on a rundown looking Rajdoot, and keeping up comfortably with Bullets, no less. My favourite (for obvious reasons) incident of the day was a trio of guys on a LML Freedom who caught up with Sandy, pointed to my bike and asked, \"Boss, woh bijli kya thi ?\" (\"Boss, what was that bolt of lightning ?\") Sandy and I take a chai break. This was the last day the three of us rode together on this ride - Courtesy Prashi We reached Delhi early in the afternoon, and rode straight into Naiwallan in Karol Bagh. Sandy was really struggling to keep the bike going by then. It stalled in the oddest places and handled very poorly. We reached Madaan’s, returned the bike and checked into the nearest hotel. Sandy was very glad to see the last of that red beast. Ranga from Madbulls and Karan & Karthik from Royal Beasts met us at our hotel. Ranga was riding with us on the second leg, and was just putting the finishing touches on his bike. Chaithra’s flight from Bangalore was delayed heavily, and when he finally reached the hotel, it was almost almost 2AM. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/028", "url": "/trips/himalayas/028/", "title": "I'm comin' up, so you better get the party started", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  27th of August After a long time, we had the luxury of sleeping till late in the morning. We had a good old Kannadiga-style breakfast at Kamat’s and about 11:00AM, ambled over to New Delhi Railway Station and picked up Chaithra’s Thunderbird. Surprisingly, both the bike and our wallets came out unscathed. I guess it was just a one-off thing… dunno. Anyway, for lunch, we were back at Kamat’s. After two weeks of Aloo Parathas, even Raagi Mudde’s tasted great. In the afternoon, Karthik of Royal Beasts met us, and re-worked our itinerary. Our original plan was to leave Delhi post-lunch, but Karthik insisted that we join the Beasts at a party that evening and leave the next day. Sandy left for the Airport, as the rest of us packed our bikes and headed to the party at Karthik’s place. Quite some party too, it was. A Royal Beasts party is much like a RTMC or a Madbull party (maybe not quite as wild, though). Loud music, booze flows freely and dance floor. The one difference was the presence of super-hot babes, the kind that adorn our desktop wallpapers. But they studiedly avoid all bikers, and spent the entire evening on the balcony next to the party. Huh ? A minor ragging session ensued for Suresh of Royal Beasts, for the incident at the petrol pump at Bhowali. I am still at a loss at how he could have got scared of Prashi. Prashi looks like a strong wind could blow him off his feet. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/029", "url": "/trips/himalayas/029/", "title": "Women and children, NOT first", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  28th of August New Delhi - Karnal - Ambala - Ludhiana - Jalandhar - Pathankot - Madhopur 470km We started early in the morning… we were on the road at 5AM. We had long straight 6-lane highways throughout, it was a very boring ride. This was NH-1, the Grand Trunk road which, quite possibly, is the oldest highway in India. Rides and riders on the over-bridge at Ambala. Yes, in case, you were wondering, I was severely hung over - Courtesy Prashi Lunch at Ludhiana, after which we had some severe strong winds and threat of rains, but it passed. We kept riding past Jalandhar, and after a while we saw a very interesting sign post, which said \"Wagah Border - 37km\". Pretty cool, we thought. Might be worth taking a diversion to see the Paki boys close the gate in the evening. Except that… we were totally off route! From Jalandhar, we should have got onto NH-1A towards Pathankot, but had stayed on NH-1, which goes to Lahore. Now, it was either retrace 50+ km back to Jalandhar, or take an interior road to Pathankot. We chose the latter. The great thing about Punjab is, even the narrow interior roads are awesome blasting roads, better than an NH in Karnataka. We maintained our speeds on these roads too… well… at least until \"she\" arrived. She came in quietly, without much fanfare, from a side road, when I was tailing the three bullets. The green Palio slowly shrank in my rear view mirror, as we maintained our 85kmph. Lazy afternoon sun, full stomach and my brain switched off for a while. Next thing I know, my rear view is full of the Palio. No wait, cars aren’t supposed to go so fast on roads like these. Two things went through mind - Blast! Not too fast, make it last The latter won out, and I let the Palio pass. I watched as the Palio slowly pulled away… but wait, something was wrong with the picture. No sign of the boys. Fully chavi’ed, the boys are pulling 110+ kmph, with Prashi in the lead. With one loud \"Me toooo!!!!\", I drop a gear and blast past the Palio. So now four bikes are burning up the road, with the Palio in hot pursuit. We keep it up for a while, until \"Mr. Mad Bull\" Ranga sees a cow cross the road, and drops his bike. While we are helping him up, the Palio pulls over and waits for us to start belting again. Full time Chavi. We start moving again, and give no quarter this time. Well-weathered leather, Hot metal and oil, The scented country air. Sunlight on chrome, The blur of the landscape, Every nerve aware. We left the Palio way behind, and stop for a chai at the next crossroad. A short while later, the Palio pulls up, and the driver’s window rolls down. At the wheel is a spectacular looking Punjabi babe, all curves and ringlets. Our jaws drop. Riding shotgun is an auntie, and two kids, including an infant, are in the back seat. She flashes a million dollar smile. Our jaws drop. \"Aap loag JK jaa rahe hain\" ? Did I mention our jaws had dropped ? What a babe… what a babe! Whattababe!!! We spent some time fraternising with her and the kid. I didn’t get her number, and though the boys claim that they didn’t either, I have my doubts. Prashi, you lousy rogue, cough it up. Anyway, the rest of the day was uneventful. We reached Pathankot, it was still early, so we pushed on to a place called Madhopur, which is about 15km beyond Pathankot. Stayed at some PTDC cottage on the riverside. Had nice dreams that night about the time that women and children let the men go first. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/030", "url": "/trips/himalayas/030/", "title": "Srinagar", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  29th of August Madhopur - Samba - Udhampur - Batote - Jawahar Tunnel - Srinagar 348km Another long day of hard riding. Our original plan was to ride to Jammu, 100km from Madhopur. From Jammu, it was another 300km to Srinagar. Hours were spent discussing how we should do it, and whether we could do it at all… we just concluded simply: \"Let’s go as the road takes us.\" A few km beyond Madhopur is the Punjab - JK border. The nice wide 6-lane continues, and we kept good speeds till a police check-post at Samba, from where the mountain roads start. The cops there pointed out a much shorter route to Srinagar, bypassing Jammu entirely, and shaving 50km off the route. We stopped to re-fuel in Udhampur. From Udhampur onwards, EVERY 100m, is a soldier with an automatic rifle. Not lounging around with the the gun slung over his shoulder. They’re literally on full alert, guns in hands, eyes following you till the next soldier starts his glare. I’m talking a good 250km here, from Udhampur to Srinagar. We could measure our distance by counting the soldiers. Every 100m. We frequently passed moving patrols too. These are Gypsies or Stallions with a mounted machine gun. Every convoy is flanked by a few of these patrol vehicles. We weren’t allowed to stop anywhere, or take photographs. Pull out a camera, and within a few seconds, we have three guns trained on us. From what we could see, the highest population here are not Kashmiri pundits, or Kashmiri muslims. It’s soldiers, they are the majority population. It’s a complete war zone there. We kept weaving around convoys and soldiers, till we reached Srinagar in the afternoon. Though the road was very good, the constant military presence dampened our riding vigour. It was so surreal, we no longer felt like we’re in our motherland. All our lives, we always knew soldiers exist. We all had a cousin in the navy, or an uncle in the army. But it was always distant, somewhere else. Here it’s right in our faces, not numbers in a magazine article. Prashi and Chaithra in the Shikara. Srinagar! We rode straight to Dal lake and checked into a houseboat. The boat was phenomenal. It’s like a exquisite 5-star suite. Living room, dining room, kitchen, huge bedroom, running hot & cold water, all at the price of Rs. 700 a night for the three of us. That’s how hard people have been hit by the lack of tourism. I couldn’t have imagined paying less that Rs. 10,000 a night elsewhere for that kind of luxury. Late afternoon, on Dal lake. That evening, we did the usual Shikara tour around the lake, and visited an wood fretwork shop in a back-alley waterway. The old gentleman, who looked like he’d been carving wood since the dawn of time, gave us the grand tour. We bought quite a few of his creations. That night, we had a nice long sleep after a heavy dinner. Ranga, on the Shikara. Drass Code #1 Drass Code #2 Drass Code #3 " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/031", "url": "/trips/himalayas/031/", "title": "Drass Code #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  30th of August Srinagar - Ganderbal - Sonamarg - Zoji La - Drass - Kargil 200km The road to Sonamarg Zoji La is open to traffic only after 2PM, so we slept till late in the morning. We left the houseboat at about 10:30, and rode to Sonamarg. We reached Sonamarg at lunch time as the road was good throughout. We still had soldiers every 100m, but had got used to them by now. At Sonamarg, there is a diversion to Amarnath, but the road less travelled was our road, the road to Zoji La. For the first time, at Sonamarg, we felt the chill, the real Himalayan chill. It’s cold in the shade, but the skin burns in the sun. Zoji La! Those two lines are the roads we rode on. We ride up one, all the way to the end, take a hairpin bend, and then ride up the other. To give you an idea of the scale, there actually is a convoy of trucks on the lower road, on the right side of the picture. You can locate it if you look closely. We started up Zoji La at about 1:30 PM. The road condition deteriorated. My carburettors were still set rich for the plains, and in the thin air, my engine just couldn’t burn fuel properly. It struggled to pull up Zoji La, and grunted and groaned until Prashi pulled out a screw driver and opened out the air screws three-quarter turns. From then on, it was just Caman the Zoji La. The river Bheend. The road goes along this river from Ganderbal right up to Kargil. The incredible RD alongside the incomparable Himalayas. Jokes about the extra fuel on the carrier will NOT be appreciated! " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/032", "url": "/trips/himalayas/032/", "title": "Drass Code #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Prashi and Ranga kick up some Zoji La dust. Voyager and Nomad conquer Zoji La. What a pair! The Bheend river valley. The road we tool is the one on the left. The boys tackle a hairpin bend. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/033", "url": "/trips/himalayas/033/", "title": "Drass Code #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Majesty! After I took this snap, one of my gloves was missing. It had fallen over the edge into the valley, about 10m below. In fact, you can actually see it about to fall over, a couple of feet in front of the front wheel. I climbed down to retrieve it. That short trek left me completely exhausted. My metabolism had yet to adjust to the thin air. The riders, the road, the valley and the mountains. The complete essence of the ride in one shot. Need I say more ? – Courtesy Prashi Chaithra had a minor scrape late in the afternoon. Oncoming convoy and a pedestrian left him with no choice but to brake on gravel, allowing him to perform a nice little Bhoomi Namaskaram (Prostration on the ground). He was unscathed, but that was more than could be said of the bike. The headlight & dome were smashed in, and the tank was cracked and leaking. Chaithra, recovering from the spill. We reached Kargil late in the afternoon, and quickly checked into a hotel. Quickly unloading luggage, we set out to locate a mechanic to fix Chaithra’s headlight. The existing dome was could not be repaired, but a locally procured fake Yamaha dome was substituted. I do believe it was much brighter than the stock Royal Enfield Thunderbird halogen headlight it replaced. Some M-Seal on his tank took care of the crack too. We checked up on the route for the next day. All locals were unanimous on one thing, that Zanskar was unapproachable, and the road… well… wasn’t a road at all. Aah… we hadn’t come this far to be scared by such reports. We filled our tanks and my spare can, as we planned to be off early the next day. We expected that night to be really cold, but it really wasn’t too bad at all. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/034", "url": "/trips/himalayas/034/", "title": "Zanskar Valley", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  31st of August Kargil - Sankhoo - Rangdum 120km There’s very little to say. Sankhoo is about 30+km from Kargil. Beyond Sankhoo, all signs of civilisation end. No people, no houses, fields, animals, nothing. Oh, and no road either. Let the pictures tell their story. Early morning, on the road to Zanskar. The village of Sankhoo. An old model resident of Sankhoo The \"road\" beyond Sankhoo. Beauty is the Beast #1 Beauty is the Beast #2 Beauty is the Beast #3 Beauty is the Beast #4 Beauty is the Beast #5 Beauty is the Beast #6 Beast is the Beauty " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/035", "url": "/trips/himalayas/035/", "title": "Beauty is the Beast #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Ranga takes on a water crossing. All four of us struggled through the edge of this crossing, when a local on a TVS Victor cruised right through the centre. So that’s how it should have been done! The breathtakingly beautiful Zanskar valley. One of the few glaciers we cut across that day. A glacier just above the road. – Courtesy Prashi We had lunch at a small village on the way. The menu there consists of three things: Maggi noodles Cornflakes with milk Eggs to order I made do with some Maggi and boiled eggs, while the veggie boys (Ranga and Chaithra) subsisted on Maggi alone. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/036", "url": "/trips/himalayas/036/", "title": "Beauty is the Beast #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Ranga, through another water crossing. Caman the water crossing! – Courtesy Prashi Keep the feet dry! Keep the feet dry! – Courtesy Prashi Chaithra’s turn! – Courtesy Prashi " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/037", "url": "/trips/himalayas/037/", "title": "Beauty is the Beast #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Ranga goes splish-splash! – Courtesy Prashi Prashi does his stunt riding bit, yet again! " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/038", "url": "/trips/himalayas/038/", "title": "Beauty is the Beast #4", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Zanskar, in all its glory. These yellow-green meadows were common while entering Zanskar valley. The road and the scenery. The one picture that says why you must do Zanskar. The scenery gets better… and the road worse. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/039", "url": "/trips/himalayas/039/", "title": "Beauty is the Beast #5", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " A small pool of water, on the banks of the Zanskar river. The fountains mingle with the river, And the rivers with the ocean; The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; Nothing in the world is single; All things, by a law divine, In one spirit meet and mingle. Why not I with thine? — P. B. Shelley, \"Love’s Philosophy\" \"But the majestic River floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that high land\"   – Matthew Arnold, \"Sohrab and Rustum\" Nearly there! – Courtesy Prashi " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/040", "url": "/trips/himalayas/040/", "title": "Beauty is the Beast #6", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "A full day of hard riding, and we reach the village of Rangdum late in the afternoon. Village may be an exaggeration, though. It consisted of three houses, a shop, a police outpost and a Dak bungalow. No electricity, or telephones, or even running water. Parked, at the Dak Bungalow in Rangdum. The cows… er… the yaks come home in the evening. Maggi seemed to be the staple diet of all around here, as we had more of the vile stuff for dinner. We sat outside till about six in the evening, enjoying the sunset on the terribly bleak landscape. Around this time, the whisky in our glasses froze, and we had to turn in. The sun sets on the lunar landscape of Rangdum " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/041", "url": "/trips/himalayas/041/", "title": "Beast is the Beauty", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  1st of September Rangdum - Sankhoo - Kargil 120km Sunrise, at Rangdum Prashi and Chaithra were in terrible physical shape that morning. Prashi threw up everything he ate, while Chaithra just didn’t eat anything at all. I bought a few packets of biscuits at the shop. Very interesting brands: Pearl-G and 50-40. Both manufactured by a Tasty Biscuits Pvt. Ltd. with an address in Ludhiana. Frankly, the biscuits weren’t half bad… or maybe it was just my Maggi aversion that made me feel that way. L-R: Chaithra, Ranga, Prashi’s bike and me All set to leave from Rangdum. – Courtesy Prashi Nothing much occurred on this day either. More hard riding, as we retraced our route back to Kargil. We stopped at the same village for lunch. We had had our fill of Maggi, so we opted for cornflakes this time. Odd looks all around! Apparently, only Israelites eat cornflakes. Huh!?! The bikes didn’t quite survive the abuse of the last two days: Prashi’s carrier literally fell apart, and except for his saddle bags, all his luggage was moved to my bike. Ranga’s sidestand spring flew off, and was tied up with a handkerchief for the rest of the ride. My suspension, which was absolute top order until now, was screaming under the overload. Still, we were safely back in Kargil, Hotel Greenland. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/042", "url": "/trips/himalayas/042/", "title": "Leh", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  2nd of September _Kargil - Mulbekh - Namik La - Fotu La - Lamayuru - Nimmu - Leh (Choglamsar) _ 220km Ranga, all set to leave from Kargil. – Courtesy Prashi Brief version: We left early morning and had breakfast at Mulbekh. We rode through the day, passed a convoy, and reached Leh late afternoon. Awesome roads throughout, we didn’t even see a pothole in these 220km’s. Quite a far cry from the day before. And yeah, the magnetic hill and zero gravity zone are a load of hogwash. Nothing happened. Taken at Namik La, facing west. Believe me, this photograph just does not capture the magnitude of the scene. The highest point to the lowest would have easily been 1500m, vertically. Taken at Namik La, facing east. The small Buddhist temple at Namik La, with the usual lines of multicoloured flags. – Courtesy Prashi Pass the Salt, Pass the Picture #1 Pass the Salt, Pass the Picture #2 Pass the Salt, Pass the Picture #3 Pass the Salt, Pass the Picture #4 Polo " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/043", "url": "/trips/himalayas/043/", "title": "Pass the Salt, Pass the Picture #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The road goes along the Indus river and its many tributaries, so what you see here is civilisation in the Indus valley. More Indus valley civilisation. The heavily overloaded RD beams cheerfully by the valley. This group of girls waylaid Prashi and I, by forming a human chain right across the highway. We had to empty our entire stash of chocolates on these pint-sized terrors, or they wouldn’t let us go. Sweet bandits! – Courtesy Prashi " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/044", "url": "/trips/himalayas/044/", "title": "Pass the Salt, Pass the Picture #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Fotu La! Highest point on this stretch, as the board claims. – Courtesy Prashi Lamayuru! The monastery at Lamayuru – Courtesy Prashi The best, and only, public transportation in these parts. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/045", "url": "/trips/himalayas/045/", "title": "Pass the Salt, Pass the Picture #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " This old model looks mighty worried… she missed the bus, quite literally. Indus! The water flowing here feeds the world’s largest system of irrigation canals. There’s another monastery on the other side of the Indus. This whole route is dotted with may of these. A very unusual mountain. It looked like part of it was grated off. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/046", "url": "/trips/himalayas/046/", "title": "Pass the Salt, Pass the Picture #4", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Another monastery with a nice garden and all. Sometimes it seems that these monasteries are the only signs of civilisation. The magnetic hill! Apparently the a vehicle parked, in neutral, in the box is not supposed to roll off. I tried thrice, it didn’t work for me. L-R: Ranga, Bong, Prashi, Kedar and Chaithra. We ran into this pair for the first time at Nimmu, 35km from Leh. They have been cycling all the way from Srinagar. No backup truck, no supplies jeep. They operate just like us… except they use bicycles. Incredible! And finally, Leh! We didn’t quite get into Leh right away, when we reached. A bit of refuelling in the outskirts of Leh, and we headed to Choglamsar, 15km ahead of Leh. We stayed in a nice resort-type hotel, on the banks of the Indus. Right next door was the most important monastery in the Ladakh region. A quick wash and we headed back to Leh for dinner. We ran into our cyclist friends again, on the market street in Leh. The two are a very interesting pair. Bong (Abhijit Barman) is a professional outdoor guy, and has bicycled through most of South and South East Asia. Kedar (Kedari Gupta) is a professional driver who is into cycling in a big way, both touring and racing. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/047", "url": "/trips/himalayas/047/", "title": "Polo", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  3rd of September Leh & Choglamsar September 1st was the start of the 15 day Ladakh festival. Lots of shows, games, religious meets, carnivals, parades were all on the agenda. The whole of Leh was decorated with flyers and flags. Furthermore, Leh is the centre of Tibetan Buddhism in the world, ever since the Chinese occupation of Tibet. Every intersection has a 3 metre large red-and-gold prayer wheel. Small stupa-like structures can be found on every street corner. The third of September had two main events on the Ladakh festival agenda. The first was a visit by the Dalai Lama to the monastery at Choglamsar, and the second, a Polo match. We woke up in the morning to strains of Buddhist chanting from the monastery next door. Following that was a long religious discourse, which failed to sustain our interest. We did get a glimpse of the bespectacled religious leader, though. Our own agenda for the day was simple. Fix Prashi’s bike and get an inner-line permit. At ten, we hit the district commissioner’s office in Leh. While the DC himself was at the monastery, the office was still operational, and we got the permit in a couple of hours or so. The DC’s office is just next to the Polo grounds, and we spent our time watching the Polo match in progress. The rules are pretty similar to football (soccer), and the home team decimated the visitors. Did I mention we ran into our cyclist friends at the polo grounds ? On the way back to Choglamsar, we stopped at a welding shop and got Prashi’s bike carrier fixed too. The prayer meeting and just concluded, and the streets were choked with devotees leaving the monastery. It took us a good couple of hours to get through the 15km from Leh to Choglamsar. We spent the evening in Leh. Saw a couple of really fancy vehicles. We saw a Honda Goldwing cruiser with East Bangalore license plates, and a Mercedes off-road van with dirt bikes clamped outside. Oh yeah, we ran into our cyclist friends, again, at the German bakery. Searching for more bikes, we came across an RX-135 from Bangalore, whose owner turned out to be an old school chum of mine, Sanjay Bhansali. He’d ridden up with couple of other guys, including another school chum, Subroto. What a small world! " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/048", "url": "/trips/himalayas/048/", "title": "Nubra Valley", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  4th of September Leh (Choglamsar) - South Pullu - Khardung La - North Pullu - Khardung - Khalsar - Diskit - Hunder (Nubra Valley) 120km We checked out from the hotel in Choglamsar and headed north, towards Nubra valley. I’ll let the pictures tell the story. Leh, as seen from South Pullu The highest motorable Patel in the world! Highest No Parking Zone in the world. From Khardung La, looking south. From Khardung La, looking north. Rise of the Machines #1 Rise of the Machines #2 Rise of the Machines #3 Rise of the Machines #4 Rise of the Machines #5 Getting Leh’d, Again #1 Getting Leh’d, Again #2 Getting Leh’d, Again #3 Getting Leh’d, Again #4 Getting Leh’d, Again #5 " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/049", "url": "/trips/himalayas/049/", "title": "Rise of the Machines #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " L-R: Chaithra, Ranga, Prashi and me L-R: Me, Chaithra, Prashi and Ranga, with bikes. The temple and souvenir shop at Khardung La. Well, the souvenir shop is basically the wooden table to the right of the temple. It’s run by the military. – Courtesy Prashi Once you reach places like Khardung La, the best of us become Patels. We literally raided the souvenir shop. I got a couple of T-shirts, and the others got caps, hats, medals, key-chains… at least one of everything that was stocked. After about an hour there, we headed on towards North Pullu, and Nubra Valley. The town of Khardung. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/050", "url": "/trips/himalayas/050/", "title": "Rise of the Machines #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Throughout the journey, on all roads maintained by the BSF (Border Roads Organisation), every few kilometres we run into a yellow cement post with a clever quip. Some quips I recall are: This is not a rally, enjoy the valley Be gentle on my curves After whisky, driving risky Safety on the road is Safe Tea at home Be slower on the earth, than quicker to eternity Make love not war, but nothing while driving Live for your today, drive for your tomorrow Mind your brakes or break your mind Hospital ceilings are boring to look at. Avoid accidents Do not be rash and end in crash Accidents begin where alertness ends Don’t dream otherwise you will scream This is a highway, not a runway Drive like hell, and you’ll be there Don’t be a gamma in the land of the lama And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest! Prashi took a snap of this extreme sign in Nubra valley On my next trip there, I plan to make a photo collection of all these road signs. A SLR is too complex for the task. What I need is an easy-access point-and-shoot. That way, I can slow down, click, accelerate, all in one smooth motion. The Nubra valley is a protected wildlife reserve, probably the highest of its kind in the world. This was taken just inside the reserve. That’s me through the curves – Courtesy Prashi In this stretch in Nubra valley, the roads were all nice smooth tarmac, entirely devoid of potholes. To reduce the incline, BRO had built huge loops on the road. They’d also built dirt short-cuts, if anyone were inclined to use them. Very often, a 100m long dirt short-cut would substitute for a 2km long tarmac stretch. Ranga, who was in the lead, suddenly decided to take on one of the short-cuts. Indicator on, beep-beep-beep, honk twice, off the tarmac, 100m of downhill dirt, and tarmac again. In theory, at least, that was what he intended. He got as far as 10m on the dirt, and promptly fell off his bike. While Chaithra and I pulled over to help him up, Prashi decides to do some autocross practice, and takes off on the dirt, full blast, quite forgetting the large amount of luggage loaded on his bike. The luggage flies off first, unbalancing the bike. Prashi and bike are thrown into the air where he does a nice 180° flip, and lands off the track under bike and luggage and all, completely unhurt. I rush over to check whether he’s OK, but Prashi wants us to take a photograph first before extricating him! Oh, he was unhurt all right. Ranga, who had just managed to get his bike up, saw Prashi’s antics, and promptly fell off his bike again. There’s no end to our horsing around, as Prashi and I took a few more short-cuts further up the road. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/051", "url": "/trips/himalayas/051/", "title": "Rise of the Machines #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The actual Nubra valley. The river seen here is the Shyok. Further up the road is the point where the Nubra river joins the Shyok river. All these rivers flow into the Indus, eventually. There are may such small villages in the valley along the Nubra/Shyok rivers. Usually a small track leads down to them off the main road we were on. The first bit of desert we saw. The Nubra valley is home to the highest cold desert in the world. That’s me, burning gas and kicking ass, right through the Nubra desert. – Courtesy Prashi " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/052", "url": "/trips/himalayas/052/", "title": "Rise of the Machines #4", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "As the four of us rode amidst the sands, a Stallion pulled off the road. _ The Ashok Leyland Stallion, or ALS for short, is the most widely used military transport in these parts. It’s a work horse, and a war horse. With a 4-wheel drive and a turbo-diesel engine, it seems to go anywhere, do anything, scare anyone. Remember that old Royal Enfield advertisement for the Bullet ? \"Built like a gun, moves like a bullet\". The Stallion is built like a cannon and moves like a wrecking ball. _ As we ride past, a voice hails us from the Stallion in a distinctly South Indian language. The driver was a Bangalorean, and thrilled to bits seeing our license plates. Turns out he was an ASC (Army Supplies Corps) guy driving a supplies truck loaded with Scotch whisky. He wouldn’t let us go unless we had a few shots with him. I was all for halting right there in the desert, but Prashi convinced the driver that we don’t drink and ride. We did get a chance to look around the cabin. The driver had his own setup in there… a whole tray of boiled eggs and a bottle of Old Monk Rum. The boys and the stallion crew. L-R: The cleaner boy, Chaithra, Ranga, Prashi, the Stallion driver. Chaithra at the wheel of the Stallion. Prashi is dwarfed by the humongous stallion. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/053", "url": "/trips/himalayas/053/", "title": "Rise of the Machines #5", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The meeting point of the Nubra river and the Shyok river. I never really understood the geography here in Nubra. Take this picture for example. There’s arid brush, desert sand, meadows, a forest, and finally mountains… snow capped at that. And though it’s not visible, there’s a river flowing through the forest too. Hmmm…… We reached Hunder in the afternoon, and decided to take a couple of rooms at a Samba guest house. Now, this place had 3 rooms, and one was already occupied. Small world, small world! The one occupant was a Bangalorean, Sunder, an amateur photographer and biker, who was spending a good few weeks in Ladakh trying to capture it all with his lens. The German old-model who had dinner with us. We had a nice long evening with drinks and dinner, and we were also joined by a German old-model who had come to Hunder, trekking from Leh. We kept it up until it was too dark to see, and too cold to eat/drink. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/054", "url": "/trips/himalayas/054/", "title": "Getting Leh'd, Again #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  5th of September Hunder (Nubra Valley) - Diskit - Khalsar - Khardung - North Pullu - Khardung La - South Pullu - Leh 120km Early next morning, we started back for Leh. I wanted to swing by Panamik too. There is a fork on the stretch between Diskit and Khalsar. The left goes towards Panamik, and the right to Khalsar. Panamik is famous for its sulphur springs, and a dip in the hot water pools is said to be very therapeutic. Beyond Panamik is the village of \"\", the last Indian village. Any goats, fields and trees visible beyond \"\" are property of the People’s Republic of China. But the boys weren’t keen on doing the extra 70km to Panamik and back, so the plan was scrapped. Ah well, there’s always next time. The cold deserts of Hunder. The scenery along the road to Khalsar. A small mountain pool. More desert sands in the Nubra valley. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/055", "url": "/trips/himalayas/055/", "title": "Getting Leh'd, Again #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Riding along the Nubra river. For a large part of our ride in this valley, the road goes along the Nubra/Shyok rivers. – Courtesy Prashi Chaithra and Ranga, all set to ride on. This was taken at the fork in the road mentioned earlier. – Courtesy Prashi Close to Khalsar is a large open field which is used by the military as a Stallion graveyard. The field has hundreds of broken down shells of ALS trucks. The cost of transporting these wrecks is higher than their worth, so they have been dumped in this field, as an eerie attraction. The Stallion graveyard. – Courtesy Prashi Prashi poses alongside the wrecked super-trucks. – Courtesy Prashi " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/056", "url": "/trips/himalayas/056/", "title": "Getting Leh'd, Again #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Once more, it’s a pity that the camera fails to capture the true magnitude of the landscape. It is incredible how deep and how wide these canyons truly are. The canyons of Khardung, if you will. The scenery at North Pullu. Khardung La, as seen on the way from North Pullu. The radio relay tower seen in the centre is Khardung La. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/057", "url": "/trips/himalayas/057/", "title": "Getting Leh'd, Again #4", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The whole road, from Hunder, was completely deserted. Not just of traffic, of people too. Except for the occasional stallion, there was absolutely no signs of life anywhere in Nubra valley. We learned the reason for this at Khalsar: Khardung La is closed on Mondays. Some wise-ass district commissioner who really hated the Monday morning blues must have declared this. Ah well, good for him. There’s no stopping bikers anyway. Just a couple of hairpin bends below Khardung La, we ran into a huge slush pit, which was a good 2 feet deep to boot. It took us a good half an hour to get the RD350 through. While we struggled, a group of BRO workers came with a bulldozer. As soon as we managed to get the RD across, the dozer made a few sweeps across the pit, and the remaining three bikes got across easily. Dragging Ranga’s bike through the slush. – Courtesy Prashi Prashi through the slush, in his usual autocross style – Courtesy Prashi Prashi takes a Patel snap on the ice. – Courtesy Prashi Prashi highest Patel snap… at Khardung La. – Courtesy Prashi " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/058", "url": "/trips/himalayas/058/", "title": "Getting Leh'd, Again #5", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The road up to Khardung La, up from North Pullu. A glacier just above Khardung La. The first sight of Leh, when coming down from Khardung La. We reached Leh early in the afternoon. Sunder in Hunder had recommended a Tongspon guest house on Fort Road in Leh, and we spent some time hunting for this place. The place was definitely worth it. The rooms were top quality and quite cheap, the place clean and comfortable and the landlord was very nice and friendly. In the garden at Tongspon Guest House. We spent the evening walking up and down the market road in Leh. Did I mention that we ran into our cyclist friends yet again! We had an extravagant dinner that evening in Leh, running up the largest single bill of fare on this entire trip. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/060", "url": "/trips/himalayas/060/", "title": "Sarchu", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  6th of September Leh - Choglamsar - Karu - Upshi - Rumtse - Tanglang La - Pang - Lachlung La - Takh - Sarchu 260km I’ll let the photos tell the story. Each so eloquent that words are obsolete. Along the road to Rumtse. Tang Lang Lang Laaaaa, Dont Phunk with My Heaaaart – With apologies to the Black-Eyed Peas. Taken at Tanglang La, looking South. _It’s a long and winding road That leads, to your dome_  – With apologies to the Beatles Taken at Tanglang La, looking North. I have nothing left to say. Caman The Enjaiment #1 Caman The Enjaiment #2 Caman The Enjaiment #3 Caman The Enjaiment #4 Bridge on the river Chenab A Bridge too far " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/061", "url": "/trips/himalayas/061/", "title": "Caman The Enjaiment #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Like I mentioned earlier, many Ladakhis are adherents of Tibetian Buddhism. It is a custom among Tibetian Buddhists that one of the younger children in every family enters a monastery and is ordained as a Lama. Children are taken to one of the many Tibetian settlements around India to be initiated into the monastic way of life. We met a whole busload of children, accompanied by an elderly Lama, on their way to a settlement in Orissa. A life full of meditation, deep learning, chanting and philosophy lay ahead of them. One could hardly have thought that of the jolly, rosy-cheeked children who ran around and played in the freezing cold. Future religious scholars, all of them. Well, except Ranga and Prashi! More plains! More is pronounced mo-ray, it rhymes with essay. When I reached here, I stopped and killed the engine. In an instant, all audible signs of the dominant species was lost. The whistling of the wind, the rustling of the grass and the occasional bleat of a sheep were all I heard. I closed my eyes, and in my head I could hear the distant strains of a piano: \"Cantata No. 208: Sheep may safely graze\" - Johann Sebastian Bach. Like the good book says… The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name' sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever. –Psalms 23 " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/062", "url": "/trips/himalayas/062/", "title": "Caman The Enjaiment #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The wild landscape of the More plains. The road through the plains. The first long straight stretches we rode through in weeks… and also the last for some time to come. The Pang valley. A very steep descent to the floor of this canyon, and we’re in Pang. The Pang valley, looking South. Just after the above snap was taken, my bike gave its only major problem throughout the entire trip. When I started the bike, I noticed a substantial difference in the exhaust note. Leakage, from the manifold clamp. I assumed that my silencer gasket had blown, since there was also a considerable amount of oil leakage from around the clamp. The others had all gone ahead, and I needed to catch up with them, as Prashi is the expert on these things. I was a little scared to start the bike, and since it was all downhill to Pang, I just rolled down in neutral, with the engine off. A very stupid thing to do, but 23 hair-pin bends later, I got down to the Pang military camp all right. We discovered that the problem was much worse than I’d thought. The left bend pipe neck was cut! It had started because the thread had worn out on the holding bolt of the silencer. This caused it to become loose and induce a lot of vibration in the silencer and bend pipe. After much panic, argument, flaring tempers, etc., we managed to jam the neck in hard enough to hold. Ideally, it should have been welded, but hey… It seemed like my problem was gone away, but it would come back to haunt me later. And like how… " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/063", "url": "/trips/himalayas/063/", "title": "Caman The Enjaiment #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " A bridge at Pang. According to Prashi, this is the first time that this bridge has been up. To date, he has always had to ride through the river at this point. – Courtesy Prashi The Gata Loops start. A very steep descent into a beautiful valley. – Courtesy Prashi A first view of the loops. Yes, the roads are as twisty as they seem. – Courtesy Prashi Prashi going loopy! " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/064", "url": "/trips/himalayas/064/", "title": "Caman The Enjaiment #4", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The valley below the Gata loops! The view is so spectacularly beautiful and distracting, we’re in danger of going off the road on the twisties. Another view of the valley. The river is the Beas river, a tributary of the Indus. From the bottom-most loop. A short while after the loops, we reached the camp-town of Sarchu. Our original plan was to camp here for the night, but it was still early in the afternoon, so we decided to push on to Bharatpur. But 10km out of Sarchu, we meet the RTMC boys Adrian, Sam and Arun, on their way up to Leh. Talk about wild reunions! A short distance from the meeting point was an approriately named \"Poppy Tent Camp\". Pretty expensive place, but ideal for a party :- It had two-man luxury tents and a nice large central tent which was a dining hall, prayer room and party venue all rolled into one. We got very high that evening… and I’m not just talking of the 13500 ft above sea level. Adrian, all warm and smoked up! " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/065", "url": "/trips/himalayas/065/", "title": "Bridge on the river Chenab", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  7th of September Sarchu - Darcha - Jispa - Keylong - Tandi - Keylong 100km The three boys coming up bore foul tidings from the plains. A bridge near Khoksar was collapsing, and the BRO were not allowing anybody across untill the bridge was rebuilt. The boys were among the last to be allowed before they started dismantling the bridge. It was quite unlikely that we would be allowed across. The trouble was, this bridge is the only way across to Manali. L-R: Prashi, Me, Ranga, Arun, Chaithra, Sam and Adrian Early morning at Poppy Tent Camp, before we each went our ways. Morning, we continued our descended towards Manali, and beyond to New Delhi, as the three boys ascended towards Leh and the skies. The road detiorated drastically a short distance from Sarchu, and by the time we were in Bharatpur, even the few traces of tarmac around the potholes disappeared. Prashi through a water crossing. I wasn’t just kidding about the road now, was I ? On the way we passed the spectacularly beautiful Suraj Tal lake. Zimply Zuberb. First signs that we were approaching the plains… farms on the valley slopes. By lunch-time, we were at Keylong. The bridge was now fully dismantled, and depending on who we spoke to, it would take anywhere between three days and a couple of weeks to rebuild it. We rode on to Tandi to fill up, after we dumped the luggage at a hotel in Keylong. It was futile to ride up to Khoksar, since everybody was sure that there was no way we’d be able to ride across. We had a nice evening in Keylong with a substantial Tibetian dinner. A couple of other foreigner biker groups (Swedish, I think they were) were also stranded like us, and we had a nice time at dinner swapping stories of rides. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/066", "url": "/trips/himalayas/066/", "title": "A Bridge too far", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  8th of September Keylong - Tandi - Keylong 14km We spoke to some BRO engineers we met at breakfast. They were the most authoritative source of information we had found so far. They maintained that it would be a week at least, probably much more before the bridge was navigable. Bad news, bad news. We had to be in Delhi by the 11th. No slippage, since Prashi’s & Ranga’s flights were on the 12th, and Chaithra’s was on 13th. There was a small ferry of sorts across the river, hauled to either side by a system of ropes. It’s called a Jhula or cradle, and seats two grown men uncomfortably. Not only couldn’t it carry our bikes across, there was also a 5 hour long queue on either side to use the damn contraption. We spent the rest of the day researching alternate routes. Among those considered were: Back up to Suraj Tal, across Baralacha La, down to Kumzum La via Chandra Tal, then Lichu, Batal, Gramphu, Rohtang La and Manali. Distance: 200km to Manali, and 480 to Delhi from there. A marathon run, back the way we came. Leh, Kargil, Srinagar, Pathankot and back to Delhi. Distance: nearly 2000km, I guess To Tandi, and on to Udaipur. The locals claimed that the BRO had just cut two roads out from Udaipur, one towards Jammu and the other towards Chamba. These were not on any map, and all we knew about them was hearsay. Distance: entirely unknown There wasn’t much to choose from. The first route was closed, since there were many landslides near Kumzum La. The second was simply too much to be done in 3 days. It would have been pushing it beyond endurance levels. By nightfall, we were all set to ride into the unknown. I rode back to Tandi to fill up my can too, since I had little idea how much farther we had to go before refueling. By now, the number of stranded travellers at Keylong had doubled, and most were waiting for the bridge to get fixed. A few were also set to go back the Leh-Srinagar way. The Tandi pump’s diesel had now been long exhausted, and that left many with little choice. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/067", "url": "/trips/himalayas/067/", "title": "Gulabgarh", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  9th of September Keylong - Tandi - Udaipur - Killar - Gulabgarh 200km We got an early start in the morning, and rode down to Tandi. Just at the entrance of Tandi is a turn to the right, towards the Udaipur, and the Triloknath temple, which was reputed to be 5000 years old. The 45km ride up to Udaipur was a breeze, and we made very good time. Beyond Udaipur, the road just disappeared from under our wheels. What was left was a very rough jeep track. About 30km beyond Udaipur, we crossed a glacier from which a two-foot deep stream flowed right across the road. The freezing water of the stream was more than 15m wide. A bull-dozer was attempting to clear the stones under the water, but didn’t seem to have made much progress. Prashi makes his way across the freezer. So deep and rough that even he struggled across. About 50km from Udaipur, we passed the town of Killar (not on any map). This was the largest town in this area, not that that is saying much. We did another route check here. Our options were to push on to a town called Gulabgarh (not on any map), or take a diversion (not on any map) through a mountain pass called Sach La, and head to Chamba. The first would take about 4-5 hours, while the latter was a full day’s journey (9+ hours) in a 4x4, with no civilization enroute. Although the route to Gulabgarh was actually heading North again into Jammu, the dual advantages were that there was tarmac beyond Gulabgarh and sparse civilization along the route. Both of these were absent from the Chamba route. We decided to head to Gulabgarh. To boldly go where no one has gone before Tarmac, thou art a true friend Treading on our own footsteps " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/068", "url": "/trips/himalayas/068/", "title": "To boldly go where no one has gone before", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "The track further deteriorated to a glorified (meaning, slightly wide) trekking path. We frequently rode through slush and very rocky gravel, sometimes at inclines as high as 45°. The path itself was cut right into a mountain face. About 10 feet from the road surface was the cliff overhang, with a very steep drop on the other side which would have landed us into the Chenab river a 100m below. All the confidence garnered from a month of riding on rough terrain melted away as we gingerly tread this dangerous route. That said, the scenery was absolutely breathtaking. Thick virgin deciduous forests on either side, deep valley and fast river in between. Not too many photographs, since we had stiff time costraints and a back-breaking ride. Our hearts were all for photography, but the mind and body prevailed. What’s more, my left bend pipe, which had got cut in Pang, shook loose again under all the vibration. What started as a tiny bit of exhaust leakage slowly kept increasing throughout the day. The spectacular Pangi valley. The river flowing is the Chenab, one of Punjab’s five main rivers. For lunch, we stopped at a tiny hamlet of three houses on the border of Himachal and Jammu. By the time we were done eating, the initial population of 3 had swelled to 30, as people poured in to witness bikes doing a road which had hitherto been navigated by 4x4’s alone. As I stepped down to wash my hands, I had this unforgettable conversation with a local:     He: To aap kahan kahan hoke yahan pahunche?   (So which route did you take to get here?) Me: Filhaal hum Jammu-Srinagar se Kargil gaye, phir wahan se Zanskar, Leh, Nubra bhi dekhe, phir Leh se Keylong, aur wahan se Udaipur hoke yahan pahunche.   (We rode from Srinagar to Kargil, went to Zanskar & Leh, saw Nubra too, and then from Leh to Keylong. From there we got here through Udaipur) He: Aapko yeh militancy ke kaaran kuch dikkat to nahin hua?   (Did you face any problems due to militancy?) Me: Arre sahib, hume har jagah sirf fauji hi dikhe, militant nahin.   (Well, we saw only soldiers everywhere, no militants) He: Haan, hamara ladaai to Fauj se hai, aapse thoda hi.   (Yeah I’m sure, because our war is with the army and not with you.) This left me dumbfounded for a few seconds. Before I could look up he had melted into the crowd. A small pond in a grotto next to the road. With about 50kms to go to Gulabgarh, my fuel can carrier broke under the enormous strain. It was sheer luck that it didn’t completely fall apart and distend the entire 20 litres of fuel on the ground below. Fortunately, by now, all our tanks had sufficient space to hold the fuel. We emptied the can into mine, Prashi’s and Chaithra’s tanks. We tied up the can and carrier with a bungee cord, but without the fuel load, it wasn’t too likely to fall apart. Another view of the valley. It was twilight when we reached Gulabgarh. For a town which is so cut off from civilization, it seemed very large. Cricket ground, a high school, marketplace, main street, and phone lines. Even a bus service to the next town, though it was just one bus trip a day. It obviously didn’t see too many tourists, since there was just one hotel, and even that was only partly constructed. They hadn’t got around to building toilets yet. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/069", "url": "/trips/himalayas/069/", "title": "Tarmac, thou art a true friend", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  10th of September Gulabgarh - Kishtwar - Thatri - Batote - Udhampur - Samba - Madhopur 250km Like I mentioned earlier, the \"hotel\" in Gulabgarh didn’t possess a loo… but that’s just a matter of perspective. The whole world was our loo, so to speak. In boolean algebra, \"NOT hotel = loo\". So in the morning, we used the \"loo\", and hit the road again. About 30km from Gulabgarh was Kishtwar, a larger city which possesed metalled roads. On the way to Kishtwar, we were stopped at a CRPF checkpost. As we were signing his register, a CRPF officer who was from Karnataka invited us into their outpost for a cup of tea, and gave us breakfast instead. Awesome chapathis and chana. Was a very welcome break. The whole camp stopped to see the boys from the south, who’ve come where even the locals fear to tread. Kishtwar, and back on tarmac. I’d nearly forgotten how smooth riding could be. Except, the bike wasn’t quite doing as well. It was leaking so much exhaust, it sounded closer to a Bajaj Chetak than a RD350. We stayed on the road, and at about two in the afternoon, we hit Batote, and more importantly, NH-1A. This was the same road we’d gone thruogh on the way to Srinagar. We stopped for lunch at Batote. My joints were aching so much that I could barely sit. I took off my knee-pads to stretch my legs… something I’d never done before. After lunch, I forgot to put the pads on, and worse, left them at the hotel. I didn’t notice until we were 20km from Batote, and going back was not an option. For the first time in this ride, I rode without knee-pads. Prashi and I sent the thunderbirds ahead, and had our own ripping session. We were blasting past trucks, convoys, buses, ambulances, and gun-mounted patrol vehicles. We would have kept it up, except the silencer bend-pipe just totally gave up. At one point, the bend-pipe just fell off onto the road. We stopped every few km to tie it up, and each time, we would have to wait for it to cool. Progress was mighty slow. Adding a bit of spice to the situation was the weather. It suddenly started pouring. I mean, really POURING. Roads were flooded, bridges submerged, and endless traffic jams. Trucks weren’t confident that a bridge would take their weight, and would just stop, blocking all traffic behind them. Prashi’s Voyager started acting up in the rain too. The engine would just keep stalling, and we suspect water had clogged the air filter. Between my bend-pipe and his air-filter, we had to stop nearly every 5km for a recovery session. About 11km before Udhampur, while I was taking a nice smooth turn, I was concentrating more on the bend-pipe than on the turn, and was thrown off across the road at 60kmph. Nothing happened, though. Atleast, nothing that was apparent immediately. Picked myself up, picked the bike, and rode on to Udhampur. It was only later that I noticed the chest pains. At Udhampur, we found a gas-welding shop and got the bend-pipe welded to the neck. For the first time in a week, since Pang, by bike sounded like an RD350, and not a scooter with bronchitis. The chest pains were mighty bad now, and breathing was getting tough. Quick call to my doctor brother in Bombay, and was telephonically diagnosed as broken rib(s). \"No treatment\", he said. \"If it hurts too much, take a painkiller\", he said. \"It’ll heal in about a month\", he said. I say, \"Try riding 2000km with that.\" It was still early evening… about 6 or so. We had to get to Pathankot for the night. Prashi put in a word to Ranga to step on it, and we were at Samba, 45km of ghat roads away, within an hour. At Samba, we were back on NH-1. The grand trunk road. 6 lanes. Ranga led brilliantly, and in less than an hour, we were at Madhopur. There are about 3 Volvo bus drivers in Punjab who’ve sworn to have revenge on Ranga for overtaking them. Ranga, stay the hell away from Paratha-land. Painkiller shmainkiller. I had a nice stiff drink, and then it was like \"What ribs ?\". We slept briefly that night. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/070", "url": "/trips/himalayas/070/", "title": "Treading on our own footsteps", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  11th of September Madhopur - Pathankot - Jalandhar - Ludhiana - Ambala - Karnal - New Delhi 470km We had the earliest start ever that morning. 4AM we were up, and on the road by 5. Nice long straight 6-lane highways and very fast, but mighty boring. I was half asleep till we stopped for tea at about 7 AM. Right through the ride, I’ve had local people insulting the RD. Be it the cleaning guy in Delhi who said “Daal do kabaadi-wale ko”(Dump it in a Junkyard) or Juma bhai, the mechanic in Leh who said “Dus hazaar se zyada diya, to bekaar hai”. (Not worth more than Rs. 10,000). But the worst ever was on this morning. I’ve never felt so small… ever. A couple of highway patrol officers saw us at the tea stall, and walked over to chat. The three bullets really caught their fancy, and they spoke at length about how cool the bike was. Suddenly, they saw the RD, and said, “Arrey, yeh saikal beech me kahan aa gaya” ? (Hey, how’d this cycle make it here ?). A bit cheesed off, I said Bhai saab, yeh bhi 350 wala gaadi hai.” (It’s got a 350cc engine too.”). And I get the worst verbal slap ever. Haan pata hai. Mard log aise khilone se nahin khelte. (“Yeah, I know. Real men don’t play with toys like these”). We were in Delhi by one. That’s 470 km in 8 hours, with tea and fuel breaks, and an extreme brunch break in Punjab where I ate the best Paratha ever. It was then that I found out what authentic Punjabi Dhaba food tastes like. Prashi spent the rest of the day at his brother’s place, and left early the next day to Bangalore. Ranga, Chaithra and I found ourselves at another, albeit smaller, Royal Beasts’ party, this time at Karan’s place. " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/071", "url": "/trips/himalayas/071/", "title": "Rajasthan", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "  12th to 19th of September New Delhi - Rewari - Narnaul - Chirawa - Pilani - Jhunjhunu - Fatehpur - Bikaner - Phalodi - Pokhran - Dechu - Jodhpur - Beawar - Ajmer - Jaipur - New Delhi 1503km On the twelfth, we packed off Ranga and Chaithra’s bikes, and they were all set to fly back. My flight was with Adrian, Sam and Arun, on the 19th. Plenty of time yet. I hit the road again, late in the afternoon, and headed straight towards Rajasthan. First halt, at the alma mater, BITS Pilani. Most uncharacteristically, it started pouring soon as I got closer to Rajasthan. By the time I reached Pilani, it was about 8PM, and my battery was flat by using the fog lamp. I checked into the Alumni Guest house. The first time I have ever utilised its services as an alumnus. The next morning, the sun gave some brief and watery light \t\t before being drowned in all the rain. Here are a few shots I took \t\t around campus, things which have changed, and things that have \t\t not. Please excuse, while I delve into an orgy of quaint BITSian \t\t slang from way back. The Coop! That dingy shed behind the MC (medical \t\t center/makeup center) is long gone, and replaced by this grand \t\t building. Change: Better Inside The Coop is a a regular supermarket. \t\t \"Potato Chips on aisle 3\". \"Checkout counter 5 items or less only\". \t\t And regular full-time loki employees, not EWYLP scheming idiots. \t\t Change: Better The Vyas jail. They’ve sealed up the whole ground \t\t floor corridors on all sides. Look at the grill and stuff. The only \t\t way to enter is through the central archway. I lived 2 years of my \t\t life in this hostel, in rooms 234 and 282, and now it looks like a \t\t maximum security wing in Central Jail. Change: Definitely \t\t\t Worse Gandhi, without his usual dosage of Crow’s \t\t revenge. It must be the rains. He looks clean only twice a year. \t\t October 2nd and on the day it rains. Change: None, really Rajasthan, or something like that #1 Rajasthan, or something like that #2 Rajasthan, or something like that #3 " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/072", "url": "/trips/himalayas/072/", "title": "Rajasthan, or something like that #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Naked guy still holding his balls in front of the \t\t museum. Visiting loki aunties still pull their pallus over their \t\t face and say \"Hai Daiyya\" and \"Oui maa\". Change: None again Sky lawns, completely unchanged. Still have the \t\t amoeba, and the horseshoe. But you will notice that the lawns are \t\t completely devoid of trippers, and couples. I optimistially blame \t\t that on the rain. Change: None, and that’s good The sundial and the sky pond. Water looking \t\t cleaner that I’d ever seen it. Hey, but where is everybody. 10:30 \t\t AM on a boring tuesday, half of Malaviya would be hanging out \t\t here. Change: Really good The Audi. Never realised back then how grand it \t\t actually looks. Change: Only my perception " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/073", "url": "/trips/himalayas/073/", "title": "Rajasthan, or something like that #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The new library everybody keeps talking about. \t\t For once, a building in Pilani that is not that drab ivory yellow \t\t colour. I rarely went to the library even back then, not about to \t\t do it on a vacation, now. Change: Very good These sign boards dot the campus, at every \t\t junction. Dunno who finds it useful. Students know their way around \t\t even before the freshers period is over. Profs have all been there \t\t forever anyway. Change: Good Nagar redi, my breakfast, lunch and dinner. \t\t Nagar-ji remembered me, but had forgotten my room numbers though. \t\t Been here 50 years, he has. Change: None, and thats good The honours board. Parikh is there, wonder why \t\t Aman isn’t. Those three horror stories from my EEE class are all \t\t there, though - Mala Prasanna, Ashish Shah and Apoorva Karan. Wonder \t\t if they have a Dishonours board somewhere, my name would have been \t\t on that :) Change: Good " },{ "id": "/trips/himalayas/074", "url": "/trips/himalayas/074/", "title": "Rajasthan, or something like that #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2005-10-10T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The booze shop. Nice big boards. They still have \t\t that pig sty at the back where we have quaffed many a chill beer. \t\t Change: Very good Many, many brands are available now. Back in the \t\t day, we just had Knockout beer, ACP whisky and Old Monk rum. \t\t And 45 bucks a beer ?!? We used to pay 60, man. Change: Very \t\t\t good Yeah, and then it started raining. It rained right through the \t\t next 5 days, and I never took a single snap. Aah well, the next \t\t time, mebbe. Gives me an excuse to go to Rajasthan again. I need to do the city tours for each place. In Bikaner & \t\t Jodhpur, I just saw a couple of forts, a palace and a museum of some \t\t sort. I kept riding though long straight highway roads, with desert \t\t sands on both sides and continuous rain. Repeat ad nauseum, until I \t\t reached Delhi. Evening of the 17th, I’m in the outskirts of Gurgaon in a \t\t traffic jam, when my clutch cable gives up the ghost. I rode \t\t without a clutch till I reached Vasant Vihar, and then started \t\t opening the bike to replace it. All went well, except for 1 bolt \t\t which just would not budge. I tried for a couple of hours, then \t\t called Royal Beasts Karan, who tried for another hour. I spent the night at Karan’s place, and the next morning, we \t\t tried to open the magnet cover again for about 4 hours. Nope, the \t\t bolt would not turn a single degree. The groove was long gone, and \t\t we’d cut three more grooves through, each of which had slipped and \t\t gone. By the afternoon, we just gave up, and decided to head to the \t\t station and load the bike. We had a nice reunion at the station \t\t with Sam, Adrian and Arun, who also loaded their bikes with me. We \t\t spent the night at a hotel near the airport. Party right through the next day, till it was time for the \t\t flight in the evening. I’ll never tire of saying this: Kingfisher \t\t Airlines rocks. We even had a comedian Bihari pilot. \"Thees ees \t\t Captain Misra. Belcome aboard Kingpisser Airlines\". We had a large reception committee at the Bangalore Airport. \t\t Full RTMC-style riot happened, and we headed to our usual \t\t Indiranagar adda, the Beer Joint Pub (BJP to familiars). It was \t\t great to be back in Bangalore. Finis. The end. Yippity yappity yeppity That’s all, folks! " },{ "id": "/trips/kurinji", "url": "/trips/kurinji/", "title": "Kurinji Trip", "layout": "trip", "description": "A trip to see a once-in-twelve-years' flower bloom, with some wildlife sightings", "lastmod": "2006-10-20T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/trips/kurinji/kurinji.jpg", "paintings": [""],"tags": "", "content": "The Kurinji, or Neelakurinji is the flower of a shrub that grows across the Western Ghats. The binomial name is Strobilanthes kunthiana, and this particular shrub grows all over the range. The flower itself is a non-descript purplish blue thing, and rather small. But what makes this flower unusual is that it blooms only once in every 12 years. Given the way the shrub has proliferated across the hill range, when the flower blooms, the whole range takes on a purplish blue hue, giving credence to the “Nilgiri” name. Well, 2006 is the year this flower blooms. We made a quick trip over a long weekend, and threw in a quick wildlife sighting stop at the Chinnar Wildlife Sanctuary along the way. This stop was in the absolute wilderness. A small tribal hut repurposed into a guest house, by adding a few chairs and matresses. The hut itself was built atop a hill, which gave us a full view of the entire forest below. Several sightings ensued, including bison, elephants, and several birds. The next morning, we headed to Munnar, and again, into a small guest house deep inside the forest. Much better equipped, this guest house was on a cliff face and had comfortable beds and clean bathrooms. The highlight, of course, was the walk to the nearby hills which were covered in Kurinji blooms. A short and memorable trip. " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar", "url": "/trips/munnar/", "title": "The Munnar Bike Trip", "layout": "trip", "description": "7 guys, 6 bikes, 5 days, and one total blast", "lastmod": "2002-08-15T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/trips/munnar/27040009.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "There’s something emotionally satisfying about a bike trip. You don’t observe nature as you would a distant beast, like an animal in \ta zoo. On a bike, you are part of it. You experience the world and its myriad wonders. Just you and your machine, miles of good wholesome road and whatever ever else nature chooses to dish out. This trip was about as good as they come. 7 guys, 6 bikes, and the \tmonsoon rearing its gloomy head way down south, hill terrain, chill winds, pouring rain and thick mist. Woohoo!! Easha, Ligeo & Joy were on Machismo’s, Jahangir on a 500 City \tBike, Vipin on his Electra with pillion Arun and I was the odd man out on my CBZ. The ride was planned over an extraaa long weekend. Thursday, Friday and Monday off, giving us 5 days away from the sweat and grime of the city. The major highlight of this trip was an \"illegal\" sojourn at the erstwhile Coschen road, a route that is currently open only to trekkers who have managed to wade successfully through a veritable sea of red tape and get the \"official\" permission. These were shots taken on a fire lookout tower on this route, and then stitched together. You’ll have to pardon the quality, though. I didn’t have a tripod, and the shots were taken on a film camera. Moreover, this is my first attempt at stitching photographs. Bangalore to Munnar - Day #1 Around Munnar - Day #2 Munnar to Kodaikanal - Day #3 Kodaikanal to Ooty - Day #4 Ooty to Bangalore - Day #5 " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/001", "url": "/trips/munnar/001/", "title": "Bangalore to Munnar - Day #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Bangalore - Hosur - Krishnagiri - Dharmapuri - Thoppur - Bhavani - Palladam - Udhamalpettai - Maraiyur - Munnar We left early Thursday morning at about 5:45 from pizza corner on \tHosur road in Koramangala. We rode straight on down Hosur road, through Krishnagiri and on. We took a diversion before Salem, the Mettur dam route to Bhavani. This cut out Salem and Erode and then on to Udhamalpettai. The first 2/3’s of the ride was was uneventful, almost boring. One interesting thing we saw was a wind farm just before Udhamalpettai. There were these HUGE windmills, with massive rotors. They made a deep low \"whoosh\" on every revolution. Now consider that there were hundreds of these! \"Charge!!!!\" - Don Quixote \"The scream of the butterfly\" - Jim \t Morrison In the Chinnar Wildlife Sanctuary More shots around the Sanctuary Munnar, at long last! " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/002", "url": "/trips/munnar/002/", "title": "In the Chinnar Wildlife Sanctuary", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " From Udhamalpettai we went on towards Mariyur and reached the forest check-post. Just in time, it would seem. They don’t allow vehicles inside the sanctuary after 6. It was beautiful single lane forest ride inside the national part. The ride was totally awesome, as can be seen from the pictures taken. The TN - Kerala border is separated by the Chinar river, with a bridge over it. This river runs right through the national park. The bridge was down. No 4 wheelers could go through. Fortunately for us, there was a metre wide iron foot bridge, which comfortably accommodated our rides. Sights around the Chinar wildlife sanctuary. " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/003", "url": "/trips/munnar/003/", "title": "More shots around the Sanctuary", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " On to Munnar! The Kerala side of the park seemed better maintained than the TN side. Lots of beautiful sights around, and Ligeo stopped to admire. We rode on for a couple of km’s more and stopped for snaps and cigarettes. Mind you, it was getting rather dark, and these were about the last pictures we could get for the day. The sun sets in blue around these parts. How freaky is that! " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/004", "url": "/trips/munnar/004/", "title": "Munnar, at long last!", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "No sign of Ligeo. While waiting, we discovered what seemed to be a derelict \"Machan\". After an hour filled with much misinformation and confusion regarding Ligeo’s whereabouts, we rode back. Poor Ligeo’s chain had snapped! No sweat. The true biker is definitely NOT a boy scout, but he IS always prepared. Joy plugged in a spare link, and we were off. Sunset, through rain-filled clouds The last 45 kms to Munnar were something else. Rain, fog, steep ghat roads, and it’s pitch black. Often it was an effort to locate the tail light of the bike up ahead. I can be more descriptive, but I fear I shall run out of adjectives, right on the first day. Truly, the entire trip was full of such unimaginable experiences. We reached Munnar town proper by 7:30 PM. The road on to munnar What a ride the first day was! We finished off the day with copious amounts of alcohol and Kerala style beef fry. We were in a single 7-bed room at a 100 bucks a guy a night. Not at all a bad deal. Except that some of the bikers snore… I do not want to mention Vipin and Joy by name, and I do not want to point my finger at Jahangir… but these guys are so loud that they would put pneumatic drills to shame. Not that it bothered anybody, though. The big bang would have had trouble rousing us that day. " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/005", "url": "/trips/munnar/005/", "title": "Around Munnar - Day #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Munnar - Mattupetty Dam - Top Station - Coschen Road - Munnar We woke that morning in a Munnar entirely enveloped in thick fog. A nice Mallu breakfast and we were off to see the local sights. Still drizzling from the previous day, we headed for Top Station, reputed to be one of the best view points around those parts. En route, we passed through acres of tea gardens and reached a nearly dry Mattupetty dam. View from the centre of the dam. This should make a nice wallpaper. They ought to put photographs like this one in the travel brochure. The Dam View Tea World Top Station At Coschen Tower #1 At Coschen Tower #2 At Coschen Tower #3 Amma’s Decree " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/006", "url": "/trips/munnar/006/", "title": "The Dam View", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The left side view from the Mattupetty dam. The right side view from the Mattupetty dam. Tea gardens en route to top station " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/007", "url": "/trips/munnar/007/", "title": "Tea World", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " More tea gardens. Actually this is a continuous feature all around munnar. The monsoon rearing its grey mane. It was drizzling a little at the time this was taken, which is why the colours are a bit muted. This is tea world. Everything around these parts revolves around the beverage. The average restaurant carries about 7 different flavours of Tea! " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/008", "url": "/trips/munnar/008/", "title": "Top Station", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " L-R: Harish, Arun, Vipin and Jahangir. And Easha’s Thumper in the front row :) Top station offered a breath-taking view of one of the prettiest valleys I’ve ever seen. The actual view point was a short trek down from the parking place. I got down there to click a few more, while the others stayed back. \"Hey, if the bike ain’t going there, we ain’t\". " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/009", "url": "/trips/munnar/009/", "title": "At Coschen Tower #1", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "A short way away from Top Station was the start of the 80 km road to Kodai. All the locals concurred on one thing. The road was NOT navigable, and further, the road was blocked up at the Kerala - TN border 9 km away. We were planning to do this route, and things weren’t looking up. We decided to do a reconnoitre ride, up to the border, and take it from there. Vipin (and Arun), Easha and I started off from the deserted log cabin which was the \"forest check-post\". The first 2 km was smooth, 2 metre wide road through thick vegetation. We hit one very muddy patch where we had to wade through, and that was a turning point. After that we just had rocks and stones. This wasn’t a road, it was barely even a path. Motocross bikes would have had trouble here. A couple of km more and we stop to let our clutches cool, and that’s when we were introduced to our slimy pets - Leeches! Apparently picked up in the muddy patch. Couple of kms more, and Vipin gave up. He didn’t want to melt his clutch so far from civilisation. Easha and I carried on. Often we were at places where it seemed as though the only way was back, but we persisted. It paid off, the road got better after a few kms. Presently we reached a wireless telegraph relay station. The operators were very friendly and gave us the guided tour. A km more and we were at the border - A 25m tall fire lookout tower, a chain link fence with a notice stating that the road was closed to traffic (No really!) and an iron railing a little further on, reassuring the stodgy notice. And ONE HELLUVA View from atop the lookout tower. I emptied half a roll here. From atop the tower, Shot 1. From atop the tower, Shot 2. This was taken roughly about 45-50 degrees to the right of shot 1. If it seems like the photograph was taken from inside a cloud, you better believe it. Every few seconds we’d get completely engulfed and had to wait till it cleared a bit. From atop the tower, Shot 3. 45-50 more degrees. I was actually planning to take a series of shots covering all 360 degrees, and stick-em all together to get a panoramic photograph of sorts. Didn’t quite work that way, because for one thing, I had no tripod. And them damn clouds didn’t help either. " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/010", "url": "/trips/munnar/010/", "title": "At Coschen Tower #2", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " There were 8 shots in taken of the entire view from the tower. 360/8 = 45 degrees. Now if I had a nice tripod with a protractor on it, these shots would have made one helluva panoramic view. 45 or so more degrees to the right. Ok, this side was a bit monotonous in its greens, and whites, and blues, and greys. Some titbits. This whole route was built in the early years of this century by the British, who set up vast tea and spice estates in Munnar. They built this road to carry all the produce to Kodaikkanal. The road was inaugurated in 1929, by the two daughters of some British officer who was posted in the area. I wasn’t just kidding about the monotony, eh ? Hey, if anybody is good at manipulating images, could you give a shot trying to paste all of these end to end ? The road was maintained initially by the Brits and later by the Indian government till about the 60’s or so. It’s been entirely disused since then. Though, I must admit that I find it hard to believe that this road was used by transport vehicles. It wasn’t even 2 metres at it’s widest. Or maybe it was just a case of nature reclaiming its own after the ravages of man. " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/011", "url": "/trips/munnar/011/", "title": "At Coschen Tower #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " All right, one last shot and the scenery changes. Look at it this way. 3 of the 8 snaps were kinda dull. Which is a mere 135 degrees of 360. Fairly decent ratio, eh ? And the last of the 360 degree shots. Some more titbits. Locals claim that there exists, or rather existed, a narrow guage railway track which ran parallel to this road. But that track has not been used since the Raj times, and is completely overgrown. So much so that hardly anyone even knows where it is. This is the best shot of the valley. It’s also taken from the tower, but at a slightly lower angle. This is currently my desktop wallpaper. " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/012", "url": "/trips/munnar/012/", "title": "Amma's Decree", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Easha, standing where the buck stops. This is the Kerala side of the Kerala - TN border, and the board and chains have been put up by Amma’s minions from the other side. We could have squeezed our bikes through the gap in the chains, except that… a little farther on, we hit upon this. Whew, no way we’re gonna make it past this. This is like an addendum to the board and chains. \"Road Closed for Traffic - and WE MEAN IT\" Way back. We just put the engines in a low gear and coasted down, using only engine braking. No clutch and no brakes, or we would have toasted them. We meet up with Vipin and Arun, who were rather worried by now and were considering following us up. The three bikes start down, and shortly run into Ligeo and Joy, on their way UP! Now these guys were fed some cock and bull story about leopards and elephants, and came up after the rest of us. Now all of us head down, and run into some sodden ding-bats claiming to be forest officials whose permission we had omitted to take. Some yelling, some canvassing and a couple of fifties exchanged hands. The bleeding jokers were just looking to fleece us. 35 kms later we are nestled safely in Munnar in a cosy little bar attached restaurant. Joy, Vipin and Ligeo headed out for a new chain for Ligeo’s bike while the rest of us drowned… our joys ? Man what a ride that was. Easha says it was the toughest and most exhilarating one he’d ever done, Khardung La included. We finished off the day with a trip to a Tata Tea showroom, where they had plenty of the local produce. Oh, and I nearly forgot to mention… copious amounts of alcohol and Kerala style beef fry. " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/013", "url": "/trips/munnar/013/", "title": "Munnar to Kodaikanal - Day #3", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Munnar - Devikulam - Pooppara - Theni - Periyakulam - Kodaikkanal The rain wasn’t showing signs of letting up, but we didn’t let it bother us. The weather had its plans, we had ours. No one’s stopping for the other. We left shortly after breakfast, and rode on towards Kodaikkanal. This was a shot taken at the side of the road. The world, though blurred by rain, isn’t short on colour. Once more, with feeling. This stretch had a bit of everything. Pouring rain & blazing sun, dense fog and clear skies, winding ghat roads and flat plains. The road even wound through a minor forest fire of sorts. Everything was ablaze on either side of the road. We reached Kodaikkanal in the afternoon with the whole town shrouded in thick fog. A good hour spent in finding a place to stay paid rich dividends! We got this awesome isolated cottage with a complete valley in its backyard. Kodaikkanal off season is frequented purely by honeymooners. We stuck out like sore thumbs. We did a bit of sight-seeing, but not many photographs because of the failing light. This is one of the sights about the place. It’s called \"Suicide point\" or something, my memory fails me. Sights around Kodai " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/014", "url": "/trips/munnar/014/", "title": "Sights around Kodai", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Somewhere o’er these hills, not too far away is Munnar, where we were earlier today. This shot taken from Suicide point, facing west. The Boys at Suicide Point. L-R: Harish, Vipin, Jahangir, Easha. We did see the other end of the road from Munnar, with a forest checkpost. And of course, a large board stating that we will be prosecuted to kingdom come if we attempt it. This is an interesting signpost, at the entrance to the \"Coschen Road\". This is basically the same route we attempted the previous day. So it does look like the route was open to traffic not too long ago. L-R: Jahangir, Harish, Vipin and Arun. We spent the better part of the evening trying to get the fireplace to go, but eventually gave up to watch the Canadian Grand Prix qualifiers. Copious amounts of alcohol! Ralf on pole! Kimi spun out! Bison in the backyard! " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/015", "url": "/trips/munnar/015/", "title": "Kodaikanal to Ooty - Day #4", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Kodaikkanal - Palani - Udhamalpettai - Pollachi - Coimbatore - Mettupalayam - Coonoor - Ooty While Ligeo and Joy did an early morning disappearing act, the rest of us amused ourselves by doing the following, in no particular order. Drinking leftover booze. Taking photographs around the cottage Tightening Easha’s bike chain. … and in Vipin’s case, hunting for bison dung! Don’t ask! This is a shot of the Valley behind the cottage. The boys lounging around, waiting for the prodigal Cisco kids to come back. And not all of us are drinking Tea :) L-R: Arun, Jahangir, Easha and Vipin. On to Ooty " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/016", "url": "/trips/munnar/016/", "title": "On to Ooty", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " We started off, much later than planned, on the road to Ooty. Here are a few shots taken along the route. Ciggy break at a hairpin apex. The boys and their machines cooling off amidst the mountains. But actually, this route was mostly through the plains. The bikes are bent on getting a good angle on things. Shows what they can do if they’ve got the inclination. Ok, no more PJ’s, I promise. We had a good lunch at Palani, and saw a horrific bus-auto accident on the Coimbatore bypass. This kinda put a major damper on our spirits and we rode fairly slow from there on. The roads were fairly decent and this was an uneventful ride. We reached Coonoor late in the evening amidst the ever present rain and fog. Three options here. Stay at Coonoor, stay at Ooty, or stay and Masinagudi. In retrospect, we should have done either 1 or 3. Ooty has become this severely commercial tourist-only place where one feels suffocated, rather than free as one should in a hill station. We had to do a bit of running around in the pouring rain to find an ideal place. 7 beds and a TV to watch the Montreal race. Schumacher the elder won yet again, and Kimi finished a lowly sixth. Copious amounts of alcohol to drown my sorrows. The only consolation was that the Beemer boys Ralf and Montoya stood on the other two steps. " },{ "id": "/trips/munnar/017", "url": "/trips/munnar/017/", "title": "Ooty to Bangalore - Day #5", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Ooty - Masinagudi - Bandipur - Gundlupet - Nanjangud - Mysore - Bangalore Masinagudi in the morning, as seen from Ooty. A comedy of errors as the day started. Joy and I waited at the main circle while everybody took off with a personal agenda (chocolates, oil, petrol…). When a no show happened, we headed out of the town thinking we’d misunderstood the rendezvous. There Joy asked around and \"discovered\" that bikers had already passed by. Whoa! Farming on Kalhatti slopes Joy and I negotiated the very tricky 23 hair-pin-bend route from Ooty to Masinagudi. And then on to Bandipur. It was here that we first realised that the others were probably behind us. Note to self: Never let Joy handle investigations in the future. This shot ought to give you an idea of exactly how steep the hairpin bends were. We descended We had lunch at Nanjangud, and waited for an hour, but obviously, the others were too far behind. To alleviate the boredom, we rode on to Mysore and waited some more. The whole group was re-united here with shouts of \"What were you guys thinking\" and \"Couldn’t you have waited\". The rest of the journey on the Bangalore-Mysore road was uneventful, and mostly boring. The boys ate the bird at Channapatna (whatzit ? a partridge ?). We stopped at \"The Club\" just outside the city before we parted ways towards home. Rather the long way around from \"Pizza Corner\" to \"The Club\". " },{ "id": "/trips/nagarhole", "url": "/trips/nagarhole/", "title": "Snake River and Fat Man's Daughter", "layout": "trip", "description": "A first glimpse of Coorg... or rather, a small part of Coorg.", "lastmod": "2004-09-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/trips/nagarhole/32.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "I’d been planning a solo road-trip-cum-trek for some time. Just thinking about the open highway and unlimited greens gives me goose-bumps. I decided to head towards Coorg. I’d never been to Coorg before, if you disregard a school trip to Talacauvery. I’d heard a lot oohs and aahs about the place… well, thought I’d see for myself. The plan was to leave Saturday morning, drive to Nagarhole national park, do the safari in the evening and find some place to grab some zzz’s. The Sunday plan was to trek to the top Tadianda Mol. Tadianda Mol is the tallest peak in Coorg, Though it is shorter than Mullainagiri or Bababudanagiri (in Chikmagalur), it’s much prettier. Friday night at 7:00 PM Ujjal calls to say he’s coming too, and at 11:00 PM I get a similar call from Archana. So now my solo plan’s a three person affair. Ah well, in the immortal words of Mick Jagger, \"You can’t always get what you want\". I leave home at 5:30 AM on Saturday, the 8th of November. The street lights are still on and the sleepy Bangalore roads are entirely deserted. I made it to Ujjal’s place in record time, only to find the lazy bum was still asleep, and hadn’t packed yet. It was 7:00 AM by the time we made it to Archana’s place, and then Realisation strikes! I have forgotten to pack my camera. So quick re-route happens, and I decide to take the Kanakpura route instead of Mysore Road. Longer, more scenic, and most importantly, my home’s on the way. Note to self: Throw that silly road atlas and get a decent one. I reached Kanakpura, took a wrong turn and found myself back on Mysore road, which has to be the single most congested highway ever. The only bright side was that we got to have a nice breakfast at Kamat’s in Ramnagaram. The freaky shot you see here was taken in Kamat’s restaurant between a whole lot of banana trees. Don’t try to make sense of it. It’s just what it seems:- An riotous mayhem of colour. We reached Mysore by about 10:00 AM, navigated through its formidable maze of streets to get on the route to Hunsur. Hunsur is on the national highway connecting Mysore to Mangalore. Despite that, there wasn’t too much traffic, and we made good time. At Hunsur is a detour off the national highway to a state highway which goes right to Nagarhole. This stretch of highway was very quiet and had very little traffic. We reached the Nagarhole park rangers outpost at about 1:00 PM. This shot was taken on the lonely state highway. Just as we entered the park, we saw this very domesticated elephant being led along. The majestic pachyderm ambled along at a dignified pace, while I clicked away. My camera’s batteries gave up on me again. It was the fake batteries I had bought at Sirsi. The battery indicator was flashing throughout the trip, and often the camera would just shut down. This was the last halfway decent snaps I could get out of my camera for the whole trip. Very regrettable indeed. Spotted, Spotted Beef! Fat Man’s Daughter " },{ "id": "/trips/nagarhole/001", "url": "/trips/nagarhole/001/", "title": "Spotted, Spotted", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-09-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " We spotted spotted deer (Hah! I was waiting to use that one) lazing by the highway, quite unafraid. I suppose diesel engines and lens-men are everyday sights to these gentle beasts. You’ll see a lot more of the red line now. It’s a shutter problem which happens because of weak batteries. God, this is the last time I venture out without spares. We also saw quite a few wild dogs. These creatures look very much like foxes and move in fair-sized packs. They completely ignored our jeep, but moved away when I tried to get a closer shot. Sorry about the screwy shot that I did manage to get. We reached the park guides’ office shortly before 2:00PM. Safaris started at 3:00p, so to killed time we checked out this waterfall in a neighbouring national park. The falls were called Irpu falls, but I forgot the name of the park. Some Belangiri or something. We stopped for lunch at a small village called Kutta on the Kerala border. No one spoke Kannada there, and the few conversations in my halting Mallu were awkward, to say the least. I really should make an effort to learn proper Mallu someday… it’s my mother tongue after all. " },{ "id": "/trips/nagarhole/002", "url": "/trips/nagarhole/002/", "title": "Beef!", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-09-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " We got back to the guide’s office at about 4:30 PM, and started the safari. The guide came in my jeep. We saw plenty of bison, spotted deer and sambhar. We also saw 3 wild boars (Yay!!!). Man, those boars move real fast. I got some shots of all of these, but most were real bad. So I got creative with the photos. Here’s a female bison, supposedly done in crystals. Shrug. More bad bison shots, more creativity. This alpha male’s done in water colours. Not half bad, eh ? A sambhar peeps up from its watering hole at the sound of the diesel engine. We saw this huge gang of wild dogs at one place. They took off when the jeep came. They had killed a spotted deer and were literally picking the bones clean. I got some snaps of the carcass (or what was left of it). The main deal with the park is supposed to be its large population of wild elephants. We went looking for them near another watering hole 4km away, but couldn’t find any. The guide saw the tracks and said that we had just missed them. Too bad, but that wasn’t all. More happened the next afternoon. It would have been ultimate if we got to see tigers, but there are just 68 of them in 643 acres, as of the census 3 years ago. The likelyhood of seeing one is rather slim. But the guide told us that if we came early in the morning, we might actually catch many animals right on the main road. Apparently a week ago, tigers were sighted this way. " },{ "id": "/trips/nagarhole/003", "url": "/trips/nagarhole/003/", "title": "Fat Man's Daughter", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-09-12T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "We had dinner in Virajpet, or Virarajendrapet, as it’s marked in my atlas. We knew it wasn’t too far from there to the base of Tadianda Mol. Our first attempt at getting directions from the restaurant folks drew a complete nought. Worse, they gave us wrong info. Can’t say I blame them, because the restaurant was also a hotel, and they were scoping us as potential patrons. But we did get good directions from a random dude on the road, and set off to the Nalknad palace, from where the trail starts. We made it up to the detour off the main road to the palace. Too tired to press further, we just plopped our gear at the bus stand and nodded off. We started early next morning, and after a few wrong turns through endless coffee estates, we eventually found the palace. A quick wash in the stream and we hit the trail. The palace was 6km from the top. We started trekking at about 8:30 AM. This snap was taken quite close to the trail head. I’ve rarely seen sights like these. Very magnificent. We took a small break at a coffee plantation enroute. Ujjal decided to get the folks there to make us some ultra-fresh coffee. The poor couple obliged, and concocted one of the best cups of black coffee I’ve ever had. That was a real eye opener. This snap was taken from the plantation. Tadianda Mol is somewhere behind the cloud cover. This was the last snap I could take before all the juice ran out of the batteries. The clouds shifted before we reached, though. We reached the top fairly fast, in a little over 2 hours. We spent a good hour and a half there taking in the fantastic view before we started back. Now, this place Tadianda Mol is almost on the Kerala border. And the name makes no sense in Kannada, so I guessed that it was a mallu name since I knew Mol meant daughter in Mallu. I thought the place was named for someone’s daughter, but later I found out that it meant \"Fat Man’s Daughter\". Man that was too funny. We didn’t see a single soul on the whole trek… almost. On the way back, there’s this hot looking babe with an SLR heading up with a guy who was obviously a driver or porter or something. She thought she was just 1km away. I told her she could expect a 3 hour trek ahead of her and it was 5km to the top from there. 15 mins later, this babe passes us in a jeep. I ask her if she gave up, and this is what she said, quote unquote: “I came here looking for something specific, but I couldn’t find it. So I’m going back.” We reached the palace at 2:30 PM and started back for Bangalore. The route back is through Nagarhole again, and I was clipping at about 90kmph. The speed limit in the park is 30kmph. Suddenly, we see this one wild elephant at the side of the road. I brake hard, with skid marks at all. The elephant looks at us and trumpets loudly. No one wanted to stay to take snaps after that, I took off. I was in a Mahindra Jeep, but a potentially pissed elephant is no contest. All in all, it was an entirely successful trip. We did everything we planned to do, and saw everything we wanted to see. Almost perfect, bar the trifling problem with batteries. We made it back to Bangalore late at night. My legs were killing me. Remember I’d driven 750km in 2 days, apart from the trek. What a complete trip. We got ooohs, aaahs, and one hell of an ouch! " },{ "id": "/trips/rafting", "url": "/trips/rafting/", "title": "The Udupi Trekking and Rafting Trip", "layout": "trip", "description": "A quick weekend getaway for some white water rafting and trekking", "lastmod": "2004-07-05T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/trips/rafting/title.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "Friday, 9PM It’s monsoon time again, thank heavens. The scenery is greener, the rivers and waterfalls are in full spate, the air is crisp and life in the city sucks. No wait, that last bit is year round, not seasonal. I squirm my way through the wretched city to the bus stand. We are off to the ghats in Udupi for some rafting and trekking. Water, fresh air, wide open spaces filled with green, green, green. Damn why do I always have to be the first in the bus stand ? Saturday, 3AM Greece WON ? Greece WON !! I can’t believe I missed the match. The bus has stopped for a short break just after Hassan at a typical highway all-nighter. Shrill music, over-priced, bad-tasting tea and stale food. God it’s good to be back on the road again ! Saturday, 8AM Our bus reaches Hebbri town, at long last. It has taken us 10 hours to get here from Bangalore. A forest department jeep awaits us, and leads the bus to the nature camp. Off the bus, we meet the team from Adreno. Manju is the main man, he runs the camp and is the senior rafting instructor. Assisting him are his team which includes Bharath, Sanjeev and Adil. The camp comprises a scattering of dormitories, large gazebos, some asbestos roofed tents… kind of like a stripped down version of a jungle lodge resort. The place is bare-bones, not meant for people who want mattresses and running hot water. For us, it’s like five-star accommodation, compared to our usual camping places of bus-stands, temples and school corridors. A sumptuous breakfast awaits us in the largest gazebo, which doubles as a dining hall. Santosh from Mangalore and Sid from Mysore join us, and our ranks swelled to 24. Ujjal split the whole group to two batches. In an hour, give or take a little, 16 of us, also known as the first batch, are all decked up in life jackets ready to do some RAFTING! Saturday, 1PM We, the first batch that is, have just finished rafting down the river. There were only two noteworthy rapids all the way, but the water was quite fast throughout, so we didn’t need to paddle our arms to the bone. There is more than one way to commit suicide. Haider’s Way #18: Jump out of a raft going through rapids. Except that, Haider couldn’t get a foot underwater with his life jacket on. We did re-christen the first rapid after him… \"Haider’s fall\". Saturday, 3PM The second batch of rafters have just taken off. Darn these modern high-tech parents, they’ve actually left behind a bawling little 5 year old girl behind them. We take the little girl along with us on a trek, led by Sanjeev of Adreno. Our target: find a nice spot in the river where we can jump in, en masse. Santosh from Mangalore took off here… he had other plans apart from rafting, apparently. 15 of us, the little girl and Sanjeev are all that’s left. Of course, the remaining eight are out on the raft…. Three in the afternoon, still laden with lunch, we head out from behind the nature camp in the general direction of the village. The girl, who primly declares that her name is Shalasha, quickly warms up to the lot of us. Saturday, 4PM Ok, we’re lost in the jungle. Sanjeev started off very confidently, but the path disappeared a while ago, and we’re now just meandering through the brush. A short while back we came across this centipede, who Ms. Shalasha thinks is \"gross\" ! Saturday, 5PM Still lost. Ms. Shalasha thinks the jungle is very messy and dirty, and plans on having a stern talk with the \"king of the jungle\" about that. It has been quite some time since we saw the sun, too… the thick foliage completely blocks out the rays. Saturday, 6PM The riverside, at last. Pure luck got us to a cottage in the jungle, where Sanjeev got directions to the main road. We diligently follow the road to this lovely spot on the river bank where we just jump right in. Haider gives us a very creditable demonstration of a dead fish. He jumps in upstream and plays dead, floating downstream until he came abreast of us. Usually about this time the current gets hold, and he’s moving at a brisk pace. He suddenly realises if he’s washed away, he would be dead human, not dead fish, and starts flailing his arms furiously. He perfects his technique by repeating said procedure about 281 times. There is more than one way to commit suicide. Haider’s way #22: Pretend to be a fish when Bongs are around. Wet and tired, we start walking back to the camp. Main road only this time, please. Saturday, 9PM We’ve spent the past few hours, sitting in the dark dinner gazebo talking about who we are, and what we’ve done. A few interesting moments there, when some folks came forth with hilarious gems. We’ve just had dinner and are trying to decide what the best plan for tomorrow would be. Our primary constraints: The women are leech-phobic (I’m sure there’s a word for that!) We have to get the Bangalore bus at 8:30 from Mangalore, and Not everyone is comfortable with a strenuous trek. The beach thingie is right out… too many clouds and too much rain. It wouldn’t be any fun at all. Two nice options left are the trek from Kigga to the top of Narasimha Parbat and the trek to Kodalu Theertha waterfall from Nallikatte village. The former is relatively strenuous and requires us to take a forest department guide along, while the latter is abundant in leeches. We (meaning, mostly me) feed everyone with some lies, damned lies and statistics. Practically flat ground. Just a few leeches. And even those are only near water. No, you do not look fat in that dress. There are WMD in Iraq. Sunday, 5AM Black Sabbath starts playing \"Paranoid\". Tum Tum Tum, Ta-ra-Ta-ra Ta-ra-Ta-ra, Tum Tum Tum,…. No wait, Ozzy isn’t singing. Sing, Ozzy, sing. You know the song, you… Bam! I’d like to know what possessed me to set my alarm ringtone to Black Sabbath. It’s five fucking AM, time when honest folk should be going to bed. Why am I up ? Five, ten, fifteen minutes. Where am I ? Why am I an a sleeping bag ? Who’s this GUY next to me ? Twenty, twenty-five, half an hour. Ok, let’s approach this rationally, rebuilding answers starting from what I remember last. Who am I: Ok, I definitely remember that. Whew! Where am I: Look around… life jackets… paddles… ah ha, I got it. I’m in the dormitory at the rafting place. What was it again ? Someshwara Nature Park. Now I’m almost awake. Why am I up: Ok, now I remember this one… I have to go to Hebbri with Sriram and get a bus to Nallikatte. Finally, and most importantly… The guy next to me: Hmm… I’ve no idea who he is. I walk down to the bank of the river Sita to brush my teeth. One very seasonal river, this Sita is. It starts in the Agumbe hills, and empties into the Arabian sea, barely 100km long in all. A short while later, I’m all packed, nibbling at my breakfast of chow-chow bath. Eat up, pal, we have a hefty trek ahead of us. It’s 8 km from Nallikatte to the Kodalu Theertha waterfall. Sunday, 8AM The bus door opened the lot of us just poured out, kind of like opening a warm can of coke. Man, that was one tight squeeze. We’re at Nallikatte at last. Just 8 km away from what I remember to be the most magnificent waterfall in this part of the Ghats. Shriram, Haider and I got this minibus near the Hebbri bus stand to pick up everybody at the camp and deposit us here. The cheeky driver refused to come again to take us back, but did fix us up with a local Trax owner who said he’d stick around at 3 PM, and ferry us to Hebbri. Sid takes off home to Mysore, saying he hadn’t planed on a trek too. We’re now down to 22. We start off on the path, which is initially about the width of a jeep track. Extremely nervous looks are on most faces. Leeches suck blood, don’t you know ? 8 km is a long way ! Will it rain ? Should I have worn socks and shoes ? Sunday, 9AM Shrill screams of \"Get it off! Get it off!\" are still echoing from the mountains. The girls, the most leech-phobic, are having a real bad time. They can’t bear to look at the leeches, let alone touch or remove them. And if that ain’t bad enough, the path is becoming steeper too… The sad part is the beauty of the place is entirely lost on most of the trekkers. While everybody is busy looking down, careful where to step, searching for tell-tale red spots on their clothes… a very beautiful jungle scenery just passes us by. Foul looks all around. A good number of people look about ready to flay me to death and leave my body for the leeches to finish off. Sunday, 10AM YES! YES! YES! What a sight ! A huge, nearly 20 metre tall white curtain of water roars down. The air is thick with the spray off the waterfall which empties into a large waist deep pool. We’ve made it! All 22 of us have atleast a dozen leech bites each. Grouchy expressions instantly change to pure amazement and exhilaration at the awesome sight. I internally breathe a sigh of relief, when nobody yells \"This was SO not worth it\". Thank god for mother nature and her therapeutic beauty. Most of us just drop our backpacks and footwear and dive into the pool. The spray here in the pool is so strong it actually sears our skin as we get closer. Even with spectacles, it’s quite a feat to look into the waterfall from here. It’s the ears which sting the most, by the way. Backs, arms, head, neck, we can handle, but the ears… the ears are sheer murder. Strong wind blows outward from the direction of the waterfall. It’s this wind which carries much of the spray away. The force of the spray is roughly about the same as very very heavy rain. The whole gang spends a good hour in the water, maybe more. We finally dry ourselves as best we can, and start back, and the heavens chose just that moment to let go. Rain pours down as we trek back through the forest, but it hardly bothers anybody. Huh, that the best you can do, cloud boy ? Kodalu Theertha can kick your arse buddy, and we’ve been there, done that. Sunday, 12Noon There’s something to be said for this waterfall therapy, I think. People have actually warmed up to the leeches. Some simply ignore them, whereas others prodly display them. A small group is having a bleeding competition. For future reference, the best, and so far, only way to kill a leech is to douse it in table salt. Cigarettes, they just slither away from. Tobacco, they chew with relish! You can’t squash them… they’re too slimy. No, the only way to kill these resilient bastards, is a tin of Catch! Sunday, 1PM It’s one in the afternoon, and we’re just back from the trek. The last bus out of this place is at half past one. We didn’t think we’d get back this soon, which is why we’d arranged with the Jeep guy to to get us to Hebbri at 3. But now, we can actually take the bus. We’ve underestimated everybody’s stamina, apparently. I think our slimy parasitic friends from the Hirudinea family pushed everybody beyond what they thought they were capable of. All 22 of us laze around the mud thatched bus stand of Nallikatte. While some of us still have wet clothes, the others sneak away with backpacks to change to dry ones. Some are still bleeding profusely from various places on their feet. Facing us is a beautiful idyllic village. A mud-thached house, a bustling farm beyond it, a flowing river to the side. Far away we can see the green hills of Agumbe, the tops of which are shrouded in dark rain clouds. The sun shines occasionally, warming us up a little. The only discordant note, such as it is, is ourselves. Thankfully, folks have finally stopped looking daggers at me. Sure, I might’ve understated the leech problem a little; my memory might’ve slipped a bit when I said the route was mostly level ground. But at least I don’t have the impulse to remove all sharp objects from their immediate vicinity. The prevalent mood is one of satisfaction. The heart rate is up, the endorphins are flowing. We’ve done it! Braved the leeches, waded through the streams, climbed the hills, bathed in the waterfall, and we’re back in one piece. Ok, sans a few pints of the red stuff… but in one piece, nonetheless. Where’s that damned bus, now ? Neer dosa and chicken, here we come. Sunday, 5PM Burp! We’ve just depleted the chicken and pomfret population of Udupi Taluk. And contributed to the coffers of Vijay Mallya. Oh, and the vegetarians did their usual beans and carrot and stuff. Whatever. We’re at Udupi, Hotel Swadesh International. Pure-Veg and Non-Veg Restaurant with Bar Attached. The bus from Nallikatte dropped us a few 100 metres from this place, and we practically ran here. Good solid food, good liquid beer. All those expended calories are quickly replenished, and the mad biscuit-chips-mixture face stuffing at Hebbri bus stand didn’t seem to have diminished our appetites. The religious folk went to the temple, while I busied myself pondering deep mathematical problems, such as this: I am bleeding from 13 different places. I removed twice as many leeches as those which I didn’t. The trek was 8 km long, one way. 22 people were in the trek. So assuming that the same leech didn’t get two people, it allows us to calculate that there was a leech every 18 metres. The things one does when the mind is idle ! The general plan was to get a bus towards Mangalore and get off at Surathkal. Invade the beach. Watch the sun set. Party, party, party. Sunday, 8PM Beach plan skipped… darn sun was in a hurry to set. Our driver turned out to be the long lost third Schumacher son. His name was Ponniah, but the face cut and driving style were unmistakable. We raced right through Surathkal and wound up in a shopping mall in Mangalore. I am not sure what the veggie folk are up to, but the rest of us are busy eradicating the chicken population of Mangalore. We’re making pretty good headway… I hear they’ll soon to be declared an endangered species. Our bus from here is in about 2 hours. Archana manages to tear herself away from the Infy office and visit us. It’s eight on a sunday evening! I ask you, do you really get paid to work that much ? Monday, 7AM It’s 7 in the morning, and I’m walking home from where the bus dropped me off. It takes all my will power, and then some, to not scratch my right thigh, where a particularly virulent sucker had burrowed twice. To avoid the temptation, I hook my thumbs into the straps of my backpack, which is now heavy with wet clothes. No camera though, since I hadn’t taken my SLR this time. I’ve taken a few snaps with the SE T610 mobile phone, and I’m waiting to see if they’ll look any good in a monitor. Where’s the phone ? Ah, my right trouser pocket. Here, let’s see those snaps again. NO, DON’T SCRATCH, DON’T SCRATCH !!! " },{ "id": "/trips/railway", "url": "/trips/railway/", "title": "The Railway Trek", "layout": "trip", "description": "A 2-day-weekend jaunt, two days of pure unadulterated oxygen", "lastmod": "2004-01-22T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/trips/railway/19.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "This was another 2-day-weekend jaunt. These shorter outings seriously limit how much one can do, but hey, it’s a break from the smog. Two days of pure unadulterated oxygen is heaven sent. The plan was to trek from Sakleshpur to Edakumeri along the very scenic railway line. This stretch of railway is part of the now abandoned metre-guage track from Hassan to Mangalore. The strong lorry drivers lobby here has halted the conversion of this track to broad-guage, so the disused track winding through some of the most breath-taking spots in the Ghats is a trekkers haven. Plenty of bridges, tunnels, landslides and fallen trees dot the track, making the “track trek” that much more interesting. The group was much larger than usual this time. The old adage “The more, the merrier” is true, but the logistics tend to become a mess. But man, what a show!. Kudos to those who did the preparation, amazing job folks. I would mention names, but I’m deathly afraid of missing somebody and slighting them. Everybody had sleeping bags, sleeping mats, rucksacks, breakfast, lunch, dinner, trail mix, plates, spoons, bus tickets… the works. Totally awesome. The task boggles my simpler, easy-going mind. My big rucksack is still with Vinay, so I had to make do with my day-hike backpack. Vinay, if you’re reading this… you better have the rucksack the next time you get your arse to Bangalore. Surprisingly, I did not forget anything this time. I remembered my camera, 2 new batteries, 2 spare batteries and 3 extra rolls. I am getting good at this. Then again, my entire responsibility for the trip, to quote Ujjal, was this: Read CAREFULLY... 1. U MUST NOT FORGET TO BRING *URCAMERA* 2. U MUST NOT FORGET TO BRING 2 ROLLS FOR IT 3. U MUST HAVE 2 PAIR OF BACKUP BATTERIES FOR *URCAMERA.* We started off on Friday evening, the 28th of November in the year of our lord 2003. We used only public transportation this time. Whew, thank goodness for that. I didn’t have to entertain thoughts of amputating my legs to stop them hurting. We met at the city bus station at 11pm. The place has come a long way from the confused mass of swilling humanity I remember from school days, which is also about the last time I set foot there. I need to get out more. Praveen (motto: Ahrrr… BC want Neer Dosa) and Sapna (motto: Hey watch where you step, mister, you almost squished me) were part of the welcoming committee, and had set up shop amidst a veritable sea of rucksacks, backpacks and other assorted gear one normally takes on these affairs. Finally, after a lot of hot-liquid-in-a-cup, here-we-all-are photographs, high-fives, pomp and splendour, we reached the bus minutes before it started, and discovered that we would have to keep the gear in the bus. No space atop, no space below. That was some night ride. Loud noise, corny one-liners, songs… I kinda felt half sorry for the others on the bus. The bus did a late night stop-over in Hassan, where we got more hot-liquid-in-a-cup. I guess the stuff was growing on me. We reached our starting point, Donigal, at about 4:30 AM. Good lord, this is the time I normally go to bed. And I have to start trekking! Grouch, Grouch, Grouch. The folks on the bus heaved an audible sigh of relief when they saw us off at a tiny roadside temple. A lot of repacking, dividing the load and re-distributing the weight happened in the dim light of the temple. A good three quarters of an hour passed before we got moving to get to the railway track… and about half the folks promptly lost their way. So when we actually did hit the tracks, it was nearly 6:00 AM. Oh, for want of a morning cuppa. There was nowhere we could get a bit of hot-liquid on these abandoned tracks. The bridges started shortly after. These bridges are definitely NOT meant to be crossed on foot. A slip would not be very dangerous to someone of my own ample proportions, but someone like Gary (motto: I’m the strong, silent type… NOT!) could slip right through, to the bottom way below. The few photos taken here aren’t quite… shall we say, sharp ? What did you expect from me, eh ? Steady Hands ? Look at poor Satsang (motto: The next CATastrophe is on the 15th of Feb). We made our breakfast halt near a stream at about 7:30 AM. We had a nice wash in rather cold water, and a hot cuppa noodles each followed by a strong black tea. All heated over the fire of a group of local workmen. I love anything cooked over a wood fire. It has a tangy bitter-sweet smell which reminds me of childhood winter holidays in Kerala. The black tea packed a punch like a brick in a wet sock and really shook us awake. Hah, that was but a minor setback. We each promptly found a six-by-three stretch of flat ground and lay down. Hey, we’re the dominant species of the planet. Lazing around is our prerogative. Oh and there was a rather hilarious interlude with greens. Gary and gang were on a quest to find a best leaves to double up as toilet paper. They employed a scientific approach and analysed texture, softness… ok I’ll stop there. Their usage has been captured on camera, in a purely clinical, objective sense, for future study. Tracks and Bridges Bridge, Tunnel, Bridge, Tunnel The Green Interlude The Station Camp " },{ "id": "/trips/railway/001", "url": "/trips/railway/001/", "title": "Tracks and Bridges", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-01-22T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "A very refreshed, relaxed and tanked up group finally got moving again at 9:00 AM. Satsang, BC and Ujjal (motto: Arre, my backpack is practically empty) do a quick impromptu bit of climbing to warm up. Reena (motto: Cuckoo!) finds her very own Billy. “Oooo Taaigar He, Bhaaakri Khata He Bhaaakri” We’ve washed, we’ve eaten, we’ve had tea… we are gonna laze around. Don’t disturb. Standing L-R: Gary, Sapna, Maryam, Reena, Yamini Sitting: Satsang (in red), BC Praveen (in white), Archana (in green) and Usha (in brown). Once more, with a bit of background. Standing L-R: Gary, Sapna, BC Praveen, Maryam and Reena Sitting: Satsang There is no such thing as too much green. It goes on o’er the hills and far away. And it all makes Oxygen! And all of this is ours. Can you believe it ? Just kidding, Dada! " },{ "id": "/trips/railway/002", "url": "/trips/railway/002/", "title": "Bridge, Tunnel, Bridge, Tunnel", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-01-22T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Ever wonder why they call it the green route ? Greens as far as the eye can see, and there it blends with the blue. Just staring at it is therapeutic. Cogito Cogito Ergo Cogito Sum. I think that I think, therefore I think that I am. Ujjal in a pensive mood. Just made it across another bridge. There were over 20 of these… atleast I think so. I lost count. In fact, after the first few, no one even really noticed them. We just crossed and kept going. This one I took halfway through a bridge. A slight perspective on what the bridges were like. Those sleepers were over a foot apart, and those flat iron plates in the middle weren’t always there. Often it was easier to walk on the outside of the track, rather than in between. We encountered many stretches like this one, where the track was either partially or completely overgrown with vegetation. A touching spectacle of nature reclaiming its property after the ravages of man. So it wasn’t just our eyes. Every time as we came out of a tunnel, the world looked a lot greener than we remembered it. An interesting illusion, which my camera has faithfully captured. We had quite a few of these tunnels too… 23 to be precise. The tunnels, unlike the bridges, were numbered. Many were quite short at under 200 metres. There were a couple of tunnels which went on for over half a kilometre, and were teeming with thousands of bats. It’s only possible to catch glimpses of them, but you can hear them flapping their leathery wings all around you. Very eerie. I did try to take a photograph of the bats, but that was an impossible shot, if ever. They move too fast, and stay in dark places. In retrospect, this is how I should have done it. Powerful flash, very high shutter speed, and no other light sources. I would have had to set it up before I entered the tunnel. Faugh! Next time, maybe. " },{ "id": "/trips/railway/003", "url": "/trips/railway/003/", "title": "The Green Interlude", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-01-22T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " The mega bridge. We came across this huge bridge about 2/3rds of the way. High above a river, this bridge was the better part of 400 metres long. Nestled between two mighty long tunnels, we chose this bridge to take a long-ish break. The view was magnificient all around, and the only sound was that of the stream flowing a good 50 metres below us. The lens-men went hyper, while the others just chose to relax, and drink in the view. This was the river gushing under the mega bridge. “To laugh like a brook when it trips and falls, Over stones on its way”. The river way down below us meanders away between the hills and vales. This rickety looking foot bridge spanned the river next to the big brother. Sid (motto: I’m the real strong, silent type… Yeah!) and I trekked down a steep path down to the bridge to try and get a couple of snaps from that angle. The things one does to get the right angle. The bridge ended just as another tunnel started. This is the tunnel ahead. We found this tiny grass snake near the end of one of the tunnels. I almost plonked my backpack right on it. To get an idea of really how tiny it was, just remember that the rail on which it’s lying is about 8cm wide. A little further on, we found a huge snake skin lying right across the tracks on a bridge. Sid holds up his trophy for display, while Satsang prefers to play Shiva. Shriram (motto: My name is Rafi. Mohammed Rafi.) looks on, while Reena and Usha are positively repulsed. Can’t say I blame them, actually. I don’t fancy reptiles myself. " },{ "id": "/trips/railway/004", "url": "/trips/railway/004/", "title": "The Station Camp", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-01-22T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "It was getting rather late, and Ujjal, who had half the lunch with him, was way ahead of us. (He wasn’t, but we didn’t know that until later). So to catch up with him, we sped up and didn’t stop for photographs again. We made rapid progress and reached our night halt point, Edakumeri, by about 4:00 PM. There were a couple of other trekker groups who’d already set up camp, but no sign of Ujjal and Maryam (motto: Chennai rules… you just don’t know any better. Amma Vazhgai). Whoa, this was getting scary. Everybody remembered them take off ahead of the others from the mega bridge… so what happened ? We grabbed a quick bite of the Paratha-Subzi. Lunch ? Dinner ? Linner ? Lunner ? Sadly, all the Aloo was ruined, much to the chagrin of the poor sods who carried them for 18km. So it was more of Paratha with Mango-Thokku. Anyways, a few quick bites and Satsang, Sid and I started back with torches and whistles. We had to find Ujjal. We needn’t have worried, though. Not too far from the station, in the first tunnel, we run into Dada and Maryam. They’d tried to circumvent the big tunnel with all the bats, and got lost. Well whaddaya know ? Thankfully, there were no casualities or injuries. Sapna had a minor ankle sprain, that’s all. A short runabout to gather firewood, and we headed to the waterfall to have a bath. We kept going in circles… over a bridge, by the bridge, behind the bridge, and all we ever found was a small trickle. And a leech each, to boot. They say people tend to lose bearings in the dark, but this was downright comic. I wound up asking Dada the way, and in Kannada, no less. No bath on day one. Ugh. The ex-boy-scouts got a nice fire going, and people cooked food and played games and stuff. I can’t tell you much about that… I found my six-by-three and was out cold. A nuclear disaster couldn’t have roused me. When I did wake up a few hours later, there were noodles and soup going around… I think. I was rather fuzzy at that point, so I just took my six-by-three inside and resumed my most important purpose here on earth. Sleep. Sunday morning, when all honest folk are in church nursing hangovers, we were miles from civilisation. Gary rose and shone a little before the rest of us. He apparently had to get to work the same day and Sat, Sid, Reena and Yamini decided to go along. If only India was full of people as conscientious… The rest of us relaxed, had a nice cold bath under the waterfall, had a light breakfast and packed up to leave camp by about 10:00 AM. There was steep descent from behind the railway station to the valley. We made rapid progress here and reached the river below in record time. The water level was quite low, and the river was just a couple of feet wide in some places. We jumped right across it. On the other side was a jeep track along the river, which led to the Hassan-Mangalore highway. We followed this track further on, till we hit the same river we’d crossed earlier. The highway was visible on the other side, only this time around, the river was all of 50 metres wide, full of rocks and ranging from knee to waist deep. Gary and gang were still there trying to cross over. Apparently they’d followed the jeep track in the other direction and lost thier way. Poor Gary’s diligence, all to nought. There was a bridge across this river, and the ruins of this bridge were still standing tall amidst all the greenery. The local public works department are planning to re-build again, and we actually ran into a group of locals taking surveys and measurements of the place. But back to reality. We needed to cross the river. And quickly. The locals chose to wade through the waist deep water, whereas the trekkers were struggling through the knee deep rocks. We decided to go with the waist deep . The four guys, BC, Ujjal, Shriram and I got across with our backpacks first. I had to hitch the backpack over my head to avoid getting it wet. We then crossed over again, and took the girls’ backpacks and 2 of the girls (Archana and Usha) across. We went back a third time for the remaining girls. What was waist deep for most was neck deep for Maryam and entirely too deep for Sapna. BC had to hitch Sapna up on his waist to cross the deepest parts. Well, just across the river was the highway, and we had to wait about 3 minutes to hitch a ride back to Sakleshpur. BC and Sapna headed the other way to Dharmastala. 2 hours atop a rickety truck and we were nestled comfortably in a busy restaurant in the crowded Sakleshpur bus stand. There were no delux buses to Bangalore with seats available, so we took the standard KSRTC red bus. They say that these buses are uncomfortable and cramped, I didn’t notice anything. I was busy involved in my favourite hobby… sleeping. 6 hours later, we breathed the familiar Bangalorean carbon monoxide, with only about an hour to spare for Maryam’s train back to Madras. Bangalore is home and I love it, but if I had a chance to spend the rest of my living days amidst the natural unspoiled beauty of the ghats… we can all dream, can’t we ? Meanwhile, it’s monday morning, and if that wasn’t bad enough, I haven’t been fired yet. " },{ "id": "/trips/waterfalls", "url": "/trips/waterfalls/", "title": "Waterfalls 2003", "layout": "trip", "description": "Five days, four people, and more waterfalls than we could count", "lastmod": "2003-08-15T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/trips/wf2003/wf-19.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "For five days, BC, Ujjal, Archana and I travelled across Karnataka, braving inclement weather conditions in an effort to visit all the major waterfalls. We chose to do the trip during the monsoon time, when the rivers are in spate and the falls are at their swollen best. The downside, of course, is incessant rain and cloudy skies, and breeding season for the leeches. Four years on, and I’m still awaiting the promised write-up from Archana. Never mind the events of the trip, I am hard-pressed to recollect the route, or even the names of the waterfalls that we visited. I have prints of all the photographs, but I’ve misplaced one roll of negatives. Slaving for a few days with a scanner, and for a few more with Photoshop Lightroom, I’ve put together an album of about 30 or so photographs, culled from the five rolls clicked on the trip. I really wish I had a story to go with these photos, but for now, I simply hope that I am able to label all of them correctly. I promise to do this trip again sometime, and have a new set of photographs and a new story to tell. But until then… here’s the long overdue waterfalls trip photographs.   The Land and the People Lush green-carpeted hills Farms, gardens and estates Raja, Rani, Roarer and Rocket All god’s creatures Some un-named falls Gigantic Statues and the Shoreline " },{ "id": "/trips/waterfalls/001", "url": "/trips/waterfalls/001/", "title": "The Land and the People", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " BC, Ujjal and Archana The road and the landscape The valleys and the forests The hills and the rivers " },{ "id": "/trips/waterfalls/002", "url": "/trips/waterfalls/002/", "title": "Lush green-carpeted hills", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "         " },{ "id": "/trips/waterfalls/003", "url": "/trips/waterfalls/003/", "title": "Farms, gardens and estates", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "     " },{ "id": "/trips/waterfalls/004", "url": "/trips/waterfalls/004/", "title": "Raja, Rani, Roarer and Rocket", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " Ujjal, that’s some pretty impressive output :) " },{ "id": "/trips/waterfalls/005", "url": "/trips/waterfalls/005/", "title": "All god's creatures", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " " },{ "id": "/trips/waterfalls/006", "url": "/trips/waterfalls/006/", "title": "Some un-named falls", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " " },{ "id": "/trips/waterfalls/007", "url": "/trips/waterfalls/007/", "title": "Gigantic Statues and the Shoreline", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2006-12-15T00:00:00-06:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": " " },{ "id": "/trips/yercaud", "url": "/trips/yercaud/", "title": "Yercaud, Overnight", "layout": "trip", "description": "A ride story from simpler time, with cleaner air and fewer cares", "lastmod": "2004-09-13T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "image": "/images/trips/yercaud/00009.jpg", "tags": "", "content": "This is a story from way back in 2003. The world was a younger place then. Life was simple, the air was clean, and we rode nary a care in the world. Though the night, through the day, though green country fields and through lush mountain slopes. Yep, those, indeed were the days. This here is a true testament to my laziness. I am actually writing about a trip nearly FOUR years after it. I should win some award for procrastination. Well, better late than never at all, I guess. Back in the day, RTMC (Rolling Thunder Motorcycle Club) didn’t believe in starting a weekend ride on Saturday morning. What we did was leave late Friday, ride all night, and reach our destination by dawn. Sleep immediately, and wake up for brunch. And we have almost all of Saturday, and a good part of Sunday morning for sight-seeing. The plan, while good in theory, is quite dicey. Night riding is never safe, and decidedly dangerous when undertaken after a long day at work. This ride format was abandoned by RTMC long back in favour of the now common early Saturday morning departure. The Dramatis Personae, the prime suspects, the rogue’s gallery about to start riding from Pizza Hut in Koramangala: _Sijan "JFK" Chacko_. Those were the days when he still rode a AVL 350 Machismo. _Kartz._ Those were the days when he rode a non-Bajaj vehicle. An AVL 350 Machismo, no less. _ Ega Swagy_. Those were the days when he didn't start every sentence with "Bose Uncle said... ". Oh, and he went by the moniker of Easha R Swamy. _Vipin "Carman Electra" Rajan_ No car then, the man just rode the Electra. Now then boys, behave yourselves. _David "Dubious"_. Also on a 350 Machismo. Back then he actually was living in India, not just visiting us on vacation. _Me_. This ride indeed was a long time ago. No RD350, no Lightning 535. Back then, I toured on a CBZ and carried a film SLR. Right, so we left from Pizza hut in Koramangala at about midnight. Excuse the terrible flash photography, I was already sleepy then. I did most of the ride in a semi-conscious state. Whole sections of the route I was in deep sleep, and dreaming about a tail-lamp in front… And Lo, TVS 50 led all the rest. The Tourist Attractions Off road, cross country Finding our way, back Some Market Value boosters " },{ "id": "/trips/yercaud/001", "url": "/trips/yercaud/001/", "title": "And Lo, TVS 50 led all the rest.", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-09-13T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "We reached Salem afore cockcrow. In scientific terms that would be about oh-five-one-five. And we promptly get lost in the deserted streets of pre-dawn Salem. A lone TVS 50 rider directed us, but his second left and third rights only served to confound us further, so he offered to lead us to the right path. The few bleary-eyed early risers gawked at the extraordinary sight… a TVS 50 at the lead of a convoy of heavy loud motorcycles, all crawling at 20kmph. A view of Salem town on the way up to Yercaud. The Yercaud hills form an impressive backdrop for Salem. This ride was shortly after the rains, the hill-sides in Yercaud are never so lush. The road up is lined on either sides with many farms and plantations. The 23 kilometers of twisties to the top was a lined with trees and fences such as this. Kartz and I rode this stretch fast. Very fast. " },{ "id": "/trips/yercaud/002", "url": "/trips/yercaud/002/", "title": "The Tourist Attractions", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-09-13T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "By seven thirty, we were settled in our hotel rooms. Sleep eluded us all, so we moved on to the next order of business: Breakfast. I think we ate the complete kitchen, pots and pans included. The cook ran away, afraid that he was next. Post breakfast, we grabbed forty winks and spent the rest of the day looking around Yercaud. While it doesn’t boast the attractions of an Ooty or a Kodaikanal, this poor man’s hill-station isn’t entirely devoid of those garden walks and view-points. This is taken from one of the viewpoints. Don’t recollect which, though. Nice view of the neighbouring hills and lush slopes We followed a road that led to the next hill, and got this view of Yercaud, and it’s famous centre-piece: The Montfort school. By evening, we headed to the centre of town, and found a permit room in Hotel Tamil-Nadu. A large sign proclaimed that only those who carried a license to drink would be served. None of us had even heard of such a license. but the barkeep poured our drinks with a smile anyway. The antiquated sign on the wall was over a century old. For future reference, Whiskey and Chundal is a brilliant combination. Ask for this the next time you order a drink in TN. When we stepped out the Permit room, the setting sun had lit up the sky, and the fountain in the lake had followed suit. I dunno how they got it to do that. The fountain changed colours with the sky. Maybe it was just an illusion, but it looked very impressive, just the same. That night, we had an extended discussion on the relative charms of Shakira and Shakeela, and even did a Mallu-accented Shakeela’s version of Shakira’s big hit, \"Wherever, Whenever\". Verdict: The boys prefer the generous contours of Shakeela to the legendary hips that don’t lie. " },{ "id": "/trips/yercaud/003", "url": "/trips/yercaud/003/", "title": "Off road, cross country", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-09-13T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Morning, time for a bit of off-roading. Call us brave, but those were the days before Hit-Air jackets and padded leather riding pants. We would probably have laughed if someone mentioned Joe Rocket. Denim jackets provided us with all the protection we needed. In retrospect, maybe we were right then; is all our fancy protective gear overkill ? Anyway, I digress. We found a suitable rock formation and ran our bikes up and down it. Kartz and JFK were the first up. Easha was next. Yeah, that is Ega Swagy, hard though it may seem to believe. Ega gave up halfway up the slope, and Kartz rode Ega’s thumper to the summit. He lost his balance and came tumbling down, bullet and all. He didn’t injure himself or the bike too seriously, so no harm, no foul. Easha, Dubious, Kartz and JFK stand next to Easha’s slightly battered thumper, while Kartz displays his bruises. The view from atop the hill. Yercaud really was lush then. " },{ "id": "/trips/yercaud/004", "url": "/trips/yercaud/004/", "title": "Finding our way, back", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-09-13T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Now we did something odd on the way back. We avoided Salem entirely, and took another road down from Yercaud. This led us to a state highway which passed through the towns of Pallipatti and Harur, and eventually joined the Krishnagiri-Pondicherry National highway at Uttangarai. This route was a lot more scenic and had lesser traffic to boot. I’ve been to Yercaud over half a dozen times in the past four years, but I’ve never done this route again. We took a lot of photograph stops on the way. Lush hillsides, and stepped farming. Eh, a Chorten ? Here ? In South India ? Some serious wrong number got dialled here! Bikes with a backdrop. More farms, and more green. " },{ "id": "/trips/yercaud/005", "url": "/trips/yercaud/005/", "title": "Some Market Value boosters", "layout": "trip", "lastmod": "2004-09-13T00:00:00-05:00", "date": "2026-04-14T23:57:29-05:00", "tags": "", "content": "Some shots of the boys and bikes, taken expressly to impress chicks. All bikes, in formation. Interestingly all bikes (even the CBZ) had one thing in common. They all used Capacitor Discharge Ignition systems. We were considering naming this the CDI ride. Balaclavas were a novelty then, and (left to right) Kartz, Vipin and Easha were the only ones who used them. RTMC Ninja Power!!! Used a timer to get this shot. (left to right) Kartz, Easha, JFK, Dubious, Vipin and Me. A tea break at Attibele before we each went our way. (left to right) Easha, Dubious, Vipin, Me and JFK. And that was the end of a very interesting weekend. Had a whale of a time, no incidents, no mishaps. A perfect ride. " }]