(Mr.K.Chandran is a retired Scientist. He resides in Palakkad, Kerala, and is a well-known astrologer there. He wrote this article for a Souvenir we published some 25 years back. It reads well even now.)
Journey through the Realms of Books by K.Chandran
"To Produce a Mighty Book, You Must Choose a Mighty Theme". Herman Melville, the author of Moby Dick was not far from the truth. One may safely presume that this holds good for whatever one writes. But budding writers who have no conceivable theme to write about must ignore such remarks and would do well to go right ahead and plunge into their literary fantasies or fallacies as the case may be.
The Itch to Write:
So here I am, on my own advice, on the threshold of such an adventure and hope to get away with it. The urge in me to write, as in others of my tribe, can be traced back to the college days. The craze for books had its origin during those days. Parthington or Mellor, the Bibles of Chemistry in those times never held any fascination for me, and it was to escape from them that I sought solace elsewhere.
Solace from Fiction:
What Parthington or Mellor denied me I got in full measure from Charles Dickens. First, it was David Copperfield. Next came Oliver Twist. Then it was a procession: Nicholas Nickleby, A Tale of Two Cities, the Great Expectations, the Pickwick Papers and many others. The thrill and enjoyment I experienced reading those classics was in marked contrast to the boredom in the classrooms and the taunts from the apparently infallible teachers during practicals. I could never relish such abstract topics as the structure of benzene or the wave theory of light. On the other hand, the captivating drama of the French Revolution poignantly recaptured by Dickens in his “Tale of Two Cities”, or the tiny Oliver Twist who had the temerity to ask for more, or the immortal Pickwickians, mitigated the monotony of studies to a great extent. It is with nostalgia that I recall those days when I followed the heroes of Alexander Dumas in their pursuit of adventure, the irrepressible Don Quixote, the famous knight errant of Cervantes, facing up to the challenges of windmills and herds of sheep, and the frolics of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. I had a go at Walter Scott and Jane Austen too.
A Transient Phase:
Curiously enough, barring a couple of Perry Masons, detective fiction did not find any favour with me at that time. It was during my drifting from job to job with its inevitable long and short intervals of unemployment that I made a climb down from the classics to stories of crime. Earle Stanley Gardner, Peter Cheyney, Edgar Wallace and Arthur Conan Doyle were devoured with relish. But the honeymoon with crime thrillers did not last long. They were no match for Jawaharlal Nehru with his flamboyant ideas and elegant themes, or K.P.S. Menon who could cast a charm over you with his vast repertoire of diplomatic experiences and sparkling humour, or R.K. Narayan or O. Henry.
P.G. Wodehouse:
But, it was Wodehouse, the doyen of humour, who, at last, won over the others. Bertie, who has an uncanny knack for getting into trouble, his more popular butler Jeeves with his protruding Medulla Oblangata, the caricature of British aristocracy, Lord Emsworth who is always ill at ease expect in the company of his beloved pig, Sir Galahads, Pongo Twistletons, Finknottles and a host of aunts like Agathas and Dahlias, have many a time involved me in embarrassing situations. It is rather difficult to keep a dignified silence in the company of a Wodehouse. The chuckle is suddenly transformed in to a giggle which soon gives way to peals of laughter before you come to know of the austere looks of your co-passengers. Our educated unemployed need large doses if Wodehouses to keep frustration and disappointment at bay. Wodehousean characters can be depended upon to bring sunshine and hope into their lives in this otherwise inimical world.
Distractions galore:
My triumphant march through the realm of books received a setback in the recent past. Matrimony, I found out to my chagrin, is no promoter of book-reading. Still, I could resist with some success, the pesterings from my wife and sit up late at nights. But that was before the arrival of the third member of the family. With an authority which only children are capable of commanding, my two-year-old holds me to ransom. It is an enigma how even books with the most unimaginative and barren covers attract his attention, and the way he keeps guard over them is an unmistakable indication that he is going to have his way and not allow you to touch the precious contents inside. I resign myself to the inevitable, eagerly looking forward to the day he can be despatched to school. For, no schoolchildren have ever been found guilty of having even the slightest attachment to books. The thought suddenly makes me realize how great God is.
The tally of books I have read and enjoyed must be, though not staggering, impressive by all accounts. But, writing? By now you ought to have been convinced that it could wait!
"To Produce a Mighty Book, You Must Choose a Mighty Theme". Herman Melville, the author of Moby Dick was not far from the truth. One may safely presume that this holds good for whatever one writes. But budding writers who have no conceivable theme to write about must ignore such remarks and would do well to go right ahead and plunge into their literary fantasies or fallacies as the case may be.
The Itch to Write:
So here I am, on my own advice, on the threshold of such an adventure and hope to get away with it. The urge in me to write, as in others of my tribe, can be traced back to the college days. The craze for books had its origin during those days. Parthington or Mellor, the Bibles of Chemistry in those times never held any fascination for me, and it was to escape from them that I sought solace elsewhere.
Solace from Fiction:
What Parthington or Mellor denied me I got in full measure from Charles Dickens. First, it was David Copperfield. Next came Oliver Twist. Then it was a procession: Nicholas Nickleby, A Tale of Two Cities, the Great Expectations, the Pickwick Papers and many others. The thrill and enjoyment I experienced reading those classics was in marked contrast to the boredom in the classrooms and the taunts from the apparently infallible teachers during practicals. I could never relish such abstract topics as the structure of benzene or the wave theory of light. On the other hand, the captivating drama of the French Revolution poignantly recaptured by Dickens in his “Tale of Two Cities”, or the tiny Oliver Twist who had the temerity to ask for more, or the immortal Pickwickians, mitigated the monotony of studies to a great extent. It is with nostalgia that I recall those days when I followed the heroes of Alexander Dumas in their pursuit of adventure, the irrepressible Don Quixote, the famous knight errant of Cervantes, facing up to the challenges of windmills and herds of sheep, and the frolics of Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. I had a go at Walter Scott and Jane Austen too.
A Transient Phase:
Curiously enough, barring a couple of Perry Masons, detective fiction did not find any favour with me at that time. It was during my drifting from job to job with its inevitable long and short intervals of unemployment that I made a climb down from the classics to stories of crime. Earle Stanley Gardner, Peter Cheyney, Edgar Wallace and Arthur Conan Doyle were devoured with relish. But the honeymoon with crime thrillers did not last long. They were no match for Jawaharlal Nehru with his flamboyant ideas and elegant themes, or K.P.S. Menon who could cast a charm over you with his vast repertoire of diplomatic experiences and sparkling humour, or R.K. Narayan or O. Henry.
P.G. Wodehouse:
But, it was Wodehouse, the doyen of humour, who, at last, won over the others. Bertie, who has an uncanny knack for getting into trouble, his more popular butler Jeeves with his protruding Medulla Oblangata, the caricature of British aristocracy, Lord Emsworth who is always ill at ease expect in the company of his beloved pig, Sir Galahads, Pongo Twistletons, Finknottles and a host of aunts like Agathas and Dahlias, have many a time involved me in embarrassing situations. It is rather difficult to keep a dignified silence in the company of a Wodehouse. The chuckle is suddenly transformed in to a giggle which soon gives way to peals of laughter before you come to know of the austere looks of your co-passengers. Our educated unemployed need large doses if Wodehouses to keep frustration and disappointment at bay. Wodehousean characters can be depended upon to bring sunshine and hope into their lives in this otherwise inimical world.
Distractions galore:
My triumphant march through the realm of books received a setback in the recent past. Matrimony, I found out to my chagrin, is no promoter of book-reading. Still, I could resist with some success, the pesterings from my wife and sit up late at nights. But that was before the arrival of the third member of the family. With an authority which only children are capable of commanding, my two-year-old holds me to ransom. It is an enigma how even books with the most unimaginative and barren covers attract his attention, and the way he keeps guard over them is an unmistakable indication that he is going to have his way and not allow you to touch the precious contents inside. I resign myself to the inevitable, eagerly looking forward to the day he can be despatched to school. For, no schoolchildren have ever been found guilty of having even the slightest attachment to books. The thought suddenly makes me realize how great God is.
The tally of books I have read and enjoyed must be, though not staggering, impressive by all accounts. But, writing? By now you ought to have been convinced that it could wait!
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