A Mind @ Play

A Passage to India

On 3rd November 2012

In a world far removed from the one in which Forster was writing, is there any place for a novel like A Passage to India other than as an idle curiosity of a bygone era? Written based on first hand experience of the British Raj, this open critique of colonialism caricatures the Anglo-Indian in his element, questioning the morality and justification of the British presence in the subcontinent.

A Passage to India is built upon its characters, who are the led through a fairly mundane plot, a jejune stage for the actors to perform upon. Yet through their actions, we discover this world of Empire, where Anglo-Indians hold themselves aloof from the population, where relationships are grounded on the basis of ruler and ruled. Forster challenges the British Raj as it was then. But he also poses questions relevant to our everyday lives: can the cultures of East and West ever truly understand one another? is it possible even for two individuals to truly understand one another? can anything good ever come from a relationship in which one party dominates the other? and what can we really understand about ‘identity’ through the prism of nationhood?

There is no doubt much in this book which can be analysed and overanalysed to the nauseating degree that only a literature class can provoke, and I can imagine that many who studied this novel in a classroom environment learned only to hate it. Where the simplicity of the plot provides only a thread for the characters to follow, the imagery of India’s weather and terrain, her townships and cultural diversity, combine to provide symbolic tapestry lending itself to interpretation. Alone the echoes of the Marabar caves and its allegory in the evil of Empire doubtless provide enough discussion for a few hours of lessons. Yet there is no need to take a magnifying glass to this book to see its implications. Similarly, there has been plenty of criticism about using a work by an English author and mere traveller to the subcontinent as a lens through which to view the British Raj and colonialism in general. Whilst this may be for true scholarship a half-way justifiable charge, it retains its relevance as a novel and for providing insights into the British mindset of the time.

Finally, a quick comment about the style. Some other reviewers have complained that the book hasn’t aged particularly well, and that the writing gets a bit muddled in conversation. On the former point, it would seem fair criticism, in as far as that this book clearly has more in common with books written in the half century prior to its publication than after it. That doesn’t make the book’s style particularly less readable today, but the content might need some occasional explanation.

Despite his modest assertion that he was ‘not a great novelist’, A Passage to India lives up to its reputation as one of the more important works related to British colonialism. Alone for its historical portrayal, the book is worth a read, but the questions posed (and the answers Forster subtly implies) with regard to issues of cultural identity, acceptance and understanding, are still as relevant today as they were at the height of the Raj.

The Dinner

By Fips

On 1st November 2012

In Arts, Books, Literature, Reviews

Told through the eyes of a decidedly unreliable narrator, The Dinner is an elegantly simple novel served up over five courses. From the casual opening aperitif to the grittier, questionable digestif, the book layers on the story over a meal in a swanky restaurant.

The story revolves around two families who meet to discuss a problem with their children. The two men are brothers: the one being our narrator, who seems to have little time for the second, who we soon learn is a high-flying politician likely to become the next prime minister. During the course of the meal, details are filtered in, largely via flashbacks, as we learn the nature of the ‘problem’ the couples are having with their children, as well as becoming increasingly suspicious about the motives of our initially amiable narrator. There are plenty of shocks and twists to get the book through to its conclusion, and leaves the reader posed with the question on the book’s cover: just how far would you go to protect the ones you love?

The writing style is very colloquial, each course easily digested, with the whole meal edible in one sitting. At times humourous, occasionally shocking, there is an interesting moral question being posed, but I think the book would like to be taken more seriously than it deserves. For me, it was an enjoyable read, but nothing more than entertainment.

Still, it remains a great little tale, light bite size portions gradually building up a satisfying meal, which depending on your palate might leave you feeling a little queasy – and nevertheless thanking the chef for it.

The Ministry of Fear: An Entertainment

By Fips

On 23rd October 2012

In Books, Reviews

Graham Greene originally divided his works into novels and ‘entertainments’, separating his popular work from those he wished his literary career to be remembered for. In later life, this distinction would be blurred until it was dropped entirely. The Ministry of Fear is one of these earlier works labelled an entertainment. Made a year later into a film directed by Fritz Lang, it was written in the middle of wartime, and on the surface is a typical espionage thriller in the tradition of John Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps, dealing with a Nazi spy ring operating in London during the blitz. On its own, the plot is gripping enough to carry the book through to the end, and those bits we can regard as ‘entertainment’ made their way into the film.

But as with many of Greene’s works, it’s the inner conflict which is missing from the silver screen translation. We learn early on that the main protagonist is racked by guilt over the murder–what we would today most likely see only as a mercy killing–of his wife. This concentration on the individual, amid the scaled chaos of the blitz, makes this short novel so interesting. Much of it seems quite dated now, but there is still plenty of relevance in a society trying to come to terms with the issue of euthanasia.

Aside from the juxtaposition of a thrilling little spy plot and the psychological reflections, this short book is also an advert for Greene’s art. The writing is simply superb, an absolute pleasure to read, full of inventiveness without the overt self-conceit of trying too hard. Another reviewer pointed out that this short novel took longer to read than he had imagined. I’d suggest that comes as a result of needing to read every word and understand it, not skim over lines of trite, repetitive text as in many other novels. To skim would be to rob oneself of most of the pleasure.

For me, Graham Greene remains the greatest English language novelist never to have won the Nobel Prize. As an entertainment, rather than a novel, The Ministry of Fear lends itself as an excellent introduction to his greater literature.

Atlas Shrugged

By Fips

On 17th October 2012

In Arts, Books, Economics, Literature, Reviews

Perhaps the most significant book in post-war American literature, one which has regained popularity since the start of the economic crisis, Altas Shrugged is the embodiment of an ideal society, the ultimate vehicle for Ayn Rand’s philosophy of objectivism. Weighing in at over 1,000 pages of tightly-packed print, it’s also one of the longest novels in English literature. Is it any good?

Well, as a novel, Atlas Shrugged unfortunately falls flat, in ways that Rand’s first novel, We the Living, didn’t. There is foremost no humanity in the novel, the characters are dismembered, dessicated mouthpieces to Rand’s philosophical diatribes, with everyone fitting neatly into ‘good’ and ‘bad’ camps. Rand herself claimed that using characters as symbols was never her intention: “My characters are persons in whom certain human attributes are focused more sharply and consistently than in average human beings.” But what we are left with are flimsy apparitions, lobotomised automatons fulfilling the roles required of them to extol the virtues of her philosophy. Even this is taken to extremes, with one of the proponents delivering a 60-page long theoretical speech around which the rest of the novel might well be seen as scaffolding.

To complement this set of lifeless characters is a plot which similarly confounds understanding. In an America which technologically resembles the period in which Rand was writing, yet industrially feels set in an earlier period, and borrows heavily from the Great Depression, the main events and the decisions of the characters jar heavily with what the reader knows and expects from society. As another reviewer pointed out, what’s missing is the overt understanding that the story takes place in a parallel world or a different timeframe, to create a genuine sense of credibility. True, there are some hints that push this novel into the realms of science fiction–a super metal alloy, power derived from static electricity, weapons based on sound waves etc.–but the world is definitely our own, even if the people and their decisions are alien. Key to the story is the gradual collapse of the economic system, and the disappearance of the champions of industry. What happens in Rand’s universe when the creative minds of the world go on strike? Apparently, they settle down on the frontier and, working one month a year, create a fully-fledged miniature utopia. Personally, I imagine they’d starve.

A bad book can still be a good delivery vehicle for an interesting message. Yet this unwieldy book fails even to achieve the latter. For its mammoth length, Rand’s message could have been relatively concise, but for the plot’s repetitiveness. If you are interested in Rand’s philosophy, there are plenty of other places to turn which will provide a far more succinct and detailed explanation, without the repetition or padding necessary for its delivery in novel form. Whether you find place for Rand’s philosophy in your own, or like Gore Vidal consider it “nearly perfect in its immorality”, there are simply better summaries available. For the converted, this is probably a wonderful book, but for anyone else it simply isn’t worth risking the investment of time and energy.

No one can deny this book’s enduring popularity. That alone gives rise to curiosity strong enough to keep it fresh in the public consciousness. But it is a far cry from a great piece of literature, and as an allegory, a philosophical harbinger, its ponderous and verbose nature should have the curious turn elsewhere. The novel opens with the question: “Who is John Galt?” A thousand pages of largely disappointing text will reveal the answer, but you’d be better served just reading the appendix.

Thinking, Fast and Slow

By Fips

On 31st August 2012

In Books, Reviews

This post is also available in German.

The qualities of human nature described in “Thinking, fast and slow” are already known to all of us at some level. We are all taught in society to believe in the rational, thinking human being as distinct from his animal peers, yet at this book excellently details, there are plenty of ways in which our seemingly rational decisions can be bent and perverted by various forms of bias. Daniel Kahneman details these two seemingly incongruous facets of our nature as two ‘distinct’ halves: System 1 represents our autonomous, unthinking, reflex and subconscious reactions, whereas System 2 is that logical, calculating being we consider ourselves to be. Much of the relevant research covered in this volume was pioneered and conducted by Kahneman and his late colleague Amos Tversky, to whom this volume is dedicated.

At root, the interplay between System 1 and System 2 rests upon the fact that we are naturally adapted to choose the path of least resistance, i.e. we make decisions which require the least amount of effort. Whilst this does not necessarily mean that we (or our System 2s) are not making the decisions, it does sometimes result in our System 2s acting merely as auditors of the information being passed on by System 1. If that information appears to fit the facts, it is taken at face value, unchanged and unedited. As a result, this ‘quick thinking’ leads to errors and biases of which we are almost entirely unaware.

As a summary of decades of research, the book deals with a lot of extremely interesting aspects of these decision-making processes. Each of these is handled in turn and alone, although many of them are linked and could in some ways a different impressions of the same phenomenon. For example, an issue known as ‘anchoring’ is investigated, a truly staggering anomaly in which a decision can be influenced by an entirely unrelated and random suggestion placed before us: Kahneman provides us with the example of a set of experienced judges whose sentence decisions were seen to be tilted by the results of a dice roll.

There is a lot of ground to summarise within these pages, and Kahneman does an excellent job of presenting some fairly mundane experimental data in a way in which it becomes clear to the layman, how insightful and potent the results truly are. The first half of the book in particular is an extremely fluid read, the experimental data plays second fiddle to clear evaluations of both experiments and their results. Whilst some aspects are dealt with purely theoretically, others are highlighted in terms of their effect on certain people in society, and Kahneman makes no bones about pointing out the absurd decisions of stock brokers, businessmen, or even his own psychology students. Another nice feature of the book is that many of the chapters start with a little test which readers themselves can do, becoming a part of the experiments, easily the best way to highlight precisely how ‘un-rational’ our minds can truly function.

The overarching irony of this book is that it seems to want to prove one of the theories explored between its very covers, that of our ‘experiencing’ and ‘remembering’ selves. The evidence suggests that even if the vast majority of an experience was born with enjoyment, if the end was tainted, our memory of the positive experience will be overridden by the negative. Unfortunately, this book is guilty of the very same: it opens beautifully with some lucid and unhampered prose, plenty of example tests and real world extrapolations, occasional anecdotes and witty asides. Yet the latter half of the book feels like it was written by a different Kahneman or for a different reader; it is turgid, almost lethargic, sticky with academic language, no longer peppered with as many human insights, and devoid of example tests for the reader to take part in.

Despite this impression of it being a book of two halves, it is nevertheless highly recommendable to anyone with even a passing interest in psychology or the human mind. One needn’t take away any lessons from the book’s insights, but it would still be nice to think that by giving this book five stars, I’m successfully overcoming the biassed suggestions of System 1 and my ‘remembering self’, and basing my judgement on the rational observations of System 2 and my ‘experiencing self’. Or perhaps I’m being swayed by some anchoring I’m still unaware of…