The Lunar New Year

The lunar year of Chinese, Japanese and Korean people consists of twelve Zodiac animals rotating twelve every years: Dragon, Snake, Horse, Ram, Monkey, Rooster, Dog, Pig, Rat, Ox, Tiger and Rabbit. Some of these animals and their friends paid Hong Kong a visit recently.

When the Zoo came to Tsim Sha Tsui

The animals they came all
A sunny winter, not fall
One by one the lunar year
To see from far and near
Like a zoo come to our town
Hoping to return by sundown

Water Dragon

The Water Dragon elegant, long
He spanned above the throng

The Zebra too, he was there,
Forgot his stripes I swear

Horses

Purple, Magenta horses two
Meeting friends Snow and Skyblue

Ram

A donkey, a ram
Surely not two from Siam

Python

A Prussian python in spotted coil
Confused by all the turmoil

Cockerel

Past noon but the cockerel he crowed
Had he no wings he would’ve rowed

Parakeets

In a ring two parakeets blue agate
Among grapes and pomegranate

Rat

A rat, ‘Oh my God,’ he said
‘Is that a dragon tail overhead
Indra, someone take my photo
Before I go total gung-ho

Pig

Red decked. In walked the pig
Stood like a rotund bigwig
He said, ‘Where’s the shindig?’
Looked about nearly wearing a grin
For he knew not where to begin,
He’d just followed the year in.

THE MASQUE OF AFRICA

The Masque of Africa
Sir V. S. Naipaul

‘Masque’ comes from 16th/17th century Italian musical theatre. This masque is neither courtly nor festive. It is no entertainment, no pageant.

Sir V. S. Naipaul is one of my favourite authors. I am an avid reader of his writings and have a good collection of the author’s books. But with ‘The Masque of Africa’ he has sorely disappointed me.

In ‘Finding the Center’, V. S. Naipaul says “Half a writer’s work . . . is the discovery of his subject”. The Nobel Laureate has chosen to travel through six African countries to get to know his subject. Beginning with Uganda, the centre of the African continent, he travels through Nigeria, Ghana, Ivory Coast, Gabon and completes his journey in the southern part the continent, South Africa. He sets out to study subversion of old Africa by an outside world. It was to be a cultural one and the author succeeds in keeping it to just that in all the countries but when gets to S. Africa he plunges headlong into politics.

He has attempted to capture the mystique of some of the traditional and indigenous beliefs of the countries he visits, no single cultural unit. He touches on Animism, Islam and Christianity. It is too challenging and vast an attempt on African culture and in trying to cover too much the writing becomes sketchy and superficial. The author fails to come up with a passionate study. There is no enticement for a would-be traveller. It is not a book on African beliefs either.

As a knighted author of much fame he is, without doubt, a vip traveller in these countries he would have been given special treatment in places he went to. He is accompanied by citizens well placed – politicians, bankers and writers but throughout the book the author sounds like he is a budget traveller and often alludes to petty finance. He has no money to give for offerings to witch doctors; fails to observe the custom of taking gifts. At times he implies he’s afraid of the witch doctors in spite of his highly placed entourage. Burial places of kings, shrines, witch doctors have been randomly selected but much of the interpretations of tribal customs, the cult and invocation of spirits seems to have been covered halfheartedly.

The keen observation often shown by Naipaul as a writer comes through from time to time but not enough to redeem this book. Sad to say there is much oversight. It could be fault lies with the editor(s), agents and publisher.
The word ‘perhaps’ is used too often, once it is used four times in eight lines.
A blanket, meaningless statements occur, one example: “Near Lagos it has two wide lanes; and just as in India” – India is a continent, where in India?

The author’s love of animals is seen when he makes observations about cats and kittens but at times it is like something out of a child’s book and come as a distraction.
“In the second gateway a small white kitten with a patch of colour on its back was crying. It was like the kitten I had seen in…It was possibly the last of its litter, surviving heaven knows how. I had to leave the dainty little creature opening its mouth and crying, still remarkably whole, still nourished by the milk of its mother, now perhaps persecuted and killed.”

In “A Way in the World” Naipaul’s abhorrence to cruelty is mentioned and here too he talks about cruelty, cruelty to animals – the cruelty of eating animals like horses, elephants, cats, dogs, bats. So wherein comes the ‘un-cruelty’ of eating cows, chickens and fish I wonder.

I thought a certain amount of arrogance is displayed when visiting a Babalawo magician:
“in the corner something lavatorial and disagreeable were three shrines the oracles…”

Naipaul’s uncluttered prose is evident in all his writings. Quote: I wish my prose to be transparent—I don’t want the reader to stumble over me.
But here his unclutter borders on simplistic.
“I went to the lavatory. I saw the family dogs in two big paved cages at the back of the yard. One cage had small dogs. The other cage had big dogs, a Dalmatian and various hounds, all fine and well exercised and happy. While I watched I saw them fed by a servant who entered the cages with their food. I could have looked at the feeding scene for a long time.”

Sir Naipaul did not achieve his purpose:
“To reach that beginning was the purpose of my book”.
But he left me happy with this lovely piece of Bantu wisdom –

“YOU ARE A PERSON BECAUSE OF ANOTHER PERSON”

MISSION IMPOSSIBLE 4

GHOST PROTOCOL

‘Your mission should you choose to accept it’ statement and the familiar toe tapping music throw us right into the action – the latest impossible mission – Ghost Protocol, an action filled, spellbinding, adventure thriller. The Imax format scenes get the adrenaline pumping for more than two hours, long enough to keep us engaged in MI world.

Starring Tom Cruise as Ethan Hunt in the lead role. The rest of the team are Simon Pegg as Benji, Jeremy Renner as Brant and agent Jane, Paula Patton; the film directed by Brad Bird.

It opens in Budapest, to the well-known and exciting tune invoking the thrilling ‘Mission Impossibles’ of before. A handsome agent code-named “Cobalt” is assassinated by an attractive lady agent who disappears with documents containing nuclear codes.

A mayhem prison break is arranged allowing Ethan, an iron-man body and a focused mind, escape from his cell. He makes his way through various cell-blocks and opening-grill doors but not before he goes in search of a Russian prisoner whom he wants to save.

A seemingly impossible task for the mission team led by Ethan Hunt is to retrieve the nuclear codes before they fall into the hands of a crazy terrorist bent world-annihilation. But the documents do pass on and fall into wrong hands.

We see great aerial scenes of a Kremlin that is later bombed. When blame falls on Ethan and his team discrediting them they are disowned by the US government. The team has to conduct the operation of retrieving the codes on its own, hence the name ‘Ghost Protocol’. We move with the agents to the Dubai’s Burj Khalifa and are in the midst of hair-raising scenes: Ethan breaking through the glass window of the hotel, climbing up a sheer glass curtain wall over a 100 floors and later hurtling down it. From the finger biting scenes we go on a blinding, choking chase in a sandstorm.

Following the disappearance of the codes from Dubai the team moves to Mumbai or maybe not, looks like Mumbai. The aerial view seems genuine enough. We are set at a party in a palace of Maharaja splendour. We meet another villain, a tycoon playboy Brij Nath (Bollywood’s Anil Kapoor). The MI team’s sexy agent Jane arrives to unearth the satellite codes from the tycoon who is unable to resist Jane. But the terrorist manages to run off with the codes.

More taut scenes follow. The hero chases the terrorist with the briefcase codes, now a fully-fledged nuclear activation device, through an automated multi story car park of moving steel platforms that raise and lower cars. The two men swing and fall from floor to floor, fighting each other and are much mangled. The briefcase moves from the clutches of the terrorist to the hero and back again.

Finally Ethan Hunt and his team do manage to save the world for us. Adrenaline rush is constant throughout the film and so is humour. Many a tense moment is relieved by much wit and funny comments.

Gadgets are exciting too – gloves that stick to the sheer glass wall allowing one to climb, showing blue when they work and red when they don’t:
Blue is glue and Red is dead.
Bionic contact lenses that can take photos and decipher codes.
And a BMW concept car with a touch screen windshield that allows onscreen interface (GPS) to bring up locations and objects.
An illusion wall that can be moved to change the look of indoor locations.

Cruise loves running and we love watching him run: the tight coiled, lightning run, and we get not only scenes of his run on the ground but also up and down sheer walls.

Mission accomplished the team meets in Seattle where they part accepting new ‘missions’. We get a touching glimpse of Cruise and his wife, who now having assumed a new identity from a previous problem, exchange glances across a wide separating distance. They disappear in two different ways.

I give 5 stars.

Guest Writer Wendy McTavish

A short excerpt from:
EXPAT – Opinionated memories of forty years in Hong Kong

Suburban Psycho

Flush with the image of myself as an emerging earth mother I decided to go the whole hog and get a cat and a dog. The cat we adopted from a litter down the road. I asked Robbie to name her and he chose the extraordinary name of Wilma.

‘Wilma? Why Wilma?’

‘The dog next door is called Fred so now we have Fred and Wilma Flintstone!’

Encouraged by my aunt we purchased one of these dogs. A fat white and ugly-beautiful puppy she was christened Miss Piggy for the obvious reason. Miss Piggy turned out to be extremely stupid and also most promiscuous. No clothes hanging on the line were safe from her predations. No male dog could resist her canine charms.

At great expense we erected a fence around our property to keep her inside. Bull terriers are unable to jump high because of their sturdy front quarters. However, we forgot that the neighbourhood mongrels did not have the same disability. They could jump in and they did. Miss Piggy and I went to the local vet for an ante-natal visit. However, the vet told me something of which I’d not been previously aware. If bitches are aborted they cannot give birth another day as we humans can. Not wanting to deprive Miss Piggy of the joys of motherhood and being reluctant to deprive my children of witnessing the mystery of birth, I decided that my teenage, unmarried dog should proceed with her pregnancy.

What a mistake! Miss Piggy gave birth to her first puppy at about 8 AM one school morning. After watching three puppies come into the world my children regarded it all as a bit ‘ho hum’ and wandered off to school. Miss Piggy’s twelfth puppy saw the light of day at 5 PM, after nine hours of labour. I was exhausted but not as much as ‘Miss Piggy’.

The puppies were cute and obviously had several fathers. (This is another fact of nature of which I’d been ignorant. A bitch can carry the pups of many different fathers at once.) Twelve puppies were far too many for such a young mother. Over the next weeks I would arise each morning to find a dead puppy lying beside Miss Piggy. I could not understand it as they all looked extremely healthy.

One day the mystery was solved. I put them in the back garden to gambol with their mother and went inside only to emerge hurriedly when I heard a terrible squealing. I was confronted with the sight of Miss Piggy’s big paw grinding her offspring’s face into the earth, trying to suffocate it. I guess it was an understandable reaction to a multiple birth of such proportions plus severe mastitis.

One by one little puppies were buried about the garden. When Miss Piggy started digging them up and eating them we decided that we could never feel the same way about her again and found new homes for her and her remaining few offspring.

Author Wendy McTavish

Wendy McTavish

OCCUPY CENTRAL HONG KONG

This new social experiment needs a due date

Occupy Central Hong Kong

Occupation Central began as early as the 70’s. Having spent six-week days looking after Hong Kong families and children and pets, our domestic helpers occupy pavements, walkways and parks in Central on their day off. They gather to meet friends and relatives, to socialize, share food, news and gossip.

Sunday, their day off.

Foreign domestic helpers in Central

As of the 15th October 2011 we have another Occupy Central group.
Protesters have occupied the ground floor space of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation for more than a month. The migrant workers, an accommodating lot, have been displaced from this space. On Sundays they are squeezed around the periphery.

The Meeting

Periphery

There is much admiration for this peaceful demonstration, Occupy Central. It is indeed a noble gesture that a group of our citizens demonstrated, showed their support for the Occupy Wall Street Movement with placards and slogans and waving fists, denouncing the greed of our own Banks and other Corporations.

Forty or so demonstrators decided to occupy the ground floor beneath the HSBC with all the paraphernalia of a home away from home. Tents, sleeping bags, sofas, bicycles, bookshelves, guitars, tables, stools, computers, laundry, a clothesline, a generator, and a mini-kitchen make this the most unsightly happening in our lovely city.

I have much sympathy for the demonstrators and their cause…the ‘Greed’ has indeed spread around the world. ‘1% holds the wealth of the world’ the placard says but looking at the occupiers last Sunday afternoon did not give me much hope for a successful outcome of snatching part of that 1%. What I saw seemed an untidy group of twelve or so tired and bored.

Our HK group is indeed lucky, they do not have to worry about inclement weather, the very bank they are angry about gives them a comfortable squatting space beneath its tower, the Asian headquarters of HSBC Holdings.

Accessible and nearby is the clean public loo and washing facility. Rubbish collection and ample lighting are provided by the very government one wishes to topple.

‘Everyone is equal’ said one slogan. It reminded me of the slogan that some are more equal since the migrant workers had their space taken by the all are equal group.

‘There are no designated leaders at “Occupy Central”, and all matters are put through an extensive decision-making process to reach a consensus. Everything is shared, from water to food and cigarettes,’ said a report.

Great sentiment, I thought, but leaderless leads to nowhere.

‘I want to tear down capitalism’ screamed a placard. Anti-capitalist passion, and I hope the how has been sorted out.

‘The gap between the poor and the rich people in Hong Kong is the most serious in the world,’ said another.

And one twitter has the right invitation:‘to night let us bros and sis have our first hot pot together at occupy central’

What is the focus?
What is the outcome so far?
What, when is the end?

The food and hygiene and environment and other authorise have turned a blind eye to the unsightly squatter mess of sleeping quarters, a mini kitchen, and laundry blowing in the breeze on Queens Road, Central.

Let us hope when the authorities finally decide enough is enough, as is happening in the US right now, they will be compassionate and give our squatters enough time to move away. And our protestors for their part will peacefully move on to somewhere else or find a different route to solving the international problem.

This new social experiment needs a due date.

NaNoWriMo

NaNoWriMo

November 2011, the 13th Annual National Novel Writing Month

November, our Writers Month is here. NaNoWriMo, Nation Novel Writing Month has become more of a World Wide Writing November. On the 1st of November you start writing and continue to the end, 30th November, a 50,OOO-word novel (same year, within that one month, you may well note). it is a workable goal and important to many of us who ‘talk’ about writing and do no writing to talk about. It’s getting started that is the hardest.

The Novella can be any genre. 50,000 words don’t really a novel make, more a novella, but it can become a novel. Once inspired you would want to continue writing and may end up with a 500-page novel.

NaNoWriMo involves planning, thinking, and furiously writing a readable prose. A plan set out for us. A timetable to keep to. 50,000 words is the minimum. Keep to the goal each day, but writing more than required would be better.

It would be a very good idea to prepare a rough outline or guide, a storyline before the 1st of November, an idea of the plot and the characters that have been running around in your head. No pre-written, stuff of course, for you’d defeat the purpose of this challenge. There is no time for research, so writing what one knows would be best. Not much time to plan for many chapters either.

Whether one writes less or more it is a good exercise in training the mind to focus and to write in flow, the pressure to get some writing done.

Only those with tremendous courage and discipline need apply. Get started, get that creative rush.

Sign up here:http://www.nanowrimo.org/

Good Luck.

Let me know below how you get along.

What am I going to be doing? Need to clean out my wardrobe, bring out the winter wear. Need to look good for my Mr Mac.

KASHNA

Kashna

Smiling around the world

In Hong Kong, Australia, United Kingdom

A charming smile for handsome Don. She knows she’s loved

A great smile for camera, coaxing Storm to smile too

A smile for baby sister Esina

An enigmatic smile Lovely Kashna at university

Poem

Old Lovers
by Mary Jane Newton

We are old lovers now.
Like rancid butter we drip
All over the sheets.
We smile at
The mutiny of our bodies
And we lie, holding hands.
We know we both
Remember the full moons
During which we chased
Our scents like unruly hounds,
During which we burnt
Ourselves up like cheap candles,
During which we played gently
Each other like instruments,
Read each other like Braille,
Watched each other
With closed eyes.
Now we lie here,
At once regretful and reconciled,
Holding hands
Under the duvet.

Mary Jane Newton

The Buddha that Cried

Excerpt from Novel The Buddha that Cried by Andy Smailes

Fragley isn’t Irish, but he looks as if he ought to be.
We exchange small talk. The dockyard, the boats. Fragley’s a crane operator on the dockside. He won’t be far off sixty, I guess. He doesn’t have any direct contact with the boats and their cargo, so he doesn’t smell of fish. The ambience of the pub doesn’t seem to bother him too much, though. He’s here more or less every night.
I wouldn’t say he loves his work; it must be a very solitary existence up there in the crane’s tiny cockpit at night. I guess he’s one of those guys who just gets on with it, and grows gently and benignly old. If he didn’t have his crane, his eagle’s eye view over the docks, the ships and the sea, the drinking and camaraderie of the pub, I think he would just fade away. He doesn’t seem to live for anything else, that’s for sure.
“Did you know Hoosey’s closing down?” Fragley has turned and is busy lighting up again. He chain-smokes when he’s at work, too; just himself and a pack or three of Bensons for company in his cockpit up in the sky.
*
Fragley looked older tonight, old and pinched, as if the cold had got to him; as if the warmth of the pub was unable to filter through. The lines of his face, cutting through his cheeks to the angles of his mouth, were deeper, harsher. He turned away from me to cough, hacking away into a tissue. He crumpled it up into a ball and flicked it into the open brass fireplace, but not before I’d sneaked a quick look at it. The stuff he spat out was greyish-white, the phlegm of a chronic smoker, and it was spotted with little flecks of blood.
No, lad, this won’t last forever. I remembered his words from the night before.
“I feel everything’s slipping away,” he said. “Most of me life I’ve worked in this place. And for what? Night after bloody night by meself up in that crane, sleeping away the days… Sleeping away me bloody life, that’s what. What’s the point of it all? Got no money stashed away…no sons to live on after I go…why live at all? Why even bother to bloody exist?”
I’d never seen Fragley down like this. He had always been so determinedly cheerful. I wondered if I could give back some of the empathy I’d had over the years.
“You’ve been here thirty years, man. This is your home…you might not have kids, but you’ve got family here. You belong here. Just walk into the bar, and you know it…you can touch it. There’s a thousand dockers here who’ll shout for you, man…”
“Aye, and what good will that do?” His voice was deep, then, deep and grim.
Only then did it sink in. I noticed he wasn’t smoking any more. Instead, he was drinking hard. Drinking as if there was no tomorrow.
“Given up on the fags, have you?”
“Aye, well…” He shrugged. “I might as well save me money.” His face as he turned away was unreadable.
I bought him a beer. “They’re on me tonight,” I told him. I bought him half a dozen, and his mates as many more. But still it didn’t change his mood.

Author Robert Andy Smailes

Onam in Penang

Onam

‘What is Onam?’ a Chinese friend asked me.

Onam, a festival celebrated by people who come from Kerala, a state south west of India. People who come from Kerala are called Malayalees or Keralites, and their native language is Malayalam.

This Hindu festival celebrated by Malayalees falls between August and early September on a waning moon. The ten-day celebration takes place in the month of Chingam of the Malayalee calendar. A prehistoric harvest festival but it is also steeped in folklore, celebrated to mark the mythical homecoming of King Mahabali. He is revered for his wise ruling of Kerala, a time that brought much peace and wealth to the country, a golden era.

Kerala — the long turquoise strip on the southwest coast of India — is known as ‘God’s Own Country’.

Onam observed by Malayalees whether the community is large or just a small cluster in some remote part of the world. The festival has religious origins but is celebrated by Hindus, Christians, Muslims and by Malayalees who practice other religions.

My clearest memory of this celebration comes from the age of ten when my family lived in Penang. My parents observed first nine days on a minor scale. Days before the tenth day preparations started. Servants rushed about endlessly, it seemed, cleaning the home, changing upholstery and curtains and all things that could be changed to new, or washed, cleaned and polished. Silver shone, brass became gold. Our small family altar filled with flowers and offerings. In the very early hours of day a special feast, vegetarian feast, was prepared for family and hordes of friends of different nationalities who would visit us. People of Penang in those days were very cosmopolitan.

We children stayed up late to the constant mantra ‘time for bed’ from every adult in the household. Finally and reluctantly, we went to bed and slept fitfully, dreaming of new clothes, usually pretty flashy, and new shoes and all the good food, though I do not remember ever being short of food at that time.

We were up early to see the home decorated and warm and lit up with many lamps, flowers everywhere. Scent of joss sticks and incense filled the air and each time the kitchen door was flung open the smell of delicious food. A carpet of fresh flowers lay out the front door welcoming the day. New mango leaves were strung up auspiciously above the front door.

The only painful thing I remember is the cold shower we had to take at dawn before we could don our new clothes. Some of the older girls received gold jewellery too. Wait, sorry no food yet. We had to pray first at the home altar. Papa and Mama would bless us and thank ‘the gods’ for all good things bestowed on us while we could only think of food and fun and games that awaited us. We speedily and fervently mouthed our prayers, and I, ‘bless mama, bless papa, make them buy me a new bicycle soon and I want a camera, and I want a new pen, what else, oh yes …’ was my prayer.

Now that I am grown up, well almost, and an elderly adult in Hong Kong I go with the flow, celebrate all that comes my way. It was Eid a couple of weeks ago. After Onam we are into mid Autumn Festival. This is a full harvest moon Chinese festival that falls on 12 Sept in 2011. It is the one I love best in Hong Kong. Homes, parks, public venues and shops are decorated with colourful and interesting lanterns and children walk about carrying them too. Come evening streams of lit lanterns float like fire flies as people make their way to the beaches and hills and mountaintops to view the full moon. We also get to eat tons of Moon-cake, once a year treat.

And then along will come a frenetic Christmas to round off the year.

Getting Your Book Reviewed

Getting reviews: Good and bad

Article by Randy Dotinga, Christian Science Monitor contributor.

Thinking about writing a book and printing it through one of those self-publishing outfits? Get ready to work: you’ll have to take on the task of convincing people to read it or pay someone else to take on that chore. Sure, you can shell out $149 for a listing and a chance at a professional book review by the trade journal Publishers Weekly. But that’s no guarantee of a cover-friendly “couldn’t-put-it-down page-turner” blurb.

A self-published memoir is “heart-wrenching but sometimes plodding,” says one new Publishers Weekly review. A Civil War novel is an “intriguing but not altogether successful.” It’s even worse for a compilation of allegedly comic essays (“precious few laughs, or even grins”) and a religious book (“ill-informed and insipid”). Three really good August novels. Those are some expensive ouches.

Wouldn’t it be nice to pay for a review and get to spike it if the reviewer thinks your book stinks? Now you can. A literary agent and the former book editor of the Rocky Mountain News have co-founded a new book-reviewing website that does just that.

At BlueInk Review, “serious reviews of self-published books” come at a price – $395 or $495 each once you click the “Order your review!” button. That’s a lot of money, but it comes with control over whether a review ever sees the light of day. If you don’t like the review of your book, it doesn’t run. The BlueInk Review will be a boon for authors if they can manage to get positive reviews and find someone (readers, mainstream publishers, libraries, their moms) to care about them.

Unfortunately, BlueInk Review fails – so far – to prove that the self-publishing world is bursting with hidden talent waiting to be discovered. Yes, a few self-published authors have become stars. But such a high level of success is exceedingly rare, and the latest several reviews published by BlueInk Review as of Aug. 10 tell us why.

Almost all of the reviews are lukewarm or negative. They describe books as “stilted” and marred by “many faults,” an “unprofessional tone” and “promising but underdeveloped stories.” Wow. This is a small sampling to be sure. But they’re all reviews that the book authors themselves allowed to be published. How bad might the killed reviews be? We’ll never know.

There’s one thing we do know: the self-publishing industry and the new pay-to-play book-reviewing industry thrive on amateur authors who are full of dreams and money.
Keep your dreams, folks. But first spend your money on classes, workshops, and honest guidance from professional writers who know what they’re doing.

Leela comment: And after that rap two gems:
Bathing Elephants
Floating Petals

Novel Extract

The Silent Monument by Shobha Nihalani

Extract

‘You digger,’ Deva roared, pointing an accusatory finger, ‘what had you promised me and what have you ended up delivering? You have been careless and foolish. Your purpose was to feed the reporter information on a possible treasure in the Taj, and his job was to make it public and force the government to do something about it, which in turn would have led you to snitch on the IIA, and get me access and we would have found the treasure first. But nothing of that sort has happened, instead… instead, you have created a new problem.’

Mahesh was stunned at the man’s plan, which incidentally wasn’t the original plan at all. Mahesh was supposed to leak information that the government had chosen to keep secret. That was all. Where did the information on treasure come from? As far as he knew, those were just rumours. ‘What are you talking about?’ Mahesh asked.

“You have given Parag useless information and now it has fallen in the wrong hands. You idiot, that reporter died because of you!’ he shouted. Deva was sitting erect, hands on hips.

Mahesh looked appropriately shocked. ‘The reporter knew from the first time we met that the information I would give him could prove fatal. He was playing with fire. He insisted on asking too many questions from too many people. I am not the only one involved. Parag contacted me saying his newspaper and some American magazine would be publishing his articles next week and needed some more proof. I gave him the confidential information. I risked my job. What do you expect from me if the reporter got careless; I had already warned him,’ Mahesh said in defense. It was important to justify his reasons. Deva was a powerful underworld don and Mahesh didn’t want to be his next victim.

‘You fool!’ Deva stood up, fists clenched. ‘That reporter found something even more precious than the pictures. He found proof – some document, a letter with the stamp of the symbol of royalty. A scroll! It clearly has links with some secret hidden in the Taj. I am sure of it!’

Man Booker Prize 2011

Man Booker Prize 2011
The long list announced on 26 July includes two writers I am familiar with.
Booker Prize winner Alan Hollinghurst, author of The Line of Beauty and The Swimming Pool Library. At the time when they were first published, both books I found too sexually explicit and I left them partially read. I picked them up again this year. Hollinghurst’s writing is truly beautiful if one is able to accept or set aside graphic descriptions of homosexuality. Both exposed me the sadness and loneliness of homosexual men especially as they aged. In The Swimming-Pool Library the connections between two generations of gay men shows us the shifting social expectations. I am looking forward to reading Hollinghurst’s The Stranger’s Child, which foreshadows change, in civil partnerships of gay men (and women). With recognition of gay unions in many parts of the world it would be interesting to see change of outdated social mores. The life and legacy of a war-slain Georgian poet of The Stranger’s Child brings this change more to the forefront.

Having met Allan Hollinghurst in person, I found him to be a dignified, down to earth, quiet gentleman. He had time to listen to his readers. I was much impressed by this, so unlike some writers I have met who are standoffish.

Julian Barnes essays are sharp and witty. The Lemon Table treats aging with humour and emotion. Many of the characters have “an awareness of their own folly for refusing to relinquish the pleasures and passions of the younger self, and a concurrent awareness of a growing inability to pursue those passions with consistent vigour.“

It is believed for the Chinese, the lemon is the symbol of death, and where the characters gather to discuss mortality is the ‘Lemon Table.’

The Man Booker Prize long list this year includes a former winner, former shortlisted and longlisted authors and four first time authors. Three Canadian writers are also among the 13 chosen.

The List
Julian Barnes The Sense of an Ending (Jonathan Cape – Random House)
Sebastian Barry On Canaan’s Side (Faber)
Carol Birch Jamrach’s Menagerie (Canongate Books)
Patrick deWitt The Sisters Brothers (Granta)
Esi Edugyan Half Blood Blues (Serpent’s Tail – Profile)
Yvvette Edwards A Cupboard Full of Coats (Oneworld)
Alan Hollinghurst The Stranger’s Child (Picador – Pan Macmillan)
Stephen Kelman Pigeon English (Bloomsbury)
Patrick McGuinness The Last Hundred Days (Seren Books)
A.D. Miller Snowdrops (Atlantic)
Alison Pick Far to Go (Headline Review)
Jane Rogers The Testament of Jessie Lamb (Sandstone Press)
D.J. Taylor Derby Day (Chatto & Windus – Random House)
The four first timers to lookout for are Yvvette Edwards – A Cupboard Full of Coats, Stephen Kelman – Pigeon English, Patrick McGuinness – The Last Hundred Days, and A.D. Miller – Snowdrops.
The longlisted authors were chosen from 138 books submitted, and this year seven of those were called in by the impressive list of judges: Matthew d’Ancona, writer and journalist; author Susan Hill; Chris Mullin, author and politician, and Gaby Wood,head of Books at the Daily Telegraph,. The Chair -Dame Stella Rimington.
The short list will be announced on Tuesday 6th September and the winner of the 2011 Booker Prize on 18th October.

Partners in Crime

Partners in Crime

It was them alright
There they were, like regular tycoons in a limo
Looking straight ahead, impressive, real cool
Waiting for a signal, no doubt
Or, were they waiting for the traffic lights to change
The whole force had been on the lookout
I spotted them straight away, well almost
There were those tell-tale designer bags
Five or more, in the back seat. The missing diamonds
Had to be, too many recent jewellery heists in the vicinity
It’s no wonder I’m known as the Queen of Wanchai
Erm, I mean, Queen of Wanchai Detectives
I knew I had one shot, one shot only ‘Get them Girl’, I said
I whipped out my Canon, just in time for that shot
The lights changed to green, they pulled away
Zoom! Gone!
Left me coughing and spluttering in exhaust fumes.

Leela Panikar

Shakespeare Garden New York

Shakespeare Garden
by Indra Chopra, travel writer

Located in a corner of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, Brooklyn, New York is the ‘Shakespeare Garden’, a green tribute to the Bard of Elizabethan England. Designed in English cottage garden style with flagstone path-way, fountain and a lone teak wood bench, the garden, features nearly 80 species of flowers and herbs mentioned in William Shakespeare’s plays and sonnets. The use of Shakespearean or common names, special quotations and graphic descriptions help to identify the plants. I recognized parsley (photograph); the poppy (photograph ) and the garlic (photograph): everyday plants infused with literary qualities.

The original 1925 Shakespeare garden was a gift of Henry C. Folger, founder of the ‘Folger Shakespeare Library’ in Washington, D.C., and his wife Emily. Henry Folger felt that “the poet is one of our best sources, one of the wells from which we Americans draw our national thought, our faith and our hope” and by helping fund the Garden brought Shakespeare closer to the people.

The present Garden was relocated to its existing site in 1979 to give it more space to blossom. The best time to visit the Garden is late May when the flowers are in full splendour, especially the roses.

Let’s Stay Connected

Let’s all stay connected, yippee yay!

Peaceful air travel is at an end. After all the hassles of getting to the airport on time, dealing with cancelled flights, changed boarding gates, immigration formalities and customs checks don’t look forward to sitting back and relaxing to the droning throb of your flight. Try not to switch off for you are going to be switched on in a big way. Forget the reading, contemplating, sleeping. All this will soon be of the past with plans for the new kind of travel.

The importance of connectivity is here. Flying three hours, or fifteen hours does not make a difference. Above 10,000 feet? Not a problem. We shall be moving with the times. Singapore Airlines will the first with this great connection innovation and Cathay Pacific Airlines is soon to follow. Access to wifi, internet and mobile, yes, mobile telephone service, not just texting or sending and receiving of emails but real life calls.

Just lean back, stay connected, talk, talk, talk. A mobile phone stuck to the ear and multi-tasking – eating, drinking, filling up forms or anything else one does on the plane. One might have to bring two or three mobile phones for those urgent calls that come in while you are on one. Of course, the airline company will take into consideration the other passengers like me, who will be slowly sliding into total insanity with a talking passenger next me. To minimize my discomfort a code of conduct will be introduced. Travellers will be asked to follow the new flying etiquette – consideration for fellow passengers. The staff will be trained to help everyone in this respect.

‘Please set your phone to silent mode and talk at a normal level.’ Note the key word here is normal. And more etiquette bonus. During night-time flights, voice function of the mobile phone will be disabled. Wow!

Flying days with innovative airlines will soon come to an end for some passengers. I am saving up for a private jet or maybe grow a pair of wings in my garden along with herbs, potatoes, papaya and banana.

CookieJacking

Cookies, not the edible ones.

Cookiejacking
Do not be alarmed, I have been using search engines for a long time and purchase all that I can online. There are ways of protecting yourself but:
Be aware, be responsible, protect yourself.
Five simple ways to protect yourself from identity theft
1. Make difficult, good passwords
2. Do the same with PINs
3. Delete emails containing passwords
4. Keep computers safe from loss
5. Shred sensitive documents
Leela

Horizons from Christian Science Monitor
Chris Gaylord

“How ‘cookiejacking’ could steal people’s Facebook passwords. Cookiejacking could let hackers compromise Facebook profiles, says a computer security expert. But Microsoft argues cookiejacking isn’t a high-risk threat.

Cookiejacking could hijack your Facebook log-in credentials by Chris Gaylord May 27, 2011

A new hacking scheme called “cookiejacking” could expose a person’s usernames and passwords for Facebook, Twitter and countless other websites, says Rosario Volatta Internet security researcher.
Most websites that require you to log in will save your online credentials as “cookies”. These small browser files can contain anything from passwords and site preferences to the contents of an online shopping cart. Cookiejacking, according to Mr. Valotta, lets hackers steal those cookies and get away with your personal information.
“Any website. Any cookie. Limit is just your imagination,” Valotta told Reuters.
Cookiejacking only works against people using Internet Explorer he says. But all versions of the browser, including the latest edition of IE9, are vulnerable.
There is, however, a very big catch: To access your cookies, a hacker must design a website or game that convinces you to drag an object from one side of the screen to the other. For example, Valotta “built a puzzle that he put up on Facebook in which users are challenged to ‘undress’ a photo of an attractive woman,” reports Reuters. Once players move the digital clothing, they unwittingly trigger the cookiejacking trap.
Valotta says he harvested more than 80 cookies from his 150 Facebook Friends in less than three days.
Microsoft says it isn’t too concerned about cookiesjacking, according to company spokesmen. A hacker needs to jump through too many hoops for this tactic to be a major threat.
“Given the level of required user interaction, this issue is not one we consider high risk,” Microsoft’s Jerry Brant told Reuters. “In order to possibly be impacted a user must visit a malicious website, be convinced to click and drag items around the page and the attacker would need to target a cookie from the website that the user was already logged into.”
While cookiesjacking goes down as yet another potential exploit against PCs, Mac OS has suddenly come under attack from malware. First Mac Defender and now Mac Guard have tricked Apple users into installing malicious software onto their computers.”

WRITING RULES

My six

I often come across fellow writers who advice me not waste time worrying about Writing Rules. Rules curb your creative process they say.
I write without rules when I create the first draft. I try to churn out at miles per hour, definitely no rules here, very creative indeed.

Writing rules can be broken to your advantage and to your writing needs but you need to know and understand rules first to know which to bend and which to break rather than not know rules and make a hash of your writing. There are some guidelines you ought to adhere to.

It is important to avoid:

1. Jumping from character to character in the same paragraph. It tends to confuse readers.
2. Use of a profusion of noun/verb qualifiers. It leads to flowery language.
3. The use clichés, too many similes and metaphors to further enlighten the reader.
4. Reduce foreign words. A smattering adds colour, too many add annoyance.
5. Overuse of weak words like ‘was and were, and –ing words’ lead to telling not to showing.
6. Passive writing. Passive loses the positive punch.

I am a big fan of ‘the simpler the writing the better’ and am working hard towards that goal.

SPRING

Spring

In Close Conversation

White lilac tangle
Flamboyant rose red
Not unravelled by
Last night’s wild winds

Flowers In quiet conversation
Sweetly intimate
Perfume more than jasmine
Scenting, calling out

A butterfly unfolds wings
Finds refuge in blossoms
Bees anxious harried
Rustling quick nectar

Colours bold, not muted
Glimpses of fleeting spring
Elusive sounds, fragrances
Beckon speedy summer

Poems

Poems from Betty Bhownath

LIFE

Life

A life bled dry of all colour
Except for a growing grayness
Dulls my days, dampens my spirit,
Etches a frown on my forehead,
Makes frail my heavy heart.
Tedium, in itself, is tiresome
But a life bereft of colour
Stamps out optimism,
Kills enthusiasm

TIME TRAVELLERS

Time Traveller

I’m boxed in, bound and gagged,
Frail-hazy images fly past
Flung briefly into memory,
Splintering….
Then, dissipating into blackness-
Save for quiet breathing,
I stand frozen, blind staring
Into the pock-marked face
Of a stranger.
Cold fingers touching mine,
Intimate…….indifferent –
Motionless….MTR mates.

Poet, Artist, Writer, Educator Betty Bhownath

A HAPPY NEW YEAR

A very happy Vishu

From a small village in Hong Kong comes a powerful message
Be Happy

Garden Ganesha

A very happy Hindu New Year to all my friends.

Buddha Answer

Spiky Heels

Buddha’s answer at the next cocktail party
Here’s a lovely quote, substitute favourite prophet for Buddha, if you must.

“One of his students asked Buddha, ‘Are you the messiah?’
‘No,’ answered Buddha.
‘Then are you a healer?’
‘No’, Buddha replied.
‘Then are you a teacher?’ the student persisted.
‘No, I am not a teacher.’
‘Then what are you?’ asked the student, exasperated.
‘I am awake’, Buddha replied.”

This answer is just too difficult for me not to copy. Next time at some cocktail party, in my spiky high heels

http://www.1designer-clothing.com/

leaning against Don and clutching a glass of champagne, and when someone, finding me devastingly attractive, asks

‘Are you an undercover police woman?’
‘Are you a model?’
‘Are you kept woman?’
I will say no to all.
‘What are you?’ he will ask.
And I will proudly declare:

‘I have arrived. I am awake.’

Dragon Ball

DRAGON BALL

Not a computer game. Not a Manga comic.

Tea.

Chinese Antique Teapot

Tea ceremony in my mother’s home took place at precisely four pm every day when the family had to and did assemble at the large wooden dining table. Tea in delicate, almost transparent porcelain cups. Strong sweet milk tea poured from a fine Chinese tea pot cloaked in a Kashmiri tea cosy.

Afternoon tea was always accompanied by savoury snacks: oma podi, masla or ulunthu vadai, warm, spicy and comfortable.

Savoury

My life in Wales had a similar tea ceremony. I had now swapped an Indian family and maids for a Welsh family and no maids. Same sweet milky tea, perhaps a little diluted to suit the delicate Welsh evenings. Also swapped was savoury stuff for cake, blamange and bread and butter.

But now I am grown up I am no connoisseur of tea. I drink anything that comes my way, and much does. My tea-draw is full of tea gifts from tea gift-giving friends.

Flower, fruit and herb teas
Green, black, white, yellow teas
Chrysanthemum, jasmine, rose flower teas
China, Ceylon, Darjeeling Turkey teas

Pungent, malty, smoky, toasty
Orange Pekoe, First Flush, Keemun
Pu’erh, Iron Goddess, Monkey King
Dragon Ball

Dragon Ball? Yes, a surprise tea resident in tea draw. Tiny compressed tea balls, each about half a centimetre in diameter. Each a tiny tight ball, a hand tied silver needle. Pour hot water over it, not in a tea strainer, the balls need space. Each tiny ball comes alive, flowers out. Opening leaves, moving stems, a slow dance. An evolving Tea. The needle shoots quietly float and settle in a golden brew. Delicate jasmine scent from an early spring arises, and perchance a quiet whiff of a snail having gently crawled past the silver needle.

On a terrace butterfly laughter filled,
below the frangipani branches I sit.
Cup of Dragon Ball in hand, pensive
Sipping, quiet. Tea steam swirling
brings messages from across oceans,
desert sands and snow heaped lands.
From hill slopes green scented,
tea rollers thinking their thoughts,
exotic, nimble fingers rolling, tying.
To the one who rolled my tea
Dragon Ball – Lung Chu Cha
this message I send on a passing breeze,
Thank you

Imprint 10

HK Women in Publishing

Launch of 10th edition of IMPRINT coincided with the 21st birthday of Hong Kong Women in Publishing. On 14 March 2011 the event was held in Bert’s Bar of the Foreign Correspondence Club, a successful celebration and a perfect setting for an artistic group of women. The Imprint, an impressive annual journal, showcases members’ works of fiction and non-fiction, poetry, art and photography and carries an impressive members’ directory.

A year of hard work behind the scenes. Dedicated general and Imprint special committee.

An informative introduction by the chair Jennifer Eagleton

A long time friend and admirer of Wips, the hilarious Mr Nury Vittachi gave the keynote speech that set the tone for a wild and happy night of partying.

Congratulations

Sendai (t)Sunami

Sendai (t)Sunami

Earth Quake

Snow falling broken heart
Searching in dread grey

Stumbling in mud
Debris wind weaving
Shields underfoot a shroud

Somewhere water sprays calm
Smell of gas, bodies buried
Smoke, a spark, a fire eaten home

A new toy a recent laughing child

Ocean-bottom hides shameful menace

Sea smiles welcome, innocent
Soothing tide forgets the big wave

Did I hear birds scream an agony

In Branches

I was not here five days ago
The tsunami took him, my love

I have no need for the rest
No purpose, no now, no tomorrow
A dawn, a waking, an evening twilight

Gone, swept away

A no-where moment
I have showed up

I know not why, how
And now
What for

There is no need
No need
To be

Leela Devi Panikar
15 March 2011

Hong Kong Protests

Street Brawlers

We, in Hong Kong, are given every chance to protest and have rules in place to practice our rights. Local and international protesters have taken to the streets. Protests have been effective and have brought a lot of good for Hong Kong.

But let’s not forget when a large protest is scheduled taxpayers’ money is used for deployment of manpower to allow it to place under safe conditions for those in the business of protesting and the rest of the public. I say business of protesting for protestors are uniformed in various and colourful logo-ed T-shirts and caps, string miles of banners, carry posters, and protest toys such as plastic hammers and fake rice bowls, paper coffins and all manner of interesting objects and symbols.

Much inconvenience is caused: roads closed off holding up public transport and shop frontages blocked, daily life disrupted.

We put up with all but thuggish behaviour of small groups and individual protestors is getting totally out of hand. These so called people’s representatives and concerned groups are resorting to bullying and violence. Every new incident is more shocking than the last. The latest scuffle involving our Chief Executive should not have been allowed to take place. There should have been better security than by-standing body guards.

Throwing of objects, bodily bulldozing their way and leaping over railings to attack government officials or the police is increasing. This type of behaviour is shocking, is an embarrassment to peaceful Hong Kong and sets very bad example for the young, our future protesters.

Our politicians and representative of government have become street brawlers and thugs. The deranged should be barred or expelled from the legislature. Severe penalties are called for.

Gaddaffi

Muammar Gaddafi
Dictator Supreme

Heavy virgins uniformed
Girl guards for a world thug
Billionaire magnate evildoer
Fed on camel milk fresh
Lockerbie ransom for oil

Dissidents rise, tortured, hanged
Gunfire, screams, corpses
No smooth fight this
Visas refused, news-less
No foreign journalists

Videos, people phone
Sneaked, life risked, real
Truths truer told, potent
Not edited bullet ricocheted
Citizens gunned down

Bed sheet gowned despot, hatted
Unhinged press call from car
Mustachioed menace on last leg
Umbrella wielding and ready to shed
Last drop of blood for country

Desperado on a white charger
Ranting, raving
‘My kingdom for a face-lift’.

Egypt, shades of Tiananmen

Egypt, shades of Tiananmen

It is time to recognize Arab countries have entered a new era. People power is sweeping across the Algeria, Egypt, Jordan, Lebanon, Libya, Tunisia and Yemen. They have all suffered the same fate with potent rulers paying partial attention to their countries’ fate.

Dictators have stayed in power, some over 40 years. An autocrat has ruled Egypt for 30 years, a country with a population of over 80 million. Lack of political freedom; controls and constrictions, abuses and torture abound.

Excessive greed of the rulers, and their corrupt government’s inability to tackle economic problems has escalated this situation caused utter chaos, placed the citizens in fear and poverty; brought on inflation, food and fuel shortages, rising prices and unemployment.

The Egyptian authorities may crush the movement for democracy. Rallies and protests might even be suppressed for a time with the U.S.-funded military tanks in a bloodbath. They may block out all communications, shut down satellites, block the Internet and mobile phones, place curfews but as we have seen the movement is only snowballing. It’s time to recognize the unity of the people. With incredible bravery and determination the protesters keep coming.

The Egyptian people are not asking their government to reform. They are not asking Mubarak to step down or his government be dissolved with him forming a new one. They want Mubarak and his government out, gone. They are demanding an end to the entire autocratic, repressive regime they have endured for even longer than Mubarak’s rule 30-year rule. They want democracy not just a reform of the current government with new promises.

Western governments have wished, over a period of time, for gradual political reform fearing breakdown of stability in the region. Too late now, reform has been too slow coming, stability broken. Much damage been caused by the last Bush administration with its erroneous foreign policy that viewed solution with wars and military spending bringing about and escalating hatred and terrorism from the Muslim extremists.

Now the world must wait and see how the vacuum will be filled and what extremism, if any, will arise.

Sharks look out!

Humans are circling you, closing in.

We human beings, unlike other animals, seek to eat fellow creatures not only to satisfy hunger but for the taste and for the fun of it. We demand and create food purely for pleasure. And for that pleasure we torture and kill over 100,000 million sharks worldwide. Shark fin soup is a status symbol, it is expensive. One can pay up to $400 for a bowl of soup. It is is neither proven nutritious nor tasty without the help of additives. We have cultivated a fake delicacy, a designer dish.

Sharks caught and finned are thrown back into the sea to suffer and die horrifically. Unable to swim, bleeding and desperate, they sink to the bottom, and sometimes take days to die. The shark meat does not fetch a high enough price to bring ashore. Big and often illegal operations deprive smaller fishing communities of their livelihood and shark meat that is their diet. We are depleting the oceans of these creatures leading to a dangerous imbalance of the marine ecosystem.

We, in Hong Kong, are inventive in many fields, and enjoy the status of being the best and the first and the foremost internationally. We also love giving our selves names. I can be Leela for a few years and then choose to be Rainbow, Sparkle, Jealousy, or Standoff.

We are ‘World City’, whether we chose the name or it was given to us, I am not sure but a name we take pride in. And as such ‘A World City’ we boast of many things but one of our restaurants, Sun Tung Lok Restaurant being awarded a Three Star Michelin Prize on 3rd December 2010 is disgusting news however random the choice happened to be. Sun Tung Lok is one of hundreds of restaurants in Hong Kong that still take pride in offering Shark Fin Soup.

Hong Kong is now the global hub of shark fin trade. It is reported Hong Kong accounts for up to 80% of world trade, yes, Hong Kong, a mere dot on the world map. We imported 9,300 tons of dried and frozen shark fins last year.

A walk through the Western District of Hong Kong reveals the biggest variety of dried goods outlets, grocery and medicinal shops: dried fish and shrimps; dried snakes, turtles, frogs, abalone; sea horse and sea-cucumber; bats, ducks and birds, crocodiles; and creatures quaint and rare are on display. This is all very exciting until we come to the disgusting shark fin section of hundreds of shark fin outlets. Recently this area has also become a processing centre. Stretches of pavements drying defrosted fins invade much of the district with the reeking putrid smell of rotting flesh.

Spain, Norway, Britain, France, Portugal and Italy are in the fray, turning a blind eye to the trade. Other fin traders are Taiwan, Indonesia, United Arab Emirates, United States, Yemen, India, Japan, Mexico and insatiable China.

Dolphin meat is often used as shark bait. Whales, sea turtles and other sea creatures are caught up in the shark nets.

Time we stopped this trade, time we respected sharks.

Let the sharks live, they have been here for over 400 million years.

The Book Thief

Markus Zusak
The Book Thief

Read on Kindle

Death is the narrator of ‘The Book Thief’. An intriguing idea but often I missed Death as the teller and heard the writer speak. Death is shown as compassionate and appreciative of humans and at times is unwilling to have to fulfill his duty.

The Book Thief is the story of a young girl, Liesel, hinted as being Jewish, left in the care of non-Jewish German foster parents. The foster-father is kind and considerate and the foster-mother rude and harsh on the surface but caring and deeply loving. The story takes place in a town of extreme poverty near Munich, not far from Dachau, in the time of Hitler.

The death of Liesel’s brother on the way to the foster parents and the disappearance of her mother, presumed sent to a death camp after she is placed in foster care, play a large part in shaping the young girl’s character.

As Liesel grows up in a Jew hating environment she becomes a good keeper of secrets. Books rare as they are banned and burned by the Hitler authorities. She hides the fact she reads, hides the books she manages to steal. Her foster parents are portrayed as strong characters; with kindness and care they help the child grow up. They assist her in keeping secrets in spite of their constant fear of their foster child being revealed as Jewish and later the fact they hide a Jewish young man in their basement.

The idea of long phrases as titles for chapters is interesting though sometimes they give away the plot too soon.

Author, Markus Zusak tells a good story, a truly lovely story of intrigue and strength of character but ruins the novel with much unnecessary detail and imagery. His invented words and phrases are good and clever at times but often too creative. They confuse and break up the enjoyment of the story. Instead of ‘walking’ we have – The feet scolded the floor and Grimy tears were loosened from the children’s eyes – ‘the children cried’ would have been adequate.

Short stories within the story, poetry and drawings lead to tedious reading. More confusion is introduced by magical-realism.

His generous smattering of German words and phrases and their immediate translation into English for the benefit of the reader is annoying and lead to constant break in the flow of a good story.
And clichés abound: ‘You are either for the Fuhrer or against him,’ etc, etc.

The end comes too quick, too easy and too clean.

As a reader-writer I found the work laboured. The story could have been told with more impact had the writing been tighter.

In spite of the over inventive writing and cluttered art of story telling I would recommend the Book Thief. It is an interesting, passionate and touching novel.

Leela Panikar