written on the body
Since a few days, i had imposed a self-censor. I wouldn't use the adjectives 'beautiful' and 'kickass' (to be forever on a quest for beauty is not normal. i must taste some normality too once in a while); and i would try not to be introspective all the time. (trying not to be so 'full of myself' all the time, there's the whole world out there that needn't be reflected onto me..)
but how else could I describe Jeanette Winterson's 'written on the body' but delectably 'beautiful' and what else can one do but reflect when confronted with such poetic mirror to our hearts. its one of those literary pieces which you want to hold unto yourself like your lover, for its beauty and for its truthfulness.
I read half the book the day I bought it. and then tried to resume it the next day on local train. Now local trains are a many things, but definitely not a temple to beauty and truth. And this book deserves nothing less. It deserves to be read on a sunlit day, sitting on green grass, unperturbed by anything other than the steady bustle of the river nearby. well if not that, the cot must do, but it will be utterly disrespectful to be distracted from it again and again.
so it had to wait quite a while until a weekend when i had some leisure time by myself to read it.
The book is a portrait of love. a love who's sighs and gasps you wish to cling just a little longer every time. what makes the work even more noteworthy however is the fact that Jeanette gets us under the skin of the protagonist turning us into accomplice while throughout keeping us in doubt about the protagonist's gender! what genius! imagine portraying love without letting ever know who you are actually empathizing with. you know his/her desires, fears, loves, vices, friends but you don't know if its a he or a she.
while being a brilliant innovation of narration, its such a strong political (humanist/philosophical/gender based... whatever label you want to put.. i am not good at that) statement. love, in its completeness, defined sans gender. get this copy in the hands of all homophobes, all cynics.. and generally everyone. why should anyone be robbed of experiencing such beautiful work?
but how else could I describe Jeanette Winterson's 'written on the body' but delectably 'beautiful' and what else can one do but reflect when confronted with such poetic mirror to our hearts. its one of those literary pieces which you want to hold unto yourself like your lover, for its beauty and for its truthfulness.
I read half the book the day I bought it. and then tried to resume it the next day on local train. Now local trains are a many things, but definitely not a temple to beauty and truth. And this book deserves nothing less. It deserves to be read on a sunlit day, sitting on green grass, unperturbed by anything other than the steady bustle of the river nearby. well if not that, the cot must do, but it will be utterly disrespectful to be distracted from it again and again.
so it had to wait quite a while until a weekend when i had some leisure time by myself to read it.
The book is a portrait of love. a love who's sighs and gasps you wish to cling just a little longer every time. what makes the work even more noteworthy however is the fact that Jeanette gets us under the skin of the protagonist turning us into accomplice while throughout keeping us in doubt about the protagonist's gender! what genius! imagine portraying love without letting ever know who you are actually empathizing with. you know his/her desires, fears, loves, vices, friends but you don't know if its a he or a she.
while being a brilliant innovation of narration, its such a strong political (humanist/philosophical/gender based... whatever label you want to put.. i am not good at that) statement. love, in its completeness, defined sans gender. get this copy in the hands of all homophobes, all cynics.. and generally everyone. why should anyone be robbed of experiencing such beautiful work?
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