A literary drought.

Good books provide pleasant company. I love to surround myself with friends such as these; with all their opinions and vocabulary that stimulates and nourishes my thirsting mind. But, for two weeks now, a famine of literature has struck the land in which I live. The village of Nongkhao is severely lacking in English language novels. Obviously, this is not surprising.

A lack of reading wears on my mind, and like any practice, irregularities can cause a lag in understanding. Already, within two weeks I have noticed that my writing suffers, and now I frequently consult the thesaurus for inspiration. Maybe it is extreme to say, but something is amiss. My brain's neurological circuitry feels disconnected. There is a block in my head. A pathway is pinched, and while it is not permanent, I feel there is only one cure -- literary stimulation.

My palate has become accustomed to the succulence of freedom. Up until now, here is what I have read:

***Shantaram by David Gregory Roberts.

This is a partly autobiographical account of one man's life as a fugitive hiding within the complexity of India. Escaping from an Australian prison, and eventually seeking refuge among Mumbai's 13 million souls, the story's protaganist becomes a man of many faces, out of both necessity and love.

Surely an epic novel, not only because of its size (nearly 1,000 pages), but also because of its breadth and scope, Shantaram gloriously portrays the colors of Bombay; from its dark shadows to its most lively bursts of beauty. This novel has more than earned its place on my shelf of favorites.

***Midnight's Children by Salman Rushdie.

Following my obsession with the complexity of this most diverse country, Midnight's Children follows the life of Saleem Sinai; one of the children born at the very stroke of midnight on August 15th, 1947 -- the exact moment of India's independence. Like any human, he struggles with youth, adolescence, and adulthood, but most importantly, Saleem is faced with a fateful connection to a country on the verge of something altogether new. Along with a myriad of other characters born in the seconds, minutes, and hours after midnight, Saleem must fight with issues of inadequacy, and the populous' expectation of something great.

In terms of literary style, I found Midnight's Children a challenging but rewarding read. To some, Mr. Rushdie's style may seem particularly drawn out, but in reading this book, I have gained an appreciation for his lofty style and see it as a reflection of India's cultural complexity.

***Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke.

A read purely for pleasure, this fantastical novel is a portrayal of two 19th century magicians, who through the years shift between both competitors and friends.

Some have described this book as a Harry Potter for adults, but I did not find this to be so. I can see where certain characteristics provide it with this likeness, namely the use of magic, but instead of creating a land of unicorns and centaurs, Susanna Clarke writes her story against a backdrop of historical England. The characters are lively and their development is wonderful; each earns a place in your heart.

***Gilead by Marilynne Robinson.

In his last days, a dying father writes a letter to his almost seven year old son. Intended as a way for a son to know a father, this book, is that letter.

Gilead is one of the most moving and powerful works of fiction that I have ever read. It is both raw and touching, full of examples that illustrate the humanity in all of us.

Marilynne Robinson writes this chapterless novel from a first-person perspective, and as you sound through each sentence of "I..." and "My...", you hear and find a connection in human triumphs, as well as the paradox of death and the mystery of grace. For those who have grown up in the Midwestern states, Gilead is a snapshot of growth in smalltown America. I was disappointed that this book reached its end.

***A Year in the Merde by Stephen Clarke (a struggling, infuriating, work in progress).

Having found the only English language novel in the house, I am reluctantly slogging through this non-fiction piece of travel writing. A humorous attempt (note the word "attempt") at a year spent working abroad in France, this piece of work is a British perspective of life in the midst of Parisian culture.

Thus far, I think this book is a sexist, monotonous portrayal of culture. The only reason I am still reading, is because I am a completist, and therefore, I must finish; even though it is a battle almost every step of the way.

Of course, you may form an opinion for yourself and evaluate this work on a completely different basis than me, and I beg you to try; but at this point, I doubt that I will be swayed.

Hoping to soon find a monsoon of literary inspiration,

Seth