“A woman’s reputation is all that she gains in this life. And this talk of a proposal of marriage, isn’t it also a little too late in the day?”
This is“A woman’s reputation is all that she gains in this life. And this talk of a proposal of marriage, isn’t it also a little too late in the day?”
This is an important book to read (even if the execution isn’t exactly flawless) because it tackles such an important topic. The problem with Pakistani literature is that there is such limited output in the English language that when a book comes along discussing a widow’s prospects of a second marriage and society’s stereotypical responses to it, it is important for us to sit up and take notice.
Musharruf Ali Farooqi’s books take on interesting figures, I’ll give them that. In Between Clay and Dust his characters include courtesans and wrestlers, figures in history that describe a particular time and place, but this time around the protagonist is more socially relevant, someone whose status can be discussed time and time again. Mona, the widow in (the very originally named) The Story of a Widow, is a person upon whom a whole society descends to voice their stereotypes, prejudices, and horrified opinions about how and with whom she should spend her time.
“Don’t expect the whole world to gather around and offer its blessings for every choice you make in your life. It doesn’t work like that.”
Mona’s decision about a second marriage sends the whole family into a tail spin, with daughters and relatives and family friends all ready and willing to comment upon the absurdity of the proposal. After her husband’s death, Mona’s life consists of gardening and walking and hanging out with her neighbour and family friend Mrs. Baig, but when a tenant at Mrs. Baig’s house, Salamat Ali, sends over a marriage proposal (after frequently spying at Mona in a frankly worrying manner), everyone goes batshit insane.
“I don’t know what you’re doing, prolonging this circus. Why didn’t you say no to this man straight away?”
A major portion of the story is about Mona’s relationship with her daughters. In a lot of societies, divorce is talked about more in terms of the children than the divorcee themselves, irrespective of the child’s age. In this story Mona’s daughters are married with children of their own, but that doesn’t seem to matter because in societies like ours that are less individualistic and more community-oriented, it is the children’s needs that come first. Mona, who has spent her whole life with a husband incapable of being pleased, is now ostracized for thinking about her own needs above others.
“It would have been different if Daddy had died young. Everyone knows it’s difficult for a young woman to raise kids by herself. Everybody would have understood that you had done it for us! Now, however—,”
Basically, the concept in Pakistani society is that once you’re married, all your hopes and ambitions must bow down to the whims and existence of your husband and children. No matter whether you’re living together or divorced, widowed or separated, no step of yours must be taken in ensuring your own personal happiness.
Wasn’t I a good mother to them, a good wife to their father? Why is it necessary to prove it to the world, too? If they suddenly die, must I die too?
This is quite a disheartening lesson to learn for someone like me, whose impending marriage has come with its own over-sharing of opinions and advice from overzealous well-wishers. This book gets that portion of the story right, even as it describes how complicated the mother-daughter relationship can be, and how even smart, sensible children can become ridiculous and selfish when it comes to matters of their own parents.
Like every mother, Mona had rediscovered her daughters as married women. She had witnessed Amber reacting to many things in much the same way she did, and making many of the same mistakes she had made as a young bride.
Mona’s confusion about the man’s proposal also has a lot to do with how her daughters so vehemently protest against it. Except, why? How does their mother’s remarriage affect them? Sure, if the man was sullen and horrible and they thought it was a horrible match their reactions would make sense. But that’s the thing: they don’t even know him before their knee-jerk reaction is horror and suspicion. This, in a reflection of the real world, makes sense but does not help the characters endear themselves to me. And also, why can’t we have children who are approving of their parent’s second marriage and personal choice and probably happiness? Why is that such an unrealistic assumption?
Was she showing the natural reaction of a child trying to protect the image of a parent in her mind? Were her daughters acting from the jealous regard that their mother’s affections should not be shared with another?
The only character worth rooting for in this novel is Mona’s sister Hina, whose warm regard for Mona and her complicated yet loving way of dealing with Salamat Ali’s proposal makes their sisterly relationship complex and weird. I loved reading about Hina because such relationships are explored so rarely in Pakistani books.
The only thing that mattered was that Hina had stood by her side. Her sister had been there for her all these years too, but her support now gave Mona a feeling that she would be able to cope with anything.
Hina is one of the few people willing to speak up about how utterly horrible Mona’s first husband, Akbar Ahmad, was. This is a point repeated again and again in the way Mona remembers Akbar Ahmad’s tendency to be petulant, miserly about money, and an overall failure of a husband.
“You always maintained that he was a good father, but so what if he was a good father? How does that redeem him if he was a bad husband?”
What’s fascinating is that this book provides all the possible reactions to a widow’s second marriage in Hina’s initial response of horror at Mona’s decision to marry Salamat Ali; not because Hina is against the very idea itself but because she can’t believe someone like Mona, who has already suffered through a horrible marriage to an absolute prat, would want to go through the whole torturous process all over again.
“You were unwilling to divorce Akbar Ahmad to obtain your freedom, but when a twist of fate has released you from him, you’re thinking—? Of what? Of walking into slavery once again with open eyes? I cannot understand you!”
Even with this particular response of Hina’s, one thing the story slightly touches upon but fails to explore in more detail is the treatment of men seeking a second marriage. Even though our protagonist is Mona and so it is her trials and tribulations we follow, it would have made for a richer experience in the narration if Salamat Ali’s family’s opinions also made an appearance in the story in fuller, greater detail.
The reaction from Salamat Ali’s family only confirmed Mona’s view that while a widow who seeks a second marriage was looked down upon as a harlot in society, widowers were expected to look for virgin brides.
Unfortunately, further flaws which are less easily excused appear as the story moves forward. The book sometimes takes on the tone of a gossip rag in how it discusses the other relatives of the female in their relationship hang-ups. Almost everyone is unhappy or mean or vindictive in one way or another except for our heroine, who alone is misunderstood and trying to do the right thing, which can get irritating. The story is also spiteful towards the characters our protagonist doesn’t like, representing them in unflattering terms, one of which I particular detest when it is used to show a personality flaw — that of using too much make up. This particular writing trick is not only sexist and misogynistic, it is also a particularly minor flaw in an otherwise pro-female story.
Possibly the weakest part of this storytelling attempt is the lack of relationship to the main character. As with Musharraf Ali Farooqi’s previous novel, there’s such a lack of feeling associated with the characters. No matter how interesting the story, your distance from the characters keeps you disengaged. So while one can ultimately appreciate how the story is about the choices we make and the right to make them, it doesn’t help that we never really learn to care about Mona or her predicaments.
“Who is the family to decide what I must or mustn’t do?” Mona demanded.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that Mona is not a character you’d particular root for. Not only is she weak and whiny, she also goes around blaming others for her troubles. And yet she’s also soft hearted, prone to moments of brilliant self independence, and genuinely cares for the people around her, so it’s hard to know where she falls on the spectrum of protagonist-reader love. I, for one, have loved the truly selfish, vindictive heroines I’ve read (Scarlett O’Hara from Gone with the Wind, Amy Dunne from Gone Girl, Quintana from The Lumatere Chronicles) but Mona frequently indulges in pointless self-pity, which is one thing I cannot stand in my heroines.
There was a pall that had hung over her existence for a long time after Akbar Ahmad’s death. What was it? The sense that her life had been wasted, or that she would not struggle to find happiness for herself as readily as she was willing to sacrifice herself for others?
Recommendation
“Too many people have tried to run my life with their expectations.”
This is an important book to read and discuss, because it brings up so many questions and sheds light on so many hypocrisies against the widowed female. And I’m very glad that the book points out that Islam doesn’t forbid widows from remarrying. But I didn’t love reading it. Basically, I liked the idea of it, but the execution left something to be desired. Make of that what you will.
**
I review Pakistani Fiction, and talk about Pakistani fiction, and want to talk to people who like to talk about fiction (Pakistani and otherwise, take your pick.) To read more reviews or just contact me so you can talk about books, check out my Blog or follow me on Twitter!
Her terror of wild beasts drove her to seek the even more fearful nearness of man.
It’s hard to write a review for a book by Bapsi Sidhwa, mainly becauHer terror of wild beasts drove her to seek the even more fearful nearness of man.
It’s hard to write a review for a book by Bapsi Sidhwa, mainly because she holds that venerable title of the first Pakistani English female writer (and how many people can claim to be the first of anything these days?), but also because she’s just so huge in the world of literature. In our part of the globe, where people treat reading as a passing fancy, Bapsi Sidhwa has dominated for years.
Reading the Bride felt, then, as a sort of rite of passage. Something one reads because one should, one must. But it’s hard to write this review as anything other than a textbook-format list of things one could discuss in class, because the moral compass of The Bride is pointed dead centre at An Issue and it is around it that the story is told. Bapsi Sidhwa herself admitted that she wrote this novel after hearing the real-life story of a wife who escaped from the tribal areas only to be caught and executed. So she started writing this novel with a purpose in mind: to teach, to educate, to start a discussion, and it shows.
The Summary
Women the world over, through the ages, asked to be murdered, raped, exploited, enslaved, to get importunately impregnated, beaten-up, bullied, and disinherited. It was the immutable law of nature. What had the tribal girl done to deserve such grotesque retribution?
The blurb claims that the story is about Zaitoon, a girl from the plains of Punjab whose adoptive father takes her back to his mountains to wed her off with a clan member. Unhappy and abused, Zaitoon runs away, to be chased after by her enraged husband and the rest of his tribe so they can kill her for this dishonour she has forced on them. This, supposedly, is what the book is about, but it takes a lot of time getting there.
In preventing natural outlets for cruelty the developed countries had turned hypocritical and the repressed heat had exploded in nuclear mushrooms. They did not laugh at deformities; they manufactured them.
Instead, really, this novel is more about Pakistan. About partition and the people who suffered through it, about lost parents and obsessive husbands, about city life and tribal ways. It’s a fictional account of a very real moment in time, and of people who are drawn as complex as anyone of us: Qasim, the Northern man who loses his family and picks up an orphaned girl during his attempt to flee after the partition. Zaitoon, the young girl whose family gets brutally murdered during an attack on a train trying to cross the border. Carol, the young, unhappy American wife of a Pakistani businessman. Major Mushtaq, involved in an affair with Carol and willing to save the life of a runaway wife. These characters are connected and have their own stories to tell, with large portions of the text dedicated not to Zaitoon but to the hows and whys of tribal pride, adultery and identity politics.
This doesn’t necessarily have to be a flaw, of course. Lots of books digress from their blurbs, choosing only to summarize what the author or editor feels is the most important part of the story for the reader to know. What keeps this novel from being thoroughly captivating is, in fact, its attempt to teach a lesson. It errs on the side of less entertainment, instead providing ample matter for analysis and discussion, which doesn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. After all, sometimes books that don’t keep the reader enthralled have important things to say, and Bapsi Sidhwa manages to do the same, providing lots of material on...
...cities
Lahore – the ancient whore, the handmaiden of dimly remembered Hindu kinds, the courtesan of Moghul emperors – bedecked and bejewelled, savaged by marauding Sikh hordes – healed by the caressing hands of her British lovers. A little shoddy... like an attractive but aging concubine, ready to bestow surprising delights on those who cared to court her.
...the clash of cultures
Qasim was ordered to apologize. He refused, and his clansman was sent for. After a roaring argument, the clansman finally persuaded Qasim to say the necessary words. He uttered them with the grace of a hungry tiger kept from his victim by chains.. Qasim learnt from his cousin that killing, no matter what the provocation, was not acceptable by the laws of this land.
...the atrocities of migration
Sikander feels a dampness along his thighs. Glancing over his shoulder, he sees a black wetness snaking its path down the slope of the roof. In desperation, men and women urinate where they sit. He feels the pressure in his own bladder demanding relief. “God, let me hold out until Lahore,” he prays.
...post-partition Pakistan
The uneasy city was awakening furtively, like a sick man pondering each movement lest pain recur... looted houses stood vacant, their gaping doors and windows glaring balefully. Men, freshly dead, their bodies pale and velvety, still lay in alleys and in open drains.
...and the post-partition government
Jinnah died within a year of creating the new State. He was an old but his death was untimely. The Father of the Nation was replaced by step-fathers. The constitution was tempered with, changed and narrowed.
...post-partition individuals
Fifty million people relaxed, breathing freedom. Slacking their self-discipline, they left their litter about, creating terrible problems of public health and safety. Many felt cheated because some of the same old laws, customs, taboos and social distinctions still prevailed.
... and the post-partition architecture
The marble canopy that had delicately domed Queen Victoria’s majesty for decades looked naked and bereft without her enormous dour status. Prince Albert, astride his yellowing marble horse, was whisked away one night from the Mall... No one minded.
...looking at a culture from the eyes of an outsider
“I love Lahore,” she wrote... “It’s beautiful and ramshackled, ancient and intensely human. I’m a sucker for bullock carts and the dainty donkey carts. They get all snarled up with the Mercedes, bicycles, tractors, trucks, and nasty buzzing three-wheeled rickshaws. The traffic is wild!”
...the treatment of women
“Don’t worry, she’ll be okay. If not, too bad. It happens all the time.” “What do you mean, ‘happens all the time’?” “Oh, women get killed for one reason or other... imagined insults, family honour, infidelity...”
...the representation of Pakistani segregation
“You know how it is with us – segregation of the sexes. Of course, you only know the sophisticated, those Pakistanis who have learned to mix socially – but in these settlements a man may talk only with unmarriageable women – his mother, his sisters, aunts and grandmothers – a tribesman’s covetous look at the wrong clanswoman provokes a murderous feud.”
...tribal notions of honour and marriage
“My God. If she had run away...” The though sickened him. No. Most likely, she had slipped and hurt herself. Possibly even now a mountain leopard was at her. He prayed it might be so. She couldn’t have run away. She wouldn’t dare...
...the stereotypical representation of marriages in uncivilized areas
She also grew immune to the tyrannical, animal-trained treatment meted out by Sakhi. In his presence, she drifted into a stupor, until nothing really hurt her. He beat her on the slightest pretext. She no longer thought of marriage with any sense of romance. She now lived only to placate him.
The Recommendation
Only if one is in the mood for a book that involves analysis and a descriptive introduction to the world of post-partition Pakistan would I recommend this. Although by virtue of it being the first book of Pakistan’s first English writer, it should rate highly on every Pakistani’s to-read list. Recommended.
* I review Pakistani Fiction, and talk about Pakistani fiction, and want to talk to people who like to talk about fiction (Pakistani and otherwise, take your pick.) To read this review completely, read more reviews or just contact me so you can talk about books, check out my Blog or follow me on Twitter!...more
I don’t think I’m scared of dying. After all, a man like me who has cheated death so many times has no excuse to fear it. It’s dying alone that frightI don’t think I’m scared of dying. After all, a man like me who has cheated death so many times has no excuse to fear it. It’s dying alone that frightens me.
The appeal of Omar Shahid Hamid’s writing, I’ve now realized, rests upon his knowledge of how the country of Pakistan works. That old, often controversial adage of writing what one knows is nowhere shown more clearly than in his novels, both his previous one as well as this one.
Involving police officers, jihadis and kidnappings, both these books use the same template for their plots, making the comparison inevitable, but it’s hard to say which book comes out as the better of the two. While I enjoyed The Prisoner to a certain degree, The Spinner’s Tale has made me realize why I didn’t completely fall in love with it.
And that’s because Hamid’s books are pure thrillers without any proper artistry behind them. We’re not reading these books for their brilliant prose or their deft character handling, but rather because, in the words of the done-to-death review phrases, they are nitty-gritty and fast-paced. They’re smart, entertaining books which focus more on the mystery than on the writing, which are such a rarity amongst the heavy-handed purple prose writings of most Pakistani authors.
Of course, one could easily accuse Omar Shahid Hamid of choosing clichéd topics to write about. Religion, politics and corruption are the holy trinity for Pakistani authors, and all three maintain an almost constant presence in Hamid’s books.
“It’s funny. All these years when we were in college, Ausi was just kind of drifting...but turning to religion seemed to be a seminal point in his life. Since then, he’s discovered his focus, like he knows exactly where he wants to go and how to get there. It’s fascinating how faith changes your life.”
From the starting, this book makes it clear that religion is a major focusing point in this novel. The major protagonist, our chess player in this story is Sheikh Ahmed Uzair Sufi, a notorious Jihadi militant who has been accused of, among other stuff, beheading a pregnant American journalist and attempting to assassinate the Pakistani president twice. When Sheikh Ahmed is brought to a deserted outpost in the Nara desert in Sindh and left in the care of DSP Omar Abbasi, he begins a game of cat and mouse by convincing Abbasi to search for letters written by Sheikh Ahmed’s friend Eddy, letters which will apparently reveal the Sheikh’s history. His only demand? That Abbasi bring the letters back and give them to the Sheikh, so he can treasure the words of his best friend.
“Arre baba, he’s one of the most wanted men in the world. I’ve heard the Americans are offering a bounty for him, but the government wants him on trial. Apparently, they consider him second or third in importance after Osama.”
The story makes it clear from the very beginning that Sheikh Ahmed is a cunning, ruthless killer whose beheading of the pregnant journalist was videotaped as proof, so Omar Abbasi jumps on this chance to find out his history. After all, how is it possible that even during his days of being incarcerated, or hiding underground, the Sheikh managed to stay in touch with such an old childhood friend, one whose affections and loyalties didn’t waver even after videotaped evidence of the Sheikh’s crimes were aired on national television?
“You were in a new world and you needed a new friend. I remember thinking that you must have been the loneliest man on the planet. That is how I feel today. I need a friend and I wish you were here.”
This is thus the premise of our story, a chase for long-lost letters, and interspersed with this chase are flashbacks to the Sheikh’s early days as a student nicknamed Ausi. Studying at an elite school, he spends his days discussing cricket with his best friend Eddy and lusting after the gorgeous Sana, who sees Ausi as nothing more than a very good friend. The cricket, the connecting point between these two young boys, is one of the smartest things Omar Shahid Hamid could have done, because in Pakistan cricket elicits almost the same level of passionate devotion as religion.
“You should follow cricket. It’s one of the things that defines us as Pakistanis. It gives us a sense of self-belief as a nation and brings us together.”
Any Pakistani will easily tell you how dutifully cricket is followed in this country. A cricket match can easily shut the whole city down, forcing people to skip important events and stay glued to their TV screens. This book uses that blind, unceasing loyalty to the game by incorporating it into the story, by letting it be the connection between Ausi and Eddy.
“When you explained to me in the greatest detail the variations that Maninder Singh was bowling in his left arm spin, I knew then that we were going to be friends for a very long time.”
Each letter that these boys exchange, as Eddy moves to study abroad and Ausi stays behind in Pakistan, have one or another reference to the latest cricket match, the scores, the players. And amongst these exchanges are confessions, expressions of loss and love, and a constant sense of wanting to stay connected.
“Is this guilt? After all I’ve done? A bit late now, don’t you think? Or is it fear? (Perhaps that is why I am writing to you now. When the shadow of one’s mortality falls upon you, you turn to what was most familiar in your life.)”
Which would have worked out great, except these letters are so obviously a narrative device meant to tell the reader a story that they fall completely flat. There is no hint of warmth in them, no proper sense of connection between the two boys. The letters, ultimately, come off as too pointedly structured, too obviously manipulated to inform the reader of the boys’ background.
There is always, I have firmly believed, something in the words of an author that help you care about the characters, help you believe that they are real and warm and living, and in the case of this book, that something is completely missing. Maybe if the letters had turned into a random, rambling recapping of memories instead of the awful, awkward tone they employ they could have been salvaged. As it is, their tone doesn’t fit into the reality of the narrative at all.
This awkwardness finds its way into the characterization as well. One of the things a number of Pakistani authors have tackled is explaining the background and the history of the home-grown terrorist. After all, what kind of past must one have in order to justify such atrocious killings, such wanton destruction? Surely a horrible, tortured one. And yet we have examples like Saad Aziz, a graduate of IBA, one of Pakistan’s most elite business institutes, who was one of the killers of Sabeen Mehmood, Pakistani human rights activist and social worker. Aziz’s whole schooling ran along the same lines of privilege (O’level from Beaconhouse, A’levels from The Lycuem, BBA from IBA) and even his business prospects tended towards the wealthy (internship at a multinational, owning his own restaurant at Sindhi Muslim), and yet Aziz was found to be involved in multiple terrorist operations. This reality finds it version in this book too, with everyone expressing disbelief over the fact that the Sheikh studied at such an elite institute.
“I miss school. What a privileged life we led! If only I could return to a world where my only concern was how to get through my O levels.”
But even though the book uses an adaptation of that reality, it fails to properly connect the dots of Ausi’s transition from the smart, serious student to a rampaging psychopath. Sure, his entrance to university life is disappointing, what with his father not paying for his university education abroad or his rejection from the cricket team for his lack of connections. But his overall need for destruction is so sudden, so violent that it doesn’t feel real. One of his friends dies and he goes on a total rampage at his university, beating up professors, settings fire to things. Surely there has to be some distance between a friendly, socially-engaged university student and one who believes it is completely acceptable to raise your hands at an adult.
“You are not weak, you are lost. I was too. Sometimes we have to wander in the wilderness before we find our true destiny. And the pain we suffer fashions us. It tempers us like a sword that is raked in hot coal.”
The book attempts to trace this story, of how Eddy and Ausi’s separate paths take them further away from each other even as they keep in touch, but it doesn’t do as good a job as one could expect. There are constant shifts in story telling from the past to the present, which start to become irritating after a while because it’s hard to keep track of what happened when. But once we learn to accept the fact that something in Ausi is angry and looking for revenge, the rest of the story begins to slot into place.
Ahmad Uzair Sheikh is a broken man, and he knows it. The problem is, no one else knows it.
And of course, it is at this point that religion creeps in. Angry, dissatisfied young men in Pakistan most often find the concept of jihad being forced down their throat, because what better weapons of destruction then those who believe the world has wronged them? This must be why madressahs all over the country find it so easy to recruit followers and eager enthusiasts ready to kill themselves through suicide bombs, because no other explanation seems to make sense to me.
“You are a Muslim. You have a duty to wage jihad to protect the weak and oppressed. On top of that, you are a Kashimiri. You have a double duty to wage jihad against those who have occupied your country.”
Add to that the Kashmir issue and this book really racks it up a notch. Ausi, or as he is slowly starting to become, Sheikh Uzair, has Kashmiri roots, and that is where he runs to when he gets in trouble. And that is where his training properly starts.
He has discovered that ninety per cent of this war is fought for propaganda. The lalas try and convince people that Pakistani terrorists are invading the peaceful land of Kashmir to stir up trouble. On the other hand, his people stick to the version that it is the unending cruelty of the Indians that has led to this uprising. There are lies on both sides.
A book about terrorism is incomplete without some mention of violence, but Omar Shahid Hamid takes this a step further by placing us inside the mind of the terrorist as Sheikh Uzair justifies his actions. Even as Omar Abassi, our DSP at the beginning, races across the city trying to put together the strands of Ausi’s life, contacting his family and friends, we spend our time instead various other character’s minds, seeing how they think, and it is within Sheikh Uzair’s mind that the book produces its most chilling phrases.
“Sometimes I think random violence is the best way to grab people’s attention. You have to shock people, deliver a 2000 watt jolt to their system. That is how you change the world.”
Again and again the story shows us how Ausi’s mindset is shifting, how the people he surrounds himself with affect him personally, how he plots and plans to hurt those who have hurt him.
“If you cannot find humour in the business of killing, then what can you find it in?”
Even though one could consider Omar Abbasi the main proponent which forces our plot forward, it is the questions that the reader needs answer to. Can we trust Sheikh Uzair about the contents of the letter not being a secret code? Where is this mysterious Eddy? Who is this man who trusts such a well-known and villainous terrorist? And what keeps these two men connected to each other across time and space, with changing lives and priorities, and differing views on so many things? It is in the attempt to answer these that the plot moves forward, delivering one of the most surprise endings in a Pakistani fiction book I’ve read recently. If only for that ending, I’d say this story was worth it.
Eddy doesn’t understand why one group of people wants to kill another group of people over things that happened 1500 years ago. But Ausi understands that this is a basic instinct, and people need symbols to justify doing the things they could never do otherwise.
Recommendation
To change the world, you must violate it first.
This book gets a lot of things right: the pace, the action, the building up of the mystery, but it also gets a number of things very wrong, especially its treatment of the female characters (including failing the Bechedel test and Sexy Lamp Test so spectacularly it becomes almost a joke. Is Omar Shahid Hamid incapable of writing female characters who are more than props to allow the men in the story to fight, grieve or show their manliness?). Overall, if you can convince yourself to forgive these failings, then I suggest you read this story, if only because such an honest account of the Pakistani police system, terrorist set up and overall mania in the country is generally a hard note to get so right.
**
I review Pakistani Fiction, and talk about Pakistani fiction, and want to talk to people who like to talk about fiction (Pakistani and otherwise, take your pick.) To read more reviews or just contact me so you can talk about books, check out my Blog or follow me on Twitter!...more
