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The Glassblower's BreathThe Glassblower’s Breath by Sunetra Gupta
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Aagh!! finally finished with one of the crappiest books ever read. Comes even lower in the scale than the likes of Salman Rushdie’s Shame and The Satanic Verses. Had to give one star as I could not give anything lesser than that.
Inspired or tired of reading the book this was my poor counter to what the author has crapped in the book.
Looks like there is no dearth of readership for books with never-ending sentences which cover the past, present and future and keep shuttling across the time dimensions across multiple characters with no connection across with each other, and these books issue forth from the pens of authors, pens which use inks, inks which can be black, blue, red, green or any of the other color in which inks come, but of late the authors prefer the electronic medium of their Windows Desktop, if they cannot afford an expensive processor, or on their Mac machines, these germinate in the putrefied brains of authors, where breeds vermin of words which multiply faster than rabbits and soon the vermin of words are oozing out of brains of these authors, to test the patience and endurance of readers who wish something more readable and palatable and something that can be understood and something that will help them become a better person or at the minimum help them spend their time without having to get frustrated at every turn of line and every change of subject which happens after very few words, where one finds that one has started somewhere, goes somewhere, and ends the sentence somewhere else and somewhere in between the whole context is lost on the reader, but the only redeeming factor about the book is that for somebody who wishes to increase their vocabulary in English it benefits by providing them with a new word practically every few words and reveals phrases that mean nothing and everything at the same time, it introduces them to an esoteric way of writing that causes writhing of the brains inside the cranium and makes one wish that one never picked up such books and instead left reading to be alone at peace in the silence of empty pages of an unwritten notebook.
If you felt the above was crap here are a couple of excerpts from the book for your perusal. Read at your own peril, you may end up losing your hair at the end of the reading.
“Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street. I took it as a sign to start singing, falling up into the bowl of the sky. The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere.
A wall of mirrors shatters beneath the weight of his smile, those lips will surely taste of death, death who had mocked your last winter from the foot of your sister’s bed, death who had scroned the softness of your arms, your lips, death had risen, last winter, from the firmness of shadow into regions of raw dream, and yet starved of mourning you had drifted into a windless plain where being played charades with nothingness, and the absurd was your only refuge, those lips are certain to taste of death, currents of warm ink clash deeply with a colder suspension, death could never have been ensnared by the old grammar, diced and pureed among familiar vowels, but there in his smile were the makings of a new rule, my love, and this you could not ignore.”

The second occurrence of the same phrases.
“Last night the moon, the moon buried hard against cork and glass, last night the moon, blistering softly against the bubbled mirrors, I came to the window, last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street, I took it as a sign to start singing, falling up into the bowl of sky. The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere. Nothing else to do. But here’s the new rule, my love: Break the wineglass, let the shards swallow your palm, fall, fall gently now, down the everted chute of time, towards the glassblower’s breath.”

Towards the end of the book these phrases repeat but I was too tired and frustrated by the that time to note it down and reproduce it.

Here is a clincher. If one were to have a competition of height of absurdity I am sure this will rank very high.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God, who came to rank far above the many-limbed images of childhood, the head and dust of the festival fields, the sandalwood shrine in the mellow alcove, Holy Mary, how much longer this agony, this band of broadening blue in the back of my head, Mother Mary palanquined in dream, in narrow dormitory cot, oh Mother, why is it that the afternoon light falters, skips a beat, squelched Australian vowels hold the child in solid trance, why is it that three full pints of India Pale have had the time to filter from his blood, leaving him doubtful, ready to try the six-ten from St Pancras, and risk the vast emptiness that is sure to come anyhow, the angels that will lie drowned in suspensions of gold dust, their feathered wings, always too palpable, feathers, home to lice, and other myriad, dark infestations, feathered wings shrunken soaked, dripping, drowned mites, will compact into the caverns of his being among those very corridors to which he has escaped, so often, even from you, wishing to be alone with his memories of you, the tunnels that have wreathed his desire in marble dark, the deserted carriages, carriages choked with men and women whose lives hung like scraps of muslin about him while he sipped upon dream, carriages, empty but for darting eyes of a lonely nymphet in the corner, provocations that sealed his mood in such thick honey that he would hunt, almost, often, for a pair of schoolgirl eyes to ignore, perhaps it would be wise to nip across once more to the Butcher’s Arms, and attempt to galvanise the fading enchantment of the unreal, that which sustained him throughout the day, what other would have held at bay the wormwood tide, the sheathed despair of that distant spring day, when your lips and met as dry bone in fondless farewell and he had thanked the gods for revealing to him, once and for all, that he had lost you beyond all hope, that it was only some lingering love of romance in your underdeveloped psyche that had drawn you to him in the first place, it was only the murmur of the stoic palm tree that had churned desire in your young veins, his sighs had been music only against the taut parchment of tropical summer, and perhaps if you had not been wrenched from that humid womb, if you had not taken your memories, your desires, your dreams and flung them to harden upon the new winds of a different shore, perhaps, if you had remained among the dust sights and sprinkled weeds, among the crow calls and cart creaks, the mothballs and mustard fumes, then he fancied that this obsession would have remained your only refuge, that which was mutely conceived among the daffodil banks of your childhood, where first his blood had coursed to an utterly unknown rhythm, whose curious cadence had only served to startle, is this love then, he had wondered, twelve years old, his knees against the cold wall, drinking eagerly of your stirrings in the lower bunk, but where was the angst, the pain that most spoke of, and where was the lunacy, the rapture, the epiphany of his Shakespearean antecedents, all he felt was a pleasant lightness, desire, without violence, that he would savour, through that month, his last Easter holiday in the scurvied Midlands, the first pale edges of flame that he hid in schoolboy harlequinade, from your, his long-limbed companion, whom he found more subdued now though still eager for adventure, still eager to scour the spring fields for the source of Nile, to swing your long legs, longer now than his, from the apple tree and sight, through palm-curled binoculars, the enraged spittle of the Victoria Falls, Victoria Falls, where he had been the year before with his mother and father, sick with fear Avishek had stood upon the knife-edge bridge, while his father fiddled with his camera aperture, Victoria Falls, where you had never been, Victoria Falls, you would whisper as if it were made of lace.”

The above spans two pages of a standard paperback book and is one full sentence in case you were not successful in going through the entire paragraph. Now consider reading 266 pages of such paragraphs and decide if you really will enjoy it.

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