Veronika decides to die - Paulo Coelho

We should have been a little madder.  I thought I was mad enough. But maybe in my search of madness, I’ve drawn walls so high, my madness has become an illusion of security.  What I really wanted was on the other side.  Not to have the strength of an independent rebel but the fragility of a child who wants to be part of others and for others to be part of.  Such madness I’ve built that I have been blinded and celebrated it as uniqueness, a feat that only a brave lone soul could victoriously enjoy.  Imprisoned by this concrete castle of madness, I’ve disabled judgment and criticism or even when they come, they should bounce off nonchalantly because they didn’t matter to me.  I am not the criticism of others and I have no ears for that.  I was drowning in my own mirage of perfection.  No wonder success evades me for I have not known how to turn love into blessing, the art of getting rid of bitterness.  Happiness is the absence of bitterness.  How could someone who has everything and owns anything the heart desires, surrounded with beautiful people, still fall into depression?  They call it low-level serotonin but in fact it was a poison more venomous than all venoms, more toxic than all toxins, so unassumingly named Bitterness.  A destroyer of passions, an anesthetic of feelings, a murderer of dreams.  Bitterness has caused my fear of failure deeply underestimated as I continue to spiral into a frenzy of indecisiveness and confusion.  I was so afraid of goodness and light, afraid they will deject me when I finally make friends with them.  I would not allow myself to a sliver of possibility that my old wound from years of abandonment could be cut open.  I’d rather bleed profusely and go to bed, unawake forever.  This fear which gripped me so greatly that when I let love in, I disarmed it in case it crumbles my wall and throws off my routine.  As such I began to understand that excessive fear is an imbalance, I’ve been hoodwinked into believing in my nonexistent equilibrium.  I’ve been against the law of natural change for the longest time and my soul is desperate to be set free.  My eyes opened, my hands agitated to deconstruct this illusive dark palace that I’ve named Dignity which such pride, in there I sought not comfort but solace for so many years.  I am tired now.  And I’m ready to leave and live.  Madness is not lost of control.  To control is madness.

Paulo Coelho is a genius, nothing short of artful brilliance.  Buy.

Beatrice and Virgil - Yann Martel.

Yann Martel did it again. And this time, he changed his rule of engagement entirely although there's still a sense of familiarity in the setting. To those who have thought wonderfully about Life of Pi which won him the prestigious Man Booker Prize, will definitely not be disappointed this time round as well. I promise.

Beatrice and Virgil is about Henry, a successful writer who hit a road block in his creative endeavor. While trying to deviate from the reality of not being able to complete his task, he was half hiding and half in denial when he found himself mysteriously drawn to two fictitious friends narrated by an equally mysterious taxidermist who stood no where near Henry when it came to writing fame. The enigma of mystery finally brought Henry lessons in life that should and could never be forgotten.

To be very honest with you, when I started reading the book, it was kind of slow. Perhaps of my exceptionally high expectation on this book, thanks to Yann's extremely engaging Life of Pi. Even half way through the story, I was not particularly empathetic towards the characters. Instead, I was getting slightly impatient and was only drawn to the plot only at certain twists and turns. And then *wham*, it hit me right in the face. The crux of the story came and went very quickly but was so powerful that I had to 'rewind'. I leafed a few pages back and re-read the entire scene to fully consume the message again. You've got me, Yann. You caught me off guard ;)

The plot is tight, the climax is short but diabetic-ally sweet and it hits you in the gut. Then this overwhelming sense of guilt suddenly washes over and chide you for being such a lax reader and taking the 'point' so carelessly. It suddenly made me realised that Yann had perhaps intentionally set the pace in such a way that we (as expected by him) would see history as facts that set the mood for a lethargic afternoon, than truly embracing it as part of an important lesson to be remembered and held with such esteem so that we will never, ever allow it to repeat itself.

This book isn't just about words weaved into fiction, aimed at lulling us into another dimension of imagination. That is only half of what this book is really about. The other half is him using words as a technique to relive a part in our memory that has begun to erode...

A must read for all thinkers. And from the horse's mouth (no pun intended, Yann :)):