Book Review: The Death of Vishnu: A Novel, by Manil Suri

The book is centered on a small group of people, one of which, a drunkard named Vishnu, is dying. Weaving its way in and out of the lives of those that live, love, and die within it, the story takes place almost exclusively in a single apartment building in Mumbai, India. It's a book that lacks a variety of settings, or even a defined plot for that matter. What it does have are snapshots. Snapshots of each character that give you a brief glimpse into their present; and with each snapshot a caption in the form of memories from the past that give the stories and characters feeling, depth, and meaning. As the reader you are shown the paths the characters have walked and then are allowed to briefly walk beside them. As you do you can see the path ahead split into all the different, interweaving tracks each character could take. Good stories, after all, are about character development. But in this good story, these good stories, the characters stay on their respective paths, not for a lack of story, but because that's what people do. You think that because the headstrong young woman gets a taste of the real world, perhaps she will shed some of her naivety. You hope that since they have let a man die on their doorsteps, the neighbors might abandon their pettiness. As you read you try to will the characters to a different, higher path; but that's not how life works. And that's what this book is, a book about life, snapshots about life, capturing only a few moments in time. But like the Hindu mythology that permeates the lives of the characters, their stories don't end just because the book does. The various story lines, all woven together, don't tie off neatly in the end. Rather than leaving you feeling empty and frustrated, like some books which a lack a clear resolution, you accept that there is no end. As in reincarnation, the end only represents a link in the infinite chain of creation. So it is with this book.

Monster Semantics

According to ancient Greek mythology a ferocious three-headed dog named Cerberus guarded the gates of the underworld and kept the dead from rejoining the living.

I’ve got issues with that.

Not with the concept; an awesome monster-dog at the gates is much more entertaining than an old bouncer that looks like Santa in a bath robe checking names against the naughty/nice list to see who can get into heaven. Mine is an issue with semantics.

I have a friend who’s expecting (or more accurately his girlfriend is expecting) and he thinks that based on the size of her belly that they will be having twins. Let’s say he’s right and in 7 months she gives birth to two normal healthy twins. Wonderful! As my wife and I have always wanted two kids, I for one have always thought that having twins on the first go would be great; get it all over at once. Plus I could get my tubes tied while she’s giving birth (to save gas).

Now, let’s say that by some crazy chance (1 in about 125,000 births according to Wikipedia) she gives birth to conjoined twins. Don’t freak out, I’m not jinxing my friend’s girlfriend’s pregnancy. I threw salt over my shoulder as I wrote it.

In this unlikely event, two babies would still be the end result, they might just be linked at the hip or back or whatever. My point is that conjoined twins are still two individuals; you would never say that they were one individual with two heads.

So why was Cerberus a three-headed dog? If each head is an individual, wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that he (or she?) was a one-bodied pack of dogs? The same would go for any of the multi-individual single-bodied monsters that riddle mythologies, fairy tales, and B-horror movies.

Regardless of what fiction they reside in, these are fearsome beasts! Let’s give them the respect they deserve and use proper mythological nomenclature when discussing them.

Thanks for reading.

Quote of the Day

God, how we get our fingers in each other's clay. That's friendship, each playing the potter to see what shapes we can make of the other.

-Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes

Fantastic Satire and Great Dialog!

Poem: Hope Thins

This is one of mine:

At times the hope thins
No longer buoyant
Supportive
It swirls in vapors
You grasp at it
Falling
It's all you have left
Reaching out for any wisp of it
Shadow of it
For it is strong
And if you could but catch just a little bit of it
The smallest bit
It could support your weight
And the weight upon you
For it is strong
Hope
You could climb back up
And out
If you could catch it

"Dear God," she prayed, "let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry...have too much to eat. Let me be ragged or well dressed. Let me be sincere-be deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me sin. Only let me be something ever blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost."

-Frances Nolan
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
by Betty Smith