Alavi Anan Meem
I'm not surprised this “provocative” biography, blending fiction and non-fiction through imagination, came from the fella who went viral for tearing large books in half “out of love”.
There's this AI story that I often think of - A professor puts googly eyes on a pencil and waved it at his class saying “HI! I'm Tim the pencil! I love helping children with their homework but my favourite is drawing pictures!”
Then, without warning, he snapped the pencil in half.
When half his college students gasped, he said “That's where all this Al hype comes from. We're not good at programming consciousness. But we're great at imagining non-conscious things are people.”
This book reminds me of that—we're great at imagining that Dostoevsky's passionate dramatic life mirrored his novels, and our minds want to resolve the ‘clash of voices' into one (but doesn't that defeat the purpose of the suffering Dostoevsky went through to hold a divided, dissonant chorus in his heart?).
That's likely what makes this book work. I hope I haven't reached this conclusion mostly because I felt like I was being walloped over the head with Dostoevsky's gambling addiction by the end. The approach didn't ultimately hit the mark for me since I'm unsure which other author it would work for. I think I might be shaking my head instead if, say, Fitzgerald's alcoholism or Woolf's bipolar disorder was romanticised like his. Alex Christofi's storytelling was spot-on though, and the footnotes had me laughing out loud, making it an easy entry into a genre I have never enjoyed.
Chomsky and Pappé argue in Gaza In Crisis that while war may seem inevitable, to act as if it is would be the gravest mistake. They propose a two-part plan that aims for a one-state solution: strengthen democracy in the US so people's voices shape foreign policy, and challenge propaganda in Israel to promote critical thinking.
The Brothers Karamazov is a blend of contrasting worldviews, embodied by its characters - the cold rationality of Ivan, the altruism of Alexei, and the passion of Dmitri; this array of perspectives prompts readers to think about their own approach to life. As I navigated the exceptionally well-woven web of relationships and ideas in this novel, I couldn't help but reflect on parallels with my own life and those of my friends. Some of my friends resemble Alyosha, embodying gentle stoicism, innate goodness, or warm empathy. Meanwhile, like Dmitri, other friends find ourselves wrestling with our demons, troubled by imperfection and impulses. Some of my friends also resemble Ivan, rationalizing all behaviors as “everything is permitted” (and who dares to counteract like Father Zosima, with a “everyone is responsible for everyone and for everything”?) However, all of us contain multitudes inside us, and Dostoevsky's refusal to offer a definitive answer reinforces the complexity of human nature, where morality is not a fixed point but a shifting landscape shaped by individual choices and circumstances. So the novel probes the question of life's best path, mirroring the Karamazovian brothers' dual nature, each harboring conflicting abysses within. In [b:Crime and Punishment 7144 Crime and Punishment Fyodor Dostoevsky https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1382846449l/7144.SY75.jpg 3393917], Raskolnikov's turmoil stems from a relatable clash between his ideologies and conscience, echoing Dostoevsky's own inner struggle amid surroundings of moral ambiguity. Dostoevsky's personal battles, including a gambling addiction, epilepsy, torments endured such as the famous mock-execution ceremony which involved being led to believe he would be executed by firing squad before being spared at the last moment, serving as a form of psychological torture intended to break his spirits, jail time, and complex relationship with an avaricious, tyrannical father as reflected in Pavlovich's character (which the friend who cheekily recommended this to me was aware would resonate) shines through in this novel as a lifelong contemplation on the nature of good, evil, free will, and duty. Perhaps Dostoevsky believed that through such contemplation one could find redemption by embracing the truth of life's suffering.
When I flew to Kashmir this winter, I made it a point to learn more about the region. My first encounter with Kashmir was at the age of 10, when I visited the Pakistan side with my father, Azad Kashmir. Now, at 28, I had the opportunity to visit from the India side, Jammu and Kashmir. Armed with only a faint awareness of its history and politics (neither of which have held much appeal for me as avenues of comprehension) I turned to literature instead: non-fiction with ‘[b:Territory of Desire: Representing the Valley of Kashmir 5481765 Territory of Desire Representing the Valley of Kashmir Ananya Jahanara Kabir https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1348022492l/5481765.SX50.jpg 5549406],' fiction with ‘[b:Haroun and the Sea of Stories 4835 Haroun and the Sea of Stories (Khalifa Brothers, #1) Salman Rushdie https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1419913148l/4835.SX50.jpg 1934157],' and the space in between with ‘The Country Without A Post Office.' As I walked through the snow of Pahalgam and Gulmarg, was rowed across Dal Lake in Srinagar, Agha Shahid Ali's deliberately fragmented imagery of cracked portraits, flickering oil lamps, the saffron hue of the sun, and the picture-perfect yet hauntingly distant half-inch Himalayas, captured within a postcard from Kashmir, starkly contrasted with the stark reality of ‘blood sheer rubies on Himalayan snow' unfolded Kashmir before me, weaving together beauty and brutality in a manner that was inescapable. I'm grateful to have found his poetry, as it has permanently shaped how I see Kashmir.
During my visit to Kashmir this winter, I picked up several books to better understand the region. I was especially excited to read “The House that Spoke” by Zuni Chopra, as magic-realism is one of my favourite genres. However, I was disappointed to find the novel too simple in both its story and writing style. Overall, it didn't live up to my hopes.
As I approach my third decade I appear to have found less than a dozen books that have resonated, shaped my perception of, romantic love.
Love as grief in ‘The Great Fires', regret in ‘Remains of The Day', sickness in ‘Love In The Time of Cholera,' delusion in ‘From the Land of the Moon,' guilt in ‘Atonement', power in ‘The Song of Achilles', repression in ‘Twilight', destruction in ‘Wuthering Heights', meaning in ‘The Unbearable Lightness of Being'. I've only recently started making sense of my confusion, but I expect to lose track of any understanding of romantic love again soon. The rest of my sentiments regarding it are best expressed by poets like Rilke or Cummings.
Can we not be forgiven if we believe books, like romantic love, can serendipitously find us at the right moment then? Alain de Botton, with his insightful and humorous philosophising, has helped me condense my thoughts on romantic love, and I anticipate chuckling for quite some time over the line, stuck in a sticky note above my desk, ‘We are all more intelligent than we are capable, and awareness of the insanity of love has never saved anyone from the disease.'
Giovanni's Room has become a litmus test for how emotionally I am in touch with myself. A book about an inability to love, an impossible relationship; for a long time I couldn't read past a few pages without my stomach in roiling knots. Last summer I could feel love, then winter came and with it as usual the clarity of grief. You can be delusional every time you go through this cycle, because romance is a shared delusion, but at one point we all have to confront the fragility and impermanence of love. Love through the lens of freedom or stability, youth or age, compatibility or incompatibility. That's what this book will give you. Every word was a gut-punch too close to home for a while. When Spring came and one could pretend the leaves were falling off their trees to greet you at exactly the right moment, I finally had the stomach to finish this heart-breaking book. Remember to tell your lover how much you love them while you still can.
The Plum Village Monastery was established by Vietnamese monastic Thích Nhất Hạnh in 1982.
In 2022 a friend introduced me to The Way Out Is In podcast from Plum Village. This podcast series aims to help us foster a more compassionate engagement with the world. It is co-hosted by Brother Phap Huu, Thích Nhất Hạnh's personal attendant for 17 years and the abbot of Plum Village's Upper Hamlet. Episode 2, titled “Lessons in Impermanence: How to Handle Life when Everything Changes” brought peace during a very rough time in my life, and has since guided me whenever I find myself having to navigating change: embracing non-attachment, living in the present, and practicing gratitude.
Inspired by this episode I chose to read Being Peace by Thích Nhất Hạnh, experiencing his calming wisdom, and learning more about “Engaged Buddhism”: a perspective now aiding hospices, prisons, and forests around the world. Until then, I hadn't considered mindfulness seriously, often turning to literature, psychology, or philosophy in times of confusion and turmoil, as each holds the promise of answers to humanity's pressing questions.
Yet, spirituality, as I discovered through this book, offers insight too. Over two years, fighting my reluctance, I've managed to introduce pockets of mindfulness in my daily life. Breathing meditations, walking and cycling at my local park, and sleep affirmations, have helped me feel more freedom and happiness.
A retreat at Plum Village has become a must-do in my mind by 2062, representing a chance to immerse myself in simple and peaceful living.
There are three series that have remained dear to me over the years, and I anticipate they will continue to do so throughout my life. I revisit them almost every year because the worlds, characters, and language of each story are so familiar to me that they feel like a second family. These series, beloved by many throughout the world, have entertained a generation. Of course, I'm referring to Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Twilight.
If you're the type of fan who's ready to throw a wand, ring, or sparkling vampire at sacrilegious comparisons, I suggest you skip this paragraph. Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, and Twilight all follow epic adventures where the main characters grow and learn life lessons; themes of friendship and loyalty are central to each story, and while Harry Potter and Lord of the Rings subtly touch on themes of romantic love, in Twilight it takes a more prominent role. Many readers have found comfort in the shared themes of growth, friendship, and the search for belonging, making them beloved around the world. As readers of a generation grew “up”, we started noticing the glaring flaws in Harry Potter, Twilight, and Lord of the Rings. Lord of the Rings, for all its epicness, seems to have missed the memo on gender diversity. Harry Potter's author shamelessly airs her views on transgender individuals and their civil rights, utilising language and expressing sentiments widely denounced as overtly transphobic. Twilight epitomises toxic relationships and dubious morals, glorifying possessive obsession and abstinence until marriage. Discovering their flaws is part of our journey with them; it's crucial to both critique and appreciate them as we mature. Yes, I may be a bit disrespectful by comparing the three. Tolkien wrote in a different era than Rowling and Meyer, and laid the groundwork so without him there might not be Harry Potter, and without Harry Potter, perhaps no Twilight. My tongue-in-cheek comparison should mostly serve to illustrate the parallel trajectories of their respective fan bases. Despite their differences, each narrative retains its unique charm, offering distinct pleasures to readers.
Here are the reasons I enjoy Twilight:
1. Women in their 30s who grew up reading Twilight have recently analysed why they still like it - and their thoughts converge around an idea I have been toying with too. Twilight speaks to both our longing for committed loving relationships and our recognition of toxic ones, embodying everything we've desired as teenagers and experienced as adults, resonating with our complex selves. I cherish the memories of my teenage obsession with Twilight, and I enjoy it today. As the renewed interest in the series persists, it's crucial to recognise Twilight for what it is: a cautionary tale of a highly toxic relationship as much as it is an idealised romance. However, amidst its flaws, Twilight presents new lore, showcasing complex characters navigating moral quandaries and inner struggles. Departing from clichéd vampire tropes, Meyer portrays reformed vampires living covertly among humans, embracing a “healthier” lifestyle. The series blends fantasy romance and suspense, and in its finest moments, skilfully walks the line between intrigue and absurdity.
2. I personally find the Twilight series fascinating for the same reason I adore anime for offering us the most compelling villains where antagonists have as much depth as (and stronger ideologies than) the heroes they oppose, undergo redemption arcs, and prompt audiences to reconsider their perspectives. Twilight approaches the complexities of romantic love in a unique way. While other stories with love triangles often portray jealousy as a destructive force, Twilight acknowledges that one can be in love with multiple people simultaneously. It suggests that love can transcend boundaries and that common ground can be found. It is willing to explore such themes, and it ultimately reinforces the status quo in so laughably toxic a manner that it ironically contradicts the very points it attempts to make about marriage and monogamy. If it is not obvious, I disagree with Meyer's portrayal of marriage, influenced by her Mormon beliefs, personally viewing it as an institution that perpetuates patriarchal norms, denying individuals their liberty and equality while enabling violence against women. I see little value in seeking validation from governmental or religious authorities through an institution designed to reinforce subordination, economic dependence, and even marital rape. I have personally experienced how the institution, intended to establish familial structures and manage property inheritance, can keep one trapped in adultery, foster dependency among spouses, and result in harm to children when the strains of marriage between incompatible partners become overwhelming. Concurrently, like most who engage in the institution, I hold onto the dream of passionate and committed romantic relationship(s), where partners embrace their connections (while celebrating each other's freedom). I cherish my memories of romantic love as narratives that shape my journey (despite endless mistakes) and add meaning to my life. I hope my perspective serves as a reminder of the multiplicity of experiences and interpretations that books can evoke, and how they intersect with personal beliefs and values.
Her writing's funny and smart and just very quotable...but most of it was preaching to the choir. I agree with her politics (as I am sure every reader did) but most could have used more nuanced takes and only a a few like “likability” being a con and loving student activism even if it is “occasionally overzealous and underbaked just like any other youthful pursuit” genuinely made me think. Overall this felt less like a book and more like a bunch of great essays connected only by an embarrassingly poor stab at a “witchy” theme.
You'll be bothered by each masterfully painted character's passivity in the face of suffering they cause and experience. Oki's sexual assault of child mistress Otoko, wife Fumiko's jealous acceptance of his infidelity and Otoko's teenage pregnancy and suicide attempt will leave you surprised by the near-absence of emotional wounds that such injuries have on their adult lives until you realise traumatic memories will find an outlet (in this case through Keiko); even if you have repressed it in one generation, it will find its expression in the next. This book reminds me so much of my own family dynamics, it makes me realise that the reverberations of the past will always be felt but there can be both beauty and sadness in the bell's toll.
Stepping beyond the confines of academia, I anxiously dove into my first job, contending with excessive self-doubt and a deficit of ambition. Initially thrust into the role of managing HR amid rapid scaling I, then a naive and young graduate, grappled with the complexities of hiring at breakneck speed. We went from a team of 40 to a team of 100 in one and a half years, then had to navigate a storm of layoffs that left a team of less than 20 during the recession. I felt like a monkey at a typewriter, throwing bananas in the dark and praying one hits the bullseye. This experience taught me intimately the challenges faced by startups—scarce resources, time constraints, and the responsibility of nurturing a resilient team (i.e. manipulate employee loyalty) in an uncertain climate.
Halfway into this frenzied journey, my boss handed me this lifeline, and partly because I had no idea what I was doing, the solution (or rather how it's worded) really spoke to me: create a business that exists apart from you - 1) create a clearly defined structure through documentation for your people through which they can test themselves and be tested, 2) design systems that produce consistent predictable results by people trained in your way, and 3) systematise your business in such a way that it could be replicated 5,000 times. It was the recipe to create order from chaos! I was a novice chef being asked to cook a gourmet meal without burning down the kitchen. This was the book that motivated and cheered me on as the flames danced around me.
We're given an absurd retcon for Edward's creeptastic behaviour: he knows he's being a stalkerish incel, so surely his actions should be forgiven.
Still, it helps - there's no escaping how toxic the “romance” is when you have to sit through 658 pages of Edward's internal monologues. Do I love Bella more or want to kill her more?: it's clear the coin could flip either way. The book casts this “love story” in an appropriately darker light.
Hot take: Midnight Sun is a better read than Twilight because we dislike apologists more than fundamentalists. The apologist's mental gymnastics to defend the indefensible (“yes, this 104 old virgin has fallen in love with me, a milquetoast teenager, but that's not downright ephebophilic because he was frozen at 17...never mind the decades of life experience between us”) grates on us more than the fundamentalist's shameless championing of their doctrine. Midnight Sun is at least not as intellectually dishonest...Edward knows what he's doing is wrong, but that won't stop him.
