the sugarmills of his childhood...
First of all, sincere apologies. It seems my internet connection (in a curious collusion with vox) has prevented me from posting a less apt pictorial representation of 'The General in his Labyrinth'. This Don Juan-esque father figure wrapped under the eternal blanket of ethereal old age is not what you should be looking at before reading this book.
Secondly, this comes, in part, as a testament to my ailing and fledgling memory. It is in fact its weakness that has forced me to contemplate writing a bit about this book imminently - for I would forget whatever interesting anecdotes I had.
The General's 'labyrinth' is expressed openly at the end of the book but it is not the central message of the book that i wish to talk about. Ofcourse, on the whole, this book shows you 'beauty' and the depths of 'simplicity', and how one is fortunate if one is able to look at his life in retrospect and have the ill humour to laugh about it. However, the secret of the 'unputdownability' (the utter claptrap that mohsin hamid manages to come up beggars belief) of this book is its slow detail. Crocodiles lazing around the River Magdalena - their mouths drooping open in search of butterflies. The General loving the fact that he has a hugeass window and outside there are guava trees - waiting for the sunlight to pierce through this euphemistic forest of sorts while listening to Captain Iturbide sing about forlorn tempests and lovers collapsing in each others arms.. listening to the sound of ripe guavas hitting the ground for the first time and revelling in that moment.
Its a really nice book.
