The fan above has stirred up a mighty gale. At full speed, it refuses to allow things to settle down. In this summer though, it is a welcome break from the constant sweating. For the nth time, my concentration wanders. I stare out of the window blankly, my eyes searching the unseeable. Such is the tremendous force of the tome placed in front of me. I have lost track in the maze this book has spun.
If weaving magic into words is a form of art, then Mario Puzo must have been its best student. The subtle importance of every word spoken, the disguised thought that every line conveys is at its best in his writings. Such is the might of his thoughts that every line uttered makes one reflect and wonder. How does he manage to evolve such thoughts? What is his source of insight? Or is it the power of his imagination; sheer mind power?
The surrealistic ideas, so simple yet so intricate; the life in every character, so simple yet so intricate; the vision of the author, so far stretched yet so unpredictable.
All this runs through my mind as I try to concentrate on or rather decipher the thoughts of this great writer, mouthed by one of the most feared, revered and thought about character ever created. It is my fourth tryst with this book and even after three successful attempts I feel there is still a lot more hidden in it; a lot more to read; a lot more to realize. My wandering eyes start their search again. I realize I cannot concentrate; it is perhaps The Godfather’s revenge!
If weaving magic into words is a form of art, then Mario Puzo must have been its best student. The subtle importance of every word spoken, the disguised thought that every line conveys is at its best in his writings. Such is the might of his thoughts that every line uttered makes one reflect and wonder. How does he manage to evolve such thoughts? What is his source of insight? Or is it the power of his imagination; sheer mind power?
The surrealistic ideas, so simple yet so intricate; the life in every character, so simple yet so intricate; the vision of the author, so far stretched yet so unpredictable.
All this runs through my mind as I try to concentrate on or rather decipher the thoughts of this great writer, mouthed by one of the most feared, revered and thought about character ever created. It is my fourth tryst with this book and even after three successful attempts I feel there is still a lot more hidden in it; a lot more to read; a lot more to realize. My wandering eyes start their search again. I realize I cannot concentrate; it is perhaps The Godfather’s revenge!
amen to your thoughts! the book is indeed a masterpiece...and need i say, the way you've described it makes me read it once again..
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