A
few days back, I had written a post denouncing a book by Khushwant
Singh as cheap erotica. A friend of mine caught up with me offline and
during the discussion over my writing and poetry, we wandered over to
that post. My friend said that I cannot just like that wave away the
works of a great author like him. Moreover, my friend was of the opinion
that since I have never ever read any erotic literature I am not
supposed to write it off as cheap. And, my friend suggested the book 'Electric Feather' to sample that genre.
Sorry, my friend. I still remain displeased with that genre. In fact, I can even use the word 'disappointed'. This book has nothing new that Paulo Coelho, in his own plagiaristic manner, didn't write in 'Eleven Minutes' or 'Adultery'. There is nothing different from what Taslima Nasrin, in her pseudo-feminist hypocrisy, did graphically depict in 'The French Lover'. This is in no way different from what most of the 'modern' Indian writers, in an urge to garner the attention of the adolescent readers, do puke with their pens and spell out in obscene terms. This book causes as much revulsion in me as I first felt when I stumbled upon the writings of one 'Chandilyan' during my formative years.
More than halfway through the book 'Electric Feather', which is a compilation of erotic tales, I feel no thrill, no emotional pulls, no bliss springing in my being, as I feel when I read the love poetry of a Gulzar. Stripping down the man-woman relationship - literally - down to the mere union of the physique is not amusing in any way. Mere copulation, for the sake of it, is as revolting as excreta.
Love is what is worthy. Lust, when it is not within the bounds and privacy of love, is ugly. There is more thrill, more pull, and more addiction in love than in lust. Erotica still remains a third-grade and avoidable genre for me. Sorry, my friend.
Love is, indeed, more inebriating than lust!
Sorry, my friend. I still remain displeased with that genre. In fact, I can even use the word 'disappointed'. This book has nothing new that Paulo Coelho, in his own plagiaristic manner, didn't write in 'Eleven Minutes' or 'Adultery'. There is nothing different from what Taslima Nasrin, in her pseudo-feminist hypocrisy, did graphically depict in 'The French Lover'. This is in no way different from what most of the 'modern' Indian writers, in an urge to garner the attention of the adolescent readers, do puke with their pens and spell out in obscene terms. This book causes as much revulsion in me as I first felt when I stumbled upon the writings of one 'Chandilyan' during my formative years.
More than halfway through the book 'Electric Feather', which is a compilation of erotic tales, I feel no thrill, no emotional pulls, no bliss springing in my being, as I feel when I read the love poetry of a Gulzar. Stripping down the man-woman relationship - literally - down to the mere union of the physique is not amusing in any way. Mere copulation, for the sake of it, is as revolting as excreta.
Love is what is worthy. Lust, when it is not within the bounds and privacy of love, is ugly. There is more thrill, more pull, and more addiction in love than in lust. Erotica still remains a third-grade and avoidable genre for me. Sorry, my friend.
Love is, indeed, more inebriating than lust!
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