Friday 25 February 2022

Notes from the Holocaust

Viktor Frankl (2008), Man’s search for meaning, Rider, London, pp. 154

I read this classic book and ended the last year on a thoughtful note. As December sets in, something tugs me to ponder over the year gone by and my reading list reflects the search for meaning and purpose and a propensity for introspection and reflection. I had saved up this book for the last and as the winter gently rolled in, I was with this exceptional individual, who when faced with unspeakable experiences of adversity, oriented himself towards life and humanity. As I read through Viktor Frankl’s notes from concentration camps during the second world war, there were two people narrating the story. The first was the professor of neurology and psychiatry who spoke with lucid objectivity and dispassionate clarity on what made the survivors last in the midst of horror and incertitude. The second was the individual who reminisced about the life he lost and thought about the life that awaited him with hope and longing. The extraordinary scholar and the ordinary person and the contradiction of the nature and tone of the arguments are some of the things that makes this work a compelling read.

The book is divided into three parts – the experiences at the concentration camp, the introduction to a school of psychotherapy based on these experiences and a post script. The first part reads like a memoir, the second an exposition, and third a thoughtful reflection that asks a few questions.

We live at a time when history is actively being forgotten or misconstrued and the assault on truth and memory is gaining traction as this The New York Times review of books Erasing the Holocaust trenchantly argues.  It is important to lean on memoirs and other forms of historical records to remind ourselves what we have been through and educate ourselves about the consequences of erasure. Beyond the inspiring cadence of the triumph of the human spirit, that is what this book serves to remind us.  

Wednesday 12 January 2022

Love in the time of AI


 Kazuo Ishiguro (2021), Klara and the Sun, Faber, London, pp.307

It is a brand-new year and I am beginning with one of my favorite writers of all time – the elegant and masterful Kazuo Ishiguro. The blurb of his most recent book Klara and the Sun spoke about robots and my inner voice screamed ‘please don’t go to the other side’. Ishiguro is one of the four authors (others being Alice Munro, Julian Barnes and Penelope Fitzgerald) that I never want to deviate from the path they tread. The day they go uncharacteristic will be the beginning of the end for me. In a world where most things are so irreversibly mutating, I have a terrible propensity for stability and consistency. These authors remain my anchor points for the world as I know it.

Dreading the worst, I bravely began this beautiful story set some time in the future in which children are genetically modified and have robots with artificial intelligence for companions. I mused, ‘clearly, the worst has already happened’! But then, something emerged slowly from the ruins of this dystopian setting, something akin to what you felt when you were reading The Remains of the Day. A master at work on something delicate and undestroyed – the primal innocence we are born with. This is Klara’s reckoning in the human world and she blooms not as AI, but as a child, asking questions, always being curious, and heartbreakingly human. Before long, we are rooting for her as she navigates the politics and platitudes of the society in which she is planted in.

The most beautiful part of the book is the relationship Klara has with the sun. It is one of the oldest tropes of nourishment and life and it symbolizes something undying and irreplaceable in us. It is our capacity to love someone and act on that love. Klara’s love for the child she accompanies is more poignant in the milieu that it is set against, that of a withering human world. And what happens to this person as she unfolds human-like in an inhuman world forms the rest of the story.

It takes mastery to weave the old with the new, retaining something unexpected from both. Ishiguro weaves a rich tapestry not with grandiose strokes, but with fragile imperceptible ones that paint pathos, innocence and first learning, that of children awakening to love and loss with unfailing dexterity. By extracting the human essence out of humanity, he shows the most enduring part of us that are yet savable and worthy of saving.

If this is not a great way to begin this year, I don’t know what is. Here’s wishing you a beautiful year ahead with books!