review
Life as such
A master craftsman, Farrukh Yar's second collection of poems has the capacity to stay with the reader for a long time
By Altaf Hussain Asad
Neend Jhooltay Logon Kay Lieay Likhin Gai Nazmein
By Farrukh Yar
Publisher: Sanjh
Publications, 2009, Mufti Building 17/31 Temple road Lahore
sanjhpk@yahoo.com
Pages: 88
Price: Rs100
Farrukh Yar is no stranger to the world of letters. His poetic journey started many years ago when his poems began to adorn the pages of prestigious literary magazines. He impressed the literary folks with his modernist outpourings. This was followed by a book "Mitti Ka Mazmun" in the year 2006, a collection of poems that affirmed his solid and mature craft. Now his second book is in our hands, offering ample cerebral pleasure.

Re-viewing books
A reader's guide to what must a book review do -- or not do
By Farah Zia
Book reviewing is an area where journalists generally fear to tread. It is considered a 'specialised' field that demands a 'seriousness' that journalists think they lack.
A book reviewer, even if for a newspaper, is therefore thought to be a distinct person who was perhaps born with this 'gift'. Though, if George Orwell's description in his essay "Confessions of a Book Reviewer" is anything to go by, the reviewer may only be cursing his stars for having landed into this of all jobs.

Neend Jhooltay Logon Kay Lieay Likhin Gai Nazmein

By Farrukh Yar

Publisher: Sanjh

Publications, 2009, Mufti Building 17/31 Temple road Lahore

sanjhpk@yahoo.com

Pages: 88

Price: Rs100

Farrukh Yar is no stranger to the world of letters. His poetic journey started many years ago when his poems began to adorn the pages of prestigious literary magazines. He impressed the literary folks with his modernist outpourings. This was followed by a book "Mitti Ka Mazmun" in the year 2006, a collection of poems that affirmed his solid and mature craft. Now his second book is in our hands, offering ample cerebral pleasure.

"Neend Jhooltay Logon Kay Lieay Likhi Gai Nazmein" introduces a poet who is ready to take the world head on, despite all agonies of existence. It is the existential angst which prods Farrukh Yar to pick up the pen. As a poet, he is a sentient soul who knows well that one has to undergo lots of agonies to accept human existence in totality. Life seems to be vapid and meaningless. Human beings are puppets in the hands of life and they move to and fro, not unlike toys. Any creative person gets deeply influenced by these trying circumstances. Human existence is getting unbearable and here starts the role of the artistes who incessantly try to make life a bit bearable for us.

Yar's poems have different shades and colours as they represent life without the "ifs" and "buts". There is no effort by the poet to camouflage the bitter side of life. He simply shows life as it is, even if it is unpalatable. Dr Abrar Ahmad, himself a senior poet, analyses the poetry of Farrukh Yar in a detailed readable piece at the start of his book. He tags Farrukh Yar a poet of emotions and further adds that human being is the only concern of his poetry. This puts Farrukh Yar in a better position as a poet due to his constant belief in human beings.

Though one detects meaninglessness as well as alienation in his poems, there is no tendency to reject life. Life, in his view, is still worth living. Or does he think there is no way to turn away from life? "Jeena Parta Hai" is the title of a poem in which he muses about the price one has to pay to live. The mood of the whole poem is somber. He could have been a bit disappointed but he avoids doing so and narrates the whole poetic experience with deadpan objectivity. Whatever the circumstances, one has to accept whatever life offers.

Untamed and wild nature is sacred for him. The recurrent motif in his poems is fresh, raw and aromatic earth which is as ancient as it is limitless. The poet is in great awe of the earth which whispers to him; it also is the final destination of the poet. There is a definite desire to merge himself with earth. "Zameen Sab Sunti Hai" is a haunting poem where Farrukh Yar pays utmost tribute to the earth, wishing to touch it and also feel it. The simple pleasure of walking on the soil puts the poet in a trance. The bones of his dead ancestors have made the soil more fertile. Here the poet discovers a new relationship with earth which makes him a poet steeped in his own culture. There is great respect for the land which he and his ancestors have inhabited for many centuries. This really makes the poet a true son of the soil who is greatly in love with nature.

There are poets who eulogise foreign lands to connect themselves with an alien culture. They don't want to sing paeans of their native land despite living here for many centuries. All their efforts are spent in singing beauties of the culture which has no affinity with us. Farrukh Yar is a different poet altogether. His own land dear to him and he does not need to pay homage to lands other than indigenous.

There is diversity in his poems and he treats all the themes like a master craftsman which he is. The diction of these poems is unmatched. He is a modernist and has coined diction to suit the modern sensibility. "Neend Jhooltay Logon Kay Lieay Likhi Gai Nazmein" is a book which has the capacity to live with you for a long time. Farrukh Yar is not a prolific poet. He believes in a simple notion: write less but write better.

Book reviewing is an area where journalists generally fear to tread. It is considered a 'specialised' field that demands a 'seriousness' that journalists think they lack.

A book reviewer, even if for a newspaper, is therefore thought to be a distinct person who was perhaps born with this 'gift'. Though, if George Orwell's description in his essay "Confessions of a Book Reviewer" is anything to go by, the reviewer may only be cursing his stars for having landed into this of all jobs.

But journalists do often pick a book or two out of interest. Since they want to read the book, they might as well review it. Or so they think till they realise that half the interest in the book dwindles the moment they utter the word "review". A book that would otherwise have been instantly read keeps lying on the shelf in most cases and the editor, who must rely on these "neo-reviewers" expecting a certain freshness of expression after all, is left waiting for ever.

So what exactly must a book review do?

It is serious business indeed because it must compel a reader to buy and a distributor to order copies to sell. The next logical question is: Must there be reviews of bad books just so the readers are warned against buying them. I personally think it should not be the case. A newspaper or a literary magazine has only as much space for its review section. Why must it fill that up with reviews of bad books when it could recommend better books in the same space?

Sometimes, yes, the review of a not-so-good book by an exceptionally good author becomes necessary but that is not always the case. And such reviews are important because they give the book a context and judge it on the yardstick of the author's previous works. A reviewer has to be a well-read person who is able to place value on the book in question.

Generally speaking, though, book reviews are found to be the most bland and flat pieces of writing. In my view the fault lies in the selection of the book or the reviewer or both. The editors must get a book reviewed because the publisher has sent it and the reviewers must review it because the editor has asked them. Not all books deserve to be reviewed and therefore, editorial judgement, of the editor and the reviewer, must count.

Once the right selection is made, how to go about the review-writing part is the next question. Of course, the Khaled Ahmeds and the Intizar Hussains of this world don't need to be told how. But for those who either shirk writing reviews even when they want to or those who do it badly, here are some tips.

And mind you, these come only from a reader of reviews and not a reviewer as such. Writing tips abound on the internet about four or six or ten things to include in the review. My advice would be to ignore all of them.

The best reviews, I have discovered, come from people who have enjoyed reading the book. It is this personal involvement with the book that adds value to the review. How the book affects the reviewer personally, how has it added to his existing knowledge or way of looking at the world must be included in the write-up.

One thing these standard writing methods ignore is that there is no one way of reviewing the book. The other thing they expect the reviewer to do is to begin from the beginning, look at the title and analyse the introduction down to the conclusion part.

This linear rule of reviewing a book must be broken at all costs. There is nothing as boring as reading a linear review with every paragraph beginning with Chapter One says this and Chapter Two includes that. A review is a kind of an opinion piece and like every other opinion piece must decide its own contours and argument.

All you need to do it is somehow generate an interest in the contents of the book and the reader can find about the structure and style himself. Do not summarise the book or tell the entire story; least of all in fiction.

Orwell's reviewer is what he calls one of the "regulars" who perhaps ends up reviewing more than a hundred books in a year. No wonder, he gets no chance to actually read the book and has learnt the tricks of trade that book reviewing is all known for. It is only natural he resorts to "stale old phrases" like "a book that no one should miss" or "something memorable on every page" or "of special value are the chapters dealing with, etc, etc."

Sounds familiar, no! Our habitual reviewer follows the same method but the discerning reader immediately gets to the bottom of the story.

Sometimes, the non-linear pattern allows the reviewer to go off on a tangent and forget the book altogether. In at least one case, a habitual reader was forced to buy a book after reading a review which was all about Parsi theatre in the subcontinent. To his shock, he discovered there were only a couple of paragraphs on Parsi theatre in the entire book.

This gentleman, still a reader, goes around telling everybody not to take book reviews seriously and rely on other 'channels' before buying books. Trust the advice of reliable friends instead, he says. Not a bad thought. And a warning tip for book reviewers as well. Reform or else?

Michael Parkinson, better known as Parky -- Parko in Australia -- has been more than an icon over the last four decades. Apart from producing and presenting his widely acclaimed talk-show, Parkinson, he has presented scores of radio programmes, produced documentaries on television and radio, written sports columns for the 'Evening Standard,' the 'Daily Telegraph' and the 'Guardian'. And he has been knighted. He is a man who has been in the news for a half a century.

Soon after giving up his television and radio work, he went to the village where he was born. He records:

" I visited the old haunts, including a working man's club I used to frequent with my dad. There was a very old man in the corner whom I recognized. I went over and introduced myself. He seemed baffled. I said, "You remember Mike Parkinson, used to live down Darfield Road. Jack's lad?" "Oh I remember now," he said, "Jack's lad. Not seen you for a very long time. What you been upto?' "

This is how Parkinson ends his recently published autobiography, titled -- what else? -- 'Parky'. So much for fame and fortune, he seems to be saying. It is an honest-to-goodness, unpretentious, inspiring book written in a delightfully self-deprecating manner.

In the three decades of hosting Parkinson, Michael interviewed scores of screen and stage celebrities as well as such idols as Mohammad Ali, Nelson Mandela, W.H. Auden, to name but three. Unlike today's chat-show hosts he did not masquerade as a stand-up comic; nor did he ask them cute questions. He held intelligent, adult conversations with them which is why most of the super stars warmed up to him, shedding the affectation they wear when being interviewed by journalists.

I have never been an admirer of the actor, James Stewart, but I began to see his films with a fresh pair of eyes after I had seen him on Parkinson. James Stewart, either of your parents will tell you, was one of Hollywood's biggest heartthrobs. He spoke with a drawl and he always played the good guy.

On Parkinson, Stewart emerged as a most genuinely modest man with a wonderfully, wry sense of humour. Talking about his famous drawling voice he said that he was once advised to go to a voice coach so he might be convincing as an Austrian in a play. After three lessons the voice coach kicked him out. "There is no way I can teach you an Austrian accent," she told him, "On the other hand if you would like to learn how to speak English then I might be able to help."

Michael asked him if he ever wondered or analysed his image to try to discover what the audience found so attractive about him. Stewart hesitated and said he didn't have all the answers but felt that he was a plodder, the inarticulate man who tries, and then, with a wry smile, he said, (and I have never forgotten that sentence), "I'm a pretty good example of human frailty."

Stewart's wife confirmed that in real life he was as absent-minded as he sometimes appeared in his films. She revealed that when she was pregnant and nearing her times, her husband worked out a carefully prepared routine of how to get her to the hospital. On the day she told him the baby was coming and he said not to panic as he was fully prepared. He drove to the hospital in record time only to find when he arrived that he had forgotten his wife. As he raced back home he passed the ambulance taking her into the hospital.

A bizarre event in his autobiography -- and this can only happen in England -- took place when Parky invited the glamorous super-star, Robert Redford, to be a guest on his show. He met him in his dressing room and offered to escort him to the studio but Redford said he would make his own way there.

When he did not turn up Michael went looking for him. He found Redford at the door in the studio trying to persuade the commissionaire that he had been invited on Parkinson. He didn't have a pass and the commissionaire (who had strict instructions not to allow a gatecrasher to sneak in) said he couldn't let him in "They are hanging from the rafters in there… He is interviewing Robert Redford, that's who", the commissionaire said by way of explanation.

"But I am, Robert Redford" said Redford.

"They all say that," said the commissionaire.

* * * * *

The story about Richard Burton's Hamlet on the night when Winston Churchill attended the performance and how Churchill kept repeating the lines throughout his soliloquies was common knowledge amongst actors of my generation. (It had variations, naturally). What Burton told Parky was that he tried to shake Churchill off by changing his moves in the 'To be or not be' speech, but couldn't. After the show he expected Churchill to come backstage. He waited but Churchill didn't come and so he thought he might as well have a drink and get sloshed. He was just about to start when the door opened and there was Sir Winston. He bowed very gracefully and said, "My Lord Hamlet, may I use your lavatory?"

The most heart-warming chapter in 'Parky' is the one about his Dad. Michael was devoted to him. When Dad retired from the pit Michael brought his parents from Yorkshire to live nearby. Dad was a loving, caring grandfather whose main ambition now was to make his grandsons into professional cricketers who would play for Yorkshire. Parkinson senior firmly believed that Michael's sons should only marry a girl who can sit through a Roses match, the annual fixture between Yorkshire and Lancashire (not just a cricketing contest but a battle between the two counties) without yawning.

Parky recalls a day trip to Stratford-upon-Avon. Somewhere between Ann Hathaway's cottage and the Shakespeare Memorial Theatre, they lost Dad. The old man had a terrible sense of direction and Michael knew that he would be highly distressed and floundering in a strange town. His mother told him not to worry. All he had to do was to ask someone where the nearest cricket ground was. When the family found the cricket ground they saw Dad in a deckchair sitting near the sightscreen, the happiest man in the planet.

"Just before he died, he said, 'You've had a good life lad.' I said I had. 'You've become quite famous,' he said. I nodded. 'What's more you've made a bob or two without breaking sweat,' he said. I agreed. 'Well done,' he said, 'But think on. It's not like playing cricket for Yorkshire, is it?' "

They don't make them like that any more.