It is not often that a book review becomes more a review of the author than the book itself; albeit they overlap nonetheless to a certain extend. Bernie is a man who needs no introductions any more; little over an year ago that was hardly the case. Over an year and a half ago when he was just the obscure senator from Vermont this was hardly true. This book chronicles the remarkable journey of Bernie Sanders and the astonishing rise of democratic socialism in a capitalistic United States.
In this book, Bernie in his own unmistakable words takes the reader through the 2016 Presidential primary and its numerous turning points. He explains how he broke out o f his own obscurity in the wider public space and into the icon that he is today. It covers everything, his intends, his motivations, his rallies, town-halls, the battles lost the victories won and above all else his convictions. Our revolution offers less to the sanders fan than the general public; to the uninitiated the book is very much a great window into the world of democratic socialism.
As an external observer, some one not from the States, Bernie and what he stands for is not as revolutionary as it appears to the Americans, universal health care and free education are hallmark of most progressive regimes. This doesn’t undermine his effort to redeem his nation and bring it to the forefront of human development.
In short this is a book that is not necessarily a must read for all but is nevertheless a good book that offers a brief glimpse into the rot in the United States political system.
Rated : 3 of 5.
Speaking you mind and standing you what you believe always comes at a cost. There are always people obnoxious to their own failing ready to pounce on you with life condoning questions and wisdom. Random people who not so much as to have ever bought you a cup of coffee ready to help you with life advice and tip son how to live your life. It is never the case that everyone is happy about what you said, or how you said it or where you said it. Some are even concerned by the general will of the people (except when its public elections of course). It would just seem to appear that you are everyones affair.
So for all those condescending generous bitches, feel free and screw em. You got be you, unapologetically you.
If you are an Indian and if you are married, you are bound to be asked a particular question way too often. Its hilarious the concoctions conjured as facaded to make the callous intrusion into ones privacy palatable. People assume that the next thing you need is a baby and that like them I tread my life addled. That in this menial existence, primal urges and perceptions are the commandments to abide by. Offended? Feel free to burn my effigy, they do come cheap.
So, do I want a child. Honestly may be, somewhere in future, in a distant future far away enough to not be thinking about it, a future nebulous and fantastical. A lot needs be done, many miles be travelled, mountains be climbed and oceans be crossed, lands be scene and life experienced. I feel nothing but pity to the poor souls who live life mechanically, for those of you who rot as seasons pass by your window. Dreams are to be lived while you still can, they too high a price to be paid for anything. I have seen far too many parents who have condemned their children to the dreams of theirs, burden them with dreams that they failed to purse, wings cut and trimmed before they even taste the liberation of flight. Ultimately it is not fair to oneself not to the child.
The world is full of people anyway, I do not fathom the urge to procreate in the world. The poor planet already harbour more than it can carry. It should be a sin to procreate in this world where the already barely has enough, to create one here is to lay claim to what is someones’ now. When I fetch food for my child, I take it not from the surplus but from a poor child plate. When give my child education it was someone less fortunate who had to part with his. To claim anything of this world is a crime on to the unfortunate.
I will have my child, god forbid. But not today, not now, but when the time is right. When I can be the father that I want to be and not the one I am condemned by the circumstances created by me to be.
This novel by Isabel Allende is an easy addictive adventure-thriller of superior quality. For the general reader it is the story of a band of completely different people (A missionary, two preteens, a raunchy pilot, a bold photographer in search of his big moment and a journalist) exploring the unexplored riverines of Ngobe in search of the missionary’s missing colleagues.
But for some others it is the story of the Pygmies, their exploitation, their suffering and their utter de-humanization by those more powerful than them. It is for them the story of slavery, of deception, of oppression and the malice of power. It is in all a melancholic travelogue about the liberation its uncertainties, its inherent hope and that pinch of magic that we all so desperately desire.
The book is a beauty to read, easy to fall in love and amazingly capable of transferring the reader to the darkest deepest most beautiful magical forests. The visual devices takes this journey to another level of addictive ecstasy altogether. Isabel Allende is a marvellous writer, one for the ages.
Here sleeps a girl with a head full of magical dreams, a heart full of wonder and hands that will shape the world
– Sleeping Beauty
Damn, you are so beautiful. My angel, my beautiful angel. Heaven only knows how many a hours I have spent beholding your tender face, kissing you in your slender slumber, caressing you with every gaze. I have never seen anything, natural nor divine that sis but half as beautiful as my lovely dear. You are but a little piece of heaven god left with me.
For those among you, who by superiority of your intentions are well on your way to let the authorities know that a certain creepy stalker is on the loose. Stop! I pray. I ain’t no pervert nor a creep (that may be up for debate) . I am but one such rare breed of a guy who is so in love in with his wife that watching her fall asleep in you arms is the one thing he looks forward to most everyday, One who just cant help buy gaze at her face and melt as snow at when the slightest hint of a smile dawns on her face.
Time is a strange thing, when you are in love. One could hardly believe how it flies and how it morphs around you. I can but hardly believe that it has been over 7 years since when I first met her, 6 since I first kissed her and eternities since I started loving her and of course 1 since we married. I have known her forever, from lifetimes before and will for lifetimes hence. Even now, every single day I feel as if it was just yesterday that we first met.
Those moments have become so magnificently romanticised, like the balcony in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet our places are no more just blips on the maps but stuffs of lore and serenades. Our stories have been told so many times that they are are now much myth and some essential fact.
I don’t want to write another ode to my beau, have I not written enough of that already. But then for what avail is this piece written, but for the being another ode to she; my love, my muse.
The world, my world is topsy-turvy that is to say the least. Like most men who have lost much of their ways and ideas that define what the world means to them. I try, I try to both live and define what that is all that is all around me. In this vagueness is my salvation, so I fear I will find. Such damnation like the unlucky stars that burn up in a streak, I fear for my life to be such haphazard ordeal. Aimlessly I wander from existential crisis to consequential crisis, consequential to moral and from moral to back. Crisis after crisis I jump like a well-trained and ill-brained dog that knows not what to do but what it is taught to do.
Feeble is my heart so is my wantonness. Feeble is my thought and the grip that holds my pen. Flows not words but blood strained utterances, feeble cacophonous mutterings. Effortless fluency has ceased to be and in its place has risen a dauding emptiness, an exonerated decadence of mental faculty. Confused and intoxicated, devalued and misguided, all the stark reminders of a lost art and it’s ever the more lost artist.
A search into the dungeons of my soul is all I can. Searching for a muse that might still be wandering in it’s dark alley ways. Lost in the catacomb of lost memories, some forgotten some deliberately wished away, slowly feeling and tumbling his way there about. There in its moss ridden walls I might find the old words that in an ungodly fervour I scratched ages ago. Neither do I have that fervour nor it’s feeble descendants, all that were lost. In this age of impatient discoveries all that is left is hope, life’s one last beacon to desperately cling on to.