not quite the cat's pyjamas

I read Jeffrey Moussaieff Masson’s “The Cat Who Came in from the Cold” yesterday. I picked it up because the book I initially wanted to purchase had seemingly disappeared from the shelves in Indigo last night. Having just rediscovered the wonderful “The Fur Person”, I was open to further feline fiction.

Was it the influence of “How Novels Work”, which I just finished, or was it author weakness? Either way, I had difficulty getting really absorbed in the story (and that’s a rare occurrence); I would drift away with Billi in his mango tree, or on the prowl, when suddenly a clumsy description would appear, jarring me back to the words on the page. I wondered whether it was Masson’s strong non-fiction skills interfering. I had read “When Elephants Weep” by the same author, and I had no such complaints. I shared many of the author’s views. This should have been a perfect fit. But he seemed so preoccupied with acquainting readers with aspects of Hindu life, which should have been entirely normal sights and two-foot behaviour to Billi, rather than a revelation. It bordered on condescension, as if I couldn’t be trusted to explore things I was not familiar with on my own, as if I needed to be taken by the hand. They weren't descriptions, they were definitions. Also, the story itself should be opaque; yet in this case, I could catch glimpses of the underlying framework, or of certain stylistic tools.

Maybe I read the book at a moment in my life when I am too absorbed with writing. I wanted to enjoy it, but I came away slightly disappointed. I think I will let it lie for a bit; hopefully, its rediscovery at a later date may redeem it. Besides, I've just realized that there's another, earlier novel, by another author, with the same title. Perhaps that's where the story I want to read is really hidden.

Today: Nineteen inches of glorious widescreen LCD.