Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ

You know I was going to review this book but then it occurred to me that I would never know if you have read my review. I mean yes, I do get likes but suppose people are liking them without reading them. Of course, why would anyone do that? Two possibilities seem to suggest themselves � either they want to make a fool of me by making me keep writing reviews that no one reads or to distract me from something. Of course, that in itself calls for a mass conspiracy because so many people from so many countries will be liking my reviews � unless of course, it is one person with many fake accounts. Now that I think about it the possibility seems very real�

�. The above is how our protagonist might have started a review. But now to proper review:
I don’t know if it can be defined that way but all art � whether it be painting, writing, singing etc, all art forms seems to be tools, of communication � of communicating in superior ways. It is like that teenager boy writing poems to his sweat-heart sort of thing � or making albums, quoting great poets when one doesn’t feel gifted oneself � because our normal everyday language isn’t enough to express what we feel.

But what about artists? What yearnings must they have in themselves to make it their profession to develop those tools; to be on constant look out, at just the right word, phrase, color etc? Why should MB write, leave alone his manuscript of Master and Margarita� leave alone keep them knowing that they are as good as their death warrant? ‘Manuscripts don’t burn� one hears in the answer but why don’t they? Is it that they live in constant fear of being misunderstood like Kafka was?

Perhaps getting the message right in itself not enough, there must also need be the person who can understand the message. And thus, Nabokov’s irritation at wrong interpretations of his works and Van Gogh’s sorrow, who though created most beautiful paintings, never found a pair of eyes in which that beauty is reflected. Perhaps that is why artists seek posterity and immortality � to carry to their death bed the hope that what they have to say will be one day be heard in just the way they wanted. The protagonist in the ‘Invitation to a Beheading� by Nabokov gives his writings to his executioners in desperation and asks them not to destroy them as long as he is alive so that he could at least have a theoretical chance of finding a reader.

So, is it for that theoretical chance of finding someone who will understand him that keeps the artist going? It seems to be true in the case of Juan Pablo, our protagonist here, for whom the whole life was like a dark tunnel (yes that explains the title) where he lived in solitude because, as he puts it, ‘no one understood him�.

The trouble begins when he finds a woman does understand him. And he discovers that he has a lot more to say than that single painting. She wants that too � because the need for understanding is mutual. It doesn’t matter who paints and who reflects. Only our guy can’t have enough � his overt-thinking, over-analytical, pathological brain can’t believe his good fortune. Like Anna Karenina, he needs constant assurances of her fidelity � as is often the case of those who fell in love when they had long given up on any chance of finding it. Like her, he too dwells over suicide but rather prefers killing his girlfriend.

Camus commissioned its publishing � and the narrator here too finds himself a stranger in his world but his solitude because he is a nihilist but rather because of his misanthropy. It also shows similarity to ‘Lolita� in that Juan Pable might be putting his own version and suppressing the voice of his victim.