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... this book is written with apathy, with the apathy of a man now freed of the brevity of the century, a supinely philosophical work, of an unequal philosophy, now austere, now playful, something that neither builds nor destroys, neither inflames nor cools, and, yet, it is more than a pastime and less than an apostolate.

My Å·±¦ÓéÀÖ morning started on an emotional note today. I logged in and found a book recommendation by Ali, friendly comments from Dolors and Dustin, the surprised mention of my name in Manny’s review and lovely messages in the inbox. What more could I have asked for? The update feed however, presented a different and grim story altogether. A chilling reminder about the unfavorable direction this site is heading towards. A site which is of, by and for the readers. Good readers, Great readers, readers without whose recommendations and reviews, I wouldn’t be the reader, I’m today. Emotions surged up when I started imagining the what ifs scenarios and when you dedicate a huge chunk of your time to a virtual world, the happenings in that world whether positive or negative, affects you in incommensurable proportions. It’s affecting me too and I would like to extend my heartiest thanks to each and everyone who are raising their voice in protest and hope that whatever happens the good reader in you will persevere and find blissful solace in wonderful books.

May I recommend The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas? Death is inevitable and melancholy is alright but what fun to have an everlasting smile pasted on your face while reading a book. Bras Cubas is dead but gifted us all these wonderful posthumous memoirs. Why Posthumous? Probably our narrator, a supposed alter-ego of our author was seeking a full-fledged creative freedom and wanted to break all the rules of writing that must be in practice during his time. The year was 1880 and Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis gave us this enchanting literary treat which surely holds the power to fascinate everyone of us in the present world of countless genres and sub-genres.

He had no other philosophy. Nor did I. I'm not saying that the university hadn't taught me some philosophical truths. But I'd only memorized the formulas, the vocabulary, the skeleton. I treated them as I had Latin: I put three lines from Virgil in my pocket, two from Horace, and a dozen moral and political locutions for the needs of conversation. I treated them the way I treated history and jurisprudence. I picked up the phraseology of all things, the shell, the decoration ...

The truth in his humor, the irony in his innocent expressions and the wisdom in his reckless way of living life (while he lived), will make you instantly fall in love with Cubas. He’s not perfect but he’s perfectly human. The writer in him finds a way of telling us his witty intentions without sticking to conventions as apparent in the following quotes:

What looks like a simple inventory here are notes I'd taken for a sad and banal chapter that I won't write.

I found in her a certain ethereal softness wedded to the polish of earthly forms—a vague expression and worthy of a chapter in which everything must be vague.

Few tears, lots of laughs and random sighs - the life viewed from the other side of the grave is not sieved through the judgmental eyes of the people around us but comes across in an unadulterated form consists of memories collected, mistakes committed and admissions of guilt in the confession box of our hearts and in retrospect, the life appears to be beautiful. Cubas tells us that and that’s what we should tell ourselves while we are living.

Believe me, remembering is the least evil. No one should trust present happiness, there's a drop of Cain's drivel in it. With the passing of time and the end of rapture, then, yes, then perhaps it's possible really to enjoy, because between these two illusions the better one is the one that's enjoyed without pain.