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If only I could take back the time I spent reading this masturbatory psychobabble and instead used it to re-watch Rick And Morty, I would've learnt a whole lot more than what I got out from reading this pseudo-science.

I first learnt about The Denial of Death when I was watching my first film from Woody Allen - Annie Hall. The witty, self-deprecating humor with subtle hints about problems of humanity was right up my alley, and so naturally the book referenced also caught my attention. The Pulitzer prize was a cherry on top. Recently, it also got heavily referenced in one of videos of the film analysis channel - Like Stories of Old.

And so my curiosity peaked and with a great enthusiasm, I picked up this book.

The central theme of Death and how we shape our lives around it was an intriguing theme and our need for hero-worship was a very interesting idea. However things started to go downhill the moment Freud came into picture. Even though Ernest Becker repeatedly mentioned how Freud got a lot of the things wrong and tried to bring out later thinkers' nuanced theories, it was clear that he worshipped Freud. How else can you explain a whole chapter on root-causing the times when "The Great Freud" fainted and trying to analyze the possible reasons! And then there's one chapter called "Perversions" where he declares homosexuality a "problem" to be solved and analyzes it to say that people engage in this act because they are trying to rebel against carnal reality of their existence being for the sole purpose of procreation. What bullshit!

Maybe this book deserves a place in history as a testament to our mistakes and how we used to treat genuine illnesses not through science but by psychobabble.

I don't have a lot of friends who are supporters of the ruling BJP (well at least the ones who have disclosed it publicly), and consequently whenever the conversation shifts towards the ongoings in India, more often than not, we find ourselves agreeing with each other. Although this is perfectly alright for me on most days, on few ocaasions, I find a shadow of a doubt slowly creeping up inside - what if I'm living inside a bubble, an echo-chamber where I only get exposed to the ideas which I already hold to be true, especially relevant now that everything in our lives are getting regulated by algorithms. Whenever this confirmation bias hits me, I long to read something contrarian, to engage with the other side and to try to put myself in their shoes.

So it was with a pleasant surprise that I found out one day, one of my friends "coming out of the closet" and to declare him(her)self to be a supporter of the ruling party. I grabbed the chance to finally be able to hear the arguments from the other side and so, I broke my cardinal rule of not engaging in political debates on social media and contacted him/her. The result was devastating. We passionately debated our views and had heated discussions throughout the day, in the end agreeing that maybe we shouldn't have bothered to hit each other up after all. I was visibly distressed for a few days after this incident, as if a small flicker of hope had died in that encounter.

If two educated and privileged youths in their early twenties were unable to agree on something as basic as whether Muslims deserve to live in India, or whether India should really become a "Hindu Rashtra" or not, what hope could I have from the millions of others who didn't have the same privileges as us?

Reading this book brought that hopelessness to the front once again. There are hard-hitting truths written here, things that we would sooner like to forget lest they cause us pain and make vivid the grim reality of our times. But like a festering wound which devours our body if unattended, ignorance is not bliss but a vicious disease which paralyzes us faster than we might think.

My appeal to whoever is reading this would be - reach out to others, engage in conversations, don't dismiss the whole debate as "unnecessary politics" - your mere existence is political. Politics is not about discussing who should be the next PM, it's about discussing ideas and how you view others who are different than yourself, to engage with empathy and to embrace the differences, and to speak out against wrongs.

I'll leave you with a powerful passage from the book itself, where Arundhati Roy laments about the role each of us plays in how the future shapes itself:

After twenty years of writing fiction and nonfiction that tracks the rise of Hindu nationalism, after years of reading about the rise and fall of European fascism, I have begun to wonder why fascism—although it is by no means the same everywhere—is so recognizable across histories and cultures. It’s not just the fascists that are recognizable—the strong man, the ideological army, the squalid dreams of Aryan superiority, the dehumanization and ghettoization of the “internal enemy,” the massive and utterly ruthless propaganda machine, the false-flag attacks and assassinations, the fawning businessmen and film stars, the attacks on universities, the fear of intellectuals, the specter of detention camps, and the hate-fueled zombie population that chants the Eastern equivalent of “Heil! Heil! Heil!” It’s also the rest of us—the exhausted, quarreling opposition, the vain, nit-picking Left, the equivocating liberals who spent years building the road that has led to the situation we find ourselves in, and are now behaving like shocked, righteous rabbits who never imagined that rabbits were an important ingredient of the rabbit stew that was always on the menu. And, of course, the wolves who ignored the decent folks’ counsel of moderation and sloped off into the wilderness to howl unceasingly, futilely—and, if they were female, then “shrilly” and “hysterically”—at the terrifying, misshapen moon. All of us are recognizable.

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This is also available on my website here.

I cannot bring myself to rate this book.

It's like a saying I read somewhere - Proust is for life - which I think I'm able to understand now. The term "Proustian" had such an enigmatic character to itself for me, much like the word "Kafkaesque" would be for people who haven't read Kafka, that the more and more I encountered it, more and more I became intrigued and perhaps a bit afraid as well of getting disillusioned when I finally do make its acquaintance. There were a lot of moments in the book where I questioned why exactly was I reading it, followed by an intense love for the sheer pages in front of me, and sometimes ending with an indifference to an entire chapter. This ebb and flow of emotions continued throughout the book, and I'm afraid in the end, it still remains an enigma for me.

Proust cannot be conquered. Although if someone has come close to doing it, it would be this guy.

I dream of the day when I would be able to read it the way it was written - and the way it was meant to be read - in its original French. Until then, I'd have to live with the pain of losing things in translation and be content with it.

Reading fiction has always been a double-edged sword for me. Some of the most intimate moments I've spent alone is while reading fictional stories, while at the same time, feeling a pang of disappointment for myself because I wasn't doing anything "productive." Is this mere entertainment? Am I just escaping my real-life responsibilities and reading stories of make-believe? While I still haven't found sincere answers to these questions, I've grown more confident of what I enjoy and what I don't, which has consequently helped me find peace with this conflict. Over the years, I've realized that reading good literature is therapeutic for me - not to be used as an afterthought but essential to keep me functional.

Stoner was another great session in my therapy.

A story that on the surface feels depressing and sad, but curiously enough has immense hopeful undertones. This is the ordinary story of a man whose only goals in life are to attain two of the most notoriously difficult things known to mankind - knowledge, and love. He fails in both, but if you look underneath the surface, he succeeds in attaining both as well - just enough to make him feel satisfied but not enough to make the world think the same. The story is simple. A man hailing from rural American farmland attends university, falls in love with literature, and decides to dedicate himself to fulfill his passion. He starts teaching at the university, gets married by following his desire, but without falling in love, has a passionate love affair and, in the end, dies without having accomplished much.

But the way Mr. Williams writes this simple story is mesmerizing, to say the least. There's an existential dread in all the interactions, always pulsing with energy, and the prose flows with a perfection, almost to a fault. When I looked back at the book having finished my 4-hour marathon run through it, I noticed that for the first 100 pages or so, the book had a lot of markings - sentences I had loved, descriptions I had enjoyed - however as it moved further, I got tired of doing so, simply because it only got better and better. If I had continued, the whole book would have been messed up by my pencil.

Throughout the book, I could sense Camus's influence on his writing; the existential dread always present. All the characters felt as if they could easily exist in my universe. The slow torment that the protagonist went through, at times, felt too personal, as if someone had mercilessly ripped out a few chapters from my life and laid it bare for the world to see. One of these moving passages is written at approximately two-third of the book, which I can't help but quote below:

In his extreme youth, Stoner had thought of love as an absolute state of being to which, if one were lucky, one might find access; in his maturity, he had decided it was the heaven of a false religion, toward which he ought to gaze with an amused disbelief, a gently familiar contempt, and an embarrassed nostalgia. Now in his middle age he began to know that it was neither a state of grace nor an illusion; he saw it as a human act of becoming, a condition that was invented and modified moment by moment and day by day, by the will and the intelligence and the heart.

To illustrate an example of the existential feelings at play in the novel, here's another passage where Stoner wonders about the futility of knowledge at a tumultuous point in his life:

He had come to that moment in his age when there occurred to him, with increasing intensity, a question of such overwhelming simplicity that he had no means to face it. He found himself wondering if his life were worth the living; if it had ever been. It was a question, he suspected, that came to all men at one time or another; he wondered if it came to them with such impersonal force as it came to him. The question brought with it a sadness, but it was a general sadness which (he thought) had little to do with himself or with his particular fate; he was not even sure that the question sprang from the most immediate and obvious causes, from what his own life had become. It came, he believed, from the accretion of his years, from the density of accident and circumstance, and from what he had come to understand of them. He took a grim and ironic pleasure from the possibility that what little learning he had managed to acquire had led him to this knowledge; that in the long run all things, even the learning that let him know this, were futile and empty, and at last diminished into a nothingness they did not alter.

I should stop lest I give myself a free rein and quote the entire book itself. And so I shall stop here. Pick this book up from dusty old shelves of second-hand bookshops and pass it onto others with a note saying, "Thank you for accepting this gift. Thank you for existing." Maybe someday somewhere, this gift would end up saving someone.

P.S: If one picture could summarise this whole book for me, it would be the famous oil painting by Edward Hopper, named Nighthawks.


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This is also available on my website here.