The big melt

Officially, the high temperature today was 12°C. It's sunny, breezy, and feels so much like spring that the massive piles of snow-ice at every corner actually seem like the anomaly they are rather than the dully accepted fact of our existence they've been for the past couple months. People are out and about, coatless and sometimes jacketless (although not yet shirtless). Miniature hydroscapes are everywhere you look. In the west-facing slope of campus, snow came to form an icy sheet. Now meltwater is eroding it away like a science-fair model of karst topography. On the way back from lunch, I passed a perfect ponor sculpted from the ice by a trickle of runoff.

Just now I made a half-circuit around the lagoon. The ice sheet, which had been diminishing for a while, is gone entirely from its midsection and at the far end is becoming transparent. The mounds of ice dumped by Facilities are still impressively massive enough to last for some time yet, at least in part; on the northern edge, the snow must be fresher because it hasn't solidified as much. I tried to step on it to get a better look at the murky pool, possibly several feet deep, gathering alongside it and it swallowed my foot up to the ankle.

Among the many discarded items uncovered were a bottle of energy drink, a smashed orange, old pizza boxes, and a dead duck. (At least I think it was a duck; I was moving in for a better look and then realised the entire greensward around it was covered in defrosted goosecrap.) The puddles are bad in some spots, but elsewhere they've carved outlets through the snowbanks and drained away into the storm sewers. Still, glad I wore my boots today.

The retrogressive novelist

The reluctant fundamentalist was a disappointing read, but at least it was a short one. Hamid has been quoted as saying he'd rather people read his books twice then give up halfway through. I respect his desire to be one of those authors people actually read rather than simply say they do, but I can't but think that he wouldn't have to worry so much about his readers giving up if he gave them something worth reading.

It explains much to find out that Hamid already had a completed draught when 9/11 came along--an event he clearly felt he couldn't ignore given that the main character is a Lahori living in present-day NYC. If not for that, it's hard to imagine this book getting a tenth as much attention as it has. The narrative is mostly driven by a pretty conventional tale of being disappointed in love. In the appendix, Hamid says he was worried lest the plot and characters "be overwhelmed by the enormity of the political events". Instead, it feels like the doomed romance only distracts from the part of the story that's actually interesting (and what they hook you in with)--the politicisation of an Ivy League grad from a country victimised by US foreign policy.

The most effective part of the writing is actually the frame story. The whole novel is narrated to an unnamed American who may or may not have nefarious intentions toward our protagonist. I hated this device when Dai Sijie employed it, but Hamid puts in enough asides and interruptions to make it plausible. More importantly, it has a purpose, as it ends up supplying most of the tension which ultimately pushed me over the finish line. Having made it there, however, it's hard not to feel a little pranked.

Besides finding another English-language novel, I might also need to take a break from the Walser. The first section culminated in a rather distasteful and possibly gratuitous rape scene. Now every time I consider picking the book up again, I have a visceral reaction which makes my face pucker and me wonder why I would want to do that to myself. Surely, with everything I've got stockpiled, I can do better than that.