There is something singularly beautiful in the way books offer an escape from the horrors of reality, only to throw one into a world where one is compelled to contemplate the various philosophies that govern it.
Arundhati Roy presents her characters as they are, with all their uneven edges and rough textures. Everyone is reduced to their crude humanity, stripped down to their naked, imperfect morality. She makes the reader jump from hate to love to sympathy, all in the span of a single page. The reader’s heart is almost a puppet in her skilled hands and she masterfully tugs the right strings every single time. She evokes every emotion in the spectrum and in the end, you’re left with a flood of empathy. You’re not going to find any black and white characters in these pages.
Daedalus spent his last years in Egypt after his son Icarus went down with Apollo. But we don’t know that. Circe doesn’t know that. What I do know is that I am on borrowed time, and I don’t have the power to shift the ropes of fate according to my whims and fancies.