Some interesting kuras in this thread. I read with interest the comments in this and the other thread in Samudaya. The main thrust of the debate appears to have centred around one central issue: the seeming lack of artistic merit in Upadhyay's writing, because, (a) his stories lack 'complexity and depth' in portraying contemporary Nepal; (b) his story lines are so predictable with a loose blend of all too common, unimpressive characters and inflexible 'narratives'; (c) sex is a permanent fixture in his novel/stories, et cetera. Now let me say this first: (a) I have not read this new book and the novel before that; (b) I have however read his first book, and that too, some five years ago; (c) I don't claim to be an authority on Upadhyay's literary output or any one else's for that matter; (d) Like many things in life, my reading experience is born out of one common factor: pleasure. So, I am much less of a critical reader obviously than one can perhaps pretend to be purely for this simple reason, let alone a critic. Whilst I agree that Upadhyay's rather narrowed choice of subjects and settings, Kathmandu-centric as it is, do unwittingly reflect his hesitation in exploring beyond the fringe of a decidedly middle class locale that his characters hail from, I am less willing to go along with the claim that Upadhyay's writing does lack artistic merit and that his is effectively just another brand of 'low art' but with a fair dose of attention it commands in much the same way a teeny-weeny pop song does. Now this is a rather precarious stance for one to be taking in my humble opinion given the fact that there has been little or no critical inquiry conducted thus far to fully - to paraphrase Sir Francis Bacon - 'weigh and consider' his creative oeuvre. Maybe his works lack 'complexity and depth' in terms of tackling the core of what it takes to be an authentic Nepali culture. Maybe, maybe not - I would not know purely for the caveats I list above. What I however know is that, yes, his works' central conceit does lack the Kafkaesque grandeur or the shrewd and astutely skilled craftsmanship of Borges or Thomas Mann but such an undertaking - the idea of comparing one's works with the 'old masters' - is a rather futile business and will yield no meaningful outcome. Judging one's creative output with such a defined but patently narrowed viewpoint of the old vs the new is nothing but a display of one's dogged obedience to an all too elitist attitude - something we as readers, are all or at least have been guilty of harbouring. I think, the reading experience is an atrociously flawed one, given our proclivity to switch to differing perspectives in consort with the changing nature of tastes and values that we attach importance to all very easily. Whatever but I agree, there has got to be some form of parameters set somewhere as a demarcation or rather like a 'line in the sand'; I am particularly thinking here about the famous notion of 'tradition' the good old TS Elliot advocated so passionately. However, such defined parameters should in no way act as THE yardstick to judge one's artistic merit - works of literature by their very nature tend to be awfully fluid and this is what gives the creative imagination an outlet to flourish and progress forward. If we were to strictly follow the inflated rubrics of what it takes to be a great writer, the expression of the creative self is bound to be left stunted for forever more, and there won't have such a thing as literature and by extension, the efficacy of the creative imagination would have lost its universal appeal. What we like (and also what we don't) is pretty much governed by what we perceive as important in our lives - our tastes and our value system, our tendencies all fashioned by the ever changing social processes: the time and circumstances we live in has a bearing on our attitudes to all things in life. And what I like may not necessarily be something others might or must willingly reciprocate by liking back - to make me happy as it were. The same applies to the reading experience, and one's appreciation of works of literature. The Irish writer cum critic Frank O'Connor thought, Hemingway was crap, and his works were all 'a minor art', and raised no higher than upto the level of - in the modern parlance - 'airport trash'. O'Connor perhaps saw simplicity in the latter's prose as a flaw, and like some of us in this thread, he might well have looked for complexity in his writing but little did he know, beneath the veneer of simple words lay grand meanings and message. It is this element of simplicity - a subtle tool in his clever approach to the stylistic anatomy of his prose - which set Hemingway apart from all others. Would Hemingway have cared about though what his detractors wrote about dare I say - his seeming lack of artistic merit in his prose? He would not have given a toss, because he knew like any discernible writer, critiquing was the critics' job, and whether one got reviewed unfavourably was something that bore no relevance in the grand scheme of things as long as one kept on writing. Keep writing was exactly what he did - reason all the more to celebrate for those of us who grew up reading his books. As for sex in works of literature - well, wasn't DH Lawrence vilified in the media and public for the graphic scenes in his seminal 'Lady Chatterley's Lover'? And the same happened with Flaubert when he wrote Madam Bovary? Take for instance Anais Nin - the outrageous French writer who were later to claim in her diaries that she had actually had sexual relationship with her own father. Bloody hell. But wasn't her works they found to be too explicit in sexual contents to the point of being dubbed as pornographic and yet the latter day ultra-feminists (Noamy Wolf, Germain Greer and co including their formidable predecessor and Sartre's muse, Simone de Beauvoir) were to hail her as the doyenne of the feminist movement? All these examples point to only one conclusion: that it is okay to include the depiction of sex, graphic or otherwise, in works of literature. Now more on to the point: Do I like Samrat Upadhyay's prose? Yes, I do for its Hemingwaysque simplicity. His simple words evoke imagery with pitch perfect precision. Marvellous narrative voice and characterisation. Do I mind the sex scenes in his stories? Why should I? I find it a delight in much the same way I find it in DH Lawrence or Flaubert. Or Anais Nin for that matter though I must admit that I have never read her. Do I think, his is 'a minor art'? Who am I to say about something I have little or no handle on or lack the unequivocal qualification to judge with a beady-eye of an informed-critical reader? Whether his writing is crap or wonderful is something purely for the critics, and to a lesser extent his readers, to decide. Personally, I think, his writing is wonderfully enjoyable and his prose sharp with every element of 'high art' unless someone offers me a genuine reason why I should think to the contrary. Has he made me proud as a Nepali? Oh yes, absolutely. He's the only Nepali writer to have reached where he is - something none of his predecessors had succeeded in doing so. Hey, where is my loyalty yaar? Is he or will he be a great writer? What's great anyway? I have faith in his ability as a great storyteller but his greatness is something we'll get to see him achieve only in the fullness of time. I have only best wishes for him. So, let's not expect Kafka, Hemingway, Borges or Carver out of someone who's still trying his level best to find his feet in what is clearly an extremely competitive field. Let's give him his due share of credit for putting Kathmandu on to the world literary map for permanent. Let's wish him good luck but most importantly, let's read him, shall we? Carpe diem