Mr. K and a miserable life

A blissful experience of getting submerged in words of a fictional story cannot be matched with the harsh reality of the actual world. Each word in a story throws a plot. Each character in that story, in one way or the other, follows that plot. And then there are multiple plots which lead to the end of the story in a coherent logical manner.

Pick up any bestselling novel on the fiction genre and you will find the same formulaic approach. And I am no one to criticize that approach. How can I, when I am a die hard fan of plot driven story. And I am not ashamed of that, for I am an escapist and I want a consistency, order, predictability, rationality in a story cause an actual life cannot give me one.

Life is messy. It is too much cluttered to make any sense and too much random to make any predictability. I cannot, never in my life, make a worthful novel out of my own real life story without adding the spices of orderliness and consistency and without subtracting the randomness.

However, I happened to receive a book a few years ago. A book which crushed my love for novels almost at one strike. I hated that book and in my hatred and immaturity I gave the book a rating which I usually give to the likes of Chetan's and Ravinder's.

How could I have loved that book which featured a person named K who one day, out of sheer randomness, woke up to find himself under arrested; who with futile efforts struggled against an obscure court; who dies at the end without the author giving any justification to that act. And not to mention the parable which, at that time made no sense to me.

Life is absurd and is flawed and it's too late now to admit how that book influenced my thoughts and how miserable it made me.

I curse him and his genre.

And I know, that the above texts make no sense but does life make any more sense.


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