Back home, my craving for English literature was consummately supplied. But it was no longer English nor Indian.
Correction: It was too elastically English and Indian, to remain either.
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Editor’s note: “Letters from Leeds” is an ongoing series of letters between Atticus Books publisher Dan Cafaro and writer Jayeeta (“Joy”) Ghorai. Joy initially approached Dan about writing a column about epiphanies, journeys, readings, films, and other random observations — and Dan spontaneously decided that Joy needed to become his pulse to the broader world of literature. The following letter is in response to Dan’s initial correspondence.
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Who is Silas again? And what the hell is this Raveloe I fawn over?
For those bewildered readers of my last blog post on visiting a tiny street light bereft village in North Yorkshire, let me explain.
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Dear Joy,
My, what an introduction! It’s not often that an unsolicited letter from an unknown writer stops me in my tracks and compels me to pay attention.
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Perfumes. High fashion. Brands. Megastores. Malls. Shopping. Chocolates.
Everyone had told me everything about England save…books! The lack of ‘been there, done that’ holiday pictures featuring books proves yet again, they have lost their equity value and are no longer considered status enhancing.
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