Oh goodie, more literature by Afghan writers!

"My God, you haven't read Kite Runner? It's so beautiful! You have to read it!"

Um, no, I don't have to read it. And I won't. Now that I've read one of them, I'm sure that I've pretty much read them all.

Excuse my cynicism, but haven't we been through all this before? With Chick Lit? And the Indian saga novels before that? There was a time when you couldn't get to the end of a bookshelf without seeing a cover festooned with lotus flowers, saris and bindhis. Anyone remember Vikram Seth, Arundhati Roy, Monica Ali?

There were some phenomenal writers in that last sweep - namely Rohinton Mistry (I still shudder when I think about A Fine Balance) and Anita Rau Badami (I bow before you The Hero's Walk). But there were some pretty stinky and derivative novels too. 

For example, do not get me started on God of Small Things - or as I like to call it That Overwritten And Heavily Flourished Indian Novel That Everyone Said I Would Love But That I Hated From Page One And That I Never Finished Reading, Simply Skipping To The End To Verify That My Suspicions Of Incest Were Correct

 Or TOAHFINTESIWLBTIHFPOATINFR,SSTTETVTMSOIWC, for short.

At this juncture, only the most pointed recommendations from a select few people will incite me to read another Indian family saga. And forget tales about Afghanistan altogether. I would rather buy knit sweaters for fruit than pick up another *inspiring* tale about the triumph of the human spirit.

So what tomes do I have on my bedroom floor? Borderline by Marie-Sissi Labrèche (upon which a movie starring Isabelle Blais - another girl-crush of mine - is based). Bluebeard by Kurt Vonnegut. And something about Renoir's landscapes.

I'll let you know how it goes.