I recently read a book called Minaret, by Leila Aboulela. The blurbs promised me I’d be reading something ‘moving’ and ‘beautifully written’. And perhaps I did, but I think I look for more in a book. Minaret is beautifully written, but it lacks excitement. It lacks imagination. By imagination, I don’t mean things fantastical, magical, or strictly outside the realm of reality; it only has to do with creating something. In a novel, it can be anything – the atmosphere, setting, characters, plot. But I think that’s what writing, especially fiction, should create. Douglas Adams and Joanne Harris are such a joy to read because of it.

But take A Suitable Boy. That’s a realistic novel as far as the setting of place is concerned (the name of the place is fictional, but the ambiance is factually portrayed), but the characters in the book are delightfully distinct. There’s also the fact that events in the book are structured in such a way that the characters seem so naturally – almost accidentally – linked to one another. Sadly, the thing that makes all these possible – fancy, verve, imagination, whatever you call it – is hard to come by these days.

Besides Minaret, I also read Seierstad’s The Bookseller of Kabul, and Sasson’s Desert Royal to name a few; all of which are disappointing for the same reason. It seems to me that these books have a purpose other than to be written and read, and that’s probably where the slip is. These books, I think, to an extent, mean to inform, to change perspective, and to fulfill other (to me) equally unsavoury aims. I don’t know – writing with a purpose feels like going to sleep with a purpose : you don’t have it good.