S-He writes

Am currently engrossed in the philosophical and picaresque (as wikipedia describes it) 'Under the Net' by Iris Murdoch. Off late, unintentionally I have been reading works primarily by female writers. Started off with Harry Potter series, and then more complex writings by Doris Lessing (The Grass is singing), Alice Munro (short stories) and now IM. Through their words they successfully reveal a whole new level of human characterization and uncover layers of often unexplored complexities.
I thought it usual that female writers better describe female protagonists in the first person just as their male counterparts would be comfortable depicting the male perspective. Thus was I surprised to read IM's novel written in first person as Jake Donaghue, a struggling writer based in London. It was impressive that she could accurately capture the goings-on in a male brain without sprinkling in 'female sentimentality' (or the contrary). Would have made me misjudge the gender of the author had the name been any less feminine!
Have been circulating around this question to other fellow readers to alert me when they come across an example of cross-gender writing (only the brilliant variety :) and first person accounts).
Meanwhile looking forward to discover more in this engrossing read.

Forgotten in a dream

Had forgotten whom I was looking for
a sea of swarming faces,
many familiar, smiling, consorting
befuddled me

I had known them years ago,
some more others less so

now they borrowed my memory away
from the one I was looking for

then came a friendly face
we engaged in a delightful fare
warmth flowed and laughter too

by the end I still did not know
whom I was looking for.

Stirrings of spring up North

The ripples quivered in joy,

as the wind  swam across the river

The black mass above cracked

letting the waning light through,

casting gleaming patches on the water below,

filtering through the leafless branches ashore,

over the rain washed bench,

across the orphaned railway line

and onto the little wooden houses along the bank

framing their pretty colored rooftops

Red, blue, pink and yellow.

A few days hence there will be a dusk no more

only a perpetual light and a kingdom of life dying to come alive.

बात मैं गहराई है

 "That which needs to be refined is my own mind”.

Ramana Maharishi

~Rumi

'It is a sign of intimate friendship,
when speech flows freely from the heart.'

Life's lessons from HP

"Listen to me, Harry. You happen to have many qualities Salazar Slytherin prized in his hand-picked students. His own very rare gift, Parseltongue - resourcefulness - determination --a certain disregard for rules," he added, his mustache quivering again. "Yet the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor. You know why that was. Think."

"It only put me in Gryffindor," said Harry in a defeated voice, "because I asked not to go in Slytherin . . . ."

`Exactly, "said Dumbledore, beaming once more. "Which makes you very different from Tom Riddle. It is our choices, Harry, that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities." Harry sat motionless in his chair, stunned.

~Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

A joy revisited

She stepped out during working hours into a glorious summer afternoon thrilled at this little day adventure. The breeze was just about right balancing the heat optimally to the point where the lake in the middle of the buildings beckoned her for a siesta. She trotted on to accomplish the task she had been planning the whole past week. Everyone had told her she needed to lay her hands on it, they had even suggested to get her copies online. Nowadays things are just a click away on the internet you see. She chose to stick to the original plan anyway. The library was quiet, (ironically) as it is meant to be, and empty, barring a few students scattered about and deep into their reading materials. Summers are holidays time and the campus bears a lonely look during the few months this city gets some heat.

It took a little getting around but libraries had been familiar turf, and coming back to one brought a smile on her face. The musty smell emanating in the room full of neatly stacked books sent her into a tizzy. How can searching for a book in a library ever compare to ordering a new one off the net or even buying one at a  bookstore? The cracked edges, yellowing pages, pencilled notes, worn paperbacks.. all the elements that make a book so endearing...all the things a fresher just cannot offer. A book that has passed through so many hands and carries a rich history of its own.

She had it in her hands, her first copy of the series. The smile she now carried was that of a girl in her early teens who had her first brush with reading and knew she had just embarked on a wondrous and life-long journey.

Midnight it was and the first page turned to read 'The Boy Who Lived'.