It may not be fashionable to admit this in so-called intellectual circles today, but I am a great admirer of Thackeray. I believe we have done him the gravest injustice by underrating his multi-faceted genius, as a thinker, writer, illustrator, orator, and even as a politician. And I think the time has come to say a few things about him, bluntly, and straight from the heart. Born in Calcutta, William Makepeace Thackeray was considered one of the greatest novelists of his time -- even greater, in fact, than his contemporary, Charles Dickens. But more than this, Thackeray was a man of many parts. Starting life as a journalist, he went on to become an illustrator, author, public speaker and a minor politician. He once stood for Parliament in 1857, from the constituency of Oxford, and it is unfortunate that he was drubbed at the polls. Who knows what political heights he may have scaled if his career had not thus been nipped in the bud? Today Thackeray is known mainly for that wonderful novel Vanity Fair, but many say that his Barry Lyndon was an even greater work of literature. Among these was no less a person than the legendary film director, Stanley Kubrick, who actually made it into a film. (Unfortunately the film bombed at the box offices, but this, of course, does not detract from the literary quality of the original novel.) Thackeray's early writings were amusing, acute and full of vitality. But the problems he faced in life (his wife, for instance went insane and he had to abandon her) resulted in a much mellower style in his later works, starting with Vanity Fair. His novels were a rich, teeming tapestry of characters and incidents, creating the illusion of an entire world reflecting the genteel and refined qualities of Victorian England. Charlotte Bronte, in fact, dedicated her novel, Jane Eyre to Thackeray, calling him 'the first social regenerator of the day.' High praise, indeed, coming from the great Ms Bronte herself. Throughout his works Thackeray analysed and deplored snobbery -- although he was regarded by many to be a snob himself. He wrote acidly about human behaviour and the shortcomings of society, and he moralised about hypocrisy, the sorrows of love, and the vanity of life -- believing that such moralising was an important function of a novelist such as himself. Vanity Fair, Thackeray's most famous work, was path-breaking, in that it was 'a novel without a hero.' Set in the Regency England of the late 19th century, it is the finely etched tale of the intertwined fortunes of two contrasting women, Amelia Sedley and the scheming, ambitious Becky Sharp (who is perhaps the single most memorable character the author ever created.) In addition to all this, of course, Thackeray was an excellent illustrator (contributing regularly to Punch magazine) and a much sought-after public speaker, who made two very successful lecture tours of the United States in the 1850s. The last years of Thackeray's life were plagued by health problems, including a particularly nasty urethral ailment. He died finally in 1863, leaving behind him the unfinished manuscript of Denis Duval, a historical novel set in the 18th century. What saddens me is that a man of his immense stature should have disappeared so completely from human memory. In fact, the other day, I was talking about him to some friends, and one of them looked puzzled, wrinkled his nose and asked, "Thackeray? Arre, who the hell is Thackeray?" Like they say, glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever. Yashwant Sawant is not a Shiv Sainik, no. Tell us what you think of this diary
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