Take a photo of a barcode or cover
3.47 AVERAGE
3.47 AVERAGE
Lots of colonialism, lots of Englishmen looking down on Indians.
I kept being reminded of Octavia Butler's thesis in the Xenogenesis trilogy, that the prevailing fault of humanity is that we are so hierarchical. I'm inclined to agree with her.
I kept being reminded of Octavia Butler's thesis in the Xenogenesis trilogy, that the prevailing fault of humanity is that we are so hierarchical. I'm inclined to agree with her.
This story is a simple one. At the same time, it seems symbolic and even prophetic of Indian-British relations as a whole. The fact that it is written through a British lens is obvious, but Forster also convincingly portrays the perspectives of the Indian characters. It's not my favorite book of all time, mostly because I prefer more character development, but it was still an enjoyable read, and I can see why it's a classic.
If you're as big into Central/South (or really, Cool) Asia as I am, you are probably reading some of the good stuff that Jonathan Shainin writes, or what he posts on his Twitter feed. One of his larger rages in the past week or so has been against the Guardian, that ol' English rag that apparently has been celebrating the British Empire and all of its good.
That wasn't all that much good. It's fun to look back wistfully, of course. When I first set off for Central Asia, I was with a bunch of Brits, Aussies, Kiwis and Canadians celebrating the triumph of their spirit. It's, well, sometimes a bit off from the truth.
Probably the seminal novel of British India is Passage to India, which came out in 1924 at the sunset of the British empire. Forester was pretty pissed off from his experiences in India, or at least upset enough to write a fictionalized account (there is no Chandrapore) of how Indians and Anglos interact.
Passage to India is a great read because it's an easy read. It reads less like a Merchant Ivory production, which I was expecting. For being nearly 90 years old, the characters are fresh and their English is very easy to understand. They're each sketched out individually, and for having the whole Anglo vs. Indian divide, it's not Sharks vs. Jets, its a feud that develops into a race war. None of the main characters are entirely good or entirely evil. Some of the side characters may seem it (particularly the Nauwab Badhur) but you realize they're just following their own path. I remember getting into a long talk with some older gentleman in a hostel in Split a month ago. He was very proud of finishing his first book and was explaining that, "the funny thing about characters is, they don't always do what you want." I couldn't really believe for anything I've ever written, Lord knows, but I did believe it here.
Like any very good book, Passage to India is just as much about the human condition as anything else. The characters are set down their paths by external coincidences, unable to stop themselves from fulfilling some certain destiny. The fate of the country can be seen in the fate of the characters, and the whole fate/God/reason thing comes into play as much as the reader allows it to.
There's a reason why Passage to India is one of the triumphs of the English language. I was lucky to pick up an aged copy at a book exchange for free, and it was one of the better accidents (OR FATE OMGZZZ) I stumbled into the past year. So yeah, worth checking out.
That wasn't all that much good. It's fun to look back wistfully, of course. When I first set off for Central Asia, I was with a bunch of Brits, Aussies, Kiwis and Canadians celebrating the triumph of their spirit. It's, well, sometimes a bit off from the truth.
Probably the seminal novel of British India is Passage to India, which came out in 1924 at the sunset of the British empire. Forester was pretty pissed off from his experiences in India, or at least upset enough to write a fictionalized account (there is no Chandrapore) of how Indians and Anglos interact.
Passage to India is a great read because it's an easy read. It reads less like a Merchant Ivory production, which I was expecting. For being nearly 90 years old, the characters are fresh and their English is very easy to understand. They're each sketched out individually, and for having the whole Anglo vs. Indian divide, it's not Sharks vs. Jets, its a feud that develops into a race war. None of the main characters are entirely good or entirely evil. Some of the side characters may seem it (particularly the Nauwab Badhur) but you realize they're just following their own path. I remember getting into a long talk with some older gentleman in a hostel in Split a month ago. He was very proud of finishing his first book and was explaining that, "the funny thing about characters is, they don't always do what you want." I couldn't really believe for anything I've ever written, Lord knows, but I did believe it here.
Like any very good book, Passage to India is just as much about the human condition as anything else. The characters are set down their paths by external coincidences, unable to stop themselves from fulfilling some certain destiny. The fate of the country can be seen in the fate of the characters, and the whole fate/God/reason thing comes into play as much as the reader allows it to.
There's a reason why Passage to India is one of the triumphs of the English language. I was lucky to pick up an aged copy at a book exchange for free, and it was one of the better accidents (OR FATE OMGZZZ) I stumbled into the past year. So yeah, worth checking out.
" . . . but presently they too entered the world of dreams - that world in which a third of each man's life is spent, and which is thought by some pessimists to be a premonition of eternity."
My late tradition of binge-reading books I was supposed to read for English but never did to and from the long haul between university and school has cropped up again, far sooner than I had anticipated as a result of our current circumstances. While those circumstances are certainly unfavorable, at least I got around to returning to A Passage to India much sooner than I'd expected.
I had read about two-thirds of this last year and was already familiar with the plot and characters, so settling in to binge it on my nine-hour flight provided a somewhat familiar comfort as those details slowly returned to me. Forster writes well, and his descriptions of India are lurid and evocative, the perfect airplane escape. His characters are memorable and well-defined, particularly Fielding and Aziz, an aspect which I also picked up on and enjoyed in my first attempt. Fielding and Aziz's relationship I also found deeply fascinating as a reflection of Anglo-Indian relations at the time. In general, the poignant frankness with which Forster approaches Anglo-India makes this a particularly compelling and perceptual read and certainly an important piece of literature for its age. Though the complexities Forster explores in the Anglo-Indian world have long since diminished, their effects, which continue to be felt, still have ramifications that make their understanding important. At risk of rambling on in academic analysis, I shall end by saying I'm certainly intrigued to see how such perspectives and descriptions translate into Forster's work of other topics, and I certainly would like to dive into more of his work in the near future.
Definitely a book written in a different era, an era where people read slowly and focussed on nuance. I understand why the other Forster book I read, A Room with a View, did not go well on audio. There are leaps between paragraphs that do not convey themselves well orally the way they can be detected visually on the page.
This was such a great book. Wonderful setting, great characters, interesting plot, and some really good ideas to chew on. I'm sure this is one that could use multiple reads to really pull out all the gems. Even though the book is a portrait of a certain time, the issues of how we treat each other are still completely fresh.
reflective
medium-paced
I am not sure how fictional or real the story is. The characters mingled with the unique background have displayed a refreshing picturesque that I seldom see or even image.
Somehow I'd gotten the impression that A Passage to India was a departure from Forster's earlier novels. In subject matter, sure, but in all else this is a very Forsterian novel: sharply observed social commentary, lyrical prose, meditations on the human condition, and an almost mythic quality that is nevertheless grounded in the banal. Forster's novels are romantic, but they don't romanticize.
I'm glad I found myself reading this book in 2020. It's fundamentally a novel about nationalism, a topic I have formed Strong Opinions about. Actually maybe just one opinion, which Forster evidently shares. Please imagine, in place of this book, a tract titled "NATIONALISM" in 72-pt font, followed by one sentence: "FUCK THAT SHIT." (Forster phrases it more delicately.)
As a portrait of India and Indian people goes, I am not equipped to judge this novel. I think I can say it is a humane and openhearted effort. Certainly Forster's disdain for British culture does not lead him into the trap I expected, that of romanticizing the East. Instead, he attempts to be both empathetic and objective.
As far as objectivity goes, well. The text is littered with generalizations about Indians; some of these are the narrative's attempts at pointing out cultural differences, while others rise from the collective point-of-view of the colonizers. All that said, I expected this to be a novel written for the white gaze, and it's not quite that. Forster seems to be reaching toward an inclusive audience, whether or not he ever quite gets there.
I won't give away the plot, but I will say that this novel is set in British India at the turn of the 20th century and shows a British elite closing ranks in response to their tribal identity being threatened. The threat isn't some vast cultural divide between British and Indian people—the mutiny of 1857 is passing out of memory; the Indian elite is increasingly Westernized. To borrow an observation from Hannah Arendt, it's not necessarily difference that triggers xenophobia, but assimilation and the threat of social categories dissolving.
Meanwhile we have Dr. Aziz and his circle, acculturated Muslim Indians who are trying to invent a tribe of their own. Their definition of India keeps widening—Muslim identity becomes Indian pan-nationalism, which almost widens to human solidarity—but they, and we, can't quite reach across the gap.
And here's where this book gets really interesting, using the vocabulary of religion to imagine the (im)possibilities of a truly universal love. You could, in fact, write a very trite five-paragraph essay about how the second half of this book follows the structure of the Nativity story. I have no idea if Forster had this in mind; certainly he's not crass enough to explicitly compare the experiences Adele and Mrs. Morse have in the caves to an Annunciation. Nevertheless, this scene does take on a numinous quality. Encountering divinity is not a comfortable experience, threatening our belief that we are separate individuals in a structured universe. When the gods try to seize us, we flail.
This book won't enchant you with its memorable character studies or gripping plot, but something about the shape of Forster's novels is really compelling to me. I'm glad I read this one.
I'm glad I found myself reading this book in 2020. It's fundamentally a novel about nationalism, a topic I have formed Strong Opinions about. Actually maybe just one opinion, which Forster evidently shares. Please imagine, in place of this book, a tract titled "NATIONALISM" in 72-pt font, followed by one sentence: "FUCK THAT SHIT." (Forster phrases it more delicately.)
As a portrait of India and Indian people goes, I am not equipped to judge this novel. I think I can say it is a humane and openhearted effort. Certainly Forster's disdain for British culture does not lead him into the trap I expected, that of romanticizing the East. Instead, he attempts to be both empathetic and objective.
As far as objectivity goes, well. The text is littered with generalizations about Indians; some of these are the narrative's attempts at pointing out cultural differences, while others rise from the collective point-of-view of the colonizers. All that said, I expected this to be a novel written for the white gaze, and it's not quite that. Forster seems to be reaching toward an inclusive audience, whether or not he ever quite gets there.
I won't give away the plot, but I will say that this novel is set in British India at the turn of the 20th century and shows a British elite closing ranks in response to their tribal identity being threatened. The threat isn't some vast cultural divide between British and Indian people—the mutiny of 1857 is passing out of memory; the Indian elite is increasingly Westernized. To borrow an observation from Hannah Arendt, it's not necessarily difference that triggers xenophobia, but assimilation and the threat of social categories dissolving.
Meanwhile we have Dr. Aziz and his circle, acculturated Muslim Indians who are trying to invent a tribe of their own. Their definition of India keeps widening—Muslim identity becomes Indian pan-nationalism, which almost widens to human solidarity—but they, and we, can't quite reach across the gap.
And here's where this book gets really interesting, using the vocabulary of religion to imagine the (im)possibilities of a truly universal love. You could, in fact, write a very trite five-paragraph essay about how the second half of this book follows the structure of the Nativity story. I have no idea if Forster had this in mind; certainly he's not crass enough to explicitly compare the experiences Adele and Mrs. Morse have in the caves to an Annunciation. Nevertheless, this scene does take on a numinous quality. Encountering divinity is not a comfortable experience, threatening our belief that we are separate individuals in a structured universe. When the gods try to seize us, we flail.
This book won't enchant you with its memorable character studies or gripping plot, but something about the shape of Forster's novels is really compelling to me. I'm glad I read this one.
This is not my favorite E.M. Forster (but perhaps that's just because I am more in love with Italy than India). However, it is a masterful portrait of colonialism and the damage it does to both oppressors and oppressed. I really enjoy Forster's formidable abilities in characterization. Even minor characters are vivid and realistic. No pasteboard here. Also, it's right up there with Kim in evoking the sights, smells, sounds, and essence of India. It was obvious he'd lived there for quite a while. Definitely a worthwhile read from an excellent author.