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3.31 AVERAGE
3.31 AVERAGE
this book really took off for me in the latter half. The story of 4 characters of different generations and how they loved and survived amid a backdrop of riots, beatings, massacres, revolutions, poverty and privilege. Takes place in India and NY. Was so invested by the end that I could not put it down. Ahhhh, Mutt...
I didn’t have the time to put the level of focus into the book I needed to understand it. I’ll come back to it.
Characters weren't engaging, in fact they weren't even marginally interesting. There were a few that I viscerally disliked. The writing was technically strong and had a great feel and flow. However, it seemed that the writer took us on a long journey, only to get within site of the peak and stopped. Disappointing, as the book had the bones to be a great story.
Since reading this book and Jhumpa Lahiri's The Namesake, I have started to realize something, I connect and empathize very well with Indian writers. I'm not quite sure what it is, the vaguely connected geography and culture, the similar pressures and values exacted upon us youths from older generations, or the same feeling under our skin of not really belonging anywhere.
Kiran Desai and her brilliant, flawed, wonderful, sympathetic, unnecessarily cruel, and unbelievably human characters each spoke to a different part of me. There was Sai, the orphan girl trapped with her grandfather in a decaying house, escaping through books, knowing English better than her native tongue, falling in and out of love with her fickle tutor. There's her grandfather, living his life half in fear of intimacy and shame, never really connecting with anyone, but still loving his granddaughter intently. There's the cook, dreaming big dreams for his son in New York, while living the same dreary life he's always led. And his son Biju, living on the immigrant's knife edge, pressured to help those like him who also need a job, reaching for the American dream while never truly understanding it. I could go on, each of Desai's rich characters add something to the narrative, and masterfully flesh out the relatively unknown world of Darjeeling.
I knew little to nothing about the Muslim/Buddhist conflicts, so this book served as something of a lesson for me. I was fascinated by how Desai described the escalating violence, until it reached everyone in the community, including the small part of the population who are remnants of British colonial rule. One particularly heartwrenching passage is the deportation of an old British man who has lived so long in Darjeeling that he calls it home and cannot conceive of living somewhere else.
As with The Namesake, The Inheritance of Loss is about identity, namely the lack or loss of a firm one. The characters in the novel are all in a gray area, at once retreating from and reaching for their tenuous cultural identity. The inheritance Desai writes about is the passing on of uncertainty from one generation to the next. She does it with incredibly beautiful writing that draws you in and snuggles into your mind.
Kiran Desai and her brilliant, flawed, wonderful, sympathetic, unnecessarily cruel, and unbelievably human characters each spoke to a different part of me. There was Sai, the orphan girl trapped with her grandfather in a decaying house, escaping through books, knowing English better than her native tongue, falling in and out of love with her fickle tutor. There's her grandfather, living his life half in fear of intimacy and shame, never really connecting with anyone, but still loving his granddaughter intently. There's the cook, dreaming big dreams for his son in New York, while living the same dreary life he's always led. And his son Biju, living on the immigrant's knife edge, pressured to help those like him who also need a job, reaching for the American dream while never truly understanding it. I could go on, each of Desai's rich characters add something to the narrative, and masterfully flesh out the relatively unknown world of Darjeeling.
I knew little to nothing about the Muslim/Buddhist conflicts, so this book served as something of a lesson for me. I was fascinated by how Desai described the escalating violence, until it reached everyone in the community, including the small part of the population who are remnants of British colonial rule. One particularly heartwrenching passage is the deportation of an old British man who has lived so long in Darjeeling that he calls it home and cannot conceive of living somewhere else.
As with The Namesake, The Inheritance of Loss is about identity, namely the lack or loss of a firm one. The characters in the novel are all in a gray area, at once retreating from and reaching for their tenuous cultural identity. The inheritance Desai writes about is the passing on of uncertainty from one generation to the next. She does it with incredibly beautiful writing that draws you in and snuggles into your mind.
challenging
dark
informative
sad
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Loveable characters:
No
Rating: I don't feel like I can justifiably rate a book I only finished by skipping through to the end, but, like, a 0.5 and at least a 12 (rape scene).
I think my thoughts on this book can be summed up with something I wrote just after 'reading' it: Why do all adult fiction books that win an award seem to end unhappily? It's as if happy endings are purely for children and once you reach the big bad world cynicism is the only thing that is rewarded.
I couldn't connect with anyone. I tried to connect with the girl's first romance, with the man going to Cambridge university, the man trying to get a job in a foreign country. Everything ended badly. EVERYTHING. There was no hope. Even the dog left. Perhaps that is the deep meaning of the book that I couldn't appreciate, but I just couldn't/wouldn't/didn't get it.
The descriptions of the mountains of Nepal were very atmospheric, though. That was appreciated.
I think my thoughts on this book can be summed up with something I wrote just after 'reading' it: Why do all adult fiction books that win an award seem to end unhappily? It's as if happy endings are purely for children and once you reach the big bad world cynicism is the only thing that is rewarded.
I couldn't connect with anyone. I tried to connect with the girl's first romance, with the man going to Cambridge university, the man trying to get a job in a foreign country. Everything ended badly. EVERYTHING. There was no hope. Even the dog left. Perhaps that is the deep meaning of the book that I couldn't appreciate, but I just couldn't/wouldn't/didn't get it.
The descriptions of the mountains of Nepal were very atmospheric, though. That was appreciated.
The writing was very lyrical, but nothing happens and everyone makes a mess of things.
dark
informative
reflective
sad
tense
medium-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
A mix
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Plot or Character Driven:
Plot
Strong character development:
Complicated
Loveable characters:
Complicated
Diverse cast of characters:
Yes
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Having recently binged on Indian lit and traveled to Darjeeling and Sikkim, I was excited to find this at the bookstore. I was seriously disappointed, though. I have to be honest, it's pretty hard for me to look at this novel in and of itself, considering its remarkable similarity to The God of Small things (forbidden love, social upheaval, postcolonial stuff, rural India). I'd like to give Desai the benefit of the doubt that this similarity is just chance, but even her style seems influenced by Roy's. And in this comparison, the Inheritance of Loss just doesn't pass muster.
There are a few beautiful sentences to be found, but Desai is clearly struggling to control her language. Just consider the line, "They harassed Biju with such blows from their horns as could split the world into whey and solids." A beautiful sentence. If only Desai were confident in her prose, she would not have felt the need to follow up with "pawwwwwww" [the font size of the W gradually increases]. The novel is littered with clunky onomatopoeia. My edition is also loaded with errata. Again, I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt, but "condemm"? Really? Other sentences are just plain awkward: "Despite her sweet succumb to bribery, the minute Gyan left the house, his little sister who had witnessed the fight between her brother and Sai switched allegiance to an unbearable urge to gossip, and when he returned, he found the whole household was aware of what happened, expanded to theatrical dimensions." I'll let you parse that one out on your own.
There is no discernible structure to the novel. Desai jumps whimsically from time to time, in an arbitrary manner that adds nothing to the story.
The description of Sai and Gyan's romance is beautiful, with the right amount of emotional tug, but all the scenes of violence and emotional pain are muted and distant.
The whole time I was reading this, I couldn't help thinking of how wonderful The God of Small Things was by comparison. Perhaps that's unfair to Desai and her story, but there are so many parallels and Desai's novel falls miles short in every one. If you're thinking of reading this, read The God of Small things instead.
There are a few beautiful sentences to be found, but Desai is clearly struggling to control her language. Just consider the line, "They harassed Biju with such blows from their horns as could split the world into whey and solids." A beautiful sentence. If only Desai were confident in her prose, she would not have felt the need to follow up with "pawwwwwww" [the font size of the W gradually increases]. The novel is littered with clunky onomatopoeia. My edition is also loaded with errata. Again, I'd like to give her the benefit of the doubt, but "condemm"? Really? Other sentences are just plain awkward: "Despite her sweet succumb to bribery, the minute Gyan left the house, his little sister who had witnessed the fight between her brother and Sai switched allegiance to an unbearable urge to gossip, and when he returned, he found the whole household was aware of what happened, expanded to theatrical dimensions." I'll let you parse that one out on your own.
There is no discernible structure to the novel. Desai jumps whimsically from time to time, in an arbitrary manner that adds nothing to the story.
The description of Sai and Gyan's romance is beautiful, with the right amount of emotional tug, but all the scenes of violence and emotional pain are muted and distant.
The whole time I was reading this, I couldn't help thinking of how wonderful The God of Small Things was by comparison. Perhaps that's unfair to Desai and her story, but there are so many parallels and Desai's novel falls miles short in every one. If you're thinking of reading this, read The God of Small things instead.