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A review by picturetalk321
The White Tiger by Aravind Adiga
challenging
dark
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? It's complicated
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? It's complicated
3.0
I enjoyed Adiga's [book:Last Man in Tower|10854908] and can't remember what I thought about [book:Between the Assassinations|5743627] (mostly fine, I think), and this one I suspect I have read in pre-Goodreads dim past. Or skimmed over it as I kept having intermittent déjà lu. I chose it because of benign feelings towards Adiga, because of a reading challenge prompt 'unreliable narrator', because a google search of 'unreliable narrator' plus 'white tiger' brought up an academic paper on just this very topic, and because it was included in my Prime subscription.
I did not enjoy it all that much.
It is quite relentlessly grim. It starts out in what promises to be a light-hearted vein, poking fun at itself, saying outrageous things that the narrator!first-person-character believes to be correct but that we readers know to be false -- and then it just keeps going like that. The plot is a flat line. I'm not even sure that the narrator is in fact unreliable, or not in the sense I understand the concept which is in reference to a narrator who purposely misleads readers. This narrator keeps some information back until later on in the book but it is foreshadowed which is simply the structure of all mystery novels and many litfic novels to boot. It is not really the ruse of an 'unreliable' narrator (I may have to read that academic paper now).
The book rubs grimness in your face without any redemption or moments of non-grim. Faeces, vomit, skin conditions, body shaming because of skin conditions, bad breath, arses turned up naked towards the sky, pissing, the stink of ammonia, cockroaches crawling over your face, spit -- and on and on. The rich are ruthless, devoid of morals and on top. The poor are ground down. Politicians are corrupt. Religion dupes people. This is all well and good but there is a certain mauvais fois to the grand cynicism of this novel. Author: Oh, look at me, look at how I refuse to flinch before the horror of life in a corrupt society, look how I cast a realistic look at my own country of India. I should add that is is also relentlessly masculinist with women either prostitutes with jiggling breasts or hysterical irrational wives or hounding grandmothers.
I respect authors who invent entirely unlovable narrators. It is a profound challenge: immersing yourself so deeply in your point-of-view not-nice character that it becomes a rollercoaster of vile. But there is always that little bit of distinction between narrator and first-person character, and I would expect some sort of authorial voice to shine through in the narration, taking you outside the limited focalisation of the narrator-character. At one point, this does happen blatantly: the first-person narrator compares the sight of a white tiger behind zoo bars to old black-and-white movies. But this narrator, poor village boy that he is, would never have seen such a movie, and the comparison rings hollow. This is Adiga rearing up his head with a suitable erudite and lyrical simile, and Adiga appears also in the broad quasi-philosophical musings that are, perhaps, what is needed to certify a novel as 'literary fiction' and Man Booker Prize-able (which this one won).
Verdict: competent, lit-ficcy, grim, ultimately not a satisfying reading meal. I almost feel sullied.
Read for Something Bookish's 2024 reading challenge, prompt nr.24: 'a novel with an unreliable narrator'.
Content warnings: caste-ism, classism, women in secondary and downtrodden clichéd roles, murder, violence, blood, spit, shit, piss, car accident, child death.
Crossposted from Goodreads.
I did not enjoy it all that much.
It is quite relentlessly grim. It starts out in what promises to be a light-hearted vein, poking fun at itself, saying outrageous things that the narrator!first-person-character believes to be correct but that we readers know to be false -- and then it just keeps going like that. The plot is a flat line. I'm not even sure that the narrator is in fact unreliable, or not in the sense I understand the concept which is in reference to a narrator who purposely misleads readers. This narrator keeps some information back until later on in the book but it is foreshadowed which is simply the structure of all mystery novels and many litfic novels to boot. It is not really the ruse of an 'unreliable' narrator (I may have to read that academic paper now).
The book rubs grimness in your face without any redemption or moments of non-grim. Faeces, vomit, skin conditions, body shaming because of skin conditions, bad breath, arses turned up naked towards the sky, pissing, the stink of ammonia, cockroaches crawling over your face, spit -- and on and on. The rich are ruthless, devoid of morals and on top. The poor are ground down. Politicians are corrupt. Religion dupes people. This is all well and good but there is a certain mauvais fois to the grand cynicism of this novel. Author: Oh, look at me, look at how I refuse to flinch before the horror of life in a corrupt society, look how I cast a realistic look at my own country of India. I should add that is is also relentlessly masculinist with women either prostitutes with jiggling breasts or hysterical irrational wives or hounding grandmothers.
I respect authors who invent entirely unlovable narrators. It is a profound challenge: immersing yourself so deeply in your point-of-view not-nice character that it becomes a rollercoaster of vile. But there is always that little bit of distinction between narrator and first-person character, and I would expect some sort of authorial voice to shine through in the narration, taking you outside the limited focalisation of the narrator-character. At one point, this does happen blatantly: the first-person narrator compares the sight of a white tiger behind zoo bars to old black-and-white movies. But this narrator, poor village boy that he is, would never have seen such a movie, and the comparison rings hollow. This is Adiga rearing up his head with a suitable erudite and lyrical simile, and Adiga appears also in the broad quasi-philosophical musings that are, perhaps, what is needed to certify a novel as 'literary fiction' and Man Booker Prize-able (which this one won).
Verdict: competent, lit-ficcy, grim, ultimately not a satisfying reading meal. I almost feel sullied.
Read for Something Bookish's 2024 reading challenge, prompt nr.24: 'a novel with an unreliable narrator'.
Content warnings: caste-ism, classism, women in secondary and downtrodden clichéd roles, murder, violence, blood, spit, shit, piss, car accident, child death.
Crossposted from Goodreads.
Content Warnings
Graphic: Murder, Body shaming, Bullying, Car accident, Classism, and Injury/Injury detail