Lopping poppies: Booker prize winner 'The Inheritance of Loss'
December 17th 2006 08:33
For a stretch of time that feels like months but could not have been longer than two weeks, I have carted around a hard copy of this year's Booker Prize winning novel, The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai. As life is short and time a precious commodity, I think one should only ever give a novel 100 pages to engage the reader, and this one did not. However, the reviews were good, and it won the Booker Prize so I had to entertain the idea that I just might be missing something (shock, horror). I was intrigued after reading a review, though not after reading the first 150 pages of the book, that this novel addressed the idea that, when it comes to issues of class and inequality, there is an extent to which we are better off 'accepting our fate' - or something (better articulated) to that effect.
In a shameful act of betrayal of the art of reading and readers everywhere, I found myself skimreading sections of the book, which is obviously well-written but a bit dull and flabby about the middle, much like people who love cheese.
By the 200-page, three-quarter mark, there was no going back. Excitement grew (in me, not in the plot) at the prospect of writing a negative book review. Like a professional reviewer, I could tear it apart, have the undeniable pleasure of lopping a tall poppy, goodness. For this reason only, I set aside a few hours over the weekend to 'read it out', to go back to the half-alive characters and the godforsaken Himalayan climate and the realism so mundane peppered with the too-wise (for the author is young) insights into the shame and sadness of the disposessed. Ho hum, make a cup of tea, get on with it.
Finally, at chapter THIRTY EIGHT (page 241 in the American edition I read) it gets interesting; in fact, it suddenly becomes brilliant. I am so glad that I trusted in the almighty Booker and stuck with it; wish I hadn't skimmed through the all-important build-up. I recommend this book wholeheartedly on the condition that it is not read piecemeal on public transport etc.
Alas, no nasty book review.
In a shameful act of betrayal of the art of reading and readers everywhere, I found myself skimreading sections of the book, which is obviously well-written but a bit dull and flabby about the middle, much like people who love cheese.
By the 200-page, three-quarter mark, there was no going back. Excitement grew (in me, not in the plot) at the prospect of writing a negative book review. Like a professional reviewer, I could tear it apart, have the undeniable pleasure of lopping a tall poppy, goodness. For this reason only, I set aside a few hours over the weekend to 'read it out', to go back to the half-alive characters and the godforsaken Himalayan climate and the realism so mundane peppered with the too-wise (for the author is young) insights into the shame and sadness of the disposessed. Ho hum, make a cup of tea, get on with it.
Finally, at chapter THIRTY EIGHT (page 241 in the American edition I read) it gets interesting; in fact, it suddenly becomes brilliant. I am so glad that I trusted in the almighty Booker and stuck with it; wish I hadn't skimmed through the all-important build-up. I recommend this book wholeheartedly on the condition that it is not read piecemeal on public transport etc.
Alas, no nasty book review.
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