The God of Small Things (by Arundhati Roy)
I got this book on the collective recommendation of my book club. (I joined fairly recently, circa Carter Beats the Devil, and as you can see, they read a lot of books before that, some of which I've read, most of which I haven't.) "Just go read it!" said the book group. Without warning me that it's basically "in how many horrible, tragic ways can someone's life be ruined? Let's find out!" I had to sit in my car and cry for ten minutes when this book was over.
It is, however, a beautiful book, if you don't mind a little tragedy. The writing is inventive and rich, the descriptions are vivid and haunting, the word choices are perfect and playful. It deserves all the praise it got; it's one of those books that flabbergast you. How could anyone write it?
It is, however, a beautiful book, if you don't mind a little tragedy. The writing is inventive and rich, the descriptions are vivid and haunting, the word choices are perfect and playful. It deserves all the praise it got; it's one of those books that flabbergast you. How could anyone write it?
2 Comments:
I loved that book but I was not able to finish it. The ending was too much. I wound up skimming it, because if I had actually sat down and read it carefully, I would have killed myself. It was almost too sad, too raw or something.
It went something like "manageable level of tragedy... manageable level of tragedy... more tragedy... sort of manageable... oh my god, I need to die."
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