beautiful language – Great books blog

Page turner: 7/10
Heart tugger: 9/10
Thought provoker: 9/10
Overall: 5 stars

I savored The God of Small Things. And savoring a book is a hard thing to do for a person not Reknowned for her patience. Someone whose personal tastes, normally, probably weight the page turner category a bit more than she should in the overall liking of a book. But not this time.

Cover of my copy of The God of Small Things. Check out the quote.

Arundhati Roy’s The God of Small Things is a masterpiece. I admit that I’ve nicked the word from the cover of my copy of the book which has a quote from a review that calls it ‘A masterpiece, utterly exceptional in every way’. But still.

The book is about the childhood lives (or really, a week in their life) of twins Esta and Rahel, their immediate family, and the not-so-immediate consequences of tragedy and loss. It is heartbreaking – but you know it will be from the start – so you have time to prepare. And time to be swept along with the current of the book.

When I first started thinking about what I would write about this book, the analogy that popped into my head was a lazy river. Where you sit back, close your eyes, and when you open them again you’ve got a heck of a lot further than you thought you had. You moved and didn’t realize, as you were so set focusing on the here-and-now. The Small Things. And yet there you are. At the end.

The imagery and the language of this book carry you along. I (obviously) like the use of the occasional capital letter for Emphasis. So does Roy. Who also mixes sentence length, type, and rhythm enough to give variety, but consistently enough to give unity. The book is lyrical.

The plot itself at first doesn’t seem to have that much to it, but it deepens and thickens (remember that river? the depths? murky waters?). Rahel has Returned ‘home’ after years and years away, at precisely the same age as her mother was when she died (a vi-able dieable age). And the story is told in flashbacks, only they are so seamlessly interwoven around Rahel’s interactions with the main characters that ‘flashback’ is far too jolting a word. The story unfolds as Rahel remembers and rediscovers. Again, you almost don’t notice.

The God of Small things is beautiful and profound. You know those people who unwrap presents tortuously slowly, not tearing a single bit of paper? It’s painful, but you can’t tear away your eyes. This book is sort-of-like that. It’s a gift.

Page turner: 7/10
Heart tugger: 8/10
Thought provoker: 8/10
Overall: 4 stars

I really, really liked The Great Gatsby.

Also: Liking it was a pleasant surprise.

I – like most other teenagers in America- read The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald in high school, and I remember feeling broadly ambivalent about it. But I think at the time I was looking for a happy ending, and my frustration and disappointment in the characters in the book meant my teenage self equated that with not liking the book. Whereas perhaps I should have realized that a book that could Make me feel disappointed might actually have something going for it. And actually, reading it now a decade and a half later (ish), I would quite happily read it again.

The thing is that this book is stunning. The language is descriptive, evocative, and meaningful without being overly descriptive. Which is particularly impressive given the opulence of the setting. After all, it takes place amid the extremely privileged crowds of New York and Long Island in 1922. Readers float along with the narrator, Nick Carraway, as he at first interprets his roaring life amongst the likes of the great Jay Gatsby as, potentially, the American Dream.

“There was music from my neighbor’s house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars. At high tide in the afternoon I watched his guests diving from the tower of his raft, or taking the sun on the hot sand of his beach while his two motor-boats slit the waters of the Sound, drawing aquaplanes over cataracts of foam.”

I liken my experience of this book to that of my recollection of dreams: occasionally vivid but often overwhelming and blurry. And when I wake up I have an intense feeling of some emotion, without being quite sure how I got it. Yes, reading Gatsby is like having a dream, waking up, going back to sleep, and then having a bit of a nightmare.

I love Nick’s restraint, even as the dream-turns-nightmare. In the telling of events he states truth more often than his interpretation of it, so that when he does express his disapproval you feel it (and a warmness for him) all the more. But the way he paints a picture of the room as he enters it really what is outstanding – I don’t think I can now ever forget the white statuesque stances of Daisy and Miss Baker when he first visits them.

The Great Gatsby is a beautiful book. It is well worth overcoming your teenage impressions and giving it a re-read, and I can see why it is so high up the Modern Library’s list (though I am not-yet sure about being 2nd). I apologize to my 10th (11th?) grade English teacher. I am also horrified I can’t remember which year I read it. I might even open it again soon – at which point I reserve the right to give it 5 stars.