The God of Small Things has all the ingredients that I love in a novel; poetic writing, intriguing metaphors, language calisthenics, a character driven narrative, a dream-like sensibility, and metaphysical elements. And I did enjoy many sections; unfortunately, I wasn’t particularly fond of the novel as a whole. But that’s just my opinion; others thought very highly of it indeed: it won the Booker Prize, and garnered many glowing reviews. I just wasn’t drawn into the characters as I should have been.
The idiosyncrasies of the author’s prose style that likely helped win her the Booker Prize didn’t quite work for me. Ms. Roy used an inordinate amount of ink to foray into trivialities; not necessarily detrimental, but in this novel they felt forced at times and intruded on the story. I also began to weary of the interminable metaphors and the circling, echoing cadence as the novel turned about the event that shapes the lives of the characters.
The author, Arundhati Roy, has previously written two screenplays for films, and I do think the book would make an excellent movie: the story is quite moving.
Much of the writing is rich, luxurious, and brutally rhythmic: the novel reminded me of the many jazz songs that I couldn’t quite connect with: a song in which I could detect the brilliance in a phrase here, a bar there; but, overall, it just didn’t work for me. Occasionally, I can revisit one of these jazz tunes at a later date and the brilliance coalesces in my mind.
I probably won’t re-read this small, attractive book that I truly wish I could have appreciated more, as it no doubt deserves.
.
.
.
db johnston
almost falling 