Why Did It Win the Booker?

I finished The White Tiger last week. It was a fast read; a narrative push drives the book. I found it to be a fairly simple, if not simplistic, novel. Not that I didn't enjoy it, but I do wonder why it won the Booker prize. I found the structure and story to be fairly mechanical and predictable. The social justice themes were also fairly stock. A review I read on line called it an Indian novel without the overdone style of most Indian novels (I guess a jab at Rushdie), but what I wanted was a bit more "beauty in the writing. There are some good lines and description, as noted in the two previous posts, but not enough for my tastes. I would write more, but Horn has my copy so I can't refer to the text, or use it as a jumping off point for my rambles. Maybe more later if I can get the book back.

The problem with cellular phones....

My favorite line so far..."I don't keep a cell phone, for obvious reasons--they corrode a man's brains, shrink his balls, and dry up his semen, as all of us know...."

We all know, don't we?

Second favorite line: "Iqbal, who is one of the four best poets in the world--the others being Rumi, Mirza Ghalib, and a fourth fellow, also a Muslim, whose name I have forgotten...."

Yeah, my fav too...a name I have forgotten.

Quote of the Day from Mr. Adiga

"Here's a strange fact: murder a man, and you feel responsible for his life - possessive, even. You know more about him than his father and mother; they knew his fetus, but you know his corpse. Only you can complete the story of his life; only you know why his body has to be pushed into the fire before its time, and why his toes curl up and fight for another hour on earth."

I wonder what he was thinking when he wrote these lines. I know for sure, I've never thought of murder like this, but now I do.

Watch your back, Kelly.

That sent chills down my spine.

For our next meeting, we should just sit in silence, and when someone walks by, recite these words and then continue to sit in silence. If the person hears it, just glare at them longingly, then look away. No one will mess with us...no one.

It's all in a name

Really? The name of the main character is Balram? Like Willie Lowman?

Hypocrisy

I once took great pride in my opulent writing style.

Some of it came from self-worship, re-reading what was written so very self-impressed.
Some of it came from emulation, who wouldn't want pieces of William Gibson on the self-made page?

Most of it came from insecurity.

Too much to prove.
Too little time to do it.
Too much stepping outside and wondering how others will perceive.
Too little time simply using my own voice; no matter how simple, convoluted, weird.

Oh, the arbiters on constant watch.

I have struggled with L.E.

She works much too hard (a laughable charge from me).

Review from Visual Bookshelf

Kelly told me that if I didn't cut and paste my review of this book, that he was going to hunt me down. So here it is:

I'm glad I was introduced to this book, this was something I wouldn't normally pick. On the positive, her style was what really emanated in her stories. She was able to intermingle the plight of the Native American with every day malaise. I read this for book club, but I wish that I had more time to read it. I liked picking it up and reading a short story or two everyday, learning about the brutality of the nunnery (St. Marie) or the depression of broken relationships. On the negative, she is variant in her writing style, and she wistfully magnified Northwestern life in a highly intense miasma of inorganic leisure insofar as for me to lose interest in the characters. I know, it's the malaise I must subscribe to, but for the most part, I had to take a break from the airy, discursive vibe she was creating. I tried reading Love Medicine, just to see how she expanded on the short stories, and I liked that. I think I would enjoy it more as if I lived in Argus, or even Fargo.