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A review by jlkenneth
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
5.0
The God of Small Things...Oh my word, what is there to say about this gorgeous story? It will break your heart, and I can't promise that it'll be put together again by the end. This story of a wealthy family in southwest India is a lush exploration of familial bonds, the echoing resonance of trauma throughout the years, and mostly, who we love. It's an exploration of growing up, of the innocence of childhood and the fact that as children, we truly can't understand the reality of our family's story and the trauma that's passed down, generation to generation—we simply live it, assume its mantle as if it were normal, and later are left to sort out the pieces.
We know from the beginning some facts, presented piecemeal: Sophie Mol is dead at age 9, somehow drowned in the river; her twin cousins Rahel and Estha, age 7, survive, and yet are separated the week after her tragic death. Ammu, their mother, dies at 31, "a viable die-able age." Estha has now returned to Ayemenem, and Rahel has returned to see her brother for the first time in 26 years. They're now 31, and clearly still coping with the effects of their trauma. Baby Kochamma, their great-aunt lives at the house in Ayemenem, alone with her housekeeper and countless peanuts in front of the TV each day.
Then there's what we don't see, and what the twins themselves can't see as children: the tragic love affair which also led to their cousin's death, their divorced mother's grief and desire to be herself, and the webs of caste and class which they are already caught in before birth. These are quieter details, presented implicitly with a growing sense of dread and apprehension as we approach the tragedy that led to Sophie Mol's death and the twin's separation.
We don't see the murder that occured the same night with the same piercing clarity; that will be revealed in glimpses. We see the choppy ripples long before the cruel stone disturbing the water.
This story unfolds rather like a whirlpool; we're caught in the current from the first pages, spiralling ever closer to some horrific tragedy. The wreckage from that Moment are present on the very first pages, but it takes us through the entire book for all the nuance and perspectives to be fully comprehended. This narrative repetition and the instrusive nature of certain images (an upside-down smile, the smell of old roses, and the repetition of Orangedrink Lemondrink Man, for example), make the narrative structure resemble the throught patterns inherent to trauma survivors, as well as exploring this topic in content.
It can be a difficult book to read because of this circular narrative structure, but I found the eventual reveals to be that much more rewarding because of the hints and expectations. I reread the first pages immediately after finishing the novel, and was shocked how much of the plot was laid out in the first chapter, waiting to be understood by a wiser reader.
Then there are the moments of startling, lucid beauty, when the world drops away and we find ourselves soaring amidst wonder and joy in the details and mystery of the smallest moments. When Estha sees the shadow of a bird soaring high above, we see along with him the beauty of normality:
In moments like these, the backdrop of hardship falls away, and we're left with a wide-eyed sense of curiosity at the simplicity of the human experience.
It can be a hard read at times. Sections were difficult to understand and only clicked into place later in the story. Certain characters and sections made me deeply uncomfortable (One scene in particular, though I think Roy is intentional in breaking certain taboos and avoiding giving us an explicit sense of right/wrong). On the whole, though, I just couldn't get enough of this novel. Parts of it felt slightly overwritten to me—I got a little bogged down in the details and continual metaphors in the first half—but it came together beautifully by the novel's climax.
Also, I've loved the band Darlingside's song "The God of Loss" for years, and realized with a jolt in the last 4 pages that it's about Ammu and Velutha. Highly recommend giving that a listen, and picking up this breathtaking novel.
Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story.
We know from the beginning some facts, presented piecemeal: Sophie Mol is dead at age 9, somehow drowned in the river; her twin cousins Rahel and Estha, age 7, survive, and yet are separated the week after her tragic death. Ammu, their mother, dies at 31, "a viable die-able age." Estha has now returned to Ayemenem, and Rahel has returned to see her brother for the first time in 26 years. They're now 31, and clearly still coping with the effects of their trauma. Baby Kochamma, their great-aunt lives at the house in Ayemenem, alone with her housekeeper and countless peanuts in front of the TV each day.
Then there's what we don't see, and what the twins themselves can't see as children: the tragic love affair which also led to their cousin's death, their divorced mother's grief and desire to be herself, and the webs of caste and class which they are already caught in before birth. These are quieter details, presented implicitly with a growing sense of dread and apprehension as we approach the tragedy that led to Sophie Mol's death and the twin's separation.
We don't see the murder that occured the same night with the same piercing clarity; that will be revealed in glimpses. We see the choppy ripples long before the cruel stone disturbing the water.
This story unfolds rather like a whirlpool; we're caught in the current from the first pages, spiralling ever closer to some horrific tragedy. The wreckage from that Moment are present on the very first pages, but it takes us through the entire book for all the nuance and perspectives to be fully comprehended. This narrative repetition and the instrusive nature of certain images (an upside-down smile, the smell of old roses, and the repetition of Orangedrink Lemondrink Man, for example), make the narrative structure resemble the throught patterns inherent to trauma survivors, as well as exploring this topic in content.
It can be a difficult book to read because of this circular narrative structure, but I found the eventual reveals to be that much more rewarding because of the hints and expectations. I reread the first pages immediately after finishing the novel, and was shocked how much of the plot was laid out in the first chapter, waiting to be understood by a wiser reader.
Then there are the moments of startling, lucid beauty, when the world drops away and we find ourselves soaring amidst wonder and joy in the details and mystery of the smallest moments. When Estha sees the shadow of a bird soaring high above, we see along with him the beauty of normality:
"The fact that something so fragile, so unbearable tender had survived, had been allowed to exist, was a miracle. A bird in flight...It made him smile out loud."
In moments like these, the backdrop of hardship falls away, and we're left with a wide-eyed sense of curiosity at the simplicity of the human experience.
It can be a hard read at times. Sections were difficult to understand and only clicked into place later in the story. Certain characters and sections made me deeply uncomfortable (One scene in particular, though I think Roy is intentional in breaking certain taboos and avoiding giving us an explicit sense of right/wrong). On the whole, though, I just couldn't get enough of this novel. Parts of it felt slightly overwritten to me—I got a little bogged down in the details and continual metaphors in the first half—but it came together beautifully by the novel's climax.
Also, I've loved the band Darlingside's song "The God of Loss" for years, and realized with a jolt in the last 4 pages that it's about Ammu and Velutha. Highly recommend giving that a listen, and picking up this breathtaking novel.