Dense. Dense. Dense and dense some more. The book is like molasses- slow and beyond boring. I could not connect with any of the characters, I felt the descriptions and story was overwritten and overdone. It was just too much, as if Naipaul was trying hard. Now I have a very big aversion to this book. Overwritten and Dense.

This novel about the legacies of colonialism (specifically in Trinidad) features a well-rendered and believable story, but the narrative ultimately feels inert and devoid of deeper impact or meaning.

I'm a commoner trying so hard to finish this book. Is it too early to call VS Naipaul overrated? Does this make me ignorant? Don't get me wrong, I understand the post-colonial social issues highlighted and the theme of displacement and Singh's search for identity etcetera but it just isn't as interesting as I was hoping it would be. I'm forcing myself to enjoy this book and its feeling like a task in itself.

To avoid any biasses I must acknowledge his literary brilliance and his extraordinary use of words. No lie, I chuckled a bit here and there. Unfortunately this book just isn't my cup of tea. I shall finish it simply because I have made it my goal to read at least 5 books written by Caribbean authors and this would make 4 out of 5.

Naipaul's book that resonated most with me. I was drawn to its post-colonialist immigrant story, the idea of finding home in transient spaces, such as hotels and airports, and trying to fit into various communities, "mimicking" his various selves in order to survive in various contexts. It's about survival, though the narrator never finds home.

This didn't grab me as hard as Naipaul's other books. The main characters all seemed to be at a remove, especially the narrator. Due to this, it did not grab me as much as other novels of his have, and the beginning and part of the ending set in London are something of a claustrophobic slog to make it through. Still the middle sections and the very end are very much worth it. Also notable is the fact that it seems to be the least bitter of any of his novels I've ever read, even though many of the characters are infused with negative traits. It's a beautiful book, no doubt, but it won't haunt you like "A House for Mr. Biswas" would. I rate it three stars, relative to his other works.

Naipaul's The Mimic Men explores the postcolonial mimicry of people trying to establish an identity. Ranjit Singh, who changes his name to Ralph in an attempt of anglicization, straddles different cultures but, due to his worldliness, never really belongs. Some of the prose in the book is genius and I reread certain segments just to appreciate the artistry. Other parts felt tedious and, to me at least, unnecessary. If it didn't include the drawn out section of his work for the socialist paper, during which nothing really happens, I would give it four stars. Moments made me laugh out loud because the writing is so cutting but the story itself could offer more.

An incredible writer.

Esta novela no me gustó mucho, lo cual lamento porque tenía en mente que me iba a gustar Naipaul. Que -btw- se llama Vidiathar Surajprasad, por lo cual entiendo que su nombre de guerra sea V.S.

Hay colecciones o editoriales, o épocas, que entregan obras parecidas. Sin duda Planeta, y Anagrama también, tienen hoy colecciones sin sorpresas. También Seix Barral en los 70, tuvo una colección homogénea. Obras largas, detalladas, "realistas". Aburridas, sí, me animo a decirlo. En esa línea está Los simuladores.

Es un relato hecho desde el retiro -o el fin de los trabajos- de un político-funcionario de una colonia británica, que incluye infancia, juventud, esplendor y caída. Primera -y enorme- dificultad: el relato está compuesto desde adentro; para mí, que no soy ni inglés ni británico, ni kelper siquiera, tampoco negro o mulato o amerindio, ni musulmán ni hindi, para mí que soy un mero lector que lee 40 años después y muchos kilómetros alejados del escenario de los hechos, para mí, no tuvo el escritor ni una atención. Y así, sin explicaciones ni alusiones, es dificilísimo entender que está pasando. Por ejemplo, se habla al principio de un matrimonio mixto; muchas páginas después entiendo que se trata de una mujer blanca con un descendiente de indios (de la India). Pero esta oscuridad no es voluntad del autor, es que -ya lo dije- el relato no está pensado para personas ignorantes de la posición, y origen, que tiene en la sociedad el autor-relator. En cuanto a las relaciones sociales, políticas, de prestigio, raciales, culturales y sociales que son omnipresentes, la mayoría de las veces no podía seguirlas; porque si de repente hay un cuestión de prestigio por la claridad de la piel, pero no se entiende cual de los contendores es más oscuro, cual menos, la experiencia de seguir el relato no es muy satisfactoria.

Por otro lado, el relato es largo, lleno de detalles que muchas veces no aportan más que páginas. Cuando la acción se precipita, mejora.

Enjoyed descriptions of life on the island Isabella. The first and third parts were less interesting, the third part which details his political career was the hardest for me to focus on. The second section, which focuses on the narrator's childhood is great.

Beautifully written but weirdly distant, convoluted narrative, with everything being told at a great remove from the action. Very few scenes are made vivid, most are recollected and ruminated on without us being told what actually happened. Characters don't really comes to life. It reads like a novel written by someone whose writing talents lie elsewhere.

About a guy from a fictional island called Isabella somewhere near Trinidad.
He narrates his life as a child and a struggling writer and finally a deposed politician living in a crummy hotel in London.
V.S. Naipaul is a very good writer and this book won the W.H.Smith award.
A bit confusing at times because he jumps around time-wise but over-all the book is quite good.
I like the writer to talk to the reader as Naipaul does in his books.

La câteva zile după ce am venit prima dată la Londra, la puţină vreme după sfârşitul războiului, mă găseam într-o pensiune, căreia îi spuneau hotel particular, pe lângă High Street, în Kensington. Proprietarul pensiunii era domnul Shylock. Nu locuia acolo, dar mansarda era rezervată pentru el, şi Lieni, malteza care avea grijă de casă, îmi spunea că, din când în când, mai petrece acolo o noapte cu câte o fată. „Englezoaicele astea!”, se minuna Lieni. Ea locuia la subsol, împreună cu copilul ei din flori. O aventură postbelică timpurie. Între mansardă şi subsol, între plăcere şi pedeapsa pe care o atrage după sine, trăiam înghesuiţi noi, chiriaşii.
tÎi plăteam domnului Shylock trei guinee pentru o cameră îngustă, cu tavan înalt, în formă de carte, cu multe oglinzi şi un dulap care semăna cu un coşciug. Iar pentru domnul Shylock, care primea în fiecare săptămână cincisprezece ori trei guinee, posesorul unei amante şi al unor costume dintr-un material atât de fin, că aş fi putut să-l mănânc, nu aveam decât admiraţie. Nu eram obişnuit cu viaţa socială londoneză sau cu fizionomia şi pielea celor din nord, astfel încât mi se părea că domnul Shylock arată foarte distins, ca un avocat, om de afaceri sau politician. Când te asculta, avea obiceiul să-şi atingă lobul urechii şi să-şi încline capul. Gestul mi s-a părut interesant şi îl imitam. Eram la curent cu recentele evenimente din Europa şi sufeream din cauza lor. Şi, deşi mă străduiam să trăiesc din şapte lire pe săptămână, îi ofeream domnului Shylock tăcuta şi întreaga mea compasiune.
tDomnul Shylock a murit în iarnă. N-am ştiut nimic până n-am auzit de incinerare de la Lieni, care era şi ea puţin temătoare în privinţa viitorului şi indignată că doamna Shylock nu-i pomenise nimic despre moartea soţului ei. Tot misterul şi iuţeala cu care londonezii treceau peste moartea unui om mă bulversau şi pe mine. Mi-am dat seama că, până la acest eveniment din Londra, nu fusesem conştient de prezenţa morţii şi nu văzusem niciodată acele procesiuni funerare care, pe ploaie sau soare, ne animaseră după-amiezile din insula caraibiană Isabella. Aşadar domnul Shylock murise. Dar, în ciuda temerilor lui Lieni, nu s-a schimbat nimic la pensiune. Doamna Shylock n-a apărut, iar ea a continuat să locuiască la subsol. Două săptămâni mai târziu, m-a invitat la botezul copilului.