When I first got this book, I turned to a random page and read a paragraph. To my delight, I chanced on some sentimental, musing passage about the misery of being alone, that was melancholic yet moving, and my expectations for the book rose. Unfortunately, the sample I encountered proved to be very representative, and I quickly tired of the narrator's pathetic and mopey writing style. The benefit? Some parts are so sad they are funny. The novel does explore some deeper worthwhile topics about immigration and patriation, and offers pretty regular comments about breasts (the narrator is obsessed with describing every breast he encounters, particularly his girfriend's, whose nipples are painted with lipstick), but besides that it's drudgery to read.

It turns out that it is possible for a book devoid of plot to be redeemed by the sheer force of its prose. Like most of V.S. Naipaul's books this one is essentially an exploration of some part of his own identity. The main character is a colonial politician and this is essentially his life story, growing up "shipwrecked" on a fictional version of Naipaul's own Trinidad. Ralph Singh is a mimic man like all those of the colonial elite – learning about another distant world through books and television and attempting to apply those lessons to his own very different society. There is a saying attributed to the Greeks that the first prerequisite for a person to be happy is being born in a famous city. Naipaul seemed to believe this, so one can imagine his angst at being born in a place he never ceased to deride as a backwater.

There are the familiar themes of Naipaul's works in this one: humor, contempt, futility, yearning. He described the world as he saw it without stepping on eggshells. That's what makes reading him so refreshing, regardless if he was wrong or unfair at times. Naipaul was an incredible writer, a genius. He could make a describe drinking a cup of cocoa or slicing cheese in a manner that is somehow absolutely captivating and unforgettable. He used humor effectively and described the very ordinary – food, manners, his own surroundings while writing – carefully and with great beauty. His political commentary, for whatever it's worth, is simply a bonus. Not much really happens in this book, not in a clear way at least. Yet somehow it was gripping. You can actually observe him in his earliest books working up to his masterpiece, A House for Mister Biswas. I never thought I was someone who could enjoy reading just for prose but I've been proven wrong.

A couple scenes stand out from what is an otherwise meditative, introspective work. For example: the protagonist walking down the hot beach during a moment of adolescent (and real) crisis that resembles the sun-blinding moment in Camus’ the stranger. Otherwise the main character is constantly swept along by events, comprehending things only in retrospect and, Naipal suggests subtly but persistently, in an incomplete fashion.

"Certain emotions bridge the years and link unlikely places. Sometimes by this linking the sense of place is destroyed, and we are ourselves alone: the young man, the boy, the child. The physical world, which we have yet continue to prove, is then like a private fabrication we have always known."

I love Naipaul's writing style.

There is a lot to this book. Presented as a memoir, issues of class, race and a colonial past are explored through the eyes of one of Isabella's (a Caribbean Island) most interesting inhabitants: Ralph Singh. The biggest problem with The Mimic Men is its structure. Naipaul jumps from history to history and the book as a whole does not really have a plot or central narrative. This of course is not to say this book is bad - far from it - but I did find myself often lost or thinking 'where is this going?'. There are an array of powerful passages that attempt to explain the relationship between nationalism, the new world, and modern identity. Overall I wish I could give this book five stars, but its structure is too confusing. I recommend The Mimic Men to those who wish to learn about Caribbean literature or who have an interest in nationalism.

الدمى ..
في. أس. نيبول ..
الهند ..



الرواية حائزة على جائزة نوبل للآداب عام 2001 .. الاسم والجائزة شجعاني على شراء هذا الكتاب .. وليتني ما فعلت .. الرواية تتحدث عن أبناء المستعمرات .. بالتحديد الجزيرة الكاريبية المدعوة إيزابيلا .. التي تقع تحت الاستعمار البريطاني .. القصة أو الرواية سرد لحياة رالف سينغ الذي يعيش في مستعمرة بريطانية فيصبح سياسياً معروفاً .. فيقود إنقلاباً على المستعمرة التي أصبحت حديثاً تتمتع بحكم ذاتي .. ليعود أدراجه إلى منفاه بعد فشل أوهامه السياسية .. إلى لندن .. فيكتب قصة حياته من طفولته وحتى منفاه .. الرواية غير متصلة وشخوص الرواية باهتة جداً .. لا تعرف الفكرة التي يريد الكاتب أن يوصلها للقاريء .. والترجمة رديئة .. ربما ساهمت في تشتيت القاريء .. ما شعرت بوجود تعمق .. وواتتني الفكرة في كل مرة أفتح الكتاب أن لا أنهيه ..
15 ..






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ودمتم بحفظ الرحمن ..

I really struggled with this book. I just didn't get it. I kept going until the end and it did get better near the very end but I still don't get what the author was trying to say

The Mimic Men has a grand sweep, fictionalising the life of Ralph (not his real name...) in a non-linear fashion to tell the tale of the decolonisation of the fictional Isabella island.

It's interesting in its way, and reflecting that it was written in 1966, it's harsh but contains some truths in its depiction of the post-colonial struggles faced by various states.

At times it's dense and obscure but does reward the reader at the end.

A mid-point novel for Naipaul, somewhere between the humourous books of the 1950s and 1960s to the heavier postcolonial works of the 1970s; and between Trinidad-UK axis works (including UK-focused Mr Stone and the Knight's Companion: 1963) and alternative post-empire settings that followed (Africa, India etc...).

I lost patience with this one, which while elegantly written, outstayed its welcome with a meandering and choppy character study of a man ousted from power. The final few pages rein in the focus on the political downfall, like an alternative sequel to Mr Stone, but it's too little, too late. The impatience was mine, but made me wonder too whether Naipaul had struggled to frame this book over the years he spent on it. The (admittedly shorter) mid-1960s hiatus in Naipaul's writing mirrors a contemporaneous gap in William Golding's writing, where writer's block was certainly blamed

So far I have tended to prefer Naipaul at his briefest, where the tiny size of the book is inverse proportion to its weight. 'The Mimic Men' was too many words, diluting the substance like so much literary homeopathy.

Se nota el talento de Naipul, no por nada le dieron el Nobel, pero su personaje me pareció poco entrañable y sus vivencias muy poco interesantes.

Four stars for Naipaul isn't easy - so many of his books are so great. This is still a terrific book in many ways - the descriptions of cocoa forests stands out, as does the way he brings his fictional Caribbean island to life. The geography of the island, along with his descriptions of how London strikes a new expat are, in my opinion, better than most of the characters. Naipaul's withering take on the politics of what was called "Third World" when he wrote it (the book was published in 1967) is so on the money it can't be called cynical. And of course the superb title! I'm guessing this and "The Enigma of Arrival" are Naipaul's most autobiographical novels (he has probably discussed that theme in interviews or essays I haven't read).
But "The Mimic Men" is a difficult novel; even in a second reading it's hard. As always, Naipaul's precision shines sentence to sentence, but nonetheless I found it difficult to follow for stretches. I never quite understood what to make of some of his classmates on Isabella, especially those who become political allies. I never quite understood where our narrator stands on the women in his life. No doubt some of that is intentional; some of it can be attributed to the face no one fully understands others and our protagonist has a father who goes off the rails and winds up a committed bachelor. His loneliness is acute.
And so while Naipaul gives us a great sense of how his protagonist lacks an anchor, that kind of splintered existence seems to seep into the novel as a whole. At least for me, it seems fractured (and not just because it goes back and forth between London and Isabella); it doesn't seem as seamless as the novels of his I like the most (Guerrillas, A Bend in the River, Half A Life, Magic Seeds). So, four stars instead of the 5 one of the greatest modern writers routinely gets.

The first two sections of this book were brilliant and I found myself relating a lot. When it got to the more political side of Naipaul, however, I found myself pretty lost. It was probably a bad introduction to Naipaul on the whole, despite the fact that 2/3 of the book left me laughing and crying alongside with the main character.

On the other hand, it's an amazing feeling to read a book that goes over your head, especially if you're a pretty extensive and avid reader.