I descend from a long line of wanderers. At one point in time (the 1970s) my 4 siblings and I were as distant from each other on the globe as we possibly could be. My ancestors landed in Massachusetts in 1630 and on the other coast, my great great grandmother was born on a ship that landed in San Francisco when it was Yerba Buena, before it was stolen from Mexico, before the Gold Rush. I have made my home in the cone of South America 10,000 km away from where I was born in Los Angeles, looking out to sea.

So the hapless, mistake that is Willie Chandran and his windblown peregrinations in this book should feel familial to me, but no, he doesn’t, it doesn’t. Everything happens to him, on him. Never from him. He watches his life on TV.

Which brought me to Joseph Campbell who told us all to Follow Our Bliss:
“The heroic life is living the individual adventure. There is no security in following the call to adventure. Nothing is exciting if you know what the outcome is going to be.”

Except Willie wasn’t paying attention, ever. He is randomly thrown from place to place, never really bothering to gain an orientation, learn the stories, the history, develop any relationships that are more than commodities.

You know, the work that needs to be done before you figure out who you are, the hard work, the quest of growing up. Here Willie´s story is only a tale of fraudulent bargains that made up an identity. Pendulum swings.

I have spent a long time over the years thinking and reading about Identity, about the things that cause some people to stay in personal or societal situations that harm them, that disempower them, that make up their so-called identity. Reasons they never leave home. The gravitational pull of religion, or culture or the unwillingness to break an imaginary or assumed code - or worse the persistent belief in a fairy tale that seems ridiculous (to me).

Or sometimes, just the desire to be liked keeps people hemmed in. And they, sadly, never live their adventure. But then…

Again I think of Joseph Campbell:
“For those in whom a local mythology still works, there is an experience both of accord with the social order, and of harmony with the universe. For those, however, in whom the authorized signs no longer work -- or, if working, produce deviant effects -- there follows inevitably a sense both of dissociation from the local social nexus and of quest, within and without, for life, which the brain will take to be for 'meaning.'”

See, none of this was happening with Willie. In no other VSN book have I felt it was so much about the writing and not the story. I am tempted to compare Willie to an Autumn leaf being blown about, but leaves have important work. Fallen leaves provide habitat for insects and microbia, they break down into nutrients for the tree they are part of; Willie had no important work at all.

VSN has always written about the hypocrisies of power and inequities of life, how the bag we are thrown at birth, whether empty or a bag of chips, determines the path we are set upon. But usually his writing is tempered with humor, pathos, spread on a full plate of history, so that we can laugh at our own buffoonery. This was just a sucker punch. There was humor but it always seemed at too much expense.

The early chapters, telling the story of Willie’s rather unfortunate conception to his accidentally famous high caste father and his randomly chosen, education-cut-short, low caste mother are the most enjoyable. None of it seemed quite dharmic.
Is that a word?
And all of the women characters were flat, stereotypical, not up to VSN’s usual eyrie heights.

One moment in end-stage colonial Mozambique (soon coming to the concrete world everywhere):
n  “It didn’t have much longer to go now; and I wonder whether in our circle we hadn’t all …been granted some unsettling intimation, which we might have brushed aside, that our bluff in Africa would one day be called. Though I don’t think anyone could have guessed that the world of concrete was going to be so completely overwhelmed by the frail old world of straw.”
n

What strange, unrelatable story. I enjoyed most other characters except the main one.
I didn't get what it was about? Life? It did make me wonder what it was about, so that's good...right?
Reading other reviews here makes me feel a little better about myself, I'm not that dumb. Apparently there's a sequel. I don't want to know.
Oh, and the writing: It's very, very, blunt. Feels unemotional and distant. It doesn't flow.
Naipaul can be writing about person A on a Monday, switch to person B for about ten sentences and then just change days. Suddenly it's Tuesday. What happened to person A?! Are you allowed to do that?
I feel almost annoyed with this, but I care too little.

A book of quiet desperation, of ordinary men and women who have mixed cultural back grounds. Willy, the main character, works to escape the implications of his family upbringing in India as he discovers the Western values in England and Africa. His reaction is passive, yet involves change of himself. He does not achieve happiness. He does many things that would have been forbidden in his old culture, and sometimes excites the reader into believing he has grown, yet, he continues to judge himself from the old culture's perspective, and it would seem that he never escapes because to escape is to deny himself. I do see this book as a call to action, that a passive reaction to life will not achieve growth, but perhaps, I read in too much.

I'm between 3 and 5 stars, because I didn't inherently enjoy this book, but I can appreciate that it wasn't written for me. Judging by the reviews and Naipaul's Wiki biography, his skill as an author is in capturing the spirit of the diaspora during the post-colonial era.

Naipaul writes for the folks that straddle two cultures, particularly those that grew up in colonized countries with rich (and, according to Naipaul, 'restrictive') traditions, and emigrated to more liberated (Naipaul paints them as 'empty' and 'depraved') Western countries.

I technically fall into this category, but he specializes in writing about the 1950s, when women were treated like dogs, the age of consent was based on vibes, and people used "race science" to justify everything.

I struggle to enjoy protagonists that embrace this kind of stuff, but again, this book isn't written for me. It's written to capture a time period - and it does that very well. It's a 3 star for now because I spent 80% of the book hoping most of the cast would spontaneously combust, but may change to a 5 star if my admiration for capturing the time period wins out.

It is awfully frustrating to reach the end of a well-written and engaging tale, only to discover that it is in fact the back story to another book. How much more frustrating it must have been to read this lovely book in 2001, before the sequel was written. You see, the story ends unresolved: the protagonist has learned so much about the world and his place in it, all of what we thought has been duly shaken ... but suddenly the screen goes dark and one is left positively clamouring for more! For more time with Willie, for more about his sister who is hinted at having come into her own and, above all else, for more satisfaction.

Ultimately this is a dissatisfied tale. It is sent in post-war London, the immigrant experience of which is well drawn by Naipaul (from experience, I gather) in all its confused, fresh, miserable, excitable glory. That dissatisfaction is the end result is even more remarkable because of how well it is written. The folk story power of the tale is cut through with on an innocence of language that mirrors Willie's innocence. It reminds me of Neil Gaiman in the love of cadence, the mellifluous folk tale purity of rhythm and expression, the innocent view of corruption, the apparently easy evocation of a time and place with only a few words. I was a glutton with this book, pushing more in when I knew I should be moderate, but loving it all.

So "Half a Life" is, indeed, literally true. It tells us only half the life of this fascinating naive, selfish, innocent, hedonistic character of of contradictions. And, unlike those poor fresh-off-the-presses hardcover readers of 2001, I have the sequel in my hand and ready to go. Fingers crossed for satisfaction ....

Coperta a patra ne ademenește: “Jumătate de viaţă de V.S. Naipaul spune povestea captivantă a lui Willie Chandran…” și ne simțim obligați să subliniem că această apreciere este o gogoașă sfruntată. Povestea jumătății de viață a lui Willie (William Somerset) Chandran este exact opusul captivantului, și dacă am putea înțelege ironia autorului și nevoia lui de a-și îndrepta atenția și scrisul către un personaj cu totul neinteresant, brodând 250 de pagini despre jumătatea lui de viață neinteresantă, ne așteptăm în schimb ca prezentarea de pe coperta a patra să fie sinceră și să ne spună așa:

Willie Chandran este un personaj anost, cu o viață banală și o personalitate leșioasă. Nu surprinzător, moștenește aceste comori de la tatăl său, cu a cărui poveste (suficient de lungă cât să uiți că de fapt cartea e despre Willie) începe romanul lui Naipaul.

India, prima parte – parcă pentru a pica și mai prost felul principal al istorisirii, aperitivul este o poveste mai puțin obișnuită, la persoana întâi, a unui brahman care, printr-o întorsătură ciudată a lucrurilor, ajunge să fie silit să ia de soție o femeie din casta inferioară a intușabililor (sau, cum preferă autorul să le spună, a înapoiaților). Având avantajul de a fi nici deșteaptă, nici frumoasă, soția brahmanului perpetuează aceste calități în copiii lor, primul născut fiind și personajul acestei povestiri, Willie (Somerset) Chandran.

Londra, partea a doua – povestea cea mai “captivantă” a lui Willie se desfășoară în Londra, pământul făgăduinței atâtor indieni în secolul 20. Londra lui Willie se întâmplă prin anii ’50, iar lui Willie singurele lucruri mai importante care i se întâmplă în viața lui monotonă și fadă sunt publicarea (cu o lipsă răsunătoare de succes) a unei cărțulii de nuvele și faptul că apucă în sfârșit să facă sex (cu o lipsă de succes la fel de răsunătoare) cu câteva fete ieftine. (continuarea cronicii: http://www.bookaholic.ro/jumatate-de-...)

4 نجوم لجودة الرواية، ناقص نجمة واحدة بدافع "الضغينة" المحضة.
نصف حياة ليس من الأعمال المبكرة لـ ف. س. نايبول، والتي أثارت الكثير من التحفظات بشأن طريقة تصويره لشعوب العالم الثالث. إنه عمل يوصف بأنه أقل صرامة، ومع ذلك تحلّق طاقة الازدراء التي يتمتع بها الكاتب مثل شبح خفيّ في الرواية. أتخيّل ادوارد سعيد يقرأ بامتعاض سطراً كهذا (بدا العالم الاستعماري المنظم متيناً كالصخر. وكان ذاك هو العالم الذي وجدتُ فيه، أول مرة، القبول التام)، أو (ذاك العالم خرّبه ودمره المسلمون).
يغادر ويلي تشاندران الهند وهو في العشرين في عمره قاصداً لندن. يعيش حياة قلقة يقرر بعدها المغادرة إلى افريقيا، بصحبة آنا التي يتزوجها، ويطلقها بعد 18 عاماً، مغادراً إلى برلين حيث تقيم شقيقته. إذا كنتَ قارئاً حساساً، فستزعجك التوصيفات المتكررة عن الناس الحمقى، القذارات، الروائح الكريهة، الجهل والبشاعة. الرؤية للحياة وللناس ينقصها التعاطف، لا تخلو من ضغائن "مدسوسة".. في البلد الإفريقي سترى الحياة من منظور البرتغاليين وستمتليء بالتشكك تجاه الثوار الذين تسلّموا السلطة. براعة الكاتب تزدهر في مناطق أخرى، وربما كان هذا سر الافتتان بمنجزه. أسلوبه النثري الرشيق، الذي تذهب بعض المبالغات لحدّ وصفه أفضل من يكتب بالانجليزية في هذا العصر. تأملاته الذكية حول العلاقات (الرجال، بالرغم من كل المظاهر، يبحثون في الحقيقة عن نساء يتكئون عليهن)، وصفه الحاذق لهشاشة الإنسان، الهوية المنشطرة، الشعور بالخجل والمهانة، الذكريات المتشطية، الخواء والإحساس المَرَضي بأن كارثة ما على وشك الوقوع.

Half a Good Book...

Steer clear of this book! If you must read it, check it out from the library, don't buy it. I didn't enjoy or appreciate the book. There was little about the main character to like, sympathize, appreciate, or become connected with. Then, the more I learned about the author, I found that he was a rather unsavory character as well.

Don't waste your time. There are too many good books out there.

I expected this to be better.

I checked out the two books of this series, this the first and then Magic Seeds. I have read a small portion of the second and will be returning both books to the library for someone else to read.
Overall weirdness - something I like to sample but not when it just does not gel for me. He moves around in the first one: India, London, Africa. Apparently the second book takes him back to Great Britain. But...it starts in Berlin? His sister Sarojini asks him where he wants to go next since his 6-month visa is going to expire."I don't see what I can do. I don't know where I can go."
"You've never felt there was anything for you to do. You've never understood that men have to make the world for themselves....Eighteen years in Africa. Your poor wife. She thought she was getting a man. She should have talked to me...You've always preferred to hide. It's the colonial psychosis, the caste psychosis. You inherited it from your father."
...and on and on it goes

Uma vida pela metade não me seduziu nem a história nem a escrita/tradução.

Willie, uma criança Indiana com crenças indianas que em jovem consegue uma bolsa para estudar em Inglaterra, fica contente por se livrar da família, um pai fraco, uma mãe forte mas de baixa casta, uma irmã feia.

Após o curso, fragilizado e com destino incerto opta por acompanhar a namorada africana à sua terra natal e por lá vai ficando ano após ano, assim passam os melhores anos da sua vida.

Aprende a seduzir e a deixar-se seduzir, aprende a viver no mato, com os pretos, brancos e mestiços, ricos e pobres, perde os valores inculcados da infância, nem por isso se sente feliz.

Por fim nada lhe resta senão voltar ao seio da familia.

Tudo o que criticava no seu pai encontrou-o nele. É com o passar dos anos que compreendemos as atitudes dos nossos ascendentes.

A família é sempre o porto seguro de cada um de nós. É melhor não fechar as portas.