It was my first time reading a post-colonial text. This book is such a pleasant and smoothly-written by an author who is craving into his past; the past where at the beginning he claims he has forgotten and been detached from. He goes through a series of relatives, acquintances, family friends as if completing a puzzle. However, his puzzle at the end is not a typically tightly fit among all the pieces. You often find accounts which are intriguing or sometimes peculiar; their veracity might sometimes seem dubitable but they depict a wonderful series of interactions between people that sometimes appear throughout the book and in occasions vanish as the story flows through. Ondaatje goes through the characters in no particular order; however it rarely makes you feel something is missing in between. Sometimes there are some of his poems too which make the book catchier. I read the book on a plane and by the time an hour-long flight was over, I was halfway through it. You can read and enjoy the smoothness. So recommended!

I can't remember the last time I was so thoroughly bored and disinterested while reading a book. Thank goodness it was only 200 pages because I always finish a book once started. I read reviews praising the language and imagery but I found it jumpy and confusing and since it's not told in chronological order I couldn't keep all the family members and friends straight. Thank goodness for the antics of Lalla his grandmother as she was the only character I found interesting. I was confused by what image of his father he was attempting to portray and couldn't put my finger on his real feelings towards him. One minute he's describing a horrible drunk and you think "oh what a terrible childhood" the next he's talking about this loving and caring man. Perhaps it was just me but I felt completely disconnected from him as the narrator and couldn't muster up any sympathy or any feelings at all.

Even though I read this almost 20 years ago, I remember it as being one of the best family histories I ever read. Hilarious in parts, and along with Cat's Table which was written much later, provides insights into one of my favorite authors.

Another rare gem unearthed from my University library. The only reason I sighted it in the first place and decided to try it was due to its gorgeous cover art. And boy, does the cover match the content perfectly.

Running in the Family is an autobiography-ish of Ondaatje’s childhood in Ceylon, now known as Sri Lanka, showcased via diary entries, snippets of conversation with relatives, stories, incidents, poems, and anecdotes. This can't even be called a novel, it's more like a fluid river of memories tied together by the most nebulous connections. Underlying the entire narrative is the author’s psychological “dissection” of his eccentric parents, especially his father.

I never expected the book to be this laugh-out-loud funny at times, while equally heartbreaking at other times. The vibes and atmosphere were unmistakably how I remember my childhood in India, albeit not nearly as eventful as the escapades of the Ondaatje household.

There’s no plot, moral, climax, or even a satisfactory ending - yet it contains everything one can possibly need from a good read.

rather than reviewing this book, i'll just transcribe a passage that should convince you pretty soundly:

"you must get this book right," my brother tells me. "you can only write it once." but the book again is incomplete. in the end, all your children move among the scattered acts and memories with no more clues. not that we have ever thought we would be able to fully understand you. love is often enough, towards your stadium of small things. whatever brought you solace we would have applauded. whatever controlled the fear we all share we would have embraced. that could only be dealt with one day at a time--with that song we cannot translate, or the dusty green of the cactus you touch and turn carefully like a wounded child towards the sun, or the cigarettes you light.

. . . during the monsoon, on my last morning, all this beethoven and rain.

<3

Bonkers. Brazen. Breathtaking.

Honestly probably one of my favourite books I've read in a while

n  My Grandmother died in the blue arms of a jacaranda tree. She could read thunder.n

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, Michael Ondaatje traveled twice to Sri Lanka, his homeland, where he stayed for several months to discover his family history. The result of this is “Running in the Family”, a book that is difficult to categorize. Memoir? Travelogue? A collection of vignettes? A poetry collection? Novel? An autobiography? It is all that and more, but most of all, it’s a letter to his father with whom he did not have the opportunity to talk as an adult, as Ondaatje states.

Words such as love, passion, duty, are so continually used they grow to have no meaning—except as coins or weapons. Hard language softens. I never knew what my father felt of these "things." My loss was that I never spoke to him as an adult. Was he locked in the ceremony of being "a father"? He died before I even thought of such things.

In a lyrical style, the way only he knows, Ondaatje takes us through several decades of events in Sri Lanka and through Ondaatje’s family tree, focusing in particular on his grandmother, his parents, their marriage and divorce. His father's drinking and the psychotic episodes he had around Colombo. His mother's suffering with him and the decision to leave him, something that left its mark on Ondaatje.
Here we will find inspiration for Ondaatje's poem "The Cinnamon Peeler’s Wife", powerful poetic images that take us by magic to monsoon-soaked Sri Lanka. It is enough just to close our eyes and Ondaatje's words will transport us there.
A little bit of everything, "Running in the Family" is a book that leaves nobody indifferent, the one after which we end up wanting more. Ondaatje's brother told him that he had to write this book right because he could only write it once and he succeeded. He did it as only an adult child eagerly wanting his father would write.

n  During the monsoon, on my last morning, all this Beethoven and rain.n

3.5*

Canadian poet and novelist Michael Ondaatje returns to Sri Lanka in search of his family’s past. The stories in this short, beautifully written, very original memoir are often surprising with a mythic quality, but the author has warned the reader : “While all these names may give an air of authenticity, I must confess that the book is not a history but a portrait or ‘gesture.’ And if those listed above [in the acknowledgments] disapprove of the fictional air I apologize and can only say that in Sri Lanka a well-told lie is worth a thousand facts.”

Dear Mr. Ondaatje,
You've got to stop writing such powerful, sexy books. You make me want to abandon everything and move to Ceylon. I have a terrible problem with mosquitoes. And, frankly, I become rather crazy in the heat. But, ohhhh, how you seduce. Grandmothers dying in floods, the drinking, the dancing, the sheer cliffs, the friendly snakes that might be your father. I want to hang out in the verdant fields with you and your family. I've never before found mine so ordinary.
sigh,
CFM

Review to come.