Rich in detail, intricately plotted, utterly hilarious, occasionally heartbreaking, A Son of the Circus is among John Irving's best, with some of his most fleshed out and realistic characters. I know some people give up on this book because it can take a while for some of the more disparate threads to come together with the main plot, and in my opinion those people are doing themselves a disservice. This book earns its five stars through tears of laughter and the welcome melancholy of saying goodbye to characters I've truly come to love.

I was torn between 4 and 5 stars until the marvelous epilogue of this book. There is something magical about John Irving, who writes of the sordid, the epic, the tragic and the whimsical with an unmatched facility. This talent is especially on display in The Son of the Circus.

The India of which Irving writes does not feel authentic, nor exotically orientalized (which may be a lingering after effect from being advised in his forward that this is exactly his intent).

The amount of tragedy, comedy of errors, physical slapstick and general chaos is another Irving hallmark that he puts to good use while breathing new life into the old trope of twins separated at birth.

This story is so much a story of dualism, alienation and the general difficulty of attaining self awareness, I would almost argue every character in the book is a twin separated at birth, incomplete, unknowing and out of touch- particularly the main character of Farrokh Duraduwalla.

I grew to love Dr. Duraduwalla so much that I was genuinely afraid for him in the final pages, as I know the affinity Irving has for killing our darlings. As to what his ultimate fate was, I would say the book ends on an ambiguous enough note that I truly do not know if he survived to the end.

But ultimately, I feel this lies beside the point. If there is an underlying thesis anywhere in John Irving's work, I would say that it is in the legacy we humans leave behind in our relationships and connections we leave among one another- regardless of the magnitude or insignificance of that connection. So long as we are connected in some way to someone who is alive, even if several degrees removed, we ourselves are alive. Farrokh Duraduwalla is immortal. We're all immortal.

I love John Irving but this one is reminding me too much of Until I Find You, a long drawn out affair that proved to be an exercise in tedium. Moving on to something else.

I don't know if I liked this book or not

I struggled for a while, trying to decide whether to continue reading or to put it down. And I am not certain why I didn't until the last 150 pages, and by that point I had a!ready read that far, I might as well finish the book. You don't connect with the characters and get you feel a need to follow the story to the end.

Áradó és hatalmas, mint nagyjából minden Irving. És abszurd is. Mint (szinte) minden Irving. Igaz, kevéshez volt szerencsém, mert valamiért magyarul nem favorizálják, pedig én szeretem – ez elég nyomós érv lenne, nem? Kénytelen leszek angolul vagy románul olvasni – ők is utolérték magukat.
Na de: ez a könyv borzasztóan nehezen indult be, sokáig is olvastam, ami szabad fordításban azt jelenti, hogy a hétszáz oldalból az első ötvenet egy hónap alatt, a többit pár nap alatt. A műfajjal is zavarban vagyok, krimi is, meg szappanopera is, meg Bollywood is, meg európai is és kanadai is és orvosos is és törpés és cirkuszos és…. Őszintén szólva nem tetszett annyira, mint a Garp vagy Az árvák hercege, a lendület itt akadozott, sok volt a töltelékelem, az egész regény legélvezetesebb része gyakorlatilag az utolsó száz oldal.
Adva vagyon az indiai Farrokh (amin idiótához méltó módon igen sűrűn mulattam), aki gyakorlatilag gyökértelen, mert Európában nevelkedik, Kanadában él (megértem), Bombaybe pedig csak műkedvelő indiaiként tér vissza karitatív programja keretében nyomorék gyermekeket gyógyítani. Aztán ott van a törpék iránti határtalan vonzalma, a cirkusz iránti csillapíthatatlan lelkesedése – ezek az adatok tulajdonképpen nagyjából csak arra jók, hogy a történetben később történő történéseket, azaz egy részüket, megalapozottan el lehessen helyezni benne. A történésben.
Akkor ott van a dráma, mert az persze kell, anélkül nem Irving Irving és ahogy @Kuszma kartárs mondá, a drámaisága igen szépen adagolt, valóban nem nyírja ki az összes szereplőjét egyszerre, hanem csak szépen sorban, megfontoltan. Ez volna a krimi-része a regénynek, ami izgalmas és érdekes meg fordulatos, egyszerre indiai (klisé-indiai, feltételezem), ám sokkal inkább angol. A cselekmény nagy része is egy bombay-i klubban játszódik, ami tökéletesen angol. Még most is. Van még a könyvben lökött és nagyon szimpatikus hitetlen hittérítő, európai neveltetésű színész, aki indiai sztár és mindenféle furcsa kreatúrák, amiket csak egy irvingi agy szülhet.
A könyv úgy kezdődik, hogy Irving bevallja, semmit nem tud Indiáról, csak egyszer járt ott. Amiket ír az országról, azok nagyrészt általánosságok, mindenesetre annak ellenére, hogy nem egy szakértő tollából származnak, csak megerősítettek a korábbi ellenszenvemben India iránt és azt hiszem, ha lenne is lehetőségem rá (nincs), akkor sem mennék soha oda. Ennek semmi köze a könyvhöz, csak van 5 percem és írhatnékom van.
Összegzés: érdekes volt, de nem eléggé. Furcsa dolgok bukkannak fel benne, még akkor is, ha nagy része teljesen logikusan van levezetve. Vannak dolgok, amik gyakorlatilag csak háttérzeneként szolgálnak, mert a csend olyan riasztó lenne. Kissé eltér ugyan a véleményünk, ám Tom Wolfe így ír róla az Amerikai kapcsolatban:
„…mi az ördög késztette John Irvinget arra, hogy több mint négy évet pepecseljen egy 633 oldalas, Indiában játszódó regény, A cirkusz gyermeke megírásával, amikor az előszóban így írt (1994-ben): „Ez a regény nem Indiáról szól. Nem ismerem Indiát. Mindössze egyszer voltam ott életemben nem egészen egy hónapot. Amikor ott jártam, mellbe vágott az ország idegensége; s azóta is makacsul idegenszerű maradt számomra.” Nem ismerem Indiát. Igaz volt – ami csak furcsábbá teszi a dolgokat. A cirkusz gyermeke, mind a 633 oldalával, valóban nem Indiáról vagy a világ bármely más helyéről szól. A könyv nyomtalanul eltűnt.”
Ami azt illeti, van benne igazság. Én viszont elfogult vagyok, a csillagozásom is így értelmezendő, az értékeléssel pedig továbbra is zavarban vagyok, még mindig nem tudtam megfelelően elhelyezni a könyvet. Furcsa, na.

Gekocht op de tweedehands boekenbeurs in Ardooie.
Omdat ik ook van John Irving alles wil lezen.

Over India en het circus, over dwergen, over transgenders, eunuchen en hidzjra's, over HIV, over hobby's en werk en de keuze ertussen, over het overal aanwezige racisme, ...

De eerste 100 bladzijden vroeg ik me af of ik verder moest lezen. Het kwam zeer stroef op gang, maar dan zat de typische Irving-schwung erin. Tientallen bladzijden over een hoerenkast 'de natte komedie', over het DNA van dwergen, ... en toch verveelt het zelden.

Voilà, dat was het laatste boek dat ik las op reis. Vijf vluchten en 16 uren wachten, daar kun je bij zuchten of daar kun je je op verheugen (mijn gat sjufelt, zeggen ze hier in Ardooie, als je ergens toch blij mee bent).

There are authors who can seemingly throw in any disparate elements into the literary blender and come out with a well-conceived story. John Irving is one of those. Take an Indian Orthopedist and part-time screenwriter, a dwarf, twins separated at birth, a slutty c-list Hollywood actress, a crippled begger child, and a transexual. Throw ingredients into a typewriter, stir for several hundred pages, bake in a plot oven set to wild and viola, you have a work of wonder.

What I like so much about John Irving's writing is that he doesn't seem to hide anything, yet the twists are still surprising. He'll tell you how a certain scene played out, and then take you through the scene and make it all seem new and fresh and even though you get to the destination you expected, you're sweating and your pulse races by the time you arrive.

A Son of the Circus is one of those books where I can't begin to describe characters or scenes without gushing about the plot and the nuance and then giving it all away. Read it, you won't regret it.

Dr. Farrokh Daruwalla's fascination with the circus, dwarfs, and his place decidedly between the India of his childhood and the Canada of his adulthood, finds himself back in Bombay and caught in a vortex of people and circumstances surrounding a serial killer whose decades of murder are about to come to an end.

John Irving's A Son of the Circus is not about India or even about the clubmen, dwarf clowns, transvestite whores, missionaries, and movie stars who populate the almost 700 pages of this 1994 novel that followed the brilliant, heart-breaking A Prayer for Owen Meany. Instead, it's about all of them as the 59-year-old Dr. Daruwalla has come to know them through his expatriate eyes, as a visitor, as one who will always be on the outside looking in. Really, it's a book about how these people live in the mind of the doctor and shape him no matter where he is. Even though he is an outsider looking in.

Irving spends the first quarter of the book laying out the characters and connecting them to each other over time. Once he is done with the backstory, it's the reader's story--and the bizarre, outlandish twists and turns in the plot and in the characters themselves make perfect sense. Because, from the outside looking in, these are our people. This is the magic of Irving.

Clearly, when you feel like you're nowhere, you also feel like you're nobody--except that nowhere is home, you know it well, and you love it. Happiness is unavoidable sometimes.

So often Iriving leaves me wondering, "What was that about?" And then I think, "Yes, that's it exactly." Just can't say what. Not for a long time.

On some level, it hurts me to write this review. I first discovered Irving’s books in high school and fell for them hard. The obsession quieted down after a few years, but seeing his name was enough to give me nostalgia. A Son of the Circus has been in my to-read pile for literal years, and if I hadn’t procrastinated so much, maybe I would have been kinder in this review. Maybe I would have found some enjoyment in it.

Unfortunately, this book was an absolute slog, to say the least.

The actual plot is fairly simple – the issue is that, all too often, the plot is buried in flashbacks (or flashbacks within flashbacks) or tangents that traverse several pages or even chapters. By the time the story comes back around, it’s easy to forget what has actually happened in the present timeline. Sure, these flashbacks and tangents may be rich in detail (Irving’s eye for that sort of thing, for making environments come alive, is on full display here), but the detail overwhelms, rather than enhances the story, as you’re forced to wade through pages and pages of filler to find one detail that has a modicum of relevance to the actual plot. Perhaps most frustratingly of all, after over 600 pages, the plot just… peters off. The climax of the book passes by in the blink of an eye – the event that the book has, apparently, been leading up to has such a weak payoff that you could be forgiven for thinking that you’d missed a few crucial pages.

The plot isn’t the only issue. What I found more egregious, especially as I made it towards the mid-point of the book and realized I still had over three hundred pages left to go, was the repetition. Certain phrases and expressions are utterly overused – it seemed like “Dr. Daruwalla cried” appeared every other page, and the more that was used (along with descriptors such as exclaimed or shouted), the more Dr. Daruwalla came off as completely hysterical and overdramatic, rather than the intelligent, wise man he’s supposed to be. Additionally, characters are referred to by descriptors over and over again – Martin Mills is referred to as “the scholastic”, and Dr. Daruawalla is interchangeably referred to as “the screenwriter” or “the doctor” far too many times, as if Irving is afraid that we will forget what these characters do if we aren’t reminded every other page.

On a related note, the characters are also difficult to keep track of, because in addition to their descriptors, almost all of them have at least two names, and there’s no rhyme or reason as to which name they’re referred to at any given time. On a single page, Irving may switch between John D., Inspector Dhar, or simply Dhar, multiple times. Perhaps this was supposed to be a comment on the different roles we all play in our lives, but it’s done so haphazardly that it isn’t very effective.

Also, if you’re looking forward to reading this book solely for the circus element – don’t bother. Considering the title, the circus features surprisingly little in the book, and when it is discussed, Dr. Daruwalla’s love of the circus doesn’t come off as convincing – he elevates some of the performers to almost divine figures, but I never really got a sense of why.

However, while all of the above certainly contributed to my low rating of this book, there’s one factor that, on its own, would have convinced me to give A Son of the Circus a single star rating.

This book is nearly thirty years old, and I want to give Irving the benefit of the doubt, but I would also pay him all of my savings to never write about trans and/or gender-diverse people again. Their treatment in this book is simply abhorrent. They are used for shock value; you’re repeatedly bludgeoned with the fact that they’re freakish, disgusting and worthy of mockery. They’re constantly reduced to nothing more than their sexual organs/practices and the ‘bizarre’ nature of those organs/practices. At one point, the term “it” is used in reference to one trans character, and I came very close to flicking the book out the nearest window. Not to mention that the trope of having the trans character being the villain/antagonist is tired and completely unnecessary. Even in 1994, I imagine that it was getting old.

In conclusion, I’m tired. The last few of Irving’s books that I’ve read have been merely disappointing. This one left a bad taste in my mouth, one that even my fond memories of The Hotel New Hampshire and A Prayer for Owen Meany can’t erase. To quote a line from the book (which, like everything else, was overused as soon as it was introduced), it’s “time to slip away” from reading any more of Irving’s work.

Another excellent read from Mr Irving.

Plenty of characters, plot and pith in A Son of the Circus. For half of the novel I wasn't sure where it was going and I think this puts a lot of readers off. Personally I love this aspect to Irving's writing, the suspense of not just 'whodunnit' but 'where am I and what am I reading' had me hooked!

The only issue I would raise is the image it paints of LGBT India, though set some decades earlier than now I would worry that some people may find this novel offensive. In fact Irving seems to attempt to counter this with his reactions to the Inspector Dhar movies, whether this works or not isn't something I feel qualified to comment on.

Without giving the game away this novel shows India from the top of the wealthy flats to the bottom of the soles of elephants feet with everyone in between.

I'd recommend to anyone because I loved it but I don't think Irving is everyone's cup of tea! Fellow Irving readers should definitely give it a go and anyone who wants to completely immerse themselves in someone else's world for a few hundred pages.

Although I thought this book was well written, it just rambled. I found myself getting annoyed at the endless asides and side stories and jumping back and forth in time. The actual story itself was wound in amongst all of this and it was good, but for me it could have done with a slightly more coherent structure.

This was a long book. The story was good,it took a long time to tell, and when the climax occurred it was sort of an anti-climax