Esta novela nos lleva a descubrir la historia de una familia en la India de los años 60 a través de pequeños recuerdos, retazos de historias y personajes marcados por la tragedia.
Está narrada de una manera muy bella, atmosférica y extraña, con un tono poético y al mismo tiempo jugando con la visión infantil de los niños protagonistas.
No esperaba que fuera a DOLERME tanto leer este libro. Hay un acontecimiento escalofriante que vuelve a aparecer una y otra vez en la mente de cierto protagonista y también en la nuestra, lo que demuestra la habilidad de la autora para que nunca olvides, igual no puede hacerlo él.
No es una novela para todos los gustos pero a mi me ha parecido una verdadera joya, aunque me generó mucho desasosiego y tristeza.
Ammu siempre en mi kokoro

I tried to stay afloat with all my willpower but the unchained maelstrom gurgling in Small Miracles and Big Calamities sprouting from this novel proved to be far too violent for my feeble arms and my fragile heart. So I drowned. I died a thousand deaths engulfed by the swelling waters of this lush river of flowing allegories and rippling parables that washed my being over and over again in waves of piercing beauty and unbearable sadness.
Mimicking the natural cycle of the lunar tide, Arundhati Roy fills the meaningless river of existence with steady repetitions of insignificant details in Small Lives to disclose unutterable Big Losses that leave no footprints in a Godless shore where only raw lyricism exists, a lyricism that kicks the reader in the gut with its brutal magic realism.

Small Things. Small Lives. Unimportant People.
Regal Mammachi founded the family business Paradise Pickles & Preserves and Pappachi beat her daily with the expected traditional cruelty because they wouldn’t name His Moth after him. Grand-aunt Baby Kochamma, to whom happiness eluded a long time ago, poisons the minds of the abandoned souls around her like a slithering snake that bites back in stealthy bitterness. Chacko, the son and heir of the family, is the apple of Mammachi’s eye, a conflicted Anglophile and a self-proclaimed Marxist whose identity has been snatched away by the conquerors he so much admires. His sister Ammu is a divorced mother of two-egg twins, whose golden skin transpires a stirring restlessness when she sits on the riverbed with stars in her eyes, bathed in silver moonbeams and aching to be cherished. Velutha, the Untouchable carpenter of a lower caste, carries the river inside him and dives gracefully to wistful shores of vulnerable dreams made of pieces of porcelain where fair and dark can melt in streams of unforbidden passion ignoring the Love Laws that lay down "who should be loved, and how. And how much".

A Small Family in a Big boat-shaped piece of Earth seen through the innocent eyes of two-egg twins, Estha and Rahel, also known as Ambassador Elvis Pelvis for Estha’s pointy shoes and Ambassador Stick Insect for Pappachi’s trapped Moth that flutters inside Rahel’s heart. When their clean, blonde and adorable British cousin Sophie, Chacko and his ex-wife Margaret’s daughter, enters the twins’ lives they sense rather than understand their Smallness in this Big Play of life, where not all children are equal to those who most matter.

The glorious river, fecund with fish of bigotry, keeps streaming down to a blind date with History, where two-egg twins sail in the boat of blameless childhood unaware of mankind’s Heart of Darkness and Orangedrinks, Lemonadedrinks evils that prowl these murky waters. Waves of grief and guilt will inundate the twins’ vessel for the rest of their journey and only when they finally cross the river twenty-three years later, only when they allow their "Not old. Not Young. But a viable die-able age" two eggs to fuse into one will they find fading relief and slippery consolation.
This is the story of Small people who inhabit a vast world where no “God of Big Things" can exist as long as the Laws of abuse and atrocity prevail over the Laws of love and compassion, as long as a "man’s death can be more profitable than his life has ever been."

Arundhati Roy unleashes her constrained rage above and below the surface of her cascading voice soaking her text with random capitalization, purposeful italics and titleless chapters which contain Terrors better left unsaid disguised in sumptuous metaphors and lethal prose-poetry, dragging the reader softly with the undercurrents of her pearly writing. I tried to swim, but I drowned. I drowned in beauty and sadness. I dissolved into Roy’s waters. All that was left was a dripping heart-shaped hole in my fluid universe and a faltering hope that things can change in a day and that there is still Tomorrow. Maybe. Or Maybe not.

I read The God of small things directly after Moby Dick. This was unwise. Moby Dick is Moby Dick and even a prize winning novel feels distinctly unimpressive in its shadow, it took me around a hundred to a hundred and fifty pages to emerge out from under Moby Dick and to accept that this is simply a different kind of book, having typed that I do think that it might have helped Roy if she herself had gone the full Hermann and split off her discussion of communism in Asia and Kerala specifically, into a series of distinct chapters even as Melville did about whales.

However, reading Field Notes on Democracy: Listening to Grasshoppers beforehand worked out well for me, I understood that both fiction and non-fiction are for Roy the same kinds of self expression, or better said fiction or not, her writing is the continuation of her activism by other means, its all cut from the same cloth even if the end garments have to conform to certain stylistic conventions.

While she writes of the tragic story in this book as being caused by a breach in the ancient laws of love, who and how people are permitted or expected to love in different places and different times are political issues, and for all the trappings of the family novel on display The God of small things is a thoroughly political book (pardon me for the implication that the family might not be political).

As in the non-fiction I felt her humour in places at least, others may be better attuned to it here for instance that it is the untouchable Velutha who alone is not either predatory or (and) abusive towards women and children, furthermore he might be the only character who deals with the children with decency and respect, it is characters who are not regarded as ritually polluting who interpret this status as having permission to touch women and children as they please, Roy's play with the ideas of touchable and untouchable I guess is what is categorised as irony.

Maybe I misremember, but I think at around the time that this book came out, Kerala was being promoted, or developed, as a distinct destination for UK tourism, unless their tourism authority were true and convinced believers in there being no such thing as bad publicity they must have met this book with deep and troubled sighs. The novel's portrayal of Kerala and it's tourism offering in particular is excoriating .

Anyway enough of these teatime fripperies and waffle, the hour grows late, the day draws towards it's close (somewhere for sure). The God of some things is an intense family saga, shifting between the late 1960s and the early 1990s. We know that some disaster occurred in the earlier period - it's consequences still visible in the 1990s, as the story continues, we know what happened in increasing precise detail and eventually we know why. Sexually predatory and violent men hung over the first part of the book (making the sexual overtones of Moby Dick seem a very jolly romp in comparison) , by the mid point of the book I felt that the continued switching between time periods was a cheap trick that I associate more with television, a way of making a simple story complex and hoping to entrap the audience, but the final lyrical pages evoking the brief love of two characters made it all worth while I felt. Roy seemed to be saying if nobody hears a tree fall in the forest it makes a crashing sound - here: listen! I don't think the tenderness between the two doomed heroes would have had the same impact if the story had been told a different way  Sancho Panza observed centuries earlier that the story and the way it is told are indivisible.

Although Roy explains that Anglophila is in India a variety of Stockholm syndrome, this is none the less a novel written in English about people who are not always speaking English and if they do it mostly isn't the kind of English you'd hear on the London Underground. It displays layers of injustices, sometimes with cold fury sometimes with light humour - the Matriach's profitable small (kitchen table) business when formally taken over by her son who invests in machinery and advertising becomes a loss making enterprise propped up by bank loans - but at least it looks modern and entrepreneurial. It's a sticky and sweaty novel of prejudices and loss with moments of beauty.

This review is going to be a short one because that’s what happens when almost two months pass after I read the book. I avoided this novel for years although I knew it was a modern classic. I read that it was pretentious and confusing due to its nonlinear structure. I also had the impression it will be very long and similar to The Midnight Children (did not enjoy that one), only written by a woman. Some said that it is the worst Booker Winner. I am happy to report that none of my fears proved to be true. It was a very fast read, not that pretentious and with just a bit of attention I did not have any problems differentiating between the timelines. So, what I am trying to say, if you are also reluctant to read this, don’t be.

The prose is masterful and the story is heartbreaking. I know, I am oversensitive to stories about twins but still, it is hard to remain unmoved. It is a story about the injustice of caste-phobia, a problem still prevalent in modern India. It is a story about love, between siblings, between parents and children, between lovers. It is a story of loss, separation, revenge and injustice. There are so many excellent reviews out there that discuss this novel in detail and all of its themes that it is impossible for me to add anything new. I will only say that the novel made me feel a lot and I count on the fingers of one hand the books that affected me so much recently.

مأساة تسجلها الفتاة عن تؤمين انفصالا، ثم يبدأ عمل شريط أحداث في الاسترجاع بأسلوب جميل راق لي كثيراً وهو ما أصبحنا نقوله بإختصار الفلاش باك . وفي الرواية الكثير من المحرمات الاجتماعية التي تكثر في المجتمعات الآسيوية لكن ذكوها راق لي وكأنني مجرد قارئ يتفاعل مع هذه التجاوزات.

ثمة تمازج جميل بين الطبيعية الأمريكية والهندية حيث قاعدة أحداث الرواية. رواية تؤرخ لتاريخ عائلة في تفاصيل صغيرة جداً بيت التجربة والحزن والذكريات المنتشرة في سياق الرواية بكثرة. وحديث عن الجماعات المسيحية المنغلقة لسرٍ ما أو ظروف أجبرتهم لهذا الانغلاق في مجتمعهم المتشعب الديانات .

حقيقة الأمر وهذا رأي شخصي كان يمكن أن يتم أختصار صفحاتها إلى أقل من رقم (200) بدل العدد الذي لقرابة (400) لمن يريد أن يشعر بجمال هذا العمل عليه قراءة الرواية مرتين . سيجدها مختلفة جداً عن القراءة الأولى .

“Perhaps it’s true that things can change in a day. That a few dozen hours can affect the outcome of whole lifetimes. And that when they do, those few dozen hours, like the salvaged remains of a burned house—the charred clock, the singed photograph, the scorched furniture—must be resurrected from the ruins and examined. Preserved. Accounted for. Little events, ordinary things, smashed and reconstituted. Imbued with new meaning. Suddenly they become the bleached bones of a story.” – Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things

Beautifully written tragedy about the long-term impact of childhood trauma and an indictment of classism in India. Set initially in 1969 (and looking back twenty-three years later) in the village of Ayemenem, state of Kerala, the family story revolves around the lives of fraternal twins, a boy, Estha, and a girl, Rehal. They live with their divorced mother, Ammu, Grandaunt Baby Kochamma, Uncle Chacko, and grandparents, Mammachi and Pappachi. Their family runs a pickle factory. Cousin Sophie Mol and her mother arrive from England for a visit, and their lives change forever. The classism story centers around Velutha, a carpenter and pickle factory worker, whose family is descended from Paravan, a caste formerly labeled as “untouchable.” Though officially the caste system has been abolished, the unwritten “love laws” of society are still practiced, and relationships between those of different castes are considered taboo. Dire consequences are meted out for crossing social boundaries.

Roy tackles some heavy themes, including marginalization, domestic violence, sexism, child molestation, gender bias, patriarchy, and oppression of the weak. The story moves fluidly backward and forward through time, providing insight into what has happened and foreshadowing events to come. Foreboding is present from the beginning. Something traumatic has happened, and the reader is aware that more sorrow and pain lies ahead. The reader knows what will happen but does not know how. The poetic writing evokes vivid scenes, images from a child’s point of view, emphasizing the small details children tend to notice. The adult perspectives are covered through a third person omniscient narration, providing the backstory, motivations, and complexities of the characters. The author experiments with language using inventive phrasing, and imbues poetic rhythm into the writing, bringing the story to life. The language, tone, and style shift appropriately and effectively to convey an adult’s mature viewpoints versus a child’s more naïve impressions. The narrative moves seamlessly between lush descriptions of an idyllic landscape to the ugliness of social stigma.

I found it a deeply touching story of love, fear, cruelty, guilt, mortality, loss of innocence, and rebellion. This book is a prime example of well-crafted social commentary, which makes a point while focusing on the story at hand. It is also a multi-generational family saga depicting India’s cultural complexities, political climate of the time, and assortment of religions. Hope for the future is shown by the decreasing influence of traditions and societal mores on each subsequent generation. It will appeal to readers of literary tragedies, or those who appreciate evocative prose with a fluidly flowing non-sequential timeline. This book won the Booker Prize in 1997.

4.5

It is a cliché to say it, but this book found me. I was in the Madrid airport, on my way back to New York for the Christmas holidays. As I sat down on a bench to enjoy (well, to tolerate) an overpriced cup of coffee I got from a machine, I noticed that a little paperback book was laying, face down, beside me. There was nobody nearby who it would obviously belong to, so I curiously flipped it over—delighted to discover a book I had been meaning to read. Should I take it? That seemed wrong. Then again, it also seemed wrong to leave the book and let it get thrown away, when I could give it a loving home. So I compromised: sitting beside the lonely paperback for twenty minutes to see if anybody came back for it. Nobody did, and I took it. (So maybe it did not find me and I just stole it.)
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After being selected by Fate to receive the book, I was disappointed to find that I didn’t quite like the first few pages. The prose seemed both to try too hard and to accomplish too little. (There is nothing worse than prose written by a failed poet.) But the style grew on me considerably when I realized that the author (whom I will be referring to as A. Roy, since otherwise I feel like I’m writing about myself) had chosen this style, not merely to show off her literary chops, but as a device of characterization, in service of the plot. I had a similar reaction to the shifts in time. At first the book struck me as abrupt and disorganized. It was only after a few chapters that I realized A. Roy was in perfect control of her material. By the halfway point, I was prepared to admit that Fate may have had a point.
tt
What emerged was a powerful, intelligent, and observant book. And, honestly, I am not sure how much more I can say without spoiling the plot, other than that The God of Small Things ticks off all of the boxes of a good novel—a memorable story, well told, with social relevance. If the novel falls short in any category, I would say that it is characterization. None of the characters, in my opinion, break free of the narrative voice to live on their own. (This is the danger of a strong narrative voice.) Further, I think A. Roy may have fallen into the modern trap of substituting trauma for character development. Just because somebody is Profoundly Messed Up does not make them interesting.

As far as the plot goes, I did think one crucial element was conspicuously weak: the attraction between Velutha and Ammu. They basically fall in love—or lust—at first sight, without even exchanging a word. And considering that this scandalous affair is what sets off the explosive chain of events at the book's conclusion, it felt cheap that there was not a stronger setup or explanation to the daliance. After all, lust alone (and what else could it have been, without conversation) is hardly a reason that propels people to risk their reputations, children, and lives. Or am I just naïve?

Oh, and I also thought that the incest scene felt as if it were included merely for the shock value.

In any case, it is now time for the novel to find somebody else. To pay my respects to Fate, I will leave it in some public place. One must appease all the gods, even those of small things. (Also, if by some miracle you are person who forgot the book in the airport, contact me and I’ll send you a replacement. Sorry!)

Over rated to be precise. Or may be I had too many expectations in terms of the narrative.

I found the characters most confusing. They were complexed yet had no depth to them.

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i'm a sucker for a modern classic

"لقد اختاراه لأنهما يدركان حتمية إيمانهما بالهشاشة. التشبث بالضآلة. في كل مرة كانا يفترقا، كان كلاهما يستل من الآخر وعداً صغيراً"


اتخيل أن أحدا ما يسألني ما هو أجمل شيء عرفه الإنسان؟ سأقول بثقة؛ الرواية ... وارجو أن يصدق لدي هذا الرأي ويثبت في قادم الأيام بتراكم العمر والخبرة، يرجع ذلك بأن الرواية هي الوحيدة التي تشعرك بأنك جزءً من نَصِّها، من وعيها وتأثيرها، هي بين يديك لأنها لك وحدك أنت وقريبة حتى أكثر من كاتبها.

للتعبير عن الحياة ينبغي على المرء أن يورط نفسه في قضايا كثيرة وعليه إذن أن يمتلك الشجاعة لكي لا يبقى صامتا، فإن لم يستطع فعليه أن يصبح كاتبا وذلك أضعف الإيمان. الحقائق في الطبيعة تكون عارية وتلبس ثيابها في الكتب، والشيء الذي تعجز عن قوله اكتبه على شكل قطع صغيرة حتى تبقى في دائرة الشجاعة، لأن ذلك فعليا ما قامت به أرونداتي روي، ثمة صلة بين اللغة المجردة وكسر التابوهات للكاتبة وخلق مشاهد مأساوية هي انعكاسا للمجتمع الهندي الهائل في تنوعه، قد لا تكون الرواية ذات خيال مشرق لكنها من دون شك تستمد القوة في الرؤى والعلاقات المفجوعة المبنية من مواد الحياة اليومية الأمر الذي قد يكون سهلا وصعبا في آن !

أحيانا قد لا يعجبني كاتب ما فنيا، لكن يمتعني حضوره الصلب، موقفه من الحياة، يغني عن ألف اسلوب جيد في الكتابة.

Ya hace unos días que acabé esta lectura y me apetecía dejarla reposar antes de dar mi opinión. El caso es que ha sido una lectura que me ha gustado mucho, pero también me ha deprimido bastante por lo que cuenta. Es una lectura dura y de esas que te dan algo de impotencia. Es curioso que todo lo que me llegaba de esta novela es que era preciosa, pero rara vez escuchaba que era una historia tan cruda.

La historia nos va a presentar a dos hermanos gemelos, una niña, Rahel, y un niño, Estha. Después de muchos años separados se reencontrarán a los 31 años y empezaremos a conocer la historia de su vida, hasta el momento en que tuvieron que seperarse, y el suceso que lo provocó.

Inicialmente, debo admitir que me costó mucho entrar en la historia. La autora va constantemente para atrás y para delante, y es una estructura que normalmente no suele gustarme o, como mínimo, suele costarme más engancharme. Y es lo que me pasó con "El dios de las pequeñas cosas". Pero una vez que me acostumbré a la forma de contar la historia y entré en ella, ya solo fue disfrutar (o sufrir, según se mire jajaja).

Alrededor de un tercio del libro ocurre una cosa, que es una de las escenas que peor me han hecho sentir el los últimos tiempos en cuanto a lecturas. Tan real y tan horrible a la vez, que es imposible que no te afecte. A través de la historia vamos a ver el machismo propio de la sociedad, que en este caso está orientado en India, pero podría ser cualquier parte del mundo y tampoco habría mucha diferencia. La impotencia que te crea como tratan a Ammu, la madre de los niños, es increíble.

Pero además de este machismo, me ha sorprendido mucho el racismo que había entre los propios vecinos, por haber nacido en un lugar u otro, por la religión o por cualquier excusa que te diferenciara. Nuevamente mucha impotencia. Lo dicho, no es un libro sencillo de digerir, pero si importante de leer. De esos que te educan un poquito más en lo que es el mundo y que está mal en él. Me gustaría leer algo más de Arundhati Roy <3.