The God of Small Things

Forgive me, but this is basically a disjointed list of things I like about a book…

The God of Small Things is a novel that reminds me of that quote from The New York Trilogy that I was going on about a few weeks ago.  The whole, “Something happens… and then it goes on happening forever,” situation.  It’s structured around one event in the lives of a family and it’s largely about how one moment in your life can be turned into the event which defines it; the idea that the memory of a terrible thing outlasts the terrible thing because we cling to it as a means to define ourselves.   In the case of Arundhati Roy’s book, it’s the death of the twin protagonists’ cousin, Sophie Mol.  The concept that, “Sophie Mol became a Memory, while The Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive,” to be precise.  This is so true of human nature.  Every year at this time television schedules are littered with documentaries about the World Trade Centre which serve to give no new information but only solidify events in our collective memories.  It’s an idea which I really like, considering my personal ambitions to read 1,001 books on an arbitrary list, it will surprise few that the nature of obsession appeals to me. 

Another thing I like about this book is the wandering narrative.  Yes, it is about the death of a child and although this is alluded to throughout, there’s so much extra in the story.  Roy builds the entire history of the family, taking the time to give each character their own backstory.  So rather than privileging just the main characters with motivation and personality, there’s a complex family unit.  It also means the book isn’t evenly balanced, which I love.  There’s an entire family history up until the death of Sophie Mol and then (and not to get too cheesy about it) the family is torn apart, the twins being separated and their mother banished.  Naturally there’s also a completely non-linear narrative structure; I don’t think I’ve mentioned anything yet that isn’t given away in the first chapter.

It’s also fascinating to read a serious book with so many female characters.  It’s something that’s quite often focused on in the world of film and television, but it happens in books too- women being marginalised.  But the Kochamma family is led by women who have largely escaped patriarchal figures.  The only adult male in the family is shown to be just as hopeless at love as the women and is largely present as a comic figure who feels he needs to take control of his women but never manages it.  Even if no-one in the story is particularly capable, it’s so refreshing to read about women who don’t centre their lives around men (save for the odd moment of pining). 

On top of all of the above there’s this wonderful tone when the story focuses on eight year-old twins Rahel and Estha.  Throughout the narrator remains a third person omnipotent job, but when describing the events that involve the children, it becomes more childlike.  Shorter sentences, simpler words or childish word play.  It’s largely subtle (they are intelligent children after all), but it’s there and it makes the whole thing more enjoyable and the terrible things more terrible.

At the moment I am just whizzing through Lambs of London, by Peter Ackroyd, so come back soon for more blog.