I am reading a book titled The God of Small Things. It was Nancy’s book club pick but was swapped out for another as this is, as Nancy said, “very complex and mysterious, a little heavy for summer reading.” The swap out was fun and fast, so I moved on to this book as it falls outside my usual reading choices. The author is Indian writer Arundhati Roy. My few forays into books by international authors have left me wanting for something I cannot easily describe. Maybe that’s not true. It might be wanting of context. If I don’t know the culture, the speech patterns, and the mores, the text often lacks depth due to my inability to dig.
One thing I try not to do, when reading, is know about the author. I prefer to let the writing speak to me rather than the author. I will research after, but I usually don’t know or pay attention to the sex, age, politics, or intentions of an author. I do not know if Arundhati Roy is a woman or a man, and that is okay. This person’s words have captivated me.
There is still the problem of context, although at Amazon I came to understand a bit more about the worlds of India. It is only one big country in a political sense as where one is from matters much more than being from this state or that in the United States. Even in this 21st century, there are levels of who you are that influence how one acts, and I cannot say I care for the haughty arrogance of many of the men from that culture. It is dismissive, overbearing and, sometimes, intolerable. There are stories I heard from female colleagues that prejudice me further.
So, I understand a little better what I am reading.
Even that does not seem to matter, in this case, because it is the structure of the book that has captivated me. I’m not sure the story matters as much to me as the flow. The author presents the story as if it is held within waves on the beach. You know how a wave moves. The water is pulled out, the tension builds, a wave is formed, and there is a crescendo as it crashes back to earth. Then the water pushes back toward the beach getting thinner and thinner, losing impact, but preparing to repeat the action over and over.
That is the way the words pour out of this book into my reading. The story brings pieces together, the background of the meaning gathering with a high point that is the point of that segment. Just as we are prepared to ride this wave into the sense of it, though, it loses the tension, and then some quite often disconnected words about what comes next are thinly tossed into our focus. Those bubbly little bits then are drawn together, pulled into the story, and made into a full, robust sense of their meaning, before crashing back down and pushing us forward. Push, pull, push, pull…we are tossed back and forth through like flotsam and jetsam if we lose our footing with the story. Or, if we stand firm then the words, and the sense of it all, swirls around us, crashes into us, releases us, then pulls us back again.
I can honestly say that I don’t remember any other book that guided me through in this way. Also, it took me a while to get into the rhythm. It is lyrical, it is musical, and it is a bit magical. There is even a sense of C. S. Lewis in the melody of the words. I sometimes think of Jabberwockies, Walruses, and Carpenters. In fact, there is a carpenter in the story.
This book is the epitome of the phrase, “catch the drift.” It takes a while to realize there is a drift and to catch on to its rhythm. Just as sitting or standing in the push and the pull of the ocean can be tiring, so is reading this book so it is, indeed, not a quick beach read. But I enjoy the way it makes me feel. Like the ocean, it beckons me in and maybe mesmerizes a bit. How exciting to have this new experience!
Because I mentioned it, here’s the poem. You’ll have to read the book for yourself.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
"The sun was shining on the sea,
Shining with all his might:
He did his very best to make
The billows smooth and bright —
And this was odd, because it was
The middle of the night.
The moon was shining sulkily,
Because she thought the sun
Had got no business to be there
After the day was done —
"It's very rude of him," she said,
"To come and spoil the fun."
The sea was wet as wet could be,
The sands were dry as dry.
You could not see a cloud, because
No cloud was in the sky:
No birds were flying overhead —
There were no birds to fly.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Were walking close at hand;
They wept like anything to see
Such quantities of sand:
If this were only cleared away,'
They said, it would be grand!'
If seven maids with seven mops
Swept it for half a year,
Do you suppose,' the Walrus said,
That they could get it clear?'
I doubt it,' said the Carpenter,
And shed a bitter tear.
O Oysters, come and walk with us!'
The Walrus did beseech.
A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,
Along the briny beach:
We cannot do with more than four,
To give a hand to each.'
The eldest Oyster looked at him,
But never a word he said:
The eldest Oyster winked his eye,
And shook his heavy head —
Meaning to say he did not choose
To leave the oyster-bed.
But four young Oysters hurried up,
All eager for the treat:
Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,
Their shoes were clean and neat —
And this was odd, because, you know,
They hadn't any feet.
Four other Oysters followed them,
And yet another four;
And thick and fast they came at last,
And more, and more, and more —
All hopping through the frothy waves,
And scrambling to the shore.
The Walrus and the Carpenter
Walked on a mile or so,
And then they rested on a rock
Conveniently low:
And all the little Oysters stood
And waited in a row.
The time has come,' the Walrus said,
To talk of many things:
Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —
Of cabbages — and kings —
And why the sea is boiling hot —
And whether pigs have wings.'
But wait a bit,' the Oysters cried,
Before we have our chat;
For some of us are out of breath,
And all of us are fat!'
No hurry!' said the Carpenter.
They thanked him much for that.
A loaf of bread,' the Walrus said,
Is what we chiefly need:
Pepper and vinegar besides
Are very good indeed —
Now if you're ready, Oysters dear,
We can begin to feed.'
But not on us!' the Oysters cried,
Turning a little blue.
After such kindness, that would be
A dismal thing to do!'
The night is fine,' the Walrus said.
Do you admire the view?
It was so kind of you to come!
And you are very nice!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
Cut us another slice:
I wish you were not quite so deaf —
I've had to ask you twice!'
It seems a shame,' the Walrus said,
To play them such a trick,
After we've brought them out so far,
And made them trot so quick!'
The Carpenter said nothing but
The butter's spread too thick!'
I weep for you,' the Walrus said:
I deeply sympathize.'
With sobs and tears he sorted out
Those of the largest size,
Holding his pocket-handkerchief
Before his streaming eyes.
O Oysters,' said the Carpenter,
You've had a pleasant run!
Shall we be trotting home again?'
But answer came there none —
And this was scarcely odd, because
They'd eaten every one."