Interpreter of Maladies, The Namesake, Unaccustomed EarthWhen I was much younger, working in the receiving area of a large department store, I was instructed to bring a pallet of porcelain goods to "Johnson" in the China department. "Johnson" turned out to be John Singh, a young man from India, who was working part-time while in medical school. In the course of my duties, I would stop in and see him, these visits in his quiet department were a welcome respite from the clamor in the rest of the sub-basement where we worked. He had gone home to India for a few weeks and when he returned he had pictures of his visit. Family, cities, and sights, all of them wildly exotic to my sheltered sensibilities. The pictures of the Sun Temple at Konarak, with all of its erotic carvings, were the topper. He explained that they were historical, that the people of India were very restrained in public displays of affection, and very circumspect about sex.
I was returned to the memory of those Konarak images while reading the title story from
Interpreter of Maladies, one of a trio of books I've just finished reading. Winner of a Pulitzer Prize, this is as fine a collection of short stories as I've read in a long while. Jhumpa Lahiri, born in London and raised in Rhode Island, explores the lives of various immigrants and first generation Americans who travel from India and back again. She explores the space between men and women, in arranged marriages and affairs, and the inhibiting forces of tradition and family.
The Namesake, a novel, follows one family over many years. It revolves around Gogol, a boy named after the Russian writer, who grows up with a self-loathing which he blames on his name, but is probably due to his lack of any sense of belonging. The distance between all of the characters, coupled with the poised, deliberate writing, may make this book difficult to stay with for its duration.
Unaccustomed Earth contains more stories, and a three part novella,
Hema and Kaushik, which may have the best structure of any of these stories.
It isn't often I get to read the entirety of one author's work in the space of a couple of weeks. I was struck most by the tone set by the author, hers is a style that quickly gets into one's head, very natural, almost conversational at times, especially when describing food or fashion. Lahiri's writing, when read over three books, has the characteristics of a fugue: repeating themes, varying in color and intensity, but always returning to the base- the space between men and women, and how culture and family dominate and define it.
Reading them made me miss
RS a little, as well.
With the coming of warm weather comes firework season. Minnesota only has wimpy, non-exploding types, although enough people find a way to injure themselves on them. The illegal ones they bring in from South Dakota, are another matter. As a child, the best small firecrackers were Black Cats, followed by Zebras. The air of our summer days was filled with the scents of gunpowder and punk, and the sounds of explosions, some sharp, others muffled as we tried to blow cans high into the sky. We were young and dumb, although no one on our block ever got any injury worse than a "stinger." The best big ones were M-80's, quite capable of destroying a toilet in an unattended park restroom, or causing a permanent disfiguration. 
More rummage.
While rummaging through "The Archives" (and doesn't that sound better than "digging through a pile of junk in the basement?") I came across this little (2" x 4") treasure of an oil painting. 
