La cosa che più mi ha infastidito del libro sono i continui salti temporali, nella narrazione. Un po' va bene, anche molti vanno bene, ma talvolta mi sono parsi esagerati.
Per il resto, è tutto bellissimo. L'ambientazione, in India, tra famiglie ricche, comunisti, influenza inglese, tradizioni antiche e caste di Intoccabili. La storia, tragica, passionale e tristissima, vista con gli occhi dei due bambini che ne usciranno con traumi inguaribili. E soprattutto lo stile, con frasi spezzettate, incisi che arrivano chissà da dove (dalla canzone di Popeye che viveva in un caravan tu-tu), dall'Uso delle Maiuscole che designano Parole Importanti. Uno stile quasi hip-hop.
E le metafore: si potrebbe farne un compendio, stupendo, solo delle metafore.
Ho amoto questa storia ambientata in India con i protagonisti che devono combattere contro i pregiudizi e il sistema delle caste. Non sempre amo i racconti che viaggiano avanti e indietro nel tempo ma in questo caso la struttura del romanzo funziona e la lettura è avvincente...Continua
The novel “the God of small things" has been written in 1997 by the Indian writer Arundhati Roy: it is is her debut work and it captured the world audience's attention.
Thanks to it she was awarded the Booker Prize, the most prestigious prize in England.
The story is settled in Ayemenem,in India at the end of the 60s and it is not an easy reading as the present and the past are mixed together in a sort of suspended dream ,but it is an unforgettable experience through colors, lights, fragraces sounds and strong sensorial perceptions.
In this amazing atmosphere the writer tells a simple story: Ammu, the daughter of a senior official divorced from her husband after discovering that he is an alcoholic and also a violent man.
She comes back home with her two children.
Estha and Rahel were two-egg twins. “Dizygotic” doctors called them. Ammu loved her children and for herself–she knew that there would be no more chances, because according Indian traditions, a divorced woman is deprived of any positions and morever if this woman falls in love with a paria, an «untouchable», she woundl't have any chances to be forgiven.
When Ammu looked at herself in her wedding photographs, she felt the woman that looked back at her was someone else.
Sometimes she was the most beautiful woman that Estha and Rahel had ever seen. And sometimes she wasn't.
She was keen for them to realize that they (like herself) lived on sufferance in the Ayemenem House, their maternal grandmother's house, where they really had no right to be.
Ammu quarrelled with a fate, the fate of the wretched Man-less woman; human beings were creatures of habit, and it was amazing the kind of things they could get used to our minds have been invaded by a war. A war that we have won and lost. The very worst sort of war. A war that captures dreams and re-dreams them.
Her dreams have been doctored. She belonged nowhere. Her sorrows would have been never be sad enough. Her joys never happy enough. Her dreams never big enough. Her and the life of their children lives never important enough.
Ammu learned to live with this cold, calculating cruelty. She developed a lofty sense of injustice.
She did exactly nothing to avoid quarrels and confrontations.
But she explained to Estha and Rahel that people always loved best what they Identified most with.
“Promise me you'll always love each other,” she'd say, as she drew her children to her.
“We"ll have our own house,” Ammu said.
“A little house,” Rahel said.
“And in our school we"ll have classrooms and blackboards,” Estha said.
“And chalk.” “And Real Teachers teaching.” “And proper punishments,” Rahel said.
This was the stuff their dreams were made of. On the day that Estha was Returned. Chalk. Blackboards. Proper punishments. They didn't ask to be let off lightly. They only asked for punishments that fitted their crimes.
Their crimes was the accident occurred to Sophie Mol who was in a boat with them on the river.
Sophie Mol was Estha and Rahel's cousin, their uncle Chacko"s daughter.
She was visiting from England with her English mother, Margaret Kochamma, who had divorced from Chacko.
Estha and Rahel were seven years old when she died. Sophie Mol was almost nine.
Her loss stepped softly around the Ayemenem House like a quiet thing in socks.
It is curious how sometimes the memory of death lives on for so much longer than the memory of the life that it purloined.
The Loss of Sophie Mol grew robust and alive. It was always there. Like a fruit in season. Every season. As permanent as a government job. It ushered Rahel through childhood (from school to school to school) into womanhood.
In some places, like the country that the all family came from, various kinds of despair competed for primacy. And that personal despair could never be desperate enough. That something happened when personal turmoil dropped by at the wayside shrine of the vast, violent, circling, driving, ridiculous, insane, unfeasible, public turmoil of a nation. That Big God howled like a hot wind, and demanded obeisance. Then Small God cozy and contained, private and limited came away cauterized, laughing numbly at his own temerity. Inured by the confirmation of his own inconsequence, he became resilient and truly indifferent Nothing mattered much. Nothing much mattered. And the less it mattered, the less it mattered. It was never important enough. Because Worse Things had happened. In the country that they came from, poised forever between the terror of war and the horror of peace. Worse. Things kept happening.
So Small God laughed a hollow laugh, and skipped away cheerfully exasperating expression.
And now twenty-three years later, Rahel, dark woman in a yellow T-shirt, turns to Estha in the dark.
It was raining when Rahel came back to Ayemenem.
Yet Esther's silence was never awkward. Never intrusive. Never noisy. It wasn't an accusing, protesting silence
It took them even longer to notice that he never spoke. Some never noticed at all.
Estha occupied very little space in the world.
Estha started his walking. He walked for hours on end.
People got used to seeing him on the road. A well-dressed man with a quiet walk. His face grew dark and outdoorsy. Rugged. Wrinkled by the sun. He began to look wiser than he really was. Like a fisherman in a city. With sea-secrets in him.
It had been quiet in Esther's head until Rahel came. But with her she had brought the sound of passing trains, and the light and shade and light and shade that falls on you if you have a window seat.
They had known each other before Life began.
There is very little that anyone could say to clarify what happened next. Nothing that (in Mammachi"s book) would separate Sex from Love. Or Needs from Feelings.
Only that there were tears. Only that Quietness and Only that they held each other close, long after it was over. Only that what they shared that night was not happiness, but hideous grief.
Only that once again they broke the Love Laws. That lay down who should be loved. And how. And how much.
The God of Loss.
The God of Small Things.
The God of Goosebumps and Sudden Smiles.
He could do only one thing at a time.
They knew that there was nowhere for them to go. They had nothing. No future. So they stuck to the small things.
They knew that things could change in a day.