This is the first fiction book I am reading since, well, probably two decades or more. It's part of our daughter's IB reading assignment, and I thought it might be a good idea to accompany her in this effort. I was mostly hoping for discussions over dinner, but it turns out that I am completely enchanted by the prosaic language Arundhati Roy wields like a wand.
I only knew Roy from a quote into which I ran in 2020, when researching on the metaphysical cause for the COVID-19 pandemic, and thought, that she must have a very deep understanding of how humanity evolves and regresses: https://www.mingong.org/blog-en/covid-19-and-the-end-of-modernity
By now I am spell bound. How can somebody who did not grow up in an Anglo-saxon country master a language to such a degree? To be sure: I don't understand the Indian sub-continent very well. There was a four week trip to the Indian metros in 2008 and before that a curious reading of In Spite of the Gods by British journalist Edward Luce.
A few years before that, I touched upon Indian and Pakistani subculture in Great Britain with the funny read The Buddha of Suburbia. I do only now notice that there is a pattern - either with me picking such reads or with authors from such cultural background to weave their stories around larger than human entities.
My English thinking self is extremely grateful for this fresh and fragrant breeze. It leaves me wondering, if not more "dried up societies" should drink from the fountain of rejuvenation by rearing children from different cultures in their language. Reading Arundhati Roy is like looking at a great impressionist painting. The single strokes of the brush vanish into a picture which etches itself into the mind of the reader.
I only knew Roy from a quote into which I ran in 2020, when researching on the metaphysical cause for the COVID-19 pandemic, and thought, that she must have a very deep understanding of how humanity evolves and regresses: https://www.mingong.org/blog-en/covid-19-and-the-end-of-modernity
By now I am spell bound. How can somebody who did not grow up in an Anglo-saxon country master a language to such a degree? To be sure: I don't understand the Indian sub-continent very well. There was a four week trip to the Indian metros in 2008 and before that a curious reading of In Spite of the Gods by British journalist Edward Luce.
A few years before that, I touched upon Indian and Pakistani subculture in Great Britain with the funny read The Buddha of Suburbia. I do only now notice that there is a pattern - either with me picking such reads or with authors from such cultural background to weave their stories around larger than human entities.
My English thinking self is extremely grateful for this fresh and fragrant breeze. It leaves me wondering, if not more "dried up societies" should drink from the fountain of rejuvenation by rearing children from different cultures in their language. Reading Arundhati Roy is like looking at a great impressionist painting. The single strokes of the brush vanish into a picture which etches itself into the mind of the reader.
