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The Enigma of Arrival V S Naipaul 9780330487153 Books

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The Enigma of Arrival V S Naipaul 9780330487153 Books

This book describes the feeling of being thrown into a society that one does not belong to, where it's impossible to belong because , first, the past (the writer's old culture) has been disconnected from him, and, second, in the modern society the external circumstances change too fast and unpleasantly for the mind and soul to adapt.
The book is about a fragment of modern English-speaking society, seen from the perspective of an acute observer from a wildly different culture. The observer's original culture was destroyed by immigration, and he tries to interpret fragments of it from his childhood, like the meaning of sweeping the dirt outside the house each morning. From a related perspective, one can also read Spengler's 'Decline of the West', and John Berger's Pig Earth.
I picked up this book and began reading it at a friend's weekend house and couldn't stop. So, I bought my own copy. That was thirteen years ago. This remains one of my favorite books, in memory. The haiunting cover piece, from a painting by de Chirico, fits the message very well.


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The Enigma of Arrival V S Naipaul 9780330487153 Books Reviews

V.S, Naipaul is a wonderful writer, there is no doubt about that. 3/4 of this book is about what he sees as he walks. He has a distant relationship with the people he passes on the path. The reader becomes acquainted with these people slowly and superficially, just as Naipaul does and as he wishes. He comments numerous times about the continual changes in the landscape and the changes in the people who occupy the houses. The book is more a journal than any other form of literature. Naipaul records his ill health and gradual aging process. There is a story but it is secondary to the writer's observations. "Enigma of Arrival " is actually a showcase of Naipaul's writing skill, and it is impressive, however I wanted a story. I appreciate the book for what it is, and regret that we didn't become closer to the people he passed on his walking path.
Dull memoir, only one character me me me Naipaul. Flowery and overwritten.
I truly feel the part of the Philistine in writing this review.
I bought the book to increase my culture.
I bought the book in appreciation of a Nobel Laureate.
I bought the book because I felt I should
None of these reasons were good enough reasons for me to spend time reading it.
The book is painfully slow, and difficult to read. The plot is nearly non-existant, but that can be overcome. The author's point was elusive, making me wonder why I read this. I've known root canals to be less painful.
If you are into Naipul, this may be the book for you.
If you're looking to get into "The Great Books", start with another.
Maybe I'll try again in a few years.
Am enjoying the descriptions by the author who feels much like an outsider, in England for example,
I am still reading the book, have not finished it yet.
Another reviewer said to read this in the winter, so I did. The rain and drizzle trapped me indoors so Naipaul had a captive audience. I didn't relish the book or the characters, nor did I think the attention to detail to be much of an inspiration. I was kind of amused with some of the ideas, and kept thinking there was a bigger, sublime hidden message that would eventually jump out at me. Finally in the last few pages he tells us what motivated him to write this book, but even then the purpose sort of lost me. His attention to explaining simple things in elaborate detail show that he's an accompished writer, so I find it quixotic that so much energy went into a book with such a flat, unemotional, nearly pointless ramble of words.
I would never have picked up this book -- not my usual genre. However, my book group in Tucson chose the selection so I dutifully read the whole thing as carefully as possible.
You cannot read this book for plot. There is no plot. You can't read for character. All characters are viewed through the eyes of the narrator, a thoroughly unlikeable man who has come to the country to write and to heal himself from other writing disasters.
The book can be intensely frustrating. The narrator lives in his own head. I've known others like him -- people who respond to every person and place intellectually. Unlike an anthropologist, he is not trying to understand the culture of those he meets. Rather each individual is put under the narrator's verbal microscope, dissected on the basis of external appearance. We learn that a gardener always dresses up formally and changes clothes with seasons -- but we do not know why. We observe the comings and goings of the village people and the narrator's landlord -- but we do not understand their hearts, minds or motives.
The narrator's distance ultimately comes across as hostile superiority. He does not belong here in this house in the country and he knows he will never fit in. Yet he never allows himself to have a genuine reaction to what he experiences. His encounter with the English countryside is filtered through the writers and artists he knows Wordsworth, Constable, and more.
Amazingly, we keep turning the pages. Naipul violates every rule of writing. He tells rather than shows. He does not build suspense. The characters do not evoke sympathy. Yet Naipul's command of language keep the reader turning the pages, even when he launches into long descriptions of country places.
It's about language, not plot.
The ending of the book yields the greatest insight. We realize the narrator has become a man without a country, at home nowhere. He sees his own rituals through the eyes of a stranger. It is sad and, perhaps, inevitable. But in the end I, as a reader, was as detached from the narrator as he was from his own environment.
Achingly beautiful. Cannot get it out of my mind. It has stayed with me for a month.
This book describes the feeling of being thrown into a society that one does not belong to, where it's impossible to belong because , first, the past (the writer's old culture) has been disconnected from him, and, second, in the modern society the external circumstances change too fast and unpleasantly for the mind and soul to adapt.
The book is about a fragment of modern English-speaking society, seen from the perspective of an acute observer from a wildly different culture. The observer's original culture was destroyed by immigration, and he tries to interpret fragments of it from his childhood, like the meaning of sweeping the dirt outside the house each morning. From a related perspective, one can also read Spengler's 'Decline of the West', and John Berger's Pig Earth.
I picked up this book and began reading it at a friend's weekend house and couldn't stop. So, I bought my own copy. That was thirteen years ago. This remains one of my favorite books, in memory. The haiunting cover piece, from a painting by de Chirico, fits the message very well.