Jhumpa Lahiri. Pretty woman. No really - her picture on the back of my library copy kept me intrigued each time I shut the book, inwardly cursing her.
Actually, she's a great writer. She has poise. She has style. She looks it.
I loved the Interpreter of Maladies. I even thought the Namesake was decent, although the story had nothing to do with the name of the book, and it seemed to me like she was given an impossible deadline by her publishers to declare a name for her book, which she did, with the plot only half-formed in her head, and when she realized after 3 chapters of writing it that it was really lame, she continued writing anyway, taking the story on its rightful course, trying till the end to make the name of the book relate to the story, and failed. But it was still a good read, if I completely ignored the title. And they say what's in a name.
She has talent. But Oh My God - she's depressing.
I think I would be scared to know her as a person, knowing that she was analyzing my every move, interpreting every action as being and meaning something deeper, darker, sinister, pointing like glow-rods towards my guilt. So if I were to randomly declare that I always wear slippers, (not that I would, because that would be rather silly) she would make it seem like I was one of those girls who was trained to keep her feet clean on the cold bare floors of Indian houses, and craved the feeling of rubber against my sole even when none was required on All-American-Carpeted floors, even though the simple explanation could just be that I just wore slippers because the dogs butt-rubbed themselves all over the carpets.
Even that's all right. But really, she's running out of content. Every story reads the same now. Newly married couple from India moves to the US. They have a tough life. Then they have kids. And the kids are totally screwed up and confused ABCDs. Meanwhile, the parents think back to the lives they left behind. Their parents. Who get sick and die and/or crave their children's company, children who left them to chase fame, fortunes, and Ford-Escorts.
Okay, so I'm not pigeon-holing her. She adds variety. Sometimes, it is just one guy who moves from India (Calcutta actually) and finds an american woman and marries her. And then they have kids. And the kids are totally screwed up and confused half-ABCDs. Etc. etc.
Pain, misery, home-sickness, guilt. And that is Ms. Lahiri's range of experiences for her characters.
Somebody needs to introduce her to the AerOnion.
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