I'm beginning to think that I'm just not good enough for Pulitzers. I started reading Jhumpa Lahiri's The Interpreter of Maladies in April, or May. I got one story in, picked up a fantasy book, and left Lahiri in the dust for months. I got back from Europe, read 3 more stories, and then read 3 fantasy books before forcing myself to finish the collection. I'm just not cut out for these books.
The Interpreter of Maladies (IoM) is a collection of short stories spanning continents and cultures. Transcending the boundaries of each story, however, are the character types in play - uniformly Indian and outcasts within their own communities and within foreign cultures, the characters in Lahiri's stories struggle with their identities and heritage. Each story is distinct and crisp, yet retains a languid quality and slightly off-putting flavor. Lahiri has a captivating way of describing emotion and scene, yet the collection fails to grab the reader's attention in any sustained fashion.
While the stories don't always end in unhappiness, the collection features a staple of Pulitzer Prize-winning novels: harsh illumination of the human condition. Maybe I'm an idealist, but I like my books to at least be cheerful, or humorous in their cynicism. I don't demand a happy ending, but The Interpreter of Maladies offers little to lighten the gloom of unhappiness.
Deft analogies and use of language only go so far, and for me, beauty of language could not save The Interpreter of Maladies from its subject matter.
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