Last night I finished reading Brick Lane by Monica Ali. This book was very well-reviewed, so I reckon my expectations were pretty high. Before it was even published, the manuscript got the author included on Granta’s “Best of Young British Novelists” list. In 2003 the novel was short-listed for the Man Booker Prize. It was also short-listed for two other literary prizes, and won two: the British Book Awards Newcomer of the Year and the W.H. Smith People’s Choice Award. Additionally, it was named one of the best books of the year by several periodicals, including The Washington Post, The Guardian and others.
I’m going to have to respectfully disagree with all of those esteemed reviewers and publications. I really didn’t think the book was all that good. The main problem, I found, is that it’s just not that compelling. I had to force myself through all four hundred pages. I didn’t finish it because I was involved, but because I was willing myself to do so. Of course I was going to finish the book. I always finish books, even when I’m enjoying them far less than I enjoyed this one. This is partly due to a neurosis about leaving things unfinished. In this case, it was compounded by the fact that I was reading Brick Lane for a book club, and I was the one who’d picked it. I would have looked quite the jack-ass had I shown up for a meeting without reading my selection. There are a few sections that did get me turning the pages, but it certainly wasn’t like reading The Kite Runner. That book kept me up for four hours in the middle of the night because I was so involved in the story that I simply couldn’t put the book down.
While I’m talking about compelling books, I’d like to bring up Jane Green. She’s almost the same age as Monica Ali, and she’s published nine books in the last seven years. I’ve read four of them. Jane Green, however, is unlikely to be short-listed for any prestigious literary prizes. In that context, her oeuvre would most likely be dismissed as “chick-lit” by those who insist upon making a distinction between “popular fiction” and “literary fiction.” Jane Green doesn’t appear to be trying to make any overarching or subtextual points about society, geo-politics, culture or metaphysics in her novels. All of this ignores one salient point: Jane Green is an extremely talented writer. Her books are very easy to read, they’re compelling, and her heroines are fully-realized and (to varying degrees) likeable. She can transition from laugh-out-loud funny moments to something serious so smoothly that you don’t even notice it until the heaviness is already upon you. This increases its impact.
Monica Ali does manage to craft characters that are three-dimensional, but for the most part, they are not especially likeable or interesting. I realize that I haven’t put in a synopsis. The book is rather rambling and episodic, which I suppose is understandable as it covers a very long period of time (more than twenty years). Let’s say it’s the tale of Nazneen Ahmad, a young Bangladeshi woman who moves to England for an arranged marriage. Through the years, she experiences the travails of being an immigrant, a wife, and a mother, and then starts an affair with a younger man. These are the stops on her journey from believing that fate controls all to a belief in her ability to make her own choices. So, yes, the author appears to be making a point about personal agency versus fatalism. Great stuff, as subtext goes. But fatalism is kind of appropriate if your life is this dreary and monotonous. Even in England, these women are constrained by a suffocating and antediluvian patriarchy. They live in tiny, overcrowded apartments in drab council estates. They have trouble relating to and controlling their children, many of whom feel they are not really English but not really Bengali either. And Nazneen and her friends are incredibly fortunate compared to many of their female relations back home in Bangladesh.
This is illustrated most vividly by the letters Nazneen receives from her sister Hasina. Hasina ran away from home at a young age to marry a man whom she loved. Disowned by her father, beaten by her husband, and then forced to fend for herself, things keep getting more and more hellish for poor Hasina. Her letters, rendered in broken English, are among the most compelling sections of the book. Hasina, despite the series of grave misfortunes she endures, never seems to sink into the slough of self-pity. Her faith holds steady. Nor does she seem paralyzed into inaction by excessive self-reflection, like her Londoni sister. In fact, Brick Lane works better as a social document than a story; I found that Hasina’s letters and the other parts of the book set in Bangladesh were among the most interesting parts. If you want to learn something about Bangladesh, and about Bangladeshi immigrants in the UK, this book is a good place to start. This leads me to my next point.
I suspect that part of the reason this book was so well-received is because it’s the sort of novel that a lot of people feel that they should like. Hundreds of thousands of white Britons eat curry and chicken tikka everyday, and the vast majority of them probably couldn’t pick Sharukh Khan out of a line up or tell you the first thing about the Bangladeshi War of Independence. I don’t think it’s much of stretch to imagine that readers of a multiculti bent might feel obliged to speak well of a novel that so earnestly explores the immigrant experience of South Asians in the UK. But it’s possible to balance this sort of social documentation with a gripping narrative. The Kite Runner taught me a great deal about the recent history and culture of Afghanistan, and it has a great story that almost never lags.
Another problem I found with Brick Lane is the near-total lack of comic relief. Since reading Michael Cunningham’s The Hours last year, I’ve become convinced of the importance of a bit of humor in any novel. Regardless of how serious or deep the intentions of the author, leaving out even a trace of whimsy is not a great idea. Books that are unrelievedly serious are rarely fun to read, no matter how talented the writer is. The few funny moments found in Brick Lane principally come from Chanu, Nazneen’s much older husband. Chanu comes across as perhaps the book’s most likeable character, even though he is snobby, passive and slightly pathetic. There is real, human, affecting emotion in this book as well. Again, much of it comes from Chanu. His warmth towards his wife, and the nature of his friendship with a character named Dr. Azad stand out as high points of the story. I don’t mean to say this is a bad novel by any means. It’s actually pretty good. But I do think it’s overrated.
I’m going to have to respectfully disagree with all of those esteemed reviewers and publications. I really didn’t think the book was all that good. The main problem, I found, is that it’s just not that compelling. I had to force myself through all four hundred pages. I didn’t finish it because I was involved, but because I was willing myself to do so. Of course I was going to finish the book. I always finish books, even when I’m enjoying them far less than I enjoyed this one. This is partly due to a neurosis about leaving things unfinished. In this case, it was compounded by the fact that I was reading Brick Lane for a book club, and I was the one who’d picked it. I would have looked quite the jack-ass had I shown up for a meeting without reading my selection. There are a few sections that did get me turning the pages, but it certainly wasn’t like reading The Kite Runner. That book kept me up for four hours in the middle of the night because I was so involved in the story that I simply couldn’t put the book down.
While I’m talking about compelling books, I’d like to bring up Jane Green. She’s almost the same age as Monica Ali, and she’s published nine books in the last seven years. I’ve read four of them. Jane Green, however, is unlikely to be short-listed for any prestigious literary prizes. In that context, her oeuvre would most likely be dismissed as “chick-lit” by those who insist upon making a distinction between “popular fiction” and “literary fiction.” Jane Green doesn’t appear to be trying to make any overarching or subtextual points about society, geo-politics, culture or metaphysics in her novels. All of this ignores one salient point: Jane Green is an extremely talented writer. Her books are very easy to read, they’re compelling, and her heroines are fully-realized and (to varying degrees) likeable. She can transition from laugh-out-loud funny moments to something serious so smoothly that you don’t even notice it until the heaviness is already upon you. This increases its impact.
Monica Ali does manage to craft characters that are three-dimensional, but for the most part, they are not especially likeable or interesting. I realize that I haven’t put in a synopsis. The book is rather rambling and episodic, which I suppose is understandable as it covers a very long period of time (more than twenty years). Let’s say it’s the tale of Nazneen Ahmad, a young Bangladeshi woman who moves to England for an arranged marriage. Through the years, she experiences the travails of being an immigrant, a wife, and a mother, and then starts an affair with a younger man. These are the stops on her journey from believing that fate controls all to a belief in her ability to make her own choices. So, yes, the author appears to be making a point about personal agency versus fatalism. Great stuff, as subtext goes. But fatalism is kind of appropriate if your life is this dreary and monotonous. Even in England, these women are constrained by a suffocating and antediluvian patriarchy. They live in tiny, overcrowded apartments in drab council estates. They have trouble relating to and controlling their children, many of whom feel they are not really English but not really Bengali either. And Nazneen and her friends are incredibly fortunate compared to many of their female relations back home in Bangladesh.
This is illustrated most vividly by the letters Nazneen receives from her sister Hasina. Hasina ran away from home at a young age to marry a man whom she loved. Disowned by her father, beaten by her husband, and then forced to fend for herself, things keep getting more and more hellish for poor Hasina. Her letters, rendered in broken English, are among the most compelling sections of the book. Hasina, despite the series of grave misfortunes she endures, never seems to sink into the slough of self-pity. Her faith holds steady. Nor does she seem paralyzed into inaction by excessive self-reflection, like her Londoni sister. In fact, Brick Lane works better as a social document than a story; I found that Hasina’s letters and the other parts of the book set in Bangladesh were among the most interesting parts. If you want to learn something about Bangladesh, and about Bangladeshi immigrants in the UK, this book is a good place to start. This leads me to my next point.
I suspect that part of the reason this book was so well-received is because it’s the sort of novel that a lot of people feel that they should like. Hundreds of thousands of white Britons eat curry and chicken tikka everyday, and the vast majority of them probably couldn’t pick Sharukh Khan out of a line up or tell you the first thing about the Bangladeshi War of Independence. I don’t think it’s much of stretch to imagine that readers of a multiculti bent might feel obliged to speak well of a novel that so earnestly explores the immigrant experience of South Asians in the UK. But it’s possible to balance this sort of social documentation with a gripping narrative. The Kite Runner taught me a great deal about the recent history and culture of Afghanistan, and it has a great story that almost never lags.
Another problem I found with Brick Lane is the near-total lack of comic relief. Since reading Michael Cunningham’s The Hours last year, I’ve become convinced of the importance of a bit of humor in any novel. Regardless of how serious or deep the intentions of the author, leaving out even a trace of whimsy is not a great idea. Books that are unrelievedly serious are rarely fun to read, no matter how talented the writer is. The few funny moments found in Brick Lane principally come from Chanu, Nazneen’s much older husband. Chanu comes across as perhaps the book’s most likeable character, even though he is snobby, passive and slightly pathetic. There is real, human, affecting emotion in this book as well. Again, much of it comes from Chanu. His warmth towards his wife, and the nature of his friendship with a character named Dr. Azad stand out as high points of the story. I don’t mean to say this is a bad novel by any means. It’s actually pretty good. But I do think it’s overrated.
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