The Devil's Chimney: A Novel

Rating:
Summary: an african arundhati roy
Review: Another impulse buy (despite the convenience of Amazon, the ability to browse the occassional page will forever more keep me loyal to old-fashioned bookshops). South Africa is the scene, and the story of two women gently unfolds, narrated by a middle-aged member of the boer white trash community. She tells the story of a local myth, of a certain english woman who once ran an ostrich farm, way back when whites were whites and blacks were trash, when ostrich feathers were in fashion, when africa was still the dark continent. Its a moving story about the schizoprenia of society, where racial lines were as strong as sexual ones, where women and men had clearly identifiable roles. Our turn-of-the century rule-breaker is a little like the female lead from'the god of small things'. Very much so. Our narrators story also evolves, and the mythical woman takes on a fantastic journey as the personalities of the narrator and narrated get all jumbled up into one raging ball of unspent emotion, frustration, alcoholic stupor, forsaken love, misplaced feelings and confused identities. I'd say this is a good book, although its similarities in many ways to Arundhati Roy's work prevents it from being a great book. There are some disadvantages of being a second, even though its a damn good read, and probably written in parrallel to Roy's.

I wonder why the english speaking world have suddenly fallen head over heels with books about the indian subcontinent - witness the irrational admiration for soap opera's extraordinaire such as 'a suitable boy' and 'a fine balance'. I think africa or latin america, (for that matter) could do with a little more attention, and are equally fascinating.

Rating:
Summary: an african arundhati roy
Review: Another impulse buy (despite the convenience of Amazon, the ability to browse the occassional page will forever more keep me loyal to old-fashioned bookshops). South Africa is the scene, and the story of two women gently unfolds, narrated by a middle-aged member of the boer white trash community. She tells the story of a local myth, of a certain english woman who once ran an ostrich farm, way back when whites were whites and blacks were trash, when ostrich feathers were in fashion, when africa was still the dark continent. Its a moving story about the schizoprenia of society, where racial lines were as strong as sexual ones, where women and men had clearly identifiable roles. Our turn-of-the century rule-breaker is a little like the female lead from'the god of small things'. Very much so. Our narrators story also evolves, and the mythical woman takes on a fantastic journey as the personalities of the narrator and narrated get all jumbled up into one raging ball of unspent emotion, frustration, alcoholic stupor, forsaken love, misplaced feelings and confused identities. I'd say this is a good book, although its similarities in many ways to Arundhati Roy's work prevents it from being a great book. There are some disadvantages of being a second, even though its a damn good read, and probably written in parrallel to Roy's.

I wonder why the english speaking world have suddenly fallen head over heels with books about the indian subcontinent - witness the irrational admiration for soap opera's extraordinaire such as 'a suitable boy' and 'a fine balance'. I think africa or latin america, (for that matter) could do with a little more attention, and are equally fascinating.