February 11: Vikram Seth, Two Lives
This is a good book and a worthwhile read. Unfortunately, it reinforced my suppositions. This in itself is not surprising, I suppose, given the similarities I share with the author: we both have PhDs in economics from Stanford; we both took a long time to finish our dissertations; we'd both rather be writing something besides economics; even both our forearms hurt when we spend too much time writing.
What is surprising is the way in which it affirmed my prejudices.
"That kid," I say to Paige, pointing to a semi-adorable girl of about four years. She trails behind her mother in the makeup store, examining a low shelf of eyeliner. "Someone could slit her throat. Would it have more meaning than if someone had killed a goat? This is the first time I've ever thought anything like that. I have lost the belief that there is something special about our species."
Paige replies with simple, patient, characteristic wisdom, "Goats are pretty great."
Maybe. I don't know. I do know that I disagree, at times vehemently, with Seth. Not so much with what he writes--although there is way too much material in the book, which could have been condensed--as with what he doesn't write. He talks about work. He talks about education. About careers. About vacations. About watching television. He spends about a third of the book fretting over property. In short, he covers the gamut of normality.
Very few of the reasons that life matters show up on resumes. Not enough of them show up in this book.
To be sure, there is real drama, real meaning sandwiched between the petty--losing an arm at Monte Cassino, death at Auschwitz, straight love, implied lesbian love, many friendships, Shanti’s “kinematographic” diversions. But in the end, the author seems to have relinquished independent ideals and succumbed to his good Uncle's faith—indeed India’s faith--in hard work along a standard path. Seth understandably idolizes the two lives he depicts; they are, after all, parental figures to him, survivors of the worst of WWII, and there is much to be admired. But therein lies the book's weakness. These are not lives to be idolized. Post-war, they are lives largely lost. Normal lives.
I lament the unlived potential of Aunty Henny and Shanti Uncle. They should have traveled more. They should have visited family more. They should have confronted their pasts, their desires, and (in the case of Henny) their sexuality. They should have challenged themselves creatively. Most of all, she should have had someone to deeply love. And he should have been deeply loved.
Shanti Uncle died shortly before his ninetieth birthday. I will get on a plane tomorrow to celebrate my grandmother’s ninetieth. She will offer me food when I arrive, we will sit in front of the television, watch the 10 o’clock news and Late Night. My grandmother is a super-human figure to me, a physical, mental, and spiritual Hercules. In the back of my mind, I will be wondering: Could she have gotten more out of her ninety years?
“It is never enough.” Huxley’s deathbed wisdom is true. But just because it is not enough doesn’t mean it isn’t more or it isn’t less.
At the conclusion of the book, Shanti can think of little to give to those he loves besides money. And Seth, at least temporarily, changes his high opinion of his uncle simply because of what the hallucinating old man, overcome by illness and a mere shell of himself, decides to do with his will. Seems a little goatish.
What is surprising is the way in which it affirmed my prejudices.
"That kid," I say to Paige, pointing to a semi-adorable girl of about four years. She trails behind her mother in the makeup store, examining a low shelf of eyeliner. "Someone could slit her throat. Would it have more meaning than if someone had killed a goat? This is the first time I've ever thought anything like that. I have lost the belief that there is something special about our species."
Paige replies with simple, patient, characteristic wisdom, "Goats are pretty great."
Maybe. I don't know. I do know that I disagree, at times vehemently, with Seth. Not so much with what he writes--although there is way too much material in the book, which could have been condensed--as with what he doesn't write. He talks about work. He talks about education. About careers. About vacations. About watching television. He spends about a third of the book fretting over property. In short, he covers the gamut of normality.
Very few of the reasons that life matters show up on resumes. Not enough of them show up in this book.
To be sure, there is real drama, real meaning sandwiched between the petty--losing an arm at Monte Cassino, death at Auschwitz, straight love, implied lesbian love, many friendships, Shanti’s “kinematographic” diversions. But in the end, the author seems to have relinquished independent ideals and succumbed to his good Uncle's faith—indeed India’s faith--in hard work along a standard path. Seth understandably idolizes the two lives he depicts; they are, after all, parental figures to him, survivors of the worst of WWII, and there is much to be admired. But therein lies the book's weakness. These are not lives to be idolized. Post-war, they are lives largely lost. Normal lives.
I lament the unlived potential of Aunty Henny and Shanti Uncle. They should have traveled more. They should have visited family more. They should have confronted their pasts, their desires, and (in the case of Henny) their sexuality. They should have challenged themselves creatively. Most of all, she should have had someone to deeply love. And he should have been deeply loved.
Shanti Uncle died shortly before his ninetieth birthday. I will get on a plane tomorrow to celebrate my grandmother’s ninetieth. She will offer me food when I arrive, we will sit in front of the television, watch the 10 o’clock news and Late Night. My grandmother is a super-human figure to me, a physical, mental, and spiritual Hercules. In the back of my mind, I will be wondering: Could she have gotten more out of her ninety years?
“It is never enough.” Huxley’s deathbed wisdom is true. But just because it is not enough doesn’t mean it isn’t more or it isn’t less.
At the conclusion of the book, Shanti can think of little to give to those he loves besides money. And Seth, at least temporarily, changes his high opinion of his uncle simply because of what the hallucinating old man, overcome by illness and a mere shell of himself, decides to do with his will. Seems a little goatish.
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