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Una casa per al senyor Biswas narra la lluita solitària dun esperit rebel que xoca amb la incomprensió dels que lenvolten i que intenta fugir dun destí condicionat pels mites, les tradicions i les creences supersticioses. Com moltes de les obres de V. S. Naipaul, aquesta novel·la descriu la recerca de la identitat dun món postcolonial col·lapsat per la confusió.
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Fiction. Literature. HTML:The early masterpiece of V. S. Naipaul's brilliant career, A House for Mr. Biswas is an unforgettable story inspired by Naipaul's father that has been hailed as one of the twentieth century's finest novels. In his forty-six short years, Mr. Mohun Biswas has been fighting against destiny to achieve some semblance of independence, only to face a lifetime of calamity. Shuttled from one residence to another after the drowning death of his father, for which he is inadvertently responsible, Mr. Biswas yearns for a place he can call home. But when he marries into the domineering Tulsi family on whom he indignantly becomes dependent, Mr. Biswas embarks on an arduous�??and endless�??struggle to weaken their hold over him and purchase a house of his own. A heartrending, dark comedy of manners, A House for Mr. Biswas masterfully evokes a man's quest for autonomy against an emblematic post-colonial c… (more)
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After 144 pages: On the back cover Newsweek and Anthony Burgess speak of the book's "comic insight and power". What are they talking about?! There is a family where everyone is complaining and picking on each other. I don't see the humor at all. What I have learned about Trinidad and Tobago culture is minimal. Should I persevere?
Is this one of those books you are supposed to like, so no one admits it's bad?
Completed April 16, 2013
Nothing of real consequence occurs in this novel. Nobody of consequence graces its pages. No person, with the
All of this takes place in a milieu of crushing poverty — material and spiritual. And we are treated to mind-numbing detail which seems to merely pile on the inconsequential sequence of events and stupefying contemptibility of the entire parade of people who populate this over-long novel. Nothing is served. Nobody learns a thing. The intergenerational poverty is not abated nor is the appalling ignorance.
So I ask, simply: WHY SHOULD ANYBODY SLOG THROUGH 566 PAGES OF SUCH INCONSEQUENTIAL DRIVEL ABOUT SO MANY CLUELESS PEOPLE WHO CANNOT GET OUT OF THEIR OWN WAY?
I have no answer. I am sorry I wasted my time.
The book is comic, but also sad, especially at the end. Largely autobiographical, the novel draws upon Naipaul's experiences growing up in Trinidad and watching his father battle for self-respect and some recognition of achievement as a journalist and writer. Long, but elegantly written, the book is well worth the reader's time. Mr. Biswas is an unforgettable and complex character, as are many of the multitude of other characters in the book, especially his wife and mother-in-law. Few of us probably know much about the culture of Trinidad, and this book provides a fine overview of the mix of cultures, beliefs and lifestyles that make up this island.
Mohun Biswas appears in this novel as so human - I felt that I could understand his limitations, his frustrations, feel his sadness, as
And yet, for whatever reason, the book didn't engage me very much - it was work to plough through it. I'm reading [[A Bend In The River]] now, and I'm much more involved in it. I'm not sure if that had to do with my own emotional reactions to the character or something else - and I wouldn't use it as a reason not to recommend it - just as a potential caution.
This is a complicated and rich book.
Biswas has been unlucky from his birth, now all he wants is a house of his own. This is the solid basis of his existence.The novel follows his struggle in a variety of jobs: from sign painter to journalist, to his final triumph: dying in the house he had had to leave for some troubled time.
I shy away from the postcolonial contemporary third world fiction. Most of them overwhelm me enlightening the crude aspects of economic claustrophobia which my snobbish approach thoughtlessly overlooks. Keeping in mind this criterion, I cautiously pick out the respected genre books anticipating a satisfying comprehension. Naipaul pens a coherent depiction of impoverished dwelling lost between self-identity and rigid ambitions. It is an exasperating yet rewarding life of a simple man who survives the nightmarish surrealism of being born at the devilish midnight hour. Meet Mohun Biswas, the youngest son of a pitiable sugar-cane labourer whose birth was cursed upon by superstitious omen and was destined to be a ruinous disappointment. Mohun’s life churns out be a metaphoric banner for destitution and misfortune. Blamed for his father’s death and the dissolution of the Biswas family, he struggles through every twisted fate of his life trying to find a speck of self-respect, contentment and independence. His marriage in the celebrated Tulsis family is burdensome and intoxicated with him being a mere accessory in his wife’s home. Dutifully carrying on with the mundane obligations, he berates his sympathetic existence. The only shining beacon of hope is a far-fetched dream of buying a house he can call his own. The notion of acquiring an abode becomes an eternal symbol of Mohun’s own existence as a journalist, a father, a husband and moreover a liberated individual.
Naipaul’s vastly elucidated and slow-paced prose underlines quite a few post- colonization inadequacies prevalent in several third world settings till date. Poverty, illiteracy birthing preposterous superstitious dogma, ethnic categorization of class superiority (restricted only to rural infrastructures) and tribulations of pecuniary discrepancies outwitting social hysteria.
Mohun’s tale is heroic in its own humble way. All the man wants in his life is a cozy dwelling without the fear of acerbic prejudices. Some would ridicule on this psychological aspect of obtaining a house. It’s a house, for crying out loud! Why make a big deal of it? For an individual who not only thrives in poverty but is tossed among bizarre quarters of underprivileged hardships; the belief of owning a house becomes deeply satisfying, somewhat a battle in itself. Hear, Hear! To Mohun for making peace with his maddening ordinary living.
Mr. Biswas has ambitions, but no plans for achieving them; intelligence, but no common sense; and a decided lack of gumption. His entire life, recorded in detail in the novel, is a long series of misadventures, brow-beatings, and failures. He ends up married to the first girl he sees, and her domineering family railroads him into things for the rest of his life. Whenever he does attempt to break out of their grip, he is either squashed or fails so spectacularly that he must crawl back to them.
The first few pages tell the reader of his fate, so there is no suspense, simply a long explication of how he ended up there. Although there are humorous bits, mainly it's a rather depressing tale of a weak man. I found it a bit of a slog and wanted to shake Mr. Biswas frequently. Given the lack of plot, I was disappointed not to learn more about Trinidad's history or culture at least. Altogether a book I wanted to enjoy, much more than I did.
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sally tarbox (aylesbury bucks uk) - See all my reviews
This review is from: A House For Mr Biswas (Kindle Edition)
Wonderful read, highly entertaining with laugh-out-loud moments yet touchingly sad as well.
The novel opens shortly
For much of his life lack of money compels him to share a large communal house with his wife's family, overseen by the stern and unpredictable matriarch Mrs Tulsi. In his descriptions of the 'shifting, tangled, multifarious relationships' of the Tulsis come many of the novel's most vividly comic moments:
'To combat W C Tuttle's gramophone Chinta and Govind had been giving a series of pious singings from the Ramayana....she sang very well. Govind sang less mellifluously: he partly whined and partly grunted, from his habit of singing while lying on his belly, Caught in this crossfire of song, which sometimes lasted a whole evening, Mr Biswas, listening, listening, would on a sudden rush in pants and vest to the inner room and bang on the partition of Govind's room and bang on the partition of W C Tuttle's drawingroom.
The Tuttles never replied. Chinta sang with added zest. Govind sometimes only chuckled between couplets, making it appear to be part of his song.'
or
"One of the sons-in-law was invariably responsible for precipitating Mrs Tulsi's faint. He was now hounded by silence and hostility. If he attempted to make friendly talk many glances instantly reproved him for his frivolity. If he moped in a corner or went up to his room he was condemned for his callousness and ingratitude. He was expected to stay in the hall and show all the signs of contrition and unease.. He waited for the sounds of footsteps coming from the Rose Room; he accosted a busy, offended sister and, ignoring snubs, made whispered enquiries about Mrs Tulsi's condition. Next morning he came down, shy and sheepish. Mrs Tulsi would be better. She would ignore him. But that evening forgiveness would be in the air. The offender would be spoken to as if nothing had happened, and he would respond with eagerness.'
Brilliant observations on human behaviour, an absolute must-read.
A monumental, brillant epic centred on a man whose lack of education is matched by both his raw intelligence and his tragic ignorance. A House for Mr
Having a look through the other reviews I can see
some incredibly moving moments between his son and most notably, his wife. great character development and comic situations.
my one critique in this novel is that it didn't grip me, as i believe good art should. i did not sense an inward urgency hurling me through the pages (with the exception of the last section). perhaps this is just too much to ask?
The novel is instructive in its depiction of life on the Caribbean island during the period surrounding the two World Wars of the early twentieth century. The interaction between the ethnic Indians, the natives of the island and the mixed race inhabitants is also of some interest. All in all, however, the story fails to capture the reader’s interest and becomes little more than a recitation of chronological events, many of whom seem to repeat themselves ad infinitum.
While the title character’s struggles are sometimes inspiring (but almost universally unsuccessful), it is difficult to become emotionally invested in his endeavors for the simple reason that he is not an exceptionally pleasant or “good” person. In fact, he is a miserable human being; an awful husband, a terrible father, an ungrateful, whining, complaining, lazy, two faced, hypocritical liar and spendthrift. His many failures are almost pre-destined and fail to engender any kind of sympathy (except for his long suffering wife and children, who were it not for Mr. Biswas’s in-laws would have likely starved to death).
The story is not without its interesting vignettes, but they are far fewer than one would hope for in a novel of this repute.
We all live in Hanuman House in our own extended families, and we all build our dream houses, even if, as with mine, it's an adapted tract ranch, or a glorified shack as in the novel--with ants crossing the
Of course, a current reader labors under the burden of too much knowledge of the author. Makes me think maybe the New Critics were right. Authors are irrelevant. It's the work we should regard.
Our burden is the fink Theroux's expose of VSN's treatment of women, his whoring, in short. But if we routinely give a "hall pass" to politicians like JFK and Newt, not to mention preachers of every stripe, I should think we can acquit geniuses. But can we respect VSN's dissing women authors? Another matter. We cannot. But how does such authorial interest redound to his achievement?
For all the history, for all the stories, for all the interactions, I never felt like I truly understood him and for that I blame Naipaul. He was more interested in putting his characters in a situation and seeing what would happen than he was in helping me truly understand them. Even the background story about Mohun's birth and childhood didn't help. As a result, even after 560 pages, I didn't really find myself invested in the story and didn't care a great deal about any of the characters.I don't mind so much if the characters are not likeable. That I can live with. But if the author doesn't develop them fully enough for me to have some investment in what happens to them, then I don't think he's done his "job."
I guess on some level I think it's a responsibility of the author to create a world where I care what happens in some fashion to the people the story is about. Case in point: I just read a book of short stories by Rubem Fonseca. A complete change of pace; didn't find any of the characters in the stories "likeable." I'm also not a big fan of the violence that pervaded the stories. But he's a smart and clever writer and he made me care what happened to a lot of the people he wrote about. He developed them in a dozen or two dozen pages more than I truly felt Naipaul managed, even after 5. Who knows? Maybe I'm just not clever enough to "get" him.