Tomb of Sand

I'm not usually one to balk at long novels, but I would have enjoyed this one a lot more had it been around a third of the length. I'd be happy on one level to see someone pull out a cleaver and produce a bastardised version, leaving the narrative framework that a western reader would feel safest with and leaving dense and unfamiliar modes of address, stories and references in a messy heap on the floor, but I'd know somehow that the true heart of the novel would be left there with the offal.

I couldn't find peace with the seemingly redundant meta-commentary. “There's no harm in starting the story right here, that is, the way we're doing it right now,” it's stated early on. “Not much need be said about [whomever/whatever], as the story doesn't really concern [them/it],” begging the question of why this subject was dragged up in the first place. These explicit goiters of inefficiency, as George Saunders might refer to them, layered on frustration for me that was not shaken off by any later re-incorporation or reveal.

I am grateful for the exposure to themes of partition, despite the opening of part three being maybe the most lost I've ever been reading a book.

I wanted more on Bahu and her Reeboks.