No, he is not Tolstoy. Or Proust, of whom he likes to make fun. His style is amiable, unpretentious and amusing. He reminds me, most of all, of TROLLOPE, particularly the Trollope of the Parliamentary [Palliser] novels. He might not be a profound observer of the human condition, or an Olympian of the English language, but his writing has charm and point. And he sure deploys a large canvas!

His protagonists are a very irresponsible but lovable 25-year-old boy and a much TOO sensible 20-year old girl, and the other characters run the gamut from broad Trollopian rajas and intoxicatingly devious manipulators to saints out of Louisa May Alcott and feral parodies  la Sophie Portnoy. As I said, this book covers a lot of ground-as huge as India itself-yet centered on domestic, provincial concerns, as Indian life itself is.  The story never loses focus.

I read it entirely in doctors' waiting rooms, as my father got hour upon hour of chemotherapy; it took me into a different world, and held me there without fail. Maybe that's a little too rosy, but I sure needed it. I don't think Kafka would have been as helpful.

Maybe I'll re-read Barchester Towers next.
No, he is not Tolstoy. Or Proust, of whom he likes to make fun. His style is amiable, unpretentious and amusing. He reminds me, most of all, of TROLLOPE, particularly the Trollope of the Parliamentary [Palliser] novels. He might not be a profound observer of the human condition, or an Olympian of the English language, but his writing has charm and point. And he sure deploys a large canvas! His protagonists are a very irresponsible but lovable 25-year-old boy and a much TOO sensible 20-year old girl, and the other characters run the gamut from broad Trollopian rajas and intoxicatingly devious manipulators to saints out of Louisa May Alcott and feral parodies  la Sophie Portnoy. As I said, this book covers a lot of ground-as huge as India itself-yet centered on domestic, provincial concerns, as Indian life itself is. The story never loses focus. I read it entirely in doctors' waiting rooms, as my father got hour upon hour of chemotherapy; it took me into a different world, and held me there without fail. Maybe that's a little too rosy, but I sure needed it. I don't think Kafka would have been as helpful. Maybe I'll re-read Barchester Towers next.