The Namesake begins as a novel of immigration, a familiar genre for obvious reasons in the USA. The first two chapters, describing the dislocation and alienation of the Gangulis upon moving to Cambridge, MA, are relatively poignant and evocative, though the same experiences have been described more memorably in dozens of books. Then the American-born second generation son, Gogol, is introduced, and the rest of the book focuses on his prolonged identity crisis, especially the tension he feels between the expectations of his family and his own desire for assimilation. Again, there's not much new here; the same story has been told with greater realism and more believable individuation of characters by writers from all corners of the planet, including such masterpieces of fiction as "The Bread Givers" by Anzia Yezierska, "Peder Victorious" by Ole Rolvaag, and "Call It Sleep" by Henry Roth, as well as very fine books by more recent writers like Amy Tan, Gus Lee, Julia Alvarez, and more. As a novel of immigration, The Namesake doesn't belong on the same shelf as these. But it doesn't try to. In fact, it changes genres completely around the third chapter, becoming a story of failed love, or rather of serial romatic failures, three humdrum and futile sexual partnerships (one a marriage) all based on mere happenstance of encounter and all ending "not with a bang but a whimper." Honestly, Nikhil Gogol Ganguli is too boringly self-absorbed to be much of a partner, or to be very entertaining to read about. He learns nothing from his wussy love affairs, and in truth there's nothing to learn.

There's nothing especially potent about Jhumpa Lahiri's prose, either. Descriptions are as stale as the dilemmas of life her characters face. Neither Cambridge nor Calcutta is vividly evoked; streets are named, buses are caught, but the imagination slumbers page after page. Likewise, the romantic episodes of Gogol's plodding life are narrated without sensuality. We are told what happens, but we don't feel empathy.

Why, perhaps you want to ask, did I bother to finish The Namesake if I disliked so much? Well, I'm a bit of a compulsive reader, and it was the only novel I had in hand at the time. Also, I began to sense that I'd have to review it by the middle of the book, so I had to finish it in order to be fair. Now I can say, in fairness, that if I were an editor, I wouldn't even consider publishing such mediocrity.
The Namesake begins as a novel of immigration, a familiar genre for obvious reasons in the USA. The first two chapters, describing the dislocation and alienation of the Gangulis upon moving to Cambridge, MA, are relatively poignant and evocative, though the same experiences have been described more memorably in dozens of books. Then the American-born second generation son, Gogol, is introduced, and the rest of the book focuses on his prolonged identity crisis, especially the tension he feels between the expectations of his family and his own desire for assimilation. Again, there's not much new here; the same story has been told with greater realism and more believable individuation of characters by writers from all corners of the planet, including such masterpieces of fiction as "The Bread Givers" by Anzia Yezierska, "Peder Victorious" by Ole Rolvaag, and "Call It Sleep" by Henry Roth, as well as very fine books by more recent writers like Amy Tan, Gus Lee, Julia Alvarez, and more. As a novel of immigration, The Namesake doesn't belong on the same shelf as these. But it doesn't try to. In fact, it changes genres completely around the third chapter, becoming a story of failed love, or rather of serial romatic failures, three humdrum and futile sexual partnerships (one a marriage) all based on mere happenstance of encounter and all ending "not with a bang but a whimper. " Honestly, Nikhil Gogol Ganguli is too boringly self-absorbed to be much of a partner, or to be very entertaining to read about. He learns nothing from his wussy love affairs, and in truth there's nothing to learn. There's nothing especially potent about Jhumpa Lahiri's prose, either. Descriptions are as stale as the dilemmas of life her characters face. Neither Cambridge nor Calcutta is vividly evoked; streets are named, buses are caught, but the imagination slumbers page after page. Likewise, the romantic episodes of Gogol's plodding life are narrated without sensuality. We are told what happens, but we don't feel empathy. Why, perhaps you want to ask, did I bother to finish The Namesake if I disliked so much? Well, I'm a bit of a compulsive reader, and it was the only novel I had in hand at the time. Also, I began to sense that I'd have to review it by the middle of the book, so I had to finish it in order to be fair. Now I can say, in fairness, that if I were an editor, I wouldn't even consider publishing such mediocrity.