Midnight's Children

FINALLY. I have finally finished another from the list, Midnight's Children.

It was extraordinary - ambitious, breathtaking, self-deprecating, playful... I didn't realise how deeply imbued it would be with the traits of magical realism, which was an unexpected joy. What I really loved was that he seemed to embrace and rejoice in the underbelly, the smelliness, the faults, the dirt of Indian living. The book was bustling and alive, and while it didn't mean that I appreciated the aesthetics of the country I feel I understand a bit more about life in India. Although of course that might be a load of old boswellox.

And yet, as often with reading of classics, or must-reads, I feel I have missed something. I now feel I understand a great deal more about the birth of India, or Pakistan, of Bangladesh, although I can't help thinking I would have got more out of the book if I'd known more about that in the first place: some of the references, the jokes, the satire, clearly went over my head. Which proves to me that to truly engage with "great" works on more than a superficial level, you need to really have a sense of history - either of the time of writing of the book itself, or of the time period which the book covers, but history, nonetheless. Something like Demons, by Dostoyevsky, makes a lot more sense when you understand the adventures of the Nihilists; all of Dickens reveals more when you understand the rise of the nouveau riche, the chattering middle classes. Somehow that seems a tad unfair, that it's not just the text but the backstory that matters. Particularly when I'm the ignoramus. This is why crime novels are the gifts that keep on giving... they are almost timeless. Still, perseverance: it's next time for more Ken Kesey, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest - yet another cheery one.