Unaccustomed Earth

A beautifully (as usual) written book by Ms Lahiri -- but oh so very depressing... Every story in this collection deals with death, dying, suicide, love relationships gone bad, etc. etc. I persevered to the end, thinking that the pattern would be broken, but it never was. Don't read this when you're in a "down" part of your life.

I am typically not a fan of short stories as I find the development of the characters lacking and just as you develop a relationship (of sorts) the story is cut and the next begins.

Unaccustomed Earth was an exception. The stories are neither complex or heavily worded but simple and straight-forward. The theme continues through the book with some stories being tied together to form a whole.

While I certainly do not believe her stories tell the tale of all Indian existence in the US or abroad I appreciate them for what they are and how beautifully they are shared with the reader.

I could not put the book down: an enjoyable read.

Lahiri uses the same formula -- not much to differentiate this book from her first 2. Would have been nice to see something new...

As always, Lahiri's short stories resonate with me in a truly hauntingly romantic way. Her prose and character development, while some complain are overdeveloped and stagnant or lackluster, are stunningly beautiful in my opinion. Yes, it is true that she 'recycles' bits of her characters into different stories and even novels, but the way in which she does so doesn't alienate the reader, it (at least in my case) makes them fall in love with the now familiar characters. Her writing is transcendent in ways I can't explain.

These are careful, closely observed stories that the author illuminates with telling details: the way a daughter reminds a widower of his dead wife, or the silences that tense the tenuous link between parent and child. These stories focus on relationships, how they start, and how they end, but mostly about the moments and gestures that mark their stages. These stories read easily. Still, I went back and read them again, for the details that Lahiri sprinkles, like jewels hidden in a corner bookcase.

The short story is a more perfect form than the novel. Every word, every sentence is important. Novels sell better, but the short story satisfies in a way that the novel cannot. I marveled at Lahiri's artistry, how she employs language in a unique way. She does not dazzle with incandescent prose, but her honest humanity shines forth in her writing. I had never heard of her before I started this book, but her stories moved me in a deeply personal way. I encountered emotions that I have felt myself, but never articulated. This is the mark of good literature.