Mahmoud M M itibaren Valea Urieşului, Romania itibaren Valea Urieşului, Romania

I think this is one of the best Indian novels published in the last 15 years, perhaps second only to The God of Small Things (caveat: I haven't read The Inheritance of Loss). [I'm using "Indian" broadly, to refer to India and the Indian diaspora.] It's not perfect -- there were times when I felt it rambled, and I generally like rambling but some of this irritated me because it was too expository, too much (I think) a concession to people who know nothing about India. But this book is so honest and deep and true that even thinking about it now, in the midst of the current spate of chicklitty "I RAN AWAY FROM MY ARRANGED MARRIAGE AND THEN WE ATE A LOT OF MANGOES AND IT WAS VERY SENSUAL" Indian novels is like a breath of fresh air. It's Dickensian in its scope and pathos. So much modern American fiction shies away from emotion; so much modern Indian fiction brims with Bollywood sentimentality of the nastiest kind. I love this book for doing neither.

meh. chabon's writing is lost on this Weeeeeiiiird plot. but good writing.