MacK's Reviews > Shantaram

I had been told that this was a beautiful love story. And it was; in between the parts where he mopes over lost loves so much that you feel like you're back in a middle school girl gripefest.

I had been told that this was a philosophically profound book. And it was; except for the passages where Roberts smug knowledge of "complexity" made you want to punch every philosophy major you ever knew right in the face as a proxy.

I had been told that this was a riveting page turner. And it was; until he gets so wrapped up in the history of goats/camels/horses and the kalishnekov rifle, that you feel like he's holding one to your head daring you abandon the 700 pages you've already read.

I had been told that it was a great way for expat citizens in India to reflect on their place in the diverse culture of the land. It was. There isn't a qualifying statement here. It actually was a great way, as an expat citizen in India, to reflect on my place in the diverse culture of the land. His insouciance--despite the hardened criminal overtones--is reminscent of how we all feel upon those first staggered steps off the plane. His admiration and love for the people and their language and the locales all around mirror the infectious nature of the people and place I've come to love while living here. The sites and sounds of Mumbai are thrillingly memorable, even for tourists, Leopolds, Colaba, The Taj Hotel, Haji Ali Mosque, and on and on.

It's understandable that a first novel is so inconsistent. It's unfortunate that this inconsistency is spread out over 900+ pages. Turning otherwise negligible faults into major detractions from the merits of an otherwise enjoyable, but not superb book.