What's Elizabeth Reading? ...Ben Okri

Ben Okri's The Famished Road ... where to start. How about the genre? I kind of think this book is what would happen if Poisonwood Bible went native, lost Christianity, and had a love child with Men in Black. However, if you want to make sense of it, just pretend it's a video game narrative. With that mindset, all the three-headed spirits dressed up like humans dancing in a bar will be a lot easier to grasp. I think. This really is a weird book, and it's just common courtesy for me to try to give you a leg-up (even if it's onto a precipice you will want to leave ASAP). I enjoyed the book, once I let myself just go with the flow and quit trying to see commonalities between this and nearly every other book I've ever read.

The Famished Road is about a famished road. It may seem like it's about a boy who finally chooses to stay alive or about his father, who fights back against the hand destiny has dealt him, but it's really about a road. The road is both literal (there is a road that goes through their African village) and figurative (life's journey, the people we meet as we go through life, that sort of thing). "Famished" is all about how we have to make sacrifices in life and fight hard for what is good (if I read it correctly). It is also about cycles and how are life itself is a cycle between good and bad. My goodness, I'm using parentheses way too much. I should quit doing that.

The first thing I noticed when I started reading was that the narration is maximalist and the dialogue is minimalist. To show you what I mean, I just opened to a random page and found an example for you. If it matters to you, know that I've ignored the paragraphal formatting this originally had (it's easier to do it this way with Blogger). The exposition at the start is one paragraph, then each line of dialogue has its own paragraph.

The landlord looked round, saw the semi-broken window, and began, explosively, to rage. He was thoroughly incoherent and he only made sense when he calmed down a little and demanded that the window be repaired before his next visit. He moved dramatically up and down the room, reserving, as usual, his loudest voice and his most dramatic gestures for when he was nearest the door. The compound people had gathered outside and some of them were looking in. Waving his hands, whipping the voluminous folds of his agbada this way and that, he turned and said: "Is your husband not in?" "No." "What about my rent?" "When he comes back he will give it to you." "He didn't leave it?" "No." Striding as if he were on stage . . .

 SO much detail, without it being too much most of the time, in the narration, and little to no talking throughout. This is not a book with big speeches or long conversations in it. Everything is visual.

Some problems I had with the book: The narrator emotes little emotion. He is, for the most part, an observer who doesn't reflect much on what is happening. I guess I just like to see a narrator react to what's going on around them. My assumption is that the way it is told, and the personality of this narrator, reflect the culture of Nigeria on some level. I also didn't appreciate the scenes involving people nearly sexually molesting this poor kid.   . . . He stumbles into the wrong party, let's say it that way. That's personal taste, though. All of this is personal taste. This whole book is about personal taste. Want to expand your mind a bit? This is a good book to read.

Finishing The Famished Road felt like I was finishing a journey. That may sound like I'm trying to be poetic or something, but I'm not. The feeling I had was the same I get when coming home after a long drive. Luckily, I went to bed soon after, so I didn't have to struggle against it all day long.

One last thing, because it was my favorite moment in the book: The narrator's spirit is being kidnapped, so he cries out to the Great King of the spirit world he is from. The Great King does not respond, so he begins to call out for his mother. Mom shows up and saves him. It was a wonderful shout out to mothers, the likes of which I haven't seen since Molly Weasley screamed at Bellatrix Lestrange, "NOT MY DAUGHTER, YOU B****!"