Shantaram

Shantaram is not what I would call literary fiction. It's something similar, which is probably why it gets a lot of flack. People seem to read it expecting flawless style and writing, and while there's no doubt that the writing is better than many similar books, you shouldn't read it for style.

Read it because it is an expansive story in so many ways. Read it for the vivid descriptions of Bombay, war-torn Afghanistan and many other places. For the range of the human condition that is explored, the very believable portrayal of the life of an escape prisoner at the edges of society and the multitude of characters he encounters. All these are bright and believable. It's more than that though. Scattered among the sometimes trite aphorisms are some real gems. There are lessons hard learned that are painful and powerful in their retelling.

I was captivated by Shantaram. While the book is not strictly autobiographical, the storytelling is convincing enough that it feels like it could be. You can tell that Roberts is, in a montaignesque way, really trying to know and represent himself as faithfully as possible. It's impressive how he is able to return to his past self's state of mind–it reminds me of Proust in that sense, the realization that who he is now isn't who he was, but at the same time, trying to accurately identify with that past self.