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V.S. Naipaul - Magic Seeds

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INTERNATIONAL ACCLAIM FOR V S NAIPAUL AND Magic Seeds Naipaul has a great - photo 1
INTERNATIONAL ACCLAIM FOR V. S. NAIPAUL AND
Magic Seeds

Naipaul has a great gift for crushingly economical observations. [His] books are passionately engaged with the world.

The New York Review of Books

An elegant little storywith a moral. What is distinctive [is] the light that it sheds on India, especially rural India.

The Wall Street Journal

A masterful and evocative writer. The language is clear and readable. [His] ideas are rich, provocative, and worthy.

Rocky Mountain News

Original, ruthlessly honest, intellectually stimulating and masterfully written.

The Times (London)

There is a terrible purity to the prose. It is clean and dry, tough but never brittle. [Magic Seeds] revisit[s] most, if not all, of the themes, obsessions and social worlds of his earlier fiction.

Newsday

Offers a gripping glimpse at the sadness of a dream deferred.

Entertainment Weekly

Bleakly comic. Full of all Naipauls exact and cumulative brilliance.

The Guardian

A remarkably astute witness to the world with an extraordinary contribution to literature.

The Village Voice

Riveting. Masterful prose indelible images.

Commentary

[Naipaul] has achieved the top of his form.

The Star-Ledger (Newark)

Magic Seeds occupies an identifiable place in Naipauls philosophy, and those who generally enjoy his work will like whats here. Readers unfamiliar with his work have much to gain as well. His precise art offers something revelatory.

The Plain Dealer

Richly drawn. Vivid and revealing.

The Decatur Daily

Beautiful, enchanting prose. In some ways, Willie [Chandran] embodies every character Naipaul has created in his brilliant career.

Associated Press

V. S. NAIPAUL
Magic Seeds

V. S. Naipaul was born in Trinidad in 1932. He went to England on a scholarship in 1950. After four years at Oxford he began to write, and since then he has followed no other profession. He is the author of more than twenty-five books of fiction and nonfiction and the recipient of numerous honors, including the Nobel Prize in 2001, the Booker Prize in 1971, and a knighthood for services to literature in 1990. He lives in Wiltshire, England.

A LSO BY V S N AIPAUL NONFICTION Literary Occasions The Writer and the - photo 2

A LSO BY V. S. N AIPAUL

NONFICTION
Literary Occasions
The Writer and the World
Between Father and Son: Family Letters
Beyond Belief: Islamic Excursions Among the Converted Peoples
India: A Million Mutinies Now
A Turn in the South
Finding the Center
Among the Believers
The Return of Eva Pron (with The Killings in Trinidad)
India: A Wounded Civilization
The Overcrowded Barracoon
The Loss of El Dorado
An Area of Darkness
The Middle Passage

FICTION
Half a Life
A Way in the World
The Enigma of Arrival
A Bend in the River
Guerrillas
In a Free State
A Flag on the Island*
The Mimic Men
Mr. Stone and the Knights Companion*
A House for Mr. Biswas
The Suffrage of Elvira*
Miguel Street
The Mystic Masseur

*Published in an omnibus edition entitled
The Nightwatchmans Occurrence Book

L ATERIN THE teak forest in the first camp when during his first night on - photo 3

L ATERIN THE teak forest, in the first camp, when during his first night on sentry duty he had found himself for periods wishing only to cry, and when with the relief of dawn there had also come the amazing cry of a far-off peacock, the cry a peacock makes in the early morning after it has had its first drink of water at some forest pool: a raucous, tearing cry that should have spoken of a world refreshed and remade but seemed after the long bad night to speak only of everything lost, man, bird, forest, world; and then, when that camp was a romantic memory, during the numbing guerrilla years, going on and on, in forest, village, small town, when to travel about in disguise had often appeared to be an end in itself and it was possible for much of the day to forget what the purpose of the disguise was, when he had felt himself decaying intellectually, felt bits of his personality breaking off; and then in the jail, with its blessed order, its fixed timetable, its protecting rules, the renewal it offeredlater it was possible to work out the stages by which he had moved from what he would have considered the real world to all the subsequent areas of unreality: moving as it were from one sealed chamber of the spirit to another.

ONE
The Rose-Sellers

I T HAD BEGUN many years before, in Berlin. Another world. He was living there in a temporary, half-and-half way with his sister Sarojini. After Africa it had been a great refreshment, this new kind of protected life, being almost a tourist, without demands and without anxiety. It had to end, of course; and it began to end the day Sarojini said to him, Youve been here for six months. I may not be able to get your visa renewed again. You know what that means. You may not be able to stay here. Thats the way the world is made. You cant object to it. Youve got to start thinking of moving on. Do you have any idea of where you can go? Is there anything you feel you want to do?

Willie said, I know about the visa. Ive been thinking about it.

Sarojini said, I know your kind of thinking. It means putting something to the back of your mind.

Willie said, I dont see what I can do. I dont know where I can go.

Youve never felt there was anything for you to do. Youve never understood that men have to make the world for themselves.

Youre right.

Dont talk to me like that. Thats the way the oppressor class thinks. Theyve just got to sit tight, and the world will continue to be all right for them.

Willie said, It doesnt help me when you twist things. You know very well what I mean. I feel a bad hand was dealt me. What could I have done in India? What could I have done in England in 1957 or 1958? Or in Africa?

Eighteen years in Africa. Your poor wife. She thought she was getting a man. She should have talked to me.

Willie said, I was always someone on the outside. I still am. What can I do here in Berlin?

You were on the outside because you wanted to be. Youve always preferred to hide. Its the colonial psychosis, the caste psychosis. You inherited it from your father. You were in Africa for eighteen years. There was a great guerrilla war there. Didnt you know?

It was always far away. It was a secret war, until the very end.

It was a glorious war. At least in the beginning. When you think about it, it can bring tears to the eyes. A poor and helpless people, slaves in their own land, starting from scratch in every way. What did you do? Did you seek them out? Did you join them? Did you help them? That was a big enough cause to anyone looking for a cause. But no. You stayed in your estate house with your lovely little half-white wife and pulled the pillow over your ears and hoped that no bad black freedom fighter was going to come in the night with a gun and heavy boots and frighten you.

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