The God of Small Things

Listening to an unabridged reading of Arundhati Roy's The God of Small Things. I am reminded of the irritation I experienced upon first reading it. On one hand, the plot is quite splendid. Masterfully drawn, in terms of its lead-up to the devastating pinnacle. On the other, the repetition, ad nauseum, of particular phrases induced a serious case of exasperation in me. Everytime I heard yet another laboured reference to 'two-egg twins' or 'spoiled puff' or 'dorsal tufts' or 'ambassador E Pelvis' I thought I'd scream. Having said that, the understated and exquisite tenderness expressed in the final pages cannot go unmentioned. But, make up your own mind.