Book: Half a Life

Author: V.S.Naipaul
Publisher: Random house 2001

When one reads a book written by someone who has been described as ‘the greatest living writer of English prose’, one’s expectations are, understandably, quite high. But V. S. Naipaul’s ‘Half a Life’ is a disappointment. The story of the half-caste protagonist appears as aimless as his peregrinations across three continents.

Willie Chandran, son of a temple priest and a backward caste woman, is a selfish, weak-willed coward, who is busy running away from situations that he can’t handle. Unable to get along with his family, he is sent to England to study; where his only notable achievement is the publication of a book of short stories, which bring him the means to run away from England – in the person of Ana, a Portuguese-African mixed breed. With her he goes to Africa, where he lives off her for 18 years, doing nothing other than visiting prostitutes and having an affair with another man’s wife. And when the country is abandoned by the Portuguese to be taken over by the native African guerillas, he runs away yet again, this time to his sister in Europe.

About half the narrative is in the third person, and the rest of it in the first person - in Willie’s words. The book ends abruptly with Willie’s account of his flight from Africa.

There is no doubt that the English language is putty is Naipaul’s hands. He conjures up brilliant word pictures and narrates the story in a smoothly flowing style, which makes for fast and easy reading. But the characters seem incompletely fleshed out, with respect to their geographical origins. Similarly, the places inhabited by them are also not assigned a definite location; for instance, there is no mention of which African country it is that Willie stays in. The author has probably done this on purpose, but it tends to give the reader a sense that something is missing.

At the end of the book, one is left wondering what it is that the author is trying to convey. The whole exercise seems to be an elaborately fashioned excuse stating that an ordinary man should not be blamed for being selfish, making mistakes and hurting others. He is, after all, shaped by the circumstances of his life, which are beyond his control. Maybe all Naipaul wants to do is to tell a story. Which he does, and quite well. The trouble is, that’s not all that a reader wants from Naipaul.