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“percy as a god would be the god of blue food” “nah he'd be like the god of loyalty” okay but what about velutha? the god of loss? the god of small things? the god of goosebumps and sudden smiles? of sourmetal smells—like steel bus rails and the smell of the bus conductor's hands from holding them?
Suggest more books like the god of small things plus feel free to talk bout the book in the comments or reblog
Book Corner – June 2015 (1)
Book Corner – June 2015 (1)
The God of Small Things – Arundhati Roy You may have guessed by now but I like to read a book about somewhere I have recently visited and so having got back from a trip to the Indian state of Kerala, Roy’s debut novel seemed to be the obvious choice. I didn’t let the fact that it had won the Booker Prize in 1997, usually code for challenging, put me off. The story is set in the village of…
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She ached for him with the whole of her biology.
Arundhati Roy, The God of Small Things
VELUTHA MY POOR BBY YOU DID NOT DESERVE THE CRUELTY OF THIS WORLD
I AM NEARLY IN TEARS FROM ALL THIS FORESHADOWING AND I DONT WANT HIM TO GO
Deliberately delaying reading the last part of God of Small Things, because oh my god. And also that way Velutha remains alive.
In a way, she liked him to be fictional. Unreal, touchable-y untouchable - the way he was. He was intangible, and she wouldn’t ever be able to smell the scent - or “smell” - of his naked body, never be able to bask in his shining skin, touch the brown autumn-leaf on his black back that made the monsoons come on time. She would never be able to be purified by this God of Small Things, God of Loss. And yet, in this intangibility, untouchablity, was how she could celebrate his arrival in her life, how she could worship him. Through these pages and words, he remained flawless and so, more than anything, she feared the idea of him being real. For being a Human on Earth would inevitably put flaws in his body, put a shadow of doubt over the scars and make ugly stories out of them and….Gods don’t have flaws, right? She celebrated the thought of him being a mere matter of fiction, like one of the numerous atoms in the atmosphere, one of the numerous stories from holy scriptures. It made him miniscule - invisible even - in the eyes of others, and made his presence belong wholly to her, and only for her. She was enamored with the idea of his lovemaking, drunk on his voice she never heard, already devoted to a God whose stories were not preached in Bibles and Qurans, but in a mere novel. Ink to paper, children to elders, touchables to untouchables.
