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A review by vegantrav
White Tears by Hari Kunzru
5.0
Why do they sing the blues? It's a simple question. The answer is so much less than simple.
And Hari Kunzru, in White Tears, gives you the answer. He doesn't force it on you. He doesn't beat you over the head, though by the end, you'll be black and blue. Hari Kunzru takes you by the hand, gently leading you to the path. At first, you think you're reading a story about friendship and making music. You go on, and suddenly you think maybe you're in some sort of ghost story, maybe a tale of the occult or of demon possession, or could it be a psychotic episode, or is it some strange looping time travel twisting the narrative into knots?
It's a puzzle. It's not hard to put together, but actually putting it together is hard, is unpleasant, is horrifying, even. You will go places you don't want to go. See things you don't want to see. See a history you'd love to forget. And you will find the answer. Mark it down. You will understand the blues.
But this isn't a story about the blues. This is a story about American history. About America trying to forget the past. And worse: trying not to see the present. But it's also a story of myopia. Of frenetic visions and sweating, chaotic fear. A story of karma. A story of that darkness. You know that darkness. We all do. We've all seen and unseen that darkness.
You can't summarize this novel and do it any justice. You must read it. It will possess you. Or maybe you will possess it. Or something of both. You'll be in this reality that leaves you questioning reality but never leaves you. And you'll get answers. You might not like them. Hell, if you do like them, there's something wrong with you. Who ever said the truth had to be nice and pretty?
White Tears is among the best novels I've read this decade. Kunzru's prose . . . I am unable to put into words just how good it is. This man can write. Not just write: he can create. This novel is a world that you live in, that lives in you. Try to read this entire novel without exclaiming in awe at its brilliance. Multiple times. This is the word made flesh. This is holy writ.
Words are so insufficient. The best I can do to express my awe of this book is just to say, "God damn!"
And Hari Kunzru, in White Tears, gives you the answer. He doesn't force it on you. He doesn't beat you over the head, though by the end, you'll be black and blue. Hari Kunzru takes you by the hand, gently leading you to the path. At first, you think you're reading a story about friendship and making music. You go on, and suddenly you think maybe you're in some sort of ghost story, maybe a tale of the occult or of demon possession, or could it be a psychotic episode, or is it some strange looping time travel twisting the narrative into knots?
It's a puzzle. It's not hard to put together, but actually putting it together is hard, is unpleasant, is horrifying, even. You will go places you don't want to go. See things you don't want to see. See a history you'd love to forget. And you will find the answer. Mark it down. You will understand the blues.
But this isn't a story about the blues. This is a story about American history. About America trying to forget the past. And worse: trying not to see the present. But it's also a story of myopia. Of frenetic visions and sweating, chaotic fear. A story of karma. A story of that darkness. You know that darkness. We all do. We've all seen and unseen that darkness.
You can't summarize this novel and do it any justice. You must read it. It will possess you. Or maybe you will possess it. Or something of both. You'll be in this reality that leaves you questioning reality but never leaves you. And you'll get answers. You might not like them. Hell, if you do like them, there's something wrong with you. Who ever said the truth had to be nice and pretty?
White Tears is among the best novels I've read this decade. Kunzru's prose . . . I am unable to put into words just how good it is. This man can write. Not just write: he can create. This novel is a world that you live in, that lives in you. Try to read this entire novel without exclaiming in awe at its brilliance. Multiple times. This is the word made flesh. This is holy writ.
Words are so insufficient. The best I can do to express my awe of this book is just to say, "God damn!"