The Constant Reader

I have two very different books to write about this morning. First comes The Piano Teacher, a novel by Janice Y.K. Lee, a love story (of sorts) set in Hong Kong that moves between WWII and the war's aftermath in the 1950s. the pace is slow at first and I had almost given up when things got livlier with the actual onset of the war and its impact on the city's residents, Chinese and otherwise. The earlier plot centers on Will, an Englishman and his affair with Trudy, a gorgeous Eurasian with a somewhat mysterious life that turns tragic when the enemy arrives and she becomes entangled with a Japanese general while Will languishes in a detention center. The sections that take place in the '50s feature Claire, a new bride just out from England with her boring husband who falls in love with Will and he with her. The catch is that the dynamics of their affair are governed by the past that Will cannot escape, his possible betrayal of Trudy and his inflexible moral standards. Lee is very good at depicting at first, a city in crisis and then a place coming to terms after the war with what went on during it. Claire, a rather dull character at the start, comes gradually comes to life and in the end, makes a startling choice that seems quite believable, even enviable.
The second book I recommend is Patrick French's "authorized biography" of V.S. Naipaul, The World Is What It Is. I have never especially liked Naipaul's work, except for the reasonably benign A House for Mr. Biswas. One of his novels, Guerrillas, I found especially troubling in its depiction of violent sex. Further, he always struck me as an arrogant, blinkered and thoroughly unpleasant man. French's inclusive, lengthy biography did little or nothing to change my thinking, but, and it's a big but, it is a fascinating re-creation of the man's life, written with insight, sympathy, and objectivity. Some aspects of it--Naipaul's tratment of his long-suffering wife Pat and his long-time mistress Margaret Murray--are indeed repellent, yet they are part of the story and of the man himself, whom in the end French makes almost sympathetic. I can't imagine a better biography. I may even do some rereading of Naipaul and that seems the highest possible praise for a biographer.