The Last White Man by Mohsin Hamid: A review

Mohsin Hamid really needs to go to punctuation school. His sentences in this book run on forever, for a full paragraph in some cases. Very long paragraphs. I previously read his book Exit West and I don't remember that being a problem with that one, so I assume that he made a conscious choice to write this book in this manner. I can't speak for other readers but I just found it distracting and annoying.

The story is briefly summarized in the very first sentence: “One morning Anders, a white man, woke up to find he had turned a deep and undeniable brown.” At some time and place that are never fully identified, people start changing color. At least White people start changing color. We see this through the eyes of the protagonist, Anders, a White man who wakes up one morning to discover that his skin is turning dark. He talks to his lover, Oona, about it, and soon learns that this is happening to others as well. This creates an unsettled atmosphere and some people seek to resist the change, but how?

Predictably, when people are faced with something they don't understand with all the shock and fear that result, conspiracy theories abound and this creates even more shock and fear and resultant violence and doomsaying. And yet, life goes on. People are born and they live and die.

We meet Anders' father and Oona's mother. Anders' father is a widower dying of cancer. Oona's mother is a widow in mourning for the loss of her son, Oona's brother. She is easy prey for conspiracy theorists. She just soaks it all in. She was, in fact, one of the most interesting characters in the book for me. She sees herself and the people she comes from as "the only people who could not call themselves a people in this country, and there are not so many of them left." She feels they are on their way to becoming extinct.

Long ago, I read Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis. I've seen this book compared to that one. In fact, some reviewers have referred to it as a reimagining of that classic. Those comparisons are apt, although in this case, instead of turning into a giant insect, the protagonist and many others remain human but change colors. But in a world where skin color still defines an individual in the minds of many people, perhaps the change from white to dark is not unlike being changed into a bug that is vulnerable to being squashed.

This was an interesting idea for a book and it was generally well-written except for my caveat about the run-on sentences. That was just extremely annoying to me and hindered my enjoyment of the book. Moreover, I know that my sainted English teacher, Mrs. Rubenstein, would not be amused, and I thank you, dear Mrs. Rubenstein, for teaching me better.

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

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