Book review: Sir V. S. Naipaul's "Magic Seeds"

(Dated: February 4, 2010)

Magic Seeds are those of our past deeds that come back to us as blessings. This is the crucial insight that the official reviewers of Sir Naipaul's most recent novel, "Magic Seeds", have missed out, to the last man and woman. Despite the widespread panning by the reviewers (Michiko Kakutani in New York Times, Alok Rai in The Hindu, James Altas in the NY Times Book Review, and many others; see for example, http://www.complete-review.com/reviews/naipaulvs/magicss.htm), Naipaul really breaks new ground in this book, both personally as well as in his writing style.

For the first time, the childless and aged Naipaul questions the value of pursuing an intellectual life, in the way that it is celebrated in Western culture. Naipaul's treatment of this theme is so profound and so poignant that it makes up handily for the faltering, in this novel, of his customary clarity and penetration that have become the hallmark of his prose. Of course, few things in the universe are as beautiful as Naipaul's prose at its best -- transcendentally clear, sweetly youthful and mightily vigorous. Even if his prose has mellowed in this book due to his advancing old age, the probing is still relentless and inexorable.

In the earlier book, "Half a Life", Willie Chandran, the protagonist, meets a black man one evening at a dinner at his friend, Roger's house. The black man confesses that his life's goal is the 'whitification' of his progeny. He claims that the black gene is more recessive than that of the whites. As a result, its effect can be eliminated almost completely within two generations. So, lo and behold, in just two generations, his progeny would have turned themselves white.

Many years pass by. We see the black gentleman next in the final scene of the sequel "Magic Seeds". He is now a highly respected diplomat. A wedding is taking place. The black man's half-white son is getting married. Sure enough, the black man has white grandchildren now. During the wedding, one of his grandchildren needs to use the toilet. The proud black grandfather leads his white grandchild away from the altar. There is a smattering of applause from the guests.

The irony is really surrealistic here. This applause of the upper classes seems to have dual motivations. They are graciously acknowledging the good behavior of the white child who is crying out of discomfort and embarrassment, but is patient till an adult leads her away. But they are also applauding the black gentleman condescendingly, as they would applaud a dutiful black servant in the old days.

The black grandfather, of course, is not completely impervious to this insult. In his own mind, he has been liberated from it. He is quite happy and content that his progeny has joined the ranks of the white race. His life's goal, simple and human as it is, has been achieved, without the black man having to strain too much at his intellect and his beliefs towards leading the high life. What about Willie?

In this novel, Naipaul has created a less successful version of himself in Willie Chandran, perhaps to avoid the criticism that the real Naipaul could not possibly complain at the travails of his writer's life, having been richly compensated for his professional work. Both Willie and the black gentleman are products of post-colonial societies. Both have deep appreciation for the influence of Western culture on their individual identities.

The black man, however, derives great satisfaction, in the evening of his life, at having sown his seeds well. The magic of his seeds is the simple mystery of the practical life, as it unfolds day-to-day. Whereas, having spent a lifetime searching restlessly for his soul's fulfillment, as his Brahmin father would have admonished him to do, does Willie realize now which of his seeds are the magical ones? Or is there any magic left in any of them?

Naipaul returns to question his intellectual life repeatedly throughout the novel. At one place, Willie tells Roger that intellectual developments seem original and path-breaking initially, but invariably, they become mundane and familiar to everyone sooner or later. At another place, the narrator wonders about the nature of mathematical discovery and its relevance to his own way of thinking. One is tempted to comment that perhaps Naipaul is getting very personal here, in view of the usual precision and clarity of his own prose.

Despite appearances, "Magic Seeds" is a truly profound work. There are no easy answers to the questions Naipaul raises here. Nor is it so clear how exactly one should pose these questions in the first place. The critics are quick to fault Naipaul's diminishing vigor. Fair enough. But they are overlooking the new subtlety with which Naipaul handles the themes in this book. Personally, I am quite happy with the way that Naipaul has been able to adapt his prose style to the demands of his old age. Mathematics, as they say, is a young man's game.