Yet another prize-winning modern lit book that is lethal with ennui. I was all prepared to sit and waft through slow, lyrical sentences about the twins, who seem to be the main characters in this book. But after touching upon their vague misfortunes and current neuroses in a few pages, the remaining 40 pages that I managed to slough through went on and on about the ticks, dullness, and brokenness of all the various people in their village/extended family. In a really lackluster, exposition-y way. Barely any dialogue to speak of. Just told and told and told, and after awhile, all the strange, Indian-flavored nicknames ran into each other, and I simply didn't care anymore. 
 If you want true modern lyricism with eye-boggling beaut-i-ful sentence structure that's long and sturdy enough to span rivers, then read Michael Chabon. I've only read 1 book of his, but it's brimming in plot and purpose.