'The Beach at Galle Road' by
Joanna Luloff (Algonquin Books)
| by Grace E. Huckins
The Harvard Crimson
( October 16, 2012, Colombo, Sri
Lanka Guardian) As Emily Dickinson once wrote in a poem, “There is no Frigate
like a Book / To take us Lands away.” Many of the most successful works of
literature accomplish just that. But “The Beach at Galle Road,” the debut
collection of Joanna Luloff‘s short stories, is proof that this is not a
sufficient criterion for a book to be considered good. While Luloff paints an
enticing, vibrant image of Sri Lanka within the various interweaving stories
that constitute her work, this depiction, informed by her work there as a Peace
Corps volunteer, does not redeem the book’s deep flaws.
For a writer, the title of a work
can often be a potent tool. One would think that “The Beach at Galle Road”
could serve such a function—very little of the book actually takes place at a
beach—yet in this respect it fails spectacularly. Its significance is explicitly
stated in the collection’s second story, when a character thinks to her sister,
“Which way are you headed on Galle road, Lakshmi? What stories will you tell me
about the journeys you will take?” None of the subtlety that could come with
such a title is present; the reader knows almost immediately that Galle road
unequivocally represents the paths one follows in life and hope for the future.
And yet Luloff constantly assaults the reader with the significance of “Galle
road” as the book goes on, to the point that its appearance becomes
mind-numbing as opposed to an invitation to discover its meaning, as it should
be.
Indeed, Luloff’s greatest
weakness as a writer is that she finds it very difficult to leave anything
unsaid. She constantly chooses to tell, not show, the reader the world that she
depicts to the point that she at one instance writes of a character, “He
doesn’t notice that he is leaving red fingerprints along his throat and under
the collar of his shirt,” a blatant disobeying of the limited point-of-view
which Luloff typically uses.
In other cases she does not
permit the reader to interpret details that could have a powerful impact on
one’s interpretation of the text if he or she were not explicitly told how to
interpret it. Luloff has one character, Nilanthi, choose to recite Keats’ “Ode
to a Grecian Urn” for an English competition. On its own, this instance could
powerfully inform the reader’s view of the Nilanthi; this moment is spoiled,
however, when her mother muses, “Why had her daughter chosen this poem about
sacrifice…about a village by the sea growing silent and empty?” At points it
seems as if Luloff’s primary goal in her writing is to eliminate any modicum of
ambiguity; yet she fails to recognize that she is writing fiction, and doing so
gravely compromises the quality of her work, as the reader is deprived of the
privilege to interpret the characters on their own.
Were the collection a complete
loss, perhaps these flaws would not be so disappointing. But, while “The Beach
at Galle Road” has its share of failures, it succeeds in providing a
beautifully transporting experience for the reader. One cannot read Luloff’s lush
description of Sri Lanka and not long to venture to the “turquoise sea” she
describes, eat the “green graham and coconut, some chili on the side to combat
the blandness” or the “butter fruit mashed up into a frothy, sweet shake or
drizzled with treacle.” “The Beach at Galle Road” works as an account of place
because Luloff has employed a crucial aspect of good writing, in that she
chooses to write what she knows. Her stories are so potently infused with
colorful description and detail that, while the collection does not necessarily
qualify as a great work of literature, it is an enjoyable read if it is
accepted for what it is.
But it may be quite easy to fall
into the trap of misplacing one’s expectations for Luloff’s book. She is
describing Sri Lanka during a time of upheaval, and this upheaval does figure
into all of her stories; however, when the conflict is not central to the
story, its inclusion often seems forced. Perhaps this is because Luloff so well
describes what is positive and beautiful about Sri Lanka; in this context,
references to true despair and destruction appear nearly impossible. When
Luloff does focus on the conflict and its repercussions, however, what she
writes is powerful. Nilanthi, for example, once had great expectations for her
life, as revealed in one of the earlier stories in the collection. By her
appearance at the end of the book, she is ultimately crippled by a suicide
attempt and accompanied only by the ghosts of those she loved. These moving
revelations, however, are largely crowded in the final stories of the
collection. “The Beach at Galle Road” thus cannot be read as an account of the
civil war in Sri Lanka if one does not desire to be sorely disappointed.
Dickinson was not incorrect when
she wrote, “There is no Frigate like a Book,” but the quality of a book cannot
be determined solely by whether or not it transports its reader to another
place and gives them a lust for some far-off land. “The Beach at Galle Road” is
enjoyable because it potently acts as such a frigate, but it is riddled with
flaws that tragically prevent it from being a good book. Luloff’s debut is
perhaps the sort of book one would recommend for beach reading, but only were
the recomendee not the sort to read any book critically. For, although Luloff’s
collection stands strong when judged by Dickinson’s criteria, it cannot hold up
under a more critical eye.
 | by Grace E. Huckins The Harvard Crimson ( Octobe...){kind=link}