What occurs when a writer prioritizes the storyline or message over the quality of their writing? Both plot and message often glide along the familiar terrain of clichés. Consequently, readers may find enjoyment in the narrative or argument of a novel that relies heavily on common phrases and expressions, such as “manicured gardens,” “apple of their father’s eye,” or “engulfed by civil strife.” These familiar phrases can detract from the overall literary experience.
This sentiment encapsulates much of the reading journey offered by Amitav Ghosh’s eleventh novel, Ghost-Eye. The narrative is intricately crafted, particularly in its early sections, which captivate the reader with a series of compelling mysteries. The themes explored—specifically the interactions between global and local dynamics in the aftermath of World War II—are significant. However, the writing often falls flat, which is disappointing. Like many readers, I hold Ghosh in high regard, not only for the narrative depth found in his Ibis trilogy but also for his insightful commentary in his 2016 work, The Great Derangement: Climate Change and the Unthinkable. Ghosh has played a pivotal role in elevating the climate crisis as a pressing topic within contemporary literature.
Ghost-Eye serves as a narrative centered on the climate emergency. The story is narrated by Dinu, a semi-retired antiquarian residing in Brooklyn. He recounts his experiences during “the plague year of 2020,” as he unravels a complex past rooted in his childhood in Calcutta during the 1960s and 70s. Dinu aims to honor his aunt, Shoma, who dedicated her career to therapy, often with troubled youth. One such child, pivotal to the narrative, is Varsha, the three-year-old daughter of the affluent Gupta family, who exhibits an unusual desire for fish, despite her vegetarian upbringing due to Jain customs. Shoma investigates this unusual case, ultimately suggesting Varsha may have a past life as a fisherwoman and talented cook from the Sundarbans. The story intertwines various quests—Varsha’s search for her previous existence, Dinu’s exploration of his own history, and a secret initiative by Dinu’s activist ward, Tipu, who seeks to utilize the abilities of spiritually aware individuals known as “ghost-eyes” to challenge corporate environmental offenders.
In this narrative, Ghosh uses the concept of reincarnation as a metaphor for humanity’s interconnectedness in a globalized context. He proposes a shared spirituality that encompasses humans, animals, and plants, envisioning an eternal ecological consciousness that is both timeless and compassionate. While this idea is compelling, it becomes obscured by an abundance of clichés. Varsha’s declaration, “I see dead people,” echoes a line from the film The Sixth Sense, and it is unclear whether this is a deliberate reference. Dinu’s ward, Tipu, is depicted as a member of Generation Z, yet his dialogue often comes across as outdated: “OK, Pops, since you’re trippin’ on me, I’ll spill the tea.” At times, he resembles a character from the 1960s, expressing sentiments that feel anachronistic.
The dialogue of older characters is equally unconvincing. Shoma’s husband, Monty, exclaims, “Oh for God’s sake, you’re not going to spout all that Jungian stuff at me again, are you?” Shoma herself communicates as if she is providing exposition for a Victorian audience: “But with everything that’s going on in their lives, it’ll probably be a while before I hear from the Guptas again.” Other characters, such as Dinu’s former love interest, are described with generic terms like “firebrand” and “magnetic personality.” Dinu, as an adult, finds himself watching Bengali cooking videos online with “rapt attention,” while Tipu “was soon digging in, heartily slurping up noodles,” filled with phrases that lack originality.
The accumulation of clichés gradually undermines the plot’s credibility and the urgency of its themes. A later revelation regarding Dinu’s identity, which should have a significant impact, ends up feeling absurd. The novel’s critique of corporate environmental offenders ultimately fizzles in a supernatural climax that lacks presence. This is unfortunate, as the novel does present strong elements—particularly in its portrayal of Shoma’s keen intellect and Ghosh’s thoughtful exploration of food as a metaphor for globalization. However, much of the writing leaves something to be desired; it might be fitting to conclude with a cliché: your experience may vary.
Ghost-Eye by Amitav Ghosh is available from John Murray (£22). To support the Guardian, you can order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Please note that delivery charges may apply.
