In rural Trinidad, Mr. Biswas is born to Hindu superstition. From birth, the author refers to him as Mr. Biswas, although he does have a given nameMohun. We follow his life to the end, through job after job, a marriage into which he blunders, from ignorance to minimal success; through moves from the country to the city, to a mountain retreat, and back to the city (most moves end in some form of disaster); all the while chasing his ultimate, but ever-elusive dream: to own his own house. As he reaches each step in his goal, he discovers that it is not what it seemed to be. Basically, a self-educated man, Mr. Biswas finally wrangles a job as a reporter for TheSentinal: a newspaper that reminds me of the National Enquirer. He does this by inventing a story that they publish. Had he lived longer, Mr. Biswas might have emigrated to the U.S. and found ready employment at the New York Times, or Boston Globe. Mr. Biswas does project some biting sarcasm. I particularly like the comparison of city to country children, city children wore trousers and exposed their tops, unlike country children who wore vests and exposed their bottoms. Sort of Donald wears a top and no bottom, but Mickey wears a bottom and no top. Another favorite is a comparison of Coca Cola to horse pee. This is an interesting story, steeped in native traditions, chicanery, and squalor. There is no deep-rooted philosophical message over which to agonize, but it is a lengthy novel (584 pages).

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