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Tucker's Reviews > Kim
Kim
by Rudyard Kipling
by Rudyard Kipling
Tucker's review
bookshelves: finished
Jan 23, 11
bookshelves: finished
Recommended to Tucker by:
A woman cleaning out her basement of moldy paperbacks
Recommended for:
People who have the Cliff Notes to read first
Read on January 22, 2011 — I own a copy, read count: 1
I have no idea what happened in this book. Seriously not a clue. It's like one continuous run-on poetic sentence.
Sometimes the language is beautiful:
"There is no city--except Bombay, the queen of all--more beautiful in her garish style than Lucknow, whether you see her from the bridge over the river, or from the top of the Imambara looking down on the gilt umbrellas of the Chutter Munzil, and the trees in which the town is bedded. Kings have adorned her with fantastic buildings, endowed her with charities, crammed her with pensioners, and drenched her with blood. She is the centre of all idleness, intrigue, and luxury, and shares with Delhi the claim to talk the only pure Urdu." (p. 147)
Sometimes it's odd:
"Humph! I have no desire to mix with chance-met wastrels. My ears are not long. I am not a woman wishing to overhear secrets." The Jat slid himself heavily into a far corner. (p. 247)
Frequently it's hilariously incoherent:
"The search is at an end for me," shouted Kim in the vernacular. "I have found the Bull, but God knows what comes next. They will not hurt you. Come to the fat priest's tent with this thin man and see the end. It is all new, and they cannot talk Hindi. They are only uncurried donkeys." (p. 107)
That's all I have to say about that.
Rudyard Kipling. Kim. (Originally published 1901.) New York: Pocket Books, Inc., 1949.
Sometimes the language is beautiful:
"There is no city--except Bombay, the queen of all--more beautiful in her garish style than Lucknow, whether you see her from the bridge over the river, or from the top of the Imambara looking down on the gilt umbrellas of the Chutter Munzil, and the trees in which the town is bedded. Kings have adorned her with fantastic buildings, endowed her with charities, crammed her with pensioners, and drenched her with blood. She is the centre of all idleness, intrigue, and luxury, and shares with Delhi the claim to talk the only pure Urdu." (p. 147)
Sometimes it's odd:
"Humph! I have no desire to mix with chance-met wastrels. My ears are not long. I am not a woman wishing to overhear secrets." The Jat slid himself heavily into a far corner. (p. 247)
Frequently it's hilariously incoherent:
"The search is at an end for me," shouted Kim in the vernacular. "I have found the Bull, but God knows what comes next. They will not hurt you. Come to the fat priest's tent with this thin man and see the end. It is all new, and they cannot talk Hindi. They are only uncurried donkeys." (p. 107)
That's all I have to say about that.
Rudyard Kipling. Kim. (Originally published 1901.) New York: Pocket Books, Inc., 1949.
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