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A review by millennial_dandy
The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida by Shehan Karunatilaka
5.0
"The photos that remain came from only one of your five envelopes. They show sunsets and sunrises, hills of tea and crystal beaches, pangolins and peacocks, elephants with their young, and a beautiful boy and a wonderful girl running through strawberry fields [...] This island is a beautiful place, despite being filled with fools and savages. And if these photos of yours are the only ones that outlive you, maybe that's an ace that you can keep."
A quote on the front cover from a review in the Economist describes 'The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida as 'comic, macabre, angry, and thumpingly alive.' Though appropriately vague, it is a wholly apt description of the vibes. Pretty much in that order.
The first two-thirds of 'Seven Moons' are at once cynically humorous, chock full of graphic and purposefully horrific descriptions of death and violence, and, underpinning it all, full of rage.
Our second-person protagonist, the titular Maali Almeida, is dead. Murdered in fact. Through his (your/our) eyes, we are introduced to the after life of 'The In-Between' where spirits go when the body dies. This purgatory of sorts begins in, aptly, a waiting room, where overworked Helpers attempt to guide a never-ending sea of ghosts to The Light. But, much like the purgatory of the DMV or any other such government office waiting room, the ghosts in The In-Between don't want to be there, they're scared, they're grumpy, they have questions the Helpers don't have answers for, they're uncooperative.
Maali, like many other ghosts in the In-Between, isn't ready for The Light just yet. In life, he was a photographer, but not of weddings or sweet-sixteens or architecture -- Maali in life was a photographer of Sri Lanka's horrors during the civil war of the 80s and 90s, snapping photos of wartime atrocities; of dead children and corrupt generals shaking hands over corpses, and every other terrible thing in between.
He was convinced in life, and in death, that if only his photos could make it out into the world, the war would end, or at the very least, a clear global spotlight would be shone on the island and the barbarity being enacted there.
But he's dead now, he doesn't know who murdered him, and he's been told by a Helper that he only has seven moons to decide whether to go into The Light or remain trapped in the In-Between and vulnerable to becoming a roving, invisible zombie, or worse, gobbled up by one of the more malignant creatures roaming around.
It's a strong premise, but I'll admit that despite good pacing (though with that seemingly unavoidable bit of drag in the middle), engaging writing, and intriguing world-building there was something bothering me about the cynicism of 'Seven Moons.' Was I really expected to read 388 pages just to be beaten over the head by the fact that humans suck, that war and slaughter are inevitable, that nothing we do matters? In short, I kept waiting for the 'thumpingly alive' part.
But I guess The Economist placed it last for a reason, because we do get there. Despite focusing for, say, 300 pages, on everything ugly about humanity and glossing over the little good that oozed through the cracks, we end on a poignant, humanist note: yes, humanity matters. Beauty matters. Friendship matters. Love matters.
I'm a collectivist at heart, and I largely believe in collective action and systemic solutions to social problems, but author Shehan Karunatilaka makes a strong argument on the other side. He shows us how Maali's determination to change the world was also the thing that caused him to lose out on all of the things that would have made that change worth it. And it's only when, at the very end, he learns that sometimes striving for large-scale change can actually make us numb and ultimately render us passive at best or complicit at worst, that he finds meaning in life.
We do get answers. We learn all about the photographs, we find out who killed Maali, and the conclusions to these plot points are satisfying, and nestle in well to strengthen Karunatilaka's argument because in the end, one of those conclusions matters more than the other.
Some reviewers complained about the love story between Maali and Dilan, pointing out its toxicity, and how Maali's careless dalliances with basically every pretty boy he meets and his callous disregard for his partner's feelings and dreams make him irredeemably unlikeable and unsympathetic.
If these were real people, I'd absolutely agree. And if I were Dilan's friend, I'd encourage him to break it off. But these aren't real people -- they're characters; we're supposed to learn something from them, not like them. And really, what we're meant to learn from Maali is that the reason he treated Dilan so impartially despite claiming to love and want to protect him is that he was too poisoned by the work he was doing to realize that his bad treatment of his partner (and his best friend while we're at it) mattered.
The other lesson Maali learns, beyond the importance of individual action within a bad system, is that revenge, even against bad people, only creates more evil. This sounds almost childish, and in some cases, it could even be argued that it runs counter to utilitarianism, especially in a wartime situation, but it's nevertheless an argument worth considering.
Who, after all, gets to make that utilitarian call? And, as Maali points out during the climax, what good does cutting down one bad man do when the hydra is a system that will just replace him with another? Ultimately, he argues, it is better to save the people you can rather than kill the 'bad guys.'
There are some flaws with this idea, of course. There are arguments to be made, and that have been made, about the relative passivity that can result from this world view just as much as the other, but by taking such a strong stance, Karunatilaka invites you, the reader, to sit with that question.
This was the 2022 Booker Prize winner, and though some may disagree with that call, the accolade nevertheless puts 'Seven Moons' on an elevated global stage despite, it could be argued, much of its contents being solidly grounded in a Sri Lankan context. So what does that mean for the non-Sri Lankan reader?
Well, depending on how much you know about the Sri Lankan civil war, about Sri Lankan culture and mysticism and religion, it might mean a bit of extra leg work. And it might also mean struggling with the non-Judeo-Christian underpinnings that clearly lead to some of Karunatilaka's conclusions. Even as an agnostic with atheist leanings, I had to face some of that music. A good reminder that, as Karunatilaka points out himself, "thoughts are whispers that come from without as well as within. [...] they will blow across your mind at all times and you will succumb to them more than you think." (p.346) In other words, we live in a society (amazing how it all really does come down to that most of the time).
This is a fabulous novel, quite possibly taking my top spot of the year, and though there's still a lot of the year left, I'll be surprised if it doesn't stay in at least my top 3.
That being said, the ugliness he describes and the way he describes it won't be for everyone, nor will the fact that there really aren't any 'good guys.' However, if you don't need to like the protagonist, and if you're up for a bit of death and destruction, you'll likely find the world building of the In-Between worth the price of admission, and you may find yourself thinking about the questions of morality and activism after you've turned the last page.
And, by the way, the comedy, while perhaps a bit snide, is well done if you like that type of humor.
Read it. At the very least you'll likely learn more than you knew before about a part of history not so long past and about a place you may not have thought much about before.
A great companion piece to Shyam Selvadurai's 'Funny Boy' if you want more about the Sri Lankan civil war, and/or Ahmed Saadawi's 'Frankenstein in Baghdad' if you want more of the 'can revenge ever be the answer and does individual action ever matter' angle.
A quote on the front cover from a review in the Economist describes 'The Seven Moons of Maali Almeida as 'comic, macabre, angry, and thumpingly alive.' Though appropriately vague, it is a wholly apt description of the vibes. Pretty much in that order.
The first two-thirds of 'Seven Moons' are at once cynically humorous, chock full of graphic and purposefully horrific descriptions of death and violence, and, underpinning it all, full of rage.
Our second-person protagonist, the titular Maali Almeida, is dead. Murdered in fact. Through his (your/our) eyes, we are introduced to the after life of 'The In-Between' where spirits go when the body dies. This purgatory of sorts begins in, aptly, a waiting room, where overworked Helpers attempt to guide a never-ending sea of ghosts to The Light. But, much like the purgatory of the DMV or any other such government office waiting room, the ghosts in The In-Between don't want to be there, they're scared, they're grumpy, they have questions the Helpers don't have answers for, they're uncooperative.
Maali, like many other ghosts in the In-Between, isn't ready for The Light just yet. In life, he was a photographer, but not of weddings or sweet-sixteens or architecture -- Maali in life was a photographer of Sri Lanka's horrors during the civil war of the 80s and 90s, snapping photos of wartime atrocities; of dead children and corrupt generals shaking hands over corpses, and every other terrible thing in between.
He was convinced in life, and in death, that if only his photos could make it out into the world, the war would end, or at the very least, a clear global spotlight would be shone on the island and the barbarity being enacted there.
But he's dead now, he doesn't know who murdered him, and he's been told by a Helper that he only has seven moons to decide whether to go into The Light or remain trapped in the In-Between and vulnerable to becoming a roving, invisible zombie, or worse, gobbled up by one of the more malignant creatures roaming around.
It's a strong premise, but I'll admit that despite good pacing (though with that seemingly unavoidable bit of drag in the middle), engaging writing, and intriguing world-building there was something bothering me about the cynicism of 'Seven Moons.' Was I really expected to read 388 pages just to be beaten over the head by the fact that humans suck, that war and slaughter are inevitable, that nothing we do matters? In short, I kept waiting for the 'thumpingly alive' part.
But I guess The Economist placed it last for a reason, because we do get there. Despite focusing for, say, 300 pages, on everything ugly about humanity and glossing over the little good that oozed through the cracks, we end on a poignant, humanist note: yes, humanity matters. Beauty matters. Friendship matters. Love matters.
I'm a collectivist at heart, and I largely believe in collective action and systemic solutions to social problems, but author Shehan Karunatilaka makes a strong argument on the other side. He shows us how Maali's determination to change the world was also the thing that caused him to lose out on all of the things that would have made that change worth it. And it's only when, at the very end, he learns that sometimes striving for large-scale change can actually make us numb and ultimately render us passive at best or complicit at worst, that he finds meaning in life.
We do get answers. We learn all about the photographs, we find out who killed Maali, and the conclusions to these plot points are satisfying, and nestle in well to strengthen Karunatilaka's argument because in the end, one of those conclusions matters more than the other.
Some reviewers complained about the love story between Maali and Dilan, pointing out its toxicity, and how Maali's careless dalliances with basically every pretty boy he meets and his callous disregard for his partner's feelings and dreams make him irredeemably unlikeable and unsympathetic.
If these were real people, I'd absolutely agree. And if I were Dilan's friend, I'd encourage him to break it off. But these aren't real people -- they're characters; we're supposed to learn something from them, not like them. And really, what we're meant to learn from Maali is that the reason he treated Dilan so impartially despite claiming to love and want to protect him is that he was too poisoned by the work he was doing to realize that his bad treatment of his partner (and his best friend while we're at it) mattered.
The other lesson Maali learns, beyond the importance of individual action within a bad system, is that revenge, even against bad people, only creates more evil. This sounds almost childish, and in some cases, it could even be argued that it runs counter to utilitarianism, especially in a wartime situation, but it's nevertheless an argument worth considering.
Who, after all, gets to make that utilitarian call? And, as Maali points out during the climax, what good does cutting down one bad man do when the hydra is a system that will just replace him with another? Ultimately, he argues, it is better to save the people you can rather than kill the 'bad guys.'
There are some flaws with this idea, of course. There are arguments to be made, and that have been made, about the relative passivity that can result from this world view just as much as the other, but by taking such a strong stance, Karunatilaka invites you, the reader, to sit with that question.
This was the 2022 Booker Prize winner, and though some may disagree with that call, the accolade nevertheless puts 'Seven Moons' on an elevated global stage despite, it could be argued, much of its contents being solidly grounded in a Sri Lankan context. So what does that mean for the non-Sri Lankan reader?
Well, depending on how much you know about the Sri Lankan civil war, about Sri Lankan culture and mysticism and religion, it might mean a bit of extra leg work. And it might also mean struggling with the non-Judeo-Christian underpinnings that clearly lead to some of Karunatilaka's conclusions. Even as an agnostic with atheist leanings, I had to face some of that music. A good reminder that, as Karunatilaka points out himself, "thoughts are whispers that come from without as well as within. [...] they will blow across your mind at all times and you will succumb to them more than you think." (p.346) In other words, we live in a society (amazing how it all really does come down to that most of the time).
This is a fabulous novel, quite possibly taking my top spot of the year, and though there's still a lot of the year left, I'll be surprised if it doesn't stay in at least my top 3.
That being said, the ugliness he describes and the way he describes it won't be for everyone, nor will the fact that there really aren't any 'good guys.' However, if you don't need to like the protagonist, and if you're up for a bit of death and destruction, you'll likely find the world building of the In-Between worth the price of admission, and you may find yourself thinking about the questions of morality and activism after you've turned the last page.
And, by the way, the comedy, while perhaps a bit snide, is well done if you like that type of humor.
Read it. At the very least you'll likely learn more than you knew before about a part of history not so long past and about a place you may not have thought much about before.
A great companion piece to Shyam Selvadurai's 'Funny Boy' if you want more about the Sri Lankan civil war, and/or Ahmed Saadawi's 'Frankenstein in Baghdad' if you want more of the 'can revenge ever be the answer and does individual action ever matter' angle.