Rastafari at Home and Abroad
The Children of Sisyphus by Orlando Patterson. New Authors Ltd. Hutchinson of London, 18s.
Every West Indian novel worth notice is a tract for the times. But the test for it as for any type of novel must be: is it worth reading for the story it tells, the people it introduces, the interest of the piece of the world it restates or explores? Here Mr Patterson triumphs. His novel can take a third reading and not thereby shrink. His subject is made to order—the life of the people of the West Indies, more precisely, the people of Jamaica. A new people, new in a double sense: they came into existence only three hundred years ago, they have written and been written about for less than 20 years. The novel gives us a comprehensive view: the poor, the ignorant, the despised, the rejected, the middle class, the officials and the more or less prosperous. And a wonderful portrait of a West Indian political premier in action—that above all will live, will live because although the portrait is particular, even a coordination, a tight co-ordination of incredible singularities, the total effect is that of a general type, the West Indian politician in the first years of self-government. The social scene constitutes the bones of the book and allows Mr Patterson to give free rein to his instinct for luscious writing. He is only 23, and is still a university student. Ordinarily he would begin, even if he ended by being a novelist, with a volume of verse. But in a West Indian island class relations are so stark, the contrast between the professed ideal and the real so cruel, that Mr Patterson’s prose can tremble on the verge of going over the line but can never shake free from the discipline of the social structure and the sharp concrete realities in which it expresses itself.
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