A Passage to India

By E. M. Forster

This award-winning novel about a conflict between a British woman and an Indian man amid the stirrings of rebellion against empire is “a revelation” (The New York Times).
 
One of Time magazine’s 100 best English language novels published since 1923,
one of the Modern Library’s 100 great works of twentieth-century English literature, and the
winner of the James Tait Black Memorial Prize
 
“By the time the great Edwardian novelist, in this last and best of his novels published in his lifetime, addressed himself to the British presence in India, his moral sense was more fully equipped than ever. Mindful of the imponderables of human conduct, alert to all the reciprocal misjudgments and the wearying false appraisals we make as a matter of course, he looked at empire and saw its weak foundations. Adela Quested is a British visitor to the Raj who is anxious to know ‘the real India.’ On a visit to the Malabar caves an assault of some kind does or does not happen to her, perhaps at the hands of Dr. Aziz, the solicitous Indian Muslim who has arranged the trip. Has she imagined things? Is he not what he seems? In his other great novel, Howards End, Forster directed us to ‘only connect.’ What he demonstrates here, in a story of the greatest and saddest subtleties—and comic subtleties, too—is how nearly impossible that is to do.” —Time

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Mar 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781504061728

E. M. Forster

Edward Morgan "E. M." Forster (1879–1970) was an English novelist, short-story writer, essayist, and librettist. Many of his novels, including A Room with a View, Howards End, and A Passage to India, examine class difference and hypocrisy in late 19th-century and early 20th-century British society. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature twenty times.

Book preview

I

M

OSQUE

Chapter I

Except for the Marabar Caves—and they are twenty miles off—the city of Chandrapore presents nothing extraordinary. Edged rather than washed by the river Ganges, it trails for a couple of miles along the bank, scarcely distinguishable from the rubbish it deposits so freely. There are no bathing-steps on the river front, as the Ganges happens not to be holy here; indeed there is no river front, and bazaars shut out the wide and shifting panorama of the stream. The streets are mean, the temples ineffective, and though a few fine houses exist they are hidden away in gardens or down alleys whose filth deters all but the invited guest. Chandrapore was never large or beautiful, but two hundred years ago it lay on the road between Upper India, then imperial, and the sea, and the fine houses date from that period. The zest for decoration stopped in the eighteenth century, nor was it ever democratic. There is no painting and scarcely any carving in the bazaars. The very wood seems made of mud, the inhabitants of mud moving. So abased, so monotonous is everything that meets the eye, that when the Ganges comes down it might be expected to wash the excrescence back into the soil. Houses do fall, people are drowned and left rotting, but the general outline of the town persists, swelling here, shrinking there, like some low but indestructible form of life.

Inland, the prospect alters. There is an oval Maidan, and a long sallow hospital. Houses belonging to Eurasians stand on the high ground by the railway station. Beyond the railway—which runs parallel to the river—the land sinks, then rises again rather steeply. On the second rise is laid out the little civil station, and viewed hence Chandrapore appears to be a totally different place. It is a city of gardens. It is no city, but a forest sparsely scattered with huts. It is a tropical pleasaunce washed by a noble river. The toddy palms and neem trees and mangoes and pepul that were hidden behind the bazaars now become visible and in their turn hide the bazaars. They rise from the gardens where ancient tanks nourish them, they burst out of stifling purlieus and unconsidered temples. Seeking light and air, and endowed with more strength than man or his works, they soar above the lower deposit to greet one another with branches and beckoning leaves, and to build a city for the birds. Especially after the rains do they screen what passes below, but at all times, even when scorched or leafless, they glorify the city to the English people who inhabit the rise, so that new-comers cannot believe it to be as meagre as it is described, and have to be driven down to acquire disillusionment. As for the civil station itself, it provokes no emotion. It charms not, neither does it repel. It is sensibly planned, with a red-brick club on its brow, and farther back a grocer’s and a cemetery, and the bungalows are disposed along roads that intersect at right angles. It has nothing hideous in it, and only the view is beautiful; it shares nothing with the city except the overarching sky.

The sky too has its changes, but they are less marked than those of the vegetation and the river. Clouds map it up at times, but it is normally a dome of blending tints, and the main tint blue. By day the blue will pale down into white where it touches the white of the land, after sunset it has a new circumference—orange, melting upwards into tenderest purple. But the core of blue persists, and so it is by night. Then the stars hang like lamps from the immense vault. The distance between the vault and them is as nothing to the distance behind them, and that farther distance, though beyond colour, last freed itself from blue.

The sky settles everything—not only climates and seasons but when the earth shall be beautiful. By herself she can do little—only feeble outbursts of flowers. But when the sky chooses, glory can rain into the Chandrapore bazaars or a benediction pass from horizon to horizon. The sky can do this because it is so strong and so enormous. Strength comes from the sun, infused in it daily; size from the prostrate earth. No mountains infringe on the curve. League after league the earth lies flat, heaves a little, is flat again. Only in the south, where a group of fists and fingers are thrust up through the soil, is the endless expanse interrupted. These fists and fingers are the Marabar Hills, containing the extraordinary caves.

Chapter II

Abandoning his bicycle, which fell before a servant could catch it, the young man sprang up on to the verandah. He was all animation. Hamidullah, Hamidullah! am I late? he cried.

Do not apologize, said his host. You are always late.

Kindly answer my question. Am I late? Has Mahmoud Ali eaten all the food? If so I go elsewhere. Mr. Mahmoud Ali, how are you?

Thank you, Dr. Aziz, I am dying.

Dying before your dinner? Oh, poor Mahmoud Ali!

Hamidullah here is actually dead. He passed away just as you rode up on your bike.

Yes, that is so, said the other. Imagine us both as addressing you from another and a happier world.

Does there happen to be such a thing as a hookah in that happier world of yours?

Aziz, don’t chatter. We are having a very sad talk.

The hookah had been packed too tight, as was usual in his friend’s house, and bubbled sulkily. He coaxed it. Yielding at last, the tobacco jetted up into his lungs and nostrils, driving out the smoke of burning cow dung that had filled them as he rode through the bazaar. It was delicious. He lay in a trance, sensuous but healthy, through which the talk of the two others did not seem particularly sad—they were discussing as to whether or no it is possible to be friends with an Englishman. Mahmoud Ali argued that it was not, Hamidullah disagreed, but with so many reservations that there was no friction between them. Delicious indeed to lie on the broad verandah with the moon rising in front and the servants preparing dinner behind, and no trouble happening.

Well, look at my own experience this morning.

I only contend that it is possible in England, replied Hamidullah, who had been to that country long ago, before the big rush, and had received a cordial welcome at Cambridge.

It is impossible here. Aziz! The red-nosed boy has again insulted me in Court. I do not blame him. He was told that he ought to insult me. Until lately he was quite a nice boy, but the others have got hold of him.

Yes, they have no chance here, that is my point. They come out intending to be gentlemen, and are told it will not do. Look at Lesley, look at Blakiston, now it is your red-nosed boy, and Fielding will go next. Why, I remember when Turton came out first. It was in another part of the Province. You fellows will not believe me, but I have driven with Turton in his carriage—Turton! Oh yes, we were once quite intimate. He has shown me his stamp collection.

He would expect you to steal it now. Turton! But red-nosed boy will be far worse than Turton!

I do not think so. They all become exactly the same, not worse, not better. I give any Englishman two years, be he Turton or Burton. It is only the difference of a letter. And I give any English woman six months. All are exactly alike. Do you not agree with me?

I do not, replied Mahmoud Ali, entering into the bitter fun, and feeling both pain and amusement at each word that was uttered. For my own part I find such profound differences among our rulers. Red-nose mumbles, Turton talks distinctly, Mrs. Turton takes bribes, Mrs. Red-nose does not and cannot, because so far there is no Mrs. Red-nose.

Bribes?

Did you not know that when they were lent to Central India over a Canal Scheme, some Rajah or other gave her a sewing machine in solid gold so that the water should run through his state?

And does it?

No, that is where Mrs. Turton is so skilful. When we poor blacks takes bribes, we perform what we are bribed to perform, and the law discovers us in consequence. The English take and do nothing. I admire them.

We all admire them. Aziz, please pass me the hookah.

Oh, not yet—hookah is so jolly now.

You are a very selfish boy. He raised his voice suddenly, and shouted for dinner. Servants shouted back that it was ready. They meant that they wished it was ready, and were so understood, for nobody moved. Then Hamidullah continued, but with changed manner and evident emotion.

But take my case—the case of young Hugh Bannister. Here is the son of my dear, my dead friends, the Reverend and Mrs. Bannister, whose goodness to me in England I shall never forget or describe. They were father and mother to me, I talked to them as I do now. In the vacations their Rectory became my home. They entrusted all their children to me—I often carried little Hugh about—I took him up to the Funeral of Queen Victoria, and held him in my arms above the crowd.

Queen Victoria was different, murmured Mahmoud Ali.

I learn now that this boy is in business as a leather merchant at Cawnpore. Imagine how I long to see him and to pay his fare that this house may be his home. But it is useless. The other Anglo-Indians will have got hold of him long ago. He will probably think that I want something, and I cannot face that from the son of my old friends. Oh, what in this country has gone wrong with everything, Vakil Sahib? I ask you.

Aziz joined in. Why talk about the English? Brrrr …! Why be either friends with the fellows or not friends? Let us shut them out and be jolly. Queen Victoria and Mrs. Bannister were the only exceptions, and they’re dead.

No, no, I do not admit that, I have met others.

So have I, said Mahmoud Ali, unexpectedly veering. All ladies are far from alike. Their mood was changed, and they recalled little kindnesses and courtesies. She said ‘Thank you so much’ in the most natural way. She offered me a lozenge when the dust irritated my throat. Hamidullah could remember more important examples of angelic ministration, but the other, who only knew Anglo-India, had to ransack his memory for scraps, and it was not surprising that he should return to But of course all this is exceptional. The exception does not prove the rule. The average woman is like Mrs. Turton, and, Aziz, you know what she is. Aziz did not know, but said he did. He too generalized from his disappointments—it is difficult for members of a subject race to do otherwise. Granted the exceptions, he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal. The gleam passed from the conversation, whose wintry surface unrolled and expanded interminably.

A servant announced dinner. They ignored him. The elder men had reached their eternal politics, Aziz drifted into the garden. The trees smelt sweet—green-blossomed champak—and scraps of Persian poetry came into his head. Dinner, dinner, dinner … but when he returned to the house for it, Mahmoud Ali had drifted away in his turn, to speak to his sais. Come and see my wife a little then, said Hamidullah, and they spent twenty minutes behind the purdah. Hamidullah Begum was a distant aunt of Aziz, and the only female relative he had in Chandrapore, and she had much to say to him on this occasion about a family circumcision that had been celebrated with imperfect pomp. It was difficult to get away, because until they had had their dinner she would not begin hers, and consequently prolonged her remarks in case they should suppose she was impatient. Having censured the circumcision, she bethought her of kindred topics, and asked Aziz when he was going to be married.

Respectful but irritated, he answered, Once is enough.

Yes, he has done his duty, said Hamidullah. Do not tease him so. He carries on his family, two boys and their sister.

Aunt, they live most comfortably with my wife’s mother, where she was living when she died. I can see them whenever I like. They are such very, very small children.

And he sends them the whole of his salary and lives like a low-grade clerk, and tells no one the reason. What more do you require him to do?

But this was not Hamidullah Begum’s point, and having courteously changed the conversation for a few moments she returned and made it. She said, What is to become of all our daughters if men refuse to marry? They will marry beneath them, or— And she began the oft-told tale of a lady of Imperial descent who could find no husband in the narrow circle where her pride permitted her to mate, and had lived on unwed, her age now thirty, and would die unwed, for no one would have her now. While the tale was in progress, it convinced the two men, the tragedy seemed a slur on the whole community; better polygamy almost, than that a woman should die without the joys God has intended her to receive. Wedlock, motherhood, power in the house—for what else is she born, and how can the man who has denied them to her stand up to face her creator and his own at the last day? Aziz took his leave saying Perhaps … but later …—his invariable reply to such an appeal.

You mustn’t put off what you think right, said Hamidullah. That is why India is in such a plight, because we put off things. But seeing that his young relative looked worried, he added a few soothing words, and thus wiped out any impression that his wife might have made.

During their absence, Mahmoud Ali had gone off in his carriage leaving a message that he should be back in five minutes, but they were on no account to wait. They sat down to meat with a distant cousin of the house, Mohammed Latif, who lived on Hamidullah’s bounty and who occupied the position neither of a servant nor of an equal. He did not speak unless spoken to, and since no one spoke kept unoffended silence. Now and then he belched, in compliment to the richness of the food. A gentle, happy and dishonest old man; all his life he had never done a stroke of work. So long as some one of his relatives had a house he was sure of a home, and it was unlikely that so large a family would all go bankrupt. His wife led a similar existence some hundreds of miles away—he did not visit her, owing to the expense of the railway ticket. Presently Aziz chaffed him, also the servants, and then began quoting poetry, Persian, Urdu, a little Arabic. His memory was good, and for so young a man he had read largely; the themes he preferred were the decay of Islam and the brevity of Love. They listened delighted, for they took the public view of poetry, not the private which obtains in England. It never bored them to hear words, words; they breathed them with the cool night air, never stopping to analyse; the name of the poet, Hafiz, Hali, Iqbal, was sufficient guarantee. India—a hundred Indias—whispered outside beneath the indifferent moon, but for the time India seemed one and their own, and they regained their departed greatness by hearing its departure lamented, they felt young again because reminded that youth must fly. A servant in scarlet interrupted him; he was the chuprassi of the Civil Surgeon, and he handed Aziz a note.

Old Callendar wants to see me at his bungalow, he said, not rising. He might have the politeness to say why.

Some case, I daresay.

I daresay not, I daresay nothing. He has found out our dinner hour, that’s all, and chooses to interrupt us every time, in order to show his power.

On the one hand he always does this, on the other it may be a serious case, and you cannot know, said Hamidullah, considerately paving the way towards obedience. Had you not better clean your teeth after pan?

If my teeth are to be cleaned, I don’t go at all. I am an Indian, it is an Indian habit to take pan. The Civil Surgeon must put up with it. Mohammed Latif, my bike, please.

The poor relation got up. Slightly immersed in the realms of matter, he laid his hand on the bicycle’s saddle, while a servant did the actual wheeling. Between them they took it over a tintack. Aziz held his hands under the ewer, dried them, fitted on his green felt hat, and then with unexpected energy whizzed out of Hamidullah’s compound.

Aziz, Aziz, imprudent boy…. But he was far down the bazaar, riding furiously. He had neither light nor bell nor had he a brake, but what use are such adjuncts in a land where the cyclist’s only hope is to coast from face to face, and just before he collides with each it vanishes? And the city was fairly empty at this hour. When his tyre went flat, he leapt off and shouted for a tonga.

He did not at first find one, and he had also to dispose of his bicycle at a friend’s house. He dallied furthermore to clean his teeth. But at last he was rattling towards the civil lines, with a vivid sense of speed. As he entered their arid tidiness, depression suddenly seized him. The roads, named after victorious generals and intersecting at right angles, were symbolic of the net Great Britain had thrown over India. He felt caught in their meshes. When he turned into Major Callendar’s compound he could with difficulty restrain himself from getting down from the tonga and approaching the bungalow on foot, and this not because his soul was servile but because his feelings—the sensitive edges of him—feared a gross snub. There had been a case last year—an Indian gentleman had driven up to an official’s house and been turned back by the servants and been told to approach more suitably—only one case among thousands of visits to hundreds of officials, but its fame spread wide. The young man shrank from a repetition of it. He compromised, and stopped the driver just outside the flood of light that fell across the verandah.

The Civil Surgeon was out.

But the sahib has left me some message?

The servant returned an indifferent No. Aziz was in despair. It was a servant whom he had forgotten to tip, and he could do nothing now because there were people in the hall. He was convinced that there was a message, and that the man was withholding it out of revenge. While they argued, the people came out. Both were ladies. Aziz lifted his hat. The first, who was in evening dress, glanced at the Indian and turned instinctively away.

"Mrs. Lesley, it is a tonga," she cried.

Ours? enquired the second, also seeing Aziz, and doing likewise.

Take the gifts the gods provide, anyhow, she screeched, and both jumped in. O Tonga wallah, club, club. Why doesn’t the fool go?

Go, I will pay you to-morrow, said Aziz to the driver, and as they went off he called courteously, You are most welcome, ladies. They did not reply, being full of their own affairs.

So it had come, the usual thing—just as Mahmoud Ali said. The inevitable snub—his bow ignored, his carriage taken. It might have been worse, for it comforted him somehow that Mesdames Callendar and Lesley should both be fat and weigh the tonga down behind. Beautiful women would have pained him. He turned to the servant, gave him a couple of rupees, and asked again whether there was a message. The man, now very civil, returned the same answer. Major Callendar had driven away half an hour before.

Saying nothing?

He had as a matter of fact said, Damn Aziz—words that the servant understood, but was too polite to repeat. One can tip too much as well as too little, indeed the coin that buys the exact truth has not yet been minted.

Then I will write him a letter.

He was offered the use of the house, but was too dignified to enter it. Paper and ink were brought on to the verandah. He began: Dear Sir,—At your express command I have hastened as a subordinate should— and then stopped. Tell him I have called, that is sufficient, he said, tearing the protest up. Here is my card. Call me a tonga.

Huzoor, all are at the club.

Then telephone for one down to the railway station. And since the man hastened to do this he said, Enough, enough, I prefer to walk. He commandeered a match and lit a cigarette. These attentions, though purchased, soothed him. They would last as long as he had rupees, which is something. But to shake the dust of Anglo-India off his feet! To escape from the net and be back among manners and gestures that he knew! He began a walk, an unwonted exercise.

He was an athletic little man, daintily put together, but really very strong. Nevertheless walking fatigued him, as it fatigues everyone in India except the new-comer. There is something hostile in that soil. It either yields, and the foot sinks into a depression, or else it is unexpectedly rigid and sharp, pressing stones or crystals against the tread. A series of these little surprises exhausts; and he was wearing pumps, a poor preparation for any country. At the edge of the civil station he turned into a mosque to rest.

He had always liked this mosque. It was gracious, and the arrangement pleased him. The courtyard—entered through a ruined gate—contained an ablution tank of fresh clear water, which was always in motion, being indeed part of a conduit that supplied the city. The courtyard was paved with broken slabs. The covered part of the mosque was deeper than is usual; its effect was that of an English parish church whose side has been taken out. Where he sat, he looked into three arcades whose darkness was illuminated by a small hanging lamp and by the moon. The front—in full moonlight—had the appearance of marble, and the ninety-nine names of God on the frieze stood out black, as the frieze stood out white against the sky. The contest between this dualism and the contention of shadows within pleased Aziz, and he tried to symbolize the whole into some truth of religion or love. A mosque by winning his approval let loose his imagination. The temple of another creed, Hindu, Christian, or Greek, would have bored him and failed to awaken his sense of beauty. Here was Islam, his own country, more than a Faith, more than a battle-cry, more, much more … Islam, an attitude towards life both exquisite and durable, where his body and his thoughts found their home.

His seat was the low wall that bounded the courtyard on the left. The ground fell away beneath him towards the city, visible as a blur of trees, and in the stillness he heard many small sounds. On the right, over in the club, the English community contributed an amateur orchestra. Elsewhere some Hindus were drumming—he knew they were Hindus, because the rhythm was uncongenial to him,—and others were bewailing a corpse—he knew whose, having certified it in the afternoon. There were owls, the Punjab mail … and flowers smelt deliciously in the station-master’s garden. But the mosque—that alone signified, and he returned to it from the complex appeal of the night, and decked it with meanings the builder had never intended. Some day he too would build a mosque, smaller than this but in perfect taste, so that all who passed by should experience the happiness he felt now. And near it, under a low dome, should be his tomb, with a Persian inscription:

Alas, without me for thousands of years

The Rose will blossom and the Spring will bloom,

But those who have secretly understood my heart—

They will approach and visit the grave where I lie.

He had seen the quatrain on the tomb of a Deccan king, and regarded it as profound philosophy—he always held pathos to be profound. The secret understanding of the heart! He repeated the phrase with tears in his eyes, and as he did so one of the pillars of the mosque seemed to quiver. It swayed in the gloom and detached itself. Belief in ghosts ran in his blood, but he sat firm. Another pillar moved, a third, and then an English woman stepped out into the moonlight. Suddenly he was furiously angry and shouted: Madam! Madam! Madam!

Oh! Oh! the woman gasped.

Madam, this is a mosque, you have no right here at all; you should have taken off your shoes; this is a holy place for Moslems.

I have taken them off.

You have?

I left them at the entrance.

Then I ask your pardon.

Still startled, the woman moved out, keeping the ablution-tank between them. He called after her, I am truly sorry for speaking.

Yes, I was right, was I not? If I remove my shoes, I am allowed?

Of course, but so few ladies take the trouble, especially if thinking no one is there to see.

That makes no difference. God is here.

Madam!

Please let me go.

Oh, can I do you some service now or at any time?

No, thank you, really none—good night.

May I know your name?

She was now in the shadow of the gateway, so that he could not see her face, but she saw his, and she said with a change of voice, Mrs. Moore.

Mrs.— Advancing, he found that she was old. A fabric bigger than the mosque fell to pieces, and he did not know whether he was glad or sorry. She was older than Hamidullah Begum, with a red face and white hair. Her voice had deceived him.

Mrs. Moore, I am afraid I startled you. I shall tell my community—our friends—about you. That God is here—very good, very fine indeed. I think you are newly arrived in India.

Yes—how did you know?

By the way you address me. No, but can I call you a carriage?

I have only come from the club. They are doing a play that I have seen in London, and it was so hot.

What was the name of the play?

"Cousin Kate."

I think you ought not to walk at night alone, Mrs. Moore. There are bad characters about and leopards may come across from the Marabar Hills. Snakes also.

She exclaimed; she had forgotten the snakes.

For example, a six-spot beetle, he continued. You pick it up, it bites, you die.

But you walk about yourself.

Oh, I am used to it.

Used to snakes?

They both laughed. I’m a doctor, he said. Snakes don’t dare bite me. They sat down side by side in the entrance, and slipped on their evening shoes. Please may I ask you a question now? Why do you come to India at this time of year, just as the cold weather is ending?

I intended to start earlier, but there was an unavoidable delay.

It will soon be so unhealthy for you! And why ever do you come to Chandrapore?

To visit my son. He is the City Magistrate here.

Oh no, excuse me, that is quite impossible. Our City Magistrate’s name is Mr. Heaslop. I know him intimately.

He’s my son all the same, she said, smiling.

But, Mrs. Moore, how can he be?

I was married twice.

Yes, now I see, and your first husband died.

He did, and so did my second husband.

Then we are in the same box, he said cryptically. Then is the City Magistrate the entire of your family now?

No, there are the younger ones—Ralph and Stella in England.

And the gentleman here, is he Ralph and Stella’s half-brother?

Quite right.

Mrs. Moore, this is all extremely strange, because like yourself I have also two sons and a daughter. Is not this the same box with a vengeance?

What are their names? Not also Ronny, Ralph, and Stella, surely?

The suggestion delighted him. No, indeed. How funny it sounds! Their names are quite different and will surprise you. Listen, please. I am about to tell you my children’s names. The first is called Ahmed, the second is called Karim, the third—she is the eldest—Jemila. Three children are enough. Do not you agree with me?

I do.

They were both silent for a little, thinking of their respective families. She sighed and rose to go.

Would you care to see over the Minto Hospital one morning? he enquired. I have nothing else to offer at Chandrapore.

Thank you, I have seen it already, or I should have liked to come with you very much.

I suppose the Civil Surgeon took you.

Yes, and Mrs. Callender.

His voice altered. Ah! A very charming lady.

Possibly, when one knows her better.

What? What? You didn’t like her?

She was certainly intending to be kind, but I did not find her exactly charming.

He burst out with: "She has just taken my tonga without my permission—do you call that being charming?—and Major Callender interrupts me night after night from where I am dining with my friends and I go at once, breaking up a most pleasant entertainment, and he is not there and not even a message. Is this charming, pray? But what does it matter? I

Reviews for A Passage to India

[linepainter-843540 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I loved Forster so much in high school that it is disappointing to return to find him so smug and sour.

[nm3spring083c3mcbrid · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Unfortunately, I only got to read about thirty pages of this book, yet I could already tell that if I ever got into it, it would be hard to get out of til the end. I started reading it, looked at the original copyright date: 1924, and was thinking, maybe, just maybe, this would be the first "classic" that I ever finished by myself (Classic by my father's definition, means more than 50 years old. This book definitely qualifies.). Sadly, I still am yet to finish it, I had to turn it back in to the library. I will read it though! You read it too. See if it's good. Maybe get back to me on it.

[madepercy-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This novel pre-dates Orwell's Burmese Days, so it is one of the earlier works that self-consciously examines Orientalism. However, unlike Burmese Days, I found it hard to get into. It must be Forster's near-Victorian style - it seems more like Joyce than it does Ford. Along with detailed notes to every chapter, it felt more like a work of non-fiction than a story based on Forster's travel experiences. Obviously important, but somehow shallow. Maybe this was an attempt to minimise the political backlash that was more likely to occur in the pre-Hitler period than it was in Orwell's time? Regrettably, this one goes down as "having read a classic" rather than a great literary experience for me.

[milti_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Lovely, lovely, lovely!

[widsith_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

‘The past! the infinite greatness of the past!’ thrilled Walt Whitman in ‘A Passage to India’. A quarter of a century later, Forster borrowed Whitman's title, but with a very different mood in mind. In place of the American's wild-eyed certainties, Forster gives us echoes and confusion; instead of epic quests of the soul, there is only an eternal impasse of personal and cultural misunderstanding.Animals and birds are half-seen, unidentified; the landscape is a featureless blur; motives are illogical and rest on miscommunication. All human language, in the final analysis, amounts to nothing more than the dull ou-boum thrown back from the Malabar caves during the fateful expedition at the heart of the novel. ‘If one had spoken vileness in that place, or quoted lofty poetry, the comment would have been the same – “ou-boum”.’Will Self once recommend as an exercise reducing a novel to a single word (he suggested in the case of The Naked Lunch, for instance, that it would be ‘insect’). For A Passage to India, that keyword would be ‘muddle’ – a term that recurs, gradually shedding its cosiness and accreting a sense of existential indistinctness, a kind of cosmic flou that renders good intentions, indeed all human endeavour, futile. ‘I like mysteries,’ says Mrs Moore, the novel's moral core, ‘but I rather dislike muddles.’ Elsewhere, Forster talks with something like dread of a ‘spiritual muddledom’ for which ‘no high-sounding words can be found’.The plot of this book is, at times, heart-poundingly dramatic, but Forster is careful to make sure that even this is founded on doubt and indecision. In fact, what one thinks of as ‘the plot’ of A Passage to India is a storyline that arises, reaches its climax, and is resolved entirely within the second of the book's three acts. What then, you might ask, is the point of parts one and three? Well, among other things they prevent the plot from seeming too tidy – there is always something before the beginning, something after the end, to frustrate neat conclusions. ‘Adventures do occur,’ he says, ‘but not punctually.’ Life isn't tidy – it's a muddle.British India is a perfect setting for this kind of exploration: not only does it play host to numerous individual confusions, it is itself, as it were, the political embodiment of such a confusion. One of the wonderful things about this book is that the obvious hypocrisy and conflict between the English and the Indians is not left to stand alone, as a heavy-handed message, but is echoed by similar divisions between Muslim and Hindu, man and woman, young and old, devotee and atheist. Still, it is the gulf of understanding between the British rulers and their Indian subjects that provides the most interesting material for Forster's bitter social comedy. Most of the Brits are deliciously dislikable, couching their racism in patriotic slogans, droning through the national anthem every evening at the Club, and – like one of the wives – learning only enough of the language to speak to the servants (‘so she knew none of the politer forms, and of the verbs only the imperative mood’).The heroes of this book are those that try to reach across this divide, or to challenge the assumptions of their own side.‘Your sentiments are those of a god,’ she said quietly, but it was his manner rather than his sentiments that annoyed her.Trying to recover his temper, he said, ‘India likes gods.’‘And Englishmen like posing as gods.’These attempts don't work, and the reason they don't work is that cultural or racial divides are – the book suggests – only a special case of that ‘spiritual muddledom’ that is a universal constant. Still, the worldview isn't as bleak as it might seem. That famous ‘not yet’ in the book's closing lines is a lot more hopeful than a ‘no’, and if we're prevented from coming together by our tangled and violent past, that also raises the possibility that a better future can be laid down by the present we choose to enact now, every day, with each other. ‘For what is the present, after all,’ as Walt Whitman asked, ‘but a growth out of the past?’

[jmoncton_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I also finished the classic, A Passage to India, by E.M. Forster. I enjoyed 2 of his other books - A Room with a View and Howard's End. Both of those other books seem to poke fun at English Edwardian society in a light and humorous way. This book had a much more serious tone. It takes place in India where an young Indian man, Dr. Aziz, is accused of molesting a young English woman. Forster's criticism of British colonialism is much harsher than the other novels. Excellent story! It was interesting to listen and compare this book with The Help - two different time periods and places with the same underlying issue of racism. This book is narrated by Frederick Davidson, who for some reason I dislike. He is definitely talented at accents and voices, but I find his normal voice to be very 'British' and stuffy. But, for this book, where many of the characters were British and stuffy, it ended up being a good match. Definitely a classic worth listening to!

[helynrob · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

the first time i was forced to read this i hated it with a blinding passion. the second time i was forced to read it, i figured out why it remains on the professor's "to make my students read" list.

[pilgrimjess · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

“Adventures do occur, but not punctually. Life rarely gives us what we want at the moment we consider appropriate.” ― E.M. Forster, A Passage to India The plot to this book is really a quite slender one in that a British woman Adela Quested travels to India with her prospective mother-in-law to see if she is willing to marry the British magistrate and eventually settle there. Once in India however Adela is appalled by the Anglo-Indians with their narrow minded views, and in particular the Anglo-Indian wives with whom she will have to spend time with if she marries there. Adela decides that she wishes to see India and accepts an invitation to visit the local Marabar caves with an Indian doctor. There she is attacked and unjustly accuses the Doctor of being the assailant.However despite the thin thread of plot what Forster does wonderfully is weave around it beautifully and detailed descriptions of the local surroundings, weather, caste and religious differences etc so that it becomes rather like those Russian dolls where one is stacked inside another turning a thin thread of cotton into a thick berthing hawser.The book is a pretty savage critique of Empire rule with its whites only Club and petty governance over the local population trying to squeeze all of India with all its varying religious sects, castes etc into a simple box.All the more impressive because Forster tells from first hand experience.But what the author really asks is whether or not people from different nationalities, religion and background can ever really truly become friends or would there always be an invisible barrier between them?This would have been seen as pretty revolutioary when it was first written in 1924 and many people today probably feel that the central message is obsolete, after all we know from History about the problems that Empire rule caused all over the world and we have all heard the term Multi-Culturism bandied about by politicians and News organisations. IMHO most of those people are missing the point and that the central message is still relevant today. The only difference being that it is more about people of differing nationalities settling in Britain rather than the British settling abroad.For me this was a very enjoyable and thought provoking read and I look forward to reading some of Forster's other works.

[mmoj_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This book is not for those who want to jump in and devour a book. Mrs. Moore and Adela want to see the "real India" not just that which their government views as the most "civilised", i.e., most like British colonialism can make them. Mrs. Moore meets an Indian doctor who agrees to take Mrs. Moore and Adela to a local caves. What happens from this innocent invitation drives the story to its conclusion.

Forster's strength lies in his ability to connect us to the characters and places, perhaps he does this too well as I wanted to read idly on about those characters. Forster also does a good job of understand both the British and Indian mindsets of this time period.

[poetontheone · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

SPOILERS BELOWForster’s novel details the conflict between the colonizers and the colonized, England and India respectively, with narrow brushstrokes. We learn about how this tension infects through personal relationships between men and women, men and men, English and Indians, Muslims and Hindus. We also are made to contemplate if this conflict can be overcome even on a personal level, much less a diplomatic one. The short answer to both is a hesitant denial. The relationships in the book rest on uneven ground. The adoration and admiration between Aziz and Mrs. Moore or later Aziz and Fielding are thrown into doubt when muddled by the conflict and suspicion birthed by Aziz’s trial. The remainder of the book seeps with uneasiness and doubt regarding the validity and sincerity of Fielding and Aziz’s bond, with Aziz erroneously believing Fielding is to marry Adela. The first half of the book builds on Adela’s uncertainty in marrying Ronny, her state of mind eventually leading to Aziz’s trial when she falsely accuses him of assault.Alison Sainsbury asserts that the impossibility of of a bond between England and India hinges on the sentiment of the book’s final line: “‘they said in their hundred voices, No, not yet, and the sky said ‘not there’” (362). Sainsbury notes that Forster “illustrates how imperial rule distorts human relations”. This is evident in Aziz’s and FIelding’s last conversation where they sportingly debate about colonization, each espousing a distaste for the other’s country and its inhabitants. Fielding thinks, “Aziz was a memento, a trophy, they were proud of each other, yet they must inevitably part” (358). These two examples highlight how relations between the two countries and peoples have been constructed by imperialism, and how to divert from that specific mentality is to create a psychic disturbance whereby any bonds of friendship are inherently distorted and personal communication poisoned by historical prejudice. It is almost impossible for Aziz and Fielding to not see each other as specifically tied to the historicism of English and Indian, respectively, once other voices such as Ronny Heaslop or Hamidullah intervene and reassert the the venom of historical conflict. To say that this conflict can be overcome by individual friendships, or even that such friendships can thrive, is to assert the possibility that such venom will fade, and even though nearly a century has passed since Forster’s novel was published, tensions linger and such a reality is questionable.

[steadfastreader · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This book is slow. Lots of description very little action. There is a deeper social commentary or race and religion. I listened to it on audio... I'm not sure I would have made it through just reading it.

[garyseverance-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

E. M Forster was born in England in 1879 and died in 1970. As a child, he inherited enough money from his great aunt to travel and live as a writer after attending public school and King's College, Cambridge. His interest in writing was influenced at Cambridge by membership in a discussion society called the Apostles that included a number of intellectuals such as John Maynard Keynes and Ludwig Wittgenstein. Forster maintained a loose association with the group during the early 1910s and 1920s as it added members and became known as the Bloomsbury Group. The Group was composed of a variety of creative individuals including writers of fiction. Virginia Woolf was an active member. After leaving Cambridge, Forster traveled with his mother extensively in Europe where he developed ideas for subsequent novels including: A Room With A View, Where Angels Fear to Tread, and Howards End. For years, he maintained a privacy regarding his homosexual identity and behavior understanding that it would limit his freedom to publish his work.In the early 1920s, Forster worked in India as the private secretary for a Maharaja during the period of the British Raj. The Raj was a time of occupation of India by British diplomats and soldiers who imposed some controlled structure on the economic and legal system of the largely disparate states within the Eastern country loosely ruled by a monarchy. After returning to London from India, Forster published A Passage to India in 1924 based on his experiences during the period when British influence was waning and an Indian Independence movement was developing.The novel is an interesting character study involving structure opposed to substance, self-control over impulse, conformity versus individual freedom, restriction of thought rather than tolerance, and arbitrary racial discrimination limiting open enculturation. There are several characters described in stereotypical ways with representatives of the British ruling and middle classes in the Raj and Hindu, "Moslem", and royal leaders within Indian society. These descriptions set the stage for the interaction of four main characters that illustrate the complexity of two cultures seemingly unyielding in their Western versus Eastern world views.In the novel the reader's attention is focused on the interactions and perceptions of four main characters: Dr. Aziz, Miss Adela Quested, Cyril Fielding, and Mrs. Moor:Dr. Aziz is an Indian physician who works at a British hospital. He is a Muslim man strongly influenced by his religion but intellectually active in his beliefs and impulsive in his emotions and actions. He is tolerant of differences in cultures within his country and the strained relationship between Indians and the British. The tolerance, however is largely on the surface, and when his religious beliefs and secular freedom are threatened by the actions of the Raj, he is quick to feel strong resentment.Adela Quested is a young British teacher who has traveled to India to see if she and a British magistrate are compatible for marriage. Like Dr. Aziz, Adela seems outwardly open and tolerant to new experiences. She wants to learn more about the exotic Eastern culture of India. The reader sees that she is actually intolerant and frightened but fancies herself an enlightened woman willing to step beyond the conventions of her British character. Adela regresses to her British comfort zone in a panic when confronted with the mysterious and unstructured life of India.Cyril Fielding is a teacher at a small British college for Indian citizens. Now in his early middle age, the unmarried administrator has maintained his life of personal intellectual and emotional freedom by keeping a low profile within the British foreign service system and maintaining an open attitude about British and Indian tension during the Raj. He seems to be more willing to understand the cultural differences between West and East than Adela because he has maintained a personal code of ethics largely hidden from both the British and Indian people in the rural district. He is a clever individual who has assumed a role that conforms minimally to the expectations of each culture. He is insightful and aware that his surface behavior is accepted with reservations by both groups and is content to have independence in the deep structure of his personality. Although Fielding is not an avowed homosexual, the reader gains some interesting indications from the character of Forster's private life. Unlike the author, Fielding returns to England, marries a very British woman, and returns to India a more structured man but largely conflicted in his hidden personal identification.Mrs. Moore is an elderly British widower who has accompanied Adela during the trip from England to India. She is the mother of the British magistrate that the younger woman has come to visit. Mrs. Moore is a lifelong British subject who has reached the endpoint of caring, having lived her life for her children with a feminine stiff upper lip. In somewhat delicate health, the trip has been a major sacrifice for Mrs. Moore, but she has done her escort duty. Because of her end of life situation and active life review, she is open to the spiritual aspect of Indian life that is so different from her British structured religious beliefs. Unlike Adela, Mrs. Moore is willing to open herself to Eastern thoughts and beliefs with a substantial lowering of psychological defenses. She seeks answers to the question, what is the meaning of her life of service to her family that cost of her own freedom and dignity? Specifically, when can she stop taking responsibility for others and come to some meaningful resolution of the doubts about her life decisions? When faced with negative conclusions during her life review, she embraces a delusion of a tolerable, structured life back in her British home.I highly recommend this novel (Forster's last published work of fiction) for readers who want to examine their own depth of understanding of life and their tolerance of the lives of others in chaotic times. An interesting experience I had reading the novel was an illusive desire to live during the early decades of the 20th Century in India to see how I would react personally to a rapidly changing world perspective. Of course, parallel, dramatic cultural challenges exist in the U. S. today, but perhaps we are too close in time to the effects of them to develop the comprehensive point of view presented in A Passage to India.

[badcursive · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Title: A Passage to IndiaAuthor: E.M. ForsterGenre: FictionPublisher: Harcourt, Inc.Date: 1924Pages: 362Modern Library: The Board’s List #25Started: 14 October 2013I was roaming the isles of my local Books-A-Million store and found this gem staring up at me from the bottom shelf. I purchased the paperback 75th Anniversary Edition. The book is divided into three sections. The first section is titled Mosque, the second is Caves, and the third is Temple.I do not like this book, and in keeping with my philosophy of “life is too short to waste time reading a book I’m not into,” I bailed. For sixteen days I have tried to like this book. I’ve tried to look past the boring dialogue, and the fact that it’s hot in India (I think we all know that), and the stereotyping that is plainly stereotypical. I’ve tried, but I can’t. This book will go back on the shelf and there it will stay until someone asks to borrow it – and then I might even hope they never give it back to me.I read the first section, and yes, it took half of a month of my life to do that! Here’s the basic breakdown ~ two British women called Adela and Mrs. Moore (Colonizers) travel to Chandrapore, India to get a taste the real India. There they try to mingle with the Colonizies (it’s painful) and soon meet Dr. Aziz and proceed to wreck his life. I just wanted to reach into this book and slap these women and the assholes they hangout with.To be fair, I’m sure this book was relevant and impactful during its time. For me right now, I can’t bring myself to continue reading a story that I can’t connect with. The plot is thin, the story is tiring, and I so wish this “little gem” hadn’t made eye contact with me from the bottom shelf in that book store.It’s here if you want to borrow it!Finished: Never

[andreablythe · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In brief: When Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested travel to India, they hope to seek out the real India. Mrs. Moore makes friends with an Indian doctor Aziz. In an effort to show the two women hospitality, Aziz takes them on a journey to visit some local caves, which results in Miss Quested accusing Aziz of attacking her. The fascinating thing about this novel is how Forster shows racism as systematic. The British come to India with the best of intentions, with the aim of treating everyone with respect and politeness, if not complete equality. But as they spend more time in the country, the pressures of white society slowly molds them into that racism in order to fit in with the "right kind" of people.Forster presents the points of view of many people, including Aziz, the two women he befriends, and many others both white and Indian alike. He presents a each character as complex, with varying and contradicting thoughts and desires housed in entirely one body, and most everyone came off as sympathetic in one degree or another.I think he did fairly well with the Indian characters and their culture, though I suspect that even as he was making them interesting and sympathetic, he also accidentally slipped in stereotypes and misunderstandings.A Room with a View is one of my favorite books ever, but this one was more hit and miss. I did not love A Passage to India nearly as much, but it was enjoyable and interesting. I'd say it's a toss up.

[vesnaslav · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A significant novel of this century. Well-crafted, gripping story. One of the rare cases, however, when the film is more enjoyable and poignant than the book.

[meditationesmartini · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Okay, it's immaculately put together in that amazing way the early 20th-century Brits had (was there something in the water? Other than lead?) of taking inspiration from the classical unities, but departing from them - establishing a Greek stage, in Forster's case the caves, in the centre, and letting loose the thick oily rain of modernism all around it, with the "real people" characters being all cute and real and oldtimey with their "real problems" - but what am I describing here? It could be Fowles on a sleepy day, or DH Lawrence on autoplilot. No, what makes this book amazing is the insistent, constant unraveling of the structure above, of the impressions it creates, and the awesome intrusion of a mysticism that dilates the self and expands the universe in this incredible way. God, I wanna go to India and let those inexorable, incalculable, obscene landscapes work on me. And, incidentally, the horror that he manages to preserve in the Marabar Caves, without defining it and without making it scientific or supernatural - keeping it mystical, not just indeterminite and a venue of speculation but consisting in meaning because you don't know, because of all the things that crawl up your nose with it and set up shop in the dark corners - that's a pretty amazing accomplishment all on its own.

[jfslone · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I'm not sure if it was because this was my last novel of undergrad classes and I wasn't in the mood, but something certainly turned me off to this work of Forster's, from nearly the very beginning. It seems to be one of those books you need to be in a certain mood to enjoy, and I must have missed out on it. I love the other Forster books I've read, but I found myself skimming much of this one. I think I'll let my brain relax and maybe give this one another try in a year or so!

[stbalbach_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The 1920s were dominated by the younger modernists who rejected the older generation of writers Forster was born into so it's curious to see this work not only survive by thrive. His writing style is notably old-fashioned (enjoyably so) but the themes are very 20th century which gives it a certain air of authentic beauty. It is a mysterious and fractured novel in which we see the multiple contrasting faces of India: English/India, Muslims/Hindus, Brahmans/Untouchables (caste), clans, sects, men/women, princes/beggars, Northerns/Southerners - there is no single "India", it is a confusing, complex and fractured landscape. Can there be harmony, can order be imposed, can order even exist? Ultimately this is a spiritual question of the Universe in general: does life have meaning, the great question of all religions. In the end, when the boat sinks in the lake, for a brief moment, all the fractured elements come together in a sort of comic accidental soup - then separate and go their own way. Forster never answers the question, how could he, it is the greatest question ever, but he sets up the actors and creates the conditions to allow us to examine, ponder and wander, to "travel lightly."

[stouthearted_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The novel is an engrossing look into England's deteriorating hold on its colony of India. We are introduced to the Anglo-Indians, represented by characters like Heaslop and the Turtons who openly detest the Indian race, to the point of being cruel and grotesque. They need little prompting to believe an Indian is up to no good. Meanwhile, Indians are presented as a race held back by the culture clash, with strong, impulsive emotions and a lack of understanding for the English's reverence for promptness and social invitations. The whole situation sets up a powder keg that is ignited by the visit of Heaslop's mother Mrs. Moore, and Heaslop's prospective bride Miss Quested. Caught up in the fray is Dr. Aziz, a respectable widower who works under the English, but is not welcome into their social club due to being Indian. Mrs. Moore and Miss Quested's desire to "see India" ultimately backfires, as they cannot handle the culture clash. While Miss Quested convinces herself that she was raped by Dr. Aziz, who was kind enough to take the ladies on a journey to the local caves upon their request, Mrs. Moore is turned into a local goddess by the superstitious locals. The deification of Mrs. Moore is interesting, as the woman herself had no intention to publicly defend Aziz; she instead chose to flee the country. But a running theme is how the Indians choose to believe gossip over truth, (a fault even acted upon by Aziz, who convinces himself that his faithful Englishman friend abandoned him to marry Miss Quested.) The English suffer from this fault, also, as they whip themselves into a frenzy over the belief that every Indian lusts for white women, and other stereotypes. Indeed this self-absorption and inability of the cultures to blend harmoniously ultimately drives home the final scene of Fielding and Aziz's reunion. Both are disillusioned years after the trial and concede that only when the English leave India, can the races ever be friends.Miss Quested is a curious character, who while she never means to do any harm, ultimately destroys lives with her accusation of rape. It appears that she was overwhelmed by the caves, and hallucinated the terrifying event. Does she get due punishment? Although her bravery is lauded by few, first Fielding, then, years later, Aziz, it it notable that no other Anglo-Indian would have confessed to making such a mistake. The English relished the chance to punish Indians, and considered Quested a traitor for not continuing with the trial. Throughout the novel, Miss Quested tries to be sympathetic towards Indians, but she cannot escape her underlying repulsion of them. Forster seems to suggest that this is caused by the domination of her race over theirs. She is in a psychological muddle: While she recognizes that the treatment of Indians by the English is horrible, she knows that she has that feeling within herself, and confides to Aziz as much. Her biggest fault is probably being too honest, and speaking wihtout thinking, like when she innocently asks Aziz how many wives he has. The same impulse compels her to run into a cactus patch from the caves after her scare, rather than compose herself and try to summon some sense of the situation.Fielding seems to be the noblest character, sacrificing his reputation among his fellow Englishman for what he believes is right, defending Aziz. At times it seems that Aziz doesn't quite grasp the full impact of Fielding's support, such as when Aziz accuses his friend of abandonment after the arrest, when Fielding was forbidden to accompany the prisoner to the police station. Aziz routinely brings the abandonment up in times of doubt in Fielding's faithfulness. Eventually, the Indians turn against him, too. After the trial, Fielding's reluctant support of Miss Quested (who has been abandoned by her peers) is interpreted and gossiped as a love affair. This breakdown of the relationship between Fielding and Aziz further illustrates the novel's point that India and England cannot be friends while one colonizes the other.Aziz is a tragic hero, who only wants to do right by his family name and children. It is not until he is burned by his attempts at friendship with some English that be becomes bitter and identifies with the struggles of the Indian people. Before, he only associated himself with Muslims. He did not conceive of a unified India, a nation also containing Hindus, Jains, Sikhs, etc., with different views and customs. It is not until the trial in Chandapoore does having a common enemy, the English, make possible the realization that India needs to be united and independant. It is interesting that even though his friendship for Fielding fractures, his adoration of the Englishwoman Mrs. Moore remains constant. This is perhaps the hope inherrent in the novel, that true friendship is possible between the races, so long as the friends are equals, as Aziz believed how he and Mrs. Moore saw themselves.

[wordygirl39 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This one didn't stand out for me among Forster's work, but I read it long ago in a college survey course so I probably need to re-read it. I know it's supposed to be his best, and it probably is, but for now I'll still love Room, Howard's, and Angels best.

[dougwood57 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Set in the fictional northern India city of Chandrapore, E.M. Forster's 'Passage to India', widely regarded as an early 20th century classic, tells the tale of the troubled interactions between British India and the country's Indian inhabitants. Forster's message seems to be that the white British and the native Indians should not have tried to interact socially outside of the accepted forms because it always ended badly for all concerned. The story meanders, to put it kindly, until Part 2 when the 'event' occurs at the also-fictional Marabar Caves and Forster breathes some life into the tale. If you have an interest in British colonialism, India, or English Literature or all three, by all means read the book. Don't expect a sparkling story to go along with the fine characterizations and be ready for a dated view.

[theageofsilt · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A memorable study of cultural misunderstanding that becomes a wider contemplation of human suffering. It well deserves to be considered a classic.

[literati238 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I have always loved this book, and I am a big Forster fan, mainly because I think he captures a sense of otherness uncommon amongst many Edwardian writers. This novel sympathetically portrays India and castigates British social constructs and sensibilities that preserved an artificial and inhuman hierarchy in the Empire.

[sluce_6 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Selection for Anthenaeum course. Love the way Forster uses the English language.

[bayardus-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

On the positive side, E.M. Forster's A Passage to India is populated by many complex and realistic characters. Not just main characters like Fielding, Mrs Moore, Miss Quested, and Dr. Aziz, but even rather minor characters like Godbole are fleshed out and given depth. Dr. Aziz especially is made into a fully realized character by Forster, as he not only has his virtues and vices, but numerous misfortunes and failings spring from them both so that he makes an interesting focal point for the narrative. The second half of the book would have been rendered both less entertaining and less effective if Dr. Aziz was a purely virtuous character, but fortunately for readers the narrative doesn't make Aziz anything close to an angel. It does succeed in making him feel like a real person. This realistic feel is also one of A Passage to India's main strengths. While the events that occur at around the halfway point of the book relies on an improbable series of events and coincidences, Forster still manages to write it in a way that doesn't feel artificial. Writing obviously manufactured situations that don't feel artificial is an impressive accomplishment.

On the negative side, Forster's writing is frequently boring. Even when he's writing about exciting events like a car crash or a parade or a riot he somehow manages to create a passage that is utterly without energy or tension. This is a short book, but the writing did so little to engage me that it felt like a substantial tome. Another negative is that, while I complimented the book's cast of multidimensional characters, that multidimensionalness doesn't extend to many of the British occupiers of India. Most of them are just racist buffoons, even the marginally less shallow Mr. Turton has his perspective and the reasoning behind it explained in a single sentence. Ronny is the pro-occupation character given the most development, and even he feels like a half-baked sketch. He delivers weak arguments and oscillated between "bland" and "jerk" as the story required.

On the stranger side, two things: the first is that I found it to be a strange choice for Forster to include as a plot point caves that seemingly mess with British people's brains. One cave basically turns someone into a nihilist within ten minutes when previously they seemed pretty well adjusted, another cave causes an echo to plague someone's mind for months. Strange stuff. Another thing on the stranger side to note is that while Forster was obviously trying to promote tolerance and denounce the British occupation of India with this book, it's not clear how similar he thinks European and Indian people are: Forster identifies "suspicion" as some sort of inborn quality for "orientals" and it isn't clear if he thinks that there can be true understanding between people from such different cultures.

While A Passage to India draws into question whether understanding across different cultures is possible without putting forth an answer, Forster ends the book with a clear statement that friendship between people of different cultures is possible (although such friendship may be plagued with misunderstandings). To reach true friendship, though, the occupier-occupied relationship would have to end. A good message, though I could have done without Forster spelling it out for me so bluntly. For a book that also explores understanding of different cultures but which is far more engaging I recommend The Other City by Michal Ajvaz. A Passage to India is a bit dull in comparison, though not a bad book by any means- you just have to be able to deal with the bog of Forster's prose.

[megantron-1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

If you're white and you dislike this book, I immediately will disregard your opinion.

[hazelk_9 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

When I read this in my early 20s I couldn't wait to get to the chapters on the trip to the Marabar Caves and read the preceding chapters too quickly. Now, in maturer years, I can really appreciate this novel. There is much subtlety in the writing and characterisation. He neither over-romanticises India and the Indians and, though some of the British working in the colonial service are wincingly distasteful, there are balances here as well and not just with the characterisation of Fielding. Nothing is clear cut. A certain mysteriousness overlays the whole novel.

[jvioland_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A disturbing novel that challenges prejudices you may not realize that you possess. A crime is committed - that is for sure - but what crime? A fraud perpetrated upon an innocent man or an attempted rape? You never read which was committed but reach your own conclusion. An engaging novel, well written - India becomes a character in the book and Imperial Britain the antagonist.

[bobbieharv · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I'd never read this; never even saw the movie, so I decided it was about time - and it was a nice thin book I could take on a hiking trip. Maurice, which Forster didn't want published till after his death because, I presume, he was hiding his homosexuality, is my favorite book of his, but I enjoyed this. He's a master at portraying the subtleties of relationships, and how culture and racial identity can interfere. Looking forward now to the movie to see what really happened in the cave!

[li33ieg · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Need I say more than it's written by EM Forster?