Reading Jhumpa Lahiri’s In Other Words,  I wonder what it must be like to be so keenly aware of everything that’s happening in and around oneself, to be able to see every quotidian object, every terrain, every event as a metaphor; to lose oneself in an experience and still reflect upon it (in writing!) with such objectivity, with such dignified honesty.
In a sense her journey towards a language albeit alien, mirrors that of every writer’s.  (After all, a language can feel alien in different contexts and at certain moments appear even to the best writers, a vaguely familiar stranger).
And yet, the personal space from which she writes debars the reader from trespassing upon them, they remain her experiences, known in their most crucial moments, only to her.
The book is simple, accessible and stunning.
There’s sensuousness to the short, crisp sentences. There are moments when her Italian is lush with metaphors and poetic phrases, establishing possibilities of future success for her as a writer choosing to write in Italian.
There’s completeness to the book too, despite the disjointed experiences and the fragmented recollections.
Her perseverance is as inspiring as her failures are human and the reader is compelled to love her equally for both.

That she chose not to translate this novel into English herself shows her true mastery as a writer and as a reader. A work of literature can hope to reflect truth when tempered with the fine balance of subjective experiences and an objective interpretation of the same.
Lahiri’s ability to tell a story and Golstein’s translation together, do precisely that.

in other words