Whereabouts is a pastiche of a novel. Unfortunately, for me, the elegant prose is unable to overcome the loose character development and the distinct lack of forward momentum in the plot. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the “train” novel, you know, the Agatha Christie style whodunit or the road trip where towns are a blur out the window; there is no murder or detective or much traveling at all, but Jhumpa Lahiri treats each brief chapter like a vignette of a passing depot, blurred out the window.

Lahiri is an author that has intrigued me for many years; once, while waiting for a movie to start I wandered into a bookstore and picked up Interpreter of Maladies. I managed to finish the first story, about an Indian couple living in Boston, before show time but I was hooked by the beauty and simplicity of her sentences. I only returned last month to Interpreter of Maladies and was...disappointed in the collection. There are certainly high moments; the title story for one and the story about the newlyweds, but overall, I felt a certain letdown in a book I had built up in my head for such a long time. Now, that fault rests with me, but some of that hype had translated into Lahiri’s new book, Whereabouts, and I was thrilled to secure an ARC. The book is short, incredibly so, and my already lowered expectations after Interpreter of Maladies became ever more tempered.

We follow a nameless narrator in a nameless town. We can surmise it is a medium-sized city in Italy and a small cast of equally unnamed characters begins to populate the fringes of the book. Our author is a teacher at an upper-level school, but we don’t ever see into the class or her interactions with students. We see snippets of the narrator’s life in various locations “At the Store”, “At Home”, “In My Mind”, etc. Certain threads begin to run together, for example, the running story of a platonic married male friend with several children and the narrator’s interior monologue about if events had transpired differently, their relationship might have evolved into something more intimate. But, like the narrator, Lahiri keeps everything at least an arms length away. What this translates to, ultimately, is a work of fiction (possibly creative non-fiction) that is entirely style over substance. Lahiri is a genius, and this is the time of actionless, plotless meandering that only proven authors can even think of publishing. As always with seminal authors, even in their weaker work, there are exceptional moments, in a particular paragraph or even a quick metaphor, where they are able to drill down at the human condition and stop the reader in their tracks. There are definitely a handful of those peppered throughout this book.

Now, the fact must be addressed that Lahiri did not write this book in English (the language she is originally known for and the language in which I read the book). Most people familiar with the comings and goings of the literary world will be aware that for the last ten years, Lahiri has been engaging in a public love affair with the Italian language. She has written books in parallel English and Italian and translated stories from Italian to English. This shouldn’t come as a surprise for an author whose Pulitzer Prize winning debut was title, literally, Interpreter of Maladies. This is where part of her genius title kicks in, because I don’t know of any other author with her level of success that writes with such talent and fluency in multiple languages. It’s a fascinating experiment, to be sure, and I would say it hits the marks its “supposed” to or achieves what is “required”. Whereabouts, originally written in Italian, translated to the original language of the author by the author, is an exercise in words and writing that is quite unique. All that being said, the actual contents of plot and character take a back seat to this first and foremost goal. If you are a Lahiri fan, a fan of ‘literary fiction’ (and I mean literary, in the way of pushing the genre to new forms, not popular highly-grade fiction such as All the Light We Cannot See or The Goldfinch) then this book will be of interest to you. If you’re looking to get lost in a story, I would give it a pass. Alternatively, if you’re looking to sound smart at dinner parties, it’s only 160 pages.

This book is nothing like Lahiri's other fiction and still shows that she's the best writer of her generation. I'm sad that I've already read it and now have to wait again.

Thank you to NetGalley and Knopf for the eARC of Jhumpa Lahiri’s first novel written in Italian and self-translated into English.

I’m not sure that Whereabouts is really a novel, or that the general reading population in America, or Lahiri’s many many fans will consider it a novel, or be necessarily satisfied by it, for that matter. Whereabouts follows an unnamed narrator who lives in and travels around Italy, although none of the places are named beyond their function, except perhaps the several chapters called, “In My Mind.” The narrator lives her life, is attracted to a married friend, gets mad at the friend of a friend who wants to take a treasured book, takes care of her friend’s house and dog, gets invited to academic conferences, etc. And the book ends.

One cannot help but think of Lahiri writing this in her non-native language, and the isolation that entails. The isolation of the writer compounded with the isolation of life happening around her in another language, or a new language, at any rate. The language necessarily simple, compact. I’m not sure this a novel in a conventional sense, but Lahiri’s powers as a writer, and her voice, are qualities in writing that I will always welcome, regardless of project.

I have never before had a novel with so little action keep me so engaged. Whereabouts is a series of vignettes about an unnamed middle aged woman who lives in a tiny Italian town. She has romantic inclinations towards her friend’s husband which is a thread through several of the vignettes. She is a professor. She does not seem particularly happy. Her life is small but the description of her life and the way she sees her world kept me reading. Definitely not a book for everyone but I enjoyed it.

This book was just what I needed! I was looking for a thoughtful book with interconnected chapters rather than a book with a storyline. Told in first person, by an unnamed middle-aged woman, living in an unnamed European city, it is recollections of her daily life. The narrator is more of a melancholy person that a cheerful person. The 46 short chapters are her observations of people she meets. It is a sad book but Lahari’s prose is so elegant and so subtle the reader is emersed in this woman’s life. Normally, I don’t like books with unnamed narrators, but this narrator could be any of us.

The first work Lahiri wrote in Italian--the nonfiction In Other Words--was translated into English by Ann Goldstein; while Goldstein is a brilliant translator, I felt as though Lahiri's prose lost some of its luster and uniqueness. For this collection of vignettes, Lahiri chose to translate the work herself, and I could tell the difference right away--though there's still a sense of inhibition, the prose feels more like Lahiri's other works.

Lahiri has a delicate way of writing about her surroundings, giving attention to every flower without making it, well, flowery. Her descriptions imbue her protagonist's world with a sense of beauty and a sense of almost despondent loneliness. It's a short work of fiction, but there's a lot of feeling packed into it, and it was a joy to read.

In Whereabouts, we spend about a year in the life of an unnamed, middle-aged woman living in a large Italian city, also unnamed. Told in a series of 46 very short vignettes, the novella draws the portrait of a person thoroughly committed to preserving her solitude. She is unmarried, apparently by choice, and all of her relationships—friends, lovers past and present, parents, professional colleagues at the university where she works—have a distinct fleeting quality to them, as if getting involved with people beyond a cursory level is something she either cannot or prefers not to do. Although we get a few hints from her upbringing that might explain her feelings, there is really no structure to the story so what we are left with is a moving, but sad, mosaic of an existence that a lot of people would consider to be very lonely.

It is worth noting that this book has a fascinating history in itself. Although born in London to Bengali parents and raised in the United States, celebrated author Jhumpa Lahiri wrote and first published this story in Italian under the title Dove Mi Trovo. What Whereabouts represents then is the English language version of that earlier work. Interestingly, Lahiri herself did the translation, which was a curious choice that begs the question why she did not write it in English to begin with. That is not an idle notion because it is really impossible for the English-speaking reader to know exactly how faithfully this new version compares to the original work. For instance—and forgive my relatively basic command of Italian here—I would have translated the book’s title to be mean something closer to “Where I Find Myself” or “Where I Am”, which conveys a far less subtle meaning than the one the author chose.

I definitely came away with a mixed impression of this work. On one hand, Lahiri is a brilliant writer who has crafted some amazing thoughts and images that added up to an affecting glimpse into the mind of a person who is at once incredibly strong and emotionally frail. Offsetting that, however, was the lack of anything resembling a plot that would have given a context to all of the angst and sorrow. As I was reading the novella, I found myself thinking of Elizabeth Hardwick’s marvelous Sleepless Nights (and even Elizabeth Strout’s Olive Kitteridge), which covered similar ground in a far more compelling way. So, while there is always much to savor in Lahiri’s prose, this is not a book that compares to the best of her previous work. I only wish I could improve my Italian enough to read it in the way the author originally intended.

Whereabouts is a book of short vignettes written by a solitary woman in Italy. Within the pages are some beautiful ethereal descriptions and insights into her relationship with her parents, acquaintances, friends, coworkers, strangers, etc. as well as musings on home, loneliness and solitude.

In the same vain as Marguerite Duras' Practicalities, this isn't so much a novel as musings without any real plot. It feels very similar to meandering through gallery rooms on a Sunday afternoon. Perhaps the language would be more affecting if read in its original Italian, but in this translated version, the writing often feels lacking both in emotion and urgency which I've enjoyed in Lahiri's previous stories.

Thank you to NetGalley and the publishers for the ARC.

4 stars

The structure and the theme are inextricably tied here, and those who appreciate the craft and artistry of writing will be much more drawn to this work than those who enjoy reading for plot and character. The central figure spends a great deal of time observing; her whereabouts become the focal point for her experiences and thoughts. Throughout the novel, she makes broader realizations connected to this concept, and the payoff is a good one.

Don't expect an action packed adventure here. If you're coming to this piece for a moment of aesthetic appreciation, you're in business. I enjoyed this thoroughly and will recommend it mindfully.

Not really my style of writing. While some of the prose was striking, most of it felt a bit rambly and long winded. Some of the stories were very disjointed, and didn't feel like they needed to be a part of the story.

NetGalley ARC | Lahiri is one of my favorite authors of all time, and Whereabouts did not disappoint.

Her first novel written in and then translated from Italian, Whereabouts is a quick read (just a few hours) that packs a large punch straight to your core. Thought-provoking and meditative, book clubs and deep thinks will appreciate this one.

Through the everyday stories and 'whereabouts' of an average and depressed woman, Lahiri shares our insecurities, isolation, and faults that make us deeply human. Having closed the novel, I will live more fully, love more deeply, and pay closer attention to the happiness and sorrow around me.

You can find my complete review on The Uncorked Librarian here: https://www.theuncorkedlibrarian.com/april-2021-book-releases/ (Snippet from The Uncorked Librarian: Beautiful, honest, and transcendent, Lahiri gets at the gritty heart of humanity.)

Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for providing me with a free advanced copy in exchange for a fair and honest review.

This is a book meant for the margins. With it’s short, disjointed chapters, the anonymity of its characters and setting, it’s made to be picked up on the bus or in a waiting room or in a checkout line - moments when we are not alone but also are very much alone. A manicurist who holds your hand for a brief time. The person who stays in the hotel room next to yours. A parent you see at regular intervals but who still remains unknown.

This is also a writer’s book - observant and introspective, watching and cataloguing the quirks and conversations of others. We get an intimate look at the narrator’s life, but it’s a fractured look: the chapters are just a few pages each, and instead of one bigger narrative the small moments form a mosaic.

Lahiri is a favorite of mine, and it’s such a treat to watch her short stories and earlier novels give way to her love for Italian and desire to experiment with form and perspective. I really haven’t read much about her except her own words, but she seems like such a thoughtful and truly interested person. Forever excited to read whatever she writes next.

The writing was truly painterly and I loved the themes of place and the small vignettes that describe everyday pursuits. So perfect in an age of too much information to have just enough information to depict both the quotidian and the way thoughts change. perfect to have a single
protagonist when one is not often represented in literary fiction. I couldn’t help wanting to know how the year away unfolds. Brilliant writing from one of the best of her generation and sure to be a top read of the year. thanks to the author and the publisher for a truly lovely experience.

I have loved Jhumpa Lahiri's writing for many years and so was excited to see something new from her. I've found her transition to writing first in Italian and then translating herself to be fascinating. This slim volume with short chapters was great for dipping into and out of, and the writing was so lovely. A pleasure to read.

As with Jhumpa Lahiri's other works this one is just as beautiful. You will find yourself drawn into the character's lives and how they are all interwoven with each other.

Thanks NetGalley for this ARC!

I read this book in one sitting. It is a stream of consciousness narrative that touches the reader's feelings of loneliness as the main character goes about her solitary life--never quite finding her place in her daily encounters. This is not a book for action lovers, but it is very effective as a kind of meditation.

This book is really a series of sketches of the life of a lonely woman in Italy. They're each absorbing, finely observed, beautifully written, and suffused with sadness and anxiety - but I'm really not sure that they added up to a whole that worked for me. A lot of people will really enjoy this - it's atmospheric, it's relatable yet specific, it has a strong sense of place and mood, and I think it will speak to many people during this current pandemic, but for me it was ultimately unsatisfying.

Light and shadow interplay in this much-awaited performance from a legendary writer. Lahiri’s keen powers of observation are on full display here as a 45+ unnamed single woman in Italy narrates her everyday choices. Having grown accustomed to solitude, she reflects on the vise-like grip her parents continue to exert on her psyche. A sandwich from a favorite deli, a purchase of an annual planner, a chance encounter with an old friend, sadness over a store closure, a litany of minor regrets all populate these pages. Together they deliver an impressive chorus but with a tad too many staccato notes.

This novella is easy to read because, even written in a different language and then translated, the author is a brilliant writer. (I wonder if she will publish this book in the original Italian version?) Each chapter, which is more like a vignette, is set in a different "whereabouts," but the protagonist never quite seems to fit anywhere. She seems uneasy with herself regardless of where she is, although she also possesses a great deal of insight. Perhaps discomfort is not the worst situation in which to find oneself? Recommended for all readers.