thesis on jhumpa lahiri

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Graduate College Dissertations and Theses

Womanism and the fiction of jhumpa lahiri.

Genna Welsh Kasun , University of Vermont

Date of Award

Document type, degree name.

Master of Arts (MA)

First Advisor

Losambe, Lokangaka

Abstract Calling on both theoretical and critical womanist texts and the recent fiction of Jhumpa Lahiri -- her two recent works explored are her novel The Namesake and short story and novella collection Unaccustomed Earth -- this thesis seeks to show how Lahiri both exemplifies and proposes a redefinition of womanism in her work. Lahiri best exemplifies the family-centeredness of Africana womanism, the most thoroughly articulated theory of womanism to date, in her narratives of Bengali- American families, whose members well describe both physical and cultural maternity, a great tenet of womanism as defined by womanism scholars Chikwenye Okonjo Ogunyemi and Clenora Hudson-Weems. However, in questioning both Hudson-Weems and Layli Phillips’ notions of womanism that can be customizable for any culture, I propose a revision and thorough articulation of “Indian” or “Bengali” womanism as explored by Lahiri, adding characteristics such as intergenerational exchange. These articulations lead to greater questions (too large to explore in this thesis) of womanism and of “Indian womanism” which have yet to be explored, but which Lahiri introduces and complicates.

Recommended Citation

Kasun, Genna Welsh, "Womanism and the Fiction of Jhumpa Lahiri" (2009). Graduate College Dissertations and Theses . 119. https://scholarworks.uvm.edu/graddis/119

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Translating Myself and Others

• Jhumpa Lahiri

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Luminous essays on translation and self-translation by an award-winning writer and literary translator

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Translating Myself and Others is a collection of candid and disarmingly personal essays by Pulitzer Prize–winning author Jhumpa Lahiri, who reflects on her emerging identity as a translator as well as a writer in two languages. With subtlety and emotional immediacy, Lahiri draws on Ovid’s myth of Echo and Narcissus to explore the distinction between writing and translating, and provides a close reading of passages from Aristotle’s Poetics to talk more broadly about writing, desire, and freedom. She traces the theme of translation in Antonio Gramsci’s Prison Notebooks and takes up the question of Italo Calvino’s popularity as a translated author. Lahiri considers the unique challenge of translating her own work from Italian to English, the question “Why Italian?,” and the singular pleasures of translating contemporary and ancient writers. Featuring essays originally written in Italian and published in English for the first time, as well as essays written in English, Translating Myself and Others brings together Lahiri’s most lyrical and eloquently observed meditations on the translator’s art as a sublime act of both linguistic and personal metamorphosis.

Jhumpa Lahiri: Where I find myself

Awards and recognition.

• Finalist for the PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award for the Art of the Essay
• One of Lit Hub's Most Anticipated Books of the Year
• One of VULTURE'S 49 Books We Can't Wait to Read
• One of Literary Hub's Best Reviewed Nonfiction Books of the Year
• One of Literary Hub's Best Reviewed Essay Collections of the Year
• A Literary Hub Best Essay Collection of 2022
• A Choice Outstanding Academic Title of the Year

Jhumpa Lahiri is the Millicent C. McIntosh Professor of English and director of the Creative Writing Program at Barnard College. A writer in both English and Italian, she is the author of Interpreter of Maladies , which won the Pulitzer Prize, and the editor of The Penguin Book of Italian Short Stories . She has translated three novels by Domenico Starnone into English.

"Wonderful. . . . Through language, we come to know ourselves: Lahiri’s work shows how it is always possible to expand that knowledge."—Erica Wagner, Harper’s Bazaar UK

"[Lahiri’s] observations are as plentiful as they are enlightening."—Juliana Ukiomogbe, Elle

"[In this book] a vision emerges of translation as a site where the physical and the textual, the extraordinary and the ordinary, intersect."—Polly Barton, Times Literary Supplement

"[Lahiri] is excellent . . . . Translating Myself and Others is a reminder, no matter your relationship to translation, of how alive language itself can be. In her essays as in her fiction, Lahiri is a writer of great, quiet elegance; her sentences seem simple even when they're complex. Their beauty and clarity alone would be enough to wake readers up."—Lily Meyer, NPR

"[ Translating Myself and Others ] is about the consequences of the apparently simple act of choosing one’s own words. . . . [The] book also contains a hope for the liberating power of language."—Benjamin Moser, New York Times

"[A] series of passionate [and] thoughtful essays."—Frank Wynne, The Spectator

"[ Translating Myself and Others ] movingly describes [Lahiri’s] history with translation from her experiences as an immigrant child . . . to her early literary-translation efforts and her eventual decision to move to Rome and learn Italian."— Vulture

"Poetic."— New York Magazine

"A wry collection."—Adam Rathe, Town & Country

"[Lahiri’s] voice is a strong one in the current campaign to give translators more recognition. Her candidness about the hardships of translation and her enthusiasm for its rewards make you want to hear more from these fascinating figures, who spend so much time in others’ voices but have not lost the use of their own."—Camilla Bell-Davies, Financial Times

"Digestible and approachable. . . . The thought-provoking collection makes for a sharp and luminous exploration of Lahiri’s relationship to language, translation, and literature and made me want to finally tackle my goal of learning a second language."—Jordan Snowden, Apartment Therapy

"[A] memoir of the experience [of learning Italian], recounted with passion and insight."—Gregory Cowles, New York Times

"Lahiri explores her relationship with literature, translation, and the English and Italian languages in this exhilarating collection. . . . Lucid and provocative, this is full of rewarding surprises."— Publishers Weekly, starred review

"A scrupulously honest and consistently thoughtful love letter to ‘the most intense form of reading…there is.'"— Kirkus Reviews, starred review

"The collection is singular for Lahiri’s ability to integrate the personal and the theoretical, drawing her examples from literature and from life. . . . Lahiri writes so beautifully that this collection will have broad appeal for anyone interested in literary essays."—David Azzolina, Library Journal

"[An] absorbing new collection of essays. . . . Translating Myself and Others is a subtle yet ultimately engrossing work, somewhat academic at times, yet infused with the kind of understated, often startling capacity for observation that has always been Lahiri’s literary superpower."— Bookpage

" Translating Myself and Others is a thought-provoking collection of essays about the art of modern translation."— Foreword Reviews

"Anyone interested in the art of translation will be engrossed by Translating Myself and Others by Jhumpa Lahiri."—Martin Chilton, The Independent

"Lahiri’s ruminations on translation are relatable and luminous. . . . This book embraces simplicity-in-complexity, making it appropriate for both the Lahiri devotee and the uninitiate."—Carmen Acevedo Butcher, Christian Century

"[Lahiri] explores [translation] with her customary rigor and candidness in this new essay collection, featuring several pieces originally written in Italian and translated into English by Lahiri for the first time, an act of metamorphosis as dazzling to her as it is to the reader."— Chicago Review of Books

"Throughout these essays, it’s as if Lahiri, feeling misunderstood, were hoping to build a literary home for herself that is ample enough to accommodate her lives as author, translator, academic, and language learner. A home in which she can write, on her own terms, in whatever language she wants, and think, on her own terms, about whatever subject she wants."—Julia Sanches, Astra

"The essays . . . are master classes in translation theory and in critical writing about translation. . . . Fascinating and insightful writing."—Lauren Elkin, American Scholar

"These essays . . . demonstrate the depths of [Lahiri’s] love for her adopted language. . . . Readers will have a newfound appreciation of the translator's ability to illuminate."—Michael Margas, Shelf Awareness starred review

"In this collection of essays, Lahiri gives insights into her processes, as well as penetrating and perceptive thoughts on the act of translating that will be especially illuminating for readers who enjoy translated works."—Joe Rubbo, Readings

"This cool, detached book bristles with life and love."—John Self, Observer New Review

"There is great joy and intrigue to be found in Lahiri’s ruminations on self-translation. . . . [ Translating Myself and Others ] is a love letter to not only translation, but to literary criticism as a whole.”—Malavika Praseed, Chicago Review of Books "—Malavika Praseed, Chicago Review of Books

"[A] portrait of intelligent, sensitive and deeply humane curiosity . . . inspiring."—James Kidd, South China Morning Post

"[T]his latest set of essays proves [Lahiri’s] skill lies in the craft of experimenting with what language can do, both in Italian and English, and both as a writer and as a translator."—Anandi Mishra, Frieze

" Translating Myself and Others feels at once ambitious and safe, playful and formulaic, variegated and quasi-myopic."—Carolina Iribaren, Hopscotch Translation

"[In Translating Myself and Others ] Lahiri achieves the task of portraying her profound love for linguistics and the ways languages give new life to one another in translation. . . . Lahiri’s writing is impeccably strong."—Amanda Janks, Zyzzyva

"Readers . . . will find themselves immersed in a voyage of discovery not just of what makes Lahiri the writer and the translator tick, but of how these two facets or ‘containers’ inform, extend, challenge and ultimately re-create her, while at the same time providing much food for thought for the reader."—Lilit Žekulin Thwaites, Sydney Morning Herald

"These deeply thoughtful meditations . . . illuminate the art of literary alchemy."— Saga Magazine

"Eloquent. . . . [Lahiri] explores what it means to be a translator, how translating enhances her identity as a writer and vice versa, and how these multiple identities are mutually enriching"—Hayley Armstrong, In Touch

"A lyrical meditation on translation and a manifesto establishing translation as an artistic pursuit as creative and authentic as writing in the original language."—Lopamudra Basu, World Literature Today

"Anyone interested in the challenges of translating literary works from one language to another will find this book fascinating. . . . It’s certainly a richly rewarding [read]."—Terry Freedman, Teach Secondary

"A deep meditation on the art of translation. . . . Lahiri offers a straightforward but profound and lyrical theory of translation."—Lucky Issar, Economic & Political Weekly

"A lucid and engaging reflection not only on what it means to translate a text and to properly acknowledge that work, but also what translation signifies beyond the act of individual words being noted down in another language."—Franklin Nelson, Wasafiri Magazine

"Rich, deep and, above all, beautifully written, Translating Myself and Others exemplifies the power of words, language, art, ‘‘to explore the phenomenon and the consequences of change itself’’."—Cushla McKinney, Otago Daily News

“Jhumpa Lahiri is a marvel, a writer with the courage to renounce virtuosity for the sake of vulnerability, experiment, and growth, and it’s been wonderful to watch her love affair with the Italian language unfold. In these essays, she delves deep into the fertile interstices of and between languages, giving us a book rich with insights and pleasures.” —Susan Bernofsky, author of Clairvoyant of the Small: The Life of Robert Walser

“A remarkable account of Jhumpa Lahiri’s journey from English to Italian and back. Her pages on the myth of Echo are the most poignant and eloquent account of the translator’s art that I have ever read.” —Michael F. Moore, translator of Alessandro Manzoni’s The Betrothed

“With this collection of elegant essays, Jhumpa Lahiri makes her career as a writer of two languages and, increasingly, as a translator between them seem less an eccentric adventure than a necessary one. No man is an island—and no language, either.” —David Bellos, author of Is That a Fish in Your Ear? Translation and the Meaning of Everything

“In these stunning essays, Jhumpa Lahiri brilliantly investigates the fluctuating borders between writer and translator, language and identity, artist and art. Her intellectual and deeply personal inquiries—reminiscent of Hannah Arendt, Virginia Woolf, and Susan Sontag—challenge us to engage with our own mysterious and metamorphic relationship to language and who we are.” —Jenny McPhee, translator of Natalia Ginzburg’s Family Lexicon

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Displacement, an Unknown Freedom: Cultural Identity in Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake

Related Papers

NUTA Journal

Rudra Paudel

This article discusses unhomely home of the diasporas which is constructed geographically and psychologically by encountering the alien culture based on Jhumpa Lahiri’s novel The Namesake. The purpose was to highlights recent debate on ‘home’ for immigrant and diasporic people. The notion of home for diasporas has become an injured concept which forces them to face scars and fractures, blisters and sores, and psychic traumas on the move. In such a situation, unhomely home refers to the condition of living here and belonging elsewhere. Jhumpa Lahiritells the story of two generations of Indian family and their struggle to acculturate themselves in the west. She presents a gloomy spectacle of racism, prejudice and marginalization in which Gogol, the son of a Bengali couple, Ashoke and Ashima Ganguli, becomes a victim of it. Gogol struggles to transform himself by escaping from the traditions of the community of Indian immigrants to which his family belongs. He also cannot assimilate wi...

Arputhavel Raja

shaily prksh

Migration has become a common trend today. Though having an age long history of migration, migration studies have only gained prominence since 1980s and have started to establish itself as a new genre in literature. Migration is a voyage between two cultures in which a migrant is neither able to assimilate the new culture nor able to cast off its root culture and gets tangled in between. The immigrants face the problem of assimilation into the other culture and there is a perpetual push and pull between two traditions. The present paper focuses upon the life struggle of a Bengali couple Ashoke and Ashima who immigrate to America from India and try to incorporate the new culture. They try to keep their roots alive in the foreign land by observing some of the Indian rituals and thus developing a sense of belongingness to their homeland. But for the second generation, the couple had to adopt the tradition of the immigrant country. Gogol and Moushumi often feel as if they are torn and lost between the country of their birth and the values inherited from their parents. Not only Gogol and Moushumi but all other characters are bewildered about their self and are shuttling between two worlds. The present paper explores the theme of displacement and rootlessness in their life and a quest for the self.

Mehmet Recep Taş

Alienation is an unavoidable aspect of modern life. Nevertheless, it is as old as human beings themselves. The analysis of the interaction between the two sides (the oppressors - the oppressed, thesis-antithesis) sheds lights on the emergence of alienation and the ways it exists. The outhors most of whom have experienced the feelings of alienation in the consequence of their culture having been colonized try to explain this relationship through novels and short stories. A daughter of an immigrant couple, Jhumpa Lahiri is one of these postcolonial writers who have been torn between the two cultures. The Namesake, her first novel, skillfully reflects the situation of the diaspora and the feeling of alienation through its Bengali immigrant couple and their son, Gogol. Lahiri lays down certain types of alienation through her characters’ lives adventures. Characters from The Namesake show some certain symptoms of having experienced the feeling of alienation in various form. Considering t...

SMART M O V E S J O U R N A L IJELLH

The Namesake, a novel by Jhumpa Lahiri offers a deep insight into the daily life of a family, who come up to the United States of America but always try to settle, detached from the American ethnicity and traditions. While going through the novel, one gets a deep insight into the predicament of immigrants facing multiple repercussions like mental dilemma, impediments, life oppositions and its disagreements. The aim of this article is the presentation of selected conflicts of assimilation processes among Indian immigrants that appeared in the United States of America in the 1960s, as represented in Jhumpa Lahiri’s most practical, work of fiction The Namesake, with a particular attention on the differences between the first and second age group migrants. The existence stories of Lahiri’s characters, American Bengalis, like Gogol, Sonia, Ashima, and Moushumi illustrate several such conflicts of assimilation. Key words: The Namesake, assimilation, acculturation, nostalgia, immigrant, alienation.

Shrimoyee Chattopadhyay

Abstract Born to Bengali parents in July 1967, in London and with her family’s move to Rhode Island, Jhumpa Lahiri began life in the U.S.A. She grew up in the background of traditional Bengali culture. From childhood, she often accompanied her parents back to India-particularly to Calcutta (now known as Kolkata) because of family ties. She observes that her parents retain a sense of emotional exile and she herself grew up with conflicting expectations. In her novel ‘The Namesake’ (2003), Lahiri, a second generation Indian immigrant, reflects the immigrants’ inner psyche, identity crisis, sense of belongingness, loneliness, alienation, the clash of culture, the conflicts of adjustment and the baffling ties between the first and second generation. Keywords: Alienation, Belongings, Culture, Identity-Crisis, Immigrant, Nostalgic

“ ‘I should probably warn you that I live with my parents’, she adds. ‘Oh.’ This unexpected piece of information deflates him, confuses him. He asks if her parents will mind his coming over, if perhaps they should meet at a restaurant instead. But she laughs at the suggestion in a way that makes him feel vaguely foolish. ‘Why on earth would they mind?’ “ (“The Namesake”, 129) Nothing is static in Jhumpa Lahiri’s “The Namesake”. Whether it is Gogol hesitating to meet Maxine at her house in the above extract, or his parents’ hesitant foray into an alien land three decades earlier, journeys rule. Journeys not only from Calcutta to Boston, but also journeys spanning hearts. “The Namesake” cannot be categorised only as a family saga. It is a story of love and deceit, of friends and loners. Of ‘home’ and ‘abroad’. The two generations of Gangulis--- Ashima-Ashoke and Gogol-Sonia--- share the joys and pains of discoveries as they undertake almost parallel journeys in terms of experiences. Their existence in America mirrors the dilemma faced by every member of the Indian diaspora settled abroad. Substitution becomes a game of one-upmanship, as Indian and American traditions vie for their acceptance. So, we find a pregnant Ashima trying to rustle up some jhalmuri using ‘Rice Krispies and Planters peanuts’, while Gogol’s lackadaisical attitude towards the idea of ABCDs (American-born confused deshis) indicates his own existentialist dilemma and his struggle to be accepted in society as Nikhil, the ‘American’ citizen. Gogol’s journey, thus, becomes a journey that the diaspora all over the world, goes through in search of that elusive and metaphysical place called ‘home’.

Since times immemorial immigration has been associated with negative connotationsfor women-nostalgia, fractured identityandinsecurity. However,this is not the case withwomenin Laihri’s work; theyare particularly powerfully affected by the multi-ethnic environment of the cities they migrate to. The majority of Lahiri’s first-generation female characters, no doubt,first gothrough processes of disorientation and loneliness in foreign cities. Ultimately, however, they are able to negotiate these transnational urban environments in their favor. Eventually, they develop a more flexible relationship with their home(s), have an occupation other than taking care of the house, and educate their children to choose the best elements from the two cultures in which they are raised.The present article, through the character of Ashima Ganguli,focuses on this aspect ofimmigrantwomenin Laihri’s first novel The Namesake.Key Words

Dr Shamenaz

Jhumpa Lahiri is one such writer, who is well-known figure in the Literary World around the globe. She is widely acclaimed as an outstanding writer of Asian diaspora in general and Indian diaspora in particular. Jhumpa Lahiri or Nilanjana Sudeshna (or Sydeshna) Lahiri is an Indian American writer. It is so because she was born on 11 July 1967 in London, England of Bengali Indian Immigrant. Her works includes- Interpreter of Maladies (1999), The Namesake (2003), Unaccustomed Earth (2008). She is among those few Indian who have been awarded in the Western countries. As she has won many awards likes O. Henry Award in 1999 and Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2000.

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Jhumpa lahiri , the art of fiction no. 262, issue 247, spring 2024.

In Florence, on her first trip to Italy, 1994. All photographs courtesy of Jhumpa Lahiri.

My first conversations with Jhumpa Lahiri took place in Rome this past July, in her apartment near the Janiculum, above Trastevere. It was an extremely hot summer—one of our meetings was on the hottest day in Rome’s history, 110 degrees—and we sat with a large fan whirring in the living room, which, as in a scene from Henry James, looks out on the rolling hills over the suburra , until it was safe to step out to the terrace in the late afternoon. Among the bric-a-brac around the apartment were bits of vintage Sicilian-orange packaging, a plaque featuring the logo of the Italian Communist Party, and, framed in a glass case, a jersey signed by the soccer player Daniele De Rossi.

Lahiri was born in London in 1 967 to Bengali parents from Kolkata, and raised in a small town in Rhode Island. In 2012, she moved to Rome with her husband, the journalist and editor Alberto Vourvoulias-Bush, and their children, Octavio and Noor. She has spent the better part of the past decade shuttling between Italy and the U.S., where she’s held teaching posts at Princeton, from 2015 until 2022, and, since this past fall, at Barnard College, her alma mater, where she also directs the creative writing program. When we met again in October, it was at her brownstone in Fort Greene, Brooklyn, a four-story building bookended by a large kitchen and living space on the parlor floor and Lahiri’s top-floor study. She and Vourvoulias-Bush hadn’t lived in the house for a year or two, and while we spoke on the sofas, he was getting the place back in shape. Some of their furniture was still in storage, and several art pieces, abstract photo collages and large stretched canvases, lay against a white marble mantelpiece, waiting to be rehung. The walls were painted deep purple.

We spoke Italian in both cities, at her request. She began learning the language in earnest in her thirties, but her manner of speaking is spontaneous and unpretentious, with almost no trace of formality. (In my presence, she and Vourvoulias-Bush addressed each other in Italian.) She used English words only occasionally, as when quoting someone, often a figure from American publishing, a world with which she has a vexed relationship. Lahiri was thirty-two when she won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for her debut collection, Interpreter of Maladies (1999), and she remains the youngest writer to have received the award. The stories in that book, and the ones that followed in Unaccustomed Earth (2008), demonstrated an almost painful lightness of touch, an ability to make characters traverse years and emotional states in the span of just a few sentences, and a rare attention to the seismic power of even the smallest shift in a dynamic between two lovers or relatives. She was also celebrated for what many took as her central subject matter, the experience of Indian immigrants in the United States. Her debut novel, The Namesake (2003), was a critical and commercial hit, with a film adaptation three years after it was published; The Lowland (2013), which Lahiri described to me as her most ambitious and personally important book in English, takes a more digressive, fragmentary approach to what might be called the family saga, and is her last work of fiction written in English to date.

“I get the feeling people think that, because I write in Italian, I’m not writing at all anymore,” Lahiri told me. But since turning to Italian, not only has she been especially prolific, publishing six books in nine years, but she’s found new and varied forms in which to write, including the diaristic newspaper columns compiled in In Other Words (2015, translation 2016), about learning the language and beginning to write in it; the vignettes that structure Whereabouts (2018, translation 2021), a short novel following the life of a middle-aged university professor (“The title doesn’t work in English,” Lahiri says); and the very spare, drifting tales in Roman Stories (2022, translation 2023), about encounters between foreigners of various kinds in the city she calls home. Lahiri translated Whereabouts and most of the Roman Stories into English herself; her translations of Domenico Starnone’s novels Ties , Trust , and Trick , the latter a finalist for a National Book Award for Translated Literature, have brought new attention to his work in the U.S. With the classicist Yelena Baraz, she’s now working on a new translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses for the Modern Library.

Speaking to Lahiri, one gets the sense that her restlessness, in life and in writing, is almost an ethic, a deliberate struggle against being pigeonholed. The last time we met, in her office at Barnard, I remembered that a green suitcase had been parked in the middle of her living room in Rome—she’d apologized then for how chaotic her life was. She pointed behind me in the office, and there it was again.

INTERVIEWER

I can’t help but notice the way you gesticulate when you talk ... Do you do that when you’re speaking in English, too?

Jhumpa LAHIRI

No, that’s the Italian part of me. If we were speaking English right now, I’d be more tense, more defensive.

Why the difference?

It’s almost impossible to explain—but in Italian, I can be the Jhumpa who goes to buy a sandwich from the Calabrian couple at the market by the Porta Portese, who goes to the pool in Trastevere, and when I say hi to the person swimming laps in the lane next to mine they won’t have the faintest idea of my other life. Those are the moments I feel most alive and at ease. Italy’s great gift to me is the voice that tells me that I don’t have to follow the rules, that I can be who I want and write what I want on my own terms. It’s only when I’m writing in Italian that I manage to turn off all those other, judgmental voices, except perhaps my own.

With a childhood friend in Kingston, Rhode Island.

Which voices are we talking about exactly?

In my life in English, so to speak, there’s a sense that if I don’t hit a certain benchmark, I’ve failed. That’s the judgment I’ve felt from American culture from the start—the expectation to assimilate, and then, when I became a writer, to “represent” the Indian American experience, the immigrant experience. Then there’s the eternal, original judgment—of my mother, my parents, their immigrant community, their many friends with advanced degrees. Theirs was a language of comparison and competition, everyone striving to establish themselves and get ahead. And there’s the overhanging judgment, of the world my parents left behind in Kolkata. All of which I internalized.

It’s interesting—in your books in English, the family is a totalizing force, but you’ve put solitary women at the center of your Italian books.

Thank you, Dr. Pacifico—maybe that’s because it’s only in Italian that I feel I’m at the center of myself.

Right, end of session! That’ll be three hundred dollars.

Tell me, was there a moment when you first felt happy with your voice?

No. The goal isn’t to be happy with my voice. What I want is simply to have one.

So you didn’t feel, when you were starting out, that you’d hit on something?

When I was working on the stories in Interpreter of Maladies , I wanted to write in a way that was almost without personality—to create a story that was completely neutral, as unobtrusive as possible. It was as though I didn’t want anyone to hear the key turning as I opened the door.

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The art of fiction no. 178.

In 1985, after seventeen New York publishers had rejected  City of Glass , the lead novella in The New York Trilogy, it was published by Sun and Moon Press in San Francisco. The other two novellas,  Ghosts  and  The Locked Room , came out the next year. Paul Auster was thirty-eight. Although he wrote reviews and translations regularly and his prose poem  White Spaces had been published in 1980, the trilogy marked the true start of his literary career.

   Auster has written about those prepublication years in  Hand to Mouth: A Chronicle of Early Failure  (1997). He studied at Columbia University in the late sixties, then worked for a few months on an oil tanker before moving to Paris where he eked out a living as a translator. He started a little magazine,  Little Hand , and an independent publishing house of the same name with his first wife, the writer Lydia Davis. In 1972 his first book, a collection of translations titled  A Little Anthology of Surrealist Poems , was published. He returned to New York City in 1974 and, among other ventures, tried to sell a baseball card game he had invented. In 1982, Auster published his first prose book,  The Invention of Solitude , a memoir and meditation on fatherhood that he started writing shortly after his father’s death.

   Auster has published a book almost annually since the trilogy: In 1987 the novel  In the Country of Last Things  appeared. His other novels include  Moon Palace  (1989),  The Music of Chance  (1990),  Leviathan  (1992), and  The Book of Illusions  (2002). Auster was made a chevalier of the Order of Arts and Letters by the French government in 1991 (he was elevated to an officer in 1997).

   The range of Auster’s work is remarkable—novels, essays, translations, poems, plays, songs, and collaborations with artists (including Sophie Calle and Sam Messer). He has also written three screenplays:  Smoke  (1995),  Blue in the Face  (1995), and  Lulu on the Bridge (1998), which he directed as well.  Oracle Night , his ninth novel, will be published later this year.

   The following conversation started last fall with a live interview at the Unterberg Poetry Center of the 92nd Street Y in New York City. The interview was completed one afternoon this summer at Auster’s home in Brooklyn, where he lives with his wife, the writer Siri Hustvedt. A gracious host, he apologized for the workers who were installing central air conditioning in their nineteenth-century brownstone, then gave a brief tour: The living room is decorated with paintings by his friends Sam Messer and David Reed. In their front hall, there is a collection of family photographs. Bookshelves line the walls of his office on the ground floor. And, of course, on his desk the famous typewriter.

Let’s start by talking about the way you work. About how you write.

PAUL AUSTER

I’ve always written by hand. Mostly with a fountain pen, but sometimes with a pencil—especially for corrections. If I could write directly on a typewriter or a computer, I would do it. But keyboards have always intimidated me. I’ve never been able to think clearly with my fingers in that position. A pen is a much more primitive instrument. You feel that the words are coming out of your body and then you dig the words into the page. Writing has always had that tactile quality for me. It’s a physical experience.

And you write in notebooks. Not legal pads or loose sheets of paper.

Yes, always in notebooks. And I have a particular fetish for notebooks with quadrille lines—the little squares.

But what about the famous Olympia typewriter? We know quite a bit about that machine—last year you published a wonderful book with the painter Sam Messer,  The Story of My Typewriter .

I’ve owned that typewriter since 1974—more than half my life now. I bought it second-hand from a college friend and at this point it must be about forty years old. It’s a relic from another age, but it’s still in good condition. It’s never broken down. All I have to do is change ribbons every once in a while. But I’m living in fear that a day will come when there won’t be any ribbons left to buy—and I’ll have to go digital and join the twenty-first century.

A great Paul Auster story. The day when you go out to buy that last ribbon.

I’ve made some preparations. I’ve stocked up. I think I have about sixty or seventy ribbons in my room. I’ll probably stick with that typewriter till the end, although I’ve been sorely tempted to give it up at times. It’s cumbersome and inconvenient, but it also protects me against laziness.

Because the typewriter forces me to start all over again once I’m finished. With a computer, you make your changes on the screen and then you print out a clean copy. With a typewriter, you can’t get a clean manuscript unless you start again from scratch. It’s an incredibly tedious process. You’ve finished your book, and now you have to spend several weeks engaged in the purely mechanical job of transcribing what you’ve already written. It’s bad for your neck, bad for your back, and even if you can type twenty or thirty pages a day, the finished pages pile up with excruciating slowness. That’s the moment when I always wish I’d switched to a computer, and yet every time I push myself through this final stage of a book, I wind up discovering how essential it is. Typing allows me to experience the book in a new way, to plunge into the flow of the narrative and feel how it functions as a whole. I call it “reading with my fingers,” and it’s amazing how many errors your fingers will find that your eyes never noticed. Repetitions, awkward constructions, choppy rhythms. It never fails. I think I’m finished with the book and then I begin to type it up and I realize there’s more work to be done.

Let’s go back to the notebooks for a minute. Quinn, in  City of Glass , records his observations in a red notebook. Anna Blume, the narrator of  In the Country of Last Things , composes her letter in a blue notebook. In  Mr. Vertigo , Walt writes his autobiography in thirteen hardbound school composition books. And Willy G. Christmas, the demented hero of  Timbuktu , has lugged his entire life’s work to Baltimore to give to his high-school English teacher before he dies: seventy-four notebooks of “poems, stories, essays, diary entries, epigrams, autobiographical musings, and the first eighteen-hundred lines of an epic-in-progress,  Vagabond Days .” Notebooks also figure in your most recent novels,  The Book of Illusions  and  Oracle Night . To say nothing of your collection of true stories,  The Red Notebook . What are we to make of this?

I suppose I think of the notebook as a house for words, as a secret place for thought and self-examination. I’m not just interested in the results of writing, but in the process, the act of putting words on a page. Don’t ask me why. It might have something to do with an early confusion on my part, an ignorance about the nature of fiction. As a young person, I would always ask myself, Where are the words coming from? Who’s saying this? The third-person narrative voice in the traditional novel is a strange device. We’re used to it now, we accept it, we don’t question it anymore. But when you stop and think about it, there’s an eerie, disembodied quality to that voice. It seems to come from nowhere and I found that disturbing. I was always drawn to books that doubled back on themselves, that brought you into the world of the book, even as the book was taking you into the world. The manuscript as hero, so to speak.  Wuthering Heights  is that kind of novel.  The Scarlet Letter  is another. The frames are fictitious, of course, but they give a groundedness and credibility to the stories that other novels didn’t have for me. They posit the work as an illusion—which more traditional forms of narrative don’t—and once you accept the “unreality” of the enterprise, it paradoxically enhances the truth of the story. The words aren’t written in stone by an invisible author-god. They represent the efforts of a flesh-and-blood human being and this is very compelling. The reader becomes a participant in the unfolding of the story—not just a detached observer.

From the Archive, Issue 167

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Lit. Summaries

• Biographies

Unpacking the Complexities: A Literary Analysis of Jhumpa Lahiri’s Hell-Heaven

• Jhumpa Lahiri

Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story “Hell-Heaven” explores the complexities of cultural identity, gender roles, and the immigrant experience. Through a close literary analysis of the text, this article delves into the themes and motifs that Lahiri employs to create a nuanced and thought-provoking portrayal of the tensions between tradition and modernity, East and West, and the individual and the collective.

Background Information on Jhumpa Lahiri

Jhumpa Lahiri is a renowned Indian-American author who has won numerous awards for her literary works. Born in London in 1967, Lahiri grew up in Rhode Island, USA, where her parents had settled after immigrating from West Bengal, India. Lahiri’s parents were both academics, and she grew up in a household that valued education and literature. Lahiri went on to study English literature at Barnard College and later earned a Ph.D. in Renaissance Studies from Boston University.

Lahiri’s writing often explores themes of identity, belonging, and cultural displacement. Her debut collection of short stories, “Interpreter of Maladies,” won the Pulitzer Prize in 2000, making her the first Asian-American woman to win the award. Her other works include the novels “The Namesake” and “The Lowland,” as well as the short story collections “Unaccustomed Earth” and “The Interpreter of Maladies.”

Lahiri’s writing is known for its vivid descriptions of the immigrant experience, as well as its exploration of the complexities of family relationships. Her work has been praised for its emotional depth and its ability to capture the nuances of human experience. Lahiri’s writing has been translated into over 30 languages and has been widely acclaimed both in the United States and internationally.

Summary of Hell-Heaven

In Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story “Hell-Heaven,” the narrator reflects on her childhood memories of her mother’s friend, Pranab Kaku, and his relationship with her mother’s best friend, Usha Aunty. The story explores themes of cultural identity, love, and the complexities of relationships. Through the narrator’s observations and reflections, Lahiri highlights the challenges of navigating cultural differences and the impact of societal expectations on personal relationships. Ultimately, “Hell-Heaven” offers a nuanced portrayal of the complexities of human connection and the ways in which cultural identity shapes our experiences and relationships.

Analysis of the Title

The title of Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story “Hell-Heaven” is a complex and multi-layered one. At first glance, it may seem like a simple juxtaposition of two opposing concepts. However, upon closer examination, it becomes clear that the title is meant to convey much more than just a binary opposition. The title is a metaphor for the central conflict of the story, which is the clash between tradition and modernity, and the struggle to reconcile the two. The word “hell” represents the traditional, conservative values of the protagonist’s mother, while “heaven” represents the freedom and liberation that the protagonist seeks in her new life in America. The title also alludes to the Hindu concept of “swarga” and “naraka,” which are the equivalent of heaven and hell in Western mythology. This adds another layer of meaning to the title, as it suggests that the story is not just about the clash of cultures, but also about the struggle to find one’s place in the world and achieve a sense of inner peace. Overall, the title of “Hell-Heaven” is a powerful and evocative one that captures the essence of the story and its themes.

Character Analysis: Pranab Kaku

Pranab Kaku is a complex character in Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story “Hell-Heaven.” He is introduced as a charming and affable man who quickly becomes a close friend of the narrator’s family. However, as the story progresses, it becomes clear that Pranab Kaku is struggling with his identity and his place in the world.

One of the most striking aspects of Pranab Kaku’s character is his desire to assimilate into American culture. He changes his name to “Ben” and adopts American mannerisms and speech patterns. This desire to fit in is understandable, given the discrimination and prejudice that many immigrants face in America. However, it also highlights the tension between his Indian heritage and his desire to be accepted by his new community.

Another important aspect of Pranab Kaku’s character is his relationship with the narrator’s mother, Mrs. Sen. He is clearly infatuated with her, but she does not reciprocate his feelings. This unrequited love adds another layer of complexity to his character, as it reveals his vulnerability and his longing for connection.

Overall, Pranab Kaku is a nuanced and multifaceted character who embodies many of the themes and conflicts in “Hell-Heaven.” His struggles with identity, assimilation, and love make him a compelling and memorable character in Lahiri’s story.

Character Analysis: Usha

Usha is a complex character in Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story “Hell-Heaven.” She is the daughter of Aparna, the protagonist of the story, and is portrayed as a young woman struggling to find her place in the world. Usha is torn between her Indian heritage and her American upbringing, and this conflict is evident in her relationships with her family and friends.

One of the most striking aspects of Usha’s character is her desire for independence. She is determined to make her own choices and live her life on her own terms, even if it means going against her family’s expectations. This is evident in her decision to pursue a career in science, which is not traditionally seen as a suitable profession for women in Indian culture.

However, Usha’s independence also causes tension in her relationship with her mother. Aparna is deeply rooted in traditional Indian values and is often critical of Usha’s choices. This leads to a strained relationship between the two, with Usha feeling misunderstood and unsupported by her mother.

Despite these challenges, Usha is a resilient character who is determined to find her place in the world. She is intelligent, ambitious, and fiercely independent, and these qualities make her a compelling character in “Hell-Heaven.” Through Usha’s story, Lahiri explores the complexities of identity and the challenges of navigating cultural expectations in a globalized world.

Symbolism in Hell-Heaven

Symbolism plays a significant role in Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story “Hell-Heaven.” The story is filled with various symbols that add depth and meaning to the narrative. One of the most prominent symbols in the story is the title itself. “Hell-Heaven” represents the dichotomy between the two worlds that the protagonist, Usha, inhabits. The “hell” represents the oppressive and suffocating world of her mother’s expectations, while “heaven” represents the freedom and liberation she experiences in America.

Another symbol in the story is the birdcage. The birdcage represents the confinement and restriction that Usha feels in her mother’s world. The birdcage is also a metaphor for Usha’s mother’s traditional values and beliefs that limit her daughter’s freedom. The birdcage symbolizes the tension between tradition and modernity, which is a recurring theme in Lahiri’s works.

The color white is also a significant symbol in the story. White represents purity, innocence, and freedom. Usha’s white dress symbolizes her desire for freedom and liberation from her mother’s expectations. The white color also represents the American culture that Usha is drawn to, which is in stark contrast to her mother’s traditional Indian culture.

In conclusion, symbolism is a crucial element in Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Hell-Heaven.” The symbols in the story add depth and meaning to the narrative, and they help to convey the themes of tradition, modernity, freedom, and oppression. The symbols in the story are a testament to Lahiri’s skill as a writer and her ability to create a rich and complex narrative.

Themes in Hell-Heaven

One of the central themes in Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Hell-Heaven” is the tension between tradition and modernity. The story is set in the 1980s, a time when Indian immigrants in America were grappling with the clash between their old ways of life and the new opportunities and freedoms that America offered. The protagonist, Aparna, is torn between her desire to assimilate into American culture and her longing for the familiar customs and values of her homeland. This conflict is mirrored in her relationship with her daughter, Usha, who is growing up in a world that is vastly different from the one Aparna knew as a child. As Usha becomes more Americanized, Aparna struggles to reconcile her own identity with that of her daughter’s. The story ultimately suggests that while tradition can provide a sense of comfort and belonging, it can also be a source of constraint and conflict in a rapidly changing world.

Setting Analysis

The setting of Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Hell-Heaven” plays a crucial role in the story’s overall impact. The story takes place in two distinct locations: Calcutta, India, and Cambridge, Massachusetts. The contrast between these two settings highlights the cultural differences between the characters and the challenges they face in navigating their identities. In Calcutta, the narrator’s mother, Usha, is surrounded by the familiar traditions and customs of her homeland. However, when she moves to Cambridge with her husband and daughter, she struggles to adapt to the new environment and feels isolated from her community. The setting also reflects the characters’ social status, with the Cambridge setting representing a more privileged and affluent lifestyle compared to the poverty and struggles of Calcutta. Overall, the setting serves as a backdrop for the characters’ experiences and emphasizes the complexities of cultural identity and the challenges of assimilation.

Narrative Style and Point of View

Jhumpa Lahiri’s Hell-Heaven is a short story that explores the complexities of cultural identity and the struggles of assimilation. The narrative style and point of view play a crucial role in conveying the themes of the story. The story is narrated by the protagonist’s daughter, who provides a unique perspective on her mother’s life. The use of a first-person narrator allows the reader to experience the story through the eyes of someone who is intimately connected to the characters and their experiences. This perspective also allows the reader to understand the protagonist’s daughter’s own struggles with her cultural identity and her relationship with her mother. The narrative style is straightforward and simple, which allows the reader to focus on the emotions and experiences of the characters. The use of flashbacks and memories also adds depth to the story and helps to reveal the complexities of the characters’ lives. Overall, the narrative style and point of view in Hell-Heaven are essential elements that contribute to the story’s themes and emotional impact.

Use of Language and Literary Devices

Jhumpa Lahiri’s Hell-Heaven is a masterful work of fiction that employs a range of literary devices to convey its themes and ideas. One of the most striking aspects of the story is the author’s use of language, which is both precise and evocative. Lahiri’s prose is spare and understated, yet it is also rich in detail and nuance. She uses vivid imagery and sensory description to create a vivid sense of place and atmosphere, and her dialogue is naturalistic and authentic, capturing the rhythms and cadences of everyday speech. At the same time, Lahiri also employs a range of literary devices, such as symbolism, metaphor, and irony, to deepen the story’s meaning and resonance. Through these techniques, she explores complex themes such as identity, cultural conflict, and the search for belonging, creating a work of fiction that is both intellectually stimulating and emotionally resonant.

Cultural and Historical Context

Jhumpa Lahiri’s Hell-Heaven is a short story that explores the complexities of cultural identity and the clash between tradition and modernity. Set in the 1970s, the story takes place in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where the protagonist, Aparna, is a first-generation Indian immigrant struggling to find her place in American society. The story is deeply rooted in the cultural and historical context of the time, as it reflects the experiences of many immigrants who came to the United States during the 1960s and 1970s. The story also highlights the tension between the older generation of immigrants, who hold onto their traditional values and customs, and the younger generation, who are more assimilated into American culture. Through the character of Aparna, Lahiri explores the challenges of navigating between two cultures and the emotional toll it can take on an individual. Overall, the cultural and historical context of Hell-Heaven adds depth and richness to the story, making it a powerful exploration of the immigrant experience.

Gender Roles and Expectations

In Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story “Hell-Heaven,” the theme of gender roles and expectations is explored through the character of Usha, a young Indian-American woman. Usha’s mother, Aparna, holds traditional views on gender roles and expects Usha to conform to them. Aparna believes that a woman’s primary role is to get married and have children, and she is disappointed when Usha chooses to pursue her education and career instead. This conflict between mother and daughter highlights the tension between traditional gender roles and the changing expectations of women in modern society. Lahiri’s portrayal of Usha’s struggle to reconcile her own desires with her mother’s expectations sheds light on the complexities of gender roles and the challenges faced by women who seek to break free from traditional expectations.

Identity and Belonging

Identity and belonging are two fundamental aspects of human existence that are explored in Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story “Hell-Heaven.” The protagonist, Usha, is a first-generation Indian-American who struggles to reconcile her Indian heritage with her American identity. She feels like an outsider in both cultures and is constantly searching for a sense of belonging.

Usha’s mother, on the other hand, is deeply rooted in her Indian identity and traditions. She longs for the close-knit community she left behind in India and tries to recreate it in her new home in America. This creates a tension between mother and daughter, as Usha feels suffocated by her mother’s expectations and desires for her to conform to traditional Indian values.

Through Usha’s experiences, Lahiri highlights the complexities of identity and belonging for immigrants and their children. The story also touches on the generational divide that often arises when cultural traditions clash with modern values.

Overall, “Hell-Heaven” is a poignant exploration of the challenges and nuances of identity and belonging in a multicultural society. It reminds us that these issues are not black and white, but rather complex and multifaceted.

Parent-Child Relationships

In Jhumpa Lahiri’s short story “Hell-Heaven,” the complex dynamics of parent-child relationships are explored through the lens of cultural identity and generational differences. The protagonist, Usha, struggles to reconcile her Indian heritage with her American upbringing, while her mother, Aparna, clings to traditional values and expectations. This tension between the two women leads to a strained relationship, with Usha feeling suffocated by her mother’s constant scrutiny and Aparna feeling frustrated by her daughter’s perceived lack of respect. Through their interactions, Lahiri highlights the challenges of navigating cultural differences within families and the impact it can have on parent-child relationships.

Interpretation of the Ending

The ending of Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Hell-Heaven” leaves readers with a sense of ambiguity and uncertainty. The protagonist, Aparna, is left alone after her daughter, Usha, moves out to live with her boyfriend. Aparna’s thoughts and emotions are not explicitly stated, leaving readers to interpret the ending for themselves. Some may see it as a moment of liberation for Aparna, finally free from the burden of motherhood and able to live for herself. Others may see it as a moment of sadness and loneliness, as Aparna is left without any family or companionship. The ending can also be seen as a commentary on the complexities of mother-daughter relationships and the sacrifices that are often made in the name of love. Overall, the ending of “Hell-Heaven” is open to interpretation and invites readers to reflect on their own experiences and relationships.

Comparison to Other Works by Jhumpa Lahiri

Jhumpa Lahiri is a renowned author who has written several works that explore the complexities of human relationships and cultural identity. In comparison to her other works, Hell-Heaven stands out as a unique and powerful story that delves into the intricacies of family dynamics and the struggle to find one’s place in the world.

Lahiri’s previous works, such as The Namesake and Interpreter of Maladies, also explore themes of cultural identity and the immigrant experience. However, Hell-Heaven takes a more personal approach, focusing on the relationship between a mother and daughter and the ways in which their cultural differences shape their lives.

In The Namesake, Lahiri tells the story of a young man named Gogol who struggles to reconcile his Indian heritage with his American upbringing. Similarly, Interpreter of Maladies features characters who are caught between two cultures and must navigate the challenges of living in a foreign land.

While these works are certainly powerful in their own right, Hell-Heaven stands out for its intimate portrayal of a mother-daughter relationship and the ways in which cultural differences can create tension and conflict within families. Through the character of Usha, Lahiri explores the complexities of identity and the ways in which our cultural backgrounds shape our perceptions of ourselves and others.

Overall, Lahiri’s body of work is a testament to her skill as a writer and her ability to capture the nuances of human relationships and cultural identity. Hell-Heaven is a standout piece that showcases Lahiri’s talent for crafting powerful and emotionally resonant stories that stay with readers long after the final page has been turned.

Relevance to Contemporary Society

Jhumpa Lahiri’s Hell-Heaven is a poignant and thought-provoking piece of literature that explores the complexities of cultural identity, gender roles, and the immigrant experience. The themes and issues raised in the story are highly relevant to contemporary society, particularly in the context of the ongoing debates around immigration, diversity, and multiculturalism.

One of the key themes of the story is the tension between tradition and modernity, which is a common theme in many immigrant narratives. The protagonist, Usha, is caught between the traditional values of her Indian heritage and the liberal ideals of her American upbringing. This conflict is further complicated by her gender, as she struggles to reconcile the expectations placed on her as a woman in both cultures.

Another important theme in the story is the idea of cultural hybridity, which is becoming increasingly relevant in today’s globalized world. Usha’s parents are immigrants who have adapted to American culture to varying degrees, and their children are caught between two worlds. This experience is shared by many people today, who are navigating multiple cultural identities and trying to find a sense of belonging in a rapidly changing world.

Overall, Hell-Heaven is a powerful and insightful work of literature that speaks to many of the issues and challenges facing contemporary society. It is a reminder of the importance of empathy, understanding, and open-mindedness in a world that is becoming increasingly diverse and complex.

Implications for Further Study

The literary analysis of Jhumpa Lahiri’s “Hell-Heaven” has shed light on the complexities of the story’s themes and characters. However, there are still areas that could be further explored in future studies. One potential avenue for further research is the role of gender in the story. While the analysis touched on the gender dynamics between the characters, a deeper examination of how gender shapes their experiences and relationships could provide valuable insights. Additionally, exploring the cultural and historical context of the story could enhance our understanding of the characters’ motivations and actions. Overall, further study of “Hell-Heaven” could deepen our appreciation of Lahiri’s masterful storytelling and the complexities of human relationships.

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“Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri: Analysis

“Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri, a highly acclaimed short story originally published in her 1999 debut collection, has gained significant popularity and critical acclaim.

Introduction: “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

Table of Contents

“Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri, a highly acclaimed short story originally published in her 1999 debut collection, has gained significant popularity and critical acclaim. It explores the complexities of cultural displacement, human relationships, and the search for connection in a world that can feel fragmented and isolating. Lahiri’s vivid prose, nuanced storytelling, and numerous awards cement her reputation as a distinguished and celebrated contemporary writer.

Main Events in “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

• Mr. and Mrs. Das, an Indian-American couple on vacation in India, struggle to communicate with their children and with each other.
• They hire a taxi driver, Mr. Kapasi, to take them to see historical sites in the area.
• During the ride, Mrs. Das reveals a secret about her personal life to Mr. Kapasi, who is an interpreter by profession.
• Mr. Kapasi becomes infatuated with Mrs. Das, despite her being married, and imagines a romantic relationship with her.
• The Das family visit a temple, where their son gets lost in the crowd.
• They eventually find him and return to the car, where they continue their journey.
• Mr. Kapasi shares his own personal story with Mrs. Das, revealing his own marital struggles and his job as an interpreter for a doctor.
• Mrs. Das becomes uninterested in Mr. Kapasi’s story and soon after, the ride ends.
• Mr. Kapasi reflects on the day and his infatuation with Mrs. Das, ultimately realizing that his desire for her was misplaced and that his true purpose is to help his patients as an interpreter.
• The story ends with Mr. Kapasi driving away, feeling a sense of clarity and purpose in his life.

Literary Devices in “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

• Allusion : Mrs. Das references the Hindu god Krishna to highlight her son’s mischievous behavior. This allusion adds cultural depth to her characterization.
• Characterization : Lahiri skillfully reveals character motivations, such as Mrs. Das’s dissatisfaction with her life and Mr. Kapasi’s yearning for greater purpose.
• Dialogue : Conversations between characters drive the plot and reveal their personalities, furthering the exploration of themes like disconnection.
• Flashback : Flashbacks to Mr. Kapasi’s past working as an interpreter and his troubled marriage add complexity and backstory.
• Foreshadowing : Mr. Kapasi’s initial fascination with Mrs. Das foreshadows his later realization that his feelings are misplaced, revealing his struggles with emotional connection.
• Hyperbole : Mrs. Das’s exaggerated reaction to her son being lost in the temple underscores her anxieties and insecurities.
• Imagery : Lahiri’s vivid descriptions of “thick, humid air” and the “scent of spices and mud” create a powerful sensory experience of the Indian setting.
• Irony : Mr. Kapasi, despite being an interpreter by profession, fails to forge a meaningful connection with the Das family, highlighting the complexities of communication.
• Metaphor : Mr. Kapasi’s role as an interpreter serves as a metaphor for his struggles with communication and connection in his personal life.
• Motif : The recurring motif of communication breakdowns highlights the characters’ pervasive sense of isolation.
• Personification : The car’s wheels “coughed and sputtered,” adding a touch of life to the inanimate object and potentially mirroring Mr. Kapasi’s sputtering efforts to connect.
• Repetition : The repeated phrase “interpreter of maladies” emphasizes the story’s core themes of understanding and bridging personal and cultural divides.
• Setting : The Indian setting provides a rich cultural backdrop, influencing the characters’ experiences and highlighting themes of displacement.
• Symbolism : The temple symbolizes potential spiritual enlightenment, contrasting with the characters’ internal struggles and lack of fulfillment.
• Theme : The central theme of cultural displacement and the universal search for connection and purpose emerges powerfully through Lahiri’s use of these literary techniques.

Characterization in “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

• Interpreter and Observer:
• His profession as a part-time tour guide and former medical interpreter gives him a unique lens, predisposing him to analyze others’ lives.
• Yearning for Connection: Initially romanticizes Mrs. Das, projecting his dissatisfaction with his arranged marriage and mundane life onto her. His misinterpretation of her confessions reveals his isolation and longing for deeper intimacy.
• Missed Opportunities: His job is to interpret, yet he repeatedly fails to communicate or bridge understanding, both with the Das family and his own. His final misreading of Mrs. Das’s address as romantic interest highlights this tragic flaw.
• Reference: “…he was not accustomed to such an attractive woman showing interest in him.”
• Self-absorbed and Distant: Focuses on her needs and anxieties to the exclusion of her family, highlighting her disconnection. Unaware of her impact on those around her, she’s oblivious to Mr. Kapasi’s feelings.
• Trapped in Routine: Dissatisfaction seeps through her comments about her marriage, her motherhood, and her life’s mundanity. Yet, she seems unable or unwilling to break out of her patterns.
• Moment of Vulnerability: Her confession about her child’s true parentage offers a brief glimpse of self-awareness; however, she quickly retreats back into detachment.
• Reference: “From time to time, she glanced back at them [her children], and then quickly looked ahead. That was how she regarded them: quickly, from the corner of an eye.”
• Oblivious to Disconnection: Obsesses over taking photographs of India, demonstrating a focus on the external world rather than meaningful engagement with his family.
• Cultural Tourist: His interest in India seems superficial, focused more on documenting experiences than understanding them. This parallels Mrs. Das’s self-absorption; neither truly sees what’s around them.
• Reference: “Mr. Das checked his watch, then his camera…to make sure he hadn’t run out of film.”

The Das Children

• Innocents Against Disconnection: They exist largely on the periphery of the story, mirroring the lack of attention their parents offer. However, their bickering and minor rebellions suggest an awareness and discomfort with the family dynamic.

Lahiri’s Use of Characterization

• Limited Perspective: Mr. Kapasi’s point of view means readers see events primarily through his biased interpretations, emphasizing misunderstanding.
• Nuance Despite Brevity: Despite the story’s length, Lahiri sketches complex portraits. No single character is entirely likable or unsympathetic, echoing the messiness of real people.
• Cultural displacement and alienation within families
• The failures of communication even between those closest to us
• The yearning for connection and the complexities of desire

Major Themes in “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

• Cultural Displacement – One of the major themes in “Interpreter of Maladies” is the experience of cultural displacement felt by both the Indian-American Das family and Mr. Kapasi. The story explores the tension between the Das family’s nostalgic attachment to their Indian roots and their experience of American life, as well as Mr. Kapasi’s feeling of being stuck between two cultures. This is evident when Mr. Kapasi reflects on his own life and says, “He belonged neither here nor there, but to both.”
• Communication and Miscommunication – Another major theme in the story is the importance of communication and the potential for miscommunication between people from different backgrounds. The story demonstrates how language barriers and cultural differences can lead to misunderstandings, and how communication breakdowns can have profound effects on people’s lives. This is exemplified in the central conflict of the story, as Mrs. Das confides in Mr. Kapasi about a secret from her past, but he ultimately realizes that his understanding of her situation was incomplete and that he had misunderstood the depth of her pain.
• Secrets and Identity – The theme of secrets and identity is also prevalent in the story, as both Mr. Kapasi and Mrs. Das are struggling with secrets from their past that have shaped their sense of self. For Mrs. Das, her secret has caused her to question her identity and her place in the world, while for Mr. Kapasi, his secrets have left him feeling disconnected and unfulfilled. This theme is highlighted when Mr. Kapasi thinks to himself, “But here was an undeniable fact: he had failed in his duty as a husband and father, and it was this failure that defined him.”
• Emotional Disconnect – Lastly, the story explores the theme of emotional disconnect, particularly in the context of familial relationships. The Das family’s strained interactions with one another illustrate the emotional distance that can develop between family members over time, as well as the difficulty of bridging that gap. Mr. Kapasi’s own struggles with emotional intimacy and connection further underscore this theme. This is evident in the final moments of the story, as Mr. Kapasi watches the Das family drive away and reflects on the “emptiness” he feels, despite having shared an intimate moment with Mrs. Das.

Writing Style in “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

• Precise and Understated Prose:
• Lahiri employs a restrained, evocative style that suggests more than it explicitly states.
• Reference: This is evident in the subtle interactions between characters rather than lengthy declarations of emotion.
• Sensory Details and Vivid Imagery: Lahiri creates a rich, immersive narrative by engaging with the sights, sounds, and emotions experienced by characters.
• Reference: Descriptions like “the thick, still air” or the “scent of spices and mud” transport the reader into the Indian setting.
• Multiple Points of View and Non-Linear Structure : The shifts in perspective and the use of flashbacks add complexity and depth, highlighting different characters’ internal experiences.
• Reference: Mr. Kapasi’s point of view dominates but is contrasted with glimpses into Mrs. Das’s mind and the past.
• Symbolism and Foreshadowing: Her use of these elements enhances thematic resonance, hinting at deeper meanings and potential outcomes.
• Reference: The temple they visit, meant for spiritual connection, becomes a symbol of the characters’ isolation.

Literary Theories and Interpretation of “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

• Postcolonial Theory : “Interpreter of Maladies” invites analysis through a postcolonial lens, exploring the cultural, social, and political ramifications of colonialism and imperialism . The story depicts Indian-Americans navigating multiple cultural identities, highlighting how colonial history has shaped their senses of self and belonging. Mr. Kapasi’s reflections on his role as an interpreter for British colonizers, along with Mrs. Das’s nostalgic attachment to India, exemplify the lingering impact of colonialism on identity.
• Feminist Theory : The story lends itself to feminist analysis, examining gender roles, societal norms, and power structures. Mrs. Das embodies the constraints imposed on women within patriarchal societies. Expectations of feminine behavior, motherhood, and marital fidelity limit her while her husband enjoys more freedom. Her secret affair and disillusionment highlight how women can be denied agency within both traditional Indian culture and broader patriarchal systems.
• Psychoanalytic Theory : A psychoanalytic approach reveals themes of repression and trauma. Mrs. Das’s secret stems from a traumatic event, forcibly pushed into her subconscious. Similarly, Mr. Kapasi’s longing for connection stems from past trauma and disappointment. The story shows how repressed emotions can create emotional disconnection and misunderstandings, emphasizing the need to confront and process trauma to achieve healing and intimacy.
• Marxist Theory : A Marxist reading examines class and capitalism, often intertwined with colonial and imperialist forces. The story depicts economic disparities and cultural tensions between the Indian-American middle class and the working-class Indian population. Mr. Kapasi’s background contrasts with the Das family’s privileged lifestyle. Additionally, the story highlights the potential for capitalism and consumer culture to breed emotional and cultural alienation, as illustrated by Mrs. Das’s disillusionment with her materialistic lifestyle.
• Reader-Response Theory : Reader-response theory emphasizes the reader’s role in constructing meaning. The story’s non-linear structure and open-ended conclusion invite active interpretation and reflection, establishing a dialogue between reader and text. Moreover, the story underscores how individual experiences and perspectives shape textual interpretation, as different readers will form distinct emotional responses and insights based on their backgrounds.

Topics, Questions and Thesis Statements about “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

• Cultural Displacement and Identity:
•  How does the Indian diaspora experience shape the characters’ sense of belonging?
• In what ways do characters try to reconcile their Indian heritage with their lives in America?
• Does Lahiri portray cultural dislocation as a wholly negative experience, or is there some potential for growth?
• Analyze the different forms of miscommunication within the story (between spouses, parent and child, between interpreter and those he serves).
• Why is Mr. Kapasi, despite his profession, so ineffective at understanding Mrs. Das?
• What does the story suggest about the limits of communication, even between those close to us?
• How does Mrs. Das’s character challenge or conform to traditional notions of femininity and motherhood?
• Compare and contrast the freedoms and limitations faced by Mr. and Mrs. Das within their marriage.
• Does Lahiri offer a critique of patriarchal structures, or simply a portrayal of their effects?
• How does Mrs. Das’s secret trauma shape her behavior and choices?
• Analyze Mr. Kapasi’s own repressed emotions – how do they influence his actions?
• What does the story suggest about the necessity of confronting trauma for individual healing?

Thesis Statements (Examples)

• In “Interpreter of Maladies,” Jhumpa Lahiri portrays cultural displacement as a complex experience for the Indian diaspora characters, simultaneously a source of alienation and an opportunity for self-discovery.
• Lahiri uses the motif of miscommunication in “Interpreter of Maladies” to highlight the pervasive disconnect between individuals, even those within the same family, undermining the possibility of true intimacy.
• Through Mrs. Das’s character, Jhumpa Lahiri offers a subtle critique of traditional gender roles and expectations, highlighting the ways in which they limit women’s autonomy and self-expression.
• In “Interpreter of Maladies,” Lahiri suggests that past traumas, if left unresolved, create internal barriers that can prevent genuine connection and perpetuate cycles of emotional pain.
• Specificity: Choose a narrow focus for a stronger thesis.
• Arguability: A thesis should offer a debatable claim, not simply a statement of fact.
• Evidence: Plan what evidence from the story you’ll use to support your thesis.

Short Question-Answers about “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

• What is the significance of the title “Interpreter of Maladies” and how does it relate to the themes of the story?

The title “Interpreter of Maladies” is significant as it underscores the central role of the interpreter, Mr. Kapasi, in the story, who serves as a mediator between the Indian-American family he is guiding and their guide. Through his work as a translator and interpreter, Mr. Kapasi is uniquely positioned to navigate the cultural and linguistic divides between the two families and help them to bridge the gaps in their understanding. At the same time, the title also speaks to the broader theme of emotional disconnection and the malaise that can result from cultural and personal displacement, as the characters struggle to connect with each other and understand their own complex emotions.

• How does Jhumpa Lahiri use setting and place to convey the themes of cultural identity and displacement?

Throughout the story, Lahiri uses vivid and evocative descriptions of the physical environment to convey the characters’ sense of cultural dislocation and alienation. Whether it is the bustling streets of Kolkata, the dusty roads of rural India, or the sterile suburban landscape of the United States, the setting serves as a powerful backdrop for the characters’ struggles to navigate the cultural and personal divides that separate them. Through these descriptions, Lahiri highlights the complex ways in which place shapes our sense of identity and belonging, as well as the challenges and opportunities presented by cross-cultural encounters.

• How does “Interpreter of Maladies” critique the ways in which cultural differences can be weaponized to reinforce power imbalances and stereotypes?

Throughout the story, Lahiri presents a nuanced critique of the ways in which cultural differences can be used to reinforce power imbalances and stereotypes, particularly with regard to the relationship between India and the West. Whether it is through the American tourists’ exoticizing of India or Mr. Kapasi’s own internalized sense of inferiority as an Indian in relation to the West, Lahiri highlights the ways in which cultural difference can be a source of misunderstanding and division, even as it also offers opportunities for connection and understanding.

• How does “Interpreter of Maladies” explore the complex dynamics of emotional connection and disconnection between individuals, particularly within the context of cross-cultural encounters?

At its core, “Interpreter of Maladies” is a story about the complexities of human connection and intimacy, particularly within the context of cross-cultural encounters. Throughout the story, Lahiri presents a nuanced exploration of the ways in which cultural differences, personal histories, and individual experiences can complicate our ability to connect with others and understand their emotions. Through the characters of Mr. Kapasi and Mrs. Das, in particular, Lahiri highlights the challenges of navigating emotional intimacy and connection in the face of cultural and personal barriers, underscoring the ways in which cross-cultural encounters can both bridge and exacerbate the gaps between us.

Literary Works Similar to “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

These titles share thematic and stylistic similarities with “Interpreter of Maladies,” making them appealing to readers drawn to Lahiri’s work:

• The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri (Novel): Explores the intricate challenges faced by first-generation Indian-Americans striving to reconcile cultural heritage with new identities and a sense of belonging.
• The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy (Novel): Roy’s poetic prose and unflinching portrayal of a family in India resonate with Lahiri’s nuanced exploration of relationships. Themes of societal constraints, trauma, and forbidden passions interweave.
• The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri (Novel): Themes of sacrifice, familial bonds, and the enduring impact of cultural displacement align with “Interpreter of Maladies.” Lahiri’s signature focus on the internal lives of her characters remains a touchstone.
• A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini (Novel): This work, set in Afghanistan, offers a different cultural lens but echoes Lahiri’s examination of women navigating oppressive systems and the complexities of familial relationships in the face of hardship.
• Interpreter of Maladies by Yiyun Li (Short Story Collection): Li’s focus on the Chinese immigrant experience shares thematic concerns with Lahiri regarding displacement, alienation, and the search for identity within new cultural landscapes.

Similarities and Points of Interest:

• Diasporic Narratives: These works often center on characters negotiating multiple cultural identities, examining the complexities of the immigrant experience and feelings of displacement.
• Complex Relationships: The stories delve into family dynamics, the weight of secrets, and the sacrifices individuals make within their most intimate bonds.
• Evocative and Nuanced: These authors share a talent for character development, creating multi-dimensional figures who grapple with universal human struggles while navigating the specifics of their cultural experiences.
• Stylistic Resonance: Many of these works employ introspective prose, rich with sensory detail, to create immersive literary experiences.

Suggested Readings: “Interpreter of Maladies” by Jhumpa Lahiri

Scholarly monographs.

• Batra, Jagdish. Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake: A Critical Study. New Delhi: Prestige Books, 2010. (Offers insightful thematic analysis that extends across Lahiri’s works).
• Nigmananda, Das. Jhumpa Lahiri . Penecraft International, 2008. (Provides a comprehensive overview and critique of Lahiri’s literary contributions, including “Interpreter of Maladies”).
• Parmar, Virender. Home Elsewhere: A Study of Short Fiction of Jhumpa Lahiri and Bharati Mukherjee. Jalandhar: ABS Publications, 2006. (Engages in a comparative analysis with another prominent Indian diaspora writer, offering a wider lens on literary themes).

Peer-Reviewed Articles

• Chatterjee, Nilanjana. “Interpreter of Maladies.” In Reading Jhumpa Lahiri , 29–56. London: Routledge, 2022. http://dx.doi.org/10.4324/9781003216780-2 . (Provides a dedicated chapter-length analysis of the short story collection, offering in-depth literary critique).
• Eckman, Barbara. “Sonny’s Blues: James Baldwin’s Image of Black Community.” Negro American Literature Forum, vol. 4, no. 2, 1970, pp. 56–60. JSTOR, [invalid URL removed]. (Though focused on a different text, offers relevant critical perspectives on themes of community, displacement, and isolation that resonate with Lahiri’s story).

Online Resources for Further Context

• “Interpreter of Maladies | work by Lahiri.” Encyclopedia Britannica . https://www.britannica.com/topic/Interpreter-of-Maladies . (Offers a concise overview and summary of the work, ideal for quick reference).
• “Jhumpa Lahiri.” Poetry Foundation . https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/jhumpa-lahiri . (Biographical information and supplementary resources related to Lahiri’s overall writing, providing broader authorial context).
• “Jhumpa Lahiri: A Bibliography.” Grafiati . https://www.grafiati.com/en/literature-selections/jhumpa-lahiri/ . (An extensive list of works exploring Lahiri’s writing, including critical essays and reviews).

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Can You Lose Your Native Tongue?

After moving abroad, I found my English slowly eroding. It turns out our first languages aren’t as embedded as we think.

Credit... Artwork by PABLO DELCÁN

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By Madeleine Schwartz

Madeleine Schwartz is a writer and editor who grew up speaking English and French. She has been living in Paris since 2020.

• May 14, 2024

It happened the first time over dinner. I was saying something to my husband, who grew up in Paris where we live, and suddenly couldn’t get the word out. The culprit was the “r.” For the previous few months, I had been trying to perfect the French “r.” My failure to do so was the last marker of my Americanness, and I could only do it if I concentrated, moving the sound backward in my mouth and exhaling at the same time. Now I was saying something in English — “reheat” or “rehash” — and the “r” was refusing to come forward. The word felt like a piece of dough stuck in my throat.

Listen to this article, read by Soneela Nankani

Other changes began to push into my speech. I realized that when my husband spoke to me in English, I would answer him in French. My mother called, and I heard myself speaking with a French accent. Drafts of my articles were returned with an unusual number of comments from editors. Then I told a friend about a spill at the grocery store, which — the words “conveyor belt” vanishing midsentence — took place on a “supermarket treadmill.” Even back home in New York, I found my mouth puckered into the fish lips that allow for the particularly French sounds of “u,” rather than broadened into the long “ay” sounds that punctuate English.

My mother is American, and my father is French; they split up when I was about 3 months old. I grew up speaking one language exclusively with one half of my family in New York and the other language with the other in France. It’s a standard of academic literature on bilingual people that different languages bring out different aspects of the self. But these were not two different personalities but two separate lives. In one version, I was living with my mom on the Upper West Side and walking up Columbus Avenue to get to school. In the other, I was foraging for mushrooms in Alsatian forests or writing plays with my cousins and later three half-siblings, who at the time didn’t understand a word of English. The experience of either language was entirely distinct, as if I had been given two scripts with mirroring supportive casts. In each a parent, grandparents, aunts and uncles; in each, a language, a home, a Madeleine.

I moved to Paris in October 2020, on the heels of my 30th birthday. This was both a rational decision and something of a Covid-spurred dare. I had been working as a journalist and editor for several years, specializing in European politics, and had reported across Germany and Spain in those languages. I had never professionally used French, in which I was technically fluent. It seemed like a good idea to try.

When I arrived in France, however, I realized my fluency had its limitations: I hadn’t spoken French with adults who didn’t share my DNA. The cultural historian Thomas Laqueur, who grew up speaking German at home in West Virginia, had a similar experience, as the linguist Julie Sedivy notes in “Memory Speaks,” her book about language loss and relearning her childhood Czech. Sedivy cites an essay of Laqueur’s in which he describes the first time he learned that German was not, in fact, a secret family language. He and his brother had been arguing over a Popsicle in front of the grocery store near his house:

A lady came up to us and said, in German, that she would give us a nickel so that we could each have a treat of our own. I don’t remember buying a second Popsicle, but I do remember being very excited at finding someone else of our linguistic species. I rushed home with the big news.

My own introduction to speaking French as an adult was less joyous. After reaching out to sources for a different article for this magazine with little success, I showed the unanswered emails to a friend. She gently informed me that I had been yelling at everyone I hoped to interview.

Compared with English, French is slower, more formal, less direct. The language requires a kind of politeness that, translated literally, sounds subservient, even passive-aggressive. I started collecting the stock phrases that I needed to indicate polite interaction. “I would entreat you, dear Madam ...” “Please accept, dear sir, the assurances of my highest esteem.” It had always seemed that French made my face more drawn and serious, as if all my energy were concentrated into the precision of certain vowels. English forced my lips to widen into a smile.

But going back to English wasn’t so easy, either. I worried about the French I learned somehow infecting my English. I edit a magazine, The Dial, which I founded in part to bring more local journalists and writers to an English-speaking audience. But as I worked on texts by Ukrainians or Argentines or Turks, smoothing over syntax and unusual idioms into more fluid English prose, I began to doubt that I even knew what the right English was.

Back in New York on a trip, I thanked the cashier at Duane Reade by calling him “dear sir.” My thoughts themselves seemed twisted in a series of interlocking clauses, as though I was afraid that being direct might make me seem rude. It wasn’t just that my French was getting better: My English was getting worse.

For a long time, a central question in linguistics was how people learn language. But in the past few decades, a new field of study called “language attrition” has emerged. It concerns not learning but forgetting: What causes language to be lost?

People who move to new countries often find themselves forgetting words in their first language, using odd turns of phrase or speaking with a newly foreign accent. This impermanence has led linguists to reconsider much of what was once assumed about language learning. Rather than seeing the process of becoming multilingual as cumulative, with each language complementing the next, some linguists see languages as siblings vying for attention. Add a new one to the mix, and competition emerges. “There is no age at which a language, even a native tongue, is so firmly cemented into the brain that it can’t be dislodged or altered by a new one,” Sedivy writes. “Like a household that welcomes a new child, a single mind can’t admit a new language without some impact on other languages already residing there.”

As my time in France hit the year mark and then the two-year mark, I began to worry about how much French was changing my English — that I might even be losing some basic ability to use the language I considered closest to my core. It wasn’t an idle concern. A few years earlier, when living in Berlin, I found the English of decades-long expats mannered and strange; they spoke more slowly and peppered in bits of German that sounded forced and odd. As an editor, I could see it in translators too: The more time people spent in their new language, the more their English prose took on a kind of Germanic overtone. Would the same thing happen to me?

Even languages that seem firmly rooted in the mind can be subject to attrition. “When you have two languages that live in your brain,” says Monika S. Schmid, a leader in the field of language attrition at the University of York, “every time you say something, every time you take a word, every time you put together a sentence, you have to make a choice. Sometimes one language wins out. And sometimes the other wins.” People who are bilingual, she says, “tend to get very, very good at managing these kinds of things and using the language that they want and not having too much interference between the two.” But even so, there’s often a toll: the accent, the grammar or a word that doesn’t sound quite right.

What determines whether a language sticks or not? Age, Schmid says, is an important factor. “If you look at a child that is 8, 9 or 10 years old, and see what that child could do with the language and how much they know — they’re basically fully fledged native speakers.” But just as they are good language learners, children are good language forgetters. Linguists generally agree that a language acquired in early childhood tends to have greater emotional resonance for its speaker. But a child who stops speaking a language before age 12 can completely lose it. For those who stop speaking a language in childhood, that language can erode — so much so that when they try to relearn it, they seem to have few, if any, advantages, Schmid says, compared with people learning that language from scratch. Even a language with very primal, deep connections can fade into the recesses of memory.

In her book, Sedivy cites a study conducted in France that tested a group of adults who were adopted from Korea between the ages of 3 and 8 . Taken into French homes, they quickly learned French and forgot their first language. The researchers compared these adults with a group of monolingual French speakers. The participants born in Korea could not identify Korean sentences significantly better than the French control group. Intimate moments of childhood can be lost, along with the language in which they took place.

Researchers have stressed that a first language used through later years can be remarkably resilient and often comes back when speakers return home. But even adults who move to a new country can find themselves losing fluency in their first language. Merel Keijzer, a linguist at the University of Groningen who studies bilingualism, surveyed a group of Dutch speakers who emigrated as adults to Australia. A classic theory of linguistic development, she told me, argues that new language skills are superimposed on older ones like layers of an onion. She thus expected that she would find a simple language reversion: The layers that were acquired later would be most likely to go first.

The reality was more complicated. In a paper Keijzer wrote with Schmid, she found that the Dutch speakers in Australia did not regress in the way that she predicted. “You saw more Dutch coming into their English, but you also saw more English coming into their Dutch,” she says. The pattern wasn’t simple reversion so much as commingling. They “tended to just be less able to separate their languages.” As they aged, the immigrants didn’t go back to their original language; they just had difficulty keeping the two vocabularies apart.

In “Alfabet/Alphabet: A Memoir of a First Language,” the poet Sadiqa de Meijer, who was born in Amsterdam, discusses her own experiences speaking Dutch in Canada. She worries that her language has become “amusingly formal” now that she doesn’t speak it regularly. A friend tells her that she now sounds “like a book.” Unless she is in the Netherlands, she writes: “Dutch is primarily a reading language to me now. The skill of casual exchanges is in gradual atrophy.” Her young daughter does not want to speak Dutch. “Stop Dutching me!” she says. For De Meijer, “people who speak a language they learned after early childhood live in chronic abstraction.”

This state of abstraction was one that I feared. On some level, the worry felt trivial: In a world where languages are constantly being lost to English, who would complain about a lack of contact with the language responsible for devouring so many others? The Europeans that I interviewed for work deplored the imperial nature of English; the only way to have their ideas heard was to express them in a language imposed by globalization. But what I missed was not the universal English of academics nor the language of peppy LinkedIn posts but the particular sounds that I grew up with: the near-rudeness of the English spoken in New York and its rushed cadence, the way that the bottoms of words sometimes were swallowed and cut off, as if everyone already knew what was being suggested and didn’t need to actually finish the thought. I missed the variegated vocabulary of New York, where English felt like an international, rather than a globalized language, enriched with the particular words of decades of immigrants. I began to listen to “The Brian Lehrer Show” on WNYC, a public-radio station in New York, with strange fervor, finding myself excited whenever someone called in from Staten Island.

The idea that my facility with English might be weakening brought up complicated feelings, some more flattering than others. When a journalism student wrote to ask if I would be a subject in his dissertation about “the experiences of nonnative English-speaking journalists” in media, I took the email as a personal slight. Were others noticing how much I struggled to find the right word?

A change in language use, whether deliberate or unconscious, often affects our sense of self. Language is inextricably tied up with our emotions; it’s how we express ourselves — our pain, our love, our fear. And that means, as Schmid, the language-attrition expert at the University of York, has pointed out, that the loss of a language can be tied up with emotion too. In her dissertation, Schmid looked at German-speaking Jews who emigrated to England and the United States shortly before World War II and their relationship with their first language. She sent questionnaires asking them how difficult it was for them to speak German now and how they used the language — “in writing in a diary, for example, or while dreaming.”

One woman wrote: “I was physically unable to speak German. ... When I visited Germany for 3 or 4 days in 1949 — I found myself unable to utter one word of German although the frontier guard was a dear old man. I had to speak French in order to answer his questions.”

Her husband concurred: “My wife in her reply to you will have told you that she could and did not want to speak German because they killed her parents. So we never spoke German to each other, not even intimately.”

Another wrote: “I feel that my family did a lot for Germany and for Düsseldorf, and therefore I feel that Germany betrayed me. America is my country, and English is my language.”

Schmid divided the émigrés into three groups, tying each of them to a point in Germany’s history. The first group left before September 1935, that is, before the Nuremberg race laws. The second group left between the enactment of those laws and Kristallnacht, in November 1938. The last group comprised those who left between Kristallnacht and August 1939, just before Germany invaded Poland.

What Schmid found was that of all the possible factors that might affect language attrition, the one that had a clear impact was how much of the Nazi regime they experienced. Emigration date, she wrote, outweighed every other factor; those who left last were the ones who were the least likely to be perceived as “native” speakers by other Germans, and they often had a weaker relationship to that language:

It appears that what is at the heart of language attrition is not so much the opportunity to use the language, nor the age at the time of emigration. What matters is the speaker’s identity and self-perception. ... Someone who wants to belong to a speech community and wants to be recognized as a member is capable of behaving accordingly over an extremely long stretch of time. On the other hand, someone who rejects that language community — or has been rejected and persecuted by it — may adapt his or her linguistic behavior so as not to appear to be a member any longer.

In other words, the closeness we have with a language is not just a product of our ability to use it but of other emotional valences as well. If language is a form of identity, it is one that may be changed by circumstance or even by force of will.

Stories of language loss often mask other, larger losses. Lily Wong Fillmore, a linguist who formerly taught at the University of California, Berkeley, once wrote about a family who emigrated to California several years after leaving China’s Canton province in 1989. One child, Kai-fong, was 5 when he arrived in the United States. At this point in his life, he could speak and understand only Cantonese. While his younger sister learned English almost immediately and made friends easily, Kai-fong, who was shy, did not have the same experience in school. His classmates called him “Chi, chi, chia pet” because his hair stuck out. Boys mocked the polyester pants his grandmother sewed for him. Pretty soon, he and his classmates were throwing rocks at one another.

Once Kai-fong started learning English, he stopped speaking Cantonese, even to members of his own family. As Wong Fillmore writes: “When Grandmother spoke to him, he either ignored her or would mutter a response in English that she did not understand. ... The more the adults scolded, the more sullen and angry Kai-fong became.” By 10, he was known as Ken and no longer understood Cantonese well. The family began to split along linguistic lines. Two children born in the United States never learned Cantonese at all. It is a story, Wong Fillmore writes, “that many immigrant families have experienced firsthand.”

The recognition in linguistics of the ease with which mastery of a language can erode comes as certain fundamentals of the field are being re-examined — in particular, the idea that a single, so-called native language shapes your innermost self. That notion is inextricable from 19th-century nationalism, as Jean-Marc Dewaele, a professor at the University of London, has argued. In a paper written with the linguists Thomas H. Bak and Lourdes Ortega, Dewaele notes that many cultures link the first words you speak to motherhood: In French, your native language is a langue maternelle, in Spanish, lengua materna, in German, Muttersprache. Turkish, which calls your first language ana dili, follows the same practice, as do most of the languages of India. Polish is unusual in linking language to a paternal line. The term for native language is język ojczysty, which is related to ojciec, the Polish word for father.

Regarding a first language as having special value is itself the product of a worldview that places national belonging at the heart of individual life. The phrase “native speaker” was first used by the politician and philologist George Perkins Marsh, who spoke of the importance of “home-born English.” It came with more than a light prejudicial overtone. Among Marsh’s recommendations was the need for “special precautions” to protect English from “becoming debased and vulgarized ... by association with depraved beings and unworthy themes.”

The idea of a single, native language took hold in linguistics in the mid-20th century, a uniquely monolingual time in human history. American culture, with its emphasis on assimilation, was especially hostile to the notion that a single person might inhabit multiple languages. Parents were discouraged from teaching their children languages other than English, even if they expressed themselves best in that other language. The simultaneous acquisition of multiple tongues was thought to cause delays in language development and learning. As Aneta Pavlenko, a linguist at Drexel University and the University of York, has noted, families who spoke more than one language were looked down on by politicians and ignored by linguists through the 1970s. “Early bilinguals,” those who learned two languages in childhood, “were excluded from research as ‘unusual’ or ‘messy’ subjects,” she writes. By contrast, late bilinguals, those who learned a second language in school or adulthood, were treated as “representative speakers of their first language.” The fact that they spoke a second language was disregarded. This focus on the importance of a single language may have obscured the historical record, giving the impression that humans are more monolingual and more rigid in their speech than they are.

Pavlenko has sought to show that far from being the historical standard, speaking just one language may be the exception. Her most recent book, a collection of essays by different scholars, takes on the historical “amnesia” that researchers have about the prevalence of multilingualism across the globe. The book looks at examples where multiple languages were the norm: medieval Sicily, where the administrative state processed paperwork in Latin, Greek and Arabic, or the early Pennsylvania court system, where in the 18th and 19th centuries, it was not unusual to hold hearings in German. Even today, Pavlenko sees a split: American academics working in English, often their only language, regard it as the standard for research. Europeans, obliged to work in English as a second language, are more likely to consider that fluency in only one language may be far rarer than conflict among multiple tongues.

According to Dewaele and his colleagues, “the notion of a single native language, determined entirely by the earliest experiences, is also not supported by neurology and neuroscience.” While there are many stories about patients who find themselves speaking their first language after a stroke or dementia, it’s also common for the recovered patients to use the language they spoke right before the accident occurred.

All of this has led some linguists to push against the idea of the “native” speaker, which, as Dewaele says, “has a dark side.” It can be restrictive, stigmatizing accents seen as impure, or making people feel unwelcome in a new home. Speakers who have studied a language, Dewaele says, often know its grammar better than those who picked it up with their family. He himself prefers the term “first-language user” — a slightly clunky solution that definitively decouples the language you speak from the person you are.

Around the time I realized that I had most likely become the No. 1 WNYC listener outside the tristate area, I started to seek out writers who purposefully looked away from their “native” language. Despite the once commonly held belief that a writer could produce original works only in a “mother tongue,” wonderful books have been written in acquired, rather than maternal, languages. Vladimir Nabokov began to write in English shortly before he moved to the United States. French was a vehicle for Samuel Beckett to push his most innovative ideas. “It’s only in Italian that I feel I’m at the center of myself,” Jhumpa Lahiri, who started writing in Italian in her 40s, said in a recent Paris Review interview. “It’s only when I’m writing in Italian that I manage to turn off all those other, judgmental voices, except perhaps my own.”

Could I begin to think about different languages not as two personas I had to choose between but as different moods that might shift depending on circumstance? Aspects of French that I used to find cold began to reveal advantages. The stiff way of addressing strangers offered its own benefits, new ways in which I could conserve personal privacy in a world that constantly demanded oversharing. My conversations in French changed, too: I was finally talking to others not as a child but as an adult.

The author Yoko Tawada, who moved to Germany from Japan in her early 20s, works on books in both Japanese and German; she writes fluidly in both languages. Tawada’s most recent novel to be translated into English, “Scattered All Over the Earth,” explores a future in which Japan is sunken underwater, lost to climate change. A Japanese speaker, possibly the last on earth, looks for a man who she hopes shares her language, only to find that he has been pretending to be Japanese while working at a sushi restaurant.

Using new languages, or even staying within the state of multilingualism, can provide distinct creative advantages. Tawada plays with homonyms and the awkwardness that comes from literal translation. What emerges in her work is not a single language but a betweenness, a tool for the author to invent as she is using it, the scholar Yasemin Yildiz has noted. Yildiz quotes an essay by Tawada called “From the Mother Language to the Language Mother,” in which a narrator describes the ways that learning German taught her to see language differently: Writing in the second language was not a constraint, but a new form of invention. Tawada calls her typewriter a Sprachmutter, or “language mother” — an inversion of the German word for mother tongue. In a first language, we can rarely experience “playful joy,” she writes. “Thoughts cling so closely to words that neither the former nor the latter can fly freely.” But a new language is like a staple remover, which gets rid of everything that sticks and clings.

If the scholarly linguistic consensus once pushed people toward monolingualism, current research suggesting that language acquisition may shift with our circumstances may allow speakers of multiple languages to reclaim self-understanding. In Mirene Arsanios’s chapbook “Notes on Mother Tongues: Colonialism, Class and Giving What You Don’t Have,” Arsanios describes being unsure which language to speak with her son. Her mother, from Venezuela, spoke Spanish, her father, from Lebanon, spoke French; neither feels appropriate to pass on. “Like other languages originating in histories of colonization, my language always had a language problem, something akin to the evacuation of a ‘first’ or ‘native’ tongue — a syntax endemic to the brain and to the heart.”

Is the answer a multitude of languages or a renunciation of one? “Having many languages is my language’s dominant language,” she writes. She must become comfortable with the idea that what she is transmitting to her son is not a single language but questions and identities that are never quite resolved. At the end of the text, she describes speaking with her son “in a tongue reciprocal, abundant and motherless.”

The scholars I talked to stressed that each bilingual speaker is unique: Behind the general categories is a human life, with all its complications. Language acquisition and use may be messier than was envisioned by rigid distinctions of native and nonnative and, at the same time, more individual.

My own grandmother, my mother’s mother, grew up speaking German in Vienna in what was itself a multilingual household. Her mother was Austrian and her father, born in what is now Serbia, spoke German with a thick Hungarian accent. She and her family moved throughout Europe during World War II; to Budapest, Trieste, Lille and eventually escaped through Portugal on a boat carrying cork to New York.

When they arrived in the United States, her mother did not want her to speak German in public. “She felt the animosity to it,” my grandmother recently told me. But my grandmother still wished to. German was also the language of Schiller, she would say. She didn’t go out of her way to speak German, but she didn’t forget it either. She loved German poetry, much of which she still recites, often unprompted, at 95.

When I mentioned Schmid’s research to her, she was slightly dismissive of the idea that her own language use might be shaped by trauma. She said that she found the notion of not speaking German after World War II somewhat absurd, mostly because, to her ear, Hitler spoke very bad German. She berated me instead for not asking about her emotional relationship to French, which she spoke as a schoolgirl in Lille, or Italian, which she spoke in Trieste. Each was the source of memories that might wax and wane as she recalled the foreign words.

Recently, she reconnected with an old classmate from her childhood in Vienna, who also fled Europe during the war, after she recognized her friend’s picture in The New York Post. They speak together in English. Her friend Ruth, she notes, speaks English with a German accent, but does not speak German anymore.

Madeleine Schwartz lives in Paris, where she is founder and editor in chief of The Dial, a magazine of international reporting and writing. She was a finalist for the Orwell Prize for Journalism in 2023 and teaches journalism at Sciences Po Paris.

Read by Soneela Nankani

Narration produced by Tanya Pérez

Engineered by Brian St. Pierre

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