David Laskin reviews one of Naipaul‘s books.

Naipaul calls the book “an essay in five parts,” as if to impose some sort of unity or occasion on what is essentially a collection of musings on random irritants. The early success of his fellow countryman Derek Walcott, Flaubert’s exotic prose opera “Salammbô,” Gandhi’s mysterious hold over the soul of India — these are among subjects Naipaul swirls in his imagination like an after-dinner brandy. But in the end, the laureate leaves us more muddled than intoxicated.