The sad truth is that ever since Naipaul was born, as he would put it, among the wretched of the earth, he has struggled obsessively to escape his skin. He fills great books with reams of self-loathing. His interviewers never fail to notice this little man of colour in the English countryside dressed in a Tweed jacket. Almost every interview of him mentions with breathless wonder that this man from India via Trinidad is dressed - in a Tweed jacket. It is the ultimate rejection of his claim to another civilisation, and humanity. Just like us. Naipaul is us.
- Ikhide
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