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automata, book review, Candide, colonialism, eighteenth century, European expatriates, gadgetry, historical background, historical fiction, India, literary fiction, monolithic characterization, Mysore, picaresque, racism, subtlety, Tania James, wood carving
Review: Loot, by Tania James
Knopf, 2023. 289 pp. $28
Please note: after today, Novelhistorian will be taking a vacation, to resume posts on January 8.
In the late eighteenth century, Mahmud Abbas lives in Srirangapatna, Mysore, and follows his father’s profession of wood carver. The boy has remarkable skill and dedication to his craft, evincing more talent than his brothers. Yet he irritates his family by devoting his time to toy making, even when buyers from the sultan’s palace express interest in them. It’s not proper for a carver to devote himself to petty amusements.
However, Tipu Sultan, the ruler of Mysore, commands Abbas to serve the palace as apprentice to the master French clockmaker Lucien Du Leze. And though that seems the height of fortune, times are uneasy:
Tipu’s kingdom hardly survived the most recent war with the English, and talk of still another is always on the horizon. The people never know who is coming from where to take what from whom. All they can do is submit to power each time it changes hands, each time the powerful decide to redecorate. This one wants a new calendar. That one wants his face struck on a coin. With every alteration, large and small, the ground unfirms itself beneath their feet, making it nearly impossible for anyone to leave a lasting mark.
Nevertheless, Du Leze teaches Abbas about mechanics and instructs him in French. Along the way, the boy meets Jehanne, the young daughter of another French expatriate, for whom he fashions a top—just knocks it off in a few minutes. The reader senses a lasting connection.
When Abbas is seventeen, the sultan decides that Du Leze and his apprentice will create an elaborate automaton depicting a tiger that growls and sinks its teeth into a British soldier. Against great odds, the two artisans construct the contraption, revealed at a celebration honoring the sultan’s sons’ return from British captivity. The automaton, a real historical artifact, makes an extraordinary impression, and the reputations of its creators seem secure. However, as we know, nothing is secure in Mysore.
![](https://novelhistorian.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/12/470px-tipus_tiger_front_view_2006ah4173.jpg?w=529)
The automaton, known as Tipu’s Tiger (courtesy Victoria & Albert Museum, London, via Wikimedia Commons; public domain)
Loot reminds me of Candide, in a way, as our hero endures misadventure after misadventure, more than a few of which strain credulity. But unlike Candide, Abbas is anything but a foolish optimist, or even any kind of optimist. Rather, his misfortunes and the race prejudice he meets on all sides prompt him to form a carapace against warmth, tenderness, or intimacy. As the narrative remarks in the latter stages, since his childhood, he’s learned “how much harder it is to cultivate ease in a world that is wary of you.”
Loot has much to offer the reader—a swiftly moving, twisting story, excellent prose, and a keen sense of historical background, whether in India, aboard ship, or elsewhere. (I dare not specify, for fear of giving too much away, and the wise reader will avoid the jacket flap, which tells almost the entire story.) The novel deals with colonial theft and murder, and the racism behind them, with admirable subtlety; I like how James resists the temptation to whack the reader over the head. I also like how the story handles the urge to collect pretty things—hence the title—again without soapboxing. Loot, in part, offers a commentary on popular taste.
As for characterization, James takes care with Jehanne, Du Leze, and the numerous folk who cross their and Abbas’s paths. Surprisingly, however, I have less of a grasp of our hero than I’d like. I understand the carapace he builds against his torments, and I also get his ambition to make his mark. But once he arrives in that position, he seems as wooden as the artistic medium in which he excels, with little or no hint of the desires he once had. As a consequence, I don’t believe a transformation he goes through and also lose patience with him, because he doesn’t bend, not even a little, not even to himself.
That strikes me as unlikely, and I wonder whether the author—perhaps on editorial advice—pushed her protagonist so far in one direction that any subsequent change would appear more striking. That’s a trend I’ve noticed in fiction, which I dislike. Not only are people never 100 percent anything, the resulting character arc begs belief, and the device feels too convenient by half.
You may read Loot and feel enthralled, carried along by the remarkable story. But if you’re like me, once you’ve closed the covers, you may wonder whether there’s something missing. I thought Loot worth my time, but I’m not sure the book earns the journey where it wants to go.
Disclaimer: I obtained my reading copy of this book from the public library.