Men Like Ours
A Novel
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Men Like Ours
ナレーター：
Francine Pinheiro
￥2,630 で購入
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ナレーター：
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Francine Pinheiro
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著者：
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Bindu Bansinath
“Bindu Bansinath’s Men Like Ours shows that the Immigrant Novel is not dead yet. Absolutely hilarious, mesmerizing, and disturbing.” --Gary Shteyngart, The Guardian
"A genuine and offbeat talent . . . like the writers Ottessa Moshfegh and Tony Tulathimutte, [Bansinath] is dialed in to the aesthetics of disgust." --Dwight Garner, The New York Times
From a brilliant new voice in fiction, a darkly comic and moving story about death, life, and community in a South Asian suburban enclave of New Jersey.
When Matthew Pillai is found dead, slumped over the wheel of his BMW, the women of Willow Road are roped into the investigation of their friend’s death.
At the center of the case are the Sharmas--Anita, a widow whose late husband introduced Matthew to the neighborhood, and her boundary-pushing daughter, Leila, who called him Uncle. To Anita, who has been in freefall since her arrival in the United States as a young woman, Matthew’s presence offered hope, including a promise of betterment for Leila. The truth, however, is far stranger.
In this darkly funny debut, the women of Willow Road find that despite their internecine quarrels, casual backstabbing, and generational feuds, in the end, there is no one to turn to but each other.©2026 Bindu Bansinath (P)2026 Bloomsbury Publishing PLC
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批評家のレビュー
Bindu Bansinath’s Men Like Ours shows that the Immigrant Novel is not dead yet. Absolutely hilarious, mesmerizing, and disturbing. (The Guardian)
Bold and darkly comic . . . the novel . . . announces Bansinath . . . as a genuine and offbeat talent . . .she’s a great noticer, even if the thing noticed is merely the glory of, let’s say, a turkey hoagie from Wawa. But she’s especially attuned to disorder and rot and chaos. Like the writers Ottessa Moshfegh and Tony Tulathimutte, she is dialed in to the aesthetics of disgust. (Dwight Garner)
Propulsive and assured . . . Men Like Ours is a delight to read . . . I've seen the novel get some Ottessa Moshfegh comparisons, but for all its darkness Bindu's love for her characters shines through. There is an undeniable warmth here, and the book is better for it.
Bansinath is a senior writer for The Cut, where she writes about peptides and immigration with equal poise and sincerity. It is no wonder that her voice in the book is visceral, brutal and darkly funny . . . Men Like Ours is an undeniable story about female solidarity and transnational community . . . In the end, Men Like Ours is one of my favorite books of 2026 so far. Bansinath writes equal parts humor, tragedy, and thriller, with a cast of unforgettable characters, whom I will miss.
Bansinath is an impressive storyteller . . . Readers will be engrossed by this clear-eyed and explosive tale.
This darkly funny satire threaded with a subtle murder mystery is thoughtful and unflinching . . . Bansinath's frank and sardonic insights into immigrant experiences within the walls of an insular community are complexly entertaining.
Men Like Ours is a wonderful debut, a witty narrative following an amateur murder investigation in a South Asian enclave in New Jersey. On Willow Road, a group of women band together to solve the murder of a friend, and wade into a world of generational feuds, friendly backstabbings, and, possibly, an even deeper sense of community. Possibly.
Unique and sharply funny, a warmhearted portrait of a community.
[The] prologue is a master class in stage-setting . . . It is visceral, cutting, and as sharply observed as anything by Jane Austen (if Austen had chosen to concern herself with oral sex) . . . Despite the humor, the novel is imbued with a sense of dread, an oily slickness. We see the missed communications, the bitterness, the assumptions, and the loneliness that allow predators and abusers to operate and the concerns of women to be dismissed . . . all along, the women do far more than merely bear witness to history. They speak it into being, preserving their culture and protecting its future in the process.
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