I don't like Jhumpa Lahiri. Actually, it's her writing I don't like. Everything else is (probably!) fine.

Now that I've gotten that monkey off my back.

I've read every one of her books. I've given nearly $100 to her publishers' children's college funds.

But that charity appeal no longer moves me, because the truth is I don't think she's very good. If the New York Times, The New Yorker, and the Pulitzer Committee don't know good writing, what the hell do I know?

Good question. Here's what I do know: reading Interpreter of Maladies reminded me of seeing the "Mona Lisa." I nearly broke my neck staring up at the Sistine ceiling of Renaissance fame, and at no point was I disappointed. But some things are almost too famous for their own good. If I'd come to Interpreter tabula rasa, I might have felt I'd found a diamond in the rough. As it was, I felt I'd unearthed copper ore - during the Gold Rush.

The Namesake, plot of which boasted more whimsical turns than a country lane, ran long, but at least the destination was interesting.

But in her new collection, four "No Longer a Short Story, not Quite a Novel" types, what was once fresh has started to go stale. Her characters, much like married couples who have been friends for years, have started to resemble each other more than is entirely permissible.

Lahiri describes the same family over and over in (too) spacious prose. They're all Bengali, the mothers wear saris, the fathers seem a bit befuddled, the children speak English and marry WASP's, despite their parents' chagrin.

This may seem like a lot. But it actually gets quite predictable. I'm not saying Lahiri must speak for an entire diaspora, but she could do a better job capturing diversity even within the slice of Indian-Americana that she's cut for herself. And because the characters are flat, the stories themselves don't have much lift or heart.

With some writers, the whole story is much more than the sum of its words. Whereas with Lahiri's writing, the whole has somehow become less.