**spoiler alert** In their later years, the siblings came to find that a house is only a home, in so far as you verse the trunks of wood & slabs of ma**spoiler alert** In their later years, the siblings came to find that a house is only a home, in so far as you verse the trunks of wood & slabs of marble with parts of yourself. Before this realization dawned on them, their life was mundane, almost vapid. With days spent seeking French literature in the heart of Argentina in 1939; knitting colourful & useful garments; & spending their mornings cleaning the abode, the tedium of the hours was not lost on them.
Readers are met with a very short story indeed. Clocking in at three (3) pages exactly, this story marks itself by the fallacy of logic; the characters are alone in the house because nothing else has been seen. Perhaps the mots of dust & debris count as entities that peruse the empty house though, I rather doubt that. The siblings roam free of others & in their freedom, they are weighed by the final lap of their genetic family tree made in the home. This last bit counts a great deal in the grand scheme of things though, readers might certainly blaze past this information, a decision I do not begrudge them.
It is tricky to read stories sparse in the traditional sense. Cortázar appears to have wanted to say something more to himself than to an unknown reader. This is not necessarily a bad thing, though, it makes the deciphering of such a story bromidic. What can this review possibly state in earnest truth that the author has not revealed himself?
What might I decipher from the numbing simple verse that is not already clear to all readers? I ponder these questions even now but, I put much weight into my ability to answer them after I finished reading this story. After all, the exercise of reviewing—posing a critique & philosophizing the nature of texts—is part of the reason I am here.
I do not think it is wrong to be in agreement with readers who took nothing from this story. The siblings wake up one day to sounds coming from the other side of the house. They lock all the doors & soon find that the mysterious intruders have colonized territory in the great mansion in mere hours. Who are these beings? Are they people or pests? The author does not reveal these details to the reader & therefore asks them to denote who they might fear the most; a roach or a human face.
The deluge of panic overtakes the siblings as they worryingly seek to evade the intruders. They leave parts of themselves behind in their raving escapes; from room to room their favourite items & prized possessions are abandoned with near disregard as they lunge for the doorways. The purpose of this story is to maul over the details. Why was the one sibling always seeking French literature? Why did he think books were more valuable than knitting? Is it accurate to believe that something you can revisit holds more value than a project finished & never ours to behold again? Why did the colour & texture of the wool not matter to the sibling who spent all her time using it? Was she right in investing all her time in twiddling her fingers as though the hands of the clock would reveal themselves to her more swiftly?
I am not a great fan of stories that are not meant for general consumption. I am left feeling rather sullen & sad that pieces of written words were shared with me almost to the demise of the story itself. I do not know that this is a story that will ever make much sense to any reader because there is no point in making a clear & secure conclusion; anything is possible with no muscle-hugging bone. There is no intimacy to this story though one reads an account of despair. Rather than find ways to link the reader to the experiences of the siblings, Cortázar seems to have simply wanted to write.
What haunts the house is the worry & responsibility to survive when one has nothing to live for. With complacent natures & cool demeanours, the siblings roam around a castle drenched in weeds. The perversity of isolation needles through the pages like bristles on a starving tongue. Readers are at liberty to decide whether or not the characters are deserving of their sympathies. Is the tenderness of kin—the pendulum of beats, rapt in ache—necessary for the settled breath of life; to be absorbed through the hours of an empty life, once moored with an enduring ambition?
If you would like to read this story, please visit this •LINK•....more
**spoiler alert** It is important to note that the majority of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, theref**spoiler alert** It is important to note that the majority of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, touches on these topics as well. Many people might find the subject matters of the book as well as those detailed in my review overwhelming. I would suggest you steer clear of both if this is the case. Please note that from this point forward I will be writing about matters which contain reflections on the death of an animal, chemically induced deformities, chemically induced illness, psychological distress, & others.
There are stories that require previous knowledge to be understood, this is one of them. I have not necessarily found myself displeased when I have come across books like this one, rather, I think it’s beneficial that, as readers, we encourage each other to delve deeper. When I first came across this book it was by chance. I enjoy Horror, this is no secret. Therefore, the concept of a feverish nightmare written in prose offered my mind the promise of delight. I wanted to know what would make a person’s dreams—the illusions often illogical & in-comprehensive—a good story.
I say this knowing full well that there are people in my life to whom I recount my marvellous adventures into the void; we laugh, we analyze, & then we remember that all of those things took place in my own mind at a time when my body was meant to be at rest; a time when I was unaware. The mind is a curious thing. When I remember my dreams, I have a decent idea of where certain parts were drawn from & why they came into play. Certainly, we cannot account for every particular aspect of an otherwise unruly adventure.
When the reader meets Amanda she is dying. As I said in the introduction, I believe that the reader should have prior knowledge of the tormentors & subject matter that the author is attempting to incorporate into this fictional account. Had I not known that the town in which Amanda & her daughter were vacationing was riddled with poison, I might not have appreciated everything else that took place. I would encourage readers to delve deeper into the fields that soak the soil with pollutants & the lives lost to secrets intentionally kept with the intent to harm.
What I found peculiar about this story is that I did not feel much of anything. As I have said, many times, the experience of fear is entirely subjective. I have read reviews wherein parents reflect on the dread they felt while Amanda described the physical distance between her & her daughter. I am not a parent, therefore this means very little to me, on a personal level. This sentiment of disconnect towards the narrative persisted for all factors. I did not understand how Amanda could be worried about Nina, her daughter, while simultaneously allowing her to roam poolside while she sat chatting in the driveway.
Because I am not a parent I could not really grasp what was at play for Amanda. What year did this story take place where she felt comfortable having her back turned while her young child played with her feet in the pool? I understand that part of the unease that is fostered throughout this story relies on the normalcy we each adopt in our everyday lives. When Carla recounts the events that led to her son’s poisoning, she explains that we tend to worry about what appears, to us, at the time, as being the larger issue. Whereas, in reality, bad things happen when our attention is diverted.
I interpreted this as being relevant for every reader. I understood that Carla probably felt an insane level of guilt for having turned her back on her child in her attempt to grab the horse that had escaped the property. I understand that, at that moment, her biggest worry was that the horse would run out of reach. Why would she worry about David being poisoned? Why would that even cross her mind? At this moment, the unthinkable took place.
How could Carla have predicted that her son would consume water that was poisonous? How could she have even begun to consider the fact that her home was on land that had been irreversibly ravaged? From there, we delve into facets of illusion that feel a bit tedious to read about. Because the truth of the matter is never outwardly revealed, the narrative spends a great deal of time focusing on what is missing; the important part. What is the important part?
Depending on the reader in question, the bodiless voice of David might be the real child who was given to the hospice care of local nurses until the illness inflicted on him by the poison killed his body. David could also have been one of the local nurses or he could have been an illusion; something that Amanda conjured in a last-ditch effort to have her life make sense. I do not think that any of these guesses are wrong, nor do I believe that they alter the essence of the story. David was never meant to be a stagnant being within the plot. He is at once the first victim & the invisible guardian of all those who came after him. Perhaps, we might read about his soul being split & think of it as a guardian setting themselves amongst men until we are no more.
Though David could be anyone we imagine him to be, his role was comforting because it was genuine. He offered very little to the reader & yet he guided the narrative forward at such a staggering rate, one did not have time to reflect on the quick transitions or the names of people they could no longer remember. David did not allow us any time to wallow; there is no more time. I attribute his presence in the story as the reason why I found there to be something to enjoy. That is not to say that I found this story to be a waste of time. I did not necessarily care or find myself emotionally invested enough to fear what was coming next.
My apathy throughout this narrative is not a reflection of my understanding of the situation at large. Rather, I found that the inevitability of following an unreliable narrator left me purposefully disconnected. For some readers, this is a positive thing. For myself, I wondered where I fit into the story; at which point was I meant to be grasping at straws hoping for what I knew would never come? Because I was settled on my role as a wallflower throughout this book, I did not find there to be much tension at all.
I don’t know that the book is asking readers to feel moved or to be wrought with emotions that they will carry with them for the rest of time. I suppose that the story allows readers to find parts of their quotidian; a child wandering in youthful ease; the tingling warm sun of summer; the end of a season looming in the periphery; the knowledge that something is perpetually out of reach. For that reason, the novel succeeded in its quest. I left the story feeling as though I had met Amanda in real life, I had gotten to know her through the tangled web of her memories. I felt her pain at knowing that she would never have a second chance at making a different decision; the story was set.
When all is said & done, I enjoyed this story as one enjoys something that they put down & appreciate in the time it takes them to set the object aside. I applaud the author for the approach they took & I would be keen to read their take on monstrous dream sequences again. Their ability to weave rapid-fire thoughts into words, without leaving room for a stutter in the flow, was truly masterful. Stories such as these remain important because they will be around when we no longer are. Their ghostly ambiguity will roam the fields where once there was life, in the hopes that the seedling will understand what is important in the soil in which it grows. ...more
Loading...
