**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most of the themes explored in this book deal with sensitive subject matters. My review, therefore, tou**spoiler alert** It is important to note that most 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 book's subject matters & 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, mutilation of an animal, mental illness, feelings of intense overwhelm, & others.
The narrator is allowed to guide the story at their whim. In some cases, the narrator is unreliable; a liar whose sole intention is to be heard. Other times, the speaker & weaver of tales swoops in from the shadows to tour the reader; a welcomed presence in the slew of the unknown. Within these contexts, the reader is able to gauge the flow of the story. When stories were the passing time of all hours of the day, the wealthy luxury of the long afternoon; the reader is inclined to wait, & wander the various city streets as the narrator speaks. The desire for a promised meaning, something mirroring the rationale of the modern reader might be all but abandoned. Is the story in our hands worth reading if it loses its way?
My introduction to the story at hand was unintentional. I have been known to swipe clean the bookshelves from their trite & overzealous covers; in something of a game of cat & mouse, I seek out the cover art that will riddle the membrane with unease. In just such a fashion, I came upon this story. I was promised nothing yet, I found myself pondering the morale of a story without cause. Perhaps, I should berate myself for falling prey to a story which follows a narrator that simply wanted to transcribe a moment in time. Perhaps, I should berate the author for including such mundane material in the midst of a malarkey of marvel.
The plot is practically nonexistent though, to say it was absent would be a lie. Its present singes on the cruelty of lost love. When Gonzalo meets Carla they have been fondling the confines of their youth, eager to shed the shells that bind them to capricious catechisms. Their relationship proves to be the story’s focal point; one it reminds the reader is the beauty of the story; love. As the narrative diverts its interest one develops a longing to return to the original focal point. One is suddenly cast into a journalistic endeavour without intrigue & scathes the cornerstone of an abandoned mining town in the hopes of encountering what was lost.
This is crass, I acknowledge that. I promenade the periphery of the circular nature of this story & find myself at odds with my own feelings. When first embarking on my reading experience I found that I have no reason not to embellish my love for the story. Who writes about young love in such a disconnected fashion? Is the narrator a member of the cast of characters or, simply, as I am, a proxy for the warm light of a story much enjoyed? I trusted that the book would lead me through the lives of characters I cared about.
It would be unjust to say that the book lied to me—it never explicitly told me what we would be reading about. I cannot help but feel disappointed. At once a casual tale of the bane of living existence, the first half of this book grew into a memorable account of two people & the lives they lived individually & then, together. I might not recommend this book to anyone. Certainly, the reader who enjoys the mundane tale of two young lovers broken up over their own paths, only to meet again, via a truly uneventful written approach, are few.
The charm of the first half of this novel is in its tragically dull & plain language. Gonzalo is a poor boy who wants to write beautiful things in a language he has yet to master. Carla longs for intimacy & categorically evades its grasp by remaining incapable of understanding it. Together, they move about the tedium of life in ways that evoke within the reader nostalgia. A tinge of longing for the youth that saw them hopeful that life, in all its cycles & intrinsic habits, might be described so enthusiastically.
I found a particular enjoyment & appreciation for the relationship that grew between Carla & Gonzalo in their adult years. Having lived so much of their own existence voyaging their own valleys, it felt like fate to see them reunited & under such strange circumstances. One is almost inclined to hope that their reunion was meant to be. The reader might forget that tragedy often accompanies the stories of fairy wishes & glass slippers; never far behind the prince charming is the whistling lagoon of bones & toil.
The writer was able to invite readers to regard the awkward transition of this relationship through rose-coloured glasses. In so doing, they might also observe their own daily habits as magical. Forward down the laneway of adulthood, the characters mix up their emotions, thinking of themselves as fate-bound soulmates, the kind which is often sung about, when in reality, neither was meant to last in the life of the other.
I was utterly entranced by this portion of the novel. An at once strange story to tell, I found that each of the passages held something of value. I do not know whether I learnt anything revolutionary or insightful but, I can say with confidence that I wish we had left off here. Though, I admit, that is rarely how stories go.
After their breakup, Vincente—the young boy breaching the adult age of society—meets a woman whose name I wish I could continue to forget. Pru is an American journalist who anticipates the charity of all those whom she meets. I am being cruel; she is simply a sad woman roaming the countryside of Chile after the breakup of a relationship that was rather more the enamoured tangle of limbs one feels in nighttime fantasy.
I am at a loss for a way in which I might translate my absolute dread, developed by reading the second half of this book. I marvelled at the page count seemingly diminishing as I rallied my forces to strike the pages over, all the while braced in a trance the likes of which there was no return. I make no apologies for this harsh sentiment—the second half of this book felt like an utter waste of time. Pru’s character was dull; she rummaged the same questions, self-loathing, & stuttered inability throughout each of her scenes.
Why was I to care that she interviewed poets? There is no comfort felt by the tie to the conclusion, at which point Vincente & Gonzalo sit in tandem & discuss aspects of their past. I am inclined to believe that the second half of the novel stalled because there was no charm; there existed a woman strange to the country who misunderstood her surroundings, wrote about it, then published her findings when she was good & ready. Her backstory proved to be dramatic in the operatic sense of daytime television. I couldn’t find it in myself to care.
There were multiple instances during the never-ending interviews wherein I flirted with the possibility of tossing the book over my balcony. I am glad that I sauntered until the end, not because any of what was said changed my mind or altered my feelings. Rather, I finished the book & that was all. Unfortunately, my lack of enjoyment outweighed the magical sentiments I encountered in the first half. I had tasted something unfortunate & sour; like coming to realize that the strawberry candy is actually frozen cough syrup rather than a smooth treat.
This might not be the case for every reader but, I have a particularly difficult time forgiving wasted time & mine felt stripped from me. With that being said, there are so many aspects of this story to enjoy. The narrator is the writer & the observer; the reader is whoever is present to meet the parcel of language meant to be transmitted. I appreciated this dissociation from the story. The narrator encourages the reader to feel included in something that is ongoing which results in the events taking place to be doused in an intimate cologne; one that lingers in the nasal cavity despite the cough syrup lozenge searing the mouth.
I remain unsure that I know who the ideal reader is. There is no doubt an audience of godly patience & infallible charity will welcome every aspect of this story as a tale worth being told. As for myself, I will retain the beginning as the moment that held promise & shall forget that the mountain slopped to the rocky hillside of banal verses & shallow rhymes, flowering the desolate cranium of the poet brave. ...more
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