RMST 495/520: Long Books

A little historical context of the story: Peru fell under the military dictatorship of Odría after the Coup of 1948, which will last until 1956. Under his regime, the APRA or Peruvian Aprista Party, a left-wing anti-imperialist party, was harshly persecuted. So was the Communist Part, which was of smaller influence and operated in secrecy.

The main character, Santiago, recalls his time in the Univerity of San Marcos, where he almost joins the Communist Party (he only took the role of “sympathizer”, which did not prevent him from being arrested in a movement — though I have yet to read about it in detail). His father is a government official under Odría’s regime. He has little hesitation over severing the ties with his conservative family, and often provokes his parents on political matters, though his father is proud of his academic achievements and still favors him out of the three siblings. The tension that gnaws on Santiago is his own lack of courage. Santiago is by no means a coward, but he just short of being able to claim what he really wants. He makes the safer choice. He never confesses his love for Aida. He was presented with the opportunity to join the Community Party, but he backed down at the last minute. He is ever so hesitant, ever doubting his choices. “Graduated as a lawyer, a married man, counselor to a union, a deputy, would you have been worse off or the same or happier? He thinks: oh, Zavalita!” (Zavalita is his pet name.) Now, a mediocre middle-class editorial writer spending his nights watching Mexican westerns with his wife in their little brick house, he cannot stop himself from imagining the life he could have had, the pure, idealist one. But he also knows deep down that he could never have the courage to choose that life.

One main theme of the novel is individual belonging in times of political unrest. Political “labels” are flying around in the wind, you just have to grab one and stick it on yourself, and you have an identity. Zavalita, in an attempt to break with his parents, grabbed one that says “Communist”, stuck it on, so he “didn’t feel alone […], but surrounded, accompanied, protected”. Now he no longer needs to worry about who he is. When a group of people like him come together, we observe a kind of group polarization — after a group discussion, their ideas become more radical than their initial ones. The portrayal of near-desperate identification with a group is not restricted to the Communists in the novel. In this week’s section, we also read of Bermudez, a previous tractor seller, invited by his old classmate to take the title of Head of Security for Odría. Initially, he was reluctant, saying it would interfere with his tractor business. In less than a year, he was purging Apristas, and was asking for “access to the whole political file at military security” classified as secret, to perform stricter background checks. Yet it is not out of political belief. Bemúdez says he is bored by politics. He was given his political label and stuck with his group, even showing stronger self-identification with it than people who joined before him. To Vargas Llosa, both sides of this political turmoil are made up of lost people looking for a sense of belonging. This is the answer I have so far to the opening question of this book: why is Peru fucked up?

I enjoy the polyphony of the novel, especially the astounding similarities between two opposing political groups. Does your novel portray any similarities between two opposing parties? What do you think of the portrayals?

I also enjoy the varying levels of depth in the polyphonic voices. Santiago’s is most introspective and critical of himself, while others are less so. Perhaps it has to do with the fact that Vargas Llosa’s personal experiences are most similar to Santiago. I tend to enjoy a writer’s self criticism because they are often harsher on themselves than we are.

Hello Everybody ,

I am starting to enjoy Don Quixote. He is ABSOLUTELY CRAZY , but maybe that happens to you when fiction takes over your life?
I want to talk about the huge contrast between Don quixote and Sancho Panza. The difference in personality is becoming more apparent and it is also comical. In one hand , the main protagonist values bravery , glory and noble quests. He is obsessed with the novels he read in the past , he even makes a reference of King Arthur which truly shows his passion for chivalric romances.
I like the scene when the merchants asked him for a picture of Dulcinea and he replies by saying that his words do not need proof or validation because the truth that he speaks is evident. He never complains about moving from one place to another ( unlike Sancho ) and he is rather brave as he wanted to fight the giants without hesitation or help ( or should i say , the windmills?). I find it interesting that he wanted to fight giants as they are usually portrayed as creatures that are morally wrong or kidnap people from the towns. After one of his victories , he commented that resting is not for him because knight errant are supposed to always keep moving.

So why did he pick Sancho as his bodyguard? He is the opposite of his persona. He is rather lazy , he is illiterate , and he is always hungry to the point that he is uncapable of helping Don quixote because he is looking for food from his rival. The scene that made me laugh was when he calls Don quixote ” The knight of the sorrowful countenance” ( el hombre de la triste figure).Our protagonist was thinking that he called him that due to some literary reference or because he needs a good nickname when someone writes about his legacy. The answer that Sancho gives him is that he basically called him that because he looks like S***.

One character is grounded in imagination , the other one is grounded in reality. They like each other and they continue in their adventures to the point that it seems like Sancho is believing him at times. Sancho hopes that he will get something valuable out of these adventures and he deeply cares about the safety of Quixote.
This combinations provides comedic relief but also the idea that life can be a mixture of madness AND reality that can cohabite together in order to lead us to more valuable lessons.

DISCUSSION QUESTION:

How can we apply this mixture of characters in our daily lives or social lives ? what can they teach us?

“The summer it rained every day, and although many said it was God’s wrath because the villagers had opened a casino next to the church, I knew that it was my fault, and mine alone, for I had learned to lie and my lips still retained the last words spoken by my mother on her deathbed: “I never loved the man I married but another, who, I was told, had been killed in the war; look for him and tell him that my last thoughts were for him, for he is your real father.” 

This quote is the first sentence of Carax’s book that Daniel had read.This part really captured my attention further and I found it really intriguing. It took the focus back to Carax’s book and how someone is still out there who wants to burn all of his books. This made me reflect on whether this is Carax’s mother spoken about in the quote and if yes who is his real father. Could that be the reason behind why someone wants to burn all his books. I’m guessing something happened to his real father and he wrote about it in his series of books and someone wants to keep it a secret or does not want it to come out therefore, they are focused on ensuring that his books get burned in order to keep this secret hidden.

 The last part of the book I had read focused on the time Daniel was spending with Clara and their relationship. However, now I feel like there is more and more build up on Carax and the people who knew him or read his books. This is really interesting to me and I really like hearing more about it. I found it fascinating how Isaac, who is the bookkeeper of the Cemetery of Books, knew of Carax through Cabestany who published Carax’s books. It was also interesting how Isaac’s daughter Nuria was friends with Carax and was potentially seeing him. It’s keeping me invested in the book and I keep wanting to read it just to know what happens to Carax and who this mystery person is who is trying to burn his books. What could they be trying to hide that even after years your are ensuring that no one keeps a copy of it.

In addition to Carax, the part that caught my attention was when Isaac was talking about his first love. Although it was a side detail and doesn’t seem to add much to the bigger story it’s kind of sad how he thinks of her years and years later and it just made me think about if it’s actually ever possible to move on from your first love.

There are books that I enjoy reading and others that I try to understand, and Mariana Enriquez’s Nuestra parte de noche falls into the first group; because of the way the stories of Juan and Gaspar are hilando (woven together), one on top of the other, because of the mixture of supernatural events and the monotonous details of routine, of everyday life in the life of a boy who tries to live like any other teenager: “Gaspar se paró malhumorado; había dormido, era cierto, notaba el gusto a sueño en la boca” (245). (Gaspar stood up grumpy; he had been asleep, it was true, he could taste sleep in his mouth).  The everyday life of a boy who goes to school, does his homework and spends time with his friends, and the quotidian life that he tries to make part of his life! but which eludes him.

In this second reading, I included chapters two and three: La mano izquierda El Dr. Bradford entra en la oscuridad, Misiones, Argentina, enero de 1983 and Las cosas malas de las casas solas, Buenos Aires, 1985-1986.* It is interesting to note that all the chapters refer to a year or a period of time framed by two years, something I had not noticed in my first reading. Although these years are not explicitly mentioned in each chapter, they do refer to moments or events that frame the lives of the protagonists, “…Gaspar, que ahora también estaba hipnotizado frente al televisor porque lo que pasaba era que iban a verla morirse en cámara…” [2] (251). Events that evoke the history of Argentina, or a natural -horrorific- disaster in Latin America (Colombia), or a World Cup and soccer game: “eran campeones y era como volar, como si no existiese nada más que ese momento, un momento que era para siempre y que era alegre y tristísimo porque no podía durar”   [3] 

Now, if in the first chapter Las garras del dios vivo, enero de 1981 (The claws of the living good), I found destellos of a fatherhood that sought to exist amid the horror, in these two chapters, and strongly in the third, I have encountered the counterpart to the fatherhood, or perhaps that which makes it possible, the presence of the son or daughter.

Well, although in La mano izquierda (the left hand), rather than a father-son relationship, the role of guardian and/or súbdito (loyal subject) is taken by Dr. Bradford, a surgeon who discovered Juan’s supernatural peculiarity, which is narrated by him, the doctor, who in the last moment of his life, sees Juan’s life pass by his eyes: Juan’s childhood, the life of the child that Juan was “el chico no era normal […] no era normal porque era hermoso por dentro […] su corazón esforzado e hipertrófico […] sus arterias eran pinceladas grises y azules y rojas” (169). A child without a voice, “la Oscuridad  — que — no entiende, que no tiene lenguaje…” [4] (177).

From Juan’s childhood, “[E]ra  1957 cuando le trajeron al chico […] Tenía cinco años y Bradford decidió no esperar para operarlo” [5] (168). I now come to the childhood of Gaspar, Juan’s son. It is 1985, two years after the end of the last dictatorship. I meet Gaspar, a boy who questions the paternity of a father he knows but prefers to keep at a distance, a father who tears apart, physically and emotionally, the place of the son who has had to live with him, a father he distrusts: “podía tener miedo de él, pero no con él” (300) (he could be afraid of him, but not with him). 

Another vital point, from my reading, is the friendship that exists between Gaspar, Adela, Vicky, and Pablo. They are Gaspar’s family, his safe place. However, for this entry, I wanted to focus on Gaspar’s place as a son, a son who knows he has inherited wealth from his mother but does not know the full extent of what he has inherited from his father. Our (their) share of night.

_____________

My translations

*Chapter two: The Left Hand Dr Bradford Enters the Darkness, Misiones, Argentina, January 1983, 

[2] …Gaspar, who was now also mesmerised in front of the television because what was happening was that they were going to watch her die on camera…

Chapter three: The Bad Things in Lonely Houses, Buenos Aires, 1985–1986

[3] They were champions and it was like flying, as if nothing else existed but that moment, a moment that was forever and that was joyful and very sad because it could not last.

[4] the boy was not normal […] he was not normal because he was beautiful inside […] his heart was strong and hypertrophic […] his arteries were grey and blue and red brushstrokes’ (169). 

‘the Darkness — who — does not understand, who has no language…’ (177).

[5] It was 1957 when they brought the boy […] He was five years old and Bradford decided not to wait to operate on him

Lips. Fingers. Arms. Eyelids. Our Share of Night remains exciting, in its own special way.

When I picked the book back up this week, we had jumped from 1981 to 1983, just in time for Juan Peterson’s surgeon (also his wife’s uncle) to be consumed by the supernatural force known as the Darkness — the same powerful mass of shadow that only Juan can summon. Being eaten by the Darkness is seen as a sort of honour by members of the Order. Dr. Bradford certainly doesn’t seem too upset about it.

After a very brief time in 1983, we jump again to 1985. Juan and Gaspar have settled back down in Buenos Aires; Juan has grown weirder and more blatantly abusive; Gaspar has made some friends; a dog is soon found dead. Part three is called “The Bad Thing About Empty Houses,” and while I have indeed gotten to the part about an empty house, I have yet to learn what The Bad Thing is. I did stop about half of the way through this section, so I expect all (or some) will be revealed in the second half.

To return to the loss of limbs, something that has caught my attention in part three is the characterization and discussion of one of Gaspar’s friends, Adela, who is missing part of an arm for reasons that are not entirely clear. Adela is portrayed as very imaginative and, in Gaspar’s opinion, often untruthful. However, after dismissing Adela’s description of an “itch” where the rest of her arm once was, Gaspar learns from his father that (some) amputees truly do experience phantom sensations, and that these sensations come from the brain. I really like what this episode does: in addition to being the point where Gaspar is forced to recognize Adela’s truthfulness, I think it brings out something about the nature of reality — how you can’t necessarily determine what is true based on blanket assumptions or a personal notion of “common sense” (“Adela can’t feel something in a limb that she doesn’t have”). In the resolution of the question, we also see a moment of connection between Gaspar and Juan, which I think makes the later moments of tension and violence stand out even more sharply.

For my question(s) of the week: Do you find it enjoyable or engaging to read about characters who seem to be full of contradictions? Are there any characters like that in the book that you chose for this class?

I have now reached the twenty-first chapter in The Shadow of the Wind, where Daniel (main character) has just left his meeting with Nuria (who knew Julián Carax personally) after discussing Julián and his books. I had hoped to finish chapter 24 in this section, but I’ll just have to pick up some slack with the page count in future weeks.

This section wasn’t boring, but it was less immediately grabbing than the previous section (it mostly contains our main character, Daniel, running around the city tracking down clues about who Julián is/was and why it’s all important). Or, maybe the section wasn’t less interesting, but rather the experience of putting a book down and not touching it for a week at a time is taking some of the adrenaline/drive/will to read out of it. I feel like I am normally such a mood reader, so trying to balance a schedule of two alternating books is definitely teaching me a lot about how I read and how my motivation levels rise and fall.

We found out (spoilers ahead) through a letter from Penélope (lots of tension, betrayal, loved Julián, “found out” mysterious information that Julián apparently did not know) that Julián had left Barcelona to “pursue [his] dreams” (143-44). I would love to know more about this man, I feel like we’re getting little scraps of information here and there that are supposed to eventually (presumably) paint a bigger picture, but I might need to start keeping a notebook or something because I feel myself forgetting all the little clues and how they connect.

One passage I bookmarked to share for this week’s blog post was just a couple pages before I stopped reading, on page 175 of my edition: “Julián lived in his books. The body that ended up in the morgue was only a part of him. His soul is in his stories. I once asked him who inspired him to create his characters, and his answer was no one, That all of his characters were himself.” (Outside of the context of Julián being some mysterious author with mysterious intentions whose books are bringing mysterious people with mysterious backgrounds into Daniel’s life), I thought this quote was kind of inspiring, that authors (but also all of us) live on in our stories. When we create art, of whichever form, we bury parts of ourselves in it, and so each time we read a poem or a novel, we’re keeping the author alive (which is taken more literally in the context of The Shadow of the Wind, where someone destroys all of Julián’s books to kill him completely).

I must continue my job as the delegated Bolaño hater, even when this blog is not about him. I can’t let my reputation die. As much I would like to say that Bolaño occupies my mind is quite contrary, however, as I was thinking on why I like Enriquez’s book so much a few things about Bolaño in comparison to Enriquez popped up in my mind.

I don’t know if I would like Enriquez’s book as much if it wasn’t for the contrast with Bolaño’s. It feels like a breath of fresh air, a bit of that crisp, cold, air that you can enjoy at night. Reading Enriquez after a grueling week of Bolaño is just like the relief after a tough conditioning practice in the rain. Enriquez’s is the AC to the Bolaño’s 35 degree summer, so to say.

Similar to The Savage Detectives, the second part of Our Share of Night is told by a point of view different from the one of the first part. Differently to The Savage Detectives, the second part Our Share of Night actually has a plot. Enriquez’s writing demands the large amount of pages in the book; no plot point, no description in it feels like its weighing or making the book thicker or more expensive. Bolaño’s feels like its long for the sake of being long, which, I must concede, can be an interesting trigger for thought. Not one that I am going to pull, but interesting nonetheless. I can see that Bolaño wrote novels specifically for money; The Savage Detectives reminds me of anime and their filler and recap episodes: annoying, boring and borderline disrespectful to their audiences’ time. Good for business though.

I don’t talk much about Enriquez’s book here. I have a lot of different interests and I would like to save them for the final project. I see monstrosity as a great topic to explore, but also how the military dictatorship is written, always present, almost a otherworldly presence that not even Juan and his son, both mediums and magic users, can control. I see queer themes explored throughout, gay scenes ranging from the overtly sexual, to the macabre penetration during a magical ritual, to the tenderness of a kiss between lovers. I see themes of violence and how it affects those who live immersed in it.

Enriquez’s writing is a gold mine for research topics that are compatible with my own. Bolaño is not. I do hope, however, that those who are enjoying The Savage Detectives keep doing so. I do not wish my own experience with it to others. That would be evil and inconsiderate of me.

I stopped reading at the end of chapter 19 of The Shadow of the Wind and oddly enough, it feels like I finished in the same place I finished last time. 

As I mentioned in my previous blog, I stopped right as Daniel had received information about Isaac’s daughter, Nuria. Isaac told him that Nuria and Julián Carax were involved with one another and he gave Daniel her address. I had assumed that the following chapter would have started with Daniel going to Nuria’s place to inquire about Carax, however this never happened. I found it strange, and a bit hard to believe, that the “creepy man” with the burnt face (Coubert) would not have come after Daniel, since he seemed pretty desperate to get his hands on the last copy of Carax’s book. However, Daniel does not go to visit Nuria until almost another 100 pages later (which is where I stopped). So once again, I am left wondering what information Nuria will give us about the mysterious author Julián Carax.

I truly love this story so far though, and it’s been interesting to change to its original Spanish version. I am following all of the conversations pretty well, however I get lost sometimes when Ruiz Zafón is describing scenes and background info, so sometimes I have to refer back to the English version to make sure I don’t miss anything. I am enjoying the challenge though, and always appreciate adding new Spanish words to my dictionary. There is so much I love about the Spanish language, I could write an entire blog about everything I love about it, but for today I will share a word I came across on page 142 that brought me such joy: palante. For the non-Spanish speakers, this is a blend of the two words para and adelante and I love when the Spanish mash two words into one like this! 

Getting back to the story, Daniel is well into his adolescence and early-adulthood now and it is interesting to see how his character has changed. He seemed like a timid boy at the beginning but his wild side is coming out now, or as Doña Aurora would call him, “un demonio – a devil.” She is the concierge of the building that Carax lived in and she refers to him this way because when he finds Carax’s old apartment suite (before he fled to France), he goes right on in and snoops through it. It seemed that Daniel had forgotten about Carax again, until he notices the shadow of Coubert when he is at the theater one night. Daniel is taking a deep dive into the mystery of Carax and has begun to involve his new friend and coworker at the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, Fermín Romero de Torres, into the mystery as well. 

We discover that Fermín has a criminal record and is wanted by an Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero Almuñiz (whom they just call Fumero). We begin to see traces of the horrific events that were happening during the Franco dictatorship: we find out the the scars over Fermín’s body were from being tortured and the watchmaker next door, Federico, is also wanted for “engaging in homosexual & trans behaviours”. They ended up arresting Federico and it was really awful to read about what was done to him, especially because we know these are not fictional events. 

Fermín has become my favourite character because he is always giving me something to think about. He is quite opinionated and I will share an example of something he said that gave me pause:

“Not evil, moronic, which isn’t quite the same thing. Evil presupposes a moral decision, intention, and some forethought. A moron or a lout, however, doesn’t stop to think or reason. He acts on instinct, like a stable animal, convinced that he’s doing good, that he’s always right, and sanctimoniously proud to go around fucking up anyone he perceives to be different from himself…” (pg 186)

I really liked that and think it’s a precise distinction that he’s made there. I’m not sure why, but I sometimes wonder if the opinions shared through Fermín are opinions that the author, Carlos Ruiz Zafón, had himself. Either way, what is being communicated here is that some of the acts committed throughout the dictatorship were not necessarily evil (though I think we can all agree that some acts definitely were) but many were also moronic. It hopefully causes people to reflect on actions they’d taken where they did not stop to think and that in future, they should.

I can feel the tension rising in the book, not only with the political situation happening in Spain, but also with the discoveries that Daniel is making about Carax. I am still not sure why Coubert has not taken action yet – it was obvious last time that if he did not get his hands on Carax’s book then there would be hell to pay, though this certainly adds to this tension. 

I’m curious if anyone has any opinions about why this seemingly dangerous man Coubert hasn’t done anything yet? 

Observations:

In the subsequent part of Sandro Veronesi’s novel Quiet Chaos, Pietro’s days continue to unfold in quiet suspension, marked by moments that feel filtered yet intensified through the absence of his late wife and his grief. While picking up Claudia from school, he notices small details (i.e., gestures, tones, silences and movements of life from other people) that he imagines only his wife would have noticed (while he would be at work), suggesting that grief sharpens perception rather than dulling it. Specifically, Veronesi spent quite a lot of length describing Pietro witnessing an endless number of mothers marching towards the gate of the elementary school with a sense of pride, joy, warmth and happiness, waiting eagerly to greet their children into their arms and return home together. In my view, I believe Veronesi wants to make a poignant contrast between the roles of a father and of a mother: what they see, feel, and connect to their kids are different in some little way. That is, Pietro gets to witness an almost private moment where mothers and children reunite after school. As Pietro takes his daughter to gymnastics and comforts her after having nightmares, I notice that familial caregiving replaces professional ambition, suggesting that grief reorders priorities and reorganizes his identity (i.e., the new role of being a single father) rather than erasing them. Pietro constantly returns to the park bench, asking Claudia to wave to him from the classroom window, a gesture that transforms watching into a ritual of reassurance and a sense of control.

Later on, when his coworker Jean-Claude visits him at the park to discuss the unwanted company merger, work intrudes awkwardly into this suspended space (his grief). His co-worker announces to him that their plans to prevent the company merger are failing and that employees will stand against this merger by not doing work. This again gives Pietro another reason to disengage himself from work and his old routine, allowing him to sit at the park bench waiting for his daughter and staying safe in this temporary world he created for himself. I noticed that Pietro doesn’t really engage in the conversation and just accepts the news of his company; therefore, perhaps, Pietro’s refusal to engage may become a quiet act of resistance, aligning professional withdrawal with personal grief. Pietro also encounters other parents, including a mother who reveals a pregnancy she had planned to announce to Pietro’s wife, exposing how the world continues to revolve unevenly around loss. The second part of the reading ends at bedtime, whereby Claudia asks about the woman he saved at the beach, collapsing the distance between trauma and domestic intimacy and forcing Pietro to confront how the past lingers in ordinary routines.

Discussion:

Does Veronesi frame Pietro’s quiet withdrawal from work, ambition and forward motion as a form of resistance and attentive fatherhood shaped by grief, or does the guise of grief ultimately romanticize avoidance, allowing loss to become a justification for disengagement from responsibility to others, to work and even to oneself?

In my view, I believe that Veronesi ultimately frames Pietro’s withdrawal as a meaningful form of resistance shaped by grief rather than a retreat from responsibility. Pietro does not abandon care; instead, he redirects it. His grief suspends him in a space where parental attentiveness replaces human ambition, and care becomes a form of familial presence rather than professional productivity. He is redirecting his energy, or what is left of his ability to live and move on in life, towards his daughter and responsibilities as a father. Pietro’s stillness (i.e., his quiet chaos) is not emptiness but focus, allowing his grief to deepen his perception of others and his role as a single father should do for his daughter. Henceforth, responsibility is not erased but redefined and reorganized.

– David C