RMST 495/520: Long Books

After that firing-squad-spoiler incident in class, I would realize that what I thought was the death of Colonel Aureliano Buendía was in fact not his death. When I had put down One Hundred Years of Solitude, he was shouting at the firing squad: “Bastards! Long live the Liberal Party!” The chapter ends there. Anyone would think that that’s the end of him, right?

I wish I finished the book this week so I could also talk about endings, but I just got past the halfway point. The book opens with the famous passage about the said Colonel Aureliano. His dad, the founder of their village Macondo, had a passion for science and inventions. Back then, Gypsies often visited their town — one of their few contacts with the outside world — bringing spectacular objects like flying carpets and ice. Aureliano would learn to make little fish out of gold coins, and devoted himself to this craft until his wife is accidentally killed by his sister. He would leave and return as a Colonel fighting for the Liberal Party, become cruel and relentless, start many vain, bloody wars, escape death several times, refusing the slightest reconciliation with the Conservatives. And one day, he seems to get tired and goes back home to make gold fish all day.“He had fought so many wars not out of idealism, as everyone had thought, nor had he renounced a certain victory because of fatigue, as everyone had thought, but he had won and lost for the same reason, pure and sinful pride.” The fire in his eyes would light one more time, when the banana company comes into Macondo and one of their security guards cuts a kid to pieces for spilling a drink on him. The colonel swears he’d wage war against the “fucking gringos”, which leads to his 16 sons being murdered.

If I had to point out a common thread throughout the three books I read, it would be their discussion of idealism. Young men declare war (real or metaphorical) against established order, and the author reveals that it was always an illusion. What’s a war worth fighting? Bolaño would say it’s for whatever cause that lures you into devoting your youth or life to it, be it poetry or politics. Vargas Llosa would say it’s the silent resistance against the real world that gives you every reason to choose the easiest, most assured life. But what García Márquez would say, I’m not sure, maybe he’d say war is a world to escape to, where the exercice of power and the loyalty of your soldiers makes you forget your total lack of emotional ties in the real world.

The narrator of the story is omniscient and does not seem to favour any character, or rather he pities everyone. Every character has tragic reasons for their strange behavior.Almost completely cut off from the world, they do not even seem to be subject to any natural laws. Their world seems to be governed by doom. The narrator would describe mythical events without any intention of explaining them: the insomnia and amnesia that arrived with two children, Rebeca eating dirt, Remedio’s power to make any man who sees her face narcoleptic. They are like cautionary tales but we’re not sure what we’re being warned against.

One of my favourite passages was the brief comment on the relationship between art and the public. When film was introduced in Macondo, people felt tricked when they saw an actor who died and for whom they had wept come back to life in a subsequent film. “The mayor explained in a proclamation that the cinema was a machine of illusions that did not merit the emotional outbursts of the audience,” and the audience “decided not to return to the movies, considering that they already had too many troubles of their own to weep over the acted-out misfortunes of imaginary beings”. I do not think that García Márquez is accusing the villagers of Macondo for the inability to appreciate artistic forms and catharsis, rather I think he believes that it is important to have emotional ties in the real world, and these villagers are lucky because they do not need a film to be able to weep.

What are your thoughts on this passage about the relationship between art and audience? How much do machines of illusions (film, tv) or books, merit our emotional outbursts, or what do you think García Márquez is trying to tell us through this passage?

We have finally reached the end of both long books that we read for this class. There was a noticeable difference in how I felt upon completion of each of these novels. I found the ending of The Savage Detectivesto be underwhelming (see previous blog post), while I found the ending of Les guerriers de l’hiver to be depressing.

Simo Häyhä gets shot in the mouth with the explosive ammunition that the Soviet military was using, which leads to part of his cheek and jaw being blown off. As a result, he has to undergo twenty-six operations over a fourteen-month period. But he survives. He lost some of his friends during battle. And his family’s farm happens to be located in a part of Finland that was annexed by the Soviet Union at the end of the war, as part of the peace deal that commander-in-chief Mannerheim signed. At one point during the war, Simo wished that a bullet would hit him that would put an end to the misery that he has been experiencing during this violent conflict. He didn’t even want to live anymore. Yet at the end, he did survive.

One of the most interesting parts at the end of the book was an italicized section of a chapter which was a summary of the report by the doctor that operated on his face. Norek did a lot of research for the writing of this novel, which included reading many primary sources about the war, including a copy of the report by this doctor. The bullet going through Simo’s cheek was described by Norek in such horrific detail, while the report that followed was intriguing and left readers with hope for the sniper who shot and killed 542 Soviet soldiers during the 98-day war. When I researched information about Simo online, I found out that he lived to the age of 96. He is considered a hero in Finland. Finnish children learn about him in History class. Meanwhile, in the Soviet Union, there was no mention of the Winter War in official history books. Therefore, Soviet school children were never taught about this violent part of their history, mostly due to the shame of not having succeeded in annexing all of Finland, which was the original intent of the Soviet Union. On top of that, the USSR only reported the death of 350 of their own soldiers, when in reality, there were close to 400,000 casualties as a result of this conflict. They were also in violation of the Saint-Petersburg Declaration, which prohibited the use of explosive ammunition, such as the bullet that hit Simo in the mouth and blew off part of his face. And even once the peace deal was signed and the war was set to end a day later, the Soviet military were still ordered to attack and kill as many Finnish soldiers as they could.

The ending left me feeling depressed about human nature and the state of the world. Why do we kill each other for money, fame, territory or power? What is wrong with humanity?

I don’t have other words to share about how I felt about the ending, as I just finished reading the novel about two hours ago and I feel a strong sense of hopelessness about the state of the world.

I am losing hope.

Questions for the class: Which of the two novels that you read for this class did you prefer reading? In your opinion, did one have a more impactful ending than the other?

Bonus question: What is wrong with humanity?

My final post on Les Misérables!

Last week, I got to see Les Misérables at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre! Both Jon and one of my friends had told me that it was hard to follow, so as the curtains fell, I locked in. Happily, I found that the first three quarters were almost exactly like the book! It was satisfying to watch scenes that I had read unfold across the stage. Some elements were changed – Fantine is a character forced to work as a prostitute to support her daughter. In the book, she snaps and attacks a man after he throws a snowball at her as she trudges down a snowy street. In the play, she refuses to be bought by a cruel man, which results in her imprisonment. Both of these create a victim in different ways: as someone to heartlessly abuse on the street and as someone punished for trying to preserve her dignity.

Unfortunately, once I got past the part I’d read…I was lost. Why were they fighting? Honestly, that was my main question. There was a giant barricade onstage as characters defended it from…I did not know who.

Okay, after finishing up the book, I understand the story now! It was a reversal of watching the first three quarters of the musical – now as I read the images from the stage are what I imagine in my mind. So, the fighting was Marius’s (a young man who reminds me a little of a benevolent Garcia Madero) friends’ political uprising, harkening back to the Révolution française (“It’s ’93 all over again!” many characters exclaim in despair). Meanwhile, Marius pines for Cosette (Fantine’s daughter!) while her adoptive father Jean tries to keep them apart – “That man” he calls Marius angrily.

The most poignant scene for me both in the book and the show was the death of (nearly) indestructible Inspector Javert, who hunted ex-convict Jean across the country and decades. In another example of forgiveness, Jean rescues Javert from the hold of the insurgents. When later Javert captures Jean for what seems like the dozenth time, Jean pleads with him to be released – caught between his extreme morals and the debt he owes Jean, Javert lets him go. This decision breaks him, and he throws himself off of a bridge. On stage, through the magic of set and lighting, this was a remarkable scene – Javert seemed to fall in slow motion to his death. It was beautiful; it was also satisfying.

Next, Marius and Cosette are permitted to marry, however, after Jean reveals his criminal past to Marius, the new husband restricts his wife from seeing her adoptive father, leading to an isolated life in his old age. We see once again – and saw onstage represented by a greying and depressed Jean – how actions from our past, if interpreted as criminal by the law, can haunt us still, even decades after their occurence. Happily, there is a moment of…what’s that word, when Marius, Cosette, the ghost of Fantine and Jean reconcile. Jean Valjean passes away, and we see him finally escape his actions through forgiveness and in death.

I really enjoyed this book, and I am grateful that this class gave me the opportunity to read it!

A final note on long books and cultural longevity in looking at Les Misérables and another adaptation of a book, It (2017). I think the musical is what most people my age think of when you say the title, and I would like to hear your thoughts on how adaptations impact cultural longevity and renewal.

I finally watched It this weekend instead of doing homework. Which is funny – I feel like the movie just came out, but that was almost 10 years ago! Yikes! Another adaptation, I read the book, which came out in 1986, in 2018 or so, I guess jumping on the movie’s popularity? Anyway, something I don’t love about myself is my memory – I find it hard to recall books and movies that I’ve consumed even recently. The Savage Detectives, with its non-linear plotlines, was really hard for me to remember when I had to pick it back up again. However, as I was watching the movie, I felt myself telling my parter “That wasn’t in the book!” “In the book Patrick murdered his brother” and “There’s gonna be something down the drain!” I was so surprised at how much I remembered from a book I’d read almost 10 years ago; it had really stuck with me. The movie didn’t feel as impactful, which made me reflect on the strengths of a long book over a movie: so many details, tensions and contexts were left out, leaving it a good movie but feeling so surface-level compared to the book.

Are there any adaptations that you think surpass the source material? I think it depends on if the movie is meant as a remake of the book, or to stand as its own, and which one remains most popular. For some examples I think of Gone with the Wind, which I think remains just as well-known as a book and as a movie, and Midnight Cowboy (1969), my favourite movie, which far surpassed its book’s success, and, I feel, is a better rendition of the story. I think in the case of Les Misérables, the musical is perhaps more accessible to people today – it is shorter to consume, the songs can be hummed, and certain aspects, such as Fantine’s story, have been tweaked for modern audiences.

It’s done. It’s finally done… I don’t have to read more… for a few days at least. Now comes the haunting part of writing an essay, which in all honesty, even if I have done it so many times before, it stills feels daunting. Something about an unrelenting, childhood induced, won’t let me even start perfectionism… How did Enriquez write so much? Now that I think about it, the act of writing a long book is, by itself, more impresive than the story or the language itself. How can someone write so much? I struggle to come up with 400 words to say in these blogs, and I think whoever reads my entries (hi Jon) can tell that when I start writing, most of the time, I have no idea what’s going to come up next.

Back to Enriquez so I don’t get scolded in the comments for not bringing up the book. I truly wonder how she wrote such a long book. There is so much content in it, but, somehow, it doesn’t feel “crowded”. Every single word, every single scene seems to serve a purpose, seems to fit into a grander scheme, whatever that scheme is I do not know. But even the short chapters, those that read like intermission, no more than 10 pages or so, fit and inform the reader into the world and characters Enriquez is building in her novel.

Do I think some stuff could be cut? Sure. But it would be a different book. The feelings it would aspire would change, the characters would no be read the same way. A long book has to be long to stay true to itself, but there is no real necessity for a long or short book. I think Enriquez could’ve made this book a trilogy, three separate 250 page long books. But in doing so the reading experience would change.

I wonder how Enriquez first organized her writing. Did she already know everything that was going to happen in the book? Which sections did she write first? Did she have a detailed plan or a vague idea of the events and how the characters would react in this creepy, scary world she created. Maybe she, like myself, started writing one day for her long books class about a different long novel, maybe she wrote about Bolaño and had to air out the night terrors that come from reading the Savage Detectives. Maybe Enriquez, like I just did, had no idea what to write about and ended with an amazing, fascinating, fun, horrific (in the good way) long book that I am glad I got to read.

When I began reading Our Share of Night, the world surrounding Juan, the narrator of the first chapter, wasn’t clear to me. In the opening pages, I came to believe that Juan’s experience was shaped by clinical depression — the darkness that sometimes enveloped his body, a darkness that reminded me, perhaps, of episodes of post-traumatic stress: “many of the important things in his life had happened in a hospital bed, amid pain, anesthesia, and fear” (31). Page after page, Juan’s deformed darkness, a boundless darkness, found a boundary in the golden claws of the being, of the “repulsive god” (656) that inhabits him and that at the same time becomes the legacy he leaves to his son, Gaspar; a legacy he simultaneously avoids passing on, a legacy of pain, of madness. Legacy, a possession you haven’t bought—Juan knows this, and he is also aware of the mark it will leave on Gaspar, just as the god of darkness does when he runs his golden claws over the bodies of his chosen ones.

This semester we’ve read two long books, something that’s evident in the printed book, unlike with the digital version. In any case, for me, the number of pages doesn’t determine my decision to read, nor is it a factor that influences whether I continue with a novel or not. No! It has been more the bonds, the connection that I manage to establish with the book, with the narrated universe and the characters,  that leads me to keep reading, or to pause, take a break, and continue my reading. My reading experience, shaped by snippets of time, and products of popular culture like Mafalda, Condorito, the occasional read on visual arts, some picture books, comedy shows, and popular music programs on the radio, remain with me today, and even though I try to hide it, it is part of what I have inherited as a reader. A reader who knows she has much left to read. A reader, sitting under a glass ceiling, who tries to understand, comprehend, and analyze literature as an art form—one that affects people, that affects me.

Reading “Our Share of Night” by Mariana Enriquez has been a delightful experience. Reading this book has allowed me to enjoy a story that builds a world I could lose myself in—moonless yet illuminated night forests, empty houses, ostentatious mansions, cemeteries, hotels, temples. Spaces inhabited by Juan, Gaspar, Rosario, Mercedes… Florence, and all the madness and power of the Reyes Bradford family, the Order, and their gods. In these worlds, in these characters, repulsion took shape in the language Enriquez uses. Because in this work, language and the word—which take shape in the characters—can be felt on the skin, they can be heard, they scratch, they can be felt in the stomach. And this has been one of the aspects I’ve enjoyed most about the book: feeling the word. In some passages, I’ve experienced the revulsion and disgust that Gaspar felt when touching the mysterious gift his father, Juan, gave him:

“Sus dedos en la caja tocaron lo que, pensó, eran bichos secos […]. Juntó tres en la palma de la mano y se agachó para mirarlas mejor a la luz del televisor. Entonces se dio cuenta de que, lo que al primer tacto le parecieron patitas, eran pelos.  […] Eran pelos, sí. Pestañas. Tenía en la palma de la mano párpados secos, con sus respectivas pestañas.” (228).

“Our Share of Night” is a novel told through four voices: Juan, Dr. Bradford, Gaspar, Rosario, and Olga Gallardo—the voice of a chronicle narrated from outside the circle of the order and the Reyes Bradford family. A chronicle that revisits the events of chapter two while also foreshadowing the ending: “the suffocating sensation of his nightmares in which he cannot scream or walk, the dreams in which he is certain that the house he cannot escape is occupied by something hiding” (513–14).

The ending is narrated from the perspective of Gaspar, a young man who has now discovered the legacy bequeathed to him by both his father, Juan, and his mother, Rosario. In addition to being a chapter in which he reconnects with his heritage, this chapter—much like Rosario’s—serves as a space for Gaspar’s reflection, as he gradually discovers his place within the order and comes to understand what defines him.  

I read the last ten pages of the final chapter a couple of times. On the first reading, I enjoyed seeing how the ending unfolded; on the second reading, however, I felt that the horror of the previous chapters had become less pronounced—or perhaps I had simply come to see it as the norm in “Our Share of Night”. Regarding the end of the book, how did you experience the ending of the book you were reading?

First Daniel finds out that Julian Carax is alive which I feel like was sort of expected because even though everyone thought he was dead it was kind of a given that he would be alive hidden somewhere. The police guy is shown as the antagonist and he is associated with a lot of the deaths related to Carax’s past because he was jealous of Julian Carax. The ending of the Shadow of the Wind was good but not as good as I was expecting because I was hoping for something more intense, like a full murder thriller type of ending. Reading the last couple chapters of the book, I thought there would be some crazy twist with some shocking villain with some thriller type of underlying motive. The ending was good, but more simple because it was not as interesting finding out that Carax was burning his own books. I feel like after spending the whole book trying to figure out who was burning Julian Carax’s books, the reveal did not live up to my expectations. I feel like the mystery in the story builds up so much and all the clues make it seem so suspenseful making it seem like the reveal would be dramatic. I think the only interesting part apart from the reveal was finding out that Penelope was pregnant with Carax’s child but her family took her away because of the whole scandal. However, unfortunately; she died and so did the baby and this situation or tragedy had destroyed Julian Carax but in the end he ends up getting together with Bea. This is the only explanation that I took away for Carax burning his books and trying to move on from that past life. However, instead of finding this shocking or intense it felt more of an explanation which felt way too simplified. His pain and tragedy makes sense however it does not feel as interesting as I thought it would be because his story did not live up to my expectations. And then for Daniel he takes over the bookstore which his dad previously owned and it feels like a full circle. This is because in the beginning Daniel was also brought to the book store by his dad and now that he has a son and owns the book store he did the same thing by bringing his son. The ending felt like a complete circle.

Discussion Question: What are your views on books that have a lot of suspense just to have the most simple ending?

Hello everyone! Before getting into my thoughts on the last part of Zeno’s Conscience titled “Psychoanalysis” I want to say I am SO happy I did spoil any part of the book for myself. Sometimes I have a bad habit of flipping to the last few pages of a book just to prepare myself for how it ends, and I have no idea why I do that, because I don’t really like spoilers. Anyways, I’m remarking on my decision not to spoil the book for myself because when I started the book back in January and I saw that the last part was the “psychoanalysis” part, I assumed it would go back to the Doctor’s perspective and they’d provide their thoughts or diagnoses for Zeno. However I was wrong. All we get from Dr. S is that Zeno has abandoned therapy and that they published Zeno’s writings for revenge.

The last part of the book mostly consists of Zeno’s strong critique of psychoanalysis itself, as well as Dr. S being too rigid in their methods, and claiming they were more interested in being right versus actually helping. That is Zeno’s main claim, as well as that psychoanalysis is very damaging and is not as effective as just living life to heal. He believes that the sick man is more adaptable to life and able to evolve, than those who are bound to the labels and constraints of “sickness”. During this part of the book, I began to question my assumptions and thoughts I had formed on Zeno throughout the book. I’m afraid… he was starting to make sense…..? Just a little bit. However it’s hard to make your mind up on who’s reliable or telling the truth because you start the book with Dr. S’ assertion that Zeno is sick and unreliable, but then this last part you are reminded that Dr. S seems to have some kind of motive directly against Zeno.

The final entry from March 1916 also really stuck out to me. He is alive and wealthy during World War 1, despite Italy being war-torn. He thinks that life itself is like sickness because there are moments of cures and betterment, but there are also significant setbacks, and it always ends in death. Then we see that he imagines a time in the future where someone will invent a weapon of mass destruction, someone will steal it and then destroy the world. Some could read it as prophetic because this book was published before the development of nuclear weapons. It did feel a bit eerie to me reading and having hindsight of nuclear weapons. For me, it also made me think that Zeno believes that destroying the world is the only permanent cure to sickness. However, if the world was destroyed life would not exist, so it seems like he is trying to convey he does not think life can exist without sickness. It left me thinking quite a bit about hardship and sickness, it does seem to be a natural part of life. Are we wrong to try and cure it, are we going against nature? Or is Zeno just crazy and has no idea what he’s saying.

Thank you for reading my last blog post on Zeno’s Conscience! I thoroughly enjoyed this book and would highly recommend it.

The final section of Our Share of Night follows Gaspar from his early teens into his early twenties. We see his life and mental health genuinely improve over several years, particularly thanks to the efforts of his uncle, Luis. But still, the angry, cursed part of him never fully goes away. It becomes clear to Gaspar that everyone around him is in danger, and that he has to go, on his own, back to his mother’s family. Ultimately, he manages to trap his grandmother and a bunch of other cult members in the Other Place, which basically eats anything that gets left there for too long.

Part five shook me in a weird way. It wasn’t the horror, and it wasn’t exactly the tragedy — not the tragedy of death or loss, at least. I think it was something about how Gaspar reconnected with his friends, Vicky and Pablo, only to realize that the bond between the three of them, no matter how strong, would not stop the Order from infecting their lives. I don’t know exactly how to explain it. I can roughly imagine torture and dead bodies and houses that are bigger on the inside, but the idea that the power of childhood bonds might not be enough in the face of tremendous evil…that concept is one I haven’t chosen to explore before. I find it fascinating, and I certainly don’t think Mariana Enriquez was wrong to follow that thread, but it sure makes me feel the opposite of cozy.

On a somewhat related note, it was striking to me that Adela (the one who disappeared in the not-empty house) maintained a haunting presence in this last section. Gaspar kept having visions/hallucinations (?) of her, and he continued to talk about her with his friends as if she might be found one day. What I didn’t fully understand until the very end, when Gaspar thinks about eventually returning to the Other Place to look for Adela, was just how set he was on continuing to search. I remember reading part three and noting that each of Gaspar’s friendships felt really unique and important, but after Adela’s disappearance, I guess I convinced myself that she was just…gone. And I’m glad that I was wrong. I loved the intensity between Gaspar and his friends — that they shared childhood memories and supernatural trauma and the kind of devotion that transcends dimensions or planes of existence. Maybe the power of childhood bonds can’t save us from the necessity of facing personal (or familial) demons, but that doesn’t mean those bonds won’t continue to twist and burn and pull across impossible distances.

My question(s) of the week: Do you feel ready to start another book, either long or short? Do you have a particular book in mind?

Reactions

Yes! I finally finished my second long book! What relief! And what a journey! I have to say that reading the last pages of Quiet Chaos, I felt both heavy and reflective, aware that his grief is changing, and that this quiet space I had grown used to reading is coming to an official end.

Commentary

We’re back in the summer home of Roccamare: the same place where Pietro’s late wife fell to her death. There was a lingering unease reading these moments, as if his past could not be escaped. However, as the pages go on, I notice that both Pietro and Claudia (his daughter) are becoming more at ease and enjoying themselves while spending their holiday here. Perhaps Pietro is finally starting to loosen up and let go of his grief?

Strangely, Pietro dreamt of Eleonora entering the summer house, and their imagined intimacy was very unsettling, unexpected and sad, revealing how grief blurs the boundaries between memory, longing and desire. Eleonora is the one figure tied to his wife’s death and this house in Roccamare. In some way, she is a reason why he did not arrive home early that day and prevented the death of his wife. I’m not entirely sure why there was this intimacy, but perhaps it’s symbolic in a very twisted way? That is, he is letting go of his grief, his grief over his wife, his frustration at Eleonora, and his anger at himself for not saving his wife. Questions, questions, question?

When his brother, Carlo, arrives at the summer house in Roccamare the next morning, there is a subtle return to reality. Making new memories together since the tragic accident that they left behind a year ago in Roccamare. Soon after, he resumes his routine, sitting once again outside his daughter’s school. The repetition seems frustrating and painful to read, knowing that we are nearing not only the end of the novel but perhaps his grieving period.

Interestingly, his encounter with Steiner (i.e., the man responsible for the company merger) and his refusal to become the next chairman reinforce his resistance to re-entering life. Here, I felt sort of conflicted that his stillness (from grief) is understandable, yet it seems unbreakable and unsustainable. He has to re-integrate back to his life – a sense of normalcy, right?

We end the novel with a confrontation between Pietro and his daughter, Claudia. Finally, something is going to happen! She wishes for him to return to work and back to his usual routine and usual self, saying that she is okay now and does not need him to watch over her constantly. To me, her wish felt both loving and honest, shaped by her own desire for a sense of normalcy and the quiet burden of his grief.

When Pietro finally agrees and drives away into the distance, the moment felt like a quiet, unresolved, but necessary closure. I felt a quiet aching feeling, as if his movement forward also meant leaving behind a part of his identity that he built while grieving the loss of his wife, and in some way, leaving behind his grief.

Discussion Question

You can answer the question in any way you like, whether related to literary works or personal experiences.

If quiet, prolonged grief unsettles us more than visible, dramatic suffering, does it confront our intolerance for what cannot be resolved? And when we urge a grieving person to « return to normal » (like how Pietro’s daughter, Claudia, asked him to), are we expressing care or imposing social expectations that grief be disciplined, contained, and made acceptable to the views of others?