RMST 495/520: Long Books

Chalk Circles, the fourth chapter of Our Share of Night, is the story in which one of the characters from the first chapter reappears as the main character: Rosario Reyes Bradford “[…] the first Argentine woman to recive a doctorate in anthropology from the University of Cambridge […]”* (201), who in the opening chapter of the book is presented through the memory of a tragic death: “Do you want to know? My wife died three months ago when she was hit by a bus that dragged her three blocks”* (18), is Juan’s response to a waitress who asks Gaspar about his mother; a mother who, in the third chapter, appears through the objects that Gaspar keeps of her: “[…] he took out of the drawer the booklet from the collection of indigenous and popular art history that his mother had written and that had her photo”* (199).  

Then, in chapter four, Chalk Circles, the memories take shape as stories told and experienced by Rosario, and it is through her narration that the origin of the Juan and Gaspar’s universe is revealed, a universe, the Order, built by Rosario’s family, by her grandfather William Bradford (357). Thus, through Rosario, the gaps left in the previous chapters are filled and enriched, and what surprised me most was discovering Rosario’s character, her experiences, and the strong bonds of friendship she built in order to survive within a closed circle covered in darkness. Another event was learning how Adela lost one of her arms. “The girl had been chosen […] a black light […] had taken her daughter, although that had not happened, it had only cut off her arm […]”* (476-77).  Adela is one of Gaspar’s friends and plays an important role in the previous chapter, especially at the end.

In my reading of Our Share of Night, I feel that this chapter, embodied in the character of Rosario Reyes Bradford, gives me a more complex view of the context in which the story of Juan, Gaspar, and, of course, Rosario unfolds, as well as the characters that make up this order of Darkness. En definitiva, in Circles of Chalk, in addition to finding the genealogy of the order, it is also the narration of how this universe affects the decisions that each of its members must make, how it directs the actions that must be carried out, a deber ser that the protagonist of this chapter admits and at the same time questions.

On the other hand, this chapter narrated and lived  by Rosario has led me to think that the parts of the book I have read so far, especially chapters one, three, and four, can also function as independent and complete stories; however, when brought together under the same novel, Our Share of Night, they maximize the world and events that are narrated, as well as the conditions that shape each character.

Finally, regarding my experience reading this chapter, I can say that I am still surprised to find elements that connect the characters, in a circle that seems to be getting smaller.

______

*My translate version

Whew! Even though it is my first time reading both books, after the polyphony of The Savage Detectives, returning to Les Misérables felt like sliding back into a favourite armchair after a long day. Here, there is one narrator, one clear protagonist, and one clear antagonist. What a comfy seat.

I started a section, called “Cosette,” after a character I will discuss below. The section begins at the end of the Battle of Waterloo – which brought me back to Grade 9 Social Studies (shoutout Ms. Chen!), as well as ABBA and Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Funny how historical moments become pop-culture phenomena, and funny too how this chapter begins at one of the most famous “endings” in history.

Hugo takes time to describe the scene at the end of battle, describing bodies, blood, and nature ravaged or untouched. A few lines that made me think of Auxilio’s story were, “The moon was an evil genius on the plain…what mattered it that the earth was red, the moon retained her whiteness. Such is the indifference of heaven” (p. 121), how the moon and its light marked the passing of time. Auxilio and the Battle of Waterloo had the same moon!

Here, we see a man, unnamed, (a tendency of Hugo is to have a chapter about a character and only reveal their name at the end – usually we are meant to guess who it is, but in cases like this I was not sure who this homme could be!) pilfering medals from fallen soldiers. Who could it be? Surely not Jean Valjean, our convict turned beloved pious mayor turned man on the lam hunted by tenacious Inspector Javert? It couldn’t be! And aha, the pilferer is revealed to be Thérnardier! Oh rats, who was that again? I shuffled back through the book…Thérnardier is the tavern keeper who took Cosette, a seven-year-old orphan, into his and his wife’s “care” after her mother can no longer care for her.

And so, we return to the life of orphan Cosette, who lives a Cinderella-like existence at the mercy of Thénardier, his wife, Thénardiess, and their two pampered daughters. While Eponine and Azelma play with beautiful dolls, Cosette knits stockings for them under the table so as to take up less space and avoid abuse; “These three little girls could not count twenty-four years between them all, yet they already represented all human society: on one side envy, on the other, disdain” (144).

One night, when poor Cosette is forced to fetch a pail of water, she imagines all sorts of terrors waiting for her, beasts and ghosts prowling the trees, though nothing scares her more than the Thérnardiers. As she struggles with the bucket, she rescued by another unnamed man – this time it is revealed to be Jean Valjean, freshly escaped from jail. Seeing her state of despair, Jean buys her the most beautiful doll in the village, and rescues Cosette from the tavern. Yes! I thought. Stories like this are common, especially in fairy and folk tales, but reading about Cosette now had me reflecting on the vulnerability of children who don’t have anyone able to defend them. I suspect this is on all of our minds these days.

Luckily, Cosette and her surrogate grandfather Jean are able to take up residence in the Gorbeau House, where a “maternal” sort of love occurs, where Cosette is allowed to play and learn. The narrator adds that the teachings of the bishop in the first chapter and the family created with Cosette fully brought Jean back from the brink of criminality.

But the happy times don’t last for long: the indefatigable Inspector Javert, who represents black and white authority, like a hound on the trail, sniffs out Jean! On the run once again, Jean now has to navigate a flight with a young girl – after close calls and clambers up walls, the two take refuge in a nunnery, where a man Jean had once helped welcomes them. The section ends.

In this section, we see the idea that our past can haunt us no matter how we atone for it, the redemption of love, and how authority views “crime” – that Javert pursues Jean for helping Cosette’s mother (in a chapter past), yet no one pays any mind to the abuse suffered by Cosette. I really enjoyed reading this section.

I am ready to be finished this book. I know at the beginning of the semester, I commented on the fact that The Shadow of the Wind is the first book in the series and that I was optimistic about being able to continue with the following books. Maybe one day I’ll love picking them up, but I will first need a healthy break from this plot line. It isn’t even a bad book, I think it’s just so drawn out (too long?) that I don’t care what happens anymore.

The characterization has never been particularly deep, but it’s easy to look past that for the first quarter of a book (especially as the main character spent time growing into adulthood). At close to 300 pages in, over the halfway point, I just wish there was some sort of spark (something worth reading about the main character or the plot). The “mystery” of Carax (the author of the books that “chose the main character) hasn’t really developed. I don’t feel further along in the story now than I did at the end of the last section. Everything new that we have learned about Carax, about the protagonist, and about his friends/family/love interests has been more of the same. We’re wandering around the city talking to people and linking together repetitive bits of info (practically chasing wild geese at this point).

As I’m writing this, any tone of frustration (that I’m not allowed to DNF this book and have to slog through it) present is probably just me being dramatic and I very well might turn around in two weeks time and give this book a five star review. There’s a lot of book left (200ish pages?) and we could just be at the lull in the middle of the story (at which point I would say we could have maybe done without some of this repetitive middle fluff and had a shorter novel).

Again, to reiterate my disclaimer from previous weeks, I’m sure the reading experience would be different if I was reading the book in one go over a few days instead of over several weeks. I’ve mentioned before that I wonder if I’m missing things by forgetting them as we read our other class material in between, but also I feel like there’s something to be said about momentum. Riding a bike is not fun if you only pedal once every 100m and just wobble and inch along; maybe I would be more forgiving (in terms of waiting for the story to get to the point) and enjoying the reading more if I wasn’t putting the book down every 100 pages.

In The Shadows of the Wind, the part where Daniel and his father help Fermin and offer him a job and a place to stay honestly felt really slow to me. Up until this point, I was very invested in the book because of the mystery surrounding Carax and the faceless man burning his books. The suspense and the tension around the plot had kept me invested because I felt eager to figure out the mystery and the reasoning behind it. Therefore, the sudden shift felt boring because it did not even feel like it was a part of the same book. There was no mention of Clara or Carax or even the book. Instead, we got to read about Daniel’s day to day life. It is not that the scenes weren’t important because it gives a glimpse into Daniel’s life outside of the Carax situation. However, compared to the mystery you felt before they felt like Garcia Madero’s journal entries where a bunch of things are just happening but there’s no single plot. We get to see Daniel at home, at the book store, and he is interacting more with the people around him but because of the slow pace it makes the reader want to go back to Carax. 

At the same time, it gives the readers a different perspective into Daniel’s life, which feels more realistic for a kid. We see Daniel’s father showing generosity to Fermin because even though they are not wealthy he gives Fermin a job at his bookstore. Even when Fermin caused a scene Daniel’s dad asked the landlady not to call the police and still looked after Fermin. He even made sure to take him to the cafe on Sunday’s so he is not left alone at home. These scenes show Daniel as a normal teenage boy rather than the detective he seemed like earlier. This is also when there are scenes shown with Daniel’s best friend Tomas who was only previously talked about. Daniel introduces Tomas to Fermin and this is where it feels like he is combining both lives together because before we only knew of Tomas’s friendship and Carax but now he was introducing Tomas to this new person who feels like he has nothing to do with Carax.

Although I wasn’t a huge fan of these few chapters I still do think they serve a purpose and add depth to the characters. Maybe these slow and more calm scenes were so the mystery does not feel rushed but I do hope the book picks up again.

Discussion Question: Why do you think authors often slow down the plot and how does this affect your interest?

I left my last blog post uncertain as to whether Zeno would marry Ada or not. I thought there was a chance, but really given the nature of the book it was also fair to assume that something would go wrong, and Zeno would not be able to marry Ada, the one he has been pining for. However, in true Zeno fashion, he proposes to Ada, who rejected him, then he proposed to Alberta who also refused, and then finally proposed to Augusta who accepts the proposal. I guess third times the charm. However, she is in fact his third choice, and in the start of this section of the book, he described her as “unattractive and dull” and wondered how anyone could be attracted to her, a great way to start a marriage. Despite the dissapointment, Zeno also references the stability that Augusta provides him in their marriage, which he is fond of. Yet again, Zeno’s recollection seems to be very misinformed and blind to what is actually happening in real life.

Then he goes on to write about the balance of his marriage with Augusta, and his affair with Carla, who is described as a shrill voiced aspiring singer. The tone in this part of the book is slightly different than the first few parts. In this part, Zeno writes much more passively about these events, compared to when he wrote about his pursuit of Ada, or when he was trying to quit smoking. Yes, he was making excuses and finding ways to avoid facing his addiction, but his language describing the details of his affair really emphasize the lack of agency Zeno has convinced himself he had in this time. That’s the most important part; that he has convinced himself, not that the events actually transpired like that. He is just as unreliable as ever in terms of explaining what has happened, because reality is being reconstructed to his liking. It is very interesting and also frustrating to read because you as the reader know this is not true, or it doesn’t make sense, yet this is what you are left with. His description of Carla as fresh and healthy shows this obsession with sickness he has, that has carried from the illnesses he has experienced in the past and his smoking addiction as well. It poses a question of whether he saw his affair as a cure to something, because he is rather bleak about his own outcomes. I found it quite ironic, because Zeno also notes that Augusta’s health is stable as well, and moreover she is his wife, yet he chooses to lean into the unstable affair as if that will be a cure all to his troubles. It is very selective morality that always seems to pardon him. Again, very frustrating to read, but also made me reflect on the fact that morality is moldable and very personal to everyone. At some point, everyone has probably bent their own morality and values to justify something, and so really the question may be how often we do this, or how serious the consequences are of this. Zeno is unapologetic of the affair that eventually ends and then he states he has been cured, quite similar to his self-proclaimed status of “cured” with his smoking habit. One of my blog posts is titled “Nothing Comes Easy for Zeno… According to Him” but I am revisiting this idea because really he seems to have a simple method of refusing any other perspective, which lets him do immoral or bad things so comfortably. I wondered then, why don’t more people live like this. Is it because we are socialized in a way that refrains us from being so self motivated, or do many people live like this and just do a better job of hiding the deeply self-centred motivations that dictate what we do.

Part three of Our Share of Night, which is the section that I finished this week, is called “The Bad Thing About Empty Houses.” Although it’s not stated directly, the bad thing about empty houses seems to be that they might actually be full of magic and human remains and one-way doors to hellish dimensions. And that they might swallow up one of your friends and leave you with soul-crushing guilt. That’s basically what happens to Gaspar. And then his father dies. It’s all very uplifting.

In general, I feel like the horror aspect kind of intensified in the second half of this section. Aside from the experience of Gaspar and his friends in the “empty” house, the parts that stood out to me the most had to do with Gaspar’s father, Juan, who was both dying from his heart condition and becoming increasingly violent. Based on the conversations between Gaspar and Juan following the last few episodes of violence, I got the impression that Juan’s actions were out of his control in some way — that something was forcing him to do what he did, or that it was all out of magical necessity somehow. In contrast to the abuse, there were some brief moments in part three when everything seemed to be fine. At one point, Gaspar and Juan went out at night to scatter Rosario’s ashes in a swamp, and there was such a quiet beauty to the scene that I almost believed the peace would last. It felt like they were finally “sharing the night” in a way that was worth remembering.

On the bright side, Gaspar now gets to go and live with his uncle, who seems to be relatively easygoing compared with Juan. Will this uncle be able to protect Gaspar from his mother’s Darkness-worshipping family? Not forever, I suspect. But maybe he’ll at least get a break from people performing rituals on him and drinking his blood.

Leading up to my question of the week: In the latest session of the novel study class that I teach, I found out that my student had read beyond the assigned chapters in our current book. As a student at the university level, how do you feel about reading ahead? What would you say are the advantages and disadvantages?

O homeland,
which generation of your children
will see you free, flourishing, and proud
with eyes that truly believe?

– Mahmoud Dowlatabadi

What a strange experience it is to read. What a strange feeling to read about the history of one country and think of another. The events, the small details, the history of dictatorships, their fall, their rise, public perception, the struggle of civil societies, the power of media, censorship, the regime’s distortion of events, the silencing of dissent, the control and the suffocation of a nation by the hands of a regime. Oh Vargas Llosa!

From the beginning, I have felt strange when reading Conversation in the Cathedral (not in a negative way). Even though I was reading a novel about Peru it seemed like I had heard these stories before, though not about the Peruvian experience but about the Iranian one. Political prisoners, universities portrayed as the space for leftist movements, the “open-minded” ones, the revolutionaries. Print shops used for printing clandestine anti-government fliers, the designated “meeting houses” that had to be switched from time to time, and out of all of this, your words becoming your own death warrant. It is so similar that it sometimes blows my mind. It helps my reading because I get vivid visual images of what is happening in the book, thanks to how greatly I was exposed to the history of the Iranian revolution (the movies/shows have helped with that for sure). I would say my imagination helps me read this book. That is what I enjoy most about it.

What puzzles me the most when reading is Santiago’s relationship with himself. He has a lot on his mind. I don’t know if he knows it himself. Self-criticism, doubt, and his empty performances of independence, though I think he would classify his choices as revolutionary acts against his family, the rejection of “privilege”, a way of standing up to them. Once again, I know this was also the case for many of the younger generations leading up to the revolution in Iran in 1978. It makes me believe Vargas Llosa more. With Santiago, I think he is determined to be independent and never go back home to see his parents or do what they want him to do, because that is all he can stand up to; that is the only thing in his power. He lacks the power to stand up to the Odriístas and to take part in the movements against the dictatorship or to even make concrete decisions in his life other than not going back to his parents’ house. When there are talks about the possible fall of the dictatorship, he seems to distance himself from what is happening. He is hopeless as if he doesn’t care about the future, who will replace Odría, or what would happen if Odría switches to a military dictatorship. On that note however, it is interesting that when there are talks about the fall of Odría, the only character who expresses great concern is Señora Lucía whom I think is his landlady. She experiences a lot of distress, fearing the country will fall into the hands of the Apristas because as she puts it, they are atheists and communists. Does this mean people preferred Odría to stay on? Well, Señora Lucía…Odría did not fall; instead, he shifted to a full-on military rule, a rule goverened by the Constitution of repression.

On my reading experience now: It seems that the fractured stories follow me to every book, though I enjoy what Vargas Llosa has done here. His format makes much more sense than Bolaño’s. It is smoother and better blended with one another.

When talking about power, people, and politics, I must mention the masterful work of Vargas Llosa in this book. The way he has been able to portray life under a dictatorship, especially the family dynamics at play. You get to sense the tensions that exist, the worries, the disagreements, the heated conversations, the differences in political opinions, even the sacrifices and how that affects a family. I know so many stories of people who did not talk to their families ever again in Iran, especially in 1977 onward because of their ideological differences and to either keep their position, gain a position, or they were revolutionaries, and as their differences multiplied, they grew apart even more. Just like in my story with Don Fermín and Santiago, the feud is usually between fathers and sons while the mothers (sometimes the siblings) are caught in the middle. Once again I can’t emphasize how amazed I am by how well the climate at the time is described, though it may not be immediately apparent to every reader, perhaps, or maybe it is because I know of another revolution very closely, with details that were not just read in history books or in shows made later on but accounts I was told by many of the people who lived through it. And with that, I go back to the epigraph that I mentioned in my first blog: “One must have explored all of social life in order to be a true novelist, since the novel is the private history of nations.” It could not get more accurate than this.

I have many other points in my notes to cover, but I’ll stop here for everyone’s sake. My question this week is: what is one thing that puzzles you about your book? Or is there nothing that puzzles you?

Reactions

Reading the third part of Quiet Chaos has been an intense and immersive experience. So much has happened in such a short span! It’s starting to feel as if everything in Pietro’s life is beginning to unravel, leading towards the long-awaited grief. Things are taking a turn!

Commentary

In the third reading, Pietro continues his usual routine of sitting on a park bench, waiting for his daughter Claudia to finish school. His stillness has become a ritual, a quiet attempt to hold onto what remains while processing what is lost and what is grief. Samuele, a coworker, finds him there and goes over a report on the company merger, revealing the psychological trauma it imposes on employees versus the financial gain for shareholders. The report identifies only 3 groups of employees who can endure such upheaval: the faithful, the traitors, and the collaborationists. Metaphorically, I believe the corporate turmoil mirrors Pietro’s personal grief, whereby both require endurance (with faith), moral navigation (to betray or to stay loyal), and confrontation with loss (grief and change don’t have to be coped with alone but shared and empathized together).

Interestingly, Pietro leaves the bench to have lunch with Thierry at a nearby cafe, who pressures him to take over Jean-Claude’s position. Pietro refuses, suspecting Thierry’s manipulation in Jean-Claude’s departure. However, Thierry accuses Jean-Claude of betrayal, company theft, and falsifying financial accounts, blurring the lines between loyalty to the company and their friendship. Later, Pietro brings Claudia to Jean-Claude’s home to confront him, only to intervene in a heated marital argument. I think the couple’s argument illustrates how the process of grief can intersect with unexpected social intrusion in life.

In the novel, it switches to a dinner scene, focusing on Pietro’s brother without Pietro. The brother learns that Pietro has become locally famous as “the father who sits outside his daughter’s school after an event of both trauma and heroism” from his dinner guests. He discovers that Eleonora, one of the dinner guests, is the woman Pietro rescued at the beach. The next day, he goes to the park and tells Pietro about this. Interestingly, Pietro learns that Eleonora owns Brick Chocolate, a company connected to the company merger. Here, I believe Eleonora represents someone who links Pietro’s past heroism and trauma to his present corporate chaos and struggles to outwardly grieve.

Near the end of the third reading, Pietro found himself at a meeting teaching parents to discuss death and separation with children. Here, Pietro epithanizes that Claudia’s lack of grief over her mother’s death may reflect his own incomplete mourning (or not grieving enough), as shown to hear. That is, Claudia is learning from him, seeing how he doesn’t grieve, so she copies that. Overwhelmed by this realization, he faints at the meeting. Later, while driving home, the floodgates open! Pietro cries profusely in his car, finally confronting the depth of his loss, his wife, his sense of normality, his past world of love and family, his past self. Honestly, I believe it is all about to begin unravelling: Pietro’s identity, once suspended in limbo, is beginning to reorganize around what is present, what is absent, and what is the truth.

Discussion Question

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

Can keeping grief, betrayal, or disappointment hidden actually teach something to children (or others) intentionally or unintentionally? When we withhold, remove ourselves from, or control difficult emotions, are we protecting others from these emotions, or are we failing to help them learn and go through these necessary emotions healthily?

I have been reading about 90 pages in this book every other week and so since we haven’t made a post on our Selected Reading in a while, this post will be on the last 180 pages that I’ve read. Oddly enough, every time I stop before writing in this blog, Daniel is about to meet with Nuria Monfort.

I finally got to read about his first encounter with Nuria but he goes to see her again because everything she told him the first time was a lie. Everything she said about Carax wasn’t true, her husband Miquel isn’t actually in prison, and she’s the one who’s been picking up mail from Carax’s father’s old apartment. I am starting to wonder if Carax is still alive and if Nuria and Miquel are helping Carax in some way, since we also found out that Miquel and Carax were childhood friends. Surprisingly enough, Carax also used to be friends with the evil Inspector Fumero, so I’m also starting to wonder if Coubert (the guy with the burned face) is also a childhood friend, perhaps Jorge Aldaya (Penelope’s brother)? We find out that Penelope and Carax were in love but they couldn’t make their relationship public so their plan was to escape Barcelona and run off to Paris together but Penelope never met him at the train station so he went alone. We know that Carax comes back to Barcelona and apparently dies shortly after arriving but nothing feels certain anymore. There are many holes in many stories and Daniel and his friend Fermin are trying to get to the bottom of it all. 

Daniel falls in love with his childhood best friend’s sister, Bea, but since she is engaged to be married, we find ourselves with another example of a forbidden love. Their love is very short-lived and after a creepy encounter that the two of them have in an abandoned house, where Daniel sees Coubert and urges Bea to run (they both make it out unharmed), he doesn’t hear from Bea again. Right after he shares that a week has gone by without hearing from her, he says,

“En siete días, estaría muerto¨(In seven days time, I would be dead).

This shocked me. Bea’s father certainly wants to kill Daniel, maybe her brother does too, and while Coubert seems creepy and dangerous, he hasn’t done anything to Daniel yet and honestly just seems to want Carax’s book more than anything else. It also seemed strange that Ruiz Zafón would kill off his main character (and narrator) of the book so did he mean this in a metaphorical sense? Or does he experience some kind of Near-Death Experience? As I mentioned, nothing seems certain anymore but all the questions are keeping me very engaged in the story. It’s always a struggle for me to put the book down and wait for another week, before I can continue with the story. 

Discussion question: How many of you are interested in murder mysteries? Do you like guessing what happens in the end and if so, are you often surprised or are your guesses usually correct?

I took the reading break to finish Book 3 of Conversation in the Cathedral, and I feel completely drawn into the world. Somehow, the fragmented narrative which disregards chronology did not take away from the immersion — though occasionally, I had a smug feeling about being able to piece together the puzzle, as if I was a detective, or an investigating journalist, to stick to the theme of the novel.

Does your book respect the chronological order of events? Why might an author choose to break up chronological order, and what are the effects?

Vargas Llosa presents the insides of a political power struggle between senators under Odría’s rule of Peru. As if pulling out a weed in the ground, he unearths its roots — stories hidden from the public eye — which includes a Bildungsroman (Santiago), a 9pm soap opera (Amalia and Ambrosio), a murder mystery (Hortensia)…(Digression: the mix of genres reminds me of Star Wars — the first six movies.) Truth is revealed a little at a time, and the reader has to actively work on piecing it together, which makes it such a satisfying read.

Don Cayo is the Minister of Public Order, known for being cold and cruel, oppressing Odría’s opposition forces with an iron hand. He is portrayed a pathetic and distrustful. Don Fermín (Santiago’s father) is a senator, patron of Odría’s rise from the very beginning, but merely for business reasons, portrayed as a gentleman, a loving father. They were once friends, but Cayo refuses to accept stocks from Fermín, and refuses to use Public Order funds for Fermín’s building projects. Fermín nearly goes bankrupt, but his Coalition succeeds in expelling Cayo. He escapes Peru, leaving his mistress Hortensia “the Muse” broke. She was also Fermín’s previous mistress, and she blackmails Fermín to “get back on her feet”. She was later killed in her apartment. Santiago’s boss is an experienced journalist with many underground connections, and together they investigate the story, to find Fermín behind the murder. Santiago has a nervous breakdown. Losing faith in everything, he makes up with his family. However, the author later reveals that Fermín’s driver Ambrosio committed the murder on his own accord, out of loyalty. Ambrosio is the person with whom Santiago is having a conversation in the Cathedral bar, trying to figure out at what point in his life he fucked himself up.

Santiago was an idealist boy, leftist, lover of literature. When his dad fishes him out of prison, something in him extinguishes. He feels incoherent: he can’t fight for communism while taking advantage of his government-sourced privilege. This is the reason Santiago explicitly gives us, but I believe otherwise. He’s disillusioned because he realizes his revolution, his ideal, is only a children’s game in the eyes of politicians like Fermín and Cayo. “Let them play the revolution game,” Don Cayo says. They never saw Santiago’s group as worthy of their attention, never thought their voice worthy of hearing. They just throw them sloppily into jail. Only the revolt of their fellow senators mattered to them.

He breaks with his family and becomes a journalist, drinking to his own sorrows with Carlitos, on a road towards a mediocre life as revealed in the beginning of the book, a life which I could not put into words better than Trainspotting. This life pains him, but only discretely, suppressed most of the time until too many beers washes away the invisible painkiller, and leaves him throbbing in the Cathedral.

[Trainspotting end monologue]

HOWEVER. This lucky privileged young man still has a family that loves him. His brother and sister go through troubles to find where he lives, and they have some friendly siblings’ nights out, catching up on family matters, which warms my heart. Not to mention Fermín who dropped all work within 30 minutes of Santiago’s call to meet him and make up with him. Vargas Llosa could have depicted a mean, unloving family that forces Santiago to be religious and conservative and “good”, but no one really did that. He instead brought out the side of conservativism that values family. I can’t help being touched by the complex love and hate within this family (digression: the same way I love the Skywalkers).

There are other compelling characters in the book. I’ll talk about them next time.