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Silence, Sadness, Perpetual Solitude
A lively swing of events rolls into place at the beginning of the novel, full of musical brilliance, unknown voices, and objects scattered across empty spaces. This is a book of wavering stars. And in this midst of it all there is a shadow of contemplation which is the shadow of the main character, Natalia, flitting in the form of text across cigarette-like pages of ash and ink, carrying all of her sensitiveness and feminine daintiness across the scenes, and, with her own private reflections, uncovers the isolated mysteries of human life beneath its whirlpool of ordinary affairs. Continue reading
Posted in Home, Rodoreda
Tagged childhood, death, family, life, literature, love, memories, poverty, reality, reflection, relationships, Rodoreda, The Time of the Doves, war
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Review of Deep Rivers
The concept of cultural belonging pervades the beginning of the text, where he describes the appearance of the Old Man, enters the native city of Cuzco, and examines the stones of the Inca wall. The narrative style, which lies at the intersection between realism and stream-of-consciousness, deepens the effect of his memories as a symbol of his attachment to intuition and subsequent rejection of straightforward logic, contributing to a dream-like journey into the heart of the Andes. Continue reading
we are at once conscious of the unspeakable absurdities of life
With the first chapter of the book we are at once conscious of the unspeakable absurdities of life, of a thumping rhythm of isolation carrying its beat across desolate roads, into unsolved conflicts, and through crowds of unknown faces, leading us towards some sort of brighter establishment of purpose towards which the trajectory of our lives are directed. Continue reading
Posted in Home, Laforet
Tagged family, fiction, Laforet, life, literature, Nada, poverty, reality, reflection, relationships
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Incarnate Memories and Foregone Love Stories
Right from the beginning that is a sense of significance in the seemingly trivial, like the falling of rain, and a glimmer of existential beauty to be found in repetition, exhaustion, and freedom from logic. If inexplicitness was a literary principle, this text would have passed with flying colours. It is a cruel master of portraying the impossible, a maestro of describing things not as they purely are but rather as what they seem to be, which involves infinite digressions on how it makes a certain character feel, which, almost inevitably, revives inner memories and sensations associated with it. Continue reading
Posted in Bombal, Home
Tagged Bombal, death, life, love, memory, nostalgia, reality, relationships, The Time of the Doves
3 Comments
NEBULOSITY
Confusing. Figuring things out not by their form but by the convoluted trails of meaning formed by dense sentences, juxtaposing verses, and half-conscious dreams. This book is a forest of question marks. “I am no puzzle-maker, no wizard of chess, no physician of letters. I am only a p-poor, poor reader!” But the author lies silent. He has died. The pages are silent, but so full. And from its fullness, I am at once informed of the fact that life is hard, very hard, and that instead of shedding shy tears like a shameful dove on a solitary perch, I should simply continue with the task at hand. Continue reading
Posted in Breton, Home, My Favorite Reviews
Tagged absurdity, Breton, identity, life, literature, love, Nadja, reality, surrealism
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proustian rant on proust
As I have expected (from having seen glimpses of the book here and there in my distant past), this is one of the most beautiful texts that I have encountered, and, with every line, I feel that keen jolt of pleasure from reading which informs me of the prestige in his use of words and structure of language in the representation of the human experience. Continue reading
introduction
I am compelled to think that to write an introduction about oneself may fall into two broad categories: A long-drawn, soul-searching analysis on the self and one’s innermost feelings, or a small paragraph simply introducing conventional facts, such as one’s name, school, and year of study. Since the former would be too novel, and the latter perhaps too plain, this is my attempt to write something which could be defined as a midpoint between the two. Continue reading