The House of Spirits – Isabel Allende

Am I being overly harsh or is this book simply not of the same standard as Paula? The answer is that maybe I’ve just completely outgrown magical realism (which is sad, because back in the day I had loved A Hundred Years of Solitude so very much).

I honestly think that, had it not been for Clara’s extra sensory abilities, I would have enjoyed the novel a lot more. And I would have probably also liked it better if the characters weren’t ultimately representations of various social and political groups (and periods) in Chilean history (the roman à clef as a genre often gets a bit on my nerves). And the fact that Allende also openly declares that Blanca never married Pedro Tercero because she didn’t love him enough just stings – the guy deserved better.

But then again, most of this probably applies only to 85% of the book, because from the moment Alba gets arrested the novel gains massively in literary, political and moral weight (although it’s really too bad that Allende picked the allegoric name of Alba/Dawn for the character that is meant to symbolize hope for the future – think outside the box!)

The Lovely Bones – Alice Sebold

Yet another book from the local farm – having read and really enjoyed The Almost Moon I had absolutely no doubts about buying The Lovely Bones, in particular considering it was a not-so-exorbitant 50p…

This is overall a very enjoyable read, though predictably at times fairly heart-breaking for a young father. When its magic tones are kept (relatively) in check it is really rather endearing – after all it reads like the daydream of a teenager who wishes she could be invisible in order to see how others behave without her. And the description of heaven is, for want of a better term, really “cute”.

The problem, for me, is when the aforementioned magic tones unleash their full power – I saw no need for Susie to come back to earth thanks to Ruth’s “gift”. Or maybe I’m just too much of a manly man: cause I don’t care about Susie being re-united in one way or another with Ray (I actually would have preferred for that not to happen) and I am kind of bothered by this mellow and romantic  scene, but man do I love seeing Shoeless Joe Jackson and his teammates come out of the corn in Field of Dreams…

Dona Flor and her Two Husbands – Jorge Amado

Probably the book that, more than any other, has made me reconsider my relation with magical realism. I read this after coming back from our honeymoon in Brazil, and my huge expectations were simply not met.  For the first hundred pages or so, the descriptions of the surreal daily life in the Pelourinho (Salvador’s historic centre) are funny and entertaining – but after more than four hundred pages this definitely grows old.

Vadinho is an interesting character, probably more so than the titular Dona Flor, but that’s simply not enough to carry a book of this size, and even his phantasmagorical apparitions become stale quite quickly. And it’s such a shame that I can’t appreciate the author of the books that were the first gift from my dad to my mom (and also, according to the former, the main reason why she agreed to go out with him in the first place). 

The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis – José Saramago

I have the feeling I should have read some of Pessoa’s work before actually starting this book. Then again, my mother tried and found him utterly unreadable, and I kind of trust her blindly when it comes to literature (and, sort of, life in general I guess). The book is as beautifully written as it gets. Yet, my problems with anything remotely magical-realistic very much remain. Again, I probably should have read this book ten years ago.

Ricardo Reis is an endearing character much like Antonio Tabucchi’s Pereira is (or is it just the Portuguese atmosphere that surrounds the characters that makes me put the two together?), but if you have to patiently accept your death in a dream-like passage, I would suggest going through the corn in a field in Iowa with Shoeless Joe Jackson, rather than walking with Fernando Pessoa to his graveyard. 

One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel García Márquez

I read this book when I was 16, on a school trip in which I was trying to get my mind off of the girl who was destroying my heart (or maybe I was doing it to prove to her how much of an intellectual I was – either way, it didn’t work).

To this day, there are still so many passages that I quote time and again: the discovery of ice, Remedios ascending to heaven, Mauricio Babilonia’s butterflies, the seventeen Aurelianos, everything around Melquiades, José Arcadio’s chestnut tree, and countless others.

And still this isn’t a book that I would like to re-read. I’m not sure if it’s just me or magical realism is generally out-grown by the time one turns 25. It’s one of my favourite books, yet I’m afraid that revisiting it might destroy my memories of it.

Beloved – Toni Morrison

A book that was left behind by a neighbour. Had it not been for this fortuitous find, I would have probably read Song of Solomon or Jazz before reading Beloved.

For once, I don’t quite know what to say about this book, as I have the feeling that, being a white European, all my comments would be out of place. But let’s try anyway (after all, if Spike Lee allowed himself to presumptuously direct an awful movie about the Italian Resistance, I can write a few lousy lines on a book about slavery, after my little disclaimer).

Beloved is undoubtedly very touching, but, as has been happening for years with me, I have my problems with magical realism. To put it simply, I just want realism, in particular when what is being described is a reality that I’m not familiar with. I’m probably too set in my ways and analytical, but I want to know who Beloved actually is (I want Sethe to believe she is her daughter, but I want an omniscient narrator telling me where she’s actually coming from), more details about the schoolteacher, and a clearer description of Paul D’s long walk.

I am really glad I’ve read this book, I just don’t think I’ve made the most it.