I originally had no idea how
this random book made its way onto my bookshelves. Turns out it was an old book
my wife bought during her college days in the US, then brought down with her to
Bolivia, was boxed and shipped to Brazil after her family moved there, and
finally found its way to London after she went down to South America on an
extended visit. The book has been around, and it shows – it’s covered with foxing
stains and its pages seem to hold together by pure coincidence.
I had never heard of it (my
bad, as usual, as a self-critical white European male) and had no expectations.
Given its size, I figured I could read it during one of my daughters’ rare naps
and, for once, did it without reading “around it” on the web beforehand. Judging
by its cover, synopsis and vignette structure, I assumed the book would be raw,
unpolished and rough, and the read would feel scattered and intermittent. And
it was. But the book was also intriguing, well-written and, in a way,
eye-opening.
So I’m really glad I invested
little more than hour reading this. I have read very little non-white North
American literature and this book was a very welcome change – I wouldn’t go as
far as saying that it’s one of my favourite books, but, despite its frequent
violence, it felt like a nice bit of fresh air. Oddly enough, I also think that
some of its stylistic shortcomings (I’m not quite sure vignettes can make for
great literature, for instance) were simultaneously some of its most
interesting tracts.
