The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon: A review

Hidden amid the back streets of Barcelona is the Cemetery of Lost Books, a repository of out-of-print books that have been salvaged by people who love them. It is there that on a trip with his bookseller father ten-year-old Daniel Sempere discovers a book called The Shadow of the Wind by Julian Carax. The book is given to him and he reads and rereads it. It thoroughly captures his imagination and he becomes obsessed with the writer. He wants to learn everything about him and to find other books he has written.

But as his investigation soon reveals, this may not be possible. It seems that the book that he has is the last surviving copy of that work. Carax's books are being sought out and destroyed by a strange figure who calls himself Lain Coubert. His life's work is to destroy all copies of Carax's books. The really strange thing is that Lain Coubert is the name of one of Carax's characters. In the book, it is the name of the Devil.

Daniel spends the next decade of his life following his obsession with Carax. He works to piece together the events of the writer's life and discover where he is if indeed he is still alive. His investigation comes to the attention of an enemy of Carax, a sadistic policeman who begins to take an unhealthy interest in Daniel's life as well.

In fact, as Daniel learns more about Carax, we learn that in many ways the lives of the two parallel each other. The main story takes place in Daniel's Barcelona, but through his inquiries, we discover Julian's pre-Spanish Civil War and World War II world. It was a time when aristocracy and one's family connections to it were everything and the ordinary people had few protections. But one thing they did have was mutual support as they looked out for and took care of each other. Their sense of community in the face of adversity was strong.

For me, this was one of the charms of this book, the writer's celebration of the accord and camaraderie that existed in the neighborhoods of Barcelona. In the face of tyranny, these people persevere and rescue their humanity and honor. And in all of the vicissitudes faced by the characters, books are a refuge. The Cemetery of Lost Books and the bookshop that Daniel and his father run are sanctuaries for those who love literature while those who support tyranny generally do not care for books if they read at all.

I confess I wanted to love this book. I moved it to the top of my reading queue when I heard of the recent untimely death of the author. It started well for me but as I read further, I began to be irritated by the wordiness of it. Zafon seemed incapable of using one word where ten or a hundred would serve. Added to that, the cast of characters soon seemed to encompass the entire population of Barcelona and I found it hard to keep all the relationships straight.

Also, the book didn't quite seem to know what it wanted to be. A coming-of-age tale? A thriller? An unlikely love story? And throughout there was also a touch of the supernatural. Books don't necessarily have to fit into neat categories or genres, but a clear vision and purpose is a helpful guide to the reader.

By the time I got to the very, very long post mortem letter by one of the characters that explains all the mysteries of Julian Carax's life, I really didn't care any longer. I just wanted to get it over with. I'm disappointed that I couldn't love it as much as many of the reviewers that I've read.

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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