Skip to main content

The House of the Spirits

I am so sorry that I didn't bring my laptop with me, because I ended up working late and know once I reach home my energy will give out, and there will be no editing. I have assigned myself instead a portion of The House of the Spirits, my third attempt on Isabel Allende.

I listened to Portrait in Sepia on audio. I liked it, but I think I would have been too fatigued by the prose to read it. Daughter of Fortune, of which Sepia was the sequel, I never could advance past page 10. I am taking on The House of the Spirits, and have reached page 20. Since it is part of my writer's assignment to myself, I'll read it on days like today, when I can't manage to work on writing.

Comments.

The South-American fantasists, Isabel Allende and Jorge Luis Borges.

So much narrative, so much back story, so much past-perfect tense. It's exhausting. What is the intent? I have often felt demeaned by the constraint of present convention, of describing the scene as it unfolds, movie-style. Allende is flaunting opposition to this openly, regressing perhaps to the style of the 18th-century gothic, where back-story, "telling," and long paragraphs make for an exhausting read. Now that I have read so many more of those, I think I am having an easier time with The House of the Spirits.

What is "telling?" Am I less engrossed in the story because so much of it is narrative? Unlike the 18th-century stories the narrative is punctuated by startling similes and details that capture my attention. I feel removed from the characters, not engrossed.

Fantastical beasts provide an apocalyptic sense. Clara's sister embroiders fantastical beasts into a tablecloth, while Clara has visions and owns a dog that grows to enormous size, with a very long tail. Borges wrote an encyclopedia of fantastical beasts. Characteristic of South American fantasists?

The only thing I have finished of Allende's is a short story called "The Goat-girl," about a girl who was part-goat and put to live in a yard. I edited a photo of myself with my goat into a smeary black and white and put in on MySpace some time ago, calling it "The Goat-girl," but no one really attended that.

In conclusion, I love the South American fantasists, want to read more of them, but their work is very hard to read. Borges' nonlinear fiction, The Garden of Forking Paths, I'm not sure I can take on. When I opened it it looked a lot like Finnegans Wake to me.

Popular posts from this blog

The secret to a happy home

I finished Marion Harland's guide tonight and I wonder ceaselessly at two things. 1. She is so down on America! Even more than I am. She complains of things in which I am so well-steeped I could not see them for what they were. In particular, American style and cookery. It is true that our food, which we count as so much more generous in portion than the overseas counterpart, is as coarse and indecorous as it is plentiful, but as an American woman I cast up my hands and declare I would rather spend my time on something else. She makes an interesting point about American women's fashions. In France women wear what looks good on them, and in America women wears what comes off the manufacturing line in the latest style. It is very conformist, and I have to admit I feel it in myself, for I would be embarrassed to wear something that is "out" even if it flattered me better. 2. Harland's other point I feel clearly from last night's experiences. I looked in my journ...

Sprouts

Sprouts Originally uploaded by ladyhildegarde . I am getting sprouts. Hopefully they are carnations. It is such a beautiful spring day. It's good I'm taking the chance to come outside: I have craved a moment to reflect on something beautiful.

Poor sleep and bad dreams

I had a bad time of it last night. Going on two weeks now, I haven't felt right. I think though I don't talk about it that I haven't been right since I found out about Mrs. Mark. Lately I have been awakened in the middle of the night by Jonah's frights. I have to turn on the lights to check on him, and this normally wakes me up thoroughly. I can't not check on him because the thought that he might have hurt himself keeps me awake. Last night he was on the perch and the other two were on the floor, looking frightened. Why's my bird have to be such a pain in the ass? Why do I love him almost more than any other living thing? And I don't dream in my sleep so much as think, and it's never of anything calming: either of an error in one of my projects, or something just gruesome.