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

New place

This is the second lunch I've passed in this downtown Barnes and Noble. I like this place. If I worked here I would undoubtedly come here for lunch. It is going to be hard forfeiting the hour and fifteen lunches, but normal life is less stressful than this. I am not cut out for city living. I still had driving troubles today. These one way streets are so difficult. I don't understand parking, and I like finding locations that I "cain't miss" from the road. Everything is so densely packed. Everyone else seems to have walked somewhere, but I celebrate lunchtime as the time to get as far away from the work as possble with as much comfort as possible, and Subway, I'm sorry, is not comfortable. Last night I slept from 7 p.m. to 5 a.m. when I had to call in. I have slept so much lately, but I feel in such a muddle. My head is pounding. If I were home I don't think I could put myself together enough to do any of my things. I really long to do things, too. Writing...

Gervaise

1789 Gervaise was the first one to enter Delphinia's bedchamber. Golden light spread through a crack in the white curtains, throwing a lacey pattern onto the silk-shrouded bed. Delphinia lay in the finest guest bedchamber in the castle. It had been converted from the room of the dowager Markgrafin upon her death. Though Gervaise's entrance was not quiet, there was no stirring in the midst of the great bed. Gently Gervaise laid down the tray of chocolate and great cinnamon rolls and approached the bed, pushing aside the curtain to view the prone figure there. Delphinia lay in a contorted state, her limbs drawn up against her protectively, looking like a frightened child, though she was in the depths of sleep. Her hair, dark-colored, the finer strands gilded and curling around her face and brow, was mangled, freed from its pins without a combing. She wore a loose white shift, no nightgown. Gervaise was not offended by disorder or carelessness, but Delphinia's disarray gave he...