Book 3: My Brilliant Friend, by Elena Ferrante
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I managed to go without hearing of this book until a couple months ago, when the Times published their list of the 100 best books of the century so far; this one headed the list with what seems to be unanimous praise.
And I’d say it lives up to the hype; Ferrante’s prose is simple, direct and propulsive, but still carries a certain beauty. You really come to feel that the apartments/village these girls live in is their entire world. My only gripe is I wish I’d bought a physical copy; the cast of characters is deceptively large, and I’d have flipped to the character list more often (flipping is prohibitive on an ebook reader!).
Book 4: You Dreamed of Empires, by Alvaro Enrigue
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This popped up on my radar as one of NYT’s best books of 2024, and the description sounded up my alley: an alternate history retelling of the meeting of Moctezuma and Hernando Cortez, told with Borges-ian surrealism and recognition that the conquistadors probably didn’t wipe their asses well.
The book itself is a bit different from that description; Enrigue sort of paints a portrait of the days and moments before and after the meeting; and while the book is structured with sections before, during, and after a nap taken by Moctezuma, the narrative constantly flits about these moments with little distinction given the reader. Along with this and an adherence to cultural lingo as well as a complete lack of quotation marks and paragraph breaks between speakers, it’s hard to get one’s arms around what’s happening in the book.
The effect is a deliberately confusing, psychedelic mess. I’m glad I stuck it out, but I’m still wrestling with the overall effect.
Book 5: Orbital, by Samantha Harvey
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This seemed up my alley: literate, emotional, scientific fiction. Harvey presents a portrait of six astronauts in orbit as they contemplate their relationships with the Pale Blue Dot, shifted via new perspective.
Unfortunately, the prose is claggy, and Harvey can’t help but append each detail with a list of more details, repeated details, repetitive details; there’s a wordcount-padding sense that if you’re going to mention a kitchen, you’d best mention the refrigerator, stove, cupboard, dishwasher, sink. I don’t know if there’s a name for the rhetorical device of calling something “big and small,” or “everything and nothing,” but it really clangs when you see it on every page:
Every page is like this.