Book Review

Thanks to LNJ's recommendations, I've just finished reading Arturo Perez Reverte's The Seville Communion. This is an excellent novel, which came as no surpise to me after thoroughly enjoying Reverte's The Flanders Panel (props to LNJ for the gifting on that). Reverte crafts intricate stories with complex characters and finely-detailed locales. The wealth of details makes me believe that Reverte does his research and knows of what he speaks, though I haven't attempted to verify this myself. Kudos must also be extended to his translator, Sonia Soto, since the English never sounds stilted or odd. Wanting to read these in the original language of the author, however, simply adds to my desire to learn Spanish! Here's an example of Reverte's evocative prose:

"He sat on a bench and looked at the church for a long time. Nearby, bells rang; the swifts and pigeons took wing and then settled back on the eaves. The moon had disappeared, but the stars were still visible, twinkling icily. At daybreak it grew colder, and the priest's muscles and back began to ache. At peace now, he watched the light grow in the east. The nearby clock struck again, and once more the birds flew. The pink glow pushing the night toward the other side of the city, the clear outline of the belfry, the roof, the eaves around the square - all signaled the arrival of day. Cocks crowed, because Seville was the kind of city where cocks still crowed at dawn. Quart got up, as if waking from a long dream."

One of the aspects I particularly enjoyed about The Seville Communion was the occasional allusion to other Reverte works - the character of the art dealer Montegrifo from The Club Dumas and a very brief mention of the painting that plays a pivotal role in The Flanders Panel. I really appreciate authors who self-reference from time to time, since it's like an inside joke or understanding with their regular readers. Too many self-references, however, can be annoying and off-putting, but Reverte never crosses that line.

On the other hand, another recently-borrowed book from the library should be avoided at all costs. Laurie Notaro's Autobiography of a Fat Bride: True Tales of a Pretend Adulthood pulled me in with the wry bio on the back cover, which seemed to announce a tongue-in-cheek look at the author's transition from single to couple. Unfortunately, however, the author sets the tone at a high level of extreme and never comes down. I don't often not finish a book, but I just couldn't take anymore of this one after paragraphs like this:

"After discovering that my backup boyfriend's roommate was not merely a former girlfriend but a size-six, raven-haired beauty with not one, single freckle and a flawless complexion, I decided to cut my stay short by a couple of days. When I realized that she was from FRANCE, pronounced my name 'Loh-wee!' and got regularly manicured, I folded my hand and hopped on the next flight home. I had already lost out to a dog girl; there was no way I was going head-to-head with a skinny little Frenchie with perfect nails and healthy skin who could eat troughs of cheese without the ramifications."

Self-deprecation as a writing style can be fine in small doses, but when it forms the foundation of the book and is accompanied by slams against almost every other character who enters the author's universe, it becomes no more than a lame attempt to compensate for a lack of true writing ability. The pretentious use of a subtitle should have warned me.

Trust me, stick with Reverte. You'll thank me for it.