Carolina Novo
this was one of those books I only discovered after wandering around the bookstore for hours, waiting for something to catch my eye and beg to be taken home. this one shouted at me - with its title, cover, premise - and I’m so glad I listened. Andrea does something absolutely incredible, something I’ve also recognized in other authors like Layla Martinez and Irene Solà: she writes in a way I’ve simply never, ever seen before.
It’s striking how these women manage to write from the gut; more, with their guts - that’s really what it is. they spill their pain, love, rage, disgust, and violence onto the page exactly as they felt and feel it, with no filter or polish, as if they opened up their stomachs and laid everything bare in front of us, without shame or flinching. that’s how we end up with works like this, unlike anything else — in my opinion. they speak to us face-to-face, in the language of our childhoods and teenage years, or of our aunts and grandmothers, our mothers or the old women of the village.
the author doesn't just tell a story - she creates a world so solid, so close to the one we know (yet with its own peculiarities) that it’s impossible to pass through it to the other side, it’s too thick, too dense. the language and form in this book are brilliant too: a mix of the popular people and from the teenagers who live far from everything and slowly learn about the world through "méssejer" and other ways that bring news, bit by bit, to places where nothing moves or changes, not even the wind.
preserving the unique ways of speaking in the Canary Islands isn’t just a valuable and remarkable political or social act of rebelion - it's literary gold. and here, the excellent translation work must be also acknowledged. the collaboration between the Portuguese and Spanish translators resulted, in my opinion, in one of the best translations I’ve ever read. sure, I didn’t read the original, and I know nothing about translation, but I know that I never once felt like I was reading one (which often happens to me), and at a certain point, I honestly forgot I wasn’t reading Andrea Abreu’s exact, original, words.
the author has been compared to Ferrante, and I get why - it's especially obvious in the friendship-competition-desire dynamic between the female protagonists (Isora and the narrator here, Lila and Elena in Ferrante). I have to say - and maybe this is just a personal thing - that this kind of dynamic isn’t really my favorite thing; in fact, it makes me deeply uncomfortable (which I suppose is partly the point).
maybe it’s because I was once the kind of kid who would “jump off the bridge if she told me to” for my best friend, but I find it hard to relate to the “leaders” of these pairs — Lila and Isora, and their meaningless and casual cruelty. I know the complexity and violence in these relationships is intentional (and masterfully crafted), but it always makes me feel a bit more distant from the characters.
that’s probably one of the only things I “liked less” about the book, although obviously, it’s completely personal and tied to my own feelings, haha. additionally, I just feel like the characters (all of them, really) are so rich that they deserved a bit more development, and that the real ending of the story comes just before the final page. I think it would’ve been stronger if it had ended slightly earlier.
still, I’m giving it five stars — because, once again, I’ve never seen anything like it, and I’m in love with Andrea.
sinto que acabei de ler exatamente o que queria encontrar escrito por uma autora portuguesa contemporânea. encontrei a terra, as mulheres que têm nas mãos o sangue e os calos, as casas da aldeia de cortinas fechadas para que não se veja mais nada, já se viu demais. a Susana agarra com as duas mãos, molda as personagens, dá-lhes não só silhueta mas olhos, dentes, entranhas. são reais, sujas, domésticas. e se o que descreve é cru, violento, feio, aberrante, a escrita dela vai na direção contrária, como (penso que) deve ser. narrar o monstruoso, o que se esconde nos buracos com a mesma poética e beleza que se fala de ameixas a balançar com a brisa do verão. os únicos pontos menos positivos, foram, para mim, a relação de Fred e Laura - que me pareceu a mais próxima de ser banal, e que não senti como particularmente relevante -, e o final que achei muito bom mas também um pouco apressado. penso que teria sido ainda mais incrível se ardesse mais lentamente, como o resto do livro. mas. mas quero um livro sobre cada uma das personagens, especialmente a Luz, a Lena, o homem dos caixões, a Miranda. tantas casas para varrer e limpar e destapar.
Freya had her tidal year - a year, following her brother's death, during which she compromised to swimming in every tidal pool in England, along with her friend Miri. I know that we always find a bit of ourselves in everything we read; that the things others feel are always mirrors of what we, too, had felt at some point. So, I was aware, naturally, that while I hadn't, thank god, lost someone as intrinsically close as a brother, and had never swam in a tidal pool, the book was going to resonate with me. I just didn't know to which extent. Sure everyone has a tidal year – one of those when we feel like drowning and suffocating at the same time, when we are overcome by grief and sadness for whatever we've lost, and days last forever, grim and thick. I saw my 2024, somehow, in Freya's year, and, with that, I felt we also left the water together at the end.
passei metade a odiar, metade a adorar, metade sem perceber, mas este homem apanha-me sempre de alguma forma
tudo o que seja sobre família é, à partida, o meu tipo de livro. mas este desiludiu-me um pouco. talvez (também) por ter lido em português (sinto que o espanhol lhe teria dado mais carne e sumo), parece ser superficial em algumas análises - melhor, não nas análises, mas na forma como são descritas. penso que Sara Mesa compreende muito bem as famílias, a claustrofobia delas, mas, na minha opinião, passou-o de uma forma algo leve, sem muito por onde agarrar. nada disto tem a ver como a não-linearidade da narrativa e a troca de narradores, de que gostei muito, nem mesmo com a incompletude de muitas narrativas - a vida é mesmo assim, às vezes acaba-se e não se sabe bem como e porquê, para onde foi aquela pessoa, como está aquela casa -, que me cativa. tem, por outro lado, a ver com a sensação de que o potencial ficou por cumprir, que as personagens e a família não são aprofundadas o suficiente, e as feridas causadas pelo ambiente doméstico - que são, supostamente, o foco - não as vemos nas personagens à medida que crescem. ficamos com as ações dos pais para com os filhos quando eram crianças, mas depois os filhos desaparecem e os pais também, e sinto que não se explora mais para que “serviu” tudo o que é, inicialmente, descrito como acontecendo na família. quero ler mais da Sara Mesa, acho que ela tem tudo para que me apaixone por ela, mas este livro parece, de certo modo, ter acabado quando ainda estava a começar.
they say to Ona at some point – you should write about your mother, your mother's sisters, your grandmothers. you already have everything you need to write.
they were right, of course. and I'm so glad Elizabeth Acevedo was also told that at some point, and decided to write this beautiful, beautiful novel.
Demorei um mês exato a ler este livro, e acabei-o no dia 8 de março - o que talvez não signifique nada. Acabei de o ler no dia 8 de março, que é dia da mulher. É também um dia com um significado especial na família, de fim e renascimento. Um dia em que um ano salvámos alguém e noutro perdemos outro alguém. 8 de março. Talvez não signifique nada, mas talvez signifique muito. Porque é impossível olhar para a vida da mesma forma depois de ler este livro. Tem mais de 700 paginas e não tirava uma única; pelo contrário, só queria que continuasse, continuasse, continuasse. Foi demasiado cedo para não sabermos mais nada da Tali, da Rosario, do Juan, do Gaspar e do Estebán. Queria que nunca acabasse.
3.5
absolutely loved Ottessa's writing and ideas, and was very captivated by the strange, violent and disturbing setting and atmosphere (that is pretty much my cup of tea), but can't help to feel that something is missing. would have loved if the book went deeper into religion and spirituality, their contradictions, and explored more of that raw and primitive human condition that he author introduces so well. also, I understand that the characters are made to be unlikable (and believe me, they are), but they also feel a bit like caricatures (particularly Villiam) which I don't love. nonetheless, I am already an Ottessa's fan and feel that what she writes is very different from everything that I have encountered before. this girl has a troubled mind and I love her for that. it's weird because I didn't love the book and yet I am feeling obsessed by the author. good thing I guess
ps: Marek's character just reassured me that I don't want children. if you read the book you know
apetece-me berrar e berrar e encontrar a Layla e ir ao pueblo da Layla e lá ficar, mas não podendo, fico só aqui a ter a certeza que este é um dos melhores livros que já li. é um dos meus livros preferidos.
as minhas avaliações são sempre muito mais pessoais do que analíticas ou de crítica literária, portanto têm a validade que têm - mas. mas este é simultaneamente o livro que eu queria ter escrito, que tento, em grande parte, escrever, e o livro que eu queria ter lido. não é fácil encontrar exatamente o livro que se quer ler, ou ler-se um livro e ele ser exatamente o que se queria, mas aqui está ele. há várias coisas a dizer; sendo que começo por repetir uma delas - queria que isto fosse meu. mais meu, pelo menos. queria chegar mais perto, porque Layla escreve tão bem que nos faz chegar tão, tão perto, mas não é suficiente, queremos mais. outra coisa: há sempre aqueles livros, que por razões muito diferentes, ao longo dos anos, quando acabados, deixam a sensação de “agora não vou encontrar nada igual para ler, e se não é igual não quero”. alguns desses, para mim, foram a saga do Harry Potter (a pedra filosofal foi o primeiro livro que li, a sério, o primeiro livro depois dos livros de crianças), o ensaio sobre a cegueira e o memorial do convento, o remorso de baltazar serapião, do Valter Hugo Mãe, o the virgin suicides, do Jeffrey Eugenides, o crossroads do Franzen, o você nunca mais vai ficar sozinha, da Tati Bernardi, o lisboa, luanda, paraíso, da Djaimilia Pereira de Almeida, o oranges are not the only fruit, de Jeanette Winterson, o conto heat, da Joyce Carol Oates. são alguns, apenas, outros existem, mas estes aqui ficam para que Carcoma se possa juntar a estas obras que são corpos gigantes e pesados no meio da (minha) história; há um antes e um depois.
a narrativa, de trauma intergeracional, classe social, justiça, vingança, de bruxas, de enterros e desenterros, de homens em buracos e paredes, de aldeias, avós e netas e mães, de fantasmas de cada uma delas e fantasmas de espanha e do fascismo é tão bem contada que parece simples. mas não é simples, é só tão orgânica, carnal, crua, popular (digo, do povo, da terra, da aldeia, mesmo), desmascarada, que se cola à pele, que quando damos conta já é pele. Layla fala de entranhas e de como casas e famílias e entranhas são tudo parte do mesmo, e quando damos por nós também lá estamos, também nos abriram e meteram no meio das entranhas delas, somos as avós e as mães e as filhas e as sombras também. assim se fazem as famílias, destes rasgos e enchimentos. a autora faz de nós parte da família assim, rasgando-nos e cosendo-nos de volta.
não me parece haver outra forma de escrever sobre tudo isto sem ser como Layla o escreveu, e, digo também, não me parece poder ser escrito noutra língua que não o espanhol, exceto talvez o português (o volver, de Almodóvar, não podia ser de outro lugar senão de Espanha, não podia ser noutro idioma que não o castelhano). é algo que só se pode escrever assim, junto à terra, pegados ao chão, nestas cozinhas onde as abuelas nos fazem a mesma sopa até ao fim, e acho que só poderia entender essas palavras se escritas nestas duas línguas (que me perdoem todos os outros idiomas que não conheço e serão maravilhosos; não sei explicar este pensamento). talvez esta seja a review menos útil de sempre, mas finalizo dizendo que terminei o livro e pensei entendi, Layla, e não porque compreendi todas as palavras ou referências mas porque sei daquilo que ela fala, sei de onde ela fala, sei onde é, sei como é estar lá. de alguma forma ela falou de algo que algumas de nós conhecemos bem; ninguém o diz muito alto, mas conhecemos.
There's so many good things about this book — the precise, wonderful way it is written, the character development, the narrative arch, the language, and how Spanish and English blend together through it. But, finishing it, I was left with such an overwhelming warm and longing feeling, and that's what I recall best right now. It's one of those stories which is so humane that it just hugs you, makes you cry and laugh, and when it is over, leaves that innocent, almost childish feeling of ‘Oh, I'm gonna miss them'. And it's true — I've fallen deeply for Yolanda, Angel, Amadeo, Connor, and I just wanted to know more and more about them, about Las Penas, the rites of love and salvation and pain in this community of New Mexico. This is why we read, mostly, isn't it?
I knew I was going to love this book even before reading it. There is something very incredible in the way Franzen is able to create such detailed, complex and flawed characters and yet portray them without any judgment. He lets us decide what we think about them, and, as the story changes, our perceptions of these people change as well. He is as great with details and plot advances as he is with the bigger themes. I will just say that no other book was made me think so much about spirituality, morality, and faith. The last 100 pages or so disappointed me a bit, however, and to me, they were unsatisfactory when compared with the rest of the book. But let's wait for the rest of the trilogy; there's still a lot to know. Franzen truly is deconstructing mythologies - not only the universal ones, but the ones holding our lives together.
not always very easy to read (for me, particularly, because of the great amount of the references that Levy puts forward), but incredibly interesting. it is an autobiographical piece, as it is a philosophical one, and made me think about concepts that I had never thought about before. above all, I think that I read this book at a stage of my life where I share a lot of preoccupations with Levy, even though she is more than thirty years older than me - what's our real estate (real or imagined), what we inherit (the good and the bad), what we own, how can we build our homes (not only our houses) throughout our lives, and what we will leave for the ones who'll continue here after we leave.
this was unlike everything I've read before. it is somehow a collection of memories, a chaotic surrealist piece of autofiction, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. it was hard to follow Cooper's writing, sometimes, but, nonetheless, I think he did a great job capturing love, and, more than that, the obsession to be loved by someone we do love. and also what it feels to spend a whole existence trying to make sense of your feelings for someone and knowing that probably no one will see beyond that person's flaws and very perturbed behaviour. it felt desperate. by the end, Cooper says that he is writing only for George and that we are his witnesses or the admirers of this whole story. I think one can feel that, indeed, that the book is entirely for the man he had loved his entire life, and not to serve other literary purposes. it's a heart-breaking and dark eulogy.
a sinopse deste livro não lhe faz justiça, ele é muito mais lindo do que promete ser à primeira vista. sobre ser mãe, filha, mulher. não sou mãe mas sei que se um dia for vou-me lembrar da Tati.
“When you're looking for love and it seems like you might not ever find it, remember you probably have access to an abundance of it already, just not the romantic kind. This kind of love might not kiss you in the rain or propose marriage. But it will listen to you, inspire and restore you. It will hold you when you cry, celebrate when you're happy, and sing All Saints with you when you're drunk. You have so much to gain and learn from this kind of love. You can carry it with you forever. Keep it as close to you as you can.”
I had this book on a shelf at my parents' house for around seven years. I remember starting reading it at the time and hating it (honestly don't remember why). I grabbed it recently and the experience couldn't have been more different. I haven't read something so plot-driven in a long time, with so many twists and turns, and although I usually prefer slower-paced books, more character-driven, this really really caught my attention and made me really happy. “This book restores your faith in fiction”, it says on the front cover. And it really does. What a lovely, warm read.
took me three years to read but it was worth it. what a beautiful and clever analysis of those times and places where the personal clashes with the political (well, it always does) and history and histories are changed forever. how to write politics without writing non fiction, that is something that Anna Burns does really well. it's a wonderfully written story (for me, at least, I understand that many people aren't fans of the obsessive stream of consciousness, but I love it) story about the many lives that occur while your country and your own life might be ending at any time.
