Carlos Fuentes, 1962.
My edition of the book was a hardcover from the local public library, and the inside dust jacket blurb started with: "This is a novel in the grand style..".
And indeed it is, covering the themes of war, corruption, love and loss through the lens of modern Mexican history.
It has the flavor of something like the Russian novels: Doctor Zhivago (although not as classical or lyrical), or War and Peace (although not as long :0 ). And even a bit of Hemingway. In that sense it feels dated -- on the other hand, a novel like this had to be written for Mexico.
The narrative consists of the disjointed, scrambled reminiscences of the title character on his deathbed. He is obviously a fabulously wealthy, powerful, corrupt man. But he is also wonderfully truthful and clear-eyed, and superbly contemptuous of his scheming wife and daughter. Over the course of the novel we piece together his amazing story, from a soldier in a rag-tag army, through desertion, betrayal, blackmail, and repression to loveless old age. Fuentes does a masterful job in presenting the narrator in shades of gray, as repulsive and frightening, yet sympathetic and a man worthy of respect in some fashion.
There were a few sections which were jarring -- where modernism and Hemingway/Mailer reared their ugly heads anachronistically in the middle of the "grand style". For example, an entire section where every third word is "fuck" or one of its derivatives.
Toward the end, though, I tired of the story. The trajectory was clear, and the constant jumps in time were wearying. Less would have been a lot more.
3*
Apr 2012
My edition of the book was a hardcover from the local public library, and the inside dust jacket blurb started with: "This is a novel in the grand style..". And indeed it is, covering the themes of war, corruption, love and loss through the lens of modern Mexican history.
It has the flavor of something like the Russian novels: Doctor Zhivago (although not as classical or lyrical), or War and Peace (although not as long :0 ). And even a bit of Hemingway. In that sense it feels dated -- on the other hand, a novel like this had to be written for Mexico.
The narrative consists of the disjointed, scrambled reminiscences of the title character on his deathbed. He is obviously a fabulously wealthy, powerful, corrupt man. But he is also wonderfully truthful and clear-eyed, and superbly contemptuous of his scheming wife and daughter. Over the course of the novel we piece together his amazing story, from a soldier in a rag-tag army, through desertion, betrayal, blackmail, and repression to loveless old age. Fuentes does a masterful job in presenting the narrator in shades of gray, as repulsive and frightening, yet sympathetic and a man worthy of respect in some fashion.
There were a few sections which were jarring -- where modernism and Hemingway/Mailer reared their ugly heads anachronistically in the middle of the "grand style". For example, an entire section where every third word is "fuck" or one of its derivatives.
Toward the end, though, I tired of the story. The trajectory was clear, and the constant jumps in time were wearying. Less would have been a lot more.
3*
Apr 2012
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