Customer Reviews

The House of Paper

5 star:		(7)
4 star:		(3)
3 star:		(1)
2 star:		(0)
1 star:		(0)

 

 

This small novel is big in spirit and imagination. Beautifully illustrated and delightfully translated, it is a cautionary tale of a bibliophile who moves into his obsession. Its Kafka meets Conrad literary devices are splendid. But they do keep the tale cerebral-- leaving the reader to find their own emotional reaction and provoking an exploration of one's devotions, life and loves. That is this little story's big gift.

This short literary novel explores themes which academicians have discussed for generations--the relationship between reality and language, the belief that creating a library is akin to creating a life, the idea that books can take on a life of their own, and the obsessive collection of books and reverence for them. Creating an allegory of the literary world and its complications, Dominguez tells what appears to be a simple story--part mystery, part satire, and part quest.

When Bluma Lennon, a professor at Cambridge and a Joseph Conrad scholar, is hit by a car while crossing the street, she had been reading Emily Dickinson. Several months later, a copy of Conrad's The Shadow Line, coated in cement, arrives at her former address from "Carlos," a man she had met at a conference in Latin America. The unnamed narrator of the story, originally from Buenos Aires (as was Jorge Luis Borges), returns to Buenos Aires and eventually travels to Montevideo in search of Carlos Brauer, a former lover of Bluma, and the owner of an extraordinary collection of books.

As the narrator travels to meet scholars and antiquarian book sellers, he acquires additional information about Brauer, who has apparently gone mad. After accidentally setting the index of his books on fire and being unable to find anything in his weirdly organized collection, he moves to the sea and builds a house from bricks pressed from the waterlogged books in his collection. Conrad's The Shadow Line, the book he has returned to Bluma, is obviously from this damaged collection, and the symbolism of this book and its themes of a man's rejection of his youthful illusions, the belief in the sea as a healer, and the search for self-knowledge help explain Brauer's life.

Though the novel is carefully written, its self-consciously literary approach and its use of allegory and satire keep the attention on the intellectual, rather than emotional, level. The themes dominate the novel, and the reader must constantly ask what the unfolding events mean or represent as the parallels and conflicts between "real life" and the life of books unfold. Characters are more symbolic than real, and their behavior often becomes a satire of their academic lives. Erudite and clever, the novel exists on its own terms, rather than through any emotional connection with the reader, and it sometimes feels ponderous. n Mary Whipple

This novella begins with a singular example of how books change people's fates. Bluma Lennon, an academic, is killed as she steps from a sidewalk immersed in a volume of Emily Dickinson's poems. Her nameless replacement, the narrator of the story, receives by mail a copy of Joseph Conrad's The Shadow-Line, encrusted in cement, and inscribed to a certain Carlos, whose last name is Brauer, as is later discovered. Wishing to return the book to its sender, the narrator embarks on a quest to find him, and is ultimately led to Delgado, who recounts his tale.

Brauer is a bibliomania in its purest sense, and his library, which overtook his first house, rules his life. The only thing that allows him to command his books is the index he created, which burns in an accidental fire and leaves him at a loss to find anything. He despairs and begins his descent into madness, selling his abode and creating another which uses his precious books as bricks. Delgado does not finish the story, and the narrator is left on his own to uncover the rest.

The House of Paper is a book by, for, and about book lovers. Dominguez describes from experience how the passion for reading is all-engrossing, in literal and figurative ways. When rendered inaccessible, they lose their meaning and purpose, which is to enhance the human experience. Without that, they could only serve in a utilitarian way, for their sheer physicality.

This slim volume, ornamented with delightful illustrations, is a wonderful read, particularly if you find yourself afflicted, even if mildly, by bibliophilia.

I was absolutely and utterly charmed by this small book (103 small pages, with illustrations)about one man's attempt to discover why a recently deceased professor of literature at Cambridge (knocked down by a car while reading Emily Dickinson) has received by mail a novel by Joseph Conrad that has obviously been set in cement. The search for information leads to a small fisherman community in Uraguay, and a house literally made of books. This is a witty, strange little book about the kind of obsession that only those of us who share it may understand. My one little (lighthearted) quibble is that there is reference in the book to the sorrow over a destroyed index to a large collection --- my friends, those of us who have houses literally taken over by books, floor to ceiling collections in room after room, we don't need no stinkin' index. We KNOW what we have and where it is. There are no lost books in our houses of paper. They may have strayed a bit, but they always return. Anyway, on a more serious note, this is a marvelous book and I highly recommend it.

When Bluma Lennon is struck by a car and killed while reading a second-hand copy of Emily Dickinson's poems, everyone agrees that "books change people's destinies". Bluma isn't the only victim of such oblivion over the years, others lost to similar mischance. And while Bluma's eulogy lauds her as a lover of literature, no one would imagine that her passion would lead to her demise. The simple eulogy elicits such heated discussion that the students on campus enter a competition on the subject: "Relations between reality and language". Cambridge is buzzing with opinions.

When a package arrives, addressed to Bluma, the narrator, who has been teaching her classes, notices that the stamps are from Uruguay. Secretively, he opens the package; t is a used, broken-spined copy of Joseph Conrad's The Shadow-Line, the author the subject of the deceased professor's thesis. The volume is filthy, the cover raining particles of cement. There is no letter enclosed to explain the untimely arrival of the book. Disturbed by events he cannot explain, the narrator takes pains to track the man who sent it, Carlos Brauer of Rocha, Uruguay, formerly of Argentina. As he obsesses on Bruna's book, the narrator reveals his own love of the printed world, the many volumes given away to students during the year quickly replaced by new acquisitions, his library "advancing silently". Following Brauer's last known movements, the narrator travels to Buenos Aires, where he discovers that Carlos is a bibliophile, a man who loves books for the pure joy of ownership. However, Carlos Brauer has gone missing, leaving Argentina for the harsh coast of Uruguay. The narrator is faced with yet another mystery to solve.

Littered with quirky characters, the search becomes more convoluted, the rarified world of book collectors "concealing a dense web of secrets beneath a mild air of reticence". This dense fable is complemented by fanciful illustrations, an extraordinary world where books are valued and man's destiny intersects a love of language, the twisted road to a remote crossing of "The Shadow-Line". Luan Gaines/ 2005.

Professor Bluma Lennon of Cambridge University is struck and killed by an automobile as she crosses a Soho street reading a book of Emily Dickinson poetry. Shortly thereafter, a package arrives at the deceased's office from Uruguay. The narrator of this story, Bluma's successor as head of the Department of Hispanic Studies, opens the package and finds a 1915 novel of Joseph Conrad's entitled "The Shadow Line," oddly encrusted with cement. A note written by Bluma inside the book identifies the sender as "Carlos," and a few emails to participants of a Monterrey literary conference reveal him as Carlos Brauer. Having already planned a trip to Buenos Aires to visit his mother, the narrator decides to carry the Conrad book with him and return it to its rightful owner.

Thus begins Carlos Maria Dominguez's charming novella, THE HOUSE OF PAPER, a playful rumination on the nature of books and bibliophilia. Over the course of just 103 light and airy pages, including a handful of mischievous illustrations by Peter Sis, Dominguez tells the story of one man's all-consuming passion for the written word. It is a story that leads increasing to social withdrawal, compulsive accumulation, bizarre schemes for storing and cataloging books according to their supposed affinities or authorial conflicts, fear of loss or damage, and ultimately a neurosis that may in fact have reached the level of dementia. The narrator learns that Carlos Brauer had withdrawn from urban Montevideo (Dominguez' own home) for a barren stretch of coastal Uruguay where he has constructed a solitary house of paper, literary bricks made by encasing his books in cement. When he finally visits Brauer's strange new home, the narrator learns the secret connection between Bluma Lennon, the seemingly deranged Brauer, and the house of paper.

This fantastical allegory is of course the vehicle for Dominguez' discourses on books, book printing, book ownership and collection, and active versus passive reading. The choice of the little-known "Shadow Line" tale is apt due to Conrad's notorious command of English as a second language, his seafaring subject matter, and his constant returning to stories of facing up to one's bad luck, mistakes, and conscience. Throughout this novella, Dominguez remarks on how books change our lives and how we read and interact with them (for example, the relationship between reading and background music). One interesting diversion concerns the proper writing and printing styles to create channels of open space that run like rivulets down a page and create a secondary artistry all their own.

Much like the fantasy tales of Italo Calvino (MR. PALOMAR and THE BARON IN THE TREES) and the short stories of Garcia Marquez, THE HOUSE OF PAPER combines the pleasure of engaging storytelling with lighthearted philosophical speculation. Give this little jewel a place on your bookshelf, nestled comfortably between Messrs. Calvino and Marquez.

Uruguay's Carlos Maria Dominguez has written a wonderful little book in THE HOUSE OF PAPER. I rate this up with the very best of those works dwelling between a novel and a short story. There are great characters, such as a Cambridge professor struck by a car while her nose is stuck in a book by Emily Dickinson, and another who we meet opening a cement encrusted copy of Joseph Conrad's THE SHADOW-LINE. Thus the adventure begins and leads to the investigation into the life and world of a South American bibliophile.

"You are what you eat, and exist where you live."

This book is small enough that there is a danger reading it through too quickly. I recommend reading it slowly, and perhaps twice, to obtain the full benefit of the beautiful use of language (it is a translation) and the workings of a great writer's mind.

A little gem of a book, revolving around love not only of the written word, but of the compact, paper-bound package that it comes in. Written by Dominguez, who lives in Uruguay, in Spanish and translated into English, the tale explores the various stages of love, obsession, mystery and heartbreak that accompany a life devoted to the collection of books. The first-person narrator's academic colleague and part-time lover has been tragically run over by a car while carrying a book of Emily Dickinson poems, an event that triggers an odyssey of sorts and leads the narrator and reader both into a world of literary delight and compulsion.

A short but sweet ride, from a writer who obviously holds a lot of appreciation for the lives of novel readers, as well as a bit of ambivalence concerning the acquisition and collection that goes into creating the abundant personal libraries so many of us have in our homes. The care and feeding of these physical housings of imagination and knowledge tread the fine line, Dominguez posits, between respectful, loving adoration and obsessive compulsion. There are also a number of really interesting, evocative drawings by Peter Sis that accompany the text and adorn the front and back cover of this book about dreams and nightmares.

A short, fun story. Makes you think twice about
additions to your library!!

Unlike several of the reviewers preceding me, I was less than satisfied with this book. It is a serious, funny and creative study in bibliophilia run awry, in the nature of the relationship between fiction and life, personal values, interrelationships between man and woman, etc. Framed as the attempt to return a book to the sender after the death of the recipient (a Cambridge professor of literature), the search for the sender is relatively straightforward and simple, if not actually successful. The unnamed protagonist goes from book dealer to book collector to the abandoned house of the sender - each step adding their piece of understanding of the malaise of bibliophilia. No dead ends; no miscues.

For myself, the highlights of the volume were strictly intellectual - the book collector discribing his notes when reading as pointers to other books, associations; and the description of Brauer's (the sender's) attempt to classify books by affinities and to recognize personal relationships between authors as a factor in shelving. While the plot does have an element of surprise as the book draws to conclusion, it is not enough to allow the plot or writing to overcome the heaviness of the load of parabolic meaning the author lays on the book. The book comes so close but fails to succeed.