2.0 out of 5 stars
not so great, January 31, 2012
This review is from: Infinite Plan (Paperback)
I am lukewarm to Allende. Personally I enjoyed this book and was never bored or frustrated, but I'm not sure I'd recommend it for others.
You know what it's like reading Isabel Allende? I'll tell you:
Suppose somebody ordered you to write a novel and lay it in some historical setting: imperial Russia, the antebellum South, northern England in the 1800's -- whatever.
And suppose there was an additional condition: that you can't do any research about that time or place. That you can't, while you're writing, read anything about your setting that would help to make your novel more convincing and lifelike.
Well, you'd still be able to write the book. But it wouldn't be very convincing, because you'd be reduced to rehashing stereotypes and common ideas of the time and period that you've heard. Kinda like me writing about imperial Russia and talking about the freezing cold, the poor people on the streets, the vast sky of Mother Russia, etc. It's all true, in a way; yet it's all fake: I haven't actually been there and it will show through.
Now granted, you might be able to craft a decent novel, especially if have, as does Allende, solid insights about the human heart and a sense of the wonderful pageant that is life. But you're book's never gonna be a classic because it's basically a passable story grafted onto phoniness.
And lo that is what is happening with this book.
This book has several settings: roaming around the American west during the Great Depression, a Hispanic barrio near L.A. in the fifties, and the radical campus of U.C. Berkeley in the 60's.
The problem was, Allende was never in any of these places -- and it shows. Her characterization is passable. Her plot -- what there is of it -- will do. But something definitely seems wrong because Allende was never in the places she describes at the time she describes them, so you get the feeling she's not doing a job any better than you or I could do if we sat down to think about it for a few moments.
This sense of strain runs through more than a few of Allende's works. In my judgment only "Paula" and "House of Spirits" escape it, because they are set in places that she definitely was.
Meanwhile, this book, largely about Vietnam (!) and Berkeley (!) in the 60s, reads like it was written by a woman who spent those years thousands of miles away, in Chile, in fact. And so it was. It's basically surmise as literature.
The thing that got me into this book was somebody having told me it was her "favorite book ever!" That's usually enough to get me to read something, but I should have been a bit suspicious since there's not, at least as of my writing, a Wikipedia page for it. I've since concluded that chick needs to read more books.
Allende's clunky attempts to get into the minds of men reminds me of an old internet joke, called "Her Diary, His Diary," which I reprint here. It's how the book reads, really. All of Allende's male characters think like women. Anyhow, here it is:
HER DIARY:
He was in an odd mood when I got to the bar to meet him, I thought it might have been because I was a bit late. He didn't say anything much about it. He seemed silent, distracted and his only eye contact seemed judgmental. I decided maybe I should never wear that dress again. Well, maybe it was the color. Maybe I should never wear this color again either.
The conversation was so slow going, so I thought maybe we should go off somewhere more intimate so we could talk more privately. He didn't really seem to agree, but we went off to this quiet, little restaurant, and he's STILL acting a bit funny and I'm trying to cheer him up, be witty and tell cute stories, but I start to wonder whether it's me or something else.
He doesn't smile much, so I ask him, but he says no. But you know I'm not really sure. I wonder and then I think about the 5 pounds I gained this past month. I bet he thinks I'm a fat hog now.
Anyway, in the cab back to his house, I say that I love him and he just puts his arm around me, but doesn't squeeze. I don't know what the hell this all means or what I should think because you know he doesn't say it back or do anything. We finally get back to his place and I'm wondering if he's going to dump me. So I try to ask him about it, but he just switches on the TV.
Reluctantly, I say I'm going to go to sleep. Then, after about 10 minutes or so, he joins me and we have sex. But, he still seems really, really distracted, so afterwards I just wanted to leave. I roll over and sniffle a little real quietly. He snores. I dunno, I just don't know what he thinks anymore. I mean, do you think he's met someone else?
HIS DIARY:
Bad day at work. Really tired. Got laid, though.
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