Review of "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez

At random moments there are books that appear, so powerfully unique, they seem to occupy a stratus unto themselves.  Dante’s Inferno, Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, Cervantes’ Don Quixote, and a variety of others have all made permanent marks on the history of literature.  Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s 1967 One Hundred Years of Solitude is another such book.  The language engrossingly brilliant, images strikingly exotic, and cultural backdrop pertinent to both the author’s native land and humanity as a whole, nothing could make a novel greater.  Some may balk at the magic-realist aura that not only infuses the story but buoys the language, but for those willing to give in to its spell, the power and beauty are overwhelming.

One Hundred Years of Solitude is both literature and art.  A direct result of Marquez’s refined talent, the imagery of the novel is surreal in appearance and dreamlike in movement.  A pioneer of magic-realism, events of the novel seem bizarre on the surface but drive with a deeper purpose the closer one examines the symbolism in the tropes.  Marquez’s manner of expression may have free rein, but always theme remains the focus.  (As a side note, I can only imagine that Spanish, with its inherent lyrical quality, must be a more pleasurable medium in which to read the novel.)

A mix of the tragic and comedic (in Greek terms), One Hundred Years of Solitude faithfully adheres to a historical cycle of triumph and failure.  In short, the plot does not follow the standard story arc.  A critical account, Marquez parallels Columbian history with seven generations of the Buendia family in semi-linear fashion, the exploits of the characters involved stories unto themselves.  The vision of a glass city appearing, the book opens with Jose Arcadia Buendia founding the town of Macondo and starting a family in accordance with the sign.  Things go well at first; his wife Ursula gives birth to a handful of children and the town develops healthily around them. But after a time, the joyful expansion hits some rough patches.  Periodic misfortunes begin striking the town and its inhabitants, the Buendia family itself seemingly hit hardest.  But survive they do, and five additional generations of the family evolve throughout the novel, each more strange and different from the last in telling the allegorical tale of Columbia’s evolution.

A sure mark of a writer’s quality is their ability to infuse language and theme, as well as stamp the material in their own personal style.  Marquez does all of this.  Language already discussed, the extra-ordinary imagery and fantastical happenings of the Buendia family are related in a tone that is the author’s own—the voice of a natural storyteller.  Time moving in zig-zag fashion, pace never slows from beginning to end.  Marquez shows himself in complete control of the narrative, the virtues and vice of the Buendia—family sad, amusing, touching, and anything but typical as he leads the reader on a journey through the meaning of time, cultural isolation, and cycles of history.

In the end, there are many books which contain brilliant language.  Austen’s Pride and Prejudice has been passed through 200 years of history thanks to the superb quality of its writing.  But appearances can be deceiving.  The jeweled dialogue of Liza and Mr. Darcy blinds readers to the book’s aristocratic values and fairy tale structure.  One Hundred Years of Solitude has all the beauty of language and more.  There is a strong sense of purpose—of substance—innate to the story that strikes at something deeper in the human soul.  No other political and social history of a country has been presented in such rich, magical, and haunting form.  The view through the kaleidoscope mesmerizing, Columbia has never before been viewed in such colors, and perhaps never will, rendering the book a masterpiece for the ages. 

Review of "The Etched City" by K.J. Bishop

Reading K.J. Bishop’s 2003 The Etched City is like bathing in warm honey.  There are times the aroma is fresh and the taste sweet, no other cares in the world.  Then there are others when one wants to get out of the bath, wash their skin of the sticky, cloying substance, and feel a cool breeze on their skin.  One lost in the moment, the other knowing where it’s going, such is the paradoxical experience of Bishop’s first and only published novel to date.

 The Etched City is sure to cause a split among readers, especially those coming from a strong Tolkien-esque fantasy background.  Though a couple scenes and happenings warrant the categorization, most other aspects remain equivocal parallels to the genre at best.  There are no magic swords, wizards, or dragons; only the occasional supernatural event sneaking into the storyline.  More in the vein of magic realism, flowers sprout from wounds, humans birth crocodiles, and cigarettes are conjured from thin air - these are the greatest journeys the story takes into the fantastic.  Thus, dungeons and dragons fans seeing the awards the book has garnered, be warned.

Whether The Etched City is a novel in the classic tradition, however, is debatable.   A second-reading needed to discover if in fact a spine exists, the book is more a collage of vignettes than straightforward storytelling.  The narrative describes rather than tells of the lives of Raule the healer, Rev the priest, Lisbeth the artist, and Gwynn the mercenary.  Bishop constantly keeping readers at a distance from the characters, substance moves to the forefront.  Philosophic dialogue on the nature of religion, metaphysical speculation, and art and the pull of the soul leisurely fill the pages, instead.  The narrative is motivated in patches, however.  Gang warfare, drugs, prostitution, and other social ills occasionally emerge from the waters below to nudge the plot forward, but overall the book floats rather than swims.   

Taking advantage of the set up, Bishop arranges some interesting oppositions: the worldviews of the Rev and Gwynn, the moral orientation and gender roles of Gwynn and Raule, the life’s devotions of Lisbeth and Raule, and so forth.  These opposites presented rather than directed, the book is undoubtedly for the reader who prefers the stasis of muse to linear plot movement.

One point I’d like to take issue with is the book’s back cover comparison to Stephen King’s The Dark Tower series and China Mieville’s Bas-Lag.  Undoubtedly a marketing ploy, the overall feel of the novel is wholly different than these two authors’ created worlds.  Though a hint of resemblance exists (particularly in the opening section’s desert setting to King’s world), the remainder of the scenes in the book are nothing short of an homage to Bishop’s native Australia.  The flora and fauna, monsoons and heat, streets and jungles of fictional Ashamoil have more in common with the Northern Territory’s Darwin and Kakadu than any of the filth and squalor of New Crozubon.  Secondly, while Mieville details his world a la Peake, Bishop wields her brush only enough to establish tone, the result being that the mind’s eye resides more in the imagination than on paper.  

In the end, The Etched City will undoubtedly disappoint readers expecting an oriented plot and empathetic characters.  Bishop’s thematic intentions ambivalent at best, an indifference should be expected on the part of the narrator and a vague, magic-realist atmosphere doing nothing to clearly delineate objectives.  Like realist novels, the reader should also expect a more than healthy dose of deliberation over a variety of social and human phenomena.  A climax of sorts does exist to end the book, but due to the aforementioned attributes, it lacks the impact many readers expect, and therefore must be reckoned with in alternative fashion.  Well written, the book is recommended for those who don’t mind a subtle, meandering read set in a surreal world more reminiscent of Kipling than Mieville, themes slowly flowering in afterthought. 

Review of "Resurrection Man" by Sean Stewart

Not knowing who Sean Stewart was prior to reading Resurrection Man, it was more than a pleasant surprise to find such a well written book with poignant themes.  Hiding on the margins of literature, Stewart’s novel tells the story of a Hungarian family living in the US and their attempts to come to terms with skeletons in the closet after WII, both personal and familial.  But it is not the 1950’s America you know from history; magic in the form of charms and strange, unexplainable occurrences are a natural part of everyday life.

The opening lines of the novel find the protagonist Dante staring down at his own dead body, and thinking it an ill omen, sets about solving the riddle.  But Dante is not alone in unraveling the mystery.  His mysterious adopted brother Jet hangs on the periphery, offering the most spiritual of advice, while his sister, Sarah, fights personal problems of her own, the relationships she has with men and her mother less than straight-forward.

In Resurrection Man, alliteration and fantasy are interwoven seamlessly.  More magic realism than pure fantasy, Stewart’s gifted prose delivers the story on a cutting edge.  Description clear, dialogue focused, and similes spot on and never overused, the line between fantasy and reality becomes an afterthought.  My only complaint about the novel is that despite the realistic portrayal, characterization seemed to take a back seat to the delicious plot devices and magic overtones.   But Dante, his father, Jet, Sarah and the others are presented so realistically that the overall value of the book does not suffer. Resurrection Man is highly recommended for anyone who enjoys psychological explorations, particularly with a touch of the supernatural. This is a gem of literary fantasy.

(The folks at www.fantasyliterature.com were kind enough to put this post on their website.)