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juushikaTitle: The Shadow of the Wind
Author: Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Translator: Lucia Graves
Published: New York: Penguin, 2004 (2001)
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 487
Total Page Count: 171,893
Text Number: 502
Read Because: numerous recommendations, purchased used from Powel's
Review: When Daniel discovers an obscure novel, he begins a life-altering investigation into its mysterious, tragic author. An indulgent, intertwined, rambling gothic epic set in beautiful and war-scarred Barcelona, The Shadow of the Wind is strong in theory; in practice, I found it tiresome. The short chapters initially make for compelling reading, but the book is overwritten and runs overlong (for particular example: an immersion-breaking 80-page handwritten letter) and the twin plotlines make each other predictable, despite bold twists. The treatment of women is disappointing, in a banal way; there's a pervasive off-color humor that falls flat. I'm adore books about books, and in pieces that aspect works—the Cemetery of Forgotten Books is particularly intriguing—but it feels as often self-congratulatory. This came to me highly recommended, and I can see its potential; I'm certain others could enjoy it. But I can't in good conscious recommend it.
Author: Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Translator: Lucia Graves
Published: New York: Penguin, 2004 (2001)
Rating: 3 of 5
Page Count: 487
Total Page Count: 171,893
Text Number: 502
Read Because: numerous recommendations, purchased used from Powel's
Review: When Daniel discovers an obscure novel, he begins a life-altering investigation into its mysterious, tragic author. An indulgent, intertwined, rambling gothic epic set in beautiful and war-scarred Barcelona, The Shadow of the Wind is strong in theory; in practice, I found it tiresome. The short chapters initially make for compelling reading, but the book is overwritten and runs overlong (for particular example: an immersion-breaking 80-page handwritten letter) and the twin plotlines make each other predictable, despite bold twists. The treatment of women is disappointing, in a banal way; there's a pervasive off-color humor that falls flat. I'm adore books about books, and in pieces that aspect works—the Cemetery of Forgotten Books is particularly intriguing—but it feels as often self-congratulatory. This came to me highly recommended, and I can see its potential; I'm certain others could enjoy it. But I can't in good conscious recommend it.
