shanashiana

Shana Shiana Shiana itibaren Maršová-Rašov, Slovakya itibaren Maršová-Rašov, Slovakya

Okuyucu Shana Shiana Shiana itibaren Maršová-Rašov, Slovakya

Shana Shiana Shiana itibaren Maršová-Rašov, Slovakya

shanashiana

I didn't like this as much as I hoped I would. There was a lot I really DID like—the novel's a quiet, contemplative look at a man after the death of his wife, and there were passages (especially the one about the women who raise silkworms) that really touched me with their beauty. But like most works of magical realism, I walked away feeling like I just...wasn't getting something. This has been for a while a great frustration for me, because in theory magical realism would be just the kind of thing I'd like to read—and even write. But in practice, every time I've tried to read Gabriel Garcia Marquez or Angela Carter or Salman Rushdie, I've put the book down feeling confused and, frankly, kind of stupid. (The exception being Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Feet, which works for me in its own crazy rock 'n' roll, alternate universe, apocalyptic way.) I do feel like I'm somehow to blame, but eventually I'm going to just have to stop beating myself up and accept that magical realism may just not be for me.