El lector de Julio Verne

I have tried not to like Almudena Grandes' novels. I have tried hard. I tend to dislike writers who try to push their politics onto their readers, and she is one of them. But regardless of my personal preferences, I can't help but love her fiction. Possibly because she is so good at it, that you end up living with her characters as if they were real. The stories are good, the flow is so smooth that you cannot stop reading. I still remember reading El corazón helado when my first son was a couple of months old. I started reading, and I was so enthralled that I forgot that newborns wake up every couple of hours to eat, and that I was supposed to sleep while he sleeps. That night, instead, I read. Until he woke up and reminded me that I can no longer pull reading all nighters, so common in my previous life, the one before the kids. 

Going back to El lector de Julio Verne, it is the second in a six book series called Episodios de una Guerra Interminable. Some of it's characters have a connection to Inés y la alegría, the first novel in the series (which I also loved). The series covers the post war period in Spain, from the points of view of different characters. It is part of the Spanish Civil War and Post War contemporary literature that an old me, a long long time ago, wanted to write a doctoral thesis on. I guess I am still a sucker for the topic, as I will read anything that falls in my hands related to it. Most of them side with the Republicans, who lost the war (nothing to do with American republicans, the Spanish ones were anti monarchy an left wing). 

This book in particular tells the story of Nino, a little kid who lives with his family in a "cuartel", or a Guardia Civil house. The Guardia Civil is one of the public safety institutions in Spain. In the post war period, they were more than sinister, as they repressed and executed many people who opposed Franco's government. But, partly as the book depicts, not every man in this institution was an assassin. I can also vow for that, as my grandfather was also a Guardia Civil, and I don't think he was a bad man, or participated in any of those activities. One of the characters, Doña Elena, says at one point that "La verdad es lo que nos gusta que haya sucedido y, además, lo que ha sucedido aunque nos guste tan poco que daríamos cualquier cosa por haberlo podido evitar" (pp. 197-198). This sums up the best approach to the Spanish Civil War period, or I guess any other war for that matter. There are endless little stories to be told, from both sides of any conflict.

Apart from the political side of this story, the novel is a bildungsroman, as we are witnesses to Nino's growth, both physical and emotional, and to his discovery of another world, absolutely different from his. What makes it tick all my boxes is that is happens in a rural area in the south of Spain, and Grandes does a great job at describing the life of a little village, so different from the one in the city. 

All in all, I recommend this book to anyone. Really. You have it's part of adventure, politics, history, and as in any Almudena Grandes novel, romance. There are not many Spanish authors who can put sensuality in words as she does. You can find most of her novels in Amazon, and I can't wait to put my hands in the third installment of the series, Las tres bodas de Manolita. I'm sure it will make me pull an all nighter with this third baby too :)

The trains are lonely, and so is this mom

I just arrived home to find it empty for the first time. Until this week, I would be greeted by a little firecracker, running to me and giggling, waiting to have lunch together. Or to not let me eat it, which was more common. But I will take all the half eaten lunches that got cold while I tended to him over the orderly one I will have today, alone with my paper.

I look at his trains, and they look sad, like me. They are used to spend many hours a day being played by my little Pb. But little Pb started school this week, and had a rough first day, but he is fine by now, and I miss him, and I don't want the silence, or the quietness, I want my little baby running around, and climbing onto things, and making a mess, but always, always putting a smile to my day. 

Of the surreal nonfirst day of school for Little Pb

Special needs kids get therapy through Early Intervention, an agency depending from the state. This agency covers services until the day a kid turns three, when he/she will be transferred to the public school system, for us CPS. Before that you have to have a meeting with therapists and bureucrats to determine which services CPS will have to provide for your child. We had that meeting, called IEP, a couple of weeks ago, and yesterday we received the placement letter. With that in one hand, and little Pb in the other, his backpack and blanket on tow, I drove to the school today, eager to see him start attending an oral/deaf program. 

To my surprise, when we arrived, we were told that his spot had been taken by another girl the day before. There I was, six months pregnant, with a toddler intent on climbing the walls or running away, a letter in my hand saying that they had to take them, and speechless after been told that they cannot. I was already quite skeptical about the whole CPS thing, but I didn't expect this kind of mess. 

Then, the surreal factor came in. As I was trying to figure out what was going on with this very helpful ladies, while doing my best to keep my kiddo from turning on the fire alarm, Mayor Rahm Emmanuel stormed in the office, all smiles, and handshakes, and cuteness towards the little fire alarm chaser. I guess that he was visiting the principal, but in the middle of a terrible morning, and out of CNN's Chicagoland, there he was, making me laugh for the first time in hours. Oh, the weird and unexpected...

We came home, and finally they fixed the problem and told me to bring him tomorrow again so he can start. But I will keep posting about our adventures in CPSland, which is an interesting part of Chicago.

Alguien que sea yo

This one is in Spanish, poetry again. I had never heard about its author,  but I saw the book during a trip to Spain in 2012 and I bought it. The author is just a couple of years older than I. I love poetry, but I don't love all poetry. I'm way more omnivorous regarding fiction. With poetry, particularly in Spanish, I am terribly bored by lyric works that rely too much in the aesthetical aspect of it, as many poets tend to do. The same ones tend to be quite arrogant, but otherwise they wouldn't be poets. The reason why I loved Manuel del Barrio Donaire's book is because it's none of that. He is not a well known poet (I couldn't even find the book in Goodreads), and he doesn't seem to belong to the old fashioned and endogamic Spanish literary circle. That may be what makes his look at reality acidic, cynical, raw and terribly entertaining. I had fun reading his poems. Many made me smile, and even laugh. They are quite realistic, but not like dirty realism, this is more of a 2.0 realism. Del Barrio Donaire talks about daily life, about writing, about the meaning of life or the lack of it. He is very americanized, and his verses are peppered with images and brands imported from the US, including the ubiquitous Apple and Starbucks. His references to sex are direct, probably even offensive to some delicate ears. Mine are not, so I find his direct and honest tone amusing. 

If you can get a hold of this book, read it. Even someone learning Spanish could handle it. If finding his book is hard, you can always visit his blog, www.delalinearectadelmarcodelapuerta.blogspot.com 

As soon as I can I will try to bring more of his books from Spain, as I think he deserves some more of my time. He sounds like the kind if guy with whom I would happily have a beer and a long conversation. And they aren't many of those anymore.

The Prophet

I had never read anything by Kahlil Gibran before. I have to admit that I am quite illiterate in regards of poetry written in English, or in most other languages, as I don't think you can grasp all the emotion that poetry should convey from a translation. Coming from a translator this sounds like a joke.

Going back to Gibran, I loved this book. A mother's day gift from 2009, It had been in my night table waiting for five years. I am not a religious person, but its spirituality reached me. I read it aloud in the hopes that the baby in my belly can hear it too, and in this way, the rhythm of the verses made it sound as a meditation chant, the kind that brings you peace.

Each one of its "sections" could start an hours long philosophical discussion. But there is so much kindness and respect in his words that if you read it alone, it can only give you calm, and make you smile.

There are two quotes that I highlighted:

"And to love life through labour is to be intimate with life's inmost secret". (p. 26)

This quote resonates with me, as I have never felt as alive, as womanly and as powerful as I did when I gave birth to my second son. The energy that fills the room when you are laboring is impossible to match or recreate, and having a man put this in writing in 1923 is just amazing. I will keep his words next to me when the time comes, and that energy returns to me for the birth of my third son.

"Your friend is your needs answered.

He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.

And he is your board and your fireside.

For you come to him with your hunger,

and you seek him for peace". (p. 58)

Also seeing friendship among the basic things of life is rewarding. I wouldn't be who or where I am without my friends, who listened to endless evenings of love hits or misses, cheered me up when I needed it, pushed me or stopped me when it was called for. They are still there, some far away, someclose by, and I keep meeting more of them, and I will never be grateful enough to all of them. 

Before the hormones take over, I will just recommend that you read this book, this beautiful edition by Knopf in thick cream paper, with illustrations by the author. Read it, digest it, discuss it, as there is so much in such a little number of pages... 

Tennyson

Over the years, I have accumulated a fair amount of books that await to be read, taking up a whole bookshelf in my house. A few arrived in the form of gifts (most people are afraid of giving me books, something I don't understand since they are my favorite thing in the world), most I brought from Spain, some I bought here. At any time in my life I'm reading several books: at least one poetry book, a light narative one I carry when I go out to read on buses and coffee shops, the big novel by my bed and the literary theory/critic book on my desk. At this point in my life, they come in all sizes and colors, and both in English and Spanish. Now that being pregnant gives me a great excuse to rest during Little Pb's nap, something I will never do again once I have my third boy, I'm set to go through at least part of that bookshelf. And I may blog about it. Since I'm better at reading than at blogging, I'm not going to make big promises. But I would love to write a bit about each book I finish. I don't intend for it to be serious critic, although my career, in perpetual hiatus, is literature. I will just write my impression of the book.

I will start with something light, like Tennyson. This book was given to me by my husband at least six years ago. I know because it was purchased from my beloved and extinct Borders. He gives me a poetry book for every birthday and Christmas, and it doesn't matter what comes with the book, be it an IPhone, hat or bag, I will always like the book better. It is a beautifully done little pocket anthology, with no introduction or editor notes. Pure and simple poetry. Reading it aloud, in the hopes that the baby on the belly is listening, has helped me appreciate the craft needed by older authors to try to achieve perfection according to the standards of their times. Normally, having to abide to the rules of rhyme affects the feelings transmitted by the verses, as form trumps content. Just a few authors can maintain a balance between the two, and Tennyson is one of them. With his beautiful language games, he can transport you to gardens and battles of other times, and make both equally appealing. And although I normally favor raw, blunt contemporary poetry that cares more about the punch than the rhyme, I really enjoyed reading this classic.

Chiberia

I check my phone, and the temperature is 0º F, -18º C. That doesn't count the windchill, which makes it around ten degrees colder. Luckily it's not very windy today. Many times people who have never lived in such a cold place ask me what it feels like. If you are wearing a good coat, boots, gloves and a warm hat, it's not that different from 32º F, 0º C. That is until you breathe. When you breathe you feel your nostrils freezing, quite literally. It's not an easy feeling to describe. It hurts a little. And you feel like the air is thicker and cannot really reach your lungs. Then you run and hop on a bus, house, office, coffee shop... hopefully without breaking a leg on your way.

This is the coldest winter I have seen since I arrived in Chicago almost eleven years ago. I have worn snow boots every single day since I came back from Spain on January 12th. The snow doesn't bother me, I like it. What bothers me is that it is too cold to play with it, and that the city is not doing a very good job clearing it. That's an understatement, courtesy of a good humored day. Actually, they are doing a terrible job. 

I won't be one to complain, as I will take this any day over the hot, steamy, humid, mosquitoed summer. Any day. I will report on that hot weather later. Maybe in August.