Mid March

The High Mountains of Portugal by Yann Martel, was a book filled with small surprises.  He builds suspense little by little, but I did not necessarily know it as I read. The words were comforting to take in and so once I realized something odd was going on, he made me do a double take and I found myself chuckling to at how cleaver he was to have duped me.  You can almost hear him saying, "Wait, wait, wait for it..." before he exposes what is actually going on.
Martel makes lists of adjectives, lists of actions, lists of characteristics.
The way the protagonist walks,
The particularities of the artifact that Tomas is seeking,
The relationship between Agatha Christie and god,
The thread that exists between the three different stories,
without giving anything away.

There is some magic realism, and like the Life of Pi, the author wrestles with religion and god, and the mysteries of life.

However, the ending was a bit disappointing when I was left with the sudden appearance of a Rhinoceros.

Ways to Disappear by Idra Novey

Next I randomly picked up Ways to Disappear because I like the look of the cover with its cut out suitcase full of butterflies. The threads that exist from one book I read to the next are mysterious.  Going from the High Mountains of Portugal, I embark on a story of a Portuguese translator who is on a search for her Brazilian author, who has gone missing. 

From the first paragraph, I am on a hunt for the missing eccentric Brazilian. 

The tone of the book is odd though. 

Is this a romantic novel?

 Is it a Mystery? 

Is it supposed to be Campy?

Is it meant to be so bloody gruesome?

Is it all of the above, or not?

The book is written from many different character’s perspectives, with no quotation marks when people speak.  It goes from the Pittsburgh translator to the daughter of the Brazilian, to the gay publisher, back and fourth, so it takes a beat to get your mind into each chapter.  Once in a while the short chapters cut to an email sent by the boyfriend of the Pittsburgh translator or a DJ from Radio Globo.  Because of this last occasional interlude, it has the feeling of Tarantino’s Reservoir Dogs- without the snappy, cleaver dialogue.

This book also had an unsatisfying ending.  It ended abruptly.

When a book begins with a zaftig woman smoking a cigar, climbing a tree, exposing her fraying unsexy underwear, I expect a light comedy, but the blood and the gruesomeness of what happens to the characters is unexpected and unsettling.