The Shadow of the Wind (Zafon) - All hail Fermin Romero de Torres

I have no problem admitting that having borrowed The Shadow of the Wind from the library, I was inclined to return it immediately – and rinse my hands of it with lashings of disinfectant – for the blurb on the back cover hinted at all that I abhor most in the literary world. Said the Guardian note on the back cover, “What makes this novel so irresistibly readiable is the emotional energy generate...” Excuse me? “Emotional energy”? Good grief...

Further horror was to follow some five lines further down, when I noted, by now aghast, that the last review on the back cover was posted by no less a publication of testosterone-fuelled sage judgement than Elle magazine. Chilling portents you will no doubt concur, but having pledged to begin the book I bit the bullet, held my breath and dived in.

It is not difficult to see from where such pointless gubbins as “emotional energy” arises, for the book is littered with Mills and Boon-esque romantic clenches and paternal embraces, all too reminiscent of the overly-sensitive types at University who would destroy a good al fresco barbecue by unsheathing a guitar and strumming some rancid ballad. Indeed, the very name of the book is enough to prompt a raised eyebrow of scepticism.

Mercifully however, such Elle-friendly fare is offset by some truly corking moments of written genius. In Fermín Romero de Torres the author senor Zafón has created one of the great literary characters of our time, a hilarious, irresistible, verbose tramp-cum-philosopher, whose pearls of wisdom on the fairer sex manage to coat the most sordid sentiments in gloriously ornate vernacular. A man who makes the crudest animal instincts seem like Wilde at his most flourishing, Fermín’s every line is an absolute gem. I for one would quite happily have dispensed with the principal storyline of The Shadow of the Wind, and simply gorged myself on 400 pages of exchanges between Fermín and the young chief protagonist, Daniel, who himself dealt a neat line in rapier-like, slightly exasperated ripostes.

To what extent Zafón himself deserves credit is actually unclear, for the translation into English is provided by Lucia Graves, and so rich is the language used that it is difficult to know how much has been added by a translator with a twinkle in her eye – or indeed, how much lost by the transition from the native tongue to a potentially more leaden English. Personally I doff my cap in both directions, but I do wish I knew Spanish sufficiently well to appreciate The Shadow of the Wind as intended by its maker.

The plot is enjoyable enough nonsense, a literary history that turns out to have its roots in reality, linked inextricably to a violent and occasionally murderous game of cat-and-mouse. Although beginning from a flimsy and fairly incredible initial few premises, it proceeds along at a pleasant pace - punctuated by quirky characters, a likeably bumbling rites-of-passage journey for the central character, a couple of attention-grabbing plot twists and, of course, carried by the interjections of the magnificent Fermín. Zafón makes full use of his 400 pages, fleshing out his plot and sub-plots, without ever getting bogged down in detail, and painting mid-twentieth century Barcelona without dwelling unnecessarily on aesthetics.

The pedants amongst us may quibble that there is not much beneath the surface – but when the surface is as ornately and sumptuously presented as by Zafón this proves an eminently bearable flaw. The Shadow of the Wind has enough about it to keep the reader satisfied.

Making History - When 500+ Pages Is Not Enough

Making History represented my first foray into the world of Stephen Fry’s fictional witterings, and probably earned itself the slightly disappointing Sound-But-Unspectacular stamp.

Perhaps unavoidably, the novel suffers for the identification of its author, for I found it impossible to judge as a work in its own right. This was not helped by the fact that the lead character might just as well have been called Stephen Fry, as many of the asides, musings and scathing rants of the Cambridge graduate central character had more than just a tinge of the autobiographical about them.

Given this, it was disappointing that the prose itself was not really imbued with a genuine and heartfelt relish for the evocative capacity of language. While witty and intelligent, there was none of the Wodehouse-esque moulding of language that grabs one’s funny-bone and hammers at it relentlessly until it cracks under the strain of mirth. Instead, the 500+ pages glided by with a pleasing but perhaps over-simplistic ease.

Neither, curiously, were there any real sub-plots to speak of, but this did not matter greatly, for the subject itself was hugely entertaining and thought-provoking. The question of how history would have panned out had Hitler’s birth been prevented is explored in intelligent and enjoyable style. The theme is worthy of exploration, and is duly done justice. Fry does a grand old job of detailing the alternate history of mankind as a whole, amusingly juxtaposing it with the bewildering personal perplexities one would presumably encounter when suddenly dumped into a parallel reality. It’s an impressive feat, and one achieved with cheerful aplomb.

Some of the literary devices used seem a little contrived and unnecessary – the occasional mozey into the world of screenplays does not add a huge amount to the novel, and if anything is a rather lazy means of injecting pace. One would have thought that the author possessed greater literary tools and invention within his intellectual arsenal.

Nevertheless, this remains an enjoyable piece of mindless fluff. It’s a worthy exploration of an intriguing notion, and for that, thumbs are enthusiastically upturned at All Action No Plot Towers. It is just a nagging shame, that given the author’s ill-disguised identity, the narrative style was nowhere near as luscious as it might have been.