I finished reading The
Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafรณn
close to sunrise. I had woken up at midnight, and in an inefficient effort
to lull myself to sleep, I read myself to a plot twist and had to keep going.
In Barcelona 1945, David Sempere finds a book by Julian
Carax. The book reaches his hands like a handsome mystery. Now, a posh book
collector wants the book. An aggressive policeman wants the book. A stranger
with a burned face wants the book. David can’t let the book go. Instead he seeks
out the book’s author who is at the centre of the strangeness.
I will not say any more on the plot. Imagine this book like
a parcel with a thousand intricate folds in the wrapping paper. It’s a mystery
that needs to be unravelled by the author, and only him. I knew I would
struggle to review a book that is written so elegantly and so fixed in place
and time. It feels odd to try recreate some of the magic here, on my laptop, in
Brisbane.
The thing you must know about The Shadow of the Wind is that it demands to be read once you start.
The words roll around your tongue. The book paints Barcelona from people’s
faces. I encourage all gothic mystery enthusiasts to visit Zafon’s Barcelona,
and tell me about it on your return.
Favourite line:
Books are mirrors – you only see in them what you already have inside
you.
Rating:
4 stars
