A Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez

This book is horrible. Nothing good ever happens in it. The story is captivatingly told (who knew that so much drama could be told so that it's plausible?) but every time you begin to like or be hopeful for a character, nothing good comes to them. If there had been one moment of triumph and not just that abject oblivion we're plunged into at the end!

I read it in one sitting, and the theme and suspense is fantastic - but it's hard to read a book where you can't like any of the characters! The only one I could relate to and really liked, and believed in, was Ursula. I can't see how Rebeca had any of Ursula's spirit at all, and when Amaranta Ursula returned I had so much hope for the Buendias family. I hate that they came to such an end, and I hate unhappy endings, and Garcia Marquez is especially talented at describing scenes of fetid horror.

I recognize the story's merit (and am charmed by GGM's talent), but UGH. "Pine woods are as real as pig sties, and a darn sight pleasanter to be in."

The Tin Flute, by Gabrielle Roy

I have always loved Gabrielle Roy's writings. Her short story "The Move" was in my grade 11 reader, and I have read nearly every one of her novels since. I found that her voice was so akin to mine, that she had put into words just how I see the world.

But I had not read her most famous book, The Tin Flute, until now.

I was surprised not to find the innocent optimism, the "enchantment and sorrow" that had breathed from her other novels, at first. The conditions of St. Henri were very harsh. I did not warm to Jean Levesque or Florentine very much, nor their cruel game of love. But I was intrigued - the plot itself was already very impelling, with Florentine placing her fate in the biting Jean Levesque's hands. I was annoyed, therefore, when the focus shifted to Manuel and then to Rose-Anna -- I do not like novels with multiple narrators and main characters, because then your sympathy for the protagonist is divided.

I did not understand Florentine - who is brazen and shallow - or Manuel, who is a little like Walter Blythe of Rilla of Ingleside in that he believes in a greater good to come from the war. I could understand cynical Jean Levesque, but it was impossible to like him because he was willfully brutal. But I did sympathize with every one of them, and Rose-Anna most of all - Rose-Anna, who must be like Gabrielle Roy's mother whom her other stories focus on, like my mother who is weighed by a tendency to see tragedy everywhere. I read on, only wanting the love story of Jean and Florentine, but every chapter was a blow. I began to despair of a happy ending, and found this story of the slums of St. Henri very cruel. I was revolted that things could be so dire.

But in true Gabrielle Roy fashion, there is "borrowed happiness" (Bonheur d'Occasion) at the end.

This book made me want to write. I dreamed a whole caste of personnages representative of the society I knew. I wrote last year that I should like to write like Pasternak - but I should like even more to have a voice like Gabrielle Roy's. There are stories I know, from all my life, clamouring to be written.