Loved the first half of the book, was blown away by the culminating scene of Anna & Coop, then spent the rest of the book going, yeah, yeah, yeah, what about Anna and Coop!!!

I loved this book. The language and description was so beautiful. The two stories arcs seemed kind of incongruous at times, but they definitely paralleled each other. It is a book to be read not for the plot but the language. The only other book by him I've read is The English Patient. I have to say I liked this one better. ( )

Future Nobel laureate Ondaatje mashes together two novellas, both of which are beautifully written, into one discombobulated novel here. Wherever he was going with this, he didn't quite get there. ( )

Although this novel is classified as fiction, Ondaatje's poetic ear permeates every page of this multi-layered, many-textured piece of prose. On the first read, the tragic and eulogistic tone reminds one of Woolf's "To the Lighthouse"--Ondaatje's concern for discerning life through moments is particularly Woolfian, and rarely does he ever order the reader through his text; he suggests, intimates, perhaps turns the reader's gaze in a very general direction, but promptly gives up control and demands that reader draw his or her own conclusions. If you don't like being left to your own devices with the narrative, avoid this novel. If you love great writing, read this book over and over and over again. ( )

THE MAGIC WORDS OF MICHAEL ONDAATJE

Some years ago, after Michael Ondaatje had written “The English Patient,“ I finagled an invitation to a private reading held by the Canadian Consulate for an exclusive group of business executives. Upon arrival my husband and I were quickly unmasked as fakes, but, enduring the slings and arrows of whispered remarks and sidelong glances, we held our ground and remained for the reading. When Ondaatje appeared I found him a simple man in dress, humble in manner, and a diffident reader of his works. I recall thinking that if only I wrote prose like his I would strut, not fret, my hour upon the stage.
After reading this introduction, you’ll probably not be very surprised by my confession that when it comes to Michael Ondaatje’s works I’m like a besotted teenager faced with the object of her desire. I find his words magical; his creations dreamlike. Which brings me to “Divisadero,” Ondaatje’s most recent novel, a much debated and often maligned work.
In “Divisadero” Ondaatje explores the bonds of family: the family given us through blood-relation and the family we choose. Anna, is the only daughter of a Northern California widowed farmer who adopts another girl, Claire, when Anna’s and Claire’s mothers both die in childbirth. Born just hours apart, Claire becomes Anna’s “twin.“ A boy, Coop, the orphaned son of a neighboring farm couple, is already part of the family. Divisadero is the story of these three. We meet them briefly as teenagers, see the family torn apart, then each of them continue their separate lives. Claire and Coop meet again, accidentally, but providentially.
Coop’s story seems to strike some reviewers as the least satisfactory, charging the writer of having created and then abandoned this character. Coop represents the random violence all of us often face in life through war, fate, or of our own making. Coop’s parents were murdered when he was just a boy, he is taken into this neighboring family, then expelled, cruelly and violently. Although he is a temperate man, violence follows him like his own shadow until Claire gently guides him home. This, to me, is a very poignant scene and satisfactory conclusion to Coop’s story.
But Anna is the focus and storyteller of “Divisadero.” Although she leaves home and country, her siblings and father are never far from her heart and mind. She finds her soul mate in the past life of Lucien Segura, a poet whose life story she explores as she settles into his house in the small village in Southern France and chooses his “adopted” son as lover and companion. This is where Ondaatje’s writing turns truly magical. As Anna’s and Segura’s stories intertwine, the scenes become stunningly sensual, gorgeously trancelike.
When I finished “Divisadero,“ I felt such a loss, I had to re-read this book at once. I wanted again to take part in the lives of the ill-fated Marie-Neige and her husband, Roman, an incarnation of the enigmatic Coop, all raw rage, which he is unable to verbalize. I wanted again to eat a simple meal of herbs and onions grown in the garden of a small farm house in Southern France on a warm summer’s day. And I wanted again to dance with no purpose with a cat. So find yourself a quiet corner in a garden or a sun-filled room and let one of our generation’s greatest writers awaken your senses, touch your heart, and seduce you with this magic dance called “Divisadero.” ( )