Javier Marías (1951–2022)

Rarely have I read a novelist so in love with his own words. Marías babbles on inordinately, with long run-on sentences that mull over characters and their motivations in the most ponderous of ways, often repeating himself or ending up in highly questionable positions. Each of his characters speak the same way, in lengthy exposition, sounding like the 61-year-old author in everything down to their cultural references. Seriously, it’s as if there was zero attempt to revise or pare down a show more first draft. The plot is extremely thin and quite honestly, this should have been a 30 page short story. It’s an order of magnitude longer, and I felt every bit of that.

Marías delves into justice (or the lack thereof), how people are often substitutes for others in the lives of their partners, and how we move on after trauma or the death of a loved one, but rarely in satisfying ways, and often arriving at some bizarre conclusions. “In a sense, he cannot wish that it [his father’s brutal murder during the Spanish Civil War] hadn’t happened, because if it hadn’t, he would be a different person, and he has no idea who that person would be.” Good lord, talking about taking not knowing when a philosophical argument has gone too far. “We mourn a great writer or a great artist when he or she dies, but there is a certain joy to be had from knowing that the world has become a little more vulgar and poorer, and that our own vulgarity and poverty will thus be better hidden or disguised…” What? I genuinely feel sorry for Marías if this was a sentiment true to him in life. There are other examples.

I kept hoping that this novel would turn the corner after a nice slow burn, but it never did. The second half had some opportunities to pay off, but instead repeated the same tired concepts. I don’t know how many times he said “we don’t really care what happens in books and films and forget about them once they’re over,” but it was too many, and in this case, I truly do hope I can forget this book. show less

Human beings are the strangest creatures on God's earth. Who else would be willing to wait and wait and wait for someone who doesn't stay? Who else would be willing to put up with someone who has chosen to wear an iron mask? Who would share a life with Judas? (not the actual one, obviously, but someone even worse?)

Why is it that love makes us behave in ways that contradict our personality, our wishes, even our hard-forged principles? Is love the greatest and most fragile and irrational of show more alibis? Despite the endless repetition of themes, and the habit of interrupting the flow with a character's inner thoughts, Marias's novel holds a mirror to those who love unconditionally.

Forget about espionage. Forget the historical context of the novel, the Cold War, the Falklands conflict, the Iron Curtain, the Northern Ireland issue. None of it matters. What this book is about is endurance. Endurance of spirit, endurance of love. And a generous dose of human stupidity and hypocrisy. show less

This was my first taste of Marías, and I'm very impressed. The looping, reflective style, the repetitions and large-scale structures are all very similar to the techniques W.G. Sebald and Thomas Bernhard use, but they feel quite different in their effects when they're applied to something which is so much more obviously a constructed novel with a kind of plot. Very interesting. The sort of book that makes me feel I really should make the effort to improve my Spanish and read it in the show more original... show less

I read a review of this years ago, and vaguely thought about reading it, then opted not to. When I read a review of the third volume I finally caved in and decided to buy it. I only got round to reading it when Philip Roth had made me so disgusted with writers of English that I felt the need to clean out my brain.

I originally thought I wouldn't read it because people said it was like Sebald. Well yes, inasmuch as Marias is concerned with style and ideas. The difference is that Marias' ideas show more and style are good, rather than fatuous. Who would have thought that would make all the difference? A beguiling narrator, devastating criticisms of contemporary thought and culture (post-war Europeans becoming simultaneously terrified of and obsessed with certainty; simultaneously suspicious of and enamored of language), and a fabulous cliff-hanger 'ending'... it's great.

But there are also real barriers to enjoying this book. Proust, for instance, starts with story and then, after a while, gets into philosophy; this starts with the philosophy and then gets into story. There's no time-line at all; nearly 400 pages of text includes only three real scenes- a party, a conversation and a walk home. But the narrator's memories and thoughts are truly gripping.

It's entirely possible that the rest of the novel (in three parts) will betray me, and this will turn out to be some kind of sub-Pynchonian, sub-Borgesian eye-roll inducing garbage. But right now he seems to be treading the thin line of genius quite well.

And I particularly want to praise the translator. One of the reasons I avoid non-English language novels is that so few translators manage to make their source-authors sound like human beings rather than journalists. There are a few exceptions- John Woods' Mann, for instance- but generally... it's just pain. Margaret Jull Costa has done an incredible, amazing job here. It's up there with the Moncrief/Kilmartin/Enright Proust; and there are French people who think Moncrief improved on the original. All hail Costa! Thankyou! show less