Mercè Rodoreda

Martha Tennent

Death in Springis a dark and dream-like tale of a teenage boy's coming of age in a remote village in the Catalan mountains; a place cut off from the outside world, where cruel customs are blindly followed, and attempts at rebellion swiftly crushed. When his father dies, he must navigate this oppressive society alone, and learn how to live in a place of crippling conformity. Often seen as an allegory for life under a dictatorship, Death in Springis a bewitching and unsettling novel about power, exile, and the hope that comes from even the smallest gestures of independence.

Death in Spring

Stas

When she cried, I was the one who wished to cry loudly; I would have preferred her not to be born, because I knew what awaited her. Breathing. Only the chore and sadness of breathing and breathing, as things change from tender to dry, new to old, the night-moon that grows thin then swells, the fireless sun that lights up, the soughing of wind that transports, shatters, gathers, and drives away the clouds, raising and fattening the dust. Only the sorrow of going to sleep and waking up, feeling life without knowing where it comes from, aware that it will flee without knowing why it was given to you, why it is taken from you. Here you are: there is this and this and this. And now, enough. 

i fear this section might’ve cemented a 5 star rating (pardon my puns)

The watchmen are on guard, but what they guard against is nowhere to be seen. They continue to mutilate men because they say two shadows once joined together. It's fear. They want to be afraid. They want to believe, and they want to suffer, suffer, only suffer, and they choke the dying to make them suffer even more, so they'll suffer till their last breath, so that no good moment can ever exist.

He explained that when the villagers came to gaze at him, exhibiting him to their children, they all said he's a prisoner, but he wasn't a prisoner, he said, he lived differently from others, only that. He'd grown accustomed to living that way, and when they removed the cage because they thought he was no longer a person, it was all the same to him. So he stayed. Nothing mattered to him, living behind bars or with no bars. He was his own prison. Everyone bears their own prison, nothing changes, only habits, from listening so long to the coursing river, he said, and from seeing so much water drift past. What drifted past was him. I flow past, he said, everything else remains. Man lives between earth and air, is made of water, and lives imprisoned like the river that has earth beneath it and air above. The river is like a man. Always along the same appointed path, and if at times the river overflows, like a man's heart when he can no longer bear it, a law returns it to its course. 

All the things you truly believe occur. You'll see, he said.

HUH wdym 16???? the mc is 14????? oh im gonna be sick

Sometimes the flower was white, sometimes red. But there was no flowerpot that day. My stepmother wasn't at home. She was sixteen years old.

Death in spring. I threw myself on the ground, on top of the pebbles, my heart drained of blood, my hands icy. I was fourteen years old, and the man who had entered the tree to die was my father.

I stopped by the edge of the river and covered my ears with my open hands so I would not hear the quiet. 

When someone is born, I make their ring and plaque right away. Don't tell anyone I told you. All of us have our ring, our plaque, and our tree. And at the entrance to the forest stand the pitchfork and the axe.

When mother was dead and had been buried for some time, I - I alone heard her crying out beneath my father's window the first day he and my stepmother slept together. It lasted until the first taste of light appeared.

In front of me lay the forest, where the elderly went from time to time, and when they did, they locked us children inside wooden cupboards in the kitchen. We could only breathe through the stars on the cupboard walls, empty stars, like windows in the shape of a star. 

Daniel Gynn

Lushly surreal, Rodoreda's masterpiece is a mythological depiction of a city ruled by ritualsalmost like Franco's Spain.

Death in Spring

Reviews

Highlights