Reviews
stunning storytelling that i would hold up along with 'trust' as a masterclass in using perspective to unfold a narrative. i usually don't gravitate towards larger novels because i find myself unconvinced that the story needs that much space to expand, and i've had to sludge through murky text time and time again. that being said, i don't think enriquez wastes a single page of this book. in fact she would've been well within her right to add more.
there is so much at work here from the beginning that you're almost overwhelmed. but something i've always said i appreciate as both a writer and consumer is when you can tell an author trusts their reader to stay the course. and enriquez does just that - takes you through a dense familial and colonial history with enough sentimentality and heart to make it more than just a laundry list of context. in fact she trusts the reader enough to give them more than often the characters themselves, making one want to reach into the text and fix things yourself.
the story itself begs so many questions about power and love and sacrifice. for those in power, what is love but an extension of that power, bringing those you care about towards the top? for those exploited, what is love if not liberation? but what good is liberation without history, context?
i'm admittedly a softie for any type of parent-child dynamic, and so i found myself quite emotionally intertwined, and the parallel between the 'other' world and the reality happening around them was beautifully done. i'll think of this story for a long time.
I love books that add real historical events into the story, makes it more real. A great writing job.
Ok. No sé. Una bestialidad. Terror, horror, asco, violencia y sin embargo momentos luminosos, destellos. Una historia de amores marcados por la oscuridad absoluta. Y además: qué bien escrito, novelon, no podés dejar de leer. Te amo, Mariana , no puede ser.
It has been a couple of days but I am still speechless from this whole experience of a book. This novel is just so layered and dense, I really regret not having a personal physical copy of it to pour through and actually annotate against.
I am sure a lot of the subtleties of the representation of Argentinian history might have gone over my head - the story is so seeped in it - but Enríquez's writing is so captivating and clear that even someone not very familiar with it, like myself, could not help but entirely invested in the story. Of course, the strong plot of the novel, that would be able to stand even on its own, had an even bigger hold of me throughout what is, by all means, a pretty lengthy book.
All of this to say that the message I will take away from this book is about trauma (social, generational, individual) and the importance of tenderness and love for one another in order to get through it and break the cycle. Understanding one another is difficult and in our quest to save each other, to keep each other away from evil, we may hurt one another; but the love is still there.
In so many ways, this novel also reminded me of "Wuthering Heights" - maybe because it is still fresh on my mind, maybe because the central themes of both are there. But maybe it is also intentional - certain passages bear strong ressemblance. But "Our Share of Night" is also so much more than this to me - I would have loved it whether it had referenced "Wuthering Heights" or not, whether it reminded me of it or not. Enríquez has such excellent command of her prose, of symbolism and narration, you sort of have to be in awe when the dots connect and align perfectly.
The novel is not flawless (for example, I thought the last section - from Gaspar leaving Buenos Aires until the end - was rushed; I also found some of the way Gaspar and his friends talked about queerness and women distatestful, though they probably reflected the attitudes and language at the time). But all of this to say I will be thinking about this novel for a long time and I will hurry to get myself a paperback edition, once I am back from holiday, to begin rereading and annotating and picking this apart.
Creepy and thrilling but struggled at the end to finish it as the story ran off track a bit and took a while to regain its traction. Enjoyed the very end but was it missing some details?
Okay. Arguably the best horror novel i've ever read so far. Latin American literature is quickly becoming my favorite. Enriquez managed to pour so many tropes and genres into this monster of a book; Father and son, generational, coming of age, dark academia, myths and legends, cult horror, queer, Argentinian history, and with it, anti-colonialism and anti-fascism; and it freaking worked seamlessly. I was glad it took me a long time to finish it, because to be immersed into this bleak world, you really have to let each chapter in and drown you ruthlessly. It's dark, yet so beautiful. Sometimes it relies too much on over-exposition each time the plot moves forward, but i'm not complaining too much, because with those passages comes the delicious twists and reveals. Finishing a chapter always felt like completing a puzzle. The ending is satisfying, specifically THAT part, but it also leaves so much room for more (please i need more). It will be hard for me to walk away from the world this book has dragged me into.
hmm probably 1 of the best books i’ve ever read
This one’s going to stick with me for a while. I’ll come back for a better review, but initial thoughts: haunting, vivid, stunning. Both disturbingly historical and magically surreal. A bit wandering at times, but it held me captive and felt worth the length in my opinion.
This is certainly a good book, and a monumental achievement in historical horror. But I was not in the mood for something this joyless or ponderously long
Ok I get why this is neo-gothic, creatively political, capital “L” literature. I get why it’ll be taught in universities. I’ll likely even think about the medium for years to come. But it just wasn't worth the 600 pages to me!
gooooooooooooooooood
Me resuena mucho este fragmento de poesía de Neruda que encontré en el libro: «y por las calles la sangre de los niños / corría simplemente, como sangre de niños». Revela lo que es en esencia el ansia de poder y de inmortalidad.
One of the best books I've read this year. Intense and extremely engaging. Horror writing at its best.
Highlights
But no, Gaspar had told him. It's one thing to be the black sheep. You're the black sheep, the prodigal son, the family's shame. You could conform. All I can do is rebel. My dad could only rebel. Nonconformity is only possible for those who are not slaves. Everyone else has to fight.
They sought me out, here I am. I don't know how to let go of the dead.
I asked him: how can we go on after this, how do you all do it, the world is stupid, the people who know nothing are con-temptible. And he gave an answer that was so true I sometimes repeat it out loud. The thing is, nothing happens after this, dear. The next day, we get hungry and we eat, we want to feel the sun and we go swimming, we have to shave, we need to meet with the accountants and visit the fields because we want to keep having money. What happens is real, but so is life.
That is also what it is to be rich: that contempt for beauty and the refusal to offer even the dignity of a name.
..I'm going to miss him, he thought, I'll be glad when he's gone because without him it'll be easier to stop being sad, but I'm going to miss him.
…he took Gaspar's face in his hands, leaned down to look him in the eyes, and caressed his hair, the box on the ground between them, and he said, You have something of mine, I passed on something of me to you, and hopefully it isn't cursed, I don't know if I can leave you something that isn't dirty, that isn't dark, our share of night.
Tali kissed his forehead to silence him, to instill trust. Juan thought about telling her that in another life she would have been his, but he kept his mouth shut. There was no other life.
But you will use his body, and you will want to. Who wouldn't? It's an act of love. We have children so that we can continue on, they are our immortality.
El amor es impuro, decía su hermana, pero Florence creía que el amor era inevitable y también podía ser dejado de lado. Ese era el signo de verdadera fortaleza. Dejar de lado el amor.
Y me contestó algo que de tan cierto a veces lo repito en voz alta. Es que no pasa nada después de esto, hija. Al día siguiente tenemos hambre y comemos, queremos estar al sol y nadamos, nos tenemos que afeitar, hay que atender a los contadores y visitar los campos porque queremos seguir teniendo dinero. Lo que pasa es real, pero la vida también.
Eso también es ser rico, pensé entonces: ese desprecio por lo precioso y la incapacidad de ofrecer la dignidad de nombrar.
It’s one thing to be the black sheep. You’re the black sheep, the prodigal son, the family’s shame. You could conform. All I can do is rebel. My dad could only rebel. Nonconformity is only possible for those who are not slaves. Everyone else has to fight.
and they’d hug, proclaim their love for each other, just like that, I love you, fucking Negro, and Gaspar felt he couldn’t ascend to that level with them. He’d said as much to Isabel. It’s like we’re all going up a flight of stairs together and at a certain point I say “this is as far as I go.” And on that step, higher up, they’re all happy and I watch them from below. Had he always been like that? It wasn’t shyness or reserve or adolescence, as other people thought. He wasn’t going to get over it. He could dance when he was alone, he could get emotional in his room with a book, but when the party started he disconnected, the others turned into a movie that he could watch but not participate in. So he acted like he was invisible, which wasn’t hard when everyone was drunk. And he withdrew into his room, where he felt the purest kind of relief.
There is no arguing with faith, though. And it’s impossible to disbelieve when the Darkness comes. So, we trust, and we go on. At least, many of us do. Others are sick with doubt.
I want to drain your entrails with kisses
Exist inside you with all my senses
For I am a pitch-black toad with two wings.
- Baldomero Fernández Moreno, “Sonnet of Your Entrails”
Gods always behave like the people who make them.
- Zora Neale Hurston, Tell My Horse
Will I be remembered as the man who found the medium and saved him more than once? Will they write about me, will my name be uttered in admiration? I must not think of my glory. Let it be secret if it must. I will stop pleading for compassion. There are no words from this world for the entrance into the Darkness, no words for the last bite.
My mother once told me that your power was as great as your irresponsibility. I’ll be with you forever. As long as you don’t push me away, I’m with you.
Still not looking at Juan, Stephen left.
It was the illness, he’d explained to her later. Each thing he did was a negotiation, a calculation. As if he were tasked with carrying and caring for a delicate crystal treasure that he could never set aside, not even in a safe place, and that had to be moved gingerly so as not to damage or break it. He had to think out every movement in advance, always tiptoeing, always wondering if this jolt would bring the disaster, the final break.