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lewismillholland 's review for:
Baltasar and Blimunda
by José Saramago
Dwarfish bread, a running gag in Terry Pratchett's Discworld series, is highly coveted for its ability to keep adventurers fed no matter the circumstances. The joke is that, when faced with the prospect of biting into rock-hard dwarfish bread, suddenly everything else appears edible...
I hate to say it, because this book was lent to me as a gift, not by Maddy but by Maddy's mom, who wasn't sure how mobile I was and if the library was within my range of accessibility because, if not, here's a book I might like, it's on of her favorites — but I did not like this book. I gave it the requisite hundred pages before cashing in my chips but it's time to forego even the dwarfish bread.
There are bits I like, mind you. Reflections on Baltasar's injury, comparing the loss of a hand to the loss of a leg and tallying up the relative benefits of each hit close to home. I agree with his conclusion: losing a hand is worse. As someone walking around on what's effectively a stump I feel at least half-entitled to offer my opinion.
Also, there's this one scene, where Blimunda is first introduced to Baltasar's family that has echoes in my complaints about corporate small talk, especially when it bleeds out of the corporate realm:
"It ought to be sufficient to state what someone is called and then wait for the rest of your life to find out who he or she is, if you can ever know, but the custom is otherwise, Who were your parents, where were you born, what is your trade, and once you know these facts, you think you have learnt everything about the person."
There are other observations on human relationships that are well-identified and well-expressed. The jumbled dialogue is a treat to read, too, not knowing who's speaking and who's responding to whom. It's an impressive technical feat that Saramago pulled off.
Still, it's just boring. The plot is milquetoast and none of the characters have personality. One event follows another and, after a hundred pages, that's not enough.
I hate to say it, because this book was lent to me as a gift, not by Maddy but by Maddy's mom, who wasn't sure how mobile I was and if the library was within my range of accessibility because, if not, here's a book I might like, it's on of her favorites — but I did not like this book. I gave it the requisite hundred pages before cashing in my chips but it's time to forego even the dwarfish bread.
There are bits I like, mind you. Reflections on Baltasar's injury, comparing the loss of a hand to the loss of a leg and tallying up the relative benefits of each hit close to home. I agree with his conclusion: losing a hand is worse. As someone walking around on what's effectively a stump I feel at least half-entitled to offer my opinion.
Also, there's this one scene, where Blimunda is first introduced to Baltasar's family that has echoes in my complaints about corporate small talk, especially when it bleeds out of the corporate realm:
"It ought to be sufficient to state what someone is called and then wait for the rest of your life to find out who he or she is, if you can ever know, but the custom is otherwise, Who were your parents, where were you born, what is your trade, and once you know these facts, you think you have learnt everything about the person."
There are other observations on human relationships that are well-identified and well-expressed. The jumbled dialogue is a treat to read, too, not knowing who's speaking and who's responding to whom. It's an impressive technical feat that Saramago pulled off.
Still, it's just boring. The plot is milquetoast and none of the characters have personality. One event follows another and, after a hundred pages, that's not enough.