Enjoyed the book early, but much like a marathon, it slowly beat me down until I completely hated it. The writing style, enchanting at first, began to tire me, and the lead characters were very unlikeable. Love story? Between a sociopathic stalker and a shallow, self-centered biddy?
Magical element? Hmm, how about "he no longer detected the fetid reek of the bay in the city, but was aware only of the personal fragrance of Fermina Daza." (p. 148) How romantic. That stink everyone smells? Reminds me of the girl I am stalking! It's the magic of love!
"I adore you because you made me a whore", declares one of the stalker's conquests - such a lovely ideal. (p. 151) At this point this book is making me angry. There is no love or passion here - just a disturbing sense of selfishness and misogyny - but I press onward.
"This pussy is mine", writes the romantic hero on the body of another victim, who is later murdered by her husband due to this transgression. Ah, but magically, the roses grew so beautifully in the cemetery where she was buried. (p. 217-218)
Finally, I cut my losses and quit. Well, actually I jumped to the end, hoping to read about their painful deaths - cholera for Fermented Ditza, and syphilis for Fornicato Arzehole. Alas, I was deprived of this relief. If it was the author's intent to make me suffer, to feel the pain of cholera, then his Nobel prize was clearly well deserved.
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