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A review by sjrenfroe
Avenue of Mysteries by John Irving
5.0
And now I’m crying on a train between La Spezia and Rome because of this damned book.
It took me long enough to actually like the thing ~ Irving’s writing style took some getting used to. I picked up this book in a shop in Voss, Norway on the tiny English novels shelf, and soon after opening it became skeptial. Irving wrote very differently than I think. His sentences were abrupt and truthful, peeling back all layers of his characters’ personalities until I read only the essentials. I didn’t like this at first. I felt like the light-heartedness was gone and had left only the barest heartbeat of life. It was far too human for my taste.
But what does that mean, really?
Irving described two sides of Juan Diego’s life ~ his childhood and his adulthood. These blended more and more until the moments separating them were hard to identify. I adored Juan Diego’s childhood self and found his adult self distasteful ~ as a child, the boy experienced life innocently and with hope, yet as an adult his thoughts revolved mainly around sex and writing. I found this depiction of childhood versus adulthood frightening ~ I didn’t want it to be anything near true.
The point was, I think, to slowly show the reader that the child is the adult, and vice versa ~ it is far too easy to judge someone in passing based on who they are in that moment when there is, of course, an entire story behind them. The context is always a story. The wonder of this book is that it could have been written about anyone, it could have described anyone’s life, and it would have still made me cry on this train.
By the end of the book I had fully realized that Irving had created a love potion with his words I’d unknowingly drunk through absorption of language. I was enraptured and in love, although I somewhat resented my encapturement.
I in turns hated and loved this book. Bottom line: it bared its soul and, through this, touched me deeply.
It took me long enough to actually like the thing ~ Irving’s writing style took some getting used to. I picked up this book in a shop in Voss, Norway on the tiny English novels shelf, and soon after opening it became skeptial. Irving wrote very differently than I think. His sentences were abrupt and truthful, peeling back all layers of his characters’ personalities until I read only the essentials. I didn’t like this at first. I felt like the light-heartedness was gone and had left only the barest heartbeat of life. It was far too human for my taste.
But what does that mean, really?
Irving described two sides of Juan Diego’s life ~ his childhood and his adulthood. These blended more and more until the moments separating them were hard to identify. I adored Juan Diego’s childhood self and found his adult self distasteful ~ as a child, the boy experienced life innocently and with hope, yet as an adult his thoughts revolved mainly around sex and writing. I found this depiction of childhood versus adulthood frightening ~ I didn’t want it to be anything near true.
The point was, I think, to slowly show the reader that the child is the adult, and vice versa ~ it is far too easy to judge someone in passing based on who they are in that moment when there is, of course, an entire story behind them. The context is always a story. The wonder of this book is that it could have been written about anyone, it could have described anyone’s life, and it would have still made me cry on this train.
By the end of the book I had fully realized that Irving had created a love potion with his words I’d unknowingly drunk through absorption of language. I was enraptured and in love, although I somewhat resented my encapturement.
I in turns hated and loved this book. Bottom line: it bared its soul and, through this, touched me deeply.