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A review by ketutar
The Discovery of Chocolate by James Runcie
2.0
The idea is great. I love books like [b:Forrest Gump|186190|Forrest Gump (Forrest Gump, #1)|Winston Groom|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1385313197s/186190.jpg|1500218] and [b:The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared|36578942|The Hundred-Year-Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window and Disappeared (The Hundred-Year-Old Man, #1)|Jonas Jonasson|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1510447566s/36578942.jpg|10365993], and there is that "man meets all kinds of celebrities during his life". But - the timeline is all wrong, and that irritates me. Also, this guy had his fingers in everything that has to do with chocolate, like the Sacher cake and Hershey's kisses.
But - the author is unfortunately an idiot. He just can't handle the story.
He is trying to write South American magical realism, and doesn't do a bad job. He almost fooled me. So much so that I was surprised to find out that this isn't the first novel of some young South American author. But also, finding out that this is a book by a middle-aged white guy, explained a lot.
There's some of Henri Rousseau over it, or Karl May. He is just writing and ignoring facts, adjusting things for his own purposes.
The facts are important to me. If you use real historical people in your book, get the facts right. Joseph Fry died before Sigmund Freud and Gustav Klimt were even born. Franz Sacher was born two years after Marquis de Sade died, and he was about 16 when Sacher torte was first baked. Alice B. Toklas and Gerdrude Stein met the year Hershey kisses were introduced. They would not have been on some boat to USA 1906. Gustav Klimt painted pale, red-haired women 1907.
There is no snow and it's not cold in Vienna at Palm Sunday. Europe is not "wintry and frozen" in March, and Palm Sunday never falls before that.
The descriptions of food and spices is... uh. Painful.
I find his discussions about God and death stupid and self-aggrandizing. I don't believe in God because I'm afraid of death. I believe in God because I SENSE God. I can FEEL God. I can HEAR God. My senses tell me there is God. Might be that this I sense is not God, that there are no Gods, but the descriptions of God from different cultures is the closest to what I sense, so I call that something God. Also, I am not afraid of death. Death is a normal part of life. In my mind, a person who has lived 400 years, should be more wise and understanding than this... immortal 20-something.
Frankly, a 40-years old man (as the author was when he wrote this) should be wiser.
And then the end. *sigh* You are not Gabriel Garcia Marquez, mr. Runcie. You are not.
But - the author is unfortunately an idiot. He just can't handle the story.
He is trying to write South American magical realism, and doesn't do a bad job. He almost fooled me. So much so that I was surprised to find out that this isn't the first novel of some young South American author. But also, finding out that this is a book by a middle-aged white guy, explained a lot.
There's some of Henri Rousseau over it, or Karl May. He is just writing and ignoring facts, adjusting things for his own purposes.
The facts are important to me. If you use real historical people in your book, get the facts right. Joseph Fry died before Sigmund Freud and Gustav Klimt were even born. Franz Sacher was born two years after Marquis de Sade died, and he was about 16 when Sacher torte was first baked. Alice B. Toklas and Gerdrude Stein met the year Hershey kisses were introduced. They would not have been on some boat to USA 1906. Gustav Klimt painted pale, red-haired women 1907.
"My departure fell on Palm Sunday, and the city was covered in snow. The railway station was crowded with people, the tracks were cleared, and there was nothing to stop Pedro and me travelling through a wintry and frozen Europe to seek a new life in England. The Doctor busied himself finding porters for our luggage, securing a crate for Pedro in which he was obliged to journey. In a particularly kindly gesture, he had brought us both a travel rug as a leaving present.
Claudia was dressed in her fur hat and coat, and stood uneasily on the platform, stamping her feet against the cold. I can still see the wisps of breath emerging from her mouth as she spoke, the fierceness in her green eyes, the crisp red lines of her lips.´
‘Well then,’ she said at last, ‘this is goodbye.’ "
There is no snow and it's not cold in Vienna at Palm Sunday. Europe is not "wintry and frozen" in March, and Palm Sunday never falls before that.
The descriptions of food and spices is... uh. Painful.
I find his discussions about God and death stupid and self-aggrandizing. I don't believe in God because I'm afraid of death. I believe in God because I SENSE God. I can FEEL God. I can HEAR God. My senses tell me there is God. Might be that this I sense is not God, that there are no Gods, but the descriptions of God from different cultures is the closest to what I sense, so I call that something God. Also, I am not afraid of death. Death is a normal part of life. In my mind, a person who has lived 400 years, should be more wise and understanding than this... immortal 20-something.
Frankly, a 40-years old man (as the author was when he wrote this) should be wiser.
And then the end. *sigh* You are not Gabriel Garcia Marquez, mr. Runcie. You are not.