Review: The Shadow of the Wind

The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón
My rating: 4.5 stars

This review is also found on Goodreads! :)
--

What a whirlwind. This is probably one of the most elaborate reads of my life and it makes for one very beautiful book. I dove into Daniel Sempere and Julian Carax's stories not knowing what to expect from the plot or of the story line; the blurb didn't give away much. I didn't expect to be swept away completely. It is a very slow read--that I can comment on hence, the imperfect rating--but don't let that dissuade you. It's a long journey, and the unhurried pace Zafón set up for the me, the reader, allowed me to relish and soak in the flavours he established: the bitterness of longing and loneliness bled through each page, and that melancholy from all the intertwined characters gave a warm sweetness that spreads over your palate. It pulls you into a different layer of yearning that can only be drawn through masterful empathetic character writing. Wonderfully dark and delicious.

For a while, it also brought me back to my nights in Paris a few years ago (read about it here). It reminded me of the mystery, chill, and the gothic vibe that perpetually cloaks the City of Love even in these modern years. On the other hand, I may not be able to explore Barcelona now because of the pandemic, but it feels like I've lived vicariously already through Zafón's novel. It instilled in me, however, a renewed longing to see Barcelona and the rest of the world, and live my own mystery and adventure in a strange and foreign city.

They were right. This is the ultimate love letter to literature.
--
A few of my favorite quotes from The Shadow of the Wind:

"Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you."

"Making money isn't hard in itself. What's hard is to earn it doing something worth devoting one's life to."

"You women listen more to your heart and less to the nonsense. That's why you live longer."

"What is really killing him is loneliness. Memories are worse than bullets."

"Time goes faster, the more hollow it is."

"There are no coincidences. We are puppets of our subconscious desires."


View all my reviews

Chasing The Skies Across England

I first noticed the skies on that glorious first day in London. We were walking around Covent Garden, just off of a well-deserved buffet at Mr. Wu after a 16-hour flight. As we were strolling around the Piazza looking for the perfect red photobooth, I looked up to see the sky with nary a cloud in sight. London is notoriously known for its bleak weather. It's "grey-ness" and dreariness. But on that first day, it was the opposite. The skies spilled with my favorite color as if welcoming me home. It was a vast space of perfect seamless gradient blue blanketing the city, the color progressing from electric blue to a muted shade of cornflower. It was akin to staring at the ocean if it were hanging above you instead of beneath you. Back at Ludgate Hill, the cross-topped dome outline of St. Paul's Cathedral poised against the cobalt blue. The English baroque church stood pale and resplendent, with its stonework looking incredibly whitewashed by the afternoon sun. 

St. Paul's Cathedral viewed from King Edward Street

Strasbourg: A Doorway to Nostalgia

Prelude:

One of my favorite things to do when I was a little girl was read this book of fairy tale collections my dad had bought me. It was a book with a tale for each day of the year. No matter how many times I’ve finished and run through the book--whether religiously keeping up with the fairy tale of the day, or reading with total abandon finishing an entire month’s worth of stories in one night--I would always go back to it and re-read it. Being sickly and socially awkward, I didn’t have the patience for any other more ‘active’ play then, so reading became my most favorite thing to do. That fairy tale book survived a lot of relocation and house transfers. I still have it on my shelves. It contained most of my favorite stories from the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen, made alive only by the overactive imagination of 8-year old me. I casually browse through every once in a while when I miss my dad.

Earlier this year, I first stepped into Europe when we arrived in Paris. It was a surreal experience, hopping off the plane with a bag full of expectations. Paris was an urban artsy jungle: bigger, badder, and more flamboyant than I originally anticipated. Frenzied but a happy mess. However, nothing had prepared me for what followed when we visited northeast of France.

Strasbourg is the capital of the Alsace Region. It straddles the border of France and Germany, which makes it an interesting blend of French and German influence. When we stepped out of the Gare de Strasbourg after a 2-hour train ride from Paris, what immediately hit me was the cold. The temperature during our visit was 4°C. I tightened the scarf around my neck and buttoned up my coat. The day had just begun and I could already hear my limbs creaking and stiffening from the cold.

Strasbourg, France

As we walked from the station to the Centre-République, I can already see the traces of German influence from the surroundings. Although, it was still predominantly Gallic with its old French elegance--mansard roofs, jutting dormer windows and faux-balconies. But as we drew nearer to Ponts-Couverts, everything gradually turned rustic. The cream colored buildings were replaced by ones with richer reddish-brown walls and roofs with bellcast eaves, white and delicate exterior window shutters were replaced with ones in timber. Romanesque in style, characteristics of 17th-century Germany. Houses that reminded me of The Elves and the Shoemaker, and towers that, oddly enough, reminded me of Rumpelstiltskin.