The novel by Kirmen Uribe has left me with a feeling similar to that experienced when I read fellow Basque writer Galder Reguera’s “Libro de Familia” –Family Book–. The two novels revel in their treasured microcosms of remembrance and enquiry. And despite acknowledging some sparks in both author’s literary universes, the ‘so what?’ question kept coming back as I turned the pages.
The balance between writing with authenticity, about a deeply personal subject, and transcending a person’s inner realm to establish meaningful connections with readers –almost by definition of a more general nature–, is clearly a delicate one. In the case of Uribe and Reguera, those connections were feeble at best. I felt as if they themselves, and possibly a select few in their respective entourages, were the real targeted readers. For an outsider, the word that often came to mind was inane.
The two Basque authors’ styles writing are different. Reguera’s is emotion-filled, but only tangentially literary. His book reads as if it had been written by a newspaper journalist specialised in crafting weekend chronicles. Bilbao-New York-Bilbao, on the other hand, includes some beautiful reflections and small teachings. Are those gems enough to satisfy a reader’s appetite? Hardly, would be my honest answer.
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