“According to tradition, the first time someone visits this place, he must choose a book, whichever he wants, and adopt it, making sure that it will never disappear, that it will always stay alive.  It’s a very important promise.  For life … Today it’s your turn.” – from The Shadow of the Wind, by Carlos Ruiz Zafón

So.  I promised a review of Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s book, The Shadow of the Wind.  Though I had planned to save the read for those dark, gloomy days of autumn, I made the mistake of peeking at the first page and was hooked.  It was the Cemetery of Forgotten Books that had me. Yet by the end of the novel, I simply was not sure how I felt.  Zafón is a fine writer - poetic even at times.  He’s created a magical tale set in a fitting place and time – Barcelona, 1945. A boy takes to a mysterious novel entitled The Shadow of the Wind, written by Julián Carax. But when he seeks other works of the author  he discovers they’ve been destroyed. He soon discovers a disfigured stranger lurking in the shadows is seeking to destroy his copy as well - and the dark secrets linked to it.  

Zafón’s The Shadow of the Wind has all the elements of a true gothic novel: a palatial home, long abandoned … doomed lovers … murder … madness.  Perhaps there lies the issue – he simply tried too hard.  It was as if a whole lot of everything was poured in – including a quasi-Freudian relationship -  leaving little more than a blur.  The result was more melodramatic than literary.  I didn’t hate it; but it didn’t maintain it’s hold.  The intrigue that so captured my imagination at the onset died somewhere along the way.

I was in a surly disposition last week – and I’m just gonna go ahead and blame it on the fact that I was reading Robinson Crusoe.  You know it’s a bad sign when the main character of the story threatens to off himself within the first 60 pages or so and you’re thinking, “We could only be so lucky, because then the book could END!” 

I must say, I feel totally duped.  I’ve always heard about Robinson Crusoe, shipwrecked on an island.  I was thinking valiant adventurer – what I got was total cad.  He treated Friday like some sort of animal and he killed kittens!  Granted, he did eventually acknowledge Friday as the better man - as if that wasn’t totally obvious – but he KILLED KITTENS!  Add to that insipid writing and you’ve got one painful read.  Seriously.  Two hundred and ninety-seven pages seemed like a million.  By the end, I was actually trying to think of things I could do rather than read … maybe clean a toilet or two, or schedule in a root canal. 

And so the question begs to be asked:  why – oh why – is this considered a classic?  And don’t tell me it’s because of the Christian themes or my head will explode.  My head, will explode.  And let’s face it – you don’t need that on your conscience.