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Vienas minioje
Vienas garsiausių šiuolaikinių Ispanijos rašytojų Antonio Muñoz Molina – Ispanijos Nacionalinės literatūros premijos laimėtojas, Ispanijos Karališkosios akademijos narys, 2018 m. nominuotas prestižinei tarptautinei Bookerio premijai.
Jo kūrinys „Vienas minioje“ 2020-aisiais buvo įvertintas prestižine Prancūzijos „Prix Médicis“ premija už geriausią užsienio literatūros romaną.
Daugybė žymių rašytojų peno savo kūrybai sėmėsi vaikščiodami miestų gatvėmis ir stebėdami jose kunkuliuojantį gyvenimą. Iš apšnerkštų užkaborių ir spindinčių aikščių surinkę savo epochos nuolaužas, jie sukurdavo kažką naujo, šokiruojančio ir gražaus.
Knygoje „Vienas minioje“ Antonio Muñoz Molina žengia De Quinceyʼio, Baudelaireʼ, Poe, Joyceʼo, Benjamino, Melvilleʼio, Lorcos, Whitmano ir kitų plunksnos virtuozų pramintu taku, nežinomo klajūno rašytojo akimis stebėdamas Paryžiaus, Madrido ir Niujorko megapolių kasdienybę atšiauraus kapitalizmo epochoje.
Šis eksperimentinis romanas – savotiškas koliažas. Vaikščiodamas po miestą rašytojas fiksuoja savo įspūdžius, rikiuoja nugirstų pokalbių nuotrupas, laikraščių antraštes, pardavėjų riksmus, dainelių fragmentus, pastebėtas knygų citatas, taip pat – galingu srautu iš milžiniškų ekranų srūvančias reklamas, kurios iliustruoja visuomenės gyvenimo būdą, įsigalėjusią vartotojišką psichologiją, žmogaus akistatą su nemalonia tikrove. Tuo pat metu autorius meistriškai įpina pasakojimus apie tuose miestuose gyvenusius ir kūrusius rašytojus bei menininkus, atskleidžia menkai žinomas jų gyvenimo detales, paveikusias jų kūrybą ir padėtį visuomenėje.
Visą šią margą literatūrinę mozaiką Antonio Muñoz Molina meistriškai pagardina sodriu humoru, satyra ir sarkazmu. Nors skvarbus autoriaus žvilgsnis aprėpia opiausias šiuolaikinės visuomenės problemas, jo pasakojimas gyvas ir patrauklus, įtraukiantis ir masinantis skaityti be sustojimo – nuo pirmo iki pat paskutinio puslapio.
„Vienas minioje“ – atšiauraus kapitalizmo triukšmo, viską verčiančio prekėmis arba šiukšlėmis (arba abiem iš karto) pasmerkimas, bet tuo pačiu tai ir mūsų pasaulio grožio ir įvairovės, ekologinio ir estetinio prado išryškinimas, rodantis, kad atliekas galima paversti menu, ir suteikiantis galimybę atgimti.
„Eklektiškas ir išskirtinis romanas, natūraliai balansuojantis tarp grožinės literatūros, asmeninio pasakojimo ir literatūrinės esė žanrų.“ – El Correo Gallego
„Stulbinantis ir poetiškas.“ – Booklist
„Neįvardintas pasakotojas „Vienas minioje“ siekia sukurti mūsų laikų žemėlapį, savotišką stebėjimo ir mąstymo knygą, kuri taip pat yra ir duoklė didiesiems praeities rašytojams klajūnams.“ – Martinas Rikeris, The New York Times
Jo kūrinys „Vienas minioje“ 2020-aisiais buvo įvertintas prestižine Prancūzijos „Prix Médicis“ premija už geriausią užsienio literatūros romaną.
Daugybė žymių rašytojų peno savo kūrybai sėmėsi vaikščiodami miestų gatvėmis ir stebėdami jose kunkuliuojantį gyvenimą. Iš apšnerkštų užkaborių ir spindinčių aikščių surinkę savo epochos nuolaužas, jie sukurdavo kažką naujo, šokiruojančio ir gražaus.
Knygoje „Vienas minioje“ Antonio Muñoz Molina žengia De Quinceyʼio, Baudelaireʼ, Poe, Joyceʼo, Benjamino, Melvilleʼio, Lorcos, Whitmano ir kitų plunksnos virtuozų pramintu taku, nežinomo klajūno rašytojo akimis stebėdamas Paryžiaus, Madrido ir Niujorko megapolių kasdienybę atšiauraus kapitalizmo epochoje.
Šis eksperimentinis romanas – savotiškas koliažas. Vaikščiodamas po miestą rašytojas fiksuoja savo įspūdžius, rikiuoja nugirstų pokalbių nuotrupas, laikraščių antraštes, pardavėjų riksmus, dainelių fragmentus, pastebėtas knygų citatas, taip pat – galingu srautu iš milžiniškų ekranų srūvančias reklamas, kurios iliustruoja visuomenės gyvenimo būdą, įsigalėjusią vartotojišką psichologiją, žmogaus akistatą su nemalonia tikrove. Tuo pat metu autorius meistriškai įpina pasakojimus apie tuose miestuose gyvenusius ir kūrusius rašytojus bei menininkus, atskleidžia menkai žinomas jų gyvenimo detales, paveikusias jų kūrybą ir padėtį visuomenėje.
Visą šią margą literatūrinę mozaiką Antonio Muñoz Molina meistriškai pagardina sodriu humoru, satyra ir sarkazmu. Nors skvarbus autoriaus žvilgsnis aprėpia opiausias šiuolaikinės visuomenės problemas, jo pasakojimas gyvas ir patrauklus, įtraukiantis ir masinantis skaityti be sustojimo – nuo pirmo iki pat paskutinio puslapio.
„Vienas minioje“ – atšiauraus kapitalizmo triukšmo, viską verčiančio prekėmis arba šiukšlėmis (arba abiem iš karto) pasmerkimas, bet tuo pačiu tai ir mūsų pasaulio grožio ir įvairovės, ekologinio ir estetinio prado išryškinimas, rodantis, kad atliekas galima paversti menu, ir suteikiantis galimybę atgimti.
„Eklektiškas ir išskirtinis romanas, natūraliai balansuojantis tarp grožinės literatūros, asmeninio pasakojimo ir literatūrinės esė žanrų.“ – El Correo Gallego
„Stulbinantis ir poetiškas.“ – Booklist
„Neįvardintas pasakotojas „Vienas minioje“ siekia sukurti mūsų laikų žemėlapį, savotišką stebėjimo ir mąstymo knygą, kuri taip pat yra ir duoklė didiesiems praeities rašytojams klajūnams.“ – Martinas Rikeris, The New York Times
528 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2018
87 people are currently reading
1453 people want to read
About the author
Antonio Muñoz Molina
131 books584 followersAntonio Muñoz Molina is a Spanish writer and, since 8 June 1995, a full member of the Royal Spanish Academy. He currently resides in New York City, United States. In 2004-2005 he served as the director of the Instituto Cervantes of New York.
He was born in the town of Úbeda in Jaén province.
He studied art history at the University of Granada and journalism in Madrid. He began writing in the 1980s and his first published book, El Robinsón urbano, a collection of his journalistic work, was published in 1984. His columns have regularly appeared in El País and Die Welt.
His first novel, Beatus ille, appeared in 1986. It features the imaginary city of Mágina — a re-creation of his Andalusian birthplace — which would reappear in some his later works.
In 1987 Muñoz Molina was awarded Spain's National Narrative Prize for El invierno en Lisboa (translated as Winter in Lisbon), a homage to the genres of film noir and jazz music. His El jinete polaco received the Planeta Prize in 1991 and, again, the National Narrative Prize in 1992.
His other novels include Beltenebros (1989), a story of love and political intrigue in post-Civil War Madrid, Los misterios de Madrid (1992), and El dueño del secreto (1994).
Margaret Sayers Peden's English-language translation of Muñoz Molina's novel Sepharad won the PEN/Book-of-the-Month Club Translation Prize in 2004. He won the Jerusalem Prize in 2013.
He is married to Spanish author and journalist, Elvira Lindo.
He was born in the town of Úbeda in Jaén province.
He studied art history at the University of Granada and journalism in Madrid. He began writing in the 1980s and his first published book, El Robinsón urbano, a collection of his journalistic work, was published in 1984. His columns have regularly appeared in El País and Die Welt.
His first novel, Beatus ille, appeared in 1986. It features the imaginary city of Mágina — a re-creation of his Andalusian birthplace — which would reappear in some his later works.
In 1987 Muñoz Molina was awarded Spain's National Narrative Prize for El invierno en Lisboa (translated as Winter in Lisbon), a homage to the genres of film noir and jazz music. His El jinete polaco received the Planeta Prize in 1991 and, again, the National Narrative Prize in 1992.
His other novels include Beltenebros (1989), a story of love and political intrigue in post-Civil War Madrid, Los misterios de Madrid (1992), and El dueño del secreto (1994).
Margaret Sayers Peden's English-language translation of Muñoz Molina's novel Sepharad won the PEN/Book-of-the-Month Club Translation Prize in 2004. He won the Jerusalem Prize in 2013.
He is married to Spanish author and journalist, Elvira Lindo.
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 62 reviews
November 24, 2023
To Walk Alone in the Crowd is a mosaic of a novel… As the mosaic consists of small multicoloured pieces so the crowd consists of variegated human individuals…
The author turns himself into Poe’s Man of the Crowd and wandering through time and space, he crosses paths with men of letters and men of arts long dead and gone…
Crowds generate discontent and anxiety… Crowds produce mounds of trash… Heaps of material garbage… Words and texts of informational pollution… Ideological offal of mass media propaganda…
Kitsch is a part of toxic contamination – it poisons minds, it decomposes mentality… And the narrator is literally lost among the multitudes of happy idiots in advertising videos…
Every modern man is a man of the crowd – man of throngs both real and virtual – and every modern man stands alone.
I move through a city of voices and words. Voices that set the air in motion and pass through my inner ear to reach the brain transformed into electrical pulses; words that I hear in passing, perhaps if someone stands beside me talking on their phone, or that I read no matter where I turn, on every surface, every screen. Printed words reach me like spoken sounds, like the notes on a musical score; sometimes it is hard to unscramble words that are spoken simultaneously, or to infer those I can’t quite hear because they’re whisked away or lost in a louder noise. The varied shapes of letters give rise to a ceaseless visual polyphony.
The author turns himself into Poe’s Man of the Crowd and wandering through time and space, he crosses paths with men of letters and men of arts long dead and gone…
De Quincey moves very frequently from city to city. Sometimes he is not sure anymore where he is, or whether he’s awake or dreaming, or if the city around him is really there or just a memory or a fantasy implanted in his starving, sleepless brain by a dose of opium. He walks in order to stay awake but falls asleep even as he continues to put one foot in front of the other. He takes shelter at night in the hollow of a doorway or outside a church but hunger and cold will not let him sleep.
Crowds generate discontent and anxiety… Crowds produce mounds of trash… Heaps of material garbage… Words and texts of informational pollution… Ideological offal of mass media propaganda…
The city is tattooed in words: its bridges, its highway embankments, every bit of space has been inscribed. The city is submerged in a flood of simultaneous words as in a vast cloud of pollution. All the words that people whisper, yell, say to each other, mutter to themselves, speak into their cell phones to be scattered through the air in ceaseless bursts of electromagnetic radiation. Over rooftops and terraces, a constantly expanding array of relay towers that no one can see will send its signals to orbiting satellites and then all over the Earth. The hive of human voices down below merges with a skein of voices wrapping itself around the planet.
Kitsch is a part of toxic contamination – it poisons minds, it decomposes mentality… And the narrator is literally lost among the multitudes of happy idiots in advertising videos…
Their laughing mouths are stretched painfully wide by a terrifying joy, a fanatical, collective, unanimous euphoria. They are the suicide squads of happiness, its fundamentalists, caught in a gruesome glee that forces them to jump from cliffs and trampolines. Any day can be a party when you have everything you need. They laugh in a circle, looking separately at their phones and at the same time joined by the excitement radiating from each glowing screen. They all laugh: couples, families, friends, mobs of people.
Every modern man is a man of the crowd – man of throngs both real and virtual – and every modern man stands alone.
July 12, 2021
Reading this book, I got reminded by the simple yet complex fragments in Olga Tokarczuk’s most celebrated work, Flights. In her novel, Olga Tokarczuk attempts to provide a constellation of different angles and timelines which shift continuously throughout the story to guide us to a meditation on the state of modern travel. I still remember vividly how Flights felt to me like a religious text that makes me pause for a while from the dictation of constant notifications that never end from the internet. The internet has in some ways become our main gateway to travel and access information from the outside world. It was not wrong to say the internet as: “The world at your fingertips.”
In a rather similar fashion, Antonio Muñoz Molina provides an interesting meditation that celebrates the simplicity of life before technologies invade our daily lives. The characters are being presented here through fragments that seem to not be connected to each other here. One term that is consistently repeated throughout this book is perambulation. The narrator imagines the state in which perambulation could be studied as a discipline that discusses the movements that some artists, art critics, writers took in order to produce the works of art that christened their names in the history book: Perambulation Studies.
Using sentences that traverse freely between the realms of fiction and roman à clef, Antonio guides us into the lives of Edgar Allan Poe, Thomas de Quincey, Walter Benjamin, Fernando Pessoa, Charles Baudelaire, Henry Melville, and other artists whose lives seemed of no importance except for some scholars who specifically study them. Their works seem to take precedence, but it is inside the minds of those artists that Antonio could draw the line that connects them all. All of them were at some points in their lives, got influence or influenced each other through a series of coincidence that is largely ignored by critics.
To be in ‘the right time and the right place’ is something that I see being emphasised continuously throughout this book. Artists did not come out of anything to create some art in the world. They were influenced by something, and they happened to have the right influences at the right time. Sometimes through other people’s works, such was the case of Henry Melville and de Quincey who were influenced by Poe. But there were also cases such as Benjamin or Baudelaire who produced some of their works under unique circumstances when they had to live in exile, such was the case of Benjamin when he was exiled in Paris after Hitler took power or Baudelaire who spent most of later years of his life in Brussels.
Translated from the Spanish by Guillermo Bleichmar, this book is styled using short interconnected messages that sometimes complement and other times become sporadic. I’ll have to admit that it did trick me into thinking that this book will be a quick read, but it turned out that I spent almost one month digging into it. Shorter intervals do not mean that it makes it easy for us who live with smartphones and constant notifications that keep coming. In fact, I felt that the power of my concentration is being judged here, as though Antonio challenges the readers to put down their smartphones first and find the hidden threads in between short intervals of fragments in this book. The length is really challenging, but I like the depictions of modern life that Antonio shows us here. It is indeed, the kind of book that makes me feel like I’ve been walking alone in the crowd of people with eyes glued to their digital devices.
In a rather similar fashion, Antonio Muñoz Molina provides an interesting meditation that celebrates the simplicity of life before technologies invade our daily lives. The characters are being presented here through fragments that seem to not be connected to each other here. One term that is consistently repeated throughout this book is perambulation. The narrator imagines the state in which perambulation could be studied as a discipline that discusses the movements that some artists, art critics, writers took in order to produce the works of art that christened their names in the history book: Perambulation Studies.
Using sentences that traverse freely between the realms of fiction and roman à clef, Antonio guides us into the lives of Edgar Allan Poe, Thomas de Quincey, Walter Benjamin, Fernando Pessoa, Charles Baudelaire, Henry Melville, and other artists whose lives seemed of no importance except for some scholars who specifically study them. Their works seem to take precedence, but it is inside the minds of those artists that Antonio could draw the line that connects them all. All of them were at some points in their lives, got influence or influenced each other through a series of coincidence that is largely ignored by critics.
To be in ‘the right time and the right place’ is something that I see being emphasised continuously throughout this book. Artists did not come out of anything to create some art in the world. They were influenced by something, and they happened to have the right influences at the right time. Sometimes through other people’s works, such was the case of Henry Melville and de Quincey who were influenced by Poe. But there were also cases such as Benjamin or Baudelaire who produced some of their works under unique circumstances when they had to live in exile, such was the case of Benjamin when he was exiled in Paris after Hitler took power or Baudelaire who spent most of later years of his life in Brussels.
Translated from the Spanish by Guillermo Bleichmar, this book is styled using short interconnected messages that sometimes complement and other times become sporadic. I’ll have to admit that it did trick me into thinking that this book will be a quick read, but it turned out that I spent almost one month digging into it. Shorter intervals do not mean that it makes it easy for us who live with smartphones and constant notifications that keep coming. In fact, I felt that the power of my concentration is being judged here, as though Antonio challenges the readers to put down their smartphones first and find the hidden threads in between short intervals of fragments in this book. The length is really challenging, but I like the depictions of modern life that Antonio shows us here. It is indeed, the kind of book that makes me feel like I’ve been walking alone in the crowd of people with eyes glued to their digital devices.
May 26, 2018
Fantástico AMM y su paseante que piensa y reflexiona en un libro cuajado de referencias
http://entremontonesdelibros.blogspot...
http://entremontonesdelibros.blogspot...
February 27, 2018
«Cualquier día puede ser una fiesta si tienes todo lo necesario. Se ríen en círculo mirando cada uno su móvil y al mismo tiempo unidos por la excitación que irradia de cada pantalla. Se ríen en pareja, se ríen en familia, se ríen en pandilla o en horda, se ríen a solas como dementes, haciéndose un selfie quizás, escuchando algo o viendo algo en la pantalla del teléfono o en el iPad».
May 23, 2024
I was eager to read this latest book by Antonio Munoz Molina, a writer I fell in love with after reading his masterpiece Sepharad several years ago. Additionally, I spent considerable time searching for a copy of his Winter in Lisbon which I also enjoyed. Along with my familiarity with the author I found the focus of this book enticing: an homage to the flaneur- several of whom I have read: Walter Benjamin, Robert Walser, Teju Cole, WG Sebald and others who find inspiration in walking the streets of great cities and countryside, a meditation, from which they compose great literature.
Molina, a resident of Madrid visits New York City for two months with a small valise filled with notebooks, pencils and a book by Baudelaire. He embarks on a long journey up Broadway from Battery Park through the island of Manhattan and into the Bronx. Along the way he takes meticulous notes, observations of the teeming city, its inhabitants from around the world with an intended focus on other writers who have walked these same streets: Poe, Melville and Whitman.
The book has two sections, the first of greater length documenting his walk, the second focused more on the act of writing and the emotions evoked upon leaving for home. I ended up skimming the first section which became somewhat redundant, indulgent and repetitive until it focused on Poe's live of poverty and love relationships.
Along the way there are many treasures, a couple of which I will share:
'A sperm whale washes ashore on a beach that looks like a picture in a travel brochure; it has starved to death, and they find sixty pounds of plastic bags in its stomach. In the middle of the Pacific, on the Midway Islands, the most remote from any land mass, the albatross feed their young with plastic cigarette lighters that they find floating in the ocean and mistook for squid, which are their usual food. A demagogue with a head of dyed-blond hair runs as a candidate in the Dutch elections and is enthusiastically supported by ignorant and resentful crowds. Political demagogues. crop up and multiply across the world like an epidemic of terrifying clowns. So far they can be identified by te utter shamelessness with which they incite hatred and by their yellow hair."
"Consciousness reveals only a small part of what happens in the mind. Our will may be an illusion, and what is truly decisive may occur at the depths unknown to us only through the equivocal evidence of dreams."
Molina, a resident of Madrid visits New York City for two months with a small valise filled with notebooks, pencils and a book by Baudelaire. He embarks on a long journey up Broadway from Battery Park through the island of Manhattan and into the Bronx. Along the way he takes meticulous notes, observations of the teeming city, its inhabitants from around the world with an intended focus on other writers who have walked these same streets: Poe, Melville and Whitman.
The book has two sections, the first of greater length documenting his walk, the second focused more on the act of writing and the emotions evoked upon leaving for home. I ended up skimming the first section which became somewhat redundant, indulgent and repetitive until it focused on Poe's live of poverty and love relationships.
Along the way there are many treasures, a couple of which I will share:
'A sperm whale washes ashore on a beach that looks like a picture in a travel brochure; it has starved to death, and they find sixty pounds of plastic bags in its stomach. In the middle of the Pacific, on the Midway Islands, the most remote from any land mass, the albatross feed their young with plastic cigarette lighters that they find floating in the ocean and mistook for squid, which are their usual food. A demagogue with a head of dyed-blond hair runs as a candidate in the Dutch elections and is enthusiastically supported by ignorant and resentful crowds. Political demagogues. crop up and multiply across the world like an epidemic of terrifying clowns. So far they can be identified by te utter shamelessness with which they incite hatred and by their yellow hair."
"Consciousness reveals only a small part of what happens in the mind. Our will may be an illusion, and what is truly decisive may occur at the depths unknown to us only through the equivocal evidence of dreams."
July 21, 2021
One Sentence Summary: A nameless man wanders Madrid and New York City, collecting experiences and telling stories of writers and artists from bygone eras.
Overall
To Walk Alone in the Crowd drops the reader into the mind of a nameless man wandering Madrid and New York City. We’re caught up in his thoughts, ruminations, and all the things he hears and sees. But he’s on a mission to record everything around him, to drink in all life has to offer when people these days are so focused on screens and their own lives. The wanderer rambles on about other, late wanderers within the literary world while also rambling around large cities. It’s a nice literary fiction read, but made me a bit angry as a female reader. Still, it’s a unique story, kind of feeling like a one-of-a-kind sort of thing, though I don’t read literary fiction often, so I couldn’t really say for sure.
Extended Thoughts
Follow a nameless man around the large cities of Madrid and New York City. From the beginning, he sets out to pay attention to everything happening around him, from the signs he reads to the sound of his recorded footsteps. It almost feels like he’s trying to rediscover himself or the city he finds himself in, or both. Every paragraph is headed by something that made me think it was pulled from the headlines or from a magazine, bits and pieces that make no sense on their own and don’t have any real relation to the content of the paragraph it heads. It’s an almost dizzying mass of a man trying to take in the world, seeing everything and reading everything, and then having it all be spit back at us.
To Walk Alone in the Crowd presents an interesting clash of new and old. Clearly written in the modern age as the wanderer uses smartphones and references other modern inventions, includes a few mentions of Trump seemingly running for president, and definitely mentions it’s 2016, there’s a huge focus on artists and writers from decades and centuries previous. He often feels a little obsessed with them and their own wanderings, telling their stories, particularly that of Walter Benjamin, with a great deal of what seems like reverence, though I still have no clue what Benjamin wrote. There’s such a focus on these other writers and artists that it seems he’s trying to emulate them, but the reader never really knows who he is or what he does. The whole story comes off more as a commentary of modern life than about the nameless person whose head we are in.
I did like the focus on opening one’s eyes and seeing and hearing everything going on around one, of being fully present in the here and now, of taking in life as it happens. It seems, more and more, people are so tied up in devices and staring at screens that it’s refreshing to see someone experiencing what life is really about. The noise and cacophony of daily, modern life is documented in lists and each paragraph is headed by what appears to be a newspaper headline or bits and pieces pulled from a magazine. There are mentions of current news stories woven throughout, stories that might make the front page or be glossed over and forgotten by the end of the day. The wanderer feels fully present in life, taking note of everything people often miss these days due to more interest in what devices have to offer. It was refreshing and fascinating to read about all the life happening every moment around everyone.
Yet To Walk Alone in the Crowd also feels incredibly misogynistic. The lives of men are detailed over and over. The wanderer returns to their stories repeatedly. Their careers and their own itinerant behavior are documented over and over. Their personal stories are told with a great deal of care and detail and what feels like genuine understanding and reverence from the wanderer. I now know more about men like Edgar Allen Poe and others I’ve never heard of before. Yet the women are sexualized. The man has a wife, but I don’t know anything about her other than she’s beautiful, has lots of sex with him, and seems to absolutely adore him even though they don’t spend much time out of bed together and he travels away from her frequently. Often, she felt forgotten or more like a lover. Even when he was going home at the end of the day, there was no mention of her at all. Then there are whole paragraphs devoted to prostitutes. The wanderer goes to great lengths to describe their sensual and sexual natures, the way they look, the way they position themselves invitingly, the things they have to offer to patrons. Most disturbing of all is how they are usually described as exotic, youthful, as though their only pursuit in life is to make their patrons very happy.
I must admit there is a lovely lyrical quality to the writing, though. It’s beautiful to read, as long as you don’t pay too much attention to some of the words. I loved that it drops the reader into daily life and opens their eyes to what they’re missing, but the smaller subject matters bothered me and I seriously debated on abandoning this book. On one hand, I appreciated what this book is trying to do. On the other, as a female reader, it made me angry. Or maybe literary fiction is just not for me.
To Walk Alone in the Crowd can be applauded for the invitation it offers to readers to step away from a screen and into actual, real life. It shows the cacophony that thrives around us every day and offers insights and ruminations on some great (male) artists. But it definitely wasn’t my cup of tea as a female reader, so it missed the mark a bit for me.
Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for a review copy. All opinions expressed are my own.
Overall
To Walk Alone in the Crowd drops the reader into the mind of a nameless man wandering Madrid and New York City. We’re caught up in his thoughts, ruminations, and all the things he hears and sees. But he’s on a mission to record everything around him, to drink in all life has to offer when people these days are so focused on screens and their own lives. The wanderer rambles on about other, late wanderers within the literary world while also rambling around large cities. It’s a nice literary fiction read, but made me a bit angry as a female reader. Still, it’s a unique story, kind of feeling like a one-of-a-kind sort of thing, though I don’t read literary fiction often, so I couldn’t really say for sure.
Extended Thoughts
Follow a nameless man around the large cities of Madrid and New York City. From the beginning, he sets out to pay attention to everything happening around him, from the signs he reads to the sound of his recorded footsteps. It almost feels like he’s trying to rediscover himself or the city he finds himself in, or both. Every paragraph is headed by something that made me think it was pulled from the headlines or from a magazine, bits and pieces that make no sense on their own and don’t have any real relation to the content of the paragraph it heads. It’s an almost dizzying mass of a man trying to take in the world, seeing everything and reading everything, and then having it all be spit back at us.
To Walk Alone in the Crowd presents an interesting clash of new and old. Clearly written in the modern age as the wanderer uses smartphones and references other modern inventions, includes a few mentions of Trump seemingly running for president, and definitely mentions it’s 2016, there’s a huge focus on artists and writers from decades and centuries previous. He often feels a little obsessed with them and their own wanderings, telling their stories, particularly that of Walter Benjamin, with a great deal of what seems like reverence, though I still have no clue what Benjamin wrote. There’s such a focus on these other writers and artists that it seems he’s trying to emulate them, but the reader never really knows who he is or what he does. The whole story comes off more as a commentary of modern life than about the nameless person whose head we are in.
I did like the focus on opening one’s eyes and seeing and hearing everything going on around one, of being fully present in the here and now, of taking in life as it happens. It seems, more and more, people are so tied up in devices and staring at screens that it’s refreshing to see someone experiencing what life is really about. The noise and cacophony of daily, modern life is documented in lists and each paragraph is headed by what appears to be a newspaper headline or bits and pieces pulled from a magazine. There are mentions of current news stories woven throughout, stories that might make the front page or be glossed over and forgotten by the end of the day. The wanderer feels fully present in life, taking note of everything people often miss these days due to more interest in what devices have to offer. It was refreshing and fascinating to read about all the life happening every moment around everyone.
Yet To Walk Alone in the Crowd also feels incredibly misogynistic. The lives of men are detailed over and over. The wanderer returns to their stories repeatedly. Their careers and their own itinerant behavior are documented over and over. Their personal stories are told with a great deal of care and detail and what feels like genuine understanding and reverence from the wanderer. I now know more about men like Edgar Allen Poe and others I’ve never heard of before. Yet the women are sexualized. The man has a wife, but I don’t know anything about her other than she’s beautiful, has lots of sex with him, and seems to absolutely adore him even though they don’t spend much time out of bed together and he travels away from her frequently. Often, she felt forgotten or more like a lover. Even when he was going home at the end of the day, there was no mention of her at all. Then there are whole paragraphs devoted to prostitutes. The wanderer goes to great lengths to describe their sensual and sexual natures, the way they look, the way they position themselves invitingly, the things they have to offer to patrons. Most disturbing of all is how they are usually described as exotic, youthful, as though their only pursuit in life is to make their patrons very happy.
I must admit there is a lovely lyrical quality to the writing, though. It’s beautiful to read, as long as you don’t pay too much attention to some of the words. I loved that it drops the reader into daily life and opens their eyes to what they’re missing, but the smaller subject matters bothered me and I seriously debated on abandoning this book. On one hand, I appreciated what this book is trying to do. On the other, as a female reader, it made me angry. Or maybe literary fiction is just not for me.
To Walk Alone in the Crowd can be applauded for the invitation it offers to readers to step away from a screen and into actual, real life. It shows the cacophony that thrives around us every day and offers insights and ruminations on some great (male) artists. But it definitely wasn’t my cup of tea as a female reader, so it missed the mark a bit for me.
Thank you to NetGalley and the publisher for a review copy. All opinions expressed are my own.
September 9, 2021
Recortes.
August 5, 2025
I really enjoyed listening to this book. Astute and often hilarious sketches of our modern society. Mind wanderings and interesting comments and descriptions of writers/artists, Baudelaire, Poe, deQuincy to name a few. Molina projects a different light on those well know artists, more intimate, more human.
Wandering through the City (Madrid, Paris, New York), one of my favorite occupations. I recommend this book to anyone with a flâneur/flâneuse state of mind, anyone interested in the creative process, or simply anyone who appreciates “the poetry of reality” that Molina describes so well.
Wonderful descriptions of his wife as well. The way Molina actually “sees” her, “knows” her, appreciates her. It’s beautiful and rare .
My first time reading this author, I’m planning on reading In the Night of Time next !
Wandering through the City (Madrid, Paris, New York), one of my favorite occupations. I recommend this book to anyone with a flâneur/flâneuse state of mind, anyone interested in the creative process, or simply anyone who appreciates “the poetry of reality” that Molina describes so well.
Wonderful descriptions of his wife as well. The way Molina actually “sees” her, “knows” her, appreciates her. It’s beautiful and rare .
My first time reading this author, I’m planning on reading In the Night of Time next !
May 1, 2021
In this award winner, Antonio Muñoz Molina's unnamed protagonist walks the city streets of Madrid, Paris, London and New York, each city representing a different inspiration who also walked the same city, and his thoughts get inside the diverse collection. He himself roots in trash, collecting detritus that he cuts and pastes into headlines of collages filled out by thoughts of his own protagonists, filling in notebooks, writing in pencil. And the reader is treated to in depth ruminations on these icons of the past that range from De Quincey, Baudelaire, and Poe among others, with even a mention of one of my favorite Leonard Cohen songs. His thoughts are triggered by the neighborhoods he frequents, and I admit to being more partial to New York and the streets through Manhattan, most particularly Harlem, but also a sensory overload experienced as he makes his way through the Bronx on his way to a museum I didn't even know existed, a cottage that was remote from the City when E A Poe lived there two hundred years ago. Highly recommend.
March 23, 2023
"Women: do they matter beyond their physicality?" muses an unnamed man. Seriously, the protagonist engages more thoroughly with cigarette butts than he does with women (though I suppose he spends more time discussing women's butts than cigarette butts...). I stopped caring when all I got were random thoughts (that perhaps could have been interesting on their own) interspersed with sexual descriptions of women. This happened fairly early on, so it was a bit of a slog to say the least.
"The house belongs to a stranger. I am an intruder or a guest in a place that has been shaped by someone else's taste for a life for which I am entirely ignorant."
"The house belongs to a stranger. I am an intruder or a guest in a place that has been shaped by someone else's taste for a life for which I am entirely ignorant."
July 21, 2021
Thanks to Netgalley and FSG for the ebook. This is a dense book about an author who is walking the streets of Madrid and Paris, and later New York City, and recording everything he sees. Flyers, billboards. And listening to conversations and to seemingly millions of passing, one-sided cellphone conversations. The book also follows writers from the past that the author also loves. Authors that had a touch of madness about them and seemed to take long walks in desperation and defeat: Baudelaire, De Quincey, Poe, Melville, Wilde in his last years. All this and crimes and horrors pulled from the headlines make for a hypnotic book. It takes work to climb into the rhythms of these pages, but they pay off long before you reach the end.
September 7, 2021
Not like any other book you will ever read. A storm of unrelated impressions, things heard, read, and seen in walks about cities, primarily the author’s Madrid but also New York and Paris and elsewhere, plus parts passing before him on his computer screen, though not acknowledged. What holds it all together is the author’s presence, though we learn and know little about him—and there is little or no trace of his most excellent fictional works. A stroll through the author’s brain, and he is good company. I have walked these same cities, but we’re I to write this book, it would have little in common with this. Wherever you go, there you are.
August 4, 2025
No lo he terminado para ser sincera... El tema global es interesante: el autor describe sus reflexiones sobre el entorno en el que se sitúa, con buenas referencias al caminar y lxs autorxs que tratan de eso en sus obras. Al final me ha resultado bastante pesado leerlo y seguir con todas las digresiones que hace. Tal vez lo leeré de nuevo en otro momento.
March 11, 2018
Antonio, te quiero
February 5, 2023
Applied Benjaminism might work; only if you envision yourself as Benjamin, it ceases to.
July 15, 2021
To Walk Alone in the Crowd by Antonio Munoz Molina and translated by Guillermo Bleichmar is a novel that is also part memoir(ish) and even part literary history. A reader will likely be unsure what to make of the collage-like text at first but there are so many ways into, and through, this book that finding your way will be rewarding.
Told in short sections with cliche like headings, usually from advertising or common usage, the connections are less readily noticeable at first than simply the flow of the mundane. This reads a lot like stream of consciousness at times but I would modify that description in this case. The lines that most resemble SOC are less from the narrators interior and more just a repetition of what he is seeing, hearing, and reading. In this way it is more like the narrator is reading to us, but not from a printed book but from the material that surrounds us every day and that we take for granted, or just outright ignore. Bringing it all into focus is where the magic happens in this book.
The collage aspect, just like the early beginnings of collage as an art form, is taking the refuse, the trash, what is ignored or brushed aside, and putting it together in new ways to create a completely different whole. At times a critique of consumerism, at times an appreciation of the variety of lifestyle around us, the collage speaks to each reader quite differently.
He also presents, in many ways, a history of the walker, of the flaneur. It is primarily in this history that some complain of the absence of women. While that is true, it is at least partly unavoidable within the context of the history. Women were not "supposed" to walk freely alone through the city streets in the 19th century. They did not have the freedom to be walkers in that sense, especially coupled with the fact they were largely inhibited from being writers. These injustices mean that a history of walkers will necessarily be lacking in women for the early part of that history.
It at first seems like the literary figures have nothing more in common than being walkers who roamed the same streets as our narrator. Yet there are connections from Poe through Baudelaire and the others.
I would recommend watching an interview with Munoz Molina that is available on YouTube about this book. I have commented on what I took away from the book but the interview offered even greater insight and connection which I won't repeat here. But it does help to make the larger picture more visible for the reader.
I would recommend this to readers who don't mind being challenged to step outside whatever their usual reading comfort zone is. It won't appeal to everyone, true of all novels but more so, I think, with this one. I would also suggest that if you generally like books that are "different" but you don't connect with this one when you start it that you set it aside for a while and come back to it. I can imagine this being one of those books that also depend on where the reader is in their life as much as whether they like the style.
Reviewed from a copy made available by the publisher via NetGalley.
Told in short sections with cliche like headings, usually from advertising or common usage, the connections are less readily noticeable at first than simply the flow of the mundane. This reads a lot like stream of consciousness at times but I would modify that description in this case. The lines that most resemble SOC are less from the narrators interior and more just a repetition of what he is seeing, hearing, and reading. In this way it is more like the narrator is reading to us, but not from a printed book but from the material that surrounds us every day and that we take for granted, or just outright ignore. Bringing it all into focus is where the magic happens in this book.
The collage aspect, just like the early beginnings of collage as an art form, is taking the refuse, the trash, what is ignored or brushed aside, and putting it together in new ways to create a completely different whole. At times a critique of consumerism, at times an appreciation of the variety of lifestyle around us, the collage speaks to each reader quite differently.
He also presents, in many ways, a history of the walker, of the flaneur. It is primarily in this history that some complain of the absence of women. While that is true, it is at least partly unavoidable within the context of the history. Women were not "supposed" to walk freely alone through the city streets in the 19th century. They did not have the freedom to be walkers in that sense, especially coupled with the fact they were largely inhibited from being writers. These injustices mean that a history of walkers will necessarily be lacking in women for the early part of that history.
It at first seems like the literary figures have nothing more in common than being walkers who roamed the same streets as our narrator. Yet there are connections from Poe through Baudelaire and the others.
I would recommend watching an interview with Munoz Molina that is available on YouTube about this book. I have commented on what I took away from the book but the interview offered even greater insight and connection which I won't repeat here. But it does help to make the larger picture more visible for the reader.
I would recommend this to readers who don't mind being challenged to step outside whatever their usual reading comfort zone is. It won't appeal to everyone, true of all novels but more so, I think, with this one. I would also suggest that if you generally like books that are "different" but you don't connect with this one when you start it that you set it aside for a while and come back to it. I can imagine this being one of those books that also depend on where the reader is in their life as much as whether they like the style.
Reviewed from a copy made available by the publisher via NetGalley.
May 11, 2022
For writers who love to walk, this book’s for you. The protagonist, a Spanish writer who much resembles Antonio himself, takes long, solitary walks through Madrid, New York, and Mexico City, absorbing all he passes — advertising slogans, warning signs, snatches of conversations, fragrant spices, dirty odors. He acts as a sort of sieve, bringing into focus the banalities of urban environments we’ve learned to ignore: “An emergency intercom addresses me with an almost intimate suggestion: Use me when you need me. The city speaks the language of desire.”
To call this novel a novel is somewhat inaccurate. Genre-wise, Antonio’s latest book falls somewhere between diary and memoir and citizen journalism, with the fragmentary sections covering the many peregrinations of the protagonist. His project is a maximalist one, touching on everything from capitalism to aging to environmental degradation to love — which is to say that at times it feels quite long and rambly, though in a soothing way, the way a long walk through the city taken with no other purpose but to clear the head might feel. Pick it up if you find comforting the rhythmic cadence of destinationless walks, the gentle rock of long train rides, the steady sway of a solo swing.
To call this novel a novel is somewhat inaccurate. Genre-wise, Antonio’s latest book falls somewhere between diary and memoir and citizen journalism, with the fragmentary sections covering the many peregrinations of the protagonist. His project is a maximalist one, touching on everything from capitalism to aging to environmental degradation to love — which is to say that at times it feels quite long and rambly, though in a soothing way, the way a long walk through the city taken with no other purpose but to clear the head might feel. Pick it up if you find comforting the rhythmic cadence of destinationless walks, the gentle rock of long train rides, the steady sway of a solo swing.
January 11, 2021
La pandemia, el temporal de Filomena, y ahora esto. Una sucesión anárquica de reflexiones y meditaciones por un lado, con mini historias de lo más irrelevantes como por ejemplo el asesinato de un hipopótamo salvadoreño en un zoológico a manos de unos desalmados, por mencionar una cualquiera, todo inspirado en el deambular espontáneo del autor por las calles de diferentes ciudades, y los mensajes que va leyendo pegados en las farolas o el lateral de los autobuses. Eso sí, todo ello jugosamente enriquecido con múltiples referencias artísticas y literarias de lo más gafapastiles. Como son mini fragmentos que igual de rápido que los lees los olvidas, los he ido leyendo sentado en el váter, lo cual ha resultado una alternativa relativamente gratificante a las etiquetas de los champús o a la revista Rock de Lux, que desgraciadamente se ha dejado de publicar y era la dignísima dueña de tan ilustre aposento desde hace años. Le he dado 2 estrellas porque me ha cogido de buen humor. A la vista está.
October 15, 2021
Continuing my theme of books about walking, this is a walking novel. It is a collage of city impressions from a pedestrian's point of view, mixed with literary references to Poe, Baudelaire, de Quincy, Wilde and other writers who themselves left records of wanderings about in great cities.
There are people here, but they are largely without personalities. They are observers or observed. Much of the impression of the urban world is conveyed by city sounds and advertisements and bits of detritus. One of the major themes here is that the urban world as seen by the walker is built of bits of waste and discarded materials. The fantastic overwhelming whole of the city is just one bit of garbage piled on top of another to create something far greater than the sum of its parts. There is room for thought and creativity. It isn't a world of despair, though there is a sense of incompleteness. And there is a sense of timelessness as the past, present and future blend together in the buildings and crowds so as to sometimes become indistinguishable.
There are people here, but they are largely without personalities. They are observers or observed. Much of the impression of the urban world is conveyed by city sounds and advertisements and bits of detritus. One of the major themes here is that the urban world as seen by the walker is built of bits of waste and discarded materials. The fantastic overwhelming whole of the city is just one bit of garbage piled on top of another to create something far greater than the sum of its parts. There is room for thought and creativity. It isn't a world of despair, though there is a sense of incompleteness. And there is a sense of timelessness as the past, present and future blend together in the buildings and crowds so as to sometimes become indistinguishable.
March 12, 2023
Inner dialogue externalised. Daily, philosophical musings penned. Random anecdotes articulated. Threads of narrative stringed together, let drift, then picked back up a good while later. The small chunks make it very easy to pick up and put down the book, but also make it extend… it definitely felt like it was dragging. But the copious amounts of stuff he just packed into it might be part of this grand metaphor for our current, garbage-ridden world? The bits about Benjamin, Baudelaire, de Quincey and Poe were interesting, and gave useful insight into the dark lives of these greats. Some scenes describing ordinary, routine things but with such colour and romanticism, touched me deep within. The description of breakfast. Or arriving at home after a long trip away. Collecting leaflets, listing street signs, recounting ads, streaming bad news headlines, were all a little anxiety inducing. Maybe it’s just because I’m in my head so much anyway, that I don’t need to process somebody else’s stream of consciousness additionally. But it also validated some of my own internal monologue.
December 20, 2021
Esta novela se lee andando, o mejor, mientras se lee la novela uno siente que caminar es otra cosa, que cualquier movimiento es otra cosa, que todas las calles están ahí para hacer recopilación de los gestos mínimos que las habitan. A medio camino entre la narración y el ensayo y coqueteando con las biografías en viñetas, Muñoz Molina consigue un artefacto que nos pone a revisar los archivos del desperdicio desde la óptica del testimonio poético. ¿Qué cuenta de nosotros, nosotras y nosotres el contenido del tacho de basura? En el estómago de las ballenas, toneladas de plástico narran el fracaso de lo humano. Crear poesía desde ese debacle parece ser la misión de la escritura del ahora. Al menos eso dice aquí, y si uno se detiene a pensarlo le duele la cabeza.
September 15, 2021
I can’t get past the impression I have of the author as a misogynistic jerk. Honestly, Emily Dickinson seems to be the only woman he thinks is more than physical appearance (this includes even his partner). He hypersexualizes every woman he describes without considering that maybe they have minds, thoughts, and emotions beyond their physicality. Normally I would have enjoyed reading about observations described while walking along city streets and musings about writers and artists but this guy is just a jerk. Even his railing against populist politics, consumerism, and waste can’t redeem him.
November 21, 2021
Like our world, it is repetitive and shallow at times. Often too, it offers glimpses into something deeper about modern western culture: how we handle homelessness, plastics, adverts. The portions dedicated to the authors love of De Quincey, Baudelaire, Poe, and Benjamin are the best because you feel his insight and identification with them. The rest feels like an outside trying to understand the world, and it doesn’t coalesce ultimately. It’s a shadow version of Olga Tokarczucks FLIGHTS or Sebalds RINGS.
January 6, 2019
Me atrapó la forma en la que narra las sucesiones PERO me faltó algo. Sentía que era muy fácil dejarlo y no seguir con la lectura porque no me atraía lo que contaba constantemente. No había una historia que finalizar, son sucesiones cortas, planas. Había momentos de lucidez dentro de momentos que, a mí, me resultaron "rutinarios". Pese a todo, me hizo reflexionar en repetidas ocasiones.
September 11, 2025
It is said that Baudelaire never sat down to compose his poetry. He did it while walking. Other great walkers or using the French term “flâneurs” included the following: Thomas de Quincy, Edgar Allan Poe, Baudelaire, Herman Melville, Walt Whitman, Walter Benjamin, Oscar Wilde, Fernando Pessoa, James Joyce, Marcel Proust, Juan Carlos Onetti, and Frank O’Hara. As you can see they were all authors. It is suggested that even Montaigne paced back and forth in his tower study while dictating his thoughts. Can one create while walking?
That is the question that arises in this book by Spanish writer Antonio Munoz Molino. In fact he uses a term in Spanish, “deambulologia” or as he says, “a study of literary text and deduced from it, the verifiable manner, the stature, age, health and the form of walking by the one who produced it, for a satisfactorily use in academic research.” (p. 156) Who knew?
The book is full of literary tidbits, not just on the authors listed above but on the idea of walking, being creative and our modern world as seen through marketing and advertising (more on this later). However it is a novel and there is a loose plot around our narrator traveling/walking in the shoes of these flâneurs. To keep it simple, his main preoccupation was on Baudelaire and Walter Benjamin. As one realizes, so many of those authors were intertwined, they had parallel lives or simply followed in the same footsteps (bad pun, sorry).
Their connections at times were astounding. How about childhood things? Walter Benjamín enjoyed children toys. James Joyce valued the children’s blocks made by Joaquín Torres-García. Paul Klee made dolls and marionettes for his son. Calder, Ravel and Abel’s Barton made art based on their childhood (p. 73-75). Looking back to look forward?
Similarities? Both Fernando Pessoa and Herman Melville created similar characters like Bartleby and Bernardo Soares (p 139). Or bigger questions on the three big novels, Don Quijote, Ulysses and Moby Dick. Were they successes or failures as a “novels?” Don Quijote was actually two books written over fifteen years. Moby Dick, as our narrator admits converts into a chaotic collage of of words. (p. 168-169) Admission, I read the first two books twice but gave up on Moby Dick.
Perhaps we are bickering about minor points. For me, it makes for great writing or learning about the seedy background on authors like Quincy, Baudelaire and Poe. Or the sad endings to Benjamin and Baudelaire. If you know these authors, there is something for you in this book.
The part that actually brought me down was the modern connection. Not the story of our narrator but it was the use of “news” stories to make the book have a contemporary feel. There is a lot of horrible things that happen everyday and many of these news items were very unsettling. However, the novel was published in 2018, pre-Covid. Sadly, these news stories are nothing compared to what is going on now. Plus the man with the yellow hair and orange skin comes up several times and his depiction then underscores how dramatically worse he has become.
I mentioned the marketing component. When one walks in a city, one is deluged with advertising. To underscore these, each of his segments (not sure they are chapters) begin with a marketing tag line such as “you will desire a road that never ends” or “go to wondrous places” or “ if you see something.” Often it connects really well with the content of the segment (and sometimes I am baffled) but I actually found it a little tedious, especially in a five-hundred page book.
Overall I was mesmerized by the writing (I am a big fan of Muñoz Molina) and got very interested in those historical connections, but started to lose steam near the end. Most of it is set in Madrid but the last part, Book 2, was set in New York and it didn’t click for me. It’s funny I wanted to read this book when it came out and I might have raved about it back then. History and time has changed things for me. Too bad.
4.0 for the writing but overall 3.5 stars
That is the question that arises in this book by Spanish writer Antonio Munoz Molino. In fact he uses a term in Spanish, “deambulologia” or as he says, “a study of literary text and deduced from it, the verifiable manner, the stature, age, health and the form of walking by the one who produced it, for a satisfactorily use in academic research.” (p. 156) Who knew?
The book is full of literary tidbits, not just on the authors listed above but on the idea of walking, being creative and our modern world as seen through marketing and advertising (more on this later). However it is a novel and there is a loose plot around our narrator traveling/walking in the shoes of these flâneurs. To keep it simple, his main preoccupation was on Baudelaire and Walter Benjamin. As one realizes, so many of those authors were intertwined, they had parallel lives or simply followed in the same footsteps (bad pun, sorry).
Their connections at times were astounding. How about childhood things? Walter Benjamín enjoyed children toys. James Joyce valued the children’s blocks made by Joaquín Torres-García. Paul Klee made dolls and marionettes for his son. Calder, Ravel and Abel’s Barton made art based on their childhood (p. 73-75). Looking back to look forward?
Similarities? Both Fernando Pessoa and Herman Melville created similar characters like Bartleby and Bernardo Soares (p 139). Or bigger questions on the three big novels, Don Quijote, Ulysses and Moby Dick. Were they successes or failures as a “novels?” Don Quijote was actually two books written over fifteen years. Moby Dick, as our narrator admits converts into a chaotic collage of of words. (p. 168-169) Admission, I read the first two books twice but gave up on Moby Dick.
Perhaps we are bickering about minor points. For me, it makes for great writing or learning about the seedy background on authors like Quincy, Baudelaire and Poe. Or the sad endings to Benjamin and Baudelaire. If you know these authors, there is something for you in this book.
The part that actually brought me down was the modern connection. Not the story of our narrator but it was the use of “news” stories to make the book have a contemporary feel. There is a lot of horrible things that happen everyday and many of these news items were very unsettling. However, the novel was published in 2018, pre-Covid. Sadly, these news stories are nothing compared to what is going on now. Plus the man with the yellow hair and orange skin comes up several times and his depiction then underscores how dramatically worse he has become.
I mentioned the marketing component. When one walks in a city, one is deluged with advertising. To underscore these, each of his segments (not sure they are chapters) begin with a marketing tag line such as “you will desire a road that never ends” or “go to wondrous places” or “ if you see something.” Often it connects really well with the content of the segment (and sometimes I am baffled) but I actually found it a little tedious, especially in a five-hundred page book.
Overall I was mesmerized by the writing (I am a big fan of Muñoz Molina) and got very interested in those historical connections, but started to lose steam near the end. Most of it is set in Madrid but the last part, Book 2, was set in New York and it didn’t click for me. It’s funny I wanted to read this book when it came out and I might have raved about it back then. History and time has changed things for me. Too bad.
4.0 for the writing but overall 3.5 stars
June 11, 2022
I was looking for a music of words, one that belonged simultaneously to poetry and to everyday speech—advertisements, headlines, fashion magazines, erotic classifieds, horoscopes: an inconspicuous music that you could simply breathe in like the air, but that no one had ever imagined or heard before. Go where you didn’t know you wanted to go.
He is a restless archeologist of the present, of the moment when what is valuable or pristine turns into debris, when the words and pictures of an advertisement pass from ubiquity to nonexistence.
At first, I was horrified by this premise, like it was my personal circle of hell, wandering a city and relaying all the words of inane conversations, billboards, menus, flyers, signs. When I wander a city, I am looking at the architecture, the colors, the trees, the art, sometimes the people. I block out the “advertising,” so it was interesting to open my mind to the bigger picture the author was pursuing or parlaying: who are we in this snapshot of time and who pointed us this way. He says authors that I honestly have never read extensively if at all, all men, all in the style of observing rather than participating. If all of that was cut, and the misogyny toned down a bit, this would be near brilliant. It is patriarchal literature which the elites have determine must be cynical and pessimistic, but also a call to action for our planet with deep insights that made me stop and think…
I don’t choose the quickest routes but those that are likely to be more fruitful. I almost never ride a bicycle and I never take a taxi. I either walk or I ride the subway. All my worries and obsessions are dissolved in ceaseless observation. I am no longer my own thoughts, the things that I imagine or remember, just what meets my eyes and ears, a spy on a secret mission to record and collect it all.
We have that wonderful word in Spanish: a vuelapluma. Who wants to read, who has the patience for jewelers and goldsmiths? Perfection is just jewelry. Cervantes, Joyce, Melville, all three of them work with waste materials. They reach into the alluvial deposits of stories written by others before them. They steal. They cut and paste. They let themselves be carried away by reckless digressions, courting disaster, almost wanting the book in progress to collapse, to burst and spill until it becomes impossible or nearly impossible to control, as Moby-Dick exploded in Melville’s hands after a few chapters to become a wild, chaotic mass of words, a flood, a pastiche, a thing of rags and tatters.
You could take these books with you and read them in spurts, on the bus that took me into town each morning or while having breakfast at a café, even in the office on August mornings when things were slow. As with a book of poems, each reading made them richer and more surprising, disclosing new treasures. And you could read them out of order, as if the chapters were poems falling into new arrangements as random as they were decisive, creating unexpected sequences of inner echoes and connections.
He is a restless archeologist of the present, of the moment when what is valuable or pristine turns into debris, when the words and pictures of an advertisement pass from ubiquity to nonexistence.
At first, I was horrified by this premise, like it was my personal circle of hell, wandering a city and relaying all the words of inane conversations, billboards, menus, flyers, signs. When I wander a city, I am looking at the architecture, the colors, the trees, the art, sometimes the people. I block out the “advertising,” so it was interesting to open my mind to the bigger picture the author was pursuing or parlaying: who are we in this snapshot of time and who pointed us this way. He says authors that I honestly have never read extensively if at all, all men, all in the style of observing rather than participating. If all of that was cut, and the misogyny toned down a bit, this would be near brilliant. It is patriarchal literature which the elites have determine must be cynical and pessimistic, but also a call to action for our planet with deep insights that made me stop and think…
I don’t choose the quickest routes but those that are likely to be more fruitful. I almost never ride a bicycle and I never take a taxi. I either walk or I ride the subway. All my worries and obsessions are dissolved in ceaseless observation. I am no longer my own thoughts, the things that I imagine or remember, just what meets my eyes and ears, a spy on a secret mission to record and collect it all.
We have that wonderful word in Spanish: a vuelapluma. Who wants to read, who has the patience for jewelers and goldsmiths? Perfection is just jewelry. Cervantes, Joyce, Melville, all three of them work with waste materials. They reach into the alluvial deposits of stories written by others before them. They steal. They cut and paste. They let themselves be carried away by reckless digressions, courting disaster, almost wanting the book in progress to collapse, to burst and spill until it becomes impossible or nearly impossible to control, as Moby-Dick exploded in Melville’s hands after a few chapters to become a wild, chaotic mass of words, a flood, a pastiche, a thing of rags and tatters.
You could take these books with you and read them in spurts, on the bus that took me into town each morning or while having breakfast at a café, even in the office on August mornings when things were slow. As with a book of poems, each reading made them richer and more surprising, disclosing new treasures. And you could read them out of order, as if the chapters were poems falling into new arrangements as random as they were decisive, creating unexpected sequences of inner echoes and connections.
September 10, 2021
This is a very unique book that focuses heavily on the concept of linguistic landscapes of the written and spoken variety in the sphere of real and imagined city life with intermittent bursts of information connected to city life and its influence on writing about Edgar Allan Poe (my favorite American author), Charles Baudelaire (my favorite French author), and a few other writers. Urban poetry and noise are its consequences are considered. I particularly like the line: “Verbal trash builds up in the brain like heavy metals on the ocean floor.” I like this quote because we hear so much all around us that we need an escape.
While this book talks a lot about what is heard and seen while in the city as they are tattooed in words (print, sound, technology, etc.), silence is something that is mentioned quite a bit so that you can hear what really matters, be present in what is happening, let the silence enhance your other senses, and understand that we are all ephemeral. We also should let the cities speak to us and find the soul of the city as opposed to only seeing the concrete. This book also hints at the place of nostalgia and how what is given can be taken or simply fades away over time. A particularly moving part of the book was how voices of those we love will stick around,
Reading and writing are discussed off and on through this book such as the beautiful, yet simple line: “As you move, you write your story on this Earth.” This applies to whether or not you are an author as what keeps us alive is discovering new things as well as going where we didn’t think we need to go for whatever reason. Unplanned actions and getting lost in the crowd are very important parts of life. Again, an important concept mentioned throughout the book is being present and being aware of the relics of the recent past as life and most things are ephemeral. Walking and thinking go hand in hand and is something we all should experience. I also have never read the word pencil or pencil sharpener so many times, but I liked the author saying that the sound of a pencil writing on paper is close to silence and how the pencil is an extension of his and other authors’ hands.
This book is not written in a cohesive narrative, but can best be compared to flashes of memory, commentary on walking and city life, and more. I think I probably should have read the book in physical form instead of an audio format given how this book is organized, but I really enjoyed it.
While this book talks a lot about what is heard and seen while in the city as they are tattooed in words (print, sound, technology, etc.), silence is something that is mentioned quite a bit so that you can hear what really matters, be present in what is happening, let the silence enhance your other senses, and understand that we are all ephemeral. We also should let the cities speak to us and find the soul of the city as opposed to only seeing the concrete. This book also hints at the place of nostalgia and how what is given can be taken or simply fades away over time. A particularly moving part of the book was how voices of those we love will stick around,
Reading and writing are discussed off and on through this book such as the beautiful, yet simple line: “As you move, you write your story on this Earth.” This applies to whether or not you are an author as what keeps us alive is discovering new things as well as going where we didn’t think we need to go for whatever reason. Unplanned actions and getting lost in the crowd are very important parts of life. Again, an important concept mentioned throughout the book is being present and being aware of the relics of the recent past as life and most things are ephemeral. Walking and thinking go hand in hand and is something we all should experience. I also have never read the word pencil or pencil sharpener so many times, but I liked the author saying that the sound of a pencil writing on paper is close to silence and how the pencil is an extension of his and other authors’ hands.
This book is not written in a cohesive narrative, but can best be compared to flashes of memory, commentary on walking and city life, and more. I think I probably should have read the book in physical form instead of an audio format given how this book is organized, but I really enjoyed it.
November 3, 2021
En estos días he estado leyendo Un andar solitario entre la gente, de Antonio Muñoz Molina, que además de una declaración de amor carnal y etéreo, y de una mirada a los tiempos intoxicados de imágenes e información e ilusión barata en los que vivimos, también es una declaración de apego y agradecimiento hacia el acto de pasear, un libro sobre el delirio que ofrecen y han ofrecido siempre los paisajes callejeros, sobre la obsesión de mirar al otro y a sí mismo al salir al mundo cada día, y sobre la relación entre este empeño y la escritura. Leer este libro ha sido escuchar la voz del maestro, recrear nuestras conversaciones sobre la fuente inagotable de historias que es el Subway, cuando la mayoría de las personas andan sumergidas en sus pantallas en vez de mirar a su alrededor. Leer este libro es también conversar en un tiempo suspendido. Es escuchar su voz. En algunos de los breves –fotográficos– capítulos del libro, el autor se refiere a cómo las voces definen nuestra relación afectiva con las personas, cómo un mundo entero se reafirma y se reanima con sólo escuchar el sonido de una voz antigua, la voz de la persona ahora ausente o sencillamente mayor de edad y que al pronunciar un par de sílabas, vuelve a nacer. O vuelve a tener la edad que tenía cuando la voz fue registrada. Leer este libro es escuchar a Antonio.
October 8, 2022
A Ulysses returns to his Penelope, by way of De Quincy, Baudelaire, Poe, Benjamin, Melville, Walt Whitman, Paris, Madrid, New York, Granada.
I don't understand why this is sold as a novel, when it is so clearly not one.
A magician of a writer. Inspiration to walk and make art. Prior to this, I'd only read a few of Molina's essays, about walking and art. He wrote an essay about walking to the Prado and then what he sees when he gets there that swept me off my feet. I'm glad he's a Capricorn and close to my own age, I feel like he's a kindred spirit.
Not for everyone, it isn't an easy read, and there isn't any story but wandering.
It took me a long time to read, compared to my usual habits. It's a long book and requires some savoring, and there's no plot or dialogue to carry you along. The opposite of those books I complain about that read like film scripts.
He recommended following a stranger without pause for 24 hours. He also takes a walk from South Ferry to the Bronx, seldom stopping, only eating provisions he carried with him (including a delicious-sounding sandwich he made from tomatoes, olive oil and scrambled eggs), to visit Poe's house, where that afflicted soul lost his wife and his mind. The grandness of vision for walking -- the idea that a walk can be a salvation of some kind, maybe even a work of art, at least in the retelling.
I don't understand why this is sold as a novel, when it is so clearly not one.
A magician of a writer. Inspiration to walk and make art. Prior to this, I'd only read a few of Molina's essays, about walking and art. He wrote an essay about walking to the Prado and then what he sees when he gets there that swept me off my feet. I'm glad he's a Capricorn and close to my own age, I feel like he's a kindred spirit.
Not for everyone, it isn't an easy read, and there isn't any story but wandering.
It took me a long time to read, compared to my usual habits. It's a long book and requires some savoring, and there's no plot or dialogue to carry you along. The opposite of those books I complain about that read like film scripts.
He recommended following a stranger without pause for 24 hours. He also takes a walk from South Ferry to the Bronx, seldom stopping, only eating provisions he carried with him (including a delicious-sounding sandwich he made from tomatoes, olive oil and scrambled eggs), to visit Poe's house, where that afflicted soul lost his wife and his mind. The grandness of vision for walking -- the idea that a walk can be a salvation of some kind, maybe even a work of art, at least in the retelling.
May 24, 2024
“El gran poema de este siglo sólo podrá ser escrito con materiales de desecho”.
Un andar solitario entre la gente es un libro que a primera vista puede parecer difícil de leer, pues nos presenta una historia contada de forma diferente a la que estamos acostumbrados, siendo relatada por el narrador a través de los sentidos de un hombre, pero sin adornos ni filtros.
Se observa la descripción de cientos de carteles y panfletos que recubren tanto calles como paredes en diferentes ciudades, panfletos dispersos por los suelos con distintos tipos de publicidad. Escuchamos la conversación de cientos de personas con las que nos encontramos mientras hablan, gritan y susurran; a la vez se experimentan abundantes aromas y tactos en una larga caminata por las calles adoquinadas de una ciudad como Madrid o Nueva York. Así, el narrador nos presenta lo que parece ser una serie de hechos inconexos que no son más que toda la información que transita por los estímulos externos de una persona, mezclados con los recuerdos e historias de famosos autores y escritores que también dieron esos mismos pasos.
Un libro con una historia audaz que se cuenta a través de cuantiosos pequeños momentos enmedio de una maraña de emociones y estímulos, lleno de bullicio, ruido de ideas y de la constante reflexión de la mente a la que seguimos en la historia.
Un andar solitario entre la gente es un libro que a primera vista puede parecer difícil de leer, pues nos presenta una historia contada de forma diferente a la que estamos acostumbrados, siendo relatada por el narrador a través de los sentidos de un hombre, pero sin adornos ni filtros.
Se observa la descripción de cientos de carteles y panfletos que recubren tanto calles como paredes en diferentes ciudades, panfletos dispersos por los suelos con distintos tipos de publicidad. Escuchamos la conversación de cientos de personas con las que nos encontramos mientras hablan, gritan y susurran; a la vez se experimentan abundantes aromas y tactos en una larga caminata por las calles adoquinadas de una ciudad como Madrid o Nueva York. Así, el narrador nos presenta lo que parece ser una serie de hechos inconexos que no son más que toda la información que transita por los estímulos externos de una persona, mezclados con los recuerdos e historias de famosos autores y escritores que también dieron esos mismos pasos.
Un libro con una historia audaz que se cuenta a través de cuantiosos pequeños momentos enmedio de una maraña de emociones y estímulos, lleno de bullicio, ruido de ideas y de la constante reflexión de la mente a la que seguimos en la historia.
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