When inadequate imagination leads the reader out of the book and to the author
"Book of Clouds" is well enough observed, paced, and structured. It has some ingredients of a good novel: but it's trite, and the reason for its triviality is a strange lacuna in the author's imagination of her main character. The Mexican woman who wanders around Berlin, taking pleasure in riding the S-Bahn, in long walks, and in the weather, is a habitually solitary person. She isn't often lonely, but even after five years in Berlin she has only three or four acquaintances, including a homeless woman who begs on a train platform -- and she only talks to that person once. The lacuna is not the character's solitary life, which is expertly observed. The absence I have in mind springs from two two higher-level absences:
First, there's a lack of anxiety on the character's part that she is so isolated, so without interests. She knows, in the novel, that she has no friends and often does nothing for weeks or months at a time, but she is not anxious about it: it's almost as if she is on a strong course of antidepressants, so that her condition doesn't affect her.
Second, there's a lack of interest on the implied author's part that her character is isolated and without interests. The character is clearly occasionally delusional, but that does not seem to concern the implied author.
It is, in the end, disengaging to read about a character who does not care to know more about herself, described by a novelist who doesn't seem to notice that there might be more to see.
At the beginning of the book, the character imagines seeing an aging Hitler (as a woman!) on a train, and throughout the novel she remains convinced of what she thinks she's seen. At the end of the book, she hallucinates a dense fog that loosens locks throughout Berlin and causes posters to slip down from the walls. Because the character never doubts either event, the novel creates an opening: I expected the narrator to develop a story about her mildly, occasionally delusional protagonist, and I thought the novel would probably develop into a story about her decline.
But it's as if the implied author herself is unaware of the deeper psychology of her own character. In the course of the novel, the character experiences several other unusual events, and she's uncertain about a couple of things, but nothing comes of them. Increasingly, I thought not of the character or narrator, or even of the implied author, but of the real author, Aridjis. (Even though I know nothing about her.) I had no clear sense that she meant anything by these events, other than the passing whimsy that life is sometimes odd. And I could not -- cannot -- understand how Aridjis didn't experience her own character's inner life as anything except mildly surrealist and entertaining, harmless, ultimately ordinary. That's why in the end I was more concerned about Aridjis (even though as a good poststructuralist I know that she's a projection of the reading experience, and nothing would come of finding out more about her) than her novel.