#the-sun-also-rises

#the-sun-also-rises

"One must put himself in the period... crime had a certain familiarity from its repetition through time.... That's what they were like, unscrupulous. So was I. And since we are speaking about it, so was the Renaissance."

A vision lay before him: Fleet Street blanketed with snow, silent, empty, pure white, and, at the end of it, the huge and majestic form of Saint Paul's Cathedral. It was a spellbinding moment: the great thoroughfare temporarily devoid of carts and carriages, the cathedral looming blurrily out of the still-falling snowflakes a real-life snow globe.

The creative output of that tribe was so immense, and their bohemian adventures so inspiring, that I wrote and published a historical novel, The Ashtrays Are Full and the Glasses Are Empty featuring many figures from the Lost Generation.

In the self-conscious hallucinatory tradition of historical novelists like E.L. Doctorow and Don DeLillo, Enrigue keeps intrusively reminding us that this overpacked tale of the past is something he's constructing, as much as resurrecting. And, like his predecessors, Enrigue subscribes to a paranoid reading of history.

In 1836, Apaches raided a remote ranch near Janos, a tiny town on the northern fringes of the state of Chihuahua, in the newly independent republic of Mexico. The Natives absconded with some cattle, as well as with a young widow named Camila. Setting off in pursuit was José María Zuloaga, a taciturn lieutenant colonel in the Mexican army supported by a band of irregulars. Among them: a self-possessed teenager who served as an aide-de-camp, a pair of Yaqui brothers whose permanent address was the town jail, and a sharp-shooting nun named Elvira, who was actually a singer of zarzuelas dressed up in a habit.

A prolific polymath, Sand published 70 novels, as well as travel writing, criticism, autobiography, political polemic and visionary essays on the interconnectedness of the natural world. She founded several politically progressive periodicals and became a highly successful playwright. But none of it came easy. When she burst on to the Paris scene in 1831 at 27, writing for Le Figaro, she became immediately notorious as a woman in a man's world.

So long as I manage to avoid lightbulbs or stay out of wine glasses, the buzzing will inevitably give way to silence. My wings will abruptly stop flapping and I'll careen towards the ground like an asteroid. I'll become a speck on a rug, a bit of debris absent-mindedly vacuumed up by someone who has no idea what adventures I've been on in the past minute.