by Antonio di Benedetto (1956)

2025 reads, 9/25:

“I’m afraid to draw up a tally of sins. I don’t want the past to be more powerful than the future.”

Zama is the first book of Antonio di Benedetto’s unofficial “trilogy of expectation.” This book is followed by The Silentiary (1964), then rounded out with The Suicides (1969), which is also the #nyrbbookclub pick for February 2025. I already got The Suicides in the mail (as we are now way past February) but wanted to take my time getting through this trilogy and really get to know di Benedetto.

I tried this as my “bedtime” Kindle book – but that wasn't a good idea. This is a work to be studied and fully entranced in, reminiscent of Jean-Paul Sartre's Nausea or literally anything by Clarice Lispector. Once I started reading this during the day, more alert and aware, I got much more into it.

Don Diego de Zama is the eponymous main character, whose thoughts we are with the entire novel. Over three preiods of his life (1790, 1794, and 1799), he is a servant under the Spanish occupation of Paraguay, as he moves from village to village, trying to find meaning and happiness in his everyday life. Zama is self-destructive, languid, detached, and disinterested in anything except for his yerba maté. He does not really care for others, and tries to advance his career without actually doing anything. To be honest, he is one of the most solipsistic characters I’ve ever come across.

“I thought through these actions but did not succeed in moving.”

Zama is also the king of misreading situations. In the first two parts, there would be many instances where something would happen, and then he will go on this internal tirade completely misreading everything and everyone in it. It gets a bit repetitive after a while, but is crucial to his character development, or lack thereof. In the final section, we actually see what happens when this lackadaisical attitude is put in front of characters who, in turn, could not care less about him.

One thing I've noticed that helps with reading these “stream of consciousness” novels (or any philosophical novel), is that it helps to read a little bit about the author. Sure, arguably the best way to get to know someone is to read their writing, and you might be able to convince me of that. But a little prereading can really go a long way in aligning yourself with the time period and circumstances in the author’s life that caused them to write this (both The Stranger and The Hour of the Star benefit heavily from reading a bit about Camus and Lispector, respectively). Di Benedetto is no different, and reading Esther Allen’s introduction about his life in Argentina, inspiration from Dostoevsky, and the state of Paraguay under Spanish rule, helped me ground myself in the work.

It’s a dense read, but a great introduction to the “trilogy of expectation” that I plan to continue. Zama’s expectations of the world around him are aggressively denied, but maybe there’s something to learn in his downfall. Ultimately, I am glad for the opportunity to be exposed to di Benedetto, an author I would have never found if it wasn’t for the #nyrb book club.

Something more is always expected. My thinking mind had this thought, but when I dispensed with thinking I fell into a brute inertia, as if my share in things were running out, and the world would be left unpopulated because I would no longer exist within it.

#readingyear2025 #nyrb

by Augusto Monterroso (1978)

2025 reads, 8/25:

HERE LIES EDUARDO TORRES, WHO, HIS WHOLE LIFE LONG, CAME, SAW, AND WAS PERPETUALLY DEFEATED AS MUCH BY THE ELEMENTS AS BY THE SHIPS OF THE ENEMY

Imagine writing you own epitaph, years before your death, and releasing it to the public for comment. This self-aggrandizing act is just one among many in Augusto Monterroso’s only novel, The Rest Is Silence. This book is the January selection of the 2025 New York Review Books book club, a Christmas gift from my mom. (Thanks mom!) Each month, NYRB will send me a newly published novel from their catalog, usually a recently-translated work, brought to new light (at least for me).

This novel takes the form of a festschrift (a new word I learned, from German, literally meaning “celebration writing” or “commemoration document”), a collection of documents, articles, works, and tributes honoring some respected person. The entirety of The Rest Is Silence is thus a festschrift of the fictional literary critic Eduardo Torres, whose epitaph is written above. The blurb mentions him as something of a “Don Quixote,” but after reading this I get whiffs of Dorain Gray and maybe, maybe Hunter S. Thompson. Though, this fawning over Torres really only takes place in the first part of the book. For example, see how his “friend” describes him:

Through the high and broad French windows bursts an agitated mass of sunbeams, five or six of which descend to nest lovingly on the high and somewhat grizzled head of our biographee. The diminutive particles of dust revolving through said light might suggest to an observer–recalling Epicurus–the plurality of worlds.

Absolute suck up.

I do wish I had read Don Quixote before this, though, because there seem to be many allusions to it. In Part II: Selections from the Work of Eduardo Torres, one such work is Torres’ fictional introduction to the novel, followed by a criticism of said introduction. This was an interesting pair of essays to read, but I would have gotten more out of it had I been more well-versed in Don Quixote (and the overall Mexican literary scene, as many references were made to philosophers and artists of the time).

That thanks to contemporary experience, it is recognized continent-wide that the best way of losing interest in the works of other authors consists of getting to know them personally.

The Rest Is Silence elevates the concept of “meta” to a new level. Memories are written and then rebuked in later chapters. There are connections made between the works, there are article clippings, poems, even some hilarious drawings (that further elucidate the utter brashness of Torres). And despite the conceited subject of this festschrift, there are some really great quotes and ideas here about artistry in general and what it means to be an artist. Honestly, I loved the format of this, almost like short stories that shared a common connection. While I’m sure there are plenty other books out there that use this format, I can confidently say this one pulled it off magnificently. Starting off strong for the 2025 NYRB Book Club!

When you have something to say, say it; when you don’t, say that was well. Never stop writing.

#readingyear2025 #nyrb #nyrbbookclub #latinamerica

by Stefan Zweig (1982)

2025 reads, 6/25:

“A hundred times I’ve taken postcards out of the mailbag, picture-postcards showing gray Norwegian fjords, the boulevards of Paris, the bay of Sorrento, the stone monoliths of New York, and haven’t I always put them down with a sigh?”

The Post-Office Girl is a horror story.

No, not in the sense of the supernatural, or serial killers, or monsters, or even pure evil. Here, author Stefan Zweig tells the tragedy of Christine, an impoverished postal worker who has been given the opportunity to stay with her rich aunt in a bourgeois hotel in the Swiss Alps. Her story is uneasy and unsettling, as we witness someone who has nothing be given everything – just to have it all taken away again.

Set in 1930s, the Great War having taken a toll on many (including Christine’s father and her friend Ferdinand), Zweig presents an unfiltered view into the realities of postwar Austria. The inflation, famine, and trauma seem to affect everyone, both rich and poor, but one group clearly has an easier time bouncing back.

“His own generation’s sour unwillingness to recognize the truth and its inability to adapt to the postwar era anger him, as does the younger generation’s smart-alecky thoughtlessness.”

But it’s not presented as a black and white issue. By switching between the point-of-views of Christine and her aunt in this first part of the book, the “rich vs. poor” is not represented as “good vs. evil” – Christine meets people at this hotel who mean well, who sympathize with her, and appreciate her company regardless of background. In fact, one of the most crucial lines in the novel is uttered by Christine in the second part, after she’s abruptly thrown back into her monotonous routine: “I don’t mean ‘why not me instead of [them]’…Just ‘why not me too.’” There is no desire to bring others down, she just wants herself to be lifted up. This jump starts the second half of the book, as Christine meets Ferdinand, another deprived soul. Together, they talk about their experiences, and through many monologues by Ferdinand, we learn his views on class, on capitalism, and the shaky postwar Austrian government.

“How terrible it is to have to live here, and why, who’s it for? Why breathe in this day after day, knowing that there’s another world out there somewhere, the real one, and in herself another person, who is suffocating, being poisoned, in this miasma.”

Since this was published from unfinished manuscripts, Zweig leaves us with something of an open ending, which might be unsatisfactory to some – but I don’t mind speculating on how the story continues, and personally, I’m choosing a (comparatively) happy ending. Or maybe this was Zweig’s intent all along, and he wanted the ending written as is, open for interpretation.

So, what’s more dangerous than someone who has nothing? Someone who had everything first. As essayist William Deresiewicz writes in the afterword, “midnight has struck for Cinderella, but there will be no glass slipper and no prince,” as she is whisked out of that world almost as soon as she is whisked in. At least, this is the main takeaway I get from Zweig. The Post-Office Girl is a great historical gem of a novel – but reader beware, as you may find yourself preferring a supernatural thriller or monster horror.

“At worst we’ll lose, but when did we ever win?”

Postscript: I’ve been finding tons of great literature at New York Review Books. They bring to light unfamiliar works (unfamiliar to me, that is), usually having been translated for the first time. Someone called them “the Criterion Collection for books” and I can’t stop thinking of that. It’s how I found one of my favorite books of last year, Notes of a Crocodile. Any books I find and read through this site will have the #nyrb tag, so check them out!

#readingyear2025 #nyrb #german

by Qiu Miaojin (1994)

2024 reads, 24/22:

“Man’s greatest suffering is born of mistreatment by his fellow man.”

Notes of a Crocodile is a coming-of-age novel published in 1994 by Taiwanese author Qiu Miaojin. Having gained a cult following (especially in recent years thanks to this new translation by Bonnie Huie), this book follows the unnamed lesbian narrator, nicknamed Lazi, during her college years in 1980s Taipei. I bring up Lazi’s sexual orientation because Notes of a Crocodile covers themes of LGBT+ struggles, along with mental health, friendship, chosen families, and growing up in an era where it seems everything and everyone is against you.

“I love my own kind–womankind. From the moment my consciousness of love was born, there was no hope of cure. And those four words–no hope of cure–encapsulate my state of suffering to this day.”

Reading this book feels like opening someone’s diary—not as an intrusion but as an invitation from Lazi herself (even writing in the second person point of view at times). Because of this, I felt like an insider, and at times, I even felt like a character she was writing letters to. Qiu writes her characters beautifully – not only are they fleshed out, but the relationships between them feel genuine (even if uncomfortable at times).

“Those wrenching eyes, which could lift up the entire skeleton of my being. How I longed for myself to be subsumed into the ocean of her eyes. How the desire, once awakened, would come to scald me at every turn.”

Conversely, it also feels like I don't know these characters at all. Their experiences are so far removed from my own: a different country, a different time, a different sexual orientation. I’m sure there were references, themes, and motifs I missed out on. But I guess that's why we read, right? To gain insight into different experiences that transcend time and space.

I want to keep this review fairly short because I feel so far out of my depth talking about the symbolism, and I won’t pretend to comprehend what the LGBT+ community goes through; yet I loved this book so much. I really would recommend just reading it and getting a feel for the words Qiu paints on the page. If it interests you, I also highly recommend checking out some of the reviews/analyses I’ve linked below that I’ve found helpful in appreciating her work. Qiu is putting her all into this book, which hit even harder when I found out this novel gained recognition posthumously. I’m not exaggerating when I say this may be one of the most important books I’ve read this year.

“The two of us walked down the center of a deserted road. With all human commotion at a standstill, we heard the scattered sounds of nature, the passing cry of a bird overhead. Soaked from head to toe, we found our way to the lush greenery of Wenzhou Street. The trees that lined the street appeared to have been reborn in shades of emerald. No need to be silent. Are you sinking into some corner of your melancholy? In my heart, I called out to you.”

Further Reading:

An Interview with Bonnie Huie, Translator (Neocha)

Consider the Crocodile: Qiu Miaojin’s Lesbian Bestiary (Los Angeles Review of Books)

“Notes of a Crocodile” by Qiu Miaojin (Asian Review of Books)

#readingyear2024 #physicallyowned #nyrb