cbr17bingo white
Somewhere, while I was reading this, I encountered a review of this book that praised it for its ironic lightheartedness. Say what? Oh hell no.
The author is an Argentinian who was imprisoned and tortured during the military dictatorship of the 1970s. This book, written in 1969, a product of a time when Argentinian citizens were being disappeared off the streets and dropped out of planes (disturbingly familiar.) The narrator, a reporter, has been assigned the task of writing about three unrelated suicides, and is given their photos to analyze. But each of the photos show the same terrified stare and somber grimace of pleasure and the investigator wishes to learn more.
But alas, from here, we go off into a laundry list of various suicides (twins that commit suicide, although years apart! Colleagues of his commit suicide! Various philosopher have thoughts on suicide!) That initial question is long lost behind, and there is no real conclusion on the matter. I understand that he was probably trying to work out the dilemma in his own mind (he actually dies of a stroke) but I really was left cold by it. Ironically, his previous book, The Silentiary, about a guy who is being driven mad by the noise of his everyday life, I really did enjoy. Guess I had more in common with that narrator than this one.
And seriously, when does a paper cover a suicide? Famous person, of course. Dead body at the side of the road, maybe. But not otherwise. And a whole series on them? Damn, that’s some messed up shit.