The House of Paper

Uruguay's Carlos Maria Dominguez has written a wonderful little book in THE HOUSE OF PAPER. I rate this up with the very best of those works dwelling between a novel and a short story. There are great characters, such as a Cambridge professor struck by a car while her nose is stuck in a book by Emily Dickinson, and another who we meet opening a cement encrusted copy of Joseph Conrad's THE SHADOW-LINE. Thus the adventure begins and leads to the investigation into the life and world of a South American bibliophile. "You are what you eat, and exist where you live." This book is small enough that there is a danger reading it through too quickly. I recommend reading it slowly, and perhaps twice, to obtain the full benefit of the beautiful use of language (it is a translation) and the workings of a great writer's mind.

This small novel is big in spirit and imagination. Beautifully illustrated and delightfully translated, it is a cautionary tale of a bibliophile who moves into his obsession. Its Kafka meets Conrad literary devices are splendid. But they do keep the tale cerebral-- leaving the reader to find their own emotional reaction and provoking an exploration of one's devotions, life and loves. That is this little story's big gift.

I was absolutely and utterly charmed by this small book (103 small pages, with illustrations)about one man's attempt to discover why a recently deceased professor of literature at Cambridge (knocked down by a car while reading Emily Dickinson) has received by mail a novel by Joseph Conrad that has obviously been set in cement. The search for information leads to a small fisherman community in Uraguay, and a house literally made of books. This is a witty, strange little book about the kind of obsession that only those of us who share it may understand. My one little (lighthearted) quibble is that there is reference in the book to the sorrow over a destroyed index to a large collection --- my friends, those of us who have houses literally taken over by books, floor to ceiling collections in room after room, we don't need no stinkin' index. We KNOW what we have and where it is. There are no lost books in our houses of paper. They may have strayed a bit, but they always return. Anyway, on a more serious note, this is a marvelous book and I highly recommend it.

This novella begins with a singular example of how books change people's fates. Bluma Lennon, an academic, is killed as she steps from a sidewalk immersed in a volume of Emily Dickinson's poems. Her nameless replacement, the narrator of the story, receives by mail a copy of Joseph Conrad's The Shadow-Line, encrusted in cement, and inscribed to a certain Carlos, whose last name is Brauer, as is later discovered. Wishing to return the book to its sender, the narrator embarks on a quest to find him, and is ultimately led to Delgado, who recounts his tale. Brauer is a bibliomania in its purest sense, and his library, which overtook his first house, rules his life. The only thing that allows him to command his books is the index he created, which burns in an accidental fire and leaves him at a loss to find anything. He despairs and begins his descent into madness, selling his abode and creating another which uses his precious books as bricks. Delgado does not finish the story, and the narrator is left on his own to uncover the rest. The House of Paper is a book by, for, and about book lovers. Dominguez describes from experience how the passion for reading is all-engrossing, in literal and figurative ways. When rendered inaccessible, they lose their meaning and purpose, which is to enhance the human experience. Without that, they could only serve in a utilitarian way, for their sheer physicality. This slim volume, ornamented with delightful illustrations, is a wonderful read, particularly if you find yourself afflicted, even if mildly, by bibliophilia.

When Bluma Lennon is struck by a car and killed while reading a second-hand copy of Emily Dickinson's poems, everyone agrees that "books change people's destinies". Bluma isn't the only victim of such oblivion over the years, others lost to similar mischance. And while Bluma's eulogy lauds her as a lover of literature, no one would imagine that her passion would lead to her demise. The simple eulogy elicits such heated discussion that the students on campus enter a competition on the subject: "Relations between reality and language". Cambridge is buzzing with opinions. When a package arrives, addressed to Bluma, the narrator, who has been teaching her classes, notices that the stamps are from Uruguay. Secretively, he opens the package; t is a used, broken-spined copy of Joseph Conrad's The Shadow-Line, the author the subject of the deceased professor's thesis. The volume is filthy, the cover raining particles of cement. There is no letter enclosed to explain the untimely arrival of the book. Disturbed by events he cannot explain, the narrator takes pains to track the man who sent it, Carlos Brauer of Rocha, Uruguay, formerly of Argentina. As he obsesses on Bruna's book, the narrator reveals his own love of the printed world, the many volumes given away to students during the year quickly replaced by new acquisitions, his library "advancing silently". Following Brauer's last known movements, the narrator travels to Buenos Aires, where he discovers that Carlos is a bibliophile, a man who loves books for the pure joy of ownership. However, Carlos Brauer has gone missing, leaving Argentina for the harsh coast of Uruguay. The narrator is faced with yet another mystery to solve. Littered with quirky characters, the search becomes more convoluted, the rarified world of book collectors "concealing a dense web of secrets beneath a mild air of reticence". This dense fable is complemented by fanciful illustrations, an extraordinary world where books are valued and man's destiny intersects a love of language, the twisted road to a remote crossing of "The Shadow-Line". Luan Gaines/ 2005.