Gothic At Last

In the past six months I read two novels about artists destroying their art. Both were actually very good. The first was the The Book of Illusions, by Paul Auster; l'autre: The Shadow of the Wind by Zafon. When I finished the latter a week ago, I kissed the cover. I loved that book. Basically for 3 weeks I lived in Barcelona circa 1945-1955. And every page was a gem. The characters were like brothers, amongst themselves, but also, because so, somehow including you, (or me), the reader in their family.

It is interesting, the idea of destroying their art. In essense, erasing their existence... They were 2 different takes on it though; Paul Auster had the artist basically in control of his own fate by a good half way through the book; it was mistaking human phlegm on the sidewalk for some pearly gem that was the problem. Zafon's artist is never really in control of his fate at all, at least not until he got a little help. But it was Fascist Spain, and history was dancing like unto the siren's song... oh, and, uh, it was gothic...