Faces in the Crowd by Valeria Luiselli

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

My “library reading list” is ridiculously long and out of control. Basically, it consists of books I do not own, and are not sure I want to purchase, but do want to read. The non-fiction section is the longest: I like to read a wide variety of those, but can’t justify giving up precious shelf space. That’s what the public library is for, after all. But I also have a long and growing fiction section. These are primarily modern novels or short story collections by authors I do not know or have not read. If I really like one, I’ll try to find a used hardback for my own collection. The problem with this list is that I started it years ago, and didn’t include who recommended it. Some were by friends, some were by other authors I like, still others were from reliable sources like NPR. 

My best guess as to where I found this one was off a list of modern books by Latin American authors - probably posted by a friend. But that is the most I can remember. Anyway, Faces in the Crowd was first published in Spanish as Los Ingrávidos in 2011. I read the English version translated by Christina MacSweeney. The original title translates roughly to “The Weightless,” which puts a slightly different spin on the book’s meaning.

It is kind of difficult to describe the way the book works, but I will try. I initially started it, got a few pages in, and realized that I needed an extended period of time to read it without distraction, because it wasn’t a straightforward narrative. At all. Rather, as the one voice in the book describes it, it is “a vertical narrative told horizontally,” or later, as “a horizontal narrative told vertically.” Which gives at least some indication of the difficulties presented by reading a few pages at a time.

There are essentially three stories being told simultaneously, and also interconnectedly. Like many of the great Latino classics, there is a supernatural element that blends seamlessly with realistic writing. In this case, it isn’t so much magical realism in the usual sense, but, well, it’s hard to describe. Let me start with the three narratives.

The most “realistic” story is that of the unnamed narrator. At the opening of the story, she is a young wife and mother of two, living in Mexico City, and deeply unhappy. (Well, happy people rarely make good fiction, what can I say?) Her marriage is failing, she is worn ragged by the demands of the kids, and works to create space by writing her novel.

The second narrative is the narrator’s story of her younger years living as a bohemian in New York City, translating obscure works from Spanish into English. While doing this, she first becomes interested in, then obsessed with, the poet Gilberto Owen. Owen was a minor figure in the Harlem Renaissance, and worked as a diplomat before drinking himself to death in middle age. Some excerpts of his poems are quoted in this book. The narrator, unable to convince her boss to publish translations of Owen, fabricates and forges a supposed translation of Owen by “Joshua Zvorsky” (basically a fictionalized Louis Zukofsky), who happens to be her boss’ favorite writer. The lie gets out of control, even though her boss doesn’t really believe her, and she has to bail out at the last minute, cratering both her career and her boss’ career.

The third narrative is a imaginative story of Owen’s last days in Philadelphia, where he battles with his ex-wife over his kids, writes, and hangs with other poetic figures of his time.

The first two narratives alternate, more or less, for the first third of the book. However, when the narrator fabricates the translations, Owen enters the story. First, she starts seeing him in the Subway (even though he has been dead for decades) - and he starts seeing her. A blind friend of Owen’s expresses his theory that we die many times, but continue to live. We are separated into the old us and multiple future versions of ourselves. The author uses this idea to mess with the nature of reality as the book goes on. Owen becomes another version of the narrator’s estranged husband, she as his ex-wife, and other characters past and present as other characters.

Within this interweaving, we become aware that the narrator is unreliable on more than one level. In fact, which is the real narrator in the first place? What is true, and what is fiction in this book? And goodness only knows how to interpret the ending, which is intentionally vague and inconclusive.

The first clue of all this is when the “modern” narrator mentions her husband reading her drafts, and asking about the old lovers she mentions in her book. Which we assume is the one about her bohemian days. But then, later, he objects to things about himself in the book - things which he claims are totally untrue. (Such as the idea that he is leaving for Philadelphia.) Is the tale of the New York days true about the narrator? Are they true about the author herself? Are they even true within the confines of the narrator’s novel?

Once the third narrative starts intruding on the others, and objects that should logically be separated by decades (and thus not exist in all the threads) end up showing up, and expressing meaning within each narrative.

The disturbing suggestion is that everything in the book is a fabrication, even on its own terms, much like the narrator’s spurious translation of Owen. In fact, one can say that the only thing we can be sure of is that Gilberto Owen was a historical person - but little other than his name, some poem fragments, and the rough outline of his life, are tied to reality. Did the narrator make up her own story as well as his? Can we trust anything? And, at a deeper philosophical level, is there an “us” which exists outside of the narratives we all tell about ourselves and each other?

The writing (and the translation) are poetic rather than definite. The writing is quite good. But it will drive those who dislike poetry a bit crazy. Meaning is seen, like faint astronomical objects, by looking adjacent to it, rather than directly at it. I walked away from the book a bit unsure of what to make of it, yet feeling like it had been a satisfying experience. It has no grand themes beyond what I have noted, as far as I can tell. (And other reviewers I read after reading it concurred.) The author attempted on grand narrative arc. Nothing epic happens. Most of the story concerns mundane, everyday stuff, with some introspection thrown in. But that is part of the charm. It is a book to be felt, rather than analyzed.

I do advise readers to set aside enough time to read it uninterrupted. It isn’t long, less than 150 pages. It just hangs together better when read without distraction.