". . . one of the many places in Barcelona where the nineteenth century has not yet been served its eviction notice."

After I post the daily Alaska COVID-19 update, I'm not really ready to do a post.  Partly because I don't want to just post something everyone else is talking about and partly because the things that are important take longer to think about.  Partly because I've been trying to read my next book club book

before the library Kindle version evaporates tomorrow.  100 pages a day.  Made it to page 302 last night. Should get to 400 today, the just 88 more pages tomorrow.  I really love the book - Carlos Ruiz Zafón's The Shadow of the Wind (The Cemetery of Forgotten Books).  But I'd much rather have a paper copy than spend more time looking at a computer screen.  

The book is a maze of stories inside stories.  The narrator is ten when the book starts and grows older as the story progresses.  He's searching for more about the life of the author of a book that he, apparently, has the last existing copy of.  His life and the mysterious author's life become intertwined.  Minor characters eventually take center stage for a while.   The main stage is post-War Barcelona.  And the writing is lyrically infused with wisdom.  Tragic love stories abound.  Here are some quotes that Kindle makes easy to copy, find, and share:

“How old is the lad?” inquired Barceló, inspecting me out of the corner of his eye. “Almost eleven,” I announced. Barceló flashed a sly smile. “In other words, ten. Don’t add on any years, you rascal. Life will see to that without your help.”

It's a book lover's book, which is one reason it feels particularly wrong to read this one electronically.

“This is a place of mystery, Daniel, a sanctuary. Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens. This place was already ancient when my father brought me here for the first time, many years ago. Perhaps as old as the city itself. Nobody knows for certain how long it has existed, or who created it. I will tell you what my father told me, though. When a library disappears, or a bookshop closes down, when a book is consigned to oblivion, those of us who know this place, its guardians, make sure that it gets here. In this place, books no longer remembered by anyone, books that are lost in time, live forever, waiting for the day when they will reach a new reader’s hands. In the shop we buy and sell them, but in truth books have no owner. Every book you see here has been somebody’s best friend. Now they have only us, Daniel. Do you think you’ll be able to keep such a secret?”

Julian Carax is the mysterious author of the book Daniel has bonded with in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books.  

"Bring your precious find with you so that I can examine it properly, and I’ll tell you what I know about Julián Carax. Quid pro quo.” “Quid pro what?”

“Latin, young man. There’s no such thing as dead languages, only dormant minds. Paraphrasing, it means that you can’t get something for nothing, but since I like you, I’m going to do you a favor.”

Barcelona is one of the main characters of the book.  I've opened a Barcelona map on my computer so I can follow the action from place to place. 

"The Ateneo was—and remains—one of the many places in Barcelona where the nineteenth century has not yet been served its eviction notice."

The author and the main characters are clearly a religious skeptics:

"He begged the Lord to send him a signal, a whisper, a crumb of His presence. God, in His infinite wisdom, and perhaps overwhelmed by the avalanche of requests from so many tormented souls, did not answer."

Life, in this book, does not favor the timid (though the risk takers don't do much better):

“Look, Daniel. Destiny is usually just around the corner. Like a thief, a hooker, or a lottery vendor: its three most common personifications. But what destiny does not do is home visits. You have to go for it.”

The police are not seen as people's friends and protectors.  After Fermín is beaten to a bloody pulp:

"'Tell me, Daniel, now that nobody can hear us. Why isn’t it a good idea to report what has happened to the police?' 'Because they already know.' 'You mean…?' I nodded. 'What kind of trouble are you two in, if you don’t mind my asking?'” I sighed.

I'm not sure that's totally clear to readers out of context, you just have to consider why the police would already know.  

This is a book about books, about writing, about solving mysteries, about love, about life, about freedom and the obstacles to being oneself.  

Thanks, Brock, for recommending The Shadow of the Wind.