THE LAST DAYS OF TERRANOVA

A bookstore's closing takes on deeper meaning in the latest novel by Galician author Rivas.

Rivas' scrupulous prose eddies around a host of silences: silences inherent in a family, a nation, and a man hoping to contend with his memories. Vicenzo Fontana is the bookstore owner and intrepid narrator—the reader moves rapidly and arbitrarily through time via his bibliographic mind, which seems to be searching for an understanding it never fully achieves. We meet Fontana as he's preparing to close down his store, then follow him backward: into childhood and into Spanish history, which looms over the novel like a fog. Fontana's family bookstore acts as one of history's quiet stages; most memorably, it serves as a sanctuary for a young woman as she hides from the Argentine Anticommunist Alliance. Fontana, who as a youth spent time in an iron lung due to polio, can't help but reach toward his shelves again and again, searching for the literature that might settle his heart and keep the many brutalities of the larger world at bay. Fontana's father (nicknamed Polytropos) and uncle Eliseo are significant figures in the narrative, men whose lives shape Fontana's understanding of the world. Silence and emptiness could be considered two other central characters, the way they work and their ever present nature in any place where freedom is not total. The book itself feels constantly aware of language's many shortcomings as well as its necessity. Rivas' sentences are aflame with philosophy and well-wrought beauty; beauty that, at times, supersedes the narrative itself. Rogers' translation from the original Galician is lucid and musical. Some readers might feel unsatisfied with the novel's lack of cohesion, but it might also make them consider what undergirds the expectation of cohesion in a text.

As beautifully incongruous as a human mind.