The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

"After I gave birth, in fact, I found myself connecting to people and respecting my characters much more. It’s easy to write a 2-D villain, not bring out the asshole’s humanity. Postpartum, I was like, “Everyone has had someone who went through what I did to have this child.”

- Nelly Rosario, in Callaloo.

I opened this book out of reading rotation, just to see what the first page would be. I sat down on the bed, and stayed there for half an hour. I carried the book wherever I went, read sections out loud to Myles over the phone. When he disparaged the writing as passable, I thought less of him.

I was really excited about reading this book, was excited for the wonderful review of it I would write, the experience of putting the correct number of stars on my Goodreads review (which I use as a virtual photo album/hope chest for books), and also for finishing the book, reading the ending that is implicit in its name.

And then, just like that: Stop. Halt. Go no further. I came to a part where I couldn't read for a bit. The part in the book where I'm reading in a pure, white, burning rage. The same reason why I had to quit reading Dave Egger's What is the What. The reason Margaret Atwood's Bodily Harm made me see white, then red, then black. I could feel the acid in my stomach roiling and I put the book down.

This happens frequently. Any story about oppressive regimes, dictators, secret police, or the strong and the smug trampling the small and the pure; I can't process this as a normal human being. I don't understand how anyone could. In this moments, I have a vivid, palpable understanding of vigilantism. Why sometimes violence is the answer. I feel this way reading about the Jajaweed in the Niger Delta, about the drug cartels in Mexico intimidating journalists; I cannot function.

So, I put the book down. I read other things. Until I had told myself enough times that these people were only characters in a book. All except Trujillo. Throughout this book I imagined and reimagined Byzantine tortures and Hells fit for a man like this. I looked at his picture online and hated a ghost. He took liberties and prerogatives, more than belong to any one man in a lifetime. And even if the characters in The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao aren't real, they are placeholders for legions of his victims.

This is what troubles me. The existence of pure, unmitigated evil in this world. When you glimpse it, even through the scrim of literature, how can you forget it, move through your day, live? I have no blithe solution to this problem; I am simply unprepared to face it. I have spent years looking at people to puzzle out the secret rhythms of motive. I can tell you why your girlfriend is angry or your boss treats you like trash in public. But I can't tell you why some people think every God Damn thing that they lay eyes on, touch, or covet belongs to them. I can't I can't I can't.

I loved this book. All of the Science Fiction references and the Spanish and the tiny details. I enjoyed Junot Díaz's voice, was crazy about his footnotes and his sentences. I know you aren't supposed to end on such a high note, but I just did.