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The Blood of Flowers
by Anita Amirrezvani
377 pages (hardcover)
Genre: Fiction/Historical/Literary
The unnamed narrator, an innocent Iranian village girl, ends up in the city with her mother after her beloved father unexpectedly dies and they are left penniless. This novel tells the girl's story in first person--a story reminiscent of A Thousand Splendid Suns, though not up to such a standard in prose or character--and is suitably tear-wrenching. I have no major issues with Amirrezvani's nine-year work; but I do have lots of minor issues, and they add up. First, I have trouble accepting the narrative device employed; the prologue sets up the novel as an oral tale, with the narrator's mother clearly ailing and the narrator in a regretful, nostalgic mood. I dislike this kind of device in any long-form work because it's very difficult to carry off without the narration sounding rather unlike something the character would say aloud; Amirrezvani reinforces my opinion. And while I liked the interspersed traditional Iranian tales, it was unclear where exactly these stories came from--some were told by her mother, others by the narrator, and then still others that pop up out of nowhere. Some of these stories also suffer from a veil of implausibility (not in the way of a fairytale, either)--for instance, a wrecked ship's salvaged silver is not anywhere near the cost of building a stone tower from scratch.
At the prose level, The Blood of Flowers seems strangely amateur. The characters are interesting and rounded, but not especially so. The voice seems to be reaching for ornate formality, but reaching is the operative word. It flows prettily but labors for that veneer, like a heavy layer of makeup--lacking the sublime lightness of a master writer. There are clumsy transitions, too, such as "It was several months later, and..." directly after a short verse insert, without even a scene break indication.
I characterized this novel, genre-wise, as historical and literary; I feel that it strives too hard to be literature, to be more than a novel of pleasure. The narrator seems too naive at times--I wouldn't give something away without securing payment in advance, at the tender age of fourteen--and her character arc is more than a little contrived. It teachs too much of a lesson, encompassing such blatant statements as "I was bold, but I was no longer rash" [p. 334]. The title is apt and the author's notes at the end comprehensive; but in the end, I found The Blood of Flowers indescribably uncomfortable. It was too overtly symbolic and its various aspects are good--never great. Of course, such may be to the taste of another; if you like dense historicals with literary pretensions, this novel is perfect. But I am not that reader, and there are too many better books out there for me to recommend this one.
by Anita Amirrezvani
377 pages (hardcover)
Genre: Fiction/Historical/Literary
The unnamed narrator, an innocent Iranian village girl, ends up in the city with her mother after her beloved father unexpectedly dies and they are left penniless. This novel tells the girl's story in first person--a story reminiscent of A Thousand Splendid Suns, though not up to such a standard in prose or character--and is suitably tear-wrenching. I have no major issues with Amirrezvani's nine-year work; but I do have lots of minor issues, and they add up. First, I have trouble accepting the narrative device employed; the prologue sets up the novel as an oral tale, with the narrator's mother clearly ailing and the narrator in a regretful, nostalgic mood. I dislike this kind of device in any long-form work because it's very difficult to carry off without the narration sounding rather unlike something the character would say aloud; Amirrezvani reinforces my opinion. And while I liked the interspersed traditional Iranian tales, it was unclear where exactly these stories came from--some were told by her mother, others by the narrator, and then still others that pop up out of nowhere. Some of these stories also suffer from a veil of implausibility (not in the way of a fairytale, either)--for instance, a wrecked ship's salvaged silver is not anywhere near the cost of building a stone tower from scratch.
At the prose level, The Blood of Flowers seems strangely amateur. The characters are interesting and rounded, but not especially so. The voice seems to be reaching for ornate formality, but reaching is the operative word. It flows prettily but labors for that veneer, like a heavy layer of makeup--lacking the sublime lightness of a master writer. There are clumsy transitions, too, such as "It was several months later, and..." directly after a short verse insert, without even a scene break indication.
I characterized this novel, genre-wise, as historical and literary; I feel that it strives too hard to be literature, to be more than a novel of pleasure. The narrator seems too naive at times--I wouldn't give something away without securing payment in advance, at the tender age of fourteen--and her character arc is more than a little contrived. It teachs too much of a lesson, encompassing such blatant statements as "I was bold, but I was no longer rash" [p. 334]. The title is apt and the author's notes at the end comprehensive; but in the end, I found The Blood of Flowers indescribably uncomfortable. It was too overtly symbolic and its various aspects are good--never great. Of course, such may be to the taste of another; if you like dense historicals with literary pretensions, this novel is perfect. But I am not that reader, and there are too many better books out there for me to recommend this one.
