I am not done reading this book (p.355 of 564), but I already can't stop myself from talking about it (a good sign).
First of all, I can't believe the average population like this - either the average population is a sucker for flowery language (which sometimes goes over the top here; I maintain that noone can balance flowery language like Nabokov), or everyone is secretly into visual art - because in addition to life and drama, this book is filled with the slow quiet obsessions of a painter. Paintings are discussed for color, composition, emotional evocation, periods, their artists, periods. Artistry is generally discussed - how much do you need to practice to count as a true artist? How crazy is still normal - at what point imagination transforms into loosing touch with one's reality?
All of this I found intriguing, if a little run on and straightforward, because I'm very much into drawing myself (though not so much art history). I understand the love for shape and color and the stress of recreating nature better than you can see it, but just as you feel it.
Second, it took me many pages and a shock to realize that Marlow, the initial narrator, is a man. Possibly, because the author is a woman and thus I expected a woman to narrate... Possibly because some of Marlow's thought patterns are very much like my own. And actually, he is the only man thus far in the novel we hear think. To me, at this point, he is also the least realistic character - I think what makes him most realistic is his obsession with Robert, and his frequent moments of attraction to the women around him.
Or perhaps all artistic types seem feminine.
Kate is my favorite, thus far - I feel that it's largely because of her portions of narration that I enjoy this book so much - her alteration from being a responsibility free young adult to becoming a mother and wife to a husband who is too consumed by his art to be a good family member - those are the most realistic parts of the book, I feel.
Robert, of course... you can't help but love slightly. He's one of those people (you know those people) who are not quite down to earth. They shine brightly, are both addictive and tempting, but easily fail to be good friends because they're so wrapped up in whatever high level fantasy they are aiming towards. Those people, even if generous, also tend to be so amazingly selfish. So you love them because you can't help it, and you hate them because they don't love you back (at least that's what happens with me).
Another thing I love about this book is the intertwining story lines that sort of mess with your head and keep you guessing - there is the present research Marlow is doing on Robert; there are the reminiscences of women Robert has left; there are the letters which eventually turn from what Marlow imagines those moments to be into the thoughts of the woman going through them. And this whole time we still have no idea who the mystery portrait muse is, and keep trying the new and old characters that appear on to her image to try and figure it out.
Because each part of these is engaging, though the book is long, it's easily addicting.
Interestingly, there are many parts which make me go - wait, when I write, this is exactly what I try to avoid - since when is this allowed? For example, we know everything that Marlow does - he went for a nap, then came to and realized that he only slept 20 minutes, then fell asleep for another hour.
One one hand - who the hell cares?
On the other - you really trust the dude to tell you only the truth and nothing but.
Something I'm looking forward to see her resolve: the romanticized Beatrice (meh, what a name) and Oliver. Because other then somewhat acting on their love for each other, they have no faults. They are unbelievable. I'm not too happy about this - because, from what I get, it's their life that is destroying Robert; from all the hints, he seems so under impression from those events, so in love with Beatrice (my guess, she's the mystery girl) - and yet, I've still to see anything about them that isn't noble and flowery and so darn boring... I can barely sympathize with either of them. Though, I feel, there are some points that still make them real - and it's not about character development at this point, it's her approach to characters overall. Kostova makes them attentive to age, to seeing the person's spirit through their appearance, to giving them doubts and some will. Beatrice really becomes intriguing to me when she begins having nightmares about Oliver's wife's death - why does it touch her so? I want to find out.
But overall... Gosh, it's just so nice to have SO many pages of the book dedicated to - oh, look at this brushstroke, and it's impossible to paint rain unless you're an impressionist, and subject matter reveals the inner soul of the artist... Because this is how I see things, this is how many of us see things apparently. This is why all of this "of he(art) and mind".
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