The Flowers: A Novel
Customer Review: Colors, sounds and texture…Synesthesia?
I picked up this book in San Francisco after hearing the author read an excerpt. I was moved by Dagoberto Gilb's spoken word. His prose in print was very much as his natural speaking voice–deliberate, honest and direct. I loved this book! I loved his use of colors, sounds and texture. I loved his choice of words, language (English, Spanglish, Spanish and French) and silence. I loved how he painted a real picture of society. The Flowers, is a bouquet of class, race, age and gender and the problems that connect and disconnect us.
Don't be confused by Sonny's thoughts that are infused with shapes that bounce and blend into different shades. Dagoberto Gilb uses Sonny Bravo's synesthesia to paint a world of colors that clash, combine and enlighten. This is the first novel that I read where synesthesia seems to take on a character form by interacting with the sounds of the city and the people, the emotions of a young man experiencing love, lust and displacement, and the feelings of anger, justice and fear. This book is not about black and white, it is dark and gray with rays of a piercing white light that encompasses all colors and feelings of hope, happiness and opportunity.
An added bonus: If you don't have synesthesia, you will definitely get an insight of how one senses shapes and colors in the frontal lobe area. Trust me, it is not something brought on by the use of psychedelic drugs.
Customer Review: our lady de los flores
The heart of the story's in that opening scene, where the protagonist, 15-year-old (or thereabouts) Sonny Bravo must face sexy and sometimes larcenous mother's irate suitor/employer, pissed 'cos mom's ripped him off, who comes kicking down the front door of Sonny's house, overpowering the kid, kicking his dog and injuring him with his own butcher knife. The tornadoes stirred up in Mother's wake continue to blow through young Sonny's life, landing him a role as stepson to an Okie yokel named Cloyd, whom mother, in her haste to escape earlier consequences, it is implied, has married. Cloyd owns the small apartment complex after which the novel is named, the FLowers.
There's a kind of circular plot at work here. Like a hot southern cal wind spreading wildfires, it blows through that opening, spreading it first into the surrounding apartments at the Flowers, where other fires burn, fires of hateful racial prejudice, fires of sad, wasted girls pining lonely in night-time rooms, fires of adolescent sex-urge, of a youth's own moral conflicts and misplaced violence. These smaller personal fires then reach toward the city beyond, and finally even into history, as the fictional events here begin to resemble the actual, eg., the start of the '65 riots in LA.
Does the Flowers pay homage to Jean Genet? Dished out in the narrative voice of a broken home kid who, strangely enough, is trying to learn French. Notre dame des fleurs…Our Lady de las Flores. The Flowers. Read it.