You must suspend your disbelief and turn off your critical faculty. Even the above quotation, while elegant in its imagery, requires a leap of faith. Every ingredient under the sun makes it into his witch's brew, concocted for sheer entertainment. Wallpapered with more butterflies than the books of Nabokov, the texture and tone puts me in mind of a wild Dia de los Muertos procession, an exaggerated show of fanciful horror. Death and birth, death and sex, death and lust, death and dreams, and lots of skeletons, both sentient and inanimate, human and animal, all cut a jig through the tormented landscape of post-war Romania. But it would be easy to pick apart his hastily conjured juxtapositions. It's enchanting, unnerving and brilliant. His habitual use of arcane scientific terms can only be intentional, geared toward, one would hope, precise observation and the enhancement of photo-realistic depictions alongside the dreamlike, demented transformations and unholy images recorded by the detached narrator. But Cărtărescu's approach to the novel appears to stem from a deep appreciation for poetry. In ways reminiscent of snatches of William S. In the end, it took flight, not through the mechanical beating of lepidoptera, but by undulations within the gelatinous medium, the way transparent beings on the bottom of the ocean proceed dreamlike through the abyss. Monsu held the butterfly uterus in the open palm of his right hand.
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