I feel I should have liked this book more than I did. And there were aspects of it that I really liked. I found the central character, a middle-aged philologist who drops out of his life and runs off to Lisbon on a whim, sympathetic and appealing. His central quest is set in motion after he discovers and is drawn in by an unusual book. In Lisbon, he seeks out family and associates of the book’s author — Amadeu Prado, tracing his life to try to understand the fundamental mystery behind this person whose writings so spoke to him. This is a storyline that goes right to my own sensibilities. (I am, after all, someone who traveled to an out-of-the-way island at the north end of Patagonia — and some other places besides — because of books I’ve read.) The flaw, for me, in this book was the text within the text. I failed to be drawn into the Prado text the way the central character was meant to have been. This book within the book ends up being quite a large chunk of the book, interspersed throughout, which made the reading a bit of a slog for me. I was much more engaged when the book recounted the activities, and thoughts, and interactions of the central character - even as they are largely inspired by (and find reflection in) Prado’s life and writing.
I read the first half of
Night Train to Lisbon in January, then set it aside to bring
Little Fires Everywhere with me on a trip. Then I didn’t go back to it, and didn’t go back to it again. I wasn’t sure I would go back to it at all, but my reading life has felt so disjointed in 2020, I decided I should give it another shot just to take the weight off. I picked it up again 2 days ago and read it on my commutes, then I read the last 175 pages in one sustained go on a flight from NY to Vegas (after seriously considering bringing another book instead, as I had done when I went to Kansas). I must say I’m quite relieved to have it behind me, and I am glad I went back to it.
