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The Weight of the Sun

First, let me say that the imagery in Geronimo G. Tagatac’s The Weight of the Sun is wonderful. That didn’t really mean to come out all Paula Abdul-ish — “You look fabulous in that dress, you really do.” Or maybe it did. I started off enjoying this book, but the more I read, the more that enjoyment waned. And I can’t exactly pinpoint why. Have you ever seen a movie that you didn’t really like but when questioned, you couldn’t put into words why you didn’t like it? That’s how this collection of short stories made me feel.

In his introduction, Tagatac talks about his compelling childhood and family history and what led him to writing the book, and I think had that been his subject it would have been much more interesting. Instead he writes about the fictional Guerrero family, following different members over a span of about seventy years. And I believe therein is where part of the problem lies. We meet lots of different people and Tagatac doesn’t really give us a chance to get attached to any of them. And though their physical characteristics and surroundings are described beautifully, we never really get to know any of them too deeply.

But I think the bigger problem is the lack of cohesion between the stories. I kept waiting for a call-back to an earlier story or a familiar name to pop up again just so there would be some kind of connection, but it didn’t happen.

 

That being said, the book does contain a lot of good things. The story of the father who works tirelessly as a tree pruner just so he can save enough money to send his son to college is touching. The tale of the young woman who picks up a hitchhiker is pleasantly mysterious. And, as mentioned, Tagatac’s descriptions are consistently striking. The image of a little boy, both eyes bandaged from a severe case of pinkeye, walking down to the fields to find his father stayed with me long after I’d finished the story.

 

But overall, the many good elements just didn’t add up to create a very memorable collection of short fiction.

 

But hey, if all you have is that fabulous dress, wear it well.

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Portland Fiction Project

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