I was running down my to-read list in the library yesterday and found this book, read that the author was Peruvian, and immediately hunted it down in the fiction aisle, seeing as I'm leaving for Peru the day after tomorrow. I'm glad I did -- Alarcón really gives you a feeling for the varied experiences of Peruvians and Pervuian-Americans and their complicated history as a people, as well as for the country's manifold physical settings, and the stories here do seem to establish a human context for the place and the culture.

Thematically, the stories touch on divergent plots and themes -- many of them deal with the terrorist/fighting that took place in Peru in the 1980s from a very close, gritty level; some stories treat unrequited love, or unfaithful love; almost all stories discuss poverty. However, despite the diverse themes and plotlines and characters, the writing style throughout is restrained, realistic fact, which occasionally expands into a more contemplative, streaming form.

The style bothered me. Sometimes Alarcón would write about an action that a character took and it'd feel so logical, almost predictable, that I lost my ability to empathize with the characters. The title story was like that, as was the last story -- the writing was, essentially, sterile.

At other times, when Alarcón lets his characters' thoughts trickle in, when he holds their thoughts and actions more urgently closer to the reader, then he succeeds, and his writing blooms. The juxtaposition of the restrained writing with the emotional vibrancy of the characters at those moments is then especially sharp and poetic. (I especially felt it in the first story, Flood, in Third Avenue Suicide, in the story about the dogs, and in A Science of Being Alone.)

But a lot of the time, it doesn't work. And even when it works, it's obscured by the times it doesn't work. So that even if most of this book was good -- and it was, really truly this book was mostly good -- it was also forgettable. ( )

This is the first of the books I've recieved from the Shelterbox book club, and is this is typical, these are going to be very good. Thbis is a set of short stories set in Peru and the US with the link being someone from peru. There is a lot of migraiton, from the country to the city and from the city to the US within these pages. At times it is an uncomfortable read, with violence, war and crime looking large. It does not make for a restful or particularly hopeful experience. But it is not devoid of light and shade or love and humour. In the first story, the prison is known as the University, as that's where you go when you finish hugh school. It's black but it is humour.
The stories don't all work as well as each other, but there are some very good tales in here. That of Fernando and Juan Carlos being probably the pick of the crop.
I'm looking forward to the discussion, to be held in October via Shelterbox's Facebook pages. ( )

http://www.literaryfeline.com/2010/03/from-archives-mini-reviews-from-2005.html ( )

There is a certain thread of malaise that link the stories in Daniel Alarcon's War by Candlelight. It is a sort of discomfort or despair that is really never defined but exists. And it makes this book a great read.

Page 6-7 flood

Everywhere there was water and the muddy remains of the flood. The clouds broke but the water stayed. A pestilent odor hung in the streets. Summer came on heavy. Some people moved their furniture outside to dry, or set their dank carpets on the roof to catch the sun. They were the unlucky ones. The adrenaline of that night was what would stay, long after everything was dry and clean. My knuckles were still sore and Renan had been hit in the eye again, but it didn't matter.
It was a couple of days later when a cruiser pulled up to our street. Two cops got out and asked for the Diablos Jr. There was a mother in the back, a gray-haired woman, staring out the rolled-down window. She pointed at us.
"This punk?" one of the cops asked. He grabbed Renan by the wrist and twisted his arm behind him. I watched my friend crumple. The veins at Renan's temples looked as if they might pop, and tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. "Is this him? Are you sure?" the cop said.
How could she be sure of anything?
"Any other Diablos?" the other cop yelled.
A crowd had gathered, but no one dared to speak.
Renan whimpered.
The cop fired a shot in the air. "Should I name names?" he yelled.
We rode in the back with the woman who had fingered Renan. The windows were up and the heat was a sickening thing. I was sweating against her, but she pulled away from as if I were diseased. I folded my bruised knuckles into my lap and put on my nice guy voice. "Madam," I asked, "what did we do?"
"Shame," she hissed. She looked straight ahead.

While the locations may be foreign to his readers and the names may sound strange, the feelings of unease and helplessness Alarcon uses in many cases are universal and he brilliantly documents them in these short stories

Link to my review ( )

As the the title of the book references, the overarching theme of this book is conflict. Much of it is real war, bloody and fought in jungles and streets. The rest is the quieter kind of crisis that takes place in our lives. I liked these stories more, to be honest. “City of clowns” is probably my favorite story in the book, though “third avenue suicide” and “a science for being alone” were also excellent, and quite moving. It’s the personal relationships that give these stories weight.

http://archthinking.blogspot.com/2009/01/review-war-by-candlelight.html ( )