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Death in Spring

by Mercè Rodoreda, Martha Tennent (Translator)

3.69 of 5 stars 3.69 · rating details · 198 ratings · 44 reviews

Considered by many to be the grand achievement of her later period, Death in Spring is one of Merce Rodoreda's most complex and beautifully constructed works. The novel tells the story of the bizarre and destructive customs of a nameless town--burying the dead in trees after filling their mouths with cement to prevent their soul from escaping, or sending a man to swim in t...more Considered by many to be the grand achievement of her later period, Death in Spring is one of Merce Rodoreda's most complex and beautifully constructed works. The novel tells the story of the bizarre and destructive customs of a nameless town--burying the dead in trees after filling their mouths with cement to prevent their soul from escaping, or sending a man to swim in the river that courses underneath the town to discover if they will be washed away by a flood--through the eyes of a fourteen-year-old boy who must come to terms with the rhyme and reason of this ritual violence, and with his wild, child-like, and teenaged stepmother, who becomes his playmate. It is through these rituals, and the developing relationships between the boy and the townspeople, that Rodoreda portrays a fully-articulated, though quite disturbing, society. The horrific rituals, however, stand in stark contrast to the novel's stunningly poetic language and lush descriptions. Written over a period of twenty years--after Rodoreda was forced into exile following the Spanish Civi War--Death in Spring is musical and rhythmic, and truly the work of a writer at the height of her powers. A book for the ages, Death in Spring can be read as a metaphor for Franco's Spain for any oppressed society), or as a mythological quest novel. Similar to Shirley Jackson's work (especially The Lottery), and featuring the imaginative qualities of Raymond Roussel's Impressions of Africa, Rodoreda's last novel is a bold, ambitious statement, and a fitting capstone to her remarkable career. I removed my clothes and dropped them at the foot of the hackberry tree, beside the madman's rock. Before entering the river, I stopped to observethe color left behind by the sky. The sun-dappled light was different now that spring had arrived, reborn after living beneath the earth and within branches. I lowered myself gently into the water, hardly daring to breathe, always with the fear that, as I entered the water world, the air--finally emptied of my nuisance--would begin to rage and be transformed into wind that blew furiously, like the winter wind that nearly carried away houses, trees, and people. I had sought the broadest part of the river, the farthest from the village, a place where no one ever came. I didn't want to be seen. The water flowed, sure of itself, confident with the weight that descended from mountains, snow and fountains escaping the shadows through holes in rocks. All the waters joined together for the delirium of joining and flowed endlessly, the land on both sides. As soon as I had passed the stables and the horse enclosure, I realized I was being followed by a bee, as well as by the stench of manure and the honey scent of wisteria that was beginning to blossom. The water was cold as I cut through it with my arms and kicked it with my feet; I stopped from time to time to drink some. The sun, filled with the desire to fly, was rising on the other side of Pedres Altes, streaking the white winter water. To trick the bee that was following me, I ducked under the water so it would lose me and not know what to do. I knew about the obstinate, seven-year-old bees that possessed a sense of understanding. It was turbid under the water, like a glass cloud that reminded me of the glass balls in the courtyards beneath the strong wisteria vines, the wisteria that over the years upwrenched houses. The houses in thevillage were all rose-colored. We painted them every spring and maybe for that reason the light was different. It captured the pink from the houses, the same way it took on the color of leaves and sun by the river. Shut inside in winter, we made paintbrushes from horsetails with handles of wood and wire, and when we had finished them, we put them away in the shed in the Placa and waited for good weather. Then all of us, men and boys, would go to the cave on Maraldina in search of the red powder we needed for the pink paint. . . When we returned to the village, we would mix the red powder with water to make pink paint that winter would erase. In spring--bees buzzing about, blooming wisteria hanging from houses--we painted. And suddenly the light was different. [. . .] I decided to stroll through the soft grass, up the incline; at the end of the stope the tree nursery appeared from behind some shrubs. The seedlings had tender trunks and no leaves; but all of them would carry death inside them when they were transplanted in the forest and grew tall. I walked among them, and they looked like objects you only see when asleep. I stopped at the entrance to the forest, at the divide between sun and shadow. I had seen the cloud of butterflies earlier. The trees in the forest were very tall, full of leaves--five-point leaves--and, just as the blacksmith had often told me, a plaque and a ring were attached to the foot of each tree. There were thousands of butterflies, all white. They fluttered around anxiously; many of them looked like half-opened flowers, the white slightly streaked with green. The ground was carpeted with old, dry leaves and a rotten odor rose from beneath them . . . I lay downunder a tree and watched the cloud of butterflies bubble among the leaves. I looked at them through a web of leaf nerves until I was tired, and as soon as I let it fall, I heard footsteps. [. . .] The steps stopped. Everything was quiet. As I strained to listen, I thought I could hear someone breathing. I felt a weight in the middle of my chest from listening and thinking I heard something: the same ill feeling as when they locked me in the cupboard for hours, the village deserted, and I would wait. This was the same. Nothing had changed: the leaves were the same, and the trees and butterflies, and the sense that time inside the shadow was dead. But everything had changed. [. . .] The man who was approaching carried an axe on his shoulder and a pitchfork in his hand. He was naked from the waist up, his forehead smashed in. His face had been disfigured by the rushing river, and he was unable to close his eyes because the skin on his forehead was poorly attached. His red, shrunken skin was pulled tight, always leaving a slit in his eyes. He had patches of black hair on his chest, his was body sunburned. [. . .] With his axe he began making a cross on a tree trunk; he had marked it with a stone, top to bottom and side to side. He worked mechanically, and after a while he dropped to his knees and began to cry. I held my breath. Still crying, he stood up, spit in his hands, and rubbed them together. The bee buzzed in and out of the flower. As the axe cut the trunk, you could see the line begin to emerge . . . The tree was as wide and as tall as a man, and I noticed the seedcase inside. It looked slightly green in the green light of the forest, the same color as the tree trunks in the nursery. The man poked the seedcase with the pitchfork, first on one side, then the other, until it fell to the ground. Smoke rose from the gap left in the tree. The man put down the pitchfork, wiped the sweat from his neck and rolled the seedcase to the foot of another tree . . . Then he sat on the ground and looked in the direction of the setting sun, at the butterflies. Many of the leaves on the low branches were partially eaten away, others merely pierced by little holes. The caterpillars never stopped chewing, as they prepared to become butterflies. The man looked up with eyes he could not completely close. The air became wind. The man turned around, picked up the iron plaque, and looked at it as if he had never seen it before. He rubbed a finger over it, following the letters, one by one, until finally he stood up, seized the pitchfork and axe and headed toward the entrance to the forest, the axe on his shoulder flashing from time to time between the low-lying leaves. He came back empty-handed; and as if everything were going to begin again, the bee returned and entered the flower and the man approached his tree. He was weeping. He entered the tree backwards. . . . I was frightened. Frightened about the resin bubbling all alone, the ceiling of light hidden by leaves, and so many white wings flapping. I left, slowly at first, backing away, then I started to run, as if pursued by the man, the pitchfork, and the axe. I stopped by the edge of the river and covered my ears with my open hands so I wouldn't hear the quiet. I crossed the river again. On the other side I left behind the odor of caterpillar-gorged leaves and encountered the fragrance of wisteria and the stench of manure. Death in spring. I threw myself on the ground, on top of the pebbles, my heart drained of blood, my hands icy. I was fourteen years old, and the man who had entered the tree to die was my father.(less)

Hardcover, 150 pages

Published May 1st 2009 by Open Letter Books; Univ of Nebraska Press (first published May 30th 1986)

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Aug 19, 2009 Faith rated it 5 of 5 stars

This is a hard book for me to review. I enjoyed reading it, but it is all a little strange. I guess it could be considered an alternate reality -- one that is close to our reality. I have no doubt that Rodoreda was saying something larger than the story, but, unfortunately, without clues, I have been unable to grasp what that is. The back cover says it could be a metaphor to Franco's Spain. I suspect that someone with more knowledge of Spanish history, particularly in the last century, would be...more

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May 04, 2009 Greg rated it 3 of 5 stars

Shelves: fiction, open-letter, girls-girls-girls

If this book was as good as the cover it would be a five star book. The cover is great, the little image here doesn't do it justice, but like most of the Open Letter books this book looks awesome.

What's inside the book is just fine. I thought maybe as a short story it would have better than as a 150 page novel, but I think a lot of the 'meaning' behind the book was missed on me. Why? Because I'm a dumb American who knows painfully little about other places in the world aside from a few big fact...more

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Oct 01, 2012 switterbug (Betsey) rated it 5 of 5 stars

This posthumously published (1986) slim masterpiece by Catalonian Mercè Rodoreda (1908-1983) will appeal to dedicated readers who don't require plot or concrete realism, and are willing to give up control for a visceral experience. Although it is challenging to inhabit the surreal and anthropomorphic narrative, the best way to read this is to let go and allow the lyrical juxtapositions to open up your senses. The book's poetic but brutally beautiful passages are delicately spun and dream-like. R...more This posthumously published (1986) slim masterpiece by Catalonian Mercè Rodoreda (1908-1983) will appeal to dedicated readers who don't require plot or concrete realism, and are willing to give up control for a visceral experience. Although it is challenging to inhabit the surreal and anthropomorphic narrative, the best way to read this is to let go and allow the lyrical juxtapositions to open up your senses. The book's poetic but brutally beautiful passages are delicately spun and dream-like. Rodoreda's eerie brand of magical realism vanquishes the literal world while permeating it with resounding effect. Again, I can't stress enough that you must be willing to capitulate to Rodoreda and curb any tendency to gain dominion over the narrative.

As you open to the first page, you are introduced to the fourteen-year-old narrator--who, by the way, is neither coy nor child-like, who becomes an adult at the end of Part Two (of Four). He's trying to reconcile his community's savagery with his limited and insulated worldview. The cloistered village of Maraldina he lives in is suspended perilously over craggy rocks that span over a river, whose current both cleanses and destroys. Annually, by lottery, a young man is chosen to swim the dark length of river under the village, which results in death or mutilation.

Legend has it that this fable-like town was born out of desire, at the river where two shadows joined at the mouth. Now, the townspeople must root out ardent longing with ruthless, barbaric practices, the most inhumane customs imaginable. When you die, you are entombed in a tree. During your last breaths, your mouth is filled with cement to prevent your soul from flying out. There's a prisoner, forced to neigh like a horse, who is also a source of wisdom that the citizens both clamor to hear and yet defile. Pregnant women are blindfolded, so that their sons will look like their fathers. The liturgy of violence is relentless, the bleak mood underscored and yet transcended by Rodoreda's exquisite prose.

Early on it is apparent that the novel is a metaphor for oppression. Comparisons to THE LOTTERY are the most obvious at first, but the style and focus and depth are completely different. Jackson's citizens pay blind obedience to tradition--the power of the crowd subverts the individual. Rodoreda's novel illustrates allegiance to a town's customs of ritualized violence, too, but the citizens possess an individual, smug moral certainty. Sanctioned violence is executed with self-righteous authority.

Death and decay entwine with the natural bloom and symmetry of the environment, a pulchritude that twists around its tragedies. The winding wisteria is potently aromatic, and grows to wrench up houses; bees have a menacing consciousness; soap bubbles morph to glass.

"I stopped by the edge of the river and covered my ears with my open hands so I would not hear the quiet. I crossed the river again, swimming underwater because the bee was following me: I would have killed it if I could. I wanted it to be lost and alone in the dog roses where spiders lay in wait for it. On the other side of the river, I left behind the odor of caterpillar-engorged leaves and encountered the fragrance of wisteria and the stench of manure. Death in spring."

What a terrifying, disorienting, horrible, elegant story of exile, hope, and despair. Rodoreda's story has its genesis in her own experience, living as a Catalonian under the Fascist rule of Franco and later as an exile in France. Other writers, such as Carolina de Robertis, Junot Diaz, and Milan Kundera, have drawn from their personal experiences as citizens under regimes of terror. However, Rodoerda is largely unrecognized in the English speaking community. Martha Tennent exquisitely translated this book into English in 2009. Unforgettable and utterly bewitching, DEATH IN SPRING is alive with devastating and furious beauty--a mad, inflamed, yet crushingly nuanced allegory of atrocity, told with astonishing humanity.(less)

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Jun 16, 2012 Roberto rated it 4 of 5 stars

Gosh that was weird. People getting buried in trees, their bodies filled with cement to prevent the soul from escaping, pregnant women made to wear blindfolds, a prisoner neighing like a horse. Supposedly a metaphor for Franco's Spain, can't say i know enough about that, it could also be read as a metaphor for puberty, all that death and wisteria. Seems like Rodoreda had some kind of deep rooted connection to the psychological and symbolic nature of fear and cruelty, as i guess most folk tales s...more

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Dec 01, 2009 megan rated it 4 of 5 stars

Shelves: grotesque

this book fascinated me; at the same time, i took little joy in reading it. i don't know a great deal about spanish literature beyond cervantes, i am ashamed to admit. i'd like to learn more about rodoreda's context. anyone want to help me out?
the back cover info compares the premise to that of shirley jackson's "the lottery," a persuasive comparison, though this book extends that sort of scenario to novel length in interesting and horrifying ways.
the prose has a way of lulling one to sleep wi...more

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Nov 29, 2012 Teresa Esteban added it · review of another edition

Shelves: classics-challenge, 20th-century, spanish-lit

?/5
This is, most definitely, the weirdest, most distressing book I have ever read (and hopefully will ever read, because if there's some other reading that goes beyond the anxiety and intern suffering then I quit).
But it's so beautiful. It's strange because the language is so poetical, but in the most unusual way. I gather some of it it's because Rodoreda only went to school till she was eight or something like that (which always account for the fact that there isn't a single comma in the whole...more

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Jul 26, 2012 Lone rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: catalonia, spain, mercè-rodoreda

Before reading 'Death in Spring' one should forget about the reviews claiming a connection to the Spanish Civil War and let go of wanting to analyze the story to pieces.

Trust the author and her ability to seduce you with her beautiful poetic language. Leave everyday life behind and surrender to this strange and haunting journey knowing you are in the hands of one of the best authors from Catalonia. After a while you will discover the logic of this tale is not of this world but somehow it makes s...more

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Jan 09, 2010 Charles rated it 3 of 5 stars

A fascinating book, poetic, resistant, insinuating — I think it'll be haunting me for quite a while. The narrative is dreamy, slow though given to violent articulation points. The reader has to do a little probing to dig out any "story" in the conventional sense, but it's there. The visual imagery is colorful and rich, the characters vague in outline but vivid in impact. I suppose Rodoreda stands somewhere between Virginia Woolf and Italo Calvino; if you like either of them, you might try this.

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Oct 05, 2012 jennifer rated it 5 of 5 stars

Shelves: kindle

Sadistic and stunning. Thankfully, this was more of a novella in length so it was easy for Suzanne Collins to thumb back and forth between this and "The Lottery" as she rewrote them into YA fic. Seriously, this is the adult version of those hunger games, with metaphors that can stand on their own two feet (so to say) and a creepier forest than anything you read about in Lord of the Rings (and done within 800 pages fewer). Like anything I love upon first read, David Lynch should direct it.

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Jul 20, 2011 Stephen rated it 4 of 5 stars

I think, that this story, is supposed to be an allegory for Fascist Spain. Regardless, it's about a young man, growing up somewhere beautiful and totally fucked, where people eat horse fat and stuff people full of cement so their soul can't escape. What. Seriously, though, it's as beautiful as it is really creepy and strange. Sort of if Guillermo del Toro were a writer instead of a filmmaker, and used more magical realism, and less wonderland.

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Jun 02, 2011 Kaleigh rated it 5 of 5 stars

A philosophical novel that explores a unique perspective on life and death as a boy passes through the rituals of becoming an adult. The novel is both disturbing and enlightening, making the reader reflect on the role of living while you are alive. There is also discussion about deformity and prejudice, imprisonment and humanity, community and conformity. A great book, highly recommended!

1 like · like · see review

Sep 07, 2011 Marcos rated it 5 of 5 stars

This has been one of the strangest and most terrifyingly gruesome reading experiences I've ever had. It's a dystopian tale of a 14-year old boy having an affair with his childlike and young stepmother who witness many brutalities and rituals of sacrifice and senseless death that takes place in an unnamed town. Rodoreda's writing is merciless and spare, yet hauntingly gorgeous that will linger.

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Jan 10, 2013 Brett rated it 3 of 5 stars

I have no doubt that Rodoreda is a brilliant writer, but this book just didn't do it for me. The first have was well-paced and as good as any suspense or horror story out there - it's very reminiscent of "The Lottery" - but I felt that the second half of the book got bogged down in symbolism and mindless ramblings. Sorry. I found myself wanting the book to be finished about 2/3 of the way in.

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Nov 26, 2012 Andy Zeigert rated it 4 of 5 stars

"Death in Spring" is a short volume of dreadful poetry. Not dreadful in any derogatory sense, but actually brimming with a sense of dread. And Rodoreda's translated prose has a sort of dreamlike cadence. It left me both sad and yet somehow empowered. The characters endure and inflict so much sorrow upon one another that even some sorrowful acts seem like powerful self-actualization.

I may seek out another Rodoreda book. But I could use something cheery right after this.

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Jul 13, 2011 Laure rated it 4 of 5 stars · review of another edition

Pensaba que seria dificil trobar una novela de Rodoreda que m'agradés més que "La Plaça del Diamant" però vaig topar amb aquesta maravella, aquesta joia literària. Encara en recordo parts de la novela i el maravellòs estil de Rodoreda.

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Dec 25, 2009 Mischelle rated it 2 of 5 stars

I thought that this was better than it was when I picked this up at the library. I judge the book by the cover and what I've read on the book. It was kind of weird even for me. I didn't understand why the village people did what they do in this story. If this was a movie at a movie theater, I would have left it.

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Aug 29, 2009 David rated it 3 of 5 stars

A strange, dark little book about a sort of fantasy town by a river, ruled by cult-like rituals and dark traditions. Reminded me a bit of "Wicker Man" or "The Lottery". Rodoreda's writing is complex and circular, but great, and she paints an interesting, albeit bleak and dark, picture of a society ruled by arbitrary tradition and violence.

1 like · like · see review

Nov 18, 2009 Tuck rated it 4 of 5 stars

great book in the tradition of rikki ducornet or zoran zivkovic, a perfectly believable world of such sick and ghastly traditions and "rules" that we are horrified and cannot stop looking. some readers wonder if this book is a commentary on franco dictatorship and spain's and Catalunya's arcane and twisted traditions. yes, i think it is.

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Dec 22, 2009 Sessily added it

Death in Spring starts out strong. In the first part, we are introduced to the narrator as he wanders around his village and witnesses a surreal and violent ritual--one of the many such rituals that form the customs of the village. The violence of the event is strong contrasted with the beautiful descriptions of a summer afternoon--bees buzzing around in the heat, the trees rising overhead. Unfortunately, as the rest of the novel delves further into surrealism and makes some attempts at a plot,...more

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Feb 16, 2013 Jamie Green rated it 3 of 5 stars

The main character remains nameless through the entire book. It is very interesting although a bit disturbing. A quick read.

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Mar 19, 2012 Bob rated it 3 of 5 stars

Well written (originally in Catalan language), inspired but relentlessly negative... A difficult read.

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Aug 16, 2012 Simone Oltolina rated it 4 of 5 stars

http://etcetcetcetc.tumblr.com/post/1...

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Oct 05, 2012 Jeff Laughlin rated it 4 of 5 stars

Difficult, experimental, gorgeous, overwritten, wonderful, exalted.

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Mar 23, 2012 Sharma marked it as to-read

More than any other book right now, I want to read this.

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Jun 18, 2012 Kim Anderson rated it 4 of 5 stars

This is the type of book I love. It's a metaphysical journey toward death and it's told in a surreal narrative a la Garcia Marquez.

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May 12, 2010 Avra Fox rated it 5 of 5 stars

An amazing fever dream of a novel

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Jul 15, 2009 Brs36 rated it 4 of 5 stars

Grimmer than the grimmest Grimm.

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Sep 22, 2011 Tanya rated it 4 of 5 stars

Absolutely beautiful, while still incredibly haunting & creepy. Reminded me of Marquez's use of magical realism and language, which is good, since I read the book pretty entirely based on his blurb.

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Aug 20, 2009 Leslie rated it 3 of 5 stars

Shelves: read-in-2009

So dark and so grotesque, but also strangely beautiful?

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Dec 21, 2012 Alberto rated it 4 of 5 stars

No es perfecto, no es 'redondo', pero la fuerza onírica y alucinatoria de este libro, sobre todo en su primera mitad, no puede dejar indiferente. Mi interpretación apunta a la opresión que ejerce la comunidad, el entorno, sobre los que piensan y actúan diferente, equiparando 'la tradición' a una religión que no admite heterodoxias y cuya única posibilidad de escape es la deshumanización o la muerte, y aún así no cualquier muerte.

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About Mercè Rodoreda

Mercè Rodoreda i Gurguí was a Spanish / Catalan novelist.

She is considered by many to be the most important Catalan novelist of the postwar period. Her novel "La plaça del diamant" ('The diamond square', translated as 'The Time of the Doves', 1962) has become the most acclaimed Catalan novel of all time and since the year it was published for the first time, it has been translated into over 20 lan...more

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Books by Mercè Rodoreda

La Plaza del Diamante & La Calle de las Camelias

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Quotes from Death in Spring

“Breathing. Only the chore and sadness of breathing and breathing, as things change from tender to dry, new to old, the night-moon that grows thin then swells, the fireless sun that lights up, the soughing of the wind that transports, shatters, gathers, and dives away the clouds, raising and flattening the dust. Only the sorrow of going to sleep and waking up, feeling life without knowing where it comes from, aware that it will flee without knowing why it was given to you, why it is taken from you. Here you are: there is this and this and this. And now, enough.” — 3 people liked it

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