No me gustó. Leí una reseña que decía de Herbert que quería conjugar las cimas y las profundidades del lenguaje. La verdad, ese intento me pareció más pretencioso que ingenioso. A pesar de que tiene algunas partes muy conmovedoras y otras muy bien escritas, el largo del libro no cumple lo que esos fragmentos prometen. Además, la historia se siente fuera de foco, muchos giros tontos, muchas frases demasiado infladas para los temas que trata. Algunas referencias (al arte, a la cultura popular, etcétera) resultan bobas, otras innecesarias, muchas pretenciosas. La narración/biografía/novela tampoco resulta del todo interesante, si se hubiera publicado en otro país muy probablemente hubiera pasado como un libro de memorias más.
Bastante sobrevalorado. ( )

I just couldn't get into this book. It might have been better to read it on a Kindle where I could look up all the different words I didn't know. After reading other's people reviews I decided to not finish this book. I feel like I've read a lot of death bed books lately (Fever Dream) and I didn't need to finish this one. ( )

This book was too weird for me. The author is a character in his own novel (I hate that!), and per the back cover this book "inhabit[s] the fertile ground between fiction, memoir, and essay". I disagree, that's not fertile ground. I love novels, I love memoirs, and I occasionally read essays--but I prefer them all distinct.

In this novel Herbert is tracing his mother's death from leukemia. The time he spends in hospital with her, and her decline. He also discusses growing up with her and his half siblings--mom was a prostitute, so they moved a lot. Now he is a writer, and he travels to Cuba and Germany. Or does he? Are these fever dreams or drug/alcohol induced "memories"? Are his friends real or fake--he seems confused himself. Is Herbert the character an unreliable narrator? Does that mean Herbert the author is too? Are these other characters really his family and co-workers, or is he the only real person in here? It's all so confusing, and mostly it is too confusing to be interesting. Perhaps it would be more interesting with an IRL book club--or maybe it would just be argumentative.

I think I might enjoy a memoir or essays by Herbert. But not a novel. ( )

Tomb Song is the story of a man sitting in his mother's hospital room, waiting for her to die. She was a prostitute and his life involved a lot of temporary fathers and moving around. Sounds like a book seeped in misery, doesn't it? Despite the scaffolding, Julián Herbert has written a surprisingly upbeat and honest novel.

This isn't a book propelled forward by the plot; it digresses, it heads off onto tangents, it meanders, returning to earlier topics, while abandoning others. The narrator waits. He cares for his mother. He follows often conflicting instructions from the nurses and doctors. He walks the halls, and thinks about his past, from his childhood to the trips he took to Berlin with his wife. Parts of the story are fascinating, some were less enthralling.

The writing style of this novel reminded me of another Mexican novel, Valeria Luiselli's The Story of My Teeth, although that may also be influenced by having the same translator. If you like discursive novels, you'll want to take a look at Tomb Song. ( )

This took me some time to appreciate, but then I raced towards the end. A little meta-writerly angst, during the hospice of mom. Not cheery but well done and painfully good. ( )