You can’t be too careful when it comes to book cover blurbs. Obviously, the publisher who selects these is anything but objective, and will choose those that most eloquently praise the book. Often times this leads to those vapid, superlative comments that call this writer “a Master,” and that one “a Genius.” If even half of these were anywhere near true, we’d have to be in the middle of a literary Renaissance unlike any other.
Given that we are not, and the frequency of these breathless comments, readers know how to read cover blurbs. They are there because they are expected to be. The praise is meaningless, and their sources are equally unsurprising. At most, another writer’s name may appear on the cover, causing a browser to stop, and give the book that second look publishers hope for. Otherwise, cover blurbs merely confirm that the book in question enjoys a wide distribution, and therefore must be good for something, otherwise why print so many?
Sometimes these blurbs can make a sucker out of the reader, and lead to a purchase that is later regrettable. This is an unfortunate occurrence, and will only increase the reader’s lack of regard for these lines of empty praise. In this case, the most harm done has been to the reader’s finances, and however much time they invested in the unfulfilling book. The book’s failure lies solely with the writer, who in fact benefited from such lofty press.
There is an instance, however, where cover blurbs can do much more damage than that. This happens when the blurb makes the book out to be something it is definitely not, and provokes equally unrealistic expectations in the reader. At the very least, the book is now handicapped by these expectations, and fated for disappointment of some kind. At worse, the book will fail completely in its mission, as the reader embarks along its pages waiting for something that it cannot possibly provide.
This is nothing less than a tragedy. Before the book has even reached the reader, another voice has impinged upon their expectations, and preemptively undone the book’s intent. True, an established writer can depend on their reputation to counteract any claims that are contrary to their work. Yet there will always be readers who are unacquainted with their work, and thus open to the damaging clamor that is splashed across the cover, and the opening pages. For these readers, the chance to appreciate a new book is diminished by false cover blurbs.
Having said this, readers who have not yet read Arturo Perez-Reverte’s The Nautical Chart are cautioned: do not, I repeat, do not pay any attention - whatsoever - to a single one of its blurbs. (I refer here to the Harcourt edition of the novel. Others may exist that I am unaware of, but if they bear blurbs similar to the ones I am about to describe, this warning again applies.) These blurbs will characterize the novel as “an intellectual thriller,” a “plot-driven mystery/suspense fiction” with “chess-like plots,” and - this is by far the worst of them - a “swashbuckling tale of mystery.”
None of this is remotely true. Unfortunately, I was unaware of this when I picked up the novel, expecting something along the lines of Umberto Eco, with fantastic voyages on the sea, and strange mysteries that lead the characters into daring actions. Forget all of that, because none of it will be found in this book. In fact, this book is the antithesis of a “thriller,” and though it does have elements of mystery, these are one-dimensional, and anything but profound. As for the use of “swashbuckling” by some air-headed reviewer, this is so off the mark as to be laughable.
[Insert John Turturro’s line from The Big Lebowski, in the scene where Jesus laughs dramatically at Walter and The Dude.]
The Nautical Chart is a meditative, deliberate book about the romance and adventure that have been lost to a society that is able to digitally map every inch of the world’s surface. The main character, Coy, is a sailor who fell in love with the sea as a boy, and set out to find his own adventures there. Yet the world seems to have little room for adventure, and Coy discovers that the glorious adventures he found in novels are no longer out there. Eventually, he finds himself landlocked, with a suspended license, and a deep-set desire that has no outlet. He becomes a drifter in a port, wandering amongst the ships, talking with other sailors, and passing his evenings in bars.
Throughout the book, Coy reflects upon his numerous voyages at sea, the people he has met, the bar fights he’s been in. The setting that Perez-Reverte creates in these passages is very real, and one wonders if he hasn’t been on some of these travels himself. They are the most interesting parts of the novel, and provide both insight into Coy’s character, and a portrait of a modern sailing career. The atmosphere is wistful, and weighted with sadness, as Coy relives these moments in light of his present predicament. With each story told, there is a sense of having lost something, in a place one can never return to.
It’s a shame that this novel’s cover blurbs set up a false expectation, because this book offers worthy insight into the claustrophobic character of modern society. Who hasn’t read a historical novel, and found themselves fantasizing about that period, wondering what it was like to take part in such adventures, without being able to turn on the evening news, and find out what’s happening on the other side of the world? For readers that are inspired by the fiction they read, these stories form the basis for what an adventure - one outside the workaday monotony - might be.
It took some time to understand the true character of The Nautical Chart. Nearly half-way through the book - which is about 200 pages - almost nothing has happened. The mystery has been introduced, and turns out to be nothing more interesting than a shipwreck. Instead of thrills, the story has focused on Coy’s memories; conversations with a woman he is falling for; some fist-fights; and a few historical tidbits that provide the basis for the mystery. Meanwhile, the expectation created by the absurd cover blurbs lingers, awaiting its fulfillment.
A key passage sweeps away these expectations, and reveals just what this book is about. Coy is sitting with the woman, Tanger, and his friend El Piloto in a bar. They have failed to find what they’re looking for, and have decided to spend their first night in port drinking heavily. Coy is approaching a state of hazy drunkenness, and has this insight:
“. . . because after so many novels, so many films, and so many songs, there weren’t even innocent drunks anymore. And Coy asked himself, envying him, what the first man felt the first time he went out to hunt a whale, a treasure, or a woman, without having ever read about it in a book.” (p. 369).
It is novelty that Coy wants more than anything. He has searched for it his entire life, in shallow sea dives; crowded ports; and on the various ships that have taught him all he knows about the sea. But the world has been charted, before he was ever born; other men have written about its secrets, before he ever set foot on the deck of a ship; and others before him have lived the adventures he yearns for, and told their tales.
This is why Coy is so taken by the woman, Tanger. Love is the one adventure that every person must experience themselves, in order to fully understand its mysteries. No book, no story told at a bar, and no map, can prepare a person for love’s journey. Coy is equally unprepared for the vicissitudes that will come with pursuing Tanger, and there are many times when he is fully aware of this. It does not matter: he does what he must, to reach the destination that is his alone to discover.
The Nautical Chart is not a well-balanced book. The story meanders in-between Coy’s nostalgic episodes, drawing out a plot that could not otherwise fill this many pages. Some of the metaphors are so sugary and obvious, they illicit more laughter than wonder. The remaining characters are only half-realized, and serve more as landmarks for Coy’s personality to steer by. Even the woman that Coy falls for, Tanger, remains an abstract character throughout the novel, despite Perez-Reverte’s attempt to capture her own story through the use of repeated symbolism.
The book ends with an erratic final scene that would fit nicely in a Tarantino script, or maybe a daytime Brazilian soap opera. There’s double-cross, betrayal, death, tragedy, and broken hearts all around. It all happens so fast, it almost feels excessive. Besides, this tragic closure has been lounging in the background like a drunken ogre, so its violent appearance comes as no surprise.
This ending is purely functional. The Nautical Chart is a story about a man who has searched for adventure throughout his life, and found that the world is more interested in running its businesses with greater efficiency. Men can be replaced by machines that are more accurate; decisions are made from insular offices lined with charts and statistics, by people who wear suits, and communicate via satellite. The world can be described by a single map, and put on a wall for all to see.
What is left for a man like Coy to explore, when all the stories have been told, and can be read by anyone? It is strange, but Perez-Reverte has touched upon a damning characteristic of literature: it gives the story away, before you’ve lived it yourself.
