Genre Fiction
![Mariana Enriquez - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B001JXBNK8.jpg)
Our Share of Night: A Novel
"A masterpiece of supernatural horror."-The Washington Post
"An enchanting, shattering, once-in-a-lifetime reading experience."-The New York Times (Editors' Choice)
GOOD MORNING AMERICA BUZZ PICK • ONE OF TIME, ESQUIRE, AND BOOKRIOT'S BEST BOOKS OF 2023 (SO FAR) • A woman's mysterious death puts her husband and son on a collision course with her demonic family in the first novel to be translated into English by the International Booker Prize–shortlisted author of The Dangers of Smoking in Bed-"the most exciting discovery I've made in fiction for some time" (Kazuo Ishiguro).
"A magnificent accomplishment."-Alan Moore, author of Watchmen
"A masterpiece of literary horror."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"One of Latin America's most exciting authors."-Silvia Moreno-Garcia
A young father and son set out on a road trip, devastated by the death of the wife and mother they both loved. United in grief, the pair travel to her ancestral home, where they must confront the terrifying legacy she has bequeathed: a family called the Order that commits unspeakable acts in search of immortality.
For Gaspar, the son, this maniacal cult is his destiny. As the Order tries to pull him into their evil, he and his father take flight, attempting to outrun a powerful clan that will do anything to ensure its own survival. But how far will Gaspar's father go to protect his child? And can anyone escape their fate?
Moving back and forth in time, from London in the swinging 1960s to the brutal years of Argentina's military dictatorship and its turbulent aftermath, Our Share of Night is a novel like no other: a family story, a ghost story, a story of the occult and the supernatural, a book about the complexities of love and longing with queer subplots and themes. This is the masterwork of one of Latin America's most original novelists, "a mesmerizing writer," says Dave Eggers, "who demands to be read."
"An enchanting, shattering, once-in-a-lifetime reading experience."-The New York Times (Editors' Choice)
GOOD MORNING AMERICA BUZZ PICK • ONE OF TIME, ESQUIRE, AND BOOKRIOT'S BEST BOOKS OF 2023 (SO FAR) • A woman's mysterious death puts her husband and son on a collision course with her demonic family in the first novel to be translated into English by the International Booker Prize–shortlisted author of The Dangers of Smoking in Bed-"the most exciting discovery I've made in fiction for some time" (Kazuo Ishiguro).
"A magnificent accomplishment."-Alan Moore, author of Watchmen
"A masterpiece of literary horror."-Publishers Weekly (starred review)
"One of Latin America's most exciting authors."-Silvia Moreno-Garcia
A young father and son set out on a road trip, devastated by the death of the wife and mother they both loved. United in grief, the pair travel to her ancestral home, where they must confront the terrifying legacy she has bequeathed: a family called the Order that commits unspeakable acts in search of immortality.
For Gaspar, the son, this maniacal cult is his destiny. As the Order tries to pull him into their evil, he and his father take flight, attempting to outrun a powerful clan that will do anything to ensure its own survival. But how far will Gaspar's father go to protect his child? And can anyone escape their fate?
Moving back and forth in time, from London in the swinging 1960s to the brutal years of Argentina's military dictatorship and its turbulent aftermath, Our Share of Night is a novel like no other: a family story, a ghost story, a story of the occult and the supernatural, a book about the complexities of love and longing with queer subplots and themes. This is the masterwork of one of Latin America's most original novelists, "a mesmerizing writer," says Dave Eggers, "who demands to be read."
Editorial Reviews
There was so much light that morning and the sky was so clear, its warm blue marred by a single white smirch, more like a plume of smoke than a cloud. It was already late and he needed to go and that hot day was going to be just like the next: if it rained and he was hit with the river's humidity and the stifling Buenos Aires heat, he would never be able to leave the city.
Juan swallowed a pill dry to stave off the headache he wasn't feeling yet and went into the house to wake up his son, who was sleeping under a sheet. We're leaving, he said as he shook him gently. The boy woke up right away. Do other children have such shallow, vigilant sleep? Wash your face, he said, and carefully cleared sleep from the boy's eyes. There was no time for breakfast, they could stop on the way. He loaded the already-packed bags, and debated a while among various books until he decided to add two more. He saw the airplane tickets on the table: they were still a possibility. He could lie down and wait for the date of the flight, some days later. To ward off inertia, he tore up the tickets and threw them in the trash. His long hair made his neck sweat: it was going to be unbearable under the sun. He didn't have time to cut it now, but he got the scissors from the kitchen drawer and stashed them in the same plastic box where he kept his pills, the blood-pressure monitor, the syringe, and some bandages, basic first aid for the trip. Also, his sharpest knife, and the bag full of ashes he would use later. He packed the oxygen tank: he was going to need it. The car was cool; its leather hadn't absorbed too much heat during the night. He loaded the picnic cooler, filled with ice and two bottles of cold soda, into the front seat. His son had to ride in the back; Juan would have preferred to have the boy beside him, but it was illegal, and he couldn't risk any problems with the police or the army, who kept a brutal watch over the highways. A single man alone with a child could be suspicious. The repressive forces were unpredictable, and Juan wanted to avoid any incidents.
Gaspar, he called, without raising his voice too much. When he received no answer, he went inside to look for the boy. He found Gaspar trying to tie the shoelaces of his sneakers.
"You're making a mess of it," he said, kneeling down to help. His son was crying, but Juan couldn't console him. Gaspar missed his mother-she had done these things automatically: trimmed his nails, sewn his buttons, washed behind his ears and between his toes, asked if he'd peed before leaving, taught him how to tie his shoelaces in a perfect bow. Juan missed her too, but he didn't want to cry with his son that morning. You have everything you want? he asked. We're not going to come back for anything, I'm warning you.
He hadn't driven so fa...
Juan swallowed a pill dry to stave off the headache he wasn't feeling yet and went into the house to wake up his son, who was sleeping under a sheet. We're leaving, he said as he shook him gently. The boy woke up right away. Do other children have such shallow, vigilant sleep? Wash your face, he said, and carefully cleared sleep from the boy's eyes. There was no time for breakfast, they could stop on the way. He loaded the already-packed bags, and debated a while among various books until he decided to add two more. He saw the airplane tickets on the table: they were still a possibility. He could lie down and wait for the date of the flight, some days later. To ward off inertia, he tore up the tickets and threw them in the trash. His long hair made his neck sweat: it was going to be unbearable under the sun. He didn't have time to cut it now, but he got the scissors from the kitchen drawer and stashed them in the same plastic box where he kept his pills, the blood-pressure monitor, the syringe, and some bandages, basic first aid for the trip. Also, his sharpest knife, and the bag full of ashes he would use later. He packed the oxygen tank: he was going to need it. The car was cool; its leather hadn't absorbed too much heat during the night. He loaded the picnic cooler, filled with ice and two bottles of cold soda, into the front seat. His son had to ride in the back; Juan would have preferred to have the boy beside him, but it was illegal, and he couldn't risk any problems with the police or the army, who kept a brutal watch over the highways. A single man alone with a child could be suspicious. The repressive forces were unpredictable, and Juan wanted to avoid any incidents.
Gaspar, he called, without raising his voice too much. When he received no answer, he went inside to look for the boy. He found Gaspar trying to tie the shoelaces of his sneakers.
"You're making a mess of it," he said, kneeling down to help. His son was crying, but Juan couldn't console him. Gaspar missed his mother-she had done these things automatically: trimmed his nails, sewn his buttons, washed behind his ears and between his toes, asked if he'd peed before leaving, taught him how to tie his shoelaces in a perfect bow. Juan missed her too, but he didn't want to cry with his son that morning. You have everything you want? he asked. We're not going to come back for anything, I'm warning you.
He hadn't driven so fa...
Readers Top Reviews
AlfieDebbie Harmo
Intricate, moody, and compelling. This could be called a horror story. Very Latin. Guillermo Del Toro could try to make the movie, but the book is too complex.
alan griggAlfieDe
The product arrived in excellent condition and as described in the review; pleased with the delivery and product; I will continue my subscription with Amazon
Mary Falan griggA
love a sick ghost story with ace politics. has characters you get deep into. a lot of beauty and many ideas. I'll be thinking about this book for years to come, like the house of the spirits. so good.
Julie in WAMary F
This story was so compelling and jarring. I am reeling from it. The narrators all come from different perspectives of this families foul practices and history. It was so unsettling. Well done!
Adrienne Arnon
Those who are fans of classic horror fiction will have fun picking out the memes associated with the genre. The length of the work certainly gives Enriquez room to trot them out. Some (the pan statue) are a heads up to Machen. Others, elder gods & other places, are a tip of the hat to Lovecraft enthusiasts. I suspect some of this is a sly hint to the reader. The dark is a non-slimy Cthulhu like elder god who like to chomp on devotee canapes when invoked. The promise to the minions being a form of immortality (what else?). So as not to leave any stone unturned we are given sexual magic a la Crowley spiced up with truly repulsive child abuse and African and Guarani magic. The author slowly unfolds the story which accelerates after the first half. The reader will appreciate the touristy Argentinian settings and fairly accurate clinical descriptions of the effects of cardiac surgery to correct tetralogy of Fallot. As a retired pathologist I give Enriquez positive marks for this and her descriptions of chronic cardiac failure. The author is a skilled writer who is capable of evoking true horror in the reader (the deserted house in Buenos Aires) but at the cost of seemingly interminable family history. Fans of horror fiction should give it a try, but they will have to be patient.
Short Excerpt Teaser
There was so much light that morning and the sky was so clear, its warm blue marred by a single white smirch, more like a plume of smoke than a cloud. It was already late and he needed to go and that hot day was going to be just like the next: if it rained and he was hit with the river's humidity and the stifling Buenos Aires heat, he would never be able to leave the city.
Juan swallowed a pill dry to stave off the headache he wasn't feeling yet and went into the house to wake up his son, who was sleeping under a sheet. We're leaving, he said as he shook him gently. The boy woke up right away. Do other children have such shallow, vigilant sleep? Wash your face, he said, and carefully cleared sleep from the boy's eyes. There was no time for breakfast, they could stop on the way. He loaded the already-packed bags, and debated a while among various books until he decided to add two more. He saw the airplane tickets on the table: they were still a possibility. He could lie down and wait for the date of the flight, some days later. To ward off inertia, he tore up the tickets and threw them in the trash. His long hair made his neck sweat: it was going to be unbearable under the sun. He didn't have time to cut it now, but he got the scissors from the kitchen drawer and stashed them in the same plastic box where he kept his pills, the blood-pressure monitor, the syringe, and some bandages, basic first aid for the trip. Also, his sharpest knife, and the bag full of ashes he would use later. He packed the oxygen tank: he was going to need it. The car was cool; its leather hadn't absorbed too much heat during the night. He loaded the picnic cooler, filled with ice and two bottles of cold soda, into the front seat. His son had to ride in the back; Juan would have preferred to have the boy beside him, but it was illegal, and he couldn't risk any problems with the police or the army, who kept a brutal watch over the highways. A single man alone with a child could be suspicious. The repressive forces were unpredictable, and Juan wanted to avoid any incidents.
Gaspar, he called, without raising his voice too much. When he received no answer, he went inside to look for the boy. He found Gaspar trying to tie the shoelaces of his sneakers.
"You're making a mess of it," he said, kneeling down to help. His son was crying, but Juan couldn't console him. Gaspar missed his mother-she had done these things automatically: trimmed his nails, sewn his buttons, washed behind his ears and between his toes, asked if he'd peed before leaving, taught him how to tie his shoelaces in a perfect bow. Juan missed her too, but he didn't want to cry with his son that morning. You have everything you want? he asked. We're not going to come back for anything, I'm warning you.
He hadn't driven so far in a long time. Rosario always insisted that he drive at least once a week, just so he didn't get out of practice. The car was too small for Juan, like almost everything: pants were too short, shirts too tight, chairs uncomfortable. He checked to be sure the Auto Club's guide was in the glove box, and they set off.
"I'm hungry," said Gaspar.
"Me too, but we're going to stop for breakfast at this great place I know. In a while, okay?"
"If I don't eat, I'll throw up."
"And my head hurts when I don't eat. Be strong. It's just a little while. Don't look out the window or you'll get even dizzier."
He himself felt worse than he wanted to admit. His fingers were tingling, and he recognized the erratic palpitations of arrhythmia in his chest. He adjusted his sunglasses and asked Gaspar to tell him the story he'd read the night before. At six years old, the boy already knew how to read quite well.
"I don't remember it."
"Yes, you do. I'm in a bad mood, too. Let's try to change it together. Or are we going to be all pissy for the whole trip?"
Gaspar laughed at Juan's use of the word "pissy." Then he recounted the story of the jungle queen who sang while she walked through the trees. Everyone liked to listen to her. One day some soldiers came and she stopped singing and became a warrior. The soldiers caught her and she spent a night locked up, and then she escaped, but to escape she had to kill the guard keeping watch over her. No one could believe she was strong enough to have killed him because she was very thin, so she was accused of being a witch and they burned her at the stake-tied her to a tree and set fire to it. But in the morning, instead of a body, they found a red flower.
"A tree of red flowers."
"Yeah, a tree."
"Did you like the story?"
"I don't know, it scared me."
"That tree is called a ceiba. There aren't many around here, but when I see one, I'll show you. There are a...
Juan swallowed a pill dry to stave off the headache he wasn't feeling yet and went into the house to wake up his son, who was sleeping under a sheet. We're leaving, he said as he shook him gently. The boy woke up right away. Do other children have such shallow, vigilant sleep? Wash your face, he said, and carefully cleared sleep from the boy's eyes. There was no time for breakfast, they could stop on the way. He loaded the already-packed bags, and debated a while among various books until he decided to add two more. He saw the airplane tickets on the table: they were still a possibility. He could lie down and wait for the date of the flight, some days later. To ward off inertia, he tore up the tickets and threw them in the trash. His long hair made his neck sweat: it was going to be unbearable under the sun. He didn't have time to cut it now, but he got the scissors from the kitchen drawer and stashed them in the same plastic box where he kept his pills, the blood-pressure monitor, the syringe, and some bandages, basic first aid for the trip. Also, his sharpest knife, and the bag full of ashes he would use later. He packed the oxygen tank: he was going to need it. The car was cool; its leather hadn't absorbed too much heat during the night. He loaded the picnic cooler, filled with ice and two bottles of cold soda, into the front seat. His son had to ride in the back; Juan would have preferred to have the boy beside him, but it was illegal, and he couldn't risk any problems with the police or the army, who kept a brutal watch over the highways. A single man alone with a child could be suspicious. The repressive forces were unpredictable, and Juan wanted to avoid any incidents.
Gaspar, he called, without raising his voice too much. When he received no answer, he went inside to look for the boy. He found Gaspar trying to tie the shoelaces of his sneakers.
"You're making a mess of it," he said, kneeling down to help. His son was crying, but Juan couldn't console him. Gaspar missed his mother-she had done these things automatically: trimmed his nails, sewn his buttons, washed behind his ears and between his toes, asked if he'd peed before leaving, taught him how to tie his shoelaces in a perfect bow. Juan missed her too, but he didn't want to cry with his son that morning. You have everything you want? he asked. We're not going to come back for anything, I'm warning you.
He hadn't driven so far in a long time. Rosario always insisted that he drive at least once a week, just so he didn't get out of practice. The car was too small for Juan, like almost everything: pants were too short, shirts too tight, chairs uncomfortable. He checked to be sure the Auto Club's guide was in the glove box, and they set off.
"I'm hungry," said Gaspar.
"Me too, but we're going to stop for breakfast at this great place I know. In a while, okay?"
"If I don't eat, I'll throw up."
"And my head hurts when I don't eat. Be strong. It's just a little while. Don't look out the window or you'll get even dizzier."
He himself felt worse than he wanted to admit. His fingers were tingling, and he recognized the erratic palpitations of arrhythmia in his chest. He adjusted his sunglasses and asked Gaspar to tell him the story he'd read the night before. At six years old, the boy already knew how to read quite well.
"I don't remember it."
"Yes, you do. I'm in a bad mood, too. Let's try to change it together. Or are we going to be all pissy for the whole trip?"
Gaspar laughed at Juan's use of the word "pissy." Then he recounted the story of the jungle queen who sang while she walked through the trees. Everyone liked to listen to her. One day some soldiers came and she stopped singing and became a warrior. The soldiers caught her and she spent a night locked up, and then she escaped, but to escape she had to kill the guard keeping watch over her. No one could believe she was strong enough to have killed him because she was very thin, so she was accused of being a witch and they burned her at the stake-tied her to a tree and set fire to it. But in the morning, instead of a body, they found a red flower.
"A tree of red flowers."
"Yeah, a tree."
"Did you like the story?"
"I don't know, it scared me."
"That tree is called a ceiba. There aren't many around here, but when I see one, I'll show you. There are a...
