The House on Mango Street

                I don’t get it.

That was the prevailing thought in my mind as I read this book.  Sometimes I didn’t get the details of the plot. Sometimes I didn’t get the author’s style of writing. I didn’t get a lot of things.

I plowed through this book in just over an hour, including the author’s introduction.  I probably should have slowed down and read more carefully but I just wanted to be over with it.  Later, I read the Spark Notes for the book to see if I missed over any important details and found that I didn’t.  The Spark Notes were more enjoyable though, and certainly more clear.

Let me try and justify my sourpuss attitude about the book.

First, I counted 25+ different characters mentioned in this tiny book.  While I’ll be the first to admit that I am the world’s worst when it comes to remembering names, the author undoubtedly crams far too many different characters in the story.  Much of the story focuses on superficial character development and very little focuses on plot development.  What was the author’s intention on plot development anyway? Where was the climax or turning point? Was there a rising action or falling action?  Maybe I’m oversimplifying how a good book should be written.

Another complaint I have is of the author’s use of a narrating the book through the mind of a 12 year old.  I’m not arguing that this is a bad idea.  I enjoyed Huck Finn and think that Mark Twain did a great job using a young narrator.  Cisneros, however, wrote The House on Mango Street as though it were the actual diary of a twelve-year-old complete with a twelve-year-old’s grammar. This style of writing was at times difficult to follow. For example, the absence of apostrophes caused me to sometimes lose track of who was saying what.  Other times the story was just plain annoying, like during the hopscotch scene.

Often when discussing a book, I like to talk about how well the book “resonates” with me.  While I can’t quite put into words what this term means to me, I think it is something everyone can relate to.  To Kill a Mockingbird “resonated” with me as did “Huck Finn” to some degree.  I can’t say the same for The House on Mango Street. Reading it felt like reading the back of a shampoo bottle; thoughtless and emotionless.  Often I would pause and try and figure out what I had missed.

When the book finally ended, I let out a mental sigh of relief.  I turned off my lamp, crawled into bed, and slept like a baby.