Is it necessary to read a story that does not interpellate us, even if it is well written?

Lately, literature lovers go from surprise to surprise. Thus, I was astonished when, in 2020, Panza de burro, the debut novel by the young Canarian author Andrea Abreu (Icod de los Vinos, Tenerife, 1995), achieved great critical and public success, with nearly 100,000 copies sold in Spanish. Was that story of two feral village girls, which recovered the oral speech of a specific area of the author's native island, really that interesting? That publishers go in search of first novels and young ink is easy to understand. But what about readers, to what extent do they decide what they read in this highly directed consumer society?

Now, Andrea Abreu publishes her second novel, Pajaritos preñados, with a highly coveted label, Anagrama. This time we are faced with a much longer novel, exceeding 500 pages, where she insists on the same universe as Panza de burro. She returns to her island, returns to create characters that move in unfavorable environments, and persists in her recovery of orality. A new wager that decentralizes literature and gives a voice to those who do not have one.

Understanding or not the author's language

Pajaritos preñados is about poor and maladjusted characters, and Abreu narrates them using the dialect typical of the northwest of Tenerife, which looks towards the island of La Gomera. The consequence is that peninsular readers—and perhaps also the Canarians—have to make an effort to understand the language, which makes reading very difficult. Thus, the main richness of the book becomes its main obstacle, because the laudable linguistic contribution is to the detriment of comprehension. Here is an example: “Caminó y caminó, pero no logró jallar la jodida cabina. Esgarró saliva con pintitas de sangre. Ya la sorimba, el malestar, pegó a majarle los huesos de duro y todo se le viraba, le daba vueltas”.

Cathaysa is a sixteen-year-old girl who is not very bright, whose father, El Tiznado, is a scrap metal dealer who drinks in excess. She is head over heels in love with El Higo Pico, a vulgar neighborhood thug, and her father is quite lost. Both live miserable lives and dream of other realities, hence the birds in the head of the title. They do so surrounded by secondary characters just as maladjusted as them: Engracia, Tío Aurelio, Chaxiraxi, La Macha... The narration of their adventures is a portrait of raw life that conveys an enveloping and unpleasant sensation of suffocation.

In a short and more understandable version, the plot might have a certain hook due to its lack of inhibitions, but in my opinion, it is excessively drawn out. Because the author does not stop from prolonging the episodes unnecessarily, while also abounding in scatology and lingering on sordid passages. This is her bet, which, on the other hand, is very laudable. Due to its tremendismo, Pajaritos preñados refers a bit to The Family of Pascual Duarte, by Camilo José Cela, andThe Holy Innocents, by Miguel Delibes–poverty, filth, marginal beings–, but it also has elements in common with Easy Reading by Cristina Morales.

That, through orality, the author vindicates the Canarian identity makes her novel unique. It is normal that a book like this incites applause because it is a brave and honest literary bet. Another thing is whether, by reading it, one enjoys the reading, because the raw stories are uncomfortable. No one denies that Abreu has an interesting literary voice. But the question is, for a novel to work, isn't something more needed? If a story does not engage us, even if it is well written, as happens in Pajaritos preñados, is it necessary to read it?