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

Lately, literature lovers have been going 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. Did that story of two wild village girls, which recovered the oral speech of a specific area of the author's native island, really have so much interest? That publishers are on the lookout for 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 publishing house, 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 deals with 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 Canary Islanders—have to make an effort to understand the language, which makes reading very difficult. Thus, the book's main richness 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 with little sense whose father, 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 in the title. They do so surrounded by secondary characters just as maladjusted as they are: 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 asphyxia.

In a brief and more understandable version, the plot might have a certain hook for its lack of restraints, but in my opinion, it is excessively drawn out. Because the author does not refrain from prolonging the episodes unnecessarily, while abounding in scatology and lingering on gruesome passages. This is her bet, which is, on the other hand, very laudable. Due to its tremendismo, Pajaritos preñados refers somewhat to La familia de Pascual Duarte, by Camilo José Cela, andLos santos inocentes, by Miguel Delibes–poverty, filth, marginal beings–, but it also has elements in common with Lectura fácil by Cristina Morales.

That the author vindicates Canarian identity through orality makes her novel unique. It is normal for a book like this to incite applause because it is a brave and honest literary gamble. Another thing is whether, upon reading it, one enjoys the reading, because 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 required? If a story does not engage us, even if it is well written, as happens in Pajaritos preñados, should we read it?