Sentada ante la máquina de escribir día tras día, Edna se pierde en un maratón de introspección, en el que se mezclan las refl exiones filosóficas con el humor. Y, como por accidente, va tejiendo la historia de su matrimonio y el retrato de una mujer atrapada por la soledad.

Edna recibe el encargo de una editorial de escribir un prólogo para la reedición del libro de su marido muerto. Pero lo que escribe es un ejercicio de meditación sobre su vida mientras, a su alrededor, toda una serie bichos y plantas que tiene a su cargo mientras su dueña, la vecina, se va de vacaciones van muriendo por el desastroso descuido a los que son sometidos por Edna. Ha dejado de leer y sólo escribir, darle a la tecla, la consuela.
Como no nos deja claro si lo que está contando ha ocurrido realmente o imagina que ocurrió, no sabemos si finalmente su difunto esposo fue un tipo horrible y ambicioso o el incomprendido que tuvo que soportar a una esposa insufrible y nunca satisfecha.
Una novela sobre la soledad escrita con esa especie de corriente de conciencia donde ningún afecto, salvo por cosas inalcanzables, consigue sacar a su protagonista de donde está encerrada, como "los insectos resecos atrapados entre el cristal y la contraventana".
"No es ni siquiera soledad, es algo peor que la soledad, es una cabeza llena de particularidades."
Un poco deprimente todo. Pero se deja leer.
( )

Page 18:
In fact, after reflecting on it some more, it is not clear to me how a thought could ever be summoned, as I seem to have suggested then. After all, I would scarecely be in a position to summon a thought, pluck it from the enormous heap of all possible thoughts, were I not already thinging it, in some sense of thinking, in some sense of already, and of course it is less a heap than a tangle, an enormous tangle of possible thoughts, like a jungle. Summoning a thought would be like summoning a stranger from a crowd in order to find out his name. Well, I suppose you could do that with gestures or by shouting or by going over to him and plucking his sleeve, as you might do if one day you were to see someone in a railroad station whose name you would like to know, perhaps because he looks like the kind of person you would want to be friends with. To make the analogy work you have to imagine that yo are not able to go over next to that person, perhaps because you are crippled or horribly tired or under arrest and are handcuffed to a policeman. You see this person you want to know, perhaps someone famous who would be able to help you out of your difficulty, but you are not allowed by some mysterious force which we won't go into now to shout or wave or even move your eyes in a significant manner. The only way you are permitted to get his attention is by calling his name, and that is just the thing you don't know and were hoping to find out. Of course we have to assume also that the people you are with, the policeman or doctor or whatever, don't know his name either, or if they do they are refusing to tell you, because they think it would be harmful for you to contact that person or perhaps harmful to them, to their position in society, especially if you are being wrongfully detained, or perhaps they just do it out of spite. I feel that I am not making myself clear.
***
If reading that passage was less than pleasant for you, do not read this book. 220 pages later, the character of Edna Morton is still going on in this manner. Edna, widow of famous writer of sporting life Clarence Morton, has been asked to write a preface to her late husband's book. She declines, and decides instead to write the book we're reading.

Edna is the older-lady version of Ellen DeGeneres's comedic character, the stammering disorganized ditz. Edna is a life-long divagator. That drove her husband crazy, and if you're like Clarence of the brutal and direct prose, don't even start. You'll hate it from first to last.

For me, it was not hate but pure happiness that washed over me, leaving a little giggle and a wry smile at every changing swirl and tide. Her narrative voice is the creation of Sam Savage, whose death in January 2019 alerted me to his existence. Glass is a late work, published after Savage became a worldwide bestseller with the 2007 publication of [Firmin: Adventures of a Metropolitan Lowlife] in 2007. I hadn't heard of that book before he died, so the US must've been an exception to the bestsellerness of it. As is so often the case...look at how much the French adore Jerry Lewis, known in his native land as the telethon guy most of his career.

Anyway. Glass. It's a lovely and funny and poignant tale of Edna's life before, during, and after Clarence with his sporty-dorty ways and his romper-stomper books. I suspect it's Mary (the last wife) and Ernest Hemingway's life, but I can't prove it. I can say that, wherever the inspiration struck Author Savage from, I'm glad he sat at his typewriter (I'm morally certain it was a typewriter, though again I can't prove it, because of a passage about typewriter ribbons) and left it for me to find. You'll know from the above page from the book whether it's for you or not. ( )

Please read my review here: http://realbooks4ever.tumblr.com/post/107288208369 ( )

I enjoyed this book. The writing style was unique and it was a smooth read. As I read the book I found myself wondering about Edna's sanity. At one point I would think she was just a crazy woman and the next moment I would think she was an old woman loosing her grip on reality. I generally don't like books with minimal dialogue but this one keep me interested, possibly because it was a book of one person's thoughts and ideas. Overall, this was a pretty good read. I would definitely read more from this author in this format. ( )