The History of Love, by Nicole Krauss

The History of Love is a lovely book, tender and solemn and funny all at the same time. As the story of a precocious teenager trying to solve the problem of her mother’s loneliness, it reminded me somewhat of one of my favorite books, The Last Samurai; only, The History of Love is less about the intellect and more about the heart—perhaps because of this, it made far less of an impact on me personally. The prose is beautiful, luminous, whatever other words reviewers typically use to say “good”; the story is intact and well-told, with the eccentric characters nicely illustrated but still believable, and the interweaving of the story of Leo, the lonely old man who wrote the eponymous history, and Alma, the teenager named after its main character, is clever and tight, with, at the end, all the pieces fitting neatly and satisfactorily. Moreover, it is, after all, a tribute to books: what could I like better?

Well, the answer is obvious, at least to me: The Last Samurai. The History of Love, despite all its charms, is light, and flimsy, and not just in its short paperback form. It made a positive impression on me but faded quickly, like a meringue: short, sweet, delicious, but, eventually, gone. I would therefore recommend this book, but not rave about it.