Publishers Weekly
10/24/2022
Brazilian writer Gardel’s auspicious debut finds a 71-year-old illiterate man holding onto an old, unread letter from his childhood friend and first love. Raimundo won’t let anyone else see the letter, which was sent to him by his lover, Cicero, after Cicero’s father discovered them having sex at 17. Raimundo wanted to live with Cicero, but never had the chance. In flashbacks, Gardel delves into Raimundo’s early shame over his sexuality and illiteracy, and chronicles how Raimundo was beaten by his father and kicked out of the house after he and Cicero were caught. He finds work with truckers, including Alex, whom he dances with and who takes him to a porn theater. Raimundo’s story is contrasted with that of his courageous uncle Dalberto, who was killed by Raimundo’s grandfather after Dalberto told him he was gay. When Raimundo attacks his trans friend Suzzanný, he knows that his actions stem from fear: “Fear is in my spine, it is what holds me up, and I am using it to hurt others,” he narrates. Raimundo’s feelings of shame, anger, and self-loathing are palpable as he examines his troubled past. This wistful novel introduces a worthy new voice. (Jan.)
From the Publisher
"Auspicious debut . . . This wistful novel introduces a worthy new voice."—Publishers Weekly
"Disarmingly tender and feverishly sad, Gardel's love story is a delirium of a novel that reminds its readers of an uncomfortable truth: that even a life of regret can be a beautiful one."—Patrick Nathan, author of Some Hell
"Brazilian author Stênio Gardel’s debut novel is deceptively slim and surprisingly tender . . . In Lobato's translation, Gardel's rhythmic, incantatory prose flickers between past and present tense and first and third person . . . Makes the whole book not only bearable but beautiful."—Vox
"Incredible debut work . . . Packs a literal and figurative punch . . . Through swirling reflections, the novel moves like a steady whirlwind, conveying inner turmoil and external inaction, punctuated by powerful sometimes devastating change."—Asymptote
"Heartbreaking account of queer desire and resilience . . . Gardel draws in part from his own experience as a civil servant for the Brazilian Electoral Court, where he assisted illiterate voters, to explore the power of the written word and the themes of prejudice, violence, and marginalization."—Mother Jones
"Poetic and intense."—University of Southern California literary journal Air/Light
"An LGBTQ+ novel from Brazil, The Words That Remain is about the damage that brutality, illiteracy and widespread homophobia do to self-love and happiness; it also illustrates the resilience of wanting to love and to be loved and accepted by oneself."—Foreword Reviews
"A heartbreaking debut novel . . . The Words That Remain is not just a love story but an expression of queer desire, struggle, and resilience in spaces outside of romantic love. Gardel's text and Lobato's translation create a puzzle that the reader is trying to solve . . . Through this process the reader is brought along on the journey of companionship, family, and love."—Reading in Translation
"Gardel's ferocious debut novel roars from a deep pit of longing and puts repressed desire in a chokehold, mining it for any and all of its redemptive qualities. Despite its brevity, the novel feels like an epic."—Necessary Fiction
"An ambitious addition to the growing body of international LGBTQ literature ... Sadness and joy blend together in The Words That Remain to paint a moving story."—roughghosts
“A powerful story of the pain of marginalization: the marginalization of poverty, illiteracy, isolation, prejudice, in the tradition of the great Brazilian storytellers.”—Socorro Acioli, author of The Head of the Saint
“In this novel, writing means life. There isn’t a single word in it that isn’t poetry.”—Folha de São Paulo
"Touching on love, identity, acceptance, and violence and social exclusion, and offering a deep portrait of Brazil—giving special attention to those living in the margins—[The Words that Remain] is ingeniously woven out of a voice as tender as it is wounded."—Diário do Nordeste
