A Rich, Imperfect Novel: The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Some books win you over not because they are perfect, but because they are rich.
The Shadow of the Wind is one of those books for me.
I was completely pulled into the mystery, the emotional stakes, and the sense that stories matter—especially the idea of the Cemetery of Forgotten Books, which had me enthralled (and made me wish such a place existed). At the same time, the novel felt slow in places, and occasionally overfull. There are many plotlines running in parallel, and not all of them feel essential to the main arc.
And yet, I didn’t mind as much as I might have in another book. Because this novel is less about narrative efficiency and more about immersion.
Reading it as a writer, that tension became one of the most interesting things to pay attention to.
When Atmosphere Matters More Than Plot
If you’re reading The Shadow of the Wind primarily for a tight, streamlined plot, you’ll be disappointed.
There are multiple storylines, coincidences, and digressions. The mystery unfolds slowly, and sometimes sideways. As a reader, my attention occasionally drifted—never enough to stop reading, but enough to notice.
It feels as if the plot exists to support the atmosphere, not the other way around. Maybe the author lets the novel linger because he wants you to stay—in the streets, in the memories, in the emotional fog of postwar Barcelona.
I think it went a little too far in this book, but atmosphere is definitely a tool writers can use to their advantage.
Writer takeaway:
You don’t always have to optimize for speed. If atmosphere is your priority, plot can afford to wander—as long as the reader is still emotionally engaged.
Choosing Immersion Over Narrative Tightness
This book is deeply immersive—you feel you’re inside it, and once you’re in, you tend to stay.
That immersion comes at the cost of narrative tightness. Some threads feel more ornamental than necessary, and the book could arguably be shorter without losing its core story.
I think it’s a conscious choice—the result of layering. Zafón builds a world that feels thick with history, secrets, and emotional residue. You’re not just following a mystery; you’re absorbing a mood. This is not a book you skim without consequences.
As a reader, I was willing to forgive the looseness because I trusted the experience.
Writer takeaway:
Ask yourself what kind of reading experience you want to create. Tight and moving forward? Or immersive and enveloping? Both are valid—but they require different trade-offs.
How Much Is Too Much? On Poetic Language and Restraint
The language in this novel is unapologetically poetic.
At times, it felt almost too much for me—lush metaphors, heightened emotion, dramatic phrasing. I sometimes found myself wishing for a little more restraint. And that, as a reader, I would be challenged a bit more—everything was served to me on a silver platter, so I rarely had to interpret much on my own. As a reader, I sometimes missed the pleasure of filling in the gaps.
And yet, there are passages where this very quality works beautifully. The emotional intensity suits the gothic tone, the sense of longing, and the story’s preoccupation with memory and loss.
This is a book that leans into feeling rather than holding it at arm’s length.
Writer takeaway:
Style is a matter of taste—but also of alignment. Poetic language can be powerful when it matches the emotional world of the story. The key is knowing when it serves the moment, and when it starts to call attention to itself.
Writing Characters as Symbols (And The Trade-Offs That Come With It)
One of my few real hesitations as a reader and a writer had to do with the characters, particularly the female ones.
Many of them felt more symbolic than fully fleshed out, existing primarily as figures of longing, mystery, or loss. As a modern reader, I found myself wanting more interiority, more agency.
At the same time, this feels like a deliberate choice. The novel operates partly in the realm of myth and gothic romance, where characters often carry meaning rather than psychological realism.
Whether this works for you will depend heavily on taste. I would have preferred that he had given at least one female character a more realistic, more fully developed role.
Writer takeaway:
Characters don’t all have to function the same way. You can choose psychological realism—or you can choose symbolic resonance. What matters is that the choice is intentional, and consistent with the story you’re telling.
Letting Setting—and Weather—Do Narrative Work
One of the great joys of this book—for me personally—was Barcelona.
Having spent time there, I loved how vividly the city was described. Streets, buildings, shadows, and history all feel present on the page. I particularly enjoyed how strongly the weather functions almost as a character.
Rain, fog, heat, and darkness don’t just decorate scenes; they shape mood and meaning. They influence how events are experienced.
It’s a reminder that the setting isn’t just a backdrop—it can play an active role in the storytelling.
Writer takeaway:
Don’t underestimate setting. And don’t forget elements like weather, light, and season. Used intentionally, they can carry emotional weight without a single line of dialogue.
Complexity, Endings, and the Supernatural
I appreciated that this novel doesn’t tie everything up neatly.
Not every storyline resolves happily. Not every mystery leads where you expect. Some elements that feel supernatural turn out to be something else entirely—and that shift is part of the book’s charm.
The complexity feels earned, even when it’s messy.
Writer takeaway:
Readers don’t always need clean resolutions. They need coherence, emotional honesty, and a sense that the story respected its own rules.
So, Would I Recommend It?
Yes—though probably more to readers than writers, if I’m honest.
The Shadow of the Wind is a great example of a novel that prioritizes atmosphere, emotion, and immersion over narrative economy. It won’t be everyone’s cup of tea. But it’s a generous, ambitious, and deeply felt book.
More than anything, it’s a reminder that what we love as readers is often tied to taste. And understanding your own taste—what you forgive, what you crave, what you linger over—is one of the most useful tools you can develop as a writer.
Some books teach us craft by doing everything “right.”
Others teach us by showing us what we’re willing to follow anyway.
This one did the latter for me.