In the Name of Salome [NOOK Book]

Overview

Julia Alvarez is "a one-woman cultural collision." --Los Angeles Times Book Review

Julia Alvarez "skillfully weaves fact and fiction." --Newsweek

Julia Alvarez is "hot, hot, hot." --Miami Herald

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In the Name of Salome

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Overview

Julia Alvarez is "a one-woman cultural collision." --Los Angeles Times Book Review

Julia Alvarez "skillfully weaves fact and fiction." --Newsweek

Julia Alvarez is "hot, hot, hot." --Miami Herald

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
The Barnes & Noble Review
La Musa de la Patria

In recent years, novelists Mona Simpson (Anywhere But Here), Karla Kuban (Marchlands) and Susannah Moore (My Old Sweetheart), among numerous others, have memorably explored the mother-daughter relationship, showing us the conflicted, often painful intersections of the lives of their multigenerational characters. But in Julia Alvarez's new novel, In the Name of Salome, the mother, Dominican poet and political muse Salomé Ureña, only lives long enough to hear her three-year-old daughter Camila recite one of her consumptive mother's poems. What we get, then, is a compelling work of fiction based on remarkably tireless research and shaped by Camila's reach into the past, into her mother's history and her mother's place in history, in order to make sense of the choices she has made about her own.

A masterful manipulator of time, Alvarez alternates points of view, shuttling us not only back and forth between Salomé and Camila, but also moving us forward in Salome's life as she moves us backward in Camila's. Salomé writes in secret as a child, publishes briefly under a pseudonym and soon emerges as herself, a figure of inspiration for a nation. But all the while she longs for that other kind of passion, the one her family and her readers would like to believe she is above: the passionate love of a man. Sadly, though she finds that love in Papancho, he is never fully hers. He belongs in turn to his country, to his studies, and inevitably to another woman. How Salomé withstands losing this managain andagain has to do with what we all withstand — wisely and unwisely — in the name of love.

Camila writes poetry only as a mature woman. As a child her life is shaped by the political values that shape Papancho's life. Those values find only cautious expression in the U.S. where she studies at the University of Minnesota and later becomes a professor at Vassar. But in Cuba, where she spends the last 13 years of her life, she fulfills the dream of both her mother and father as a vital and dedicated participant in Fidel Castro's "revolutionary experiment."

Through skillful mechanics Alvarez makes characters of time itself and the history that marks it. And what troubling history it is, spanning over 100 years (1856-1973) in the life of the Dominican Republic, where the government changes hands with as much frequency as a señorita changes her linens, and "Depending on the president, the pantheon of heroes changes, one regime's villain is the next one's hero, until the word hero, like the word patria, begins to mean nothing.".

But if history renders language meaningless, what is left? Only the struggle to make meaning, and only love makes that struggle real and worthwhile; on this matter mother and daughter agree. So this is also a love story, in which Salomé discovers that she will give up everything — her writing, her social activism, finally her health — for the man she loves, and Camilla discovers that she will sacrifice her secure teaching position in the U.S., the approval of family, friends and erstwhile lovers for the very thing her mother's passionate poetry taught her: love for the land and the people who give life to it.

Alvarez's skillful prose styling distinguishes the two women not only through the details of their lives but also through their meticulously wrought voices. Moreover, just as interesting as what distinguishes them from one another is what unites them: the pull of public life on their private lives and the challenges presented by the conventions that govern their lives as women. And they and we thrill equally to the ultimate discovery we're all reaching for, "that hushed and holy moment...when the word becomes flesh."

In a book rich in extended metaphor, where poetry and idealism play a huge role, we are never encumbered with abstraction. This is a writer going at full tilt: wry, wise, ironic, forgiving. She, like both the women of this novel, is an educator, though neither didactic nor condescending. Even though we know from the beginning the details about the end of both mother's and daughter's lives, Alvarez manages to sustain an air of suspense throughout, the point being not what happens, but how it comes about, and at what cost.

Susan Thames is the author of a book of short stories, AS MUCH AS I KNOW. Her novel I'll Be Home Late Tonight was a Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers selection.

Dylan Siegler
In the Name of Salome underscores the unique and yet universal wisdom generations of women impart to each other, but Salome's rich and gripping life story, culled from scant existing records, is the real treat.
Ms. Magazine
World Literature Today
A refreshingly stimulating novel, told in a neorealistic style that will intrigue.
Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Dazzling... .Alvarez joins the ranks of Gabriel García Márquez and Isabel Allende... .
New York Times Book Review
Original and illuminating ... Alvarez's most ambitious work to date.
Los Angeles Times
A delicate writer whose respect for the force of human love gives the novel its exquisite tension.
Denver Post
Masterful ... rich and rewarding historical fiction ... poignant, colorful, exhilarating.
Barnes & Noble Guide to New Fiction
By the author of How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accent, this ambitious and "magnificent" novel, based on the lives of two heroic women, Camila and Salome Urena, spans more than a century of the Caribbean's tumultuous history. "Keeps the reader engrossed from beginning to end." "A cultural, political, poetic, and emotional tapestry - I read it in one sitting." "Absolutely intoxicating; I can't wait to read more of her work." Reminded one reviewer of A. S. Byatt's Possession. Recommended as a book club read.
Library Journal
When Camila was three, her mother, Salom Urena, the Dominican Republic's "National Poetess," died. For years, the youngster wrestled with the loss, holding fast to the dream that her mother would someday reappear, a mysterious, larger-than-life stranger. Meanwhile, her aunt Ramona struggled to help the child understand Salom 's demise, teaching her a special, if sacrilegious, incantation to soften what had happened: "In the name of the Father, the Son and my Mother, Salom ." Alvarez (How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents) has written a brilliantly layered novel that is grounded in 100 years of Latin American history. As Salom 's story intertwines with Camila's, we are made privy to politics both personal and international. Passionate and unpredictable, the book quietly lambastes colonialism and imperialism. At the same time, feminist themes emerge, from the enduring agony of motherless daughters to the integration of lesbians into progressive movements. Well wrought and powerful--if at times structurally confusing--this is a novel to be passed from friend to friend, from madre to hija. Highly recommended.--Eleanor J. Bader, Brooklyn, NY Copyright 2000 Cahners Business Information.\
Suzanne Ruta
This is Alvarez's most ambitious work to date…[it] delivers a strong sense of who these people were…Original and illuminating . . .
The New York Times Book Review
Magazine Staff People
In this enchanting novel, the author of In the Time of Butterflies contrasts the lives of a famous poet and her daughter, who is a mousy closet lesbian.
Harlan
Alvarez poignantly explores the interplay between personal and political revolutions—fool-hardy, painful, and sometimes necessary.
Entertainment Weekly
Emily Drabinski
Alvarez delivers a history lesson imbued with magic, intimacy, warmth, and humor.
Out Magazine
Dylan Siegler
In the Name of Salomé underscores the unique and yet universal wisdom generations of women impart to each other, but Salomé's rich and gripping life story, culled from scant existing records, is the real treat.
Ms. Magazine
Judith Grossman
Alvarez gives us a powerful sense of inhabiting the life that she recreates, along with the changing world that surrounds it.
Women's Review of Books
karen Helfrich
…Alvarez has written another powerful and ambitious novel….
Lambda Book Report
Kirkus Reviews
In her restless and vibrant fourth novel, Alvarez (Yo!, 1997, etc.) turns to the historical figures of Salomé Ureña, former national poet of the Dominican Republic, and her daughter, Camila, a professor in the US, chronicling each woman's lifelong struggle to define la patria and her obligation to it. Starting near the end of Camila's life and the beginning of Salomé's, alternating chapters move through time in opposite directions to form a rich narrative tapestry. From an early age, poetry and politics are Salomé's crucible, and in the 1870s she becomes the voice of a people longing for independence from dictators and colonizers. A younger and especially ardent admirer wins her heart, but marriage to Pancho takes Salomé from her muse, as their children and a commitment to establishing a liberal school for girls consume her while the political situation goes from bad to worse. When Pancho begins a second family in Paris, where he's gone to obtain advanced medical training, the strain on Salomé takes a serious toll on her health, and she contracts tuberculosis. Camila, who lost her mother when she was three, is first viewed retiring from Vassar in 1960 in order to go help the revolution in Cuba, where she grew up with her stepfamily. Camila's struggle has been different: after confronting a crisis in her sexual identity and facing down American xenophobia as a college student during WWI, she must come to terms with Salomé's complex legacy of love and liberation while pursuing an academic career. But in the end Camila finds her own place and her own homeland, where she can carry on her mother's work. These lives, gentlytold,have currents within them as wide and deep as an ocean's—and no one can miss their primal force.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781616201036
  • Publisher: Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
  • Publication date: 6/9/2000
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 250
  • Sales rank: 153,883
  • File size: 3 MB

Meet the Author

Julia  Alvarez
Julia Alvarez left the Dominican Republic for the United States in 1960 at the age of ten. She is the author of six novels, two books of nonfiction, three collections of poetry, and eight books for children and young adults. Her work has garnered wide recognition, including a Latina Leader Award in Literature in 2007 from the Congressional Hispanic Caucus Institute, the 2002 Hispanic Heritage Award in Literature, the
2000 Woman of the Year by Latina magazine, and inclusion in the New York Public Library’s 1996 program “The Hand of the Poet: Original Manuscripts by 100 Masters, from John Donne to Julia Alvarez.” A writer-in-residence at Middlebury College, Alvarez and her husband, Bill Eichner, established Alta Gracia, an organic coffee farm–literacy arts center, in her homeland, the Dominican Republic.

Biography

Julia Alvarez was born in New York City during her Dominican parents' "first and failed" stay in the United States. While she was still an infant, the family returned to the Dominican Republic -- where her father, a vehement opponent of the Trujillo dictatorship, resumed his activities with the resistance. In 1960, in fear for their safety, the Alvarezes fled the country, settling once more in New York.

Alvarez has often said that the immigrant experience was the crucible that turned her into a writer. Her struggle with the nuances of the English language made her deeply conscious of the power of words, and exposure to books and reading sharpened both her imagination and her storytelling skills. She graduated summa cum laude from Middlebury College in 1971, received her M.F.A. from Syracuse University, and spent the next two decades in the education field, traveling around the country with the poetry-in-the-schools program and teaching English and Creative Writing to elementary, high school, and college students.

Alvarez's verse began to appear in literary magazines and anthologies, and in 1984, she published her first poetry collection, Homecoming. She had less success marketing her novel -- a semiautobiographical story that traced the painful assimilation of a Dominican family over a period of more than 30 eventful years. A series of 15 interconnected stories that unfold in reverse chronological order, How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents addresses, head-on, the obstacles and challenges immigrants face in adapting to life in a new country.

It took some time for "ethnic" literature to gain enough of a foothold in the literary establishment for Alvarez's agent, a tireless champion of minority authors, to find a publisher. But when the novel was released in 1991, it received strongly positive reviews. And so, at the tender age of 41, Alvarez became a star. Three years later, she proved herself more than a "one-hit wonder," when her second novel, In the Time of Butterflies was nominated for the prestigious National Book Critics Circle Award. Since then, she has made her name as a writer of remarkable versatility, juggling novels, poetry, children's books, and nonfiction with equal grace and aplomb. She lives in Vermont, where she serves as a writer in residence at her alma mater, Middlebury College. In addition, she and her husband run a coffee farm in the Dominican Republic that hosts a school to teach the local farmers and their families how to read and write.

Good To Know

From 1975 until 1978, Alvarez served as Poet-in-the-Schools in Kentucky, Delaware, and North Carolina.

She has held positions as a professor of creative writing and English at Phillips Andover Academy in Massachusetts (1979-81), the University of Vermont (1981-83), and the University of Illinois (1985-88).

In 1984, Alvarez was the Jenny McKean Moore Visiting Writer at George Washington University. Currently, she is a professor of English at Middlebury College.

She and her husband run a coffee farm, Alta Gracia, in the Dominican Republic.

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    1. Hometown:
      Middlebury, Vermont
    1. Date of Birth:
      March 27, 1950
    2. Place of Birth:
      New York, New York
    1. Education:
      B.A., Middlebury College, 1971; M.F.A., Syracuse University, 1975

Read an Excerpt

Prologue

Departing Poughkeepsie

June 1960

She stands by the door, a tall, elegant woman with a soft brown color to her skin (southern Italian? a Mediterranean Jew? a light-skinned negro woman who has been allowed to pass by virtue of her advanced degrees?), and reviews the empty rooms that have served as home for the last eighteen years.

Now in the full of June, the attic is hot. Years back, when she earned tenure, the dean offered her a more modern apartment, nearer to the campus. But she refused. She has always loved attics, their secretiveness, their niches and nooks, where those never quite at home in the house can hide. And this one has wonderful light. Shafts of sunlight swarm with dust motes, as if the air were coming alive.

It is time for fresh blood in this old house. On the second floor, right below her, Vivian Lafleur from the Music Department is getting on in years and going a bit deaf, too. Every year the piano gets more fortissimo, her foot heavy on the pedal. Her older sister, Dot, has already retired from Admissions and moved in with her "baby" sister. "Come quickly, Viv," she sometimes hollers from her bedroom. The music stops. Could this be it for Dot? On the ground floor, Florence from History has been called back from her retirement after the young medievalist from Yale stumbled into a manhole and broke her ankle. "I'm so grateful." Flo cornered her one day downstairs by their mailboxes. "I was beginning to go batty in that cottage in Maine."

She herself is worried about the emptiness that lies ahead. Childless and motherless, she is a bead unstrung from the necklace of the generations. All she leaves behind here are a few close colleagues, also about to retire, and her students, those young immortals with, she hopes, the Spanish subjunctive filed away in their heads.

She must not let herself get morbid. It is 1960. In Cuba, Castro and his bearded boys are saying alarming, wonderful things about the new patria they are creating. The Dalai Lama, who fled Tibet last year on a yak with the Chinese at his heels, has issued a statement: One must love one's enemies, or else all is lost. (But you have lost everything, she thinks.) This winter she read of an expedition to Antarctica led by Vivian Fuchs. Sir Vivian has asked the world to agree not to dump its nuclear waste there. (Why dump it anywhere? Camila wonders.) But these are positive signs, she reminds herself, positive signs. It is not a new habit of hers: these efforts to rouse herself from a depressive turn of mind she inherited from her mother. Of course, sometimes the bigger picture is rather grim. So? Use your subjunctive (she reminds herself). Make a wish. Contrary to possibility, contrary to fact.

Most of her things have already been sent ahead, several trunks and boxes, years of accumulation, sorted with her friend Marion's help, down to the essentials. She is taking only her suitcase and the trunk of her mother's papers and poems carried down just now by the school grounds crew to the waiting car. To think that only a few months ago, she was consulting those poems for signs! She smiles at the easy gimmick she thought would resolve the big question in her life. Now, playfully, she imagines the many lives she has lived as captioned by the title of one or another of her mother's poems. How should this new life be titled? "Faith in the Future"? "The Arrival of Winter"? or (why not?) "Love and Yearning"?

The horn honks again. It will probably be titled "Ruins" if she doesn't get downstairs soon! Marion is impatient to go, red-faced and swearing, jerking the steering wheel as she turns the car around. "Lady driver," one of the men mutters under his breath.

Marion and Les, her new husband, have flown up to help with the move. (Marion's companion of ten years finally proposed marriage.) Now the two best friends will head down to Florida in a rental car. Les has already been deposited (Marion's verb) in New Hampshire at his daughter's door, so that Marion and Camila can have this last trip together. All the way down to Baltimore and Jacksonville and on to Key West and her ferry to Havana, Marion will try talking her out of her plans.

"Everyone who is anyone is getting out."

"Well then, I'll have no problem. 'I'm Nobody--Who are you?'" She loves to quote Miss Dickinson, whose home she once visited, whose fierce talent reminds her of her own mother's. Emily Dickinson is to the United States of America as Salome Urena is to the Dominican Republic--something like that. One of her nieces--is it Lupe?--loves those analogies in the game books Camila takes them when she goes to visit. But she herself always feels nervous when she is asked to put things exactly where they belong. Look at my life, she thinks, hither and yon, hither and yon.

But now--"Shall we have a drumroll, shall we blow the trumpet, and pipe a ditty on the flute?" Marion teases--she is heading home, or as close to home as she can get. Trujillo has made her own country an impossible choice. Perhaps it will all turn out well, perhaps, perhaps.

"You are not nobody, Camila," her friend scolds. "Don't be modest now!" Marion loves to brag. She is from the midwestern part of the country, and so she is easily impressed by somebodies, especially when they come from either coast or from foreign countries. ("Camila's mother was a famous poet." "Her father was president." "Her brother was the Norton Lecturer at Harvard.") Perhaps Marion thinks that such reflected importance will stem the tide of prejudice that often falls on the foreign and colored in this country. She should know better. How can Marion forget the cross burning on her front lawn that long ago summer Camila visited the Reed family in North Dakota?

"You need a hand with anything else, Miss Henry?" one of the burly janitorial crew calls up. Her name is HenrIquez ("accent on the i"), she has told them more than once, and they have repeated her name slowly, but the next time she requires their assistance, they have forgotten. Miss Henry, Miss Henriette.

Beyond them on College Street, in their pastel shirtwaist dresses, a group of young graduates hurries by on the way to some last gathering. They look like blossoms released from their stems.

One of them turns suddenly, a hand at her brow, shielding her eyes from the sun, a flag of red hair. "Hasta luego, Profesora," she calls out to the flashing attic windows.

She couldn't possibly see me, the professor is thinking. I am already gone from this place.

Before she leaves, she makes the sign of the cross--an old habit she has not been able to shake since her mother's death sixty-three years ago.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of my mother, SalomE.

Her aunt Ramona, her mother's only sister, taught her to do this. Dear old Mon, round and brown with a knot of black hair on top of her head, a Dominican Buddha but with none of the bodhisattva's calm. Mon was more superstitious than religious and more cranky than anything else. Back then, it was a habit to kiss each parent's hand and ask their blessing before leaving the house. La bendición, Mamá. La bendición, Papá.

(The American girls made faces in class when she told them about this old tradition. "What a drag," the plump, freckled girl from Cooperstown said, lifting one corner of her mouth as if the old-world practice had a bad smell.)

When her mother died, Mon thought up this way for her to ask for SalomE's blessing. To summon strength from a fading memory that every year became less and less real until all that was left of her mother was the story of her mother.

Sometimes the phrase is part prayer, part curse--as now when she hears the loud, rude honk from down below and mutters it under her breath. Marion will be the death of Dot yet. The two sisters have always been kind to their quiet upstairs neighbor, that condescending kindness of natives toward foreigners who are not frightening. Dot knits her awful matching accessories every winter that she must wear once in a while to show her appreciation.

Another loud honk, then the call, "Hey Cam! Did you have a coronary up there or what?" She peers down from the back window and waves to her friend that she will be right down. Marion stands beside her rental car, a Caribe turquoise Oldsmobile. They have debated the color. (She is from the Caribbean, and she has never seen that color blue, she argues. But the manual Marion whipped out from the glove compartment did say Caribe turquoise.) With her hands at her hips, her baggy trousers, and paisley scarf tied around her neck (can she really be from North Dakota?), Marion could be the drama coach at the college, barking at the girls up on the stage. Years of teaching physical education have kept Marion fit and trim, and her hardy midwestern genes have done the rest. She is warm-hearted and showy, kicking up a storm wherever she goes. "Are you Spanish, too?" people often ask, and with her dark hair and bright eyes Marion could pass, though her skin is so pale that Camila's father often worried that she might be anemic or consumptive.

They have lived through so much, some of which is best left buried in the past, especially now that Marion is a respectable married lady. ("I don't know about the respectable," Marion laughs.) In her politics, however, Marion is as conservative as her recently acquired husband, Lesley Richards III, whose perennial tan gives him a shellacked look, as if he were being preserved for posterity. He is rich and alcoholic and riddled with ailments.

She should not think so unkindly.

By the door hangs the chart her student helper drew up when they were sorting through the family trunks. Camila found the scrap of paper when she was cleaning up, no doubt inadvertently left behind. She was so amused by this young girl's vision of her life, she tacked it up on her bulletin board. She considers taking it down, then decides to leave this curious memento for the next tenant to ponder.

The car honks again, another shout of summons.

It will be a long ride to Florida. She has measured the route on the large atlas at the library using her fingers to figure out the distance. Each finger a day on the road. Five fingers, a handful, with Marion singing old campfire songs and driving too fast, especially with SalomE's trunk tied to the roof of the car. On the passenger's side, Camila clutches the arm loop by the door and hopes that that they don't run into a rainstorm, hopes and prays that Marion will not try to talk her out of her decision by reminding her that she is sixty-six, alone, and should be thinking about her pension, should be thinking about her future, should be thinking about moving into a comfy bungalow just down the road from Marion, at least until things settle down at home in those hot-tempered little islands.

"In the name of my mother, SalomE," she says to herself again. She needs all the help she can get here at the end of her life in the United States.

Somewhere past Trenton, New Jersey, to keep her restless friend from further distractions ("Light me a cigarette, will you?" "Any more of those chips left?" "I sure could use a soda!"), she offers: "Shall I tell you why I have decided to go back?" Marion has been pestering Camila ever since she arrived a few days ago to help her friend pack. "But why? Why? That's what I want to know. What do you hope to accomplish with a bunch of ill-mannered, unshaven, unwashed guerrillas running a country?"

Purposely, she believes, Marion mispronounces the word so it sounds like gorillas. "Guerrillas," Camila corrects, rattling the r's.

She has been afraid she will sound foolish if she explains how just once before her life is over, she would like to give herself completely to something--yes, like her mother. Friends would worry that she had lost her wits, too much sugar in her blood, her cataracts blurring all levels of her vision. And Marion's disapproval would be the worst of all, for she would not only disagree with Camila's choice, she would try to save her.

Marion has turned to face her. Briefly, the car weaves into the left lane. A honk from an oncoming car startles Marion, and she pulls back over just in time.

Camila takes a deep breath. Perhaps the future will be over sooner than she thinks.

"I'm all ears," Marion says when they have both recovered.

Camila's heart is still beating wildly--one of those bats that sometimes gets trapped in her attic apartment so that she has to call the grounds crew to come get it out. "I have to go back a ways," she explains. "I have to start with SalomE."

"Can I confess something?" Marion asks, not a real question, as she does not wait for Camila to answer back. "Please don't get your feelings hurt, but I honestly don't think I would ever have heard of your mother unless I had met you."

She's not surprised. Americans don't interest themselves in the heroes and heroines of minor countries until someone makes a movie about them.

Up ahead a man on a billboard is smoking a cigarette; behind him a herd of cattle waits until he finishes it.

"So, what's the story?" Marion wants to know.

"As I said, I'll have to start with my mother, which means at the birth of la patria, since they were both born about the same time." Her voice sounds strangely her own and not her own. All those years in the classroom. Her half brother Rodolfo calls it her teacher's handicap, how she vanishes into whatever she's teaching. She's done it all her life. Long before she stepped into a classroom, she indulged this habit of erasing herself, of turning herself into the third person, a minor character, the best friend (or daughter!) of the dying first-person hero or heroine. Her mission in life--

after the curtain falls--to tell the story of the great ones who have passed on.

But Marion is not going to indulge her. Camila has not gotten past the first few years of SalomE's life and the wars of independence when her friend interrupts. "I thought you were finally going to talk about yourself, Camila."

"I am talking about myself," she says--and waits until they have passed a large moving van, a sailing ship afloat on its aluminum sides--before she begins again.

Use of this excerpt from IN THE NAME OF SALOM. may be made only for purposes of promoting the book, with no changes, editing, or additions whatsoever, and must be accompanied by the following copyright notice:

Copyright c 2000 by Julia Alvarez. All rights reserved.

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Sort by: Showing all of 10 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 15, 2009

    In The Name Of Salome

    In the Name of Salome is a touching story that describes a group of characters living in the Dominican Republic. This novel mostly follows the Henriquez and Urena families. The Major characters are Salome Urena; her parents, Gregoira and Nicolas; her sister Romana, Salomes only daughter,Camila, and her aunt Ana. Throughout this powerful novel we also meet Salomes husband, a powerful political leader of the Dominican Republic, Francisco Henriquez, otherwise known for his pen name Pancho or Papancho.
    In the Name of Salome is a powerful and emotional book that tells the story of a mother and daughter. Camila never knew Salome. Each chapter changes from Camila narrating to Salome. Camilas story is tolled in reverseso it startsas her being a collage professor.
    In the summer of 1960, Camila Henriquez Urena, daughter of Salome Urena, the nineteenth- century revolutionary Dominican poet, travels to Cuba to join the Fidel Castros revolution from Poughkeepsie. Camila wants to discover and find out who her mother really was and what she exactly wrote and created. Camila begins to fill her mothers shoes and becomes a political and poetic writer. Being a women writer during this time was very difficult thing to do and also to have a political opinion. In the Name of Salome combines fiction and reality with the real historic women, Salome, and her life.
    I enjoyed reading this book and will continue to read Julia Alvarezs' books such as How the Garcia Girls lost Their Accents and Before We Were Free. Julia is a creative and brilliant writer who painted the picture of Salomes life in my head. I enjoyed and loved this book.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted August 12, 2001

    Another Julia Alvarez success!

    After reading earlier works by Julia Alvarez, I looked forward to reading this one. I was not disappointed. Alvarez is right up there with Isabel Allende among contemporary Latin American writers. This novel captures the heart of two women who fought for their countries in one way or another. I look forward to reading Alvarez's future works.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 31, 2001

    Que alegria

    I always look forward to anything Julia Alvarez writes. This book brought back so many beautiful memories. I did not attend Colegio de Senoritas de Salome Urena, but my mother did. Julia alwys brings me back home with her wrtings. It is such an honor to read her books. I await desperately your next gem !!!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 6, 2000

    In the name of Julia!

    Once again, Julia Alvarez has written a spellbinding novel about historical figures from the Dominican Republic. Being of Dominican descendants myself, I always look for her wonderful books to take me back to the island in which I hold dear to my heart. I went to her book reading for this novel in D.C., and when she read a part from the book in which Salome meets her father for the first time, I sat in the audience and cried. It was so moving, I got goosebumps. This book gave me a valuable history lesson on Salome Urena and her daughter as well as interesting facts about the Dominican and Cuban government. Even though her book is fiction based on reality, you can always tell what parts are true historical events, and it makes the book all the more delightful. Julia YOU are the true musa de la patria of this millenium. Maybe in 100 years some brilliant author will tell your story and your wonderful contributions to literature? I've read all of Julia's works and have never been disappointed. Read this book, along with her others and you will see what I mean.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 22, 2000

    Talent and Hipocrisy

    Camila's life as a professor of spanish for upper-middle class kids is, according to the picture Alvarez draws, somehow less of a life than the 13 years Camila spends in Cuba. But what about Julia Alvarez? Isn't she a professor for upper middle class kids? No. She's more than that. She's someone who's bought into her own mythology of latin american revolutions as a 'more real' reality than that of America. Alvarez understands latin american reality through the same terms as any ordinary American; much like a flaky western youth looks on India as a land of spiritual values deeper than those of the west. But Alvarez happens to have a latin-american last name, and that, apparently, grants her works some authenticity.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 24, 2000

    Historical

    Finally !!!!! Julia Alvarez has embraced us with yet another masterpiece. Te felicito Quisqueyana !!!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 4, 2009

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    Posted October 29, 2008

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 23, 2009

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 17, 2009

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