Tomás González - a dramatic and searingly ironic account of the disastrous encounter of intellectual struggle with reality - a satire of hippyism, ecological fantasies, and of the very idea that man can control fate

Tomás González, In the Beginning Was the Sea. Trans. by Frank Wynne, Pushkin Press, 2015.




The young intellectuals J. and Elena leave behind their comfortable lives, the parties and the money in Medellín to settle down on a remote island. Their plan is to lead the Good Life, self-sufficient and close to nature. But from the very start, each day brings small defeats and imperceptible dramas, which gradually turn paradise into hell, as their surroundings inexorably claim back every inch of the 'civilisation' they brought with them. Based on a true story, In the Beginning Was the Sea is a dramatic and searingly ironic account of the disastrous encounter of intellectual struggle with reality - a satire of hippyism, ecological fantasies, and of the very idea that man can control fate.
Pushkin Collection editions feature a spare, elegant series style and superior, durable components. The Collection is typeset in Monotype Baskerville, litho-printed on Munken Premium White Paper and notch-bound by the independently owned printer TJ International in Padstow. The covers, with French flaps, are printed on Colorplan Pristine White Paper. Both paper and cover board are acid-free and Forest Stewardship Council (FSC) certified.


"Eight years ago, González was branded 'the best-kept secret of Colombian literature' . . . He has since become one of his country's foremost novelists, and In the Beginning Was the Sea – this taut, uncompromising study of the faultlines in all of us – is earning a wide readership. Perhaps it's time to call him something else." — The Guardian

"Gonzalez poetically and comically captures the inevitable destruction of those who live in a world of fantasy and hubris, depicting beauty and despair by turns." — Publishers Weekly


"What makes the characters so recognizable, so uncomfortable and so relevant, particularly in today's hipster-dominated culture, is how their intent to live consciously is thwarted by an utter lack of self-awareness. . . The strength of description, and the menacing tone that runs beneath 'In the Beginning Was the Sea,' however, are ultimately what give the slim novel its haunting power." — The Chicago Tribune



"González impresses with his enactment of initial dream and subsequent nightmare. His tropical idyll is expertly depicted through a succession of richly conveyed sights and sounds… Based on a true story, 'In the Beginning Was the Sea' is a gripping cautionary tale about how hard, cruel reality sooner or later impinges upon our seemingly imperishable fantasies. It is González’s first book to be published in English. If this is a measure of what he is capable of, with luck there will be many more." — The Star Tribune



"Aided by a devastatingly evocative translation from Frank Wynne and armed with the skill of a master storyteller, over the course of 200 some odd pages Gonzalez constructs a chilling, brilliantly plotted tale . . . From the very beginning the author, and his translator, transport the reader into a scintillating, unsettling dreamlike world where every sentence comes to life in vibrant detail." — Typographical Era



"[T]he novel leaves its mark… the arresting prose and complex characters shine." — Kirkus Reviews



"Colombian novelist González tells a common story with uncommon economy […] For readers following J's fantasies and hopes, it is impossible not to think of Kafka's K […] González’s work has been translated into six languages, but this is his first book to appear in English, an auspicious beginning." — Booklist

In the Beginning Was the Sea is not a usual first novel. For one thing, it was published by a nightclub (where its author worked as a barman). The year was 1983. Since then, González, born in 1950, has published six other novels, and here is the next unusual fact about his first one: everything is already there. Most writers take a few years, even a few decades, to discover a voice and settle into it, to master the intricacies of structure and imagery that will allow them best to give literary shape to their obsessions; but González's last two novels, La luz difícil and Tempestad –both hailed as quiet masterpieces at the time of their publication in Colombia – provide as much literary satisfaction as In the Beginning Was the Sea. Through all his work you find the peaceful writing that admirably traces the ugliness of the world; the confidence of the narrative voice, seemingly conventional while eschewing the straitjackets of realism; and the all-pervading violence that informs every situation and eventually explodes.

Elena and J., a couple in their 30s, travel from Medellín, the big provincial capital in the Andes, to the Caribbean coast of Colombia. They have bought a run-down house surrounded by the sea, but also by local poverty and vast unproductive estates. The plan, at the beginning, is quite straightforward: to escape urban life, its crass materialism, its pretence and snobbery, "to move out to the sea and enjoy life, buy a little boat for fishing, a few cows, a few chickens". Needless to say, things don't work out like that.
There are rules in the new world that Elena and J. don't understand; there are underlying tensions that sour their relationship; and then there is something we can only call hubris. J. is that overly familiar character, an intellectual looking for real life and finding that real life was not, strictly speaking, looking for him; Elena is a strong-willed, practical-minded woman who doesn't have time for compromise, or idealism, or understanding others. Yes, personal reinvention is a dangerous game, and the reader soon discovers – through a narrator who knows more than his characters do and enjoys spoilers – that the whole project will eventually end in outright failure.
In the Beginning Was the Sea is, among other things, the chronicle of that failure foretold. In shape, it is tragic: exactly halfway through the novel González gives voice to an acquaintance of Elena and J.'s who speaks from the future, from a moment when everything has already happened. He has harsh words about J. and "the whole highbrow-anarcho-lefty businessman bullshit, that mixture of colonial, bohemian and hippie". Mercilessly, he concludes: "It's astonishing he reached the age of thirty-four." We realise then that many hints of the outcome have been dropped from the very first pages of the novel; we realise, too, that González cares little for suspense: he wants us to read with the outcome in mind, so that we can pay attention to the process of decomposition, to the minute choices the characters make. All of which, in light of what will eventually happen, takes on a new significance.

González is a keen reader of the literature of the American south: Carson McCullers is here, and so is the tragic vision of Flannery O'Connor, as well as her love of foreshadowing. But he is also in debt to his Latin American forefathers. In his fondness for squalor and defeat, the reader will find echoes of Juan Carlos Onetti; in his spare but evocative prose we sense the presence, at the same time predictable and entirely surprising, of the early works of Gabriel García Márquez. Stories such as "There Are No Thieves in This Town" or the 1962 novel In Evil Hour reverberate in González's prose, in his mysterious ability to uplift the commonplace and turn it into unforgettable images through careful observation and sensuous detail. I will never forget the sound of the claws tinkling against the tin as crab stew is being cooked; or how Elena, in a moment of anger, hurls a book "which fluttered across the shop like a crazed chicken". When a character walks on mud, González takes the time to notice "the sucking sound" his feet make. Translator Frank Wynne, who has recently published a wonderful rendition of González's Colombian contemporary Andrés Caicedo, is responsible for yet another flawless job: his ear is well attuned to the idiosyncrasies of González's dialogue, and the novel's shy poetry loses nothing in his version.

Eight years ago, González was branded "the best-kept secret of Colombian literature" by a literary magazine. He has since become one of his country's foremost novelists, and In the Beginning Was the Sea – this taut, uncompromising study of the faultlines in all of us – is earning a wide readership. Perhaps it's time to call him something else. - Juan Gabriel Vásquez
The Colombian novelist Tomás González is taken pretty seriously by Spanish-reading audiences. His peripatetic existence – as a barman in Bogota, a translator in New York and Miami – has resulted in seven novels, two story collections and a volume of poetry that have admirers like Elfriede Jelinek describing him as "a classic of Latin American literature", with others whispering about Nobel prizes.

In the Beginning Was the Sea is González's debut, which has taken over 30 years to arrive in English translation. The story behind this odd, rather haunting book is almost as intriguing as the one contained within. In the mid-1970s, González's brother Juan and his girlfriend swapped a life of intellectual partying for an emotionally and environmentally sustainable life on a remote island. Their hippy idealism – or hippy naivety – ended in disaster: Juan was murdered by a man he had hired to manage their finca (estate).
In the fictional recasting, Juan becomes J, an aimless dreamer with a fondness for big ideas, bad art, hot women and, when all else fails, staring at the ocean. His girlfriend is the fearsome Elena, who teases the locals with her bikini-clad lissomness before terrifying them with her simmering temper. The narrative shape is that of a paradise quickly gained and easily lost. J and Elena's innocence is captured in the title which is itself drawn from Kogi cosmology. This lyrical but vague philosophy is present in a story that is heavy on fate and light on context for J and Elena's escapism. The resulting mood is hallucinatory. Events wriggle and slip from J's booze-weakened grasp almost without his agency. He is swindled out of his money. His cattle die as quickly as they are born. Even a principled stance not to touch a tree on his land is jettisoned by financial necessity.
For González, J and Elena's disintegration flows from their betrayal of fundamental human and natural laws: treating people and places with indifference or contempt. The tragic consequences that follow this transgression seem inexorable enough to feel pre-destined – perhaps because González knew only too well how doomed this tilt at windmills had already proved. He is even better at creating ominous atmospheres. A tour de force description of the rainy season and the lassitude it engenders in J is extraordinarily evocative and wonderfully rendered by translator Frank Wynne. Nature proves to be perpetually glorious and terrifying. J is enraptured by an unmoving iguana, only to realise later that it was already dead. He salivates over a crab stew, but hears "claws tinkling against the tin".
It feels slightly strange to judge González by this short first novel rendered into a foreign tongue. While their descent into failure is never less than gripping, neither J nor Elena prove especially likeable or sympathetic. This may well be a bold critique of their microcosmic act of colonisation, their disregard for people, lives and ideas bigger than themselves, but it does make you tire of their moodiness, discourtesy and ineffectiveness.
Nevertheless, the simple, incantatory power of the prose suggests that González may well be the talent many are claiming him to be – one ready to fill the void left by the death of Gabriel Garcia Márquez. This small novel asks big questions without providing simple answers. Or, as J puts it: "Everything is so fucking difficult and so fucking beautiful." - James Kidd

The small publisher Pushkin Press has a strong record of unearthing foreign gems that haven’t yet made it into English. Its latest offering is a 1983 debut novel from a Colombian writer, Tomás González, who imagines the last days of his brother, Juan, or J, who in 1977 was shot dead on a farm in the north of the country.

As a memorial, it’s strikingly unsentimental, with little by way of lament.

J is a young hippy leaving his home city of Medellín for a simpler life on the coast with his lover Elena. The atmospheric opening chapters evoke the scruffiness of their trek by bus and boat, as they eat fried fish from roadside stalls and drink cheap spirits in bars “that smelt like urinals where pot-bellied men sat steeping their endless entrails in the golden glow of beer”.

J’s plan to live off the fat of the land leads him rashly to buy up two farms. He drinks too much; he and Elena run out of money and fight. Disobedient workers compel him to employ a manager, Octavio, who proves his final undoing.

González writes from J’s point of view but also stands above the action, announcing what lies in store for J and judging his “inchoate and confused revolt against culture” with all the scepticism one might expect from an older sibling.

In the middle of the novel there’s an excerpt from a letter written by J’s brother – let’s call him T – which establishes their mutual affection while revealing a rift that opened up between them when “he accused me of becoming pretentious after I moved to Bogotá” (where, as the novel’s author blurb states, González studied philosophy).

González was 26 when the real Juan died. At the time he was trying to make his way as a writer and he has been candid in interviews about his use of the killing as a means to fulfil his literary aspirations. “I studied it coldly,” he has said, “as a craftsman might study a fallen tree and calculate the size and shape of the canoe that might be made from it.”

J, as an arrogant meddler out of his depth, comes across like a figure out of Joseph Conrad. Now and then you wonder if González’s tone would be less ominous or lordly had he let in a little more emotion. “They were surprisingly happy days. Among the last happy days they would spend together,” runs a fairly typical line. Even so, this is a sad story, well told, and it reads smoothly in Frank Wynne’s lively translation.

Not exactly a novel to enjoy, but it is certainly one that lingers. - Anthony Cummins

When the fatal blow falls, at the end of Frank Wynne’s long-awaited translation of this modern Colombian classic, the still-conscious victim at least learns why: “That’ll teach you,” the killer says, “to humiliate poor people.”
No need to flag up a spoiler alert. In time-honoured South American literary tradition, Tomás González’s 1983 novel advises readers by page 34 that there is a death on the cards. Appropriately enough, the tale itself is dispatched as a writerly coup de grâce: short and swift, with sharp imagery, menace and sensuality nestling together in its luxuriant Caribbean setting.

In the three decades between the publication of In the Beginning Was the Sea and the arrival of this first English translation, a whole generation of new Colombian writers has grown up amid the shots and machete blows of the terrifying 1980s and 1990s. The awarding of this year’s Impac Dublin prize to Juan Gabriel Vásquez, for his novel The Sound of Things Falling , is another cultural fillip for a now-buoyant Colombia. Even so, from the first pages of that recent novel, we know there will be a violent death. Gabriel García Márquez’s 1981 Chronicle of a Death Foretold certainly casts long shadows.

Now in his sixties, exactly between García Márquez and the new Vásquez generation, Tomás González spent many years living in the US. A laconic American style has edged into his story of “J” and Elena, a thirty-something couple jaded by their boho life in mid-1970s Medellín. Moving into the farmhouse they have just bought on Colombia’s Atlantic coast, they sometimes seem a sourer version of the doomed pair in Paul Bowles’ novel The Sheltering Sky (1949).

Elena, her youth and beauty shading into shrewishness, soon reveals a dependence on, and contempt for, the farm servants that can only bode ill. More conciliatory, and likeable, is “J”. On seeing the sea, he felt a “brightness blossom in his belly”, an effect he likewise seeks in knocking back bottles of aguardiente. His new life under way, the daily booze intake grows in direct proportion to mounting debts, feckless labourers, endless rain, drunken fights with Elena, and the ever-nearing encounter with the ominous estate manager, Octavio, who seems to have emerged “out of the ground like a crab”.
Ending with the words of the primal cosmology of the indigenous Kogi people – from which its title is also taken – In the Beginning Was the Sea is both a story about death and about practical objects. Nets, tools and coffins are exactly described. González delights in the precise details of the present moment, from a boat engine starting up “solemnly”, to the smear of milk of magnesia on an old man’s thigh.
The depth and verisimilitude of the character of “J” is perhaps not unrelated to the fact that the story is based on one of González’s own siblings. The portrait of a man in so much debt that he must hire woodcutters to deforest his paradise, and whose counter-cultural pretensions do not preclude him from cracking the whip among his staff, seems as arrestingly topical now as it must have been in 1983.
For all its exoticism, a novel that probes how hippydom is often built on the labours of the poor may well cause its new European readers more than a few twinges of conscience. - Julius Purcell


In the Beginning Was the Sea is the first novel written by Colombian author Tomas Gonzalez. It was written over 30 years ago but the work has only just been translated into English. It tells the story of J. and Elena, two intellectuals who have grown sick of their life of endless parties and highbrow conversations and have decided to move away from the mainland to set up a new life that focuses on nature and the purity of hard work and the elements. They bicker and alienate the locals, and neither of them is prepared for the brutal weather and the microscope that such surroundings put on their less-than-perfect relationship.
Firstly, a word of warning to anyone picking up this book – the main characters are not likeable. They are vain and ungrateful and often unkind. J. is a man who has idealised what life will be like on his remote island with his beautiful, 'copper-skinned' wife and their quaint island shop, and he is bitterly disappointed with the reality. He drinks so much that there is barely anything else to his personality by the end of the novel. Elena, in turn, is beautiful and temperamental and mean. That’s not to say that they aren't compelling characters – they are. Their motivation isn't always clear and their intent is sometimes less than honourable, but they are complex and intriguing.
To begin with, I was not sure about the effectiveness of the translation from the Spanish – the story and the characters initially felt flat and almost lifeless. However, it soon became clear that the words have been chosen with the utmost care to produce the thick, suffocating atmosphere and to convey the starkness of the relationship between J. and Elena and the life they're living. Through the sparse language and the handpicked metaphors, the exotic island that J. and Elena inhabit and the realities of mainland South America come to life.
There are many words I could use to describe this book but I think the one that sums it up most accurately is ‘minimal’. The novel is only 172 pages long which, given the story it tells, is very short. Even the book itself, with its beautiful moonlit cover, is physically small and compact. The descriptions are razor-sharp and the story moves from one emotional turmoil to the next using the least amount of words possible. There is nothing in this book that could be described or flowery or excessive. It is lean and severe but still ultimately artistic. The writing reflects the mood of the book, it doesn't just create it. While that doesn't necessarily make for the most satisfying or enjoyable read, the story lingers with you once you've finished the book; even with its not-very-nice main characters. The more I thought about it once I'd finished reading, the more I thought the translator, Frank Wynne, had done an incredible job.
The novel takes on yet another dimension when you know that the author's brother's life was the inspiration for the novel - J.’s story is Gonzalez' brother Juan's story. And it's not a happy one. - Nikki Thompson

"In the Beginning Was the Sea", debut novel by Colombian novelist Tomas Gonzales was originally published in 1983 under the title "Primero estaba el mar". The story goes that Gonzales wrote his novel while working as a barman in Bogota nightclub and that its owner published it. Straight from the start it was a huge success because it transpired that, similarly to another great Colombian writer, Gonzales was able to evoke the most powerful emotions just by using words. Therefore it was with great anticipation that I awaited this latest Pushkin Press translation and “In the Beginning Was the Sea” didn't disappoint even though it wasn't exactly what I expected it to be. In Frank Wynne's wonderful translation Gonzales' horrific version of life on a remote island came to life impeccably.

Based on a true story, "In the Beginning Was the Sea" follows the lives of J. and Elena, young intellectuals who decide to leave behind their ordinary lives filled with parties to try something new. Moving to a remote island, J. and Elena have an idea to lead self-sufficient and naturalistic existence. They're so smitten by this Utopian idea that they enter the whole project completely unprepared. Only a few days in, the doubts set in and each day reveals new troubles. Soon the idea of paradise reveals itself for what it really is. Just a vapor dream.

It is at this point that Gonzales' writing skill comes to the front as their very lives are slowly unraveled up to a point when their ingrained experiences are all but gone. In a brilliantly executed turn of events, J. and Elena themselves are becoming one with nature and quickly forgetting all the values learned while being part of the civilization. They're effectively reverting and behaving like savages.

I absolutely loved beautifully sparse descriptions which somehow always show more than they really tell but "In the Beginning Was the Sea" is as good as it is because Gonzales manages perfectly capture the idea of isolation that surrounds our couple. The island serves both as an instrument and as means of pushing the point across and as I turned more and more pages the sense of dread and looming catastrophe was palpable. With a masterful eye for detail, Gonzales teases the reader with what coming only to move away again and again. And the pages go on... This symphony of dread will repeat many times over the course of the book and while I wasn't overtly sympathetic with any of the characters, I needed to go with the flow despite suspecting how it will all end.

"In the Beginning Was the Sea" is a fascinatingly dark character study. It is an unflinching, and pitch perfect trip into the dark heart of Colombia and hippy culture in general. It is above all a powerful debut and it'll be interesting finding out where Tomas Gonzales next.

Not to forget: I never get tired of saying how stunning Pushkin Press publications are and "In the Beginning Was the Sea" is not different. With their famous French flaps and beautiful illustration by Robert Frank Hunter, it is a thing of beauty. - http://upcoming4.me/news/book-news/review-in-the-beginning-was-the-sea-by-tomas-gonzalez

It has been a while since we had a truly captivating trouble-in-paradise novel. Finally one comes along, courtesy of Colombian author Tomás González.

Originally written and published in Spanish more than 30 years ago and finally translated into English by the ever-dependable Frank Wynne, “In the Beginning Was the Sea” tells of how a couple trade the big smoke of Medellín for a quiet coastal retreat, only to find over time that their promised land is a far cry from what they imagined.

All starts off relatively well. Young intellectuals J. and Elena buy their finca (ranch) and renovate the ramshackle house into a habitable mansion. They befriend and utilize the help of the locals: odd-job-man Gilberto, boatman Julito and fisherman Salomón. An easy, less frenetic lifestyle in the sun seems attainable.

But clouds gather when J. is plagued by financial woes and Elena grows bored and fractious with the villagers, the seclusion and “the hateful roar of the sea.” Their various enterprises — running a shop, a lumber business, a cattle farm — are beset by difficulties in getting underway that harden into lasting problems. Eventually, J. becomes prone to alcohol-fueled bouts of violence, irrationality and self-pity, which in turn forces Elena to take drastic measures to save her own sanity.

González impresses with his enactment of initial dream and subsequent nightmare. His tropical idyll is expertly depicted through a succession of richly conveyed sights and sounds — and also smells. One whole page is infused with one scent after another: “The musky, resinous smell of crabs, dead and still raw. … The lunchtime smell of fried fish, fried plantains, the heavy scent of coconut rice. … The smell of freshly opened books — the pages bloating and buckling in the humid heat, spines falling apart from the salt breeze.”

Early into the novel, González jolts us by mentioning a bedroom where “later still, the corpse would be bathed.” Baffled but forewarned, we read on, only to discover shortly afterward another, more specific portent of death: “The rains came and so began the first of the two winters J. would spend on the finca; the first of his last two winters on Earth.”

Readers who favor surprises may write off these glimpses into the future as spoilers. The rest of us will realize that González’s scattered premonitions of dread have a propulsive effect that changes the whole tone and shade of the proceedings and keep us hooked and intrigued as to the nature of his characters’ fates.

Based on a true story, “In the Beginning Was the Sea” is a gripping cautionary tale about how hard, cruel reality sooner or later impinges upon our seemingly imperishable fantasies. It is González’s first book to be published in English. If this is a measure of what he is capable of, with luck there will be many more. - Malcolm Forbes

A couple decide to make a stand, reject the idle life lived by their fellow intellectuals and instead commit themselves to nature, on a secluded finca, or estate, in coastal Colombia. Austere and determined, they appear, at least initially, to be a righteous pair; he, known as J, with his books, and she, Elena, who is bringing her Singer sewing machine. The journey there is tough, and endless, in hot, dusty conditions, complete with other passengers, some of whom are carrying “bewildered chickens”.

The opening pages of this odd and smoothly intriguing narrative, with its touches of sinister, Patricia Highsmith-like menace, read as if written for the screen. The book itself has a story. Written in the early 1980s, it was Colombian writer Tomás González’s first novel and it was published in 1983 by the owner of the Bogotá nightclub in which González was then working. Now, just over 30 years later, it appears for the first time in English, in a brilliantly laconic, sophisticated translation by Sligo-born, London-based Frank Wynne who, ever alert to every surreal nuance, conveys the disturbing humour with the panache of a master.

Early in the story González makes inspired use of an old sewing machine. Referring to it as the sole relic of Elena’s first marriage, he writes that it had spent almost 20 hours strapped to the roof of the bus. Elena cautions the youth who is about to unload it. “The wooden case that housed the mechanism was wrapped with cardboard boxes held in place with packing tape and twine: the feet and pedal were exposed.”

What comes next is only to be expected. “It tumbled to the ground with a dull clatter.” Elena’s outraged reaction is the first of many that will dominate a fast moving narrative that tends to focus upon the nastier aspects of human behaviour, particularly hers. After unleashing “a torrent of hurried, confused abuse” she then composes herself, “choosing her insults with silky venom.” The boy remains unperturbed: “It ain’t my fault,” he shrugs.

Elena storms into the shipping office to make a complaint, informing the man in charge that the company is rubbish. He merely agrees.

It is a clever book, shrouded in irony. González gives away little and does not believe in larding the text with description; his use of detail is minimal, if invariably telling. Although it is obvious that Elena is beautiful, what is even more apparent is her vicious temper. She emerges as angry and possibly unstable. Her aggression is indiscriminate and it provides the narrative with a striking dynamic. It is as if everyone, the reader as well as the locals and J, who appears far more passive if equally unhinged, tensely await her next outburst.

If the pair are intended to be intellectuals, it may be that González is having fun.

There is little to suggest they are revolutionary or subversive, aside from J’s earlier decision transform his previous apartment into “a gallery of bad art”, discarding art posters – “reproductions of Modigliani, Picasso and Klee” – and replacing them with substandard, though original, efforts. These include a landscape painted by Elena’s brother, depicting “a sunset over the Andes as seen from his prison cell in Ladera”. Nor do the lovers engage in conversations that could be described as satiric versions of intellectually pretentious exchanges. The scant dialogue that passes between them is curt and strained; much of it about money and Elena’s dislike of everyone, once she has succeeded in killing the insect-life infesting the old house: “Keep spraying the place with poison,” says J, “and we’ll all wind up thrashing on our backs like roaches.”

Before long, González, having described Elena’s Trojan efforts at cleaning, mentions the second bedroom, for no apparent reason it seems, only to then add “where they would later open up the shop and where later still, the corpse would be bathed . . .”

It seems quite daring, but is in fact even more cunning. Someone is going to die, or be killed, and judging by Elena’s temper she seems a likely culprit. Yet González takes a further risk by revealing of one of the central characters: “The rains came and so began the first of the two winters . . . the first of his last two winters on earth.”

One of the funniest elements is the developing rapport between J, who takes to wearing shorts and sandals, and seems to be never that far away from complete drunkenness, and his workman, Gilberto, a slapdash but tolerant individual, wary of Elena but prepared to work for J. The men commiserate with each other in the face of Elena’s rages. Also involved in helping the newcomers is Gilberto’s untidy consort, Mercedes, who has just had a baby and waddles about, endlessly nursing the infant, much to Elena’s disgust.

Elena is a bully, and however extreme her reactions – right up to ultimately searching the entire village for her missing ring – she is terrifyingly convincing. J is more shadowy and vague. He is lazy, given to moments of satisfied self-regard. The relationship between them is also believable as it undulates between mounting hostility and moments of passion, which even at its most intense appears to be more about mutual comfort than love. This despite the fact that the first task with which Gilberto is entrusted is the making of a giant bed.

The land itself is a tyrant, either as hard as iron or a festering quagmire rotting in stagnant dampness. When J discovers that his investments have been mismanaged, and that the cattle he has purchased are mostly diseased, he realises that his only hope of survival lies in selling the timber. Much as he hates cutting down trees, he hires a team of timber workers. By then J has also opened a shop, but the locals tend to buy only on credit. More problems for a venture best described as doomed.

Admittedly, it is impossible to feel any sympathy for J and Elena. Not that González is looking for any for them. A moment of unexpected empathy comes when J, having purchased a magnificent stud bull, stands gazing at the beast which is described as being “meek, tall as a cathedral, patriarchal, a sturdy and baroque structure festooned with folds and cascading muscles. In the paddock, it looked spectacular.”

By this point in the novel J appears to have become quasidelusional; he decides dreamily that the bull is a miracle of nature. The increasingly paranoid Elena, who accuses the locals of staring at her and orders a wire fence to be erected around the beach where she swims, is more pragmatic, dismissing the animal as a “complete waste of money”.

The 2004 Nobel Literature Laureate, Austrian Elfriede Jelinek, is quoted on the cover hailing González as “a very pure writer”. It may seem peculiar considering the violent content, yet this is very much a writer’s work of which Nabokov would have approved.

It is sharp and assured. That the central characters are unredeemable is irrelevant, particularly as they are countered by a cast of superb minor players. González’s amoral cautionary tale is based on real events. The story is shocking but the genius lies in the telling and there is no denying that the art has been well served by Wynne’s astute, pitch-perfect translation. - Eileen Battersby

J and Elena are escaping the hustle and bustle of Medellín life to live off the land on the coast of Colombia. With nothing but beautiful beaches and a few local villagers, the idyll is seemingly effortless. However they are unprepared for this adventure. Time passes fitfully and both regress Lord of the Flies-esque as the reality and hardship of their isolation sinks in.

"December 25 was a traumatic day. They racked their brains trying to remember, but to no avail. By the morning of the 26th, after a night spent tossing and turning, J felt better. 'Let’s not screw up our lives over this,' he said. 'If neither of us can remember, then clearly we weren’t ourselves.'"
From a deceivingly simple start In The Beginning Was the Sea quickly takes shape and González has packed depth into sparse language. Protagonists J & Elena are almost nameless, especially in terms of the other characters in the village they live on the periphery of. Yet they feel so real, made corporeal by their reactions rather than descriptions of them.
The reader is made aware that this is not a story with a happy ending. González adds complexity to his puzzle with the additions of occasional interludes from other characters, both in narrative form and correspondence, which makes you doubt the sanity of both J and Elena. Repetitive failures highlight the lack of consideration either protagonist gives their situation and they are punished for their whims.
The translation is a good one and Frank Wynne leaves a spattering of Spanish through the novel where needed. This adds depth, gives a sense of culture and place, and reminds the reader that this is a novel of two languages.
In The Beginning Was the Sea is an articulate and haunting novel that will stay with you long after reading. - www.welovethisbook.com/reviews/in-the-beginning-was-the-sea