Boxwood, which can perhaps best be described as a non-novel, has none of the structural signposts readers generally expect: there is no exposition, no crux, no denouement. Instead we have a mix of folklore, tradition, superstition, autobiographical snatches, cooking directions, a litany of nautical disasters on the coast of Death -- ships from afar with cargoes of oranges, typewriters, iron ore, oil, spices -- elements of nature both cruel and beautiful, of man both saint and sinner, whales, witches, mermaids, ghosts, the exquisite, the crass all against the background of Cela's birthplace, Galicia. In one of the early exchanges between reader and author that occur randomly in the text the reader understandably asks: "Isn't this getting a little jumbled?" / "Just a shade jumbled." /
"Like life itself?." / "Yes, though I try not to say so."
Reader bear with him. There's gold to mine