They're comic in that obviously, Adam is an appalling poseur. Shortly after, Adam impresses a glamorous young woman by pretending his mother has just died: 'I … licked the tips of my fingers and rubbed the spit under my eyes … repeating this until I felt there would be enough moisture to catch a little light.' The overall narrative is structured round such subtle, delicate moments: performances, as Adam would call them, of intense experience. One day, he watches as another spectator bursts into tears in front of Van der Weyden's Descent from the Cross – 'was he having a profound experience?' The novel reproduces a detail from the painting – Joseph of Arimathea, the wetness rolling down his cheeks. In the first, he spends his time looking at paintings in the Prado. Towards the end, he witnesses the aftermath of the 11-M commuter-train bombings, attributed to followers of al-Qaida – presumably one reason the book is named after Madrid's main station, another being that it's also the title of an early John Ashbery poem.Īdam's research is divided into clear phases. He parties with beautiful young Madrileños, some of whom work in galleries, some in language schools. He self-medicates with spliffs and anti-depressants and anxiolytics.

Mostly, it involves dodging engagements at 'the Foundation' that is funding him, while reading Lorca, and following the Iraq occupation on the New York Times online. But really, his 'research' is taking quite a different shape.

Supposedly, he is working on composing 'a long and research-driven poem, whatever that might mean' about the Spanish civil war. But he really hates the would-be expatriate intellectuals 'who, when they spoke Spanish, exaggerated the peninsular lisp', and hates them mostly – as will be obvious – because he is one of them himself.Īdam Gordon – as the author calls the narrator – is a young American poet, in Madrid on a fellowship in 2004. 'If you looked around carefully, as you walked through the supposedly least touristy barrios, you could identify young Americans whose lives were structured by attempting to appear otherwise, probably living on savings or giving private English lessons to rich kids …' Our narrator isn't so bothered about the usual sorts of American tourist, the 'barbate backpackers' and the ones with 'fanny packs'.

N othing is more American – 'whatever that means' – than running away to Europe, avoiding your countryfolk, pretending not to be American at all.

Atocha station ben lerner