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Flavia Company The Island of Last Truth Translated from Catalan by Laura McGloughlin. New York: Europa Editions, 2012.
In my social circle, there's a moment at every party in which I suddenly realize my friend April is commanding an audience with one of her stories. Her voice starts rising, her gesticulations get more expansive, and guests cluster around to hear about the time she hiked barefoot out of a remote, drugged-out hippie commune deep in a northern California forest accompanied only by her colossal dog, or when she grabbed a high school rival by the hair and slammed her head against a curb for stealing her credit card. Invariably I join the group of listeners, often egging her on. Outrageous and well told, these anecdotes fascinate me no matter how many times I hear them. To what extent they're true is almost irrelevant; April has written her own rich personal mythology. The storytelling is what's important; those who quibble over precision are missing the point.
The Island of Last Truth left me feeling the same way, and not just because the opening scene is set at a cocktail party. It privileges the story above all else. Digital-age global citizens have so much data immediately accessible to them, giving the impression that all facts are concrete and irrefutable. An argument can be won decisively in thirty seconds by pulling out a smartphone. Which is what makes Flavia Company's novel such a jewel-small, vibrant, beautifully faceted, and possibly fake. After reading the last page and closing the book, I looked at the front cover and read the title again, realizing that it's an elegant little joke. I don't believe Company thinks that there was a first truth, let alone a last one. And she tells us...