Barcelona is a character. It isn't just a setting in the works of Carlos Ruiz Zafón; it’s a living, breathing, soot-covered organism that swallows people whole. If you’ve read The Shadow of the Wind, you probably walked away feeling a sense of bittersweet nostalgia, a love for the magic of books, and a soft spot for Daniel Sempere. But then there is The Angel's Game. Zafón’s second installment in the Cemetery of Forgotten Books cycle is a different beast entirely. It’s darker. It’s meaner. Honestly, it’s a bit of a psychological mind-bender that leaves most readers scratching their heads once the final page turns.
David Martín is our protagonist, and he’s a mess.
He’s a pulp fiction writer living in a crumbling mansion known as the House of the Tower, churning out sensationalist garbage under a pseudonym while his own soul slowly erodes. Then comes Andreas Corelli. This mysterious patron offers David a fortune to write a book—not just any book, but a new religion. It sounds like a dream. It’s actually a nightmare.
The Problem With David Martín
Most people approach The Angel's Game expecting a direct sequel. It isn't. It’s a prequel, set in the 1920s, and it demands a lot more from the reader than the first book did. David isn't Daniel. He’s unreliable, possibly dying of a brain tumor, and definitely losing his grip on what is real and what is a projection of his own deepening psychosis.
You’ve got to wonder while reading: is Andreas Corelli a fallen angel? A demon? Or just a figment of a dying man’s imagination? Zafón never really gives you the "easy" answer. He leaves the door cracked open just enough for the cold wind of doubt to whistle through. That’s the brilliance of his writing. He respects the reader enough to let them be confused.
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The atmosphere is thick enough to choke on. Think of the Raval district, the fog rolling off the Mediterranean, and the smell of old paper and damp stone. Zafón’s prose—translated by the incredible Lucia Graves—is lush. It’s purple. It’s the kind of writing that doesn't just describe a room; it makes you feel the dust on the velvet curtains.
The Corelli Contract: A Deal with the Devil?
When David accepts the commission from Corelli, the narrative shifts from a struggling writer’s memoir into a full-blown Faustian tragedy. Corelli is a fascinator. He wears a small silver brooch of an angel with outspread wings, a motif that haunts the entire book.
- The money starts flowing.
- David’s health miraculously improves (or does it?).
- People around David start dying in increasingly bizarre and violent ways.
Basically, the "Game" isn't a game at all. It’s a trap. Zafón explores the idea that stories have power—real, tangible, dangerous power. He suggests that if you can control the narrative people believe in, you can control their souls. It’s a heavy theme for a Gothic thriller, but it lands because David is such a tragic figure. He’s desperate for legacy, for love, and for a way to escape the shadow of his abusive father.
You see, David’s father was a soldier who came back from the war a broken shell. He was murdered in front of David. That kind of trauma doesn't just go away; it festers. It makes a person susceptible to the charms of a man like Corelli, who promises meaning in a world that has been nothing but cruel.
Why The Angel's Game Divides Fans
If you go on Goodreads or Reddit, you’ll see the divide. People either worship this book or they find it infuriatingly opaque. The ending is the main point of contention.
Without spoiling the specifics for those who haven't finished it, let’s just say the timeline gets... weird. There are supernatural elements that some feel don't mesh with the more grounded, Dickensian vibe of the first book. But if you look closer at the clues Zafón leaves throughout the House of the Tower, you realize this was always a ghost story. It’s a story about the ghosts we create to keep us company when we’re lonely.
The Connection to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books
Even though it stands alone, The Angel's Game is the connective tissue for the whole series. We get the backstory of the Sempere & Sons bookshop. We see a younger, perhaps more hopeful version of the world before the Spanish Civil War tore it apart.
Zafón used this book to expand the mythology of the Cemetery itself. It’s not just a library; it’s a sanctuary for the neglected. In David’s world, the Cemetery represents the only place where truth survives, even if that truth is buried under miles of winding stone corridors and forgotten ink.
Key Themes to Watch For:
- The Burden of Creation: David’s struggle to write the "great work" reflects the actual agony of authorship.
- The Paternal Shadow: The recurring motif of the father-son relationship, often defined by violence or absence.
- Urban Gothic: Barcelona as a labyrinth where the physical layout reflects the character's mental state.
There’s a specific scene where David visits the boss of the publishing house, and the dialogue is so sharp it cuts. Zafón had a background in screenwriting, and you can tell. He knows how to pace a confrontation. He knows how to use silence.
The tragedy of Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s passing in 2020 at the age of 55 makes re-reading this book even more poignant. He was a master of a specific kind of storytelling that doesn't really exist anymore—the big, sprawling, unapologetically romantic, and terrifyingly dark epic. He didn't care about "trends." He cared about the soul of the book.
Reading The Angel's Game: A Practical Guide
If you’re going to dive into this, don't rush. This isn't a beach read. It’s a "rainy Sunday with a glass of red wine" read.
- Pay attention to the dates. The timeline matters more than you think, especially when you get to the third and fourth books (The Prisoner of Heaven and The Labyrinth of the Spirits).
- Look at the brooch. Any time the angel brooch appears or is mentioned, something significant is happening with the "reality" of the scene.
- Trust no one. Not even David. Especially not David.
Actually, the best way to experience The Angel's Game is to pair it with a map of 1920s Barcelona. Looking up the actual locations—the Carrer de l'Arc del Teatre, the Ramblas, the Tibidabo hill—grounds the fantastical elements of the plot. It makes the "Game" feel like it could actually be happening just around the corner, in some alleyway the tourists don't go down.
Zafón’s work is a love letter to the written word, but The Angel's Game is the part of that letter written in blood. It’s a reminder that stories aren't just entertainment. They are how we define ourselves, how we remember the dead, and sometimes, how we lose our minds.
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If you finished the book and felt lost, that’s okay. You’re supposed to. David Martín spent his whole life lost in the shadows of his own making. The least we can do is sit in the dark with him for a while.
To truly appreciate the depth of Zafón's world, your next step should be to move directly into The Prisoner of Heaven. It’s a much shorter, faster-paced novel that begins to bridge the gap between David Martín’s tragic life and Daniel Sempere’s journey, clarifying many of the "supernatural" ambiguities found in the House of the Tower. Also, keep a notebook handy—the web of characters across the four books is denser than a Victorian rug, and you’ll want to track the names of the "Lumen" publishers and the history of the Sempere family to see the full picture Zafón was painting.