The Summer of the Serpent by Cecilia Eudave review: A haunting novel that needed more room to breathe

Some novels leave you wanting more because they are so immersive you never want them to end. Others leave you wanting more because they feel unfinished. Unfortunately, The Summer of the Serpent by Cecilia Eudave falls somewhere between those two experiences.

Set in Guadalajara during the sweltering summer of 1977, The Summer of the Serpent unfolds through a series of interconnected vignettes narrated by children, adults, ghosts, and even a snake. The result is a fragmented portrait of a neighborhood haunted by disappointments, strange encounters, and the lingering weight of memory. Drawing heavily from myth, folklore, and surrealism, Eudave crafts a work that feels less like a traditional novel and more like a collection of stories circling a common emotional center.

The book’s unusual structure is both its greatest strength and its greatest weakness. Each chapter offers a glimpse into the life of someone living in the neighborhood that summer, but the connections between the stories are often tenuous. At times, I found myself struggling to determine exactly who a particular chapter was about or how it fit into the larger narrative. While the shifting perspectives create an intriguing kaleidoscope of voices, they also prevent readers from becoming fully invested in any single character’s journey.

One of the most fascinating aspects of the novel is its recurring serpent imagery. Every chapter contains some variation of a snake, whether it is the mysterious “snake girl” displayed in a carnival attraction, the boa constrictor that roams freely through the neighborhood, or the unsettling snake that appears between a neighbor’s legs near the novel’s conclusion. The boa even receives its own point-of-view chapter. These recurring images create a sense of cohesion across the fragmented narrative while reinforcing the novel’s atmosphere of unease and transformation.

There are moments throughout the book that reveal remarkable psychological depth. Eudave demonstrates a keen understanding of the quiet disappointments that accumulate over a lifetime. The adults who populate this neighborhood are often burdened by dreams they never achieved and futures that failed to materialize. Many drift through their days carrying a profound sense of dissatisfaction or resignation. Among them, Capi stands out as one of the most memorable figures. Unlike the others, he appears to have made peace with his circumstances, finding contentment in his work as a street cleaner and his modest life sleeping on a cot in the corner of an auto repair shop.

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This theme of unrealized ambition emerges as the novel’s most fully developed idea. The adults’ struggles feel tangible and emotionally authentic, offering some of the book’s strongest moments. Yet many of the storylines involving the children seem to promise deeper exploration than they ultimately receive. The snake girl’s prophecy, Ana’s encounter with the serpent near the end of the novel, and several other mysterious events appear significant when introduced but are quickly left behind. Rather than building toward a larger revelation, these moments often feel like fragments from a larger story that never fully materializes.

That sense of incompleteness defined much of my reading experience. There is tremendous depth packed into these pages, but very little breadth. Eudave repeatedly hints at fascinating ideas, compelling characters, and rich symbolic meanings, yet rarely spends enough time with any of them to allow their full impact to emerge. The result is a novel filled with intriguing possibilities that never quite develop into something larger.

Because The Summer of the Serpent is a translated work, assessing some of these shortcomings becomes more complicated. Translation is its own form of creative art, a reality the novel itself acknowledges through Maricarmen’s father, who discusses the ingenuity required even when translating something as seemingly straightforward as instruction manuals. Whenever I read a novel in translation, I am conscious that my experience is shaped not only by the original author’s choices but also by the translator’s interpretation. As a result, I am hesitant to place all responsibility for the book’s vagueness solely on Eudave’s shoulders.

Despite my frustrations, I never disliked The Summer of the Serpent. The atmosphere is evocative, the imagery is memorable, and many of the individual passages linger in the mind long after reading. I admired its ambition and appreciated its willingness to embrace ambiguity. I simply wished there had been more of it—more development, more connection between the narratives, and more exploration of the fascinating ideas it introduces.

Readers who enjoy highly experimental fiction, fragmented narratives, and the surreal traditions of Latin American literature may find much to admire here. Those looking for a cohesive story with fully developed character arcs may struggle with its elusive nature. For me, The Summer of the Serpent felt less like a complete novel and more like a collection of beautifully rendered fragments from a larger, more compelling story waiting just beyond the page.

Have you read The Summer of the Serpent by Cecilia Eudave? Did the novel’s fragmented structure work for you, or did you find yourself wanting a more fully developed story? Share your thoughts in the comments below.

An advance reader copy of this book (ARC) was provided to me by the publisher via Netgalley in exchange for an honest review.

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