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artificial respiration, Ricardo Piglia


I know it's okay to say a book is a gift that truño. And in the case of artificial respiration also a great injustice to the book, which is very well written and not at all devoid of literary quality. But I have to admit to my shame that I have not heard anything. The novel has passages of great, true, but I do not know a whole what the author intended to have this history, I'm not even quite sure I understood what was the story itself. I suspect it is a kind of key book, written for the intellectual cronies can pick up the fly covert references found on him. To me this reading has made me more of a deep sense of frustration. But as you said the person who gave it to me: not the fault of the book, it's your fault . In other words, mine.

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In the life of Ignacio Morel, Ramon J. Scavenger

Ramon J.
Sender is an author who in my memory is closely related to the readings in the 80 school. With The Nancy thesis as a book fun for everyone but for me, and Carolus Rex as psychedelic historical novel, I felt after excessive desire to repeat reading of his work. Until fate handed me a few months ago exemplary family life in Ignacio Morel , and reading has helped me to reconcile with the figure of the author once so popular and so forgotten today.

This book, as already announced the title, has not really a story but simply to speak a few days in the life of the school teacher of English origin living in the suburbs of Paris and whose biggest problem is vital to be the fear of life itself. A novel and groundbreaking intellectual at the same time be read with extraordinary ease, and even quite enjoyable, but what I find most amazing is that you give the prize Metro is not far from what might be called a novel "commercial" . In fact the issue is dead. Perhaps the many racist remarks, sexist, hurtful to the disabled and politically incorrect in general have to do with it. Or else, Ramon J. Sender is a very old-fashioned writer.

Reading this book has caused a curious nostalgia for the era in which an author could write what he wanted, really wanted, no matter how provocative it was. Reading these books from the late sixties and early seventies, gives an account of what you are enslaved today authors to audience tastes, market research, what should or should not do an author who wants to go through literary and intellectual. Or maybe the wrong impression, and then were enslaved just now but with another kind of slavery that are difficult to detect cuarentaytantos years away.

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Sender, Fernando González Nohra

Gonzalo, the protagonist of this novel, a writer who does not exercise but is spend hours in front of a notebook in a coffee table, seeing, perhaps, that inspiration waiting on the sidewalk opposite happens, like life. And also with complex amoral (mild) guilt, fear to love you more than old age. When he finally faces the ideal situation that has always required to write (survival assured for a while, no obligation, and to a beautiful woman willing to stand for a while), Gonzalo finds that ... can not think of any way to worth writing. the prologue
-Salem-

Carlos Fernando González Nohra is a very peculiar writer. His personal style, halfway between the vile and poetry, is a mixture that almost nobody is going to work and that usually ends up tiring the reader to two pages. However, the protagonist of this novel, Gonzalo Fernandez, an aspiring writer despite his writer's block and full-time vital failed, will be able to hold the reader's attention on his life and misadventures of the first to the last page. Scavenger novel is a first-person account in which the cynicism, the sordid, the ridiculous, the poetic and the pathetic are mixed in a compelling and unique cocktail that will entertain, excite and disgust the reader equally.

Unfortunately not being distributed in bookstores, but it can get in between the lines (Entrelíneas Free-bar: C / Gonzalo de Córdoba, No. 3-28010 Madrid) and the publishers Quadrivium. If you have a chance to buy this book, do it. For yourselves, to give to friends and relatives who do not fall away quickly, and for all. I recommend it without hesitation.

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The Memory of Water, Teresa Viejo


This book has given me a friend who was interested in knowing my opinion of him. Apparently this is the first novel of a famous journalist, and that made his work was received with skepticism it deserves yet another book in a famosillos. The advantage of living all alone in exile is that I can access the reading of these books without any prejudice about the author or his work, and why my friend request my opinion as objective observer reading and ruthless.

The overall impression was quite positive, the best of the book is good recreation that can do the author of the spa environment of Isabela, with characters, situations and dialogues no obvious anachronisms and very believable in general. In the first part of the book, which tells the history of the spa in the 20's, is given too long a narration, which makes this part of the book is at times a bit bored by repetition. The second part however I liked it more, maybe because being the hardest topic, the author has spread less in the narrative digressions and won with This rhythm and agility. And I liked his approach to the always thorny issue of the Civil War. Although his desire to show both sides of every story makes him fall into contradictions when characterizing the characters, the author manages to give a plausible picture of how many people lived through the conflict.

In short, good historical novel, especially the atmosphere and good characterization of the characters. You can find many technical faults, but it is an interesting story and well told that without the typical happy ending leaves a good taste in your mouth when you finish reading. And that is a lot. A pleasant reading available to everyone, I recommend it all readers who have no prejudices about the authorship of the books they read.

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The epic drinking water

Her Gynaecologist recommended him to me. Ironic: the best urologist in New York is French. Dr Jean Claude Vigneron: BY APPOINTMENT ONLY. So I made one.

time ago when I was much younger, I read all the books that John Irving had published to date. After the reading marathon, I was left with the impression that Two pair and The epic drinking water were quite loose two novels of the author and subject also quite similar, about marital problems and adaptation to adult life, big girls with big breasts and the city of Vienna as a lost paradise that never existed. The years have brought me to reread these two novels and a very different opinion about them, Two pair seemed even more sluggish in its first reading but The epic water drinker is revealed to me as a truly novel unforgettable.

One of the triumphs of Irving as a novelist is his perfect mastery of more complex narrative structures. His novels are fragmentary, jumping back and forth in time, with characters that come and go and whose real face is not going to reveal until late in the plot. And despite all this are easy reading, the reader is never going to lose in the tangle of argument because the path is well defined. In The epic water drinker, this way of telling the story is central to the story, because the reality of the protagonist is going to be revealed gradually as we know their past and current reality, what you has led to the state it is and why he left all that was left by the wayside. The protagonist is a man of exemplary life very little, but the novel exudes an atmosphere of tenderness, understanding and empathy so great that there is no choice but to end up feeling sympathy for him.

A less talented writer might finishing pink falling into melodrama, but John Irving has a style and a narrative voice so personal and at times so extreme that they prevent him from falling into easy labels. The result is a novel that everyone can read with pleasure, a great book to reach all audiences and a good book for experienced readers who want to start reading in English.

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1Q84 John Irving, Haruki Murakami


The last work of Haruki Murakami, 1Q84, is a trilogy that is apparently sweeping sales in Japan. The English version has not yet been released, much less English, but for those things in life that can not be explained yes they have already been translated into Dutch first two books, and the third will be released in the spring of 2011.

However unlikely it may seem, after reading the first book I have the impression that Murakami has wanted to write this trilogy the Japanese version of Men Who Hate Women seasoned with a dreamlike reinterpretation 1984 George Orwell. Alternating chapters are the stories of two characters (naming the title of each chapter the character concerned, so that the reader is not lost): I have, a math teacher and writer in his spare time, and Aomame, fitness instructor and murderess on request. The story is surprisingly linear and rational might almost say, and the few strange phenomena are displayed with an extensive explanation of how strange it is these phenomena. The trilogy seems they have been specifically designed with the aim of positioning in the market for best sellers.

Anyway, I have my serious doubts about whether the reader of best sellers will not be supremely bored with this work, the things that really happen in this first installment of the trilogy can be summarized in a couple of lines. The book is rather a large introductory prologue of the situation and characters, it unfolds with a huge slowness not at all devoid of charm, but do not think he'll engage readers accustomed to other works of rapid consumption. This omnivorous reading the book you think of elegant and entertaining, but an unbearable lightness due perhaps to the author's effort to offer readers a work which is not necessary to sink his teeth because he is ready to be swallowed.

Someone told me recently that when I discuss a book, it's like go down to the sand and the book was a lion I have to beat and kill, or give up and let me devour. This time the fighting has stopped temporarily in tables, but waiting for a second round must take the lion best teeth if you want to kneel in these meats readers.

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FESTA DELS CAPITANS 2010

The next November 20 will return to look Petrel party with the traditional "Festa dels Capitans." Attached schedule of events obtained from petrerenfestes.com detailing all the events and times to be performed. Hope you enjoy this little "couch" festive prelude to what will happen in six months.

(Well it acts as it will when we know how to get it out)

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do that brings you memories?

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Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace (II)


American writer Jonathan Franzen said in a recent interview that he likes to read stories to tell you things about himself, things he knows are true but had not yet been able to express. And that's why they feel much less alone reading a good book electronically connected to other people who react with a "like" your previous message. After reading this book I have to give any reason, Infinite Jest has been a compelling and absorbing read that has managed to provide companionship and comfort when he was a distinct lack of them.

The joke that says the title is a rather macabre joke, the innate cruelty of any relationship between human beings is based primarily on to hurt others, either actively or through sheer laziness, with malice or with an excess of kindness , not to provide the care they need or drown in an excess of attention. Suffer if we are related and suffer if we are alone, and all the means we use to mitigate that suffering (alcohol, drugs, entertainment, sports, hobbies) will end up losing their power and placing us in a hell worse than the one they tried to flee . All this tells David Foster Wallace without bitterness, without moralizing, without a shred of self-pity: things are as are for everyone, and there is nothing to do with it. The author talks about the worst human misery with distance and detachment of one who has lived all their own meats and has lost all hope of redemption is not pessimism, is resigned to the inevitable.

Finally I managed to finish the book before the book ends with me. But it was just barely.

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For more lies accumulate, I always need one to make a truth.

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Infinite Jest, David Foster Wallace (I)


This novel is a wonder that the extent and intensity that I can not wait until the end of its thousand-odd pages to begin commenting. The story told in it is kaleidoscopic and intense, and it is worth to pause in reading for breath and put the ideas in order. Because there is a good story in Infinite Jest very good even, and it is a pity that most of the comments on this novel qualify for random and incomprehensible. The reading is dense and demanding, but by no means unattainable.

all about Incandenza family, father, mother and three children. The beginning of the book shows rather the remains of the family, with father and children died in different states of mental disintegration. When the story back then and they narrate in loose scenes and seemingly unrelated events that occurred in previous years, the puzzle pieces will disappear little by little in place. The family lives in the school for elite young players run by parents and where they study and train the children, the action is set at some unspecified time in the near future where each year is sponsored by a brand name that will . And the U.S. hegemony in North America is complete, although the French-speaking Quebec militant groups are organized in release of various kinds.

In the background are the stories and testimonies appearing in a series of seemingly unconnected characters but whose relationship with the main plot will be revealed on the fly. All these characters have in common problems addiction to alcohol or various drugs, their desire to get rid of this addiction, and the impossibility of doing that leads to suicide and beyond. These situations are described as heartbreaking empathy and attention to detail that characterize the style of the author, who surely knew whereof he spoke when he spoke of despair and suicide. But the author also knows introduce most of its pages a mood that comes to be satirical but never cynical, which lightens the weight of the personal tragedies that narrates and also increases its credibility by keeping any trace of melodrama or moralizing example. There is much more Tarantino style in the dialogues and the way build the story, although Foster Wallace's work is far more substantial content.

After reading a third of the novel, my impression of it could not be more positive. But try to contain my excitement as I read, that much remains to book ahead.

برنامج Nero 6.6.15

Me and all diligence, et quod vis fac peace

The lights of the city, reflected in the rain
night

uncertain roads run through livestock and fading.
The breeze and the summer takes
refreshes the mind, relieving the weight. Two bodies
narrow slightly,
fearful of the uncertain past, yet
comforted. Contemplating
through the puddles
a hopeful future.

Pretending for a moment that nothing happens.

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The soft touch of your hands
cold and shivering through my back, walking away from the
complication worldly silence
returning to my mind.
few seconds of tranquility
exquisite ending when I think of that does not end. I kiss your shoulder
resigned to become
crying.

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Something you do not hold anybody, everybody hates you, they are what ... lost bastard smiling. "Chi sa

You know that would not be easy,
wise to what you played.
left behind the protection of the crowd, you had
clearly not a butt
opened with a few more puffs of breath.
You looked into the eyes of fate challenging.
Forgot your pride in achieving further.
circumvent the rules of social.
you feel single and lonely, you left your soul
mercilessly
dreamed their dreams, their desires
puked, you made yours
with them, feeling
hand for a moment,
repudiates your privacy, pitying
,
with inexplicable cruelty ,
and came back to realize,
that you are, who you are.

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How to keep playing when you know you can not cover the bet?
Where do walk at night if the horizon is so far and the moon light is a bitch will not let you sleep?
Would you like the dawn when the sun grows dark, and warm as you want continue to hurt making you feel alive? How
a sense becomes a source?
And vice versa?
How to exit a maze built from the inside if you've never wanted to look at the plans?
When surrender if you decide that death is not going to stand?
What good is being the best again and again if the result is the applause of mediocrity?
Where is the limit of what makes you sublimarte?
Who will falter if harnessed between you and the insurmountable is simply what it is?
Where can you find relief from thirst if you're sick of oceans? Who
revoke the sentence you to be aware?
" to forego the sublime just because it's there?
What gives you the right to live?
Is being born?

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spat on his hand and lowered to the height of the hip. Pushed hard while turning the wrist over and over again until exhaustion.
And yet again lost the football .

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crows and pirate captains

Once, a crow with a broken wing flying over the sea and found an eagle on a rock tired, plucked and broken beak.
Crow said
- I can not fly
And the eagle with a sad smile said
- Forget your broken wing and will fly higher than I ever did.
The Raven hesitated for a second and then began to fly, high, very high, until he heard the sound of a siren and fell to the sea.
The little mermaid smiled, and he heard her singing enthralled. Until the siren went back to diving and the raven watching his wake, he felt alone, and wandered through the sea searching for his mermaid.
But a stormy night, as he dodged the rain that threatened to throw him into the sea in the distance saw a flag with a skull and approached.
Although warned his men that he was a bad omen, the captain, lame and blind in one eye, which had fought a thousand battles, let him land on his shoulder. They looked the eyes and for a time forgot the storm.
The storm passed, and the crow went looking for his Siren and living of fishing at sea while the captain was approaching boats.
But stormy nights turned their eyes toward the moon and looking into the distance.
sometimes met and the secrets of the sea whispering in his ear, other, under the halo of the moon, moved on.
The Crow forgot the siren who disappeared at sea and the captain was bored the brightness of the doubloons.
The weary eagle from time to time, abandoned its rock and flew over the ship with the full moon, with his sad smile and an accomplice, he walked away into the depths the stormy sea.
Until one day, exhausted, fell into the waves.
And nobody ever knew, the end of the story, the crow and captain lame and blind in one eye.

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I mourn again between songs
when I swore I would not .
My heart beat has returned

bloody old to stand after
back mercilessly.
dregs of pain I drank another bottle
longing, skipping
my standards
impassive

color painting of a chess board.
Knowing that I can only save myself. Look

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As always you done today? Do what you will

eyes inadvertently look away, hugging and not separate as if you were to die seconds later , mourn for joy , run until you burn the lungs, the soul scream like nobody's listening, fuck like no tomorrow, making love as if for the first time, laughing with the usual like you just met, watching the night sky as a child, drink from the bottle as if it were the last one, jump higher than you can say: No we feel like it!, feel god with reason, to die of grief for what you respect, be really only for a second break with everything because yes, live.

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But do not ask me peace

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dirty deeds IV

left the moth-eaten coat over the back of his chair and sat down, reached for the bottle collecting started waiting on the table, sipped and swallowed hard, the light from the lamp filtered through the blind, reached into his pocket with his free hand and pulled the still blood-stained knife, held it up to his nose and he tasted copper in the saliva. I leave the knife on the table and lit the rickety TV, tuned to the news channel and waited.
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cried, took another swig from the bottle and vomited before becoming

stayed

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not to smile at those who humiliate us

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Maybe someday Who put the bell the cat vomit

seven lives lost in a sigh, looking into your eyes and I understood. The shadow of the misfortune that slid along the flame was always there, patient, waiting for the spark of enthusiasm to grow. Cold, arching his back on the slab, paw licking distracted. Seeing what lies beyond, indifferent. Playing with the quarry to the random final blow. I keep scratching at the walls.

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And where?

When you get so disgusted.

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A smile lit
winter and I've seen naked without shame,
've run through a forest
silvery looking leaves your eyes dry.
'll dance even if they cry, shouting
they do not want to hear,
again celebrating being human, fighting
the sick and the senile,
always accompanied know myself.
stirb nicht vor mir .

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I Fought the Law and the law won

limp petals on a silver platter old, a broken glass and a purple stain glass chips sprinkled on a cloth worn pearl, the wrinkled hands hanging limp with legs, back against against the back of the austere chair, ashen head back facing the ceiling and an eternal smile of insolence as a parting gift ..