Skip to content

Keywords

Articles tagged "Magical Realism"

José Antonio Ramos Sucre’s “Selected Works”

Lift a stone and find . . . a lyrical fabulist. Anglophone readers have, to date, known very little of Venezuelan poet José Antonio Ramos Sucre. With Selected Works (UNO Press, 2012), poet and translator Guillermo Parra brings us 129 short genre-bending pieces (arguably poetry) from three of Ramos Sucre’s most significant collections, Timon’s Tower, The Forms of Fire, and The Enamel Sky. Parra thus provides a long-awaited glimpse into this discrete yet key writer....

Wings, Two for One

Truth is I finish the day tired. No wonder. Business is going from bad to worse. In decline, as they say. People don't dispose of as much money as before, or as much faith. In these wicked times people aren't interested in wings. Even at two for the price of one. For my grandfather, who passed down the business to us, it went amazingly, so they say. He had three houses and a horse. Times were different. He wore a big, florid, crumbcatching mustache and the boots of a war...

The Other Life

I had to die to find out whether anybody loved me. When alive, I was never very popular, and it was a real problem for me that I fought very vigorously and quite without success. At home, if I didn't initiate a conversation, my wife and children felt they only had to give me the time of day for purely practical matters. At work, when I was out sick, nobody noticed my absence. So the reactions provoked by my death came as no surprise. The mild dismay invading the family scene had more...

The Invention of the Aspirin

Eighteen minutes into dinner at the Mexican restaurant and Mrs. Salat is so bored out of her mind she decides to do a couple of things to ensure she survives the time remaining: she will sink one margarita after another and imagine her husband isn't her husband. From now on Mr. Crespí is her husband and not Mr. Salat. She likes Mr. Crespí. He's not her hubby. The passage of time becomes more bearable. After each margarita, she feels more optimistic and by number...

The Ants

Dolores' mouth was clean. She brushed her teeth some six times a day; flossed one by one, two by one, up, down, around. Every day the interdental brush probed into hard corners. Diligent rinses and ablutions. A clean mouth. "Wash your mouth out, girl!" She heard the voice of her cross-eyed aunt, skirt tied up like a pair of knickerbockers. "Your mouth is your calling card," she would say over and over. "Did my mother die because her mouth got dirty?" Dolores asked her dolls in...

Intrusive Reader in the Night

When I write, I never think of the reader. But last week, late at night, I was reading a story by Jorge Luis Borges at a table in a bar when a man of my age came over to me with an air of hostility: "I am a reader and I came to settle accounts with you." I was going to ask something, but he continued in a harsh tone: "For two reasons: the first is that you excluded me from your romance novel. The second is the more serious one. You killed my father in that same romance novel." I...

from “One Year”

An Introduction to Juan Emar by Pablo Neruda1 I knew Juan Emar intimately and yet I never knew him. He had great friends who he never met. Women who never touched more than his skin. A relative they put up with the way they put up with a long chill. He was a quiet, cunning, singular man. He was a lazy man who worked his entire life. He went from country to country, with neither enthusiasm nor pride nor rebelliousness, exiling himself through his own decrees. Now we will try to give this...

Rosa

Family tradition relates that in the year of grace 1667, my grandfather, the Count de la Savoia eloped with a beautiful nun from the monastery of Domus Ciliota. The Corpa della Nobilita Venezia revoked his title and threatened to hand him over to the Inquisition. Soldiers swarmed over the countryside to find the fugitives. It is related that two stakes were raised in San Marco's Piazza and pamphlets circulated inviting the public to witness the execution, but my grandfather and his...

The Secret Meanings of Unappreciated Words

Back then I was working at the paper factory. The workers shunned me for having been to such places as Singapore, for wearing black all the time, and for eating my mother's completely tasteless roast beef between thin slices of bread instead of the factory rations. Yet I was so lonely, so distressed. I passionately yearned for them to come up to me so that I could smash them from floor to floor, astonish them by wrapping them around my tongue, and drive them to frenzy when they finally...

Like what you read? Help WWB bring you the best new writing from around the world.