It’s a book that听听praised, stating “the novel糖心传媒檚 dream logic is as intoxicating as the secluded setting. Readers will eagerly turn the pages of this beguiling literary thriller.” And none other than Mircea C菐rt菐rescu claimed听Of Beasts and Fowls听is “the most haunting [novel] I have read in years.”

To celebrate this release (the first of two Ad贸n books we’re doing), we’re offering a for the rest of the month. (No checkout code required, U.S. purchases only.)

And to entice you further into this witchy, captivating novel, below you’ll find an excerpt from when Coro arrives at Bethany and has her first interaction with it’s inhabitants.

Also: Sign up for the for more insights into how this book came to be, how it’s being reviewed, and other news from Open Letter. (And an easily accessible way to listen to this conversation with Pilar.)

She糖心传媒檇 put a cotton jacket on over her T-shirt, foregoing the summer raincoat she kept in the backseat. If she had to sleep in the car, she would use it as a blanket.

Once she had a handle on the scene糖心传媒攖he black fence and the vegetation that grew up around it, the stone walls bordering the lane糖心传媒攕he zipped up her jacket and switched on the overhead light. From her purse, she took out a handkerchief embroidered with the letter C and her sketchbook. Maybe there was a security camera on the fence, pointing down at her. Her fixed image at the center of a monitor. Wide-eyed. She was going to write that she needed help on a piece of paper and put it on the windshield, in case somebody, somewhere, could read it. And she was going to draw using the dashboard for support. It was the only thing that would calm her right then, while she got used to the idea that this thing was happening to her. She had actually gotten lost. Her fingers were cold, but she opened the sketchbook and leaned on the dashboard. That糖心传媒檚 when she saw that someone was approaching the gate with a flashlight.

糖心传媒淲hat are you doing here?糖心传媒� The stranger addressed her with the formal you.

She found it odd that a stranger would ask her the exactly same thing she糖心传媒檇 been asking herself.

糖心传媒淲hat糖心传媒檚 wrong? Are you okay?糖心传媒�

She rolled down the window.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 lost,糖心传媒� she said.

糖心传媒淲hat are you looking for? Are you looking for something?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 running out of gas. I need to know if there糖心传媒檚 a gas station somewhere nearby.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淎re you wanting a house? What do you want? To rent or buy?糖心传媒�

She heard.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 lost. Can you help me?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淧eople love coming around here. They糖心传媒檙e attracted to the scenery.糖心传媒�

Coro put the handkerchief in her purse and got out of the car.

The woman was opening the gate.

糖心传媒淚 just need to turn around and get back to the main highway, but I can糖心传媒檛 move with all those planks on the ground. And I糖心传媒檓 not sure if I have enough gas. Do you know if nearby . . .糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚t糖心传媒檚 not easy to get here. Where do you live?糖心传媒�

The woman drew closer and pointed the flashlight right at her face. She shut her eyes.

糖心传媒淒on糖心传媒檛 do that. Please.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e not from around here.糖心传媒�

She wasn糖心传媒檛 going to repeat that she was lost.

糖心传媒淭here糖心传媒檚 nothing for sale in the area. It糖心传媒檚 even worse the closer you get to the mountain. You have to turn around, go back to the flatlands. There are more houses there. More properties.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e mistaken. I don糖心传媒檛 want to buy anything.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淭hen why are you here?糖心传媒�

Coro looked inside the car, still illuminated by the overhead light. Her purse. Her things.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 running out of gas.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檝e said that already.糖心传媒�

For a second, she thought the best thing would be to be clutching the steering wheel again. To put a piece of gum or candy in her mouth. Her breath probably stank.

糖心传媒淒o you have a car? Maybe we could take some gas from your tank and put it in mine. I糖心传媒檝e seen it done, you suck it through a tube.糖心传媒�

The woman shined the flashlight in her face again.

糖心传媒淲hat糖心传媒檚 your name? What糖心传媒檚 your surname? I糖心传媒檓 not bringing a stranger to my house.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 just need a little gas.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淗ave you come alone?糖心传媒�

The woman inspected the inside of the car, the backseat, and asked again what her name was and if she had come there alone.

糖心传媒淚 better go. I糖心传媒檒l try to turn around.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 think it糖心传媒檚 reasonable to want to know the name of the person who has just plunked herself down on my doorstep at this time of night.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚t wasn糖心传媒檛 intentional. I糖心传媒檓 telling you.糖心传媒�

She got into the car. The flashlight was right back in her eyes again.

糖心传媒淐ome on. Come with me. We糖心传媒檙e going to try this tube thing. We have two cars down below.糖心传媒�

The woman said to follow her.

糖心传媒淚 don糖心传媒檛 want to bother anyone.糖心传媒�

The woman would go on foot and Coro would follow, behind the wheel. That糖心传媒檚 what she proposed.

糖心传媒淚t糖心传媒檚 downhill. It糖心传媒檚 fine.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淟isten . . . Why don糖心传媒檛 you bring your car up here?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 telling you, it糖心传媒檚 downhill.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淎nd if we don糖心传媒檛 know how to transfer the fuel between tanks? Then I won糖心传媒檛 be able to get back up.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou want gas, don糖心传媒檛 you?糖心传媒�

She thought for a second.

糖心传媒渊别蝉.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淲ell, come on.糖心传媒�

She started the car.

Very slowly, she began to follow the woman, staring at the bright spot of the flashlight leading the way, pointed at the ground. Down a dirt lane toward a house that emerged on the left after several minutes, and which appeared covered in the leaves or branches of several trees. Facing a potholed slope and enveloped in a darkness she wouldn糖心传媒檛 know how to get out of.

The woman motioned for her to go even slower.

糖心传媒淎re you hungry?糖心传媒� she asked, coming over to the window.

糖心传媒淚 just need a little gas. You wouldn糖心传媒檛 have a can, would you?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e going to have to get out of there.糖心传媒�

At that point in the night, she was exhausted. She only just realized she had been breathing through her mouth for some time.

Waving her arms, the woman indicated where she should park, under a tree, where there were two other cars. Coro sighed and tried to calm herself. That woman was going to lend her a hand. She really was going to help her.

糖心传媒淒o you like the house? They say it was built by a single man.糖心传媒�

Just then, the lights came on in the first-floor windows and someone turned on a fluorescent outdoor bulb that completely illuminated the front of the house with an extraordinary white light.

糖心传媒淪ome think all the lights should be left on, to discourage burglars. But I don糖心传媒檛 know. Sometimes I think it糖心传媒檚 better if they don糖心传媒檛 know we糖心传媒檙e here.糖心传媒�

Coro couldn糖心传媒檛 see her face because the woman had positioned herself against the light. She could see, however, that another woman was coming out of the house, headed in their direction, carrying something. Five or six dogs also appeared, circling Coro and sniffing her.

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e not afraid of dogs, are you?糖心传媒�

She shook her head.

糖心传媒淒on糖心传媒檛 be scared.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 not scared.糖心传媒�

The vagueness of the sky against the excessive light from the fluorescent bulb acted almost like a cupola. The place looked like a stage surrounded by trees.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檝e just taken it off the fire. Be careful.糖心传媒� The second woman handed Coro a mug, and she accepted it. It was scalding. It scorched her fingers. Her first impulse was to drop it. But she contained herself.

糖心传媒淐补谤别蹿耻濒.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淪hit!糖心传媒� she exclaimed.

The woman who gave her the mug made no expression whatsoever.

糖心传媒淲atch that mouth,糖心传媒� said the other.

糖心传媒淚t糖心传媒檚 boiling.糖心传媒�

She looked around for somewhere to set it down. In the company of those two women who watched her.

In an exercise of maximum self-control, after what seemed like hours, she set the mug on the hood of her car, spilling some of the liquid.

糖心传媒淏ring it here. I糖心传媒檒l hold it for you.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚t糖心传媒檚 boiling.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 warned you.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淣obody could drink that.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 warned you. We糖心传媒檒l wait until it cools.糖心传媒�

A nozzle hung from the side of the house, lit by the fluorescent bulb, fastened to the wall by a pipe and dripping a few centimeters from the bottom of a stone basin.

糖心传媒淐an I get some water?糖心传媒� she asked.

糖心传媒淚t doesn糖心传媒檛 work. Just drips.糖心传媒�

Coro brought her hands to mouth with the sensation that they were on fire. She went to the faucet and tried to turn it, but it was stuck.

糖心传媒淚t doesn糖心传媒檛 turn on or off. We told you.糖心传媒�

She brought her hands to her mouth again. They would be covered in blisters. She let the drops from the faucet wet her skin. She had hurt herself in the attempt to turn the lever and now her fingers shook.

A hoe and a rake were propped against the wall, beside the basin. And a wheelbarrow. The two women approached in silence, and when she turned around, she found them right behind her, fully illuminated by the fluorescent bulb. One had incredibly light brown eyes, almost golden, and the pair looked older now than she糖心传媒檇 first imagined. They were slim and limber. They wore their hair pulled back and the same clothes, with identical boots. The same fabric for a pair of dresses equally threadbare and equally wrinkled. The woman who糖心传媒檇 come from inside had put on a shawl.

Over their heads an immense tree grew. Carob, they told her.

糖心传媒淐an we try for the gas?糖心传媒� she asked.

糖心传媒淲ouldn糖心传媒檛 you prefer to come inside? Sit down and have a drink?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e not going to help me?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淲e are helping you.糖心传媒�

Coro looked at the dogs still circling her. Coming and going. Peeing on the flowerpots. At the base of the tree hugging the trunk, ringing it, a row of bowls, cups, and tin cans were tied together with string and containing water and scraps.

糖心传媒淔or the cats.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淭hey get on well with the dogs.糖心传媒�

Coro couldn糖心传媒檛 care less whether or not they got on. Whether they ripped each other apart or ate each other up. Whether they tore out their eyes or chewed off hunks of flesh.

糖心传媒淲hat糖心传媒檚 wrong? You糖心传媒檙e not afraid of us, are you? You糖心传媒檙e the one who turned up at our gate.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou made me drive down here.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚f you糖心传媒檙e looking for property, it糖心传媒檚 better to see it during the day. The land. The lake.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 told you, I糖心传媒檓 lost.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淩ight, but no one gets lost around here.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淒o you think the broth will have cooled by now?糖心传媒� the first woman asked the second.

糖心传媒淣ot broth, milk.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淒o you like milk? Everyone likes milk, don糖心传媒檛 they?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淲hat糖心传媒檚 your name?糖心传媒�

She answered and the women laughed.

糖心传媒淐oro? What kind of name is that? Where are you from?糖心传媒�

They told her the name didn糖心传媒檛 exist and she thought that she should get back in the car. She always had that option. That blessed option. Only then would she be calmer. Getting into the car and locking the doors. Staying inside.

糖心传媒淵ou don糖心传媒檛 want to come in?糖心传媒�

The two women watched her.

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e obviously tired.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淗ere. Drink.糖心传媒�

They handed her the mug again. Firmly. Coro brought it indecisively to her lips, but she drank. All of it. Asking herself how she could be there. How had she been able to leave her phone at home. What was happening to her.

It was still hot.

糖心传媒淏etter? You feel better, don糖心传媒檛 you?糖心传媒�

Did she feel better?

糖心传媒淐ome on, relax a bit.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淒o you want to come in?糖心传媒�

听by Pilar Ad贸n & Katie Whittemore is available from (30% off before 12/1/24), , and better bookstores everywhere!

A dying father in the grip of fever and delirium recounts his youth, his听Grand Tour, the Venetian palaces populated by fascinating and evil figures, his ruin,and his most beautiful journey糖心传媒�the crossing on foot of the frozen Hudson River.Hisson,still a child,sitsat the foot of the bed, attentively collectingthesefinal,hallucinated words.

Could the work of Herman Melville糖心传媒�masterful author, misunderstood, far too ahead of his time,and considered crazy and dangerous by some critics糖心传媒攈补惫别asits source this ultimate paternal legacy?

Questioning the intricacies of fiction, which constantly oscillatesbetween reality and imagination, Rodrigo Fres谩n糖心传媒檚approaches the enigma of the literary vocation in a new light.听An invented biography, a gothic novel populated by ghosts,and an evocation of a filial love,听Melvill听contains all the talent, humor, and immense culture found in the other great works from one of Spanish literature’s most ambitious writers.

If you enjoy what you read below, you can from now until midnight PT on October 31st. (U.S. residents only, discount applied automatically at checkout.)

*

Now he knows he糖心传媒檚 surrounded by everyone and everything, but he feels more alone than ever. Here, the perfect solitude of one outside but with no way out. Freezing but soon to burn, the fire of a fever already rising inside him. Speaking in smoldering, scorching tongues: sparking words that flame and name, far away and foreign to any warmth of home, to that home he糖心传媒檚 dying糖心传媒攁nd where he糖心传媒檒l die糖心传媒攖o return to.

Ready to be one more among so many memories. Wanting to be remembered like this. Epic in defeat. Broken but stronger than ever because there糖心传媒檚 nothing left to break inside of him. Nothing to hide, all糖心传媒檚 been revealed. All of him to everyone. Exposed to all and after all.

His name pronounced (mispronounced, emphasis on the ultimate syllable, foreignizing, Frenchifying it, making it more removed and, perhaps in that way, worthier of greater rejection) with a combination of shame and condemnation.

His name before a jury that would never dare find for him and, prejudging, would reach a unanimous verdict: 糖心传媒淵oung Wastrel of a Patrician Family,糖心传媒� and that糖心传媒檚 the way糖心传媒攁ll-caps when written and听italics when spoken糖心传媒攑eople write about him in letters and speak about him at balls and banquets and masses.

Thus, his sentence to be served posthaste with no possibility of appeal or pardon. But here he is, still begging for someone to at least testify on his behalf and to write his story and to put him into words and, in a way, if not justify him then at least give him a modicum of redemption, a modicum of significance and purpose and reason to exist.

To be written.[1]

To be a being written (him being someone who more than once wished and dreamed he could write it all down and is already ready to transfer the acquittal of such a sentence) on empty and frozen pages like the waters he糖心传媒檚 walking across now, barely keeping warm with the breathless breathing of dead supplications and unheard prayers. Messianic and miraculous, yes; but not like the Omnipotent and triumphant Creator on high but like a deity plummeting from higher still, in free fall, prisoner and fallen in his disgrace. His once divine voice no longer commanding, deafening, proof of love and respect but, trembling and weak, dwindling until it becomes a silent and flashing sacrifice he makes to himself. And, meanwhile, as he prepares his own execution ceremony, asking himself, without an answer, why (wasn糖心传媒檛 this a distinctive trait of mortals? that almost last and willful gift of your whole life summarized in seconds and in reverse so you could understand it better or not bother? wasn糖心传媒檛 that the explanation of the mystery of why so many people died with a Momma, Mommy, Ma on their lips?) all the people and things of this world that he loves or that don糖心传媒檛 love him, the whole history of his story, now seemed to converge in this white darkness. Darkness he advances through, previously opaque and obscure and so late, suddenly without time and as if untethered from time, forever and ever, implacable and clean and transparent.

*

Record and file it, even if you prefer not to:

It糖心传媒檚 the night of Saturday, December 10th, 1831, and Allan Melvill walks across the frozen waters of the Hudson River.

*

And, oh, when you walk on ice, on water in suspended animation, moods shift and thoughts are thought differently, Allan Melvill thinks. He thinks about how thoughts are thought with the most burning coolness. He thinks about how you think of anything other than that which, once deemed unthinkable, is, as such, impossible not to think about: about how that ice could break and about how, then, sinking to never again rise back up to that surface of superficialities to be ignored or attended to, you would cease to think forever. He thinks about the cold that freezes into crystals that bind together and break apart to separate and rise into the sky to then fall on the living and the dead in always different shapes.[2] With that cold that forces you to close your eyes to discover that, like certain lizards, you can see through your eyelids: his now almost sliced off by the freezing blade of the wild wind that whips his hair into disarray.

The same thing would happen (Allan Melvill thinks now, like he糖心传媒檚 never thought before, thinking about what would be thought about or about what one would never dare to think about again but that, in the act refusing, one thinks about, thinking about how he once thought, afloat in a damning floating city of the damned) when we find a way to remain aloft, airborne and truly and joyfully displaced. When man can fly aboard marvelous machines (not just aerostatic balloons) whose sound will be like that of thousands of men clearing their throats after the morning糖心传媒檚 first pipe. And with and in those machines, battles will be waged among the stars, and they糖心传媒檒l even make it to that fleeting moon, which, at this very moment, the clouds cover and uncover only to cover it again, and hurl down almost merciful white flakes of snow on Allan Melvill, as if they were soldiers laying siege to that defeated and humiliated deserter of the crucifying crusade of his own life.

But we糖心传媒檝e got a long way to go before that. Now, beneath his feet, that ice is the only solid thing left to hold him up, while around him and above him everything is thin ice in suspense, and the important thing is not to fly but to keep from falling or sinking or drowning.

Thus, in the dark, Allan Melvill remembers first; but then it糖心传媒檚 as if he were dreaming, as if he were dreaming himself, or seeing himself from above. And he糖心传媒檇 read somewhere that people who lived and wandered through landscapes of endless ices often felt that someone, their doppelg盲nger, was walking beside them (like that vanquished and enslaved memento-mori walking beside a triumphant Caesar or other victorious generals) and whispering in their ear the more than fifty names snow can be given, but not the names for each and every one of the infinite and always-different flakes that make up that snow and that, first, give the shape of snow to whatever they happen to come to rest upon and, then, to all the shapes they take after giving shape to the snow.

Then, suddenly, to the surprise and wonder of Allan Melvill, his whole life (his life as a father) is lived and relived, it melts away only to resolidify, like an invention invented by the boy who, though he would never theretofore have imagined it, has turned out to be the most inventive and imaginative of his children.[3]

[1] But no, not yet. It will be years before that happens: the sad masquerade of my father (there糖心传媒檚 no need for me to wait for the revelations of a future yet-to-be-revealed science that will be dedicated to the interpretation of dreams and daydreams) rewritten wearing different masks like that of a riverway conman or that of a delusional captain or that of an incestuous decadent or that of a by-product of the Revolution or that of a more confusing than confused pale-gray colored scrivener, among many others. And it will be even longer before I comment on it from here: from the marine and oceanic depths of these pages en route to the last and final shore. Me holding and losing my breath; because nothing is more exhausting than swimming upstream, taking in air, in pursuit of the always forgetful founts of memory.

[2] Imagine a book always at high sea. A book adrift and drifting in swirling digressions and dodging not icebergs of small tips and massive bottoms but compact glaciers that have as much to show as to hide. A book that is nothing but a perpetual draft, because every book is never-ending. A book that is the draft of a sketch; because the smallest constructions can be completed by their original architects; while the largest, the truest, always leave the conclusion on the tallest rooftops to fix and secure there the posterity of whoever reads them beyond the one who wrote it.

My case, without looking any further.

[3] His light casts my shadow. The one is the eclipse of the other. I, at his feet, will tell what he, lying there, tells me. He is bound and I糖心传媒檓 bound to him; and I trust that all the information that I糖心传媒檒l offer has, moreover, some literary and dramatic value, beyond the tragedy and sorrow of the events that keep that man prostrate here. Thus, I shall send my indefinable imagination (truly the most exact of sciences) off to hunt and track and catch the facts. And then, flay and eviscerate them, as once upon a time I did whales. To those whales that, as the years pass, seem to me more and more the product of youth糖心传媒檚 liquid dream. Always taking care to keep their stomach gasses from bursting and covering me with guts and blood and excrement. And to keep from spilling that illuminating sperm of the truth that, once processed, will be irreconcilable as something that happened but, at the same time, will be read (will be read by the light of candles and oil derived from that same whale sperm) as something even truer than it ever was. Reality only becomes really real after crossing the stormy sea of art and arriving safe and sound to the other shore. Not while we live it or write it, but later, when we read it; and only then does everything become logical and inevitable and we ask ourselves how we failed to see it or see it coming.

Thus, everything that one invents ends up (or starts out) being true and, taking place, ends up having taken place to thereby begin to take place.

by Rodrigo Fres谩n & Will Vanderhyden is available in better bookstores everywhere on October 8, 2024, and available at 30% off (until 11/1/2024) on the .听

Today, we’re going to revisit a wild TMR season in which we featured three books originally written in Spanish, all published right around the start of the pandemic . . . Below, you’ll find info and links to all the episodes on听Cars on Fire听by M贸nica Ram贸n R铆os & Robin Myers, Four by Four听by Sara Mesa & Katie Whittemore, and The Book of Anna听by Carmen Boullosa & Samantha Schnee.

*

We started this season off with . Here’s the jacket copy:

糖心传媒淲hen you live in an adopted country, when you糖心传媒檙e an exile in your own body, names are simply lists that dull the reality of death.糖心传媒�

Cars on Fire, M贸nica Ram贸n R铆o蝉糖心传媒檚 electric, uncompromising English-language debut, unfolds through a series of characters糖心传媒攖he writer, the patient, the immigrant, the professor, the student糖心传媒攚hose identities are messy and ever-shifting. A speechwriter is employed writing for would-be dictators, but plays in a rock band as a means of protest. A failed Marxist cuts off her own head as a final poetic act. With incredible formal range, from the linear to the more free-wheeling, the real to the fantastical to the dystopic,听R铆os听offers striking, jarring glimpses into life as a woman and an immigrant. Set in New York City, New Jersey, and Chile糖心传媒檚 La Zona Central, the stories in听Cars on Fire听offer powerful remembrances to those lost to violence, and ultimately make the case for the power of art, love, and feminine desire to subvert the oppressive forces糖心传媒攛enophobia, neoliberalism, social hierarchies within the academic world糖心传媒攖hat shape life in Chile and the United States.

And here are links to each Cars on Fire episode:

Episode 1: Pages 1-63 (, , )

Episode 2: Pages 64-151 (, , )

Episode 3: Pages 152-End (, , )

*

Then we moved on to听. Here’s the jacket copy:

Set entirely at Wybrany College糖心传媒攁 school where the wealthy keep their kids safe from the chaos erupting in the cities糖心传媒�Four by Four听is a novel of insinuation and gossip, in which the truth about Wybrany糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒減rogram糖心传媒� is always palpable, but never explicit. The mysteries populating the novel open with the disappearance of one of the 糖心传媒渟pecial,糖心传媒� scholarship students. As the first part unfolds, it becomes clear that all is not well in Wybrany, and that something more sordid lurks beneath the surface.

In the second part糖心传媒攁 self-indulgent, wry diary written by an imposter who has infiltrated the school as a substitute teacher糖心传媒攖he eerie sense of what糖心传媒檚 happening in this space removed from society, becomes more acute and potentially sinister.

An exploration of the relationship between the powerful and powerless糖心传媒攁nd the repetition of these patterns糖心传媒擬esa糖心传媒檚 “sophisticated nightmare” calls to mind great works of gothic literature (think Shirley Jackson) and social thrillers to create a unique, unsettling view of freedom and how a fear of the outside world can create monsters.

And here are links to each Four by Four episode:

Episode 4: Pages 1-86 (, , )

Episode 5: Pages 87-156 (, , )

Episode 6: Pages 156-222 (, , )

Episode 7: Pages 223-End (, , )

*

And we wrapped things up with听. Here’s the jacket copy:

IN THIS CONTINUATION OF ANNA KARENINA糖心传媒橲 LEGACY, RUSSIA SIMMERS ON THE BRINK OF CHANGE AND THE STORIES THAT HAVE LONG BEEN KEPT SECRET FINALLY COME TO LIGHT.

Saint Petersburg, 1905. Behind the gates of the Karenin Palace, Sergei, son of Anna Karenina, meets Tolstoy in his dreams and finds reminders of his mother everywhere: the vivid portrait that the tsar intends to acquire and the opium-infused manuscripts Anna wrote just before her death, which open a trapdoor to a wild feminist fairy tale. Across the city, Clementine, an anarchist seamstress, and Father Gapon, the charismatic leader of the proletariat, plan protests that embroil the downstairs members of the Karenin household in their plots and tip the country ever closer to revolution. Boullosa tells a polyphonic and subversive tale of the Russian revolution through the lens of Tolstoy糖心传媒檚 most beloved work.

Episode 8: Pages 1-73 (, , )

Episode 9: Pages 74-98 (, , )

Episode 10: Pages 99-126 (, , )

Episode 11: Pages 127-161 (, , )

Episode 12: Pages 162-End (, , )

*

Enjoy!

And while you’re here, you should get a copy of听 and be ready for Season Twenty of TMR starting on September 6th!

Today’s #WITMonth post is an except from

Here’s the jacket copy:

Subtly in the vein of听Dogville听or Coetzee糖心传媒檚听Disgrace, and invoking the works of Agota Kristof,听Un Amor听probes ideas of language, alienation, and community through the eyes of a woman who, when brought into conflict, finds herself on the potential brink of deeper awareness of herself and her place in the world.

On the heels of a cryptic mistake, Nat arrives in La Escapa, an arid rural village in Spain糖心传媒檚 interior. She settles into a small, shabby house with cheap rent to begin work on her first literary translation, with a skittish and ill-tempered dog糖心传媒攁 gift from the boorish landlord糖心传媒攈er only company.

Burdened with assumptions about country life, Nat will enter into relationships with the handful of local inhabitants糖心传媒攈er negligent landlord, P铆ter the hippie, the dementia-afflicted Roberta, the young city family who comes on weekends, the unsociable man they call 糖心传媒淭he German糖心传媒澨切拇綌from whom she appears to receive a customary welcome.

Mutual misunderstanding and a persistent sense of alienation, however, thrum below the surface. And when conflicts arise over repairs to the house, Nat receives an offer and makes a crucial decision.

In prose as taut and oppressive as the atmosphere in La Escapa,听Un Amor听extends Mesa糖心传媒檚 exploration of language and power, confronting readers with the limits of their own morality as tensions mount and the community糖心传媒檚 most unexpected impulses emerge.

This book糖心传媒攍ike so many of Mesa’s糖心传媒攊s a slow burn, with tension increasing with every event, every turn of the page. The except below is from the first section of the book, setting the scene, introducing a few key characters, and creating the atmosphere of this part of rural Spain. Enjoy!

Un Amor is available for preorder from better bookstores everywhere, our , , or

She糖心传媒檇 be hard pressed to come up with a convincing answer if asked to explain what she was doing there. That糖心传媒檚 why she hedges when the time comes, babbling about a change of scenery.

糖心传媒淧eople must think you糖心传媒檙e crazy, right?糖心传媒�

The cashier smacks gum as she piles Nat糖心传媒檚 shopping on the counter. It糖心传媒檚 the only store in a few-mile radius, an unmarked establishment where foodstuffs and hygiene products accumulate in a jumble. Shopping there is expensive and the pickings are slim, but Nat is reluctant to take the car to Petacas. She rummages in her wallet and counts out the bills she needs.

The girl from the shop is in a chatty mood. Brazen, she asks Nat all about her life, flustering her. The girl wishes she could do what Nat糖心传媒檚 done, but the opposite, she says. Move to C谩rdenas, where stuff actually happens.

糖心传媒淟iving here sucks. There aren糖心传媒檛 even any guys!糖心传媒�

She tells Nat that she used to go to high school in Petacas, but she dropped out. She doesn糖心传媒檛 like studying, she糖心传媒檚 crap at every subject. Now she helps out in the shop. Her mom gets chronic migraines, and her dad also does some farming, so she lends a hand at the store. But as soon as she turns eighteen, she糖心传媒檚 out of there. She could be a cashier in C谩rdenas, or a nanny. She糖心传媒檚 good with kids. The few kids who ever make it to La Escapa, she smiles.

糖心传媒淭his place sucks,糖心传媒� she repeats.

It糖心传媒檚 the girl who tells Nat about the people living in the surrounding houses and farms. She tells her about the gypsy family squatting in a dilapidated farmhouse, right near the ramp for the highway. A bus picks up the kids every morning; they糖心传媒檙e the only kids who live in La Escapa year-round. And there糖心传媒檚 the old couple in the yellow house. The woman is some kind of witch, the girl claims. She can predict the future and read your mind.

糖心传媒淪he糖心传媒檚 a little crazy, so it糖心传媒檚 creepy,糖心传媒� the girl laughs.

She tells Nat about the hippie in the wooden house, and the guy they call 糖心传媒淭he German糖心传媒� even though he isn糖心传媒檛 from Germany, and Gordo糖心传媒檚 bar糖心传媒攖hough to call the storehouse where they serve up bottles of beer a bar is, she admits, a bit of an exaggeration. There are other people who come and go according to the rhythms of the countryside, dayworkers hired for two-week stints or just the day, but also whole families who have inherited houses they can糖心传媒檛 manage to sell and who live somewhere else half the year. But you never see women on their own. Not women Nat糖心传媒檚 age, she specifies.

糖心传媒淥ld ladies don糖心传媒檛 count.糖心传媒�

During the first days, Nat gets confused and mixes up all that information, partly because she糖心传媒檇 listened absently, partly because she糖心传媒檚 in unfamiliar territory. La Escapa糖心传媒檚 borders are blurry, and even though there is a relatively compact cluster of small houses糖心传媒攚here hers is located糖心传媒攐ther buildings are scattered farther off, some inhabited and others not. From the outside, Nat can糖心传媒檛 tell whether they糖心传媒檙e homes or barns, if there are people inside or just livestock. She loses her bearings on the dirt roads and if it weren糖心传媒檛 for the shop糖心传媒攚hich sometimes feels more familiar to her than the house she糖心传媒檚 rented and slept in for a week糖心传媒攁s a point of reference, she糖心传媒檇 feel lost. The area isn糖心传媒檛 even very pretty, although at sunset, when the edges soften and the light turns golden, she finds a kind of beauty she can cling to.

Nat takes her grocery bags and says goodbye to the girl. But before she exits the shop, she turns back and asks about the landlord. Does the girl know him? The girl purses her lips, shakes her head slowly. No, not really, she says. He糖心传媒檚 lived in Petacas for a long time.

糖心传媒淏ut I do remember seeing him around here when I was little. He always had a pack of dogs and a really bad temper. Then he got married, or got together with someone, and left. I guess his wife didn糖心传媒檛 want to live in La Escapa糖心传媒攃an糖心传媒檛 blame her. This place is worse for girls. Even though Petacas is nothing special糖心传媒擨 wouldn糖心传媒檛 want to live there either, no way.糖心传媒�

*

Sara Mesa

She tries to play with the dog, tossing him an old ball she found in the woodpile. But instead of catching it and bringing it back, the dog limps away. When she crouches down next to him, putting herself on his level so he won糖心传媒檛 be afraid, he skulks off with his tail between his legs. The dog is a piece of work, she thinks, a real rotter. Sieso, they糖心传媒檇 call him in the part of Spain she comes from. It seems a good a name as any糖心传媒攁fter all, she has to call him something. It certainly describes his surly nature. But Sieso is as inscrutable as he is unsociable. He hangs around, but it糖心传媒檚 like he wasn糖心传媒檛 there at all. Why should she have to settle for a dog like that? Even the little dog in the shop, an extremely anxious Chihuahua mix, is much nicer. All the dogs she meets on the roads糖心传媒攁nd there are tons of them糖心传媒攔un over when she calls. A lot of them are looking to be fed, of course, but also to be pet; they are nosy and curious, wanting to know who this new girl in the neighborhood is. Sieso doesn糖心传媒檛 even seem interested in eating. If she feeds him, great, and if not, that糖心传媒檚 fine too. The landlord wasn糖心传媒檛 kidding: the animal糖心传媒檚 upkeep is cheap. Sometimes Nat is ashamed of the aversion she feels toward the animal. She asked for a dog and here he is. Now she cannot糖心传媒攎ust not糖心传媒攕ay糖心传媒攐r even think糖心传媒攖hat she doesn糖心传媒檛 want him.

One morning at the shop, she meets the hippie, as the girl called him. Now she languidly waits on them both, smoking a cigarette with no sense of urgency. The hippie is a little older than Nat, though he can糖心传媒檛 be more than forty. Tall and strong, his skin is weathered by the sun, his hands broad and cracked, his eyes hard but placid. He wears his hair long in a terrible cut and his beard is on the reddish side. Why the girl calls him 糖心传媒渉ippie糖心传媒� is something Nat can only guess. Maybe it糖心传媒檚 his long hair or because he is someone who, like Nat, comes from the city, a stranger, something incomprehensible for anyone who has lived in La Escapa since childhood and can only think of getting away. The truth is, the hippie has lived there a long time. He is, therefore, nothing novel, not like Nat. She observes him from the corner of her eye, his efficient movements, concise and confident. As she waits her turn, she pats the back of the dog he has brought with him. She糖心传媒檚 a chocolate Labrador, old but undeniably elegant. The dog wags her tail and noses Nat糖心传媒檚 crotch. The three of them laugh.

糖心传媒淲hat a good girl,糖心传媒� Nat says.

The hippie nods and holds out his hand. Then he changes his mind, withdraws it and moves in to kiss her. Just one kiss on the cheek, which causes Nat to remain with her face tilted, waiting for the second kiss that doesn糖心传媒檛 come. He tells her his name: P铆ter. With an i, he specifies: P-铆-t-e-r. At least that糖心传媒檚 how he likes to spell it, except when he糖心传媒檚 forced to write it officially. The less one writes one糖心传媒檚 real name, the better, he jokes. It糖心传媒檚 only good for signing checks at the bank, for those thieves.

糖心传媒淣atalia,糖心传媒� she introduces herself.

Then comes the obligatory question: what is she doing in La Escapa? He糖心传媒檚 seen her out on the trails and also saw her tidying up the area around the house. Is she going to live there? Alone? Nat feels awkward. She would prefer that nobody watch her while she works, especially without her knowledge, which is inevitable because the boundaries of the property are marked only by fine wire mesh, denuded of vegetation. She tells him she糖心传媒檚 only staying a couple of months.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檝e seen the dog, too. You got him here, right?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淗ow do you know?糖心传媒�

P铆ter confesses that he knows the animal. One of the landlord糖心传媒檚 many. That dog, in fact, is probably the worst of the lot. Her landlord will pick them up wherever, doesn糖心传媒檛 train them, doesn糖心传媒檛 vaccinate them, doesn糖心传媒檛 care for them in the slightest. He uses, then abandons, them. Did she ask for the dog? She can be sure the landlord has given her the most useless one he had.

Nat considers this and the man suggests she give the dog back. There糖心传媒檚 no reason to settle if he isn糖心传媒檛 what she wanted. The landlord isn糖心传媒檛 a good guy, he says, she糖心传媒檚 better off keeping her distance. He doesn糖心传媒檛 like to speak badly of anyone, he insists, but the landlord is another matter. Always thinking about how to scam people.

糖心传媒淚 can get you a dog if you want.糖心传媒�

The conversation leaves Nat uneasy. Sitting on her doorstep with a lukewarm bottle of beer糖心传媒攖he fridge, too, is on the fritz糖心传媒攕he watches Sieso sleeping beside the fence, stretched out in the sunshine. The flies loiter on his slightly swollen belly, where the marks of old wounds are visible.

The thought of returning him is deeply unsettling.

*

Katie Whittemore

She is surprised by the activity in Petacas. It takes her a while to find parking; the layout of the roads is so chaotic and the signage so contradictory that once you enter the town, an unexpected detour can easily take you right out of it again. The houses are modest, their fa莽ades worse for the wear and mostly plain, but there are brick buildings, too, up to six stories tall, distributed arbitrarily here and there. The businesses are clustered around the main square; the town hall糖心传媒攁n ostentatious building with large eaves and stained-glass windows糖心传媒攊s surrounded by small bars and Chinese-owned bazaars. Nat buys a small fan at one of them. Then she wanders in search of a hardware store, reluctant to ask for directions. She is struck by the neglected appearance of the women, who have left the house with unkempt hair and slip-on sandals. Many of the men糖心传媒攅ven the old ones糖心传媒攁re in sleeveless shirts. The few children she sees are unsupervised, licking popsicles, scampering, rolling on the ground. The people糖心传媒攎en, women, kids糖心传媒攁ll of whom are loud and sloppy, look strangely alike. Inbreeding, Nat thinks. Her landlord is a perfect fit.

She worries about running into him, but it糖心传媒檚 P铆ter, not the landlord, whom she meets in the hardware store. She is happy to see him: someone she knows, someone friendly, someone smiling at her at last, coming over, what are you doing here, he asks. Nat shows him the box with the fan and he scowls. Why didn糖心传媒檛 she ask the landlord? It糖心传媒檚 his responsibility to keep the property in habitable condition. Not air conditioning, obviously, but a fan at least.

糖心传媒淥r you could have asked me. That糖心传媒檚 what neighbors are for.糖心传媒�

Nat looks for an excuse. She糖心传媒檚 happy to buy one, she says. She糖心传媒檒l take it with her when she leaves La Escape. P铆ter looks at her askance, pretending not to believe her.

糖心传媒淎nd what are you buying here? Tools to fix everything he left broken?糖心传媒�

Nat shakes her head.

糖心传媒淣o. Stuff for the garden.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e planting a garden?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淲ell, just something basic . . . Peppers and eggplants, they糖心传媒檙e easy, I guess. I want to try, at least.糖心传媒�

P铆ter takes her by the arm, steps closer.

糖心传媒淒on糖心传媒檛 buy anything,糖心传媒� he whispers.

He tells her that he can lend her all the tools she needs. He says, too, that she might as well forget about a garden. Nothing糖心传媒檚 grown on her land in years; the soil is totally depleted; it would take days and days of hard work to get it into shape. If she insists糖心传媒擭at hangs on that word, insists糖心传媒攈e could lend her a hand, but he absolutely advises against it. Although he speaks smoothly, P铆ter糖心传媒檚 voice contains indisputable sureness, an expert糖心传媒檚 confidence. Nat nods, waits for him to finish his shopping. Cables, adaptors, screws, a pair of pliers: all very professional, very specific, nothing at all like the indefiniteness in which she operates.

Outside, P铆ter walks beside her at an athletic pace, straight but flexible. His way of moving is so elegant, so different from the people around them, that Nat is proud to be walking next to him, the sort of pride associated with feeling legitimate. The spell breaks when he points to the windows at the town hall.

糖心传媒淧retty, aren糖心传媒檛 they? I made them.糖心传媒�

Nat thinks the windows clash terribly with the building糖心传媒檚 exposed brick, but she is all praise: they suit it perfectly, she says. P铆ter looks at her appreciatively. Precisely, he says, that糖心传媒檚 what he seeks, for his work to befit its context.

糖心传媒淧etacas isn糖心传媒檛 the nicest place in the world, but糖心传媒攖o the extent possible糖心传媒攐ne should strive to beautify one糖心传媒檚 surroundings, don糖心传媒檛 you think?糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淪o, you糖心传媒檙e a . . .糖心传媒� Nat doesn糖心传媒檛 know what you call a person who makes stained-glass windows.

糖心传媒淎 glazier? Yes. Well, more than a glazier. A glass and color artisan, you might say. Like, I don糖心传媒檛 just cover windows.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淥f course.糖心传媒� Nat smiles.

They have a beer in one of the bars on the square. The beer is ice-cold and goes down easy. P铆ter observes her closely糖心传媒攖oo closely, she thinks糖心传媒攂ut his eyes are sweet and that softens her discomfort. The conversation returns to the landlord糖心传媒攖hat cheeky bastard, he repeats糖心传媒攖he tools and her barren plot. He insists on lending her what she needs. Just a matter of tidying the yard, clearing space for a table and some lawn chairs, then planting a few oleander and yucca, or some succulents suitable for the harsh climate. There糖心传媒檚 a huge nursery near Petacas, very cheap. If she wants, one day they can go together. It seems her plans for a vegetable garden have been scrapped. She doesn糖心传媒檛 mention them again.

Again Un Amor is available for preorder from better bookstores everywhere, our , , or

And to kick things off (technically a day before the start of #WITMonth, but whatever, time is a construct), here is an excerpt from Mexican author Karla Marrufo’s Flame Trees in May,听translated from the Spanish by Allison A. deFreese. Here’s a description of the book:

糖心传媒淭here are stories that cannot help but change us forever, and Mayo, with its showers of golden rain, its flame trees on fire, its dark sun and the drips and drops that form bubbles, is one of them.糖心传媒澨切拇綌Nidia Cuan

In her most experimental work to date, Karla Marrufo Huchim explores universal themes with appreciable specificity: loneliness, family angst, memory loss糖心传媒攆rom a perspective belonging singularly to a native of the Yucat谩n Peninsula.听Mayo糖心传媒檚 unnamed narrator is an older woman, isolated in her domestic life, who is both suffering from memory loss and intent on recounting the lives of three generations of her family. The Yucat谩n culture and community that Marrufo Huchim describes through her narrator糖心传媒檚 fine but faltering mind will be foreign but not fetishized for American readers.

Flame Trees in May is available for purchase from better bookstores everywhere, , , or you get your books.听

And, as an editorial note, the layout of this novella is much closer to poetry than to prose. I’ve tried to represent it as best as possible in this post, but I highly recommend reading the physical book for a better sense of how this is supposed to appear on the page.

*

did you know there糖心传媒檚 a word in portuguese that resembles your name?

i糖心传媒檝e forgotten it now, but it means mementos or memories, like remembering to send greetings to someone, to send a memo. i would remember it if only i could pet the cat, just like i would remember to take out the trash on friday and to close the refrigerator door

the door to my tears,

and all the windows before leaving the house.

so much silence here. have you noticed? that when you keep quiet, the house gets dirtier so much faster? you are such stubborn dust. you pass through doorways and come to settle in corners kept under lock and key. maybe that糖心传媒檚 why lola can糖心传媒檛 stand this place

the room still sweats with the warm hypocrisy from when it was a law office

and i糖心传媒檒l tell you why, if we keep going like this, soon we糖心传媒檒l be able to rent it out as a funeral parlor. that糖心传媒檚 a profitable business. people will never stop dying

or keeping quiet

or thinking today must be friday.

Karla Marrufo

come here. touch the wall. it糖心传媒檚 covered in dark bubbles. so humid! the wood is swelling. i am swelling, and sometimes i feel myself rolling, floating, rolling糖心传媒攍ike those days when we糖心传媒檇 go to the park and roll down the hill until we were exhausted, until we would land at the base of the hill where the grass was peaceful and green. remember? we spent so many weekends at that park! we arrived with our childish excitement, believing everything was going to be fine; we ate sandwiches and sipped fruit juice while the clowns blew up dog-shaped balloons

the dogs walking by were shaped like balloons that would later pop糖心传媒�

once blown up to full size and left to bloat at the side of the road, the cars never stopping.

but in those days, bubbles were clear, and everything was fine. we should return to that city again sometime, leave this flat landscape for a while.

have you noticed how tiresias looks at me? i糖心传媒檝e often wondered what he糖心传媒檚 thinking when his little green eyes grow big and stare into mine. it reminds me of that movie

what was it called?

the one where they ask whether, instead of us being the ones who make animals more human, it糖心传媒檚 not the opposite way around, that the creatures in our lives turn us into animals. later lola brought up that song again, the one about the professor who teaches puppies how to write

he was an animal lover for sure; a regular zoophile, lola said

what a silly song! it makes me laugh,

though my excitement lasts an instant

as i think about those animals

those bubbles

and how they drift through life with their broken fragments of memory.

so little time has passed, really, and yet i糖心传媒檝e started mixing things up; things disappear from my mind. sometimes the past is a faded beach house, condemned each day to endure the relentless caress of sand and the sting of salt swept in by the wind. lola insists i take vitamins, fish oil, seaweed capsules. she says i should sleep more

have peaceful dreams, sleep without needles pounding in my temples

for eight, ten hours

a thousand hours

to sleep forever

but a wicked sun keeps visiting me in my dreams, drawing black holes before my eyes

it wakes me糖心传媒攁gitated糖心传媒攅very forty minutes.

i saw it on tv. the blonde girl with the small mouth was talking about it: about the very dark spot at the center of a solar flare. you have to see it

we should talk more. a little more. you know? it糖心传媒檚 easier to remember ordinary things that happen to us when we talk about them. that糖心传媒檚 why names are so important

a handful of letters from the alphabet, bound to the heart our whole lifes.

mam谩 panchita used to repeat this ad nauseam.

she said names are very dangerous; they chart the lines that lead to our destinies.

i remember the last time, so sad, though it barely lasted a few seconds. we had bound mam谩 panchita糖心传媒檚 hands with a rope, secured them to the ceiling beams, so she would stop

she was only hurting herself;

scratching open her skin as a way to remember.

her hands restless as kites,

but without the colors

and i was deeply moved by her dark skin. seeing it touched me in a way that no one else糖心传媒檚 skin had ever moved me before. it smelled ancient, the scent of many years. doubt had left a deep crease between her eyebrows. in a corner of the room, right in front of her, the small altar to our lady of charity was laughing along with five freshly cut sunflowers and the sparkle of a few fake coins. eyes half-closed, mam谩 panchita squinted suspiciously as she observed the saint; her pupils glowering with the hatred of a thousand questions answered only by whispers.

and just as i walked into the room, an unspeakable anger seized me

she was scratching open her skin

who knows what she was looking for below the surface

that糖心传媒檚 why she had all those sores on her arms,

that long scar on her face

and her terrifying screams and outrage made me shake with anger and then grow quiet because, there at her side for the last time, i felt incapable of speaking to her

come now, mam谩, everything糖心传媒檚 going to be fine. when i look into your eyes, there you are糖心传媒攕o very much yourself, mam谩, always you, taking the little thread of your name, that糖心传媒檚 about to break

nothing. silence. in that quiet corner of the room, i didn糖心传媒檛 so much as dare to light the white candles around our lady of charity; we kept still, our mouths sealed

by our dark hands.

when it comes to giving me looks, even tiresias is more expressive than that. this must be why he scratches me with such determination. you see? it糖心传媒檚 the same thing backwards. relentless caresses and reverberating silences糖心传媒攁nd this house didn糖心传媒檛 even suffer the misfortune of having been built near the ocean. it has survived for years in mam谩 panchita糖心传媒檚 absence

in the absence of your sisters, your father, you,

and me

only the bubbles and drops remain

drip, drop

of a rather thick liquid, as if flooded by disappointment, muddied by a sadness that makes everything slippery. no matter how hard i try, i can糖心传媒檛 stop pacing between these same drops of music, these same notes, this same smell that comes, always, in may

it糖心传媒檚 may again

that clings to the walls of memory, climbing the walls like a vine, working its way into the memories hidden in every corner, embroidered with the threads of mam谩 panchita糖心传媒檚 name. she was fascinated by fancy paper napkins, by the little drawings on disposable cups, the tiny flowers on plastic cutlery糖心传媒攕o many treasures. remember? she ate with her hands instead of touching the plastic forks, cleaned her mouth using her sleeves instead of napkins, discreetly wiped her fingertips on the edge of the tablecloth糖心传媒攁ll to preserve the beauty of disposable things.

you see, i糖心传媒檓 still finding her trove of plastic and paper at the most unexpected moments, in the most unexpected places, and this creates a dilemma for me because i never know what to do with these disposable objects she left untouched only to be thrown out later, nobody giving them a second thought.

do you know how many things vanish without anyone so much as thinking of them? i try to do it, to think about every single thing, about every person who dies . . . but there are far too many and i am

it seems to me

much too small. maybe when you start thinking about things, the things themselves become sad too. like the melon this morning. lola brought it, and it was gigantic, a really big one, and i had to cut through the rind myself, then scoop out the seeds from each little square糖心传媒攖he hulls of those seeds rough to the touch as I removed them; each unique and alive, and they covered my hands like homicidal blood. and there wasn糖心传媒檛 even running water in the house

no drip, no drop

and that meant my hands were coated in the melon糖心传媒檚 sweet round death, its juice running onto the floor until finally i cried糖心传媒攌nife in hand糖心传媒攁bout all the times i hadn糖心传媒檛 known how to relish the thought of death.

*

where are you going? did you know there糖心传媒檚 a greek word . . . ?

but i took out the trash on friday and closed all the doors

all of them

though later i opened them again because i needed to let in the daylight and to breathe in the outside world. sometimes when the sun

a spot black as night

starts to scribble on the walls and furniture in my room, i force myself awake: but it糖心传媒檚 no use. my eyes keep me anchored in sleep. my eyelids stay closed, inwardly, looking for a long time at a universe that lacks the contours drawn for us by daylight. that糖心传媒檚 why i have to open the windows and doors, expand this space so the colors don糖心传媒檛 stay hidden, so i, too, may draw myself for one more day. it糖心传媒檚 strange: all of a sudden i start to imagine my own funeral, among dark bubbles, in this ridiculous heat. and i糖心传媒檓 afraid,

of closed doors and windows

very afraid. i must be lost in the maze of cereal boxes and energy shakes. every morning the same routine, so easy to follow that in the end i get lost. it糖心传媒檚 easy to get lost when you go about your day only pretending to be free

to have no blood at all.

and you know it. remember when we would get lost and promise each other we would never go home? never return again,

to the smoothies or fish oil or seaweed

even though the way home was a straight shot, no turns. we wanted to run away to the parks with their hills and lakes

do you remember?

Allison A. deFreese

to sail far away from home, balloons that rise until they touch the sky. we were happy runaways, glancing over our shoulders, feeling above it all and looking down on those small lives below . . . exactly the way life looked from the picture window at the italian restaurant. remember that place? its crystal-clear windows under the shade of a ceiba tree, where i waited for you, hidden inside, imagining the instant you would arrive? the ceilings in that space were as high as our sky. sometimes when you arrived, i would imagine you were someone else, a different fellow coming to see me. then we糖心传媒檇 escape with our foolish fantasies that i cherish to this day

you are so silly, small woman!

you ramble on and on, you can糖心传媒檛 hold your tongue; with a warm, sweet venom in your saliva

i am quite small for being such a silly woman

with the eagerness of a schoolgirl and a trembling desire to see you again, i loved waiting for you. and when you triumphantly entered the restaurant, you grinned, confirmed what you suspected, and then kept playing our game, hiding a rose behind your back

a forbidden caress

fixing your gaze on my body

later putting the flower in my hands without a word

what a lovely couple

yes, mam谩, we make such a lovely couple, though tiresias may condemn us

with his intense green gaze and his claws on our skin.

yes, it sounds so pretty, but neither of us were destined to be martyrs, nor would our deaths be foreshadowed by ripping open our consciousness, little by little each day, in an italian restaurant

or by having someone read of a very long will and testament:

听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听 听the one who dies first, dies best

we didn糖心传媒檛 think about death back then, even though in those days we knew already that neither words nor names would ever be on our side. remember the letters we wrote each other, the tongue twisters, all the wordplay?

paradise bird white angel cloud heaven dream blood

and what does blood have in common with dreams?

they are connected in the same way that paradise is full of birds and angels: you must fly to reach paradise, just as there must be blood for a dream to end

and i laughed then, though i never understood a thing. because to me, you were as bright as the look of hope in a street dog糖心传媒檚 eyes.

wait! you would have loved it in the city center yesterday, everyone was there. i walked and walked, past all the shops, among people and pigeons. it was fascinating. it was strange, getting lost in a crowd again. a thousand colors overlapping, dust in the air, the excitable sounds of people in a hurry, with their purchases and their sniveling kids holding melting ice creams, sad from the heat. and a man looked at me like no man has looked at me for many years.

i felt paralyzed and dry, a scarecrow of a woman. except that i can糖心传媒檛 scare anything, not even pigeons. i couldn糖心传媒檛 return his look, because i could tell he was someone who refused to be intimidated. i felt trapped like the queen in a game of chess, alone and vulnerable at the moment of defeat. i would like to learn to play chess

to find my way out of mazes

to fill myself with the power of knives

but no one will tell me how it糖心传媒檚 done. i never learned to return a look. i know nothing about revenge. that must be why everything around me ends up dying or getting killed. you know, tiresias spent the night in the carport again. i糖心传媒檓 afraid i will forget him, that he糖心传媒檒l forget about me. i am very afraid that one day we will both forget about each other糖心传媒攖hat i糖心传媒檒l drive out of the carport and he won糖心传媒檛 move; and after that, he糖心传媒檒l never run away or come to me again; that later i糖心传媒檒l have to wipe up his blood and gently remove his little red collar from his neck, and place the drop that was his body

dark as a bubble

in a trash bag that i won糖心传媒檛 forget to take out on friday. maybe after that, i糖心传媒檒l close the doors forever.

go on then. you can leave if you want. there糖心传媒檚 nothing here anymore. that糖心传媒檚 why we are so backward and rustic, so broken down糖心传媒攁t a standstill. we lack the words to communicate, even those words that conspire against us, that aren糖心传媒檛 on our side.

sometimes, i have the feeling a man is watching us, staring, lewd and hateful, and what no one realizes is that we are actually alone in this world, and no one can form the shapes of our eyes

of our skin, of our memories

as if not one beautiful thing remained, and only a little of the bad, the exact size and shape of our hearts

which become a little less small every day,

gets embedded in our hands and feet

did i tell you? tiresias killed a hummingbird

angel bird heaven paradise

and is tearing it apart now, licking it, dropping it at my feet as an offering of sacrifice. he糖心传媒檚 a hunter because he can kill, because that swift flutter of wings makes no difference to him, nor does he care if a shooting pain stabs the heart as his little whiskered mouth shreds the warm body and throbbing heartbeat of a bird that was about to take flight. i also know how to heal wounds just like those, death wounds.

tiresias has killed another hummingbird. nothing ever changes! it糖心传媒檚 like he fills his mouth with death so as not to hiss at our sins. we should play again

another paradise another crow another angel another cat another pair of wings

but without the terror of these days that now keep us apart. if we stay quiet, if we speak very quietly and tell each other new secrets, things could be like they were before. look closely . . . if you can just ignore my slurred speech and the way i drag my 蝉糖心传媒檚 in every phrase糖心传媒攕uch an effort to form that sound糖心传媒� everything will be exactly the same as it has always been. you only need to make me repeat it over and over again

she sells seashells she sells seashells she sells seashells

and everything

everything

will be the same again.

Available for purchase from better bookstores everywhere, , , or you get your books.

The associated with this post is copyrighted by .

Officially out last Tuesday,

From the recent :

Below is an excerpt糖心传媒攖ranslated by Katie Whittemore, whose translation of this novel is as ambitious and admirable as the book itself糖心传媒攆rom a section when Juan is approaching the US-Mexico border, and is in a place like Ciudad Juarez.

You can purchase 听from better bookstores everywhere, , , or .

*

Juan opens his eyes in the dark, not waking completely. He stays like that for a time, on the edge of his dream. He糖心传媒檚 on the train, he thinks at first. And then: I糖心传媒檝e fallen off the train, the train has run over my legs, my arms, my head. He is surprised to be alive, if that darkness isn糖心传媒檛 actually death. I糖心传媒檓 dreaming, he thinks. I糖心传媒檓 in Navaja糖心传媒檚 car. I糖心传媒檓 in the Chichimeca desert. On his horse. In the arms of the Little Widow. In the arms of my wife. Then he perceives the faint outline of square window, and on the other side, the red and yellow lights of automobiles speeding past on the highway. Much more slowly, memories return to him, in ambiguous waves. He feels along the wall until he encounters what turns out to be a switch and the light from the lamp blinds him like the flash of a gunshot. Gradually he comes into a heavy, viscous awareness of his surroundings. The lamp. The vase where the same withered flowers languish. The bed, his bed, immune to the train糖心传媒檚 violent jerking and his horse糖心传媒檚 trot. Finally, he remembers, or decides he remembers. Everything is calm. Only the same rhythmic sound persists; not the Beast糖心传媒檚 vibration, but a hand knocking on his door.

He stands to open that door.

He sees a very young woman on the other side. A girl whose childhood. has been diligently erased, with deep red lipstick and dabs of makeup. She has a bottle of tequila in one hand and two small glasses in the other. A certain expression of neglect. Her eyes shine with a light that is at once familiar and remote.

糖心传媒淐an I come in, papa铆to?糖心传媒�

She can. She does so, slowly, hesitant, with her too-short skirt, flesh-colored bra, and swing of her cheap earrings. She sets the bottle and glasses on the night table and then turns to him with something that isn糖心传媒檛 quite determination but aspires to be.

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e not going to sit?糖心传媒�

Because she is already sitting on the bed, on the very edge of the bed, as if she would like to occupy as little space as possible. Juan is still standing, his hand on the door handle, looking at the girl糖心传媒檚 bare legs. Her hands, so small, as if created to hold a piece of art. Her white throat. In some ways, she reminds him of the women he saw advertised from the train, depicted on huge signs on both sides of the train track; women who were stunningly beautiful but also a little faded, mistreated by the elements.

糖心传媒淭hey call me the Gu虉erita,糖心传媒� the Gu虉erita says.

糖心传媒淚糖心传媒檓 Juan.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淚 know. They told me you糖心传媒檇 be waiting for me.糖心传媒�

He waits a few moments before closing the door. Then he sits down beside the girl. He opens the bottle and fills both glasses. The girl accepts hers in silence; her hands don糖心传媒檛 meet around the glass. She isn糖心传媒檛 even looking at it. Her eyes have just discovered the book on the night table, open to the Padrote糖心传媒檚 page.

糖心传媒淵ou know him?糖心传媒�

The Gu虉erita is about to reply, but in the end says nothing. Her eyes are fixed on him again, with an intensity that might be confused for fear. Eyes very open but simultaneously afraid, as if they were plumbing the depths of a well. At first, Juan doesn糖心传媒檛 catch the significance of that look.

糖心传媒淎m I so like him?糖心传媒�

She nods slightly. The glass doesn糖心传媒檛 quite make it to her lips.

糖心传媒淣avaja says you糖心传媒檙e brothers.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒淗补濒蹿-产谤辞迟丑别谤蝉.糖心传媒�

They drink from their glasses at the same time. Between them, a silence has opened, made not only from a few centimeters of mattress, but from minutes or centuries of distance.

糖心传媒淗e was the one who brought you here, right?糖心传媒� Juan asks.

糖心传媒渊别蝉.糖心传媒�

Juan takes another drink, long and full, to decide what he needs to ask.

糖心传媒淒id he force you?糖心传媒�

She shakes her head so vigorously she almost spills. No, no he didn糖心传媒檛 force her. The Padrote, his brother, his half-brother that is, is a good man. If she糖心传媒檚 there, it糖心传媒檚 because it糖心传媒檚 her choice; she wants to make that clear. She entered prostitution with all five senses, nobody forced her. She was looking for an opportunity to earn some pesos and the Padrote gave it to her. How could that be bad?

糖心传媒淵ou糖心传媒檙e here because you want to be.糖心传媒�

糖心传媒渊别蝉.糖心传媒�

The girl takes another swig of tequila. It糖心传媒檚 a long swig, deliberate, long enough to decide what she is going to say next.

糖心传媒淭he Padrote is a good man,糖心传媒� she repeats.

*

Juan G贸mez B谩rcena

The girl糖心传媒檚 life encompasses twenty-one years糖心传媒攐r that糖心传媒檚 what the girl says, at least, although she doesn糖心传媒檛 look more than eighteen糖心传媒攁nd takes as long to be recounted as the time she needs to empty three glasses of tequila. She talks about herself this way sometimes, in the third person, as if hers was a story she could better understand from a distance or from greater heights. Maybe this is why it doesn糖心传媒檛 exactly seem to be a person糖心传媒檚 life, but a chronicle of a character who never existed or the obituary of a girl already dead. There are, as in all the stories Juan has heard, certain common elements. The south. A birthplace that was poor or hungry or wretched. To the north, a drain that swallows up everything it touches, first her papa, then her mama; later, her older and younger siblings. One day, the gravitational force of that drain would end up catching her, too. She was eighteen at the time, although it seems to Juan that when the girl says twenty-one she means eighteen and fifteen when she says eighteen. Before setting off, she was told to leave behind anything that could identify her at home, so goodbye passport, library card, bills. Even shopping receipts. She was also told to neutralize her accent, because then there was no way to find out where she came from, and they糖心传媒檇 have nowhere to deport her to. She followed those instructions to a T, and now nobody can guess her nationality. Try if you don糖心传媒檛 believe me, papa.to, she says. Don糖心传媒檛 know? Her clients often try, and they almost always fail. Guatemala, they say. Salvador, Honduras. They糖心传媒檝e even taken her for Argentine. And she says: Nope, nope, nope. But I糖心传媒檓 going to tell you, papa铆to. I糖心传媒檓 Nicaraguan. From Managua. But only to you: to the police, I糖心传媒檓 pure Mexican. Although if she really thinks about it, she says, staring into her glass, what is pure Mexican? What purity is there in anything, if we糖心传媒檙e not talking about pure heroin or purebred dogs, which, by the way, die sooner the purer they are. Well. They told her not to take anything and nothing was what she took. Nothing except a few hundred dollars in her socks, and a suitcase with a change of clothes and a Virgin of Guadalupe prayer card. She packed the prayer card face up, so the Virgen could breathe. And the journey had its setbacks and its small tragedies; not all of those who accompanied her had the same luck, but thanks to God nothing happened to her, the Beast was good to her, maybe it respected her because she prayed a lot to the Virgin or maybe糖心传媒攁nd it scares her to think this糖心传媒攊t was nothing but chance, plain and simple. The fact is she reached the border in ten or twelve days, safe and sound and with most of the dollars still balled up in her left sock. But in the end, it turned out she didn糖心传媒檛 have enough for the crossing; the prices changed year to year, and in the previous eighteen months, the polleros糖心传媒� fees had gone up: supply and demand, sister, they told her, this is America, this is the free market. And so she tried糖心传媒攗nsuccessfully糖心传媒� to climb the border wall, along with two guys who also didn糖心传媒檛 have the money to pay the pollero. And then they tried to swim across the R铆o Bravo糖心传媒攕uccessfully, in a sense, because even though she didn糖心传媒檛 manage to reach the other side, she didn糖心传媒檛 drown either, not like one of the boys did. It was in that moment, soaked to the bone and shaking, when she decided to give up the dream, or a specific part of the dream, and settled down right here. In this city that kisses the border with El Paso and from that kiss, from that species of encounter or chat or intercourse between the two cities, nothing good is born. A city with a gentleman糖心传媒檚 name, but that was better suited to the name of a murdered female, and there are so many to choose from. Of course, back then she didn糖心传媒檛 know anything about this city, nothing about the murdered women, nothing, really, about almost anything. The worst thing about poverty, the girl says, is that it糖心传媒檚 not just your pockets that are empty, but your head, too. It costs money to know certain things. And she had nothing, knew nothing, just what was advertised on TV, that Coca-Cola is life and that it糖心传媒檚 a good time for the great taste of McDonald糖心传媒檚; that Vicente Fox is the change you need and Felipe Calder贸n wants you to catch his passion for M茅xico and you know that Pe帽a Nieto will deliver. Because advertising, the girl says, is free. It might be the only free thing in this world. Anyway. She arrived in this city whose name she doesn糖心传媒檛 want to remember with very little, with a couple hundred dollars and the address of her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend written on the back of a flyer. Her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend took her in as best she knew and could manage. The next day, that woman got her a job at one of the city糖心传媒檚 textile factories. Because sewing was among the few things the girl knew how to do. There, in that sort of stable or hothouse or mammoth cathedral, where all the people were women, bent over their sewing machines, strafing scraps of yellow canvas. It was so bright indoors that outside always looked like night. Very white light, like a highway gasworks. Or a hospital waiting room. Or the front window of a cafeteria open twenty-four hours. In fact, the factory was open twenty-fours a day, and inside you could eat lunch, shower, even work out in a kind of gym. When she earned enough, the girl told herself, she would cross the border. And that, earning enough, might still take a few months, because the pay was, shall we say, somewhere between low and really low, but her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend told her no, they couldn糖心传媒檛 complain, especially considering what was going on. The girl, who knew nothing, nonetheless knew, or intuited, something, or rather she believed something in a blind and irrational way, a way she herself couldn糖心传媒檛 explain. She knew things had always been bad. And that they would continue to be bad. And that the poor would continue to find reasons not to complain. She was poor and糖心传媒攊n accordance with her own theory糖心传媒攕he didn糖心传媒檛 complain. Besides, what was there to complain about, what with the trimestral bonuses for employees and labor conventions, her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend recited, impassioned; there were prizes for attendance and prizes for performance, employee of the month, employee of the week, social security, free uniform laundry service; they took out a life insurance policy for you while you were alive and paid for your funeral if, God forbid, you died. It was enough for the girl because the girl was going to leave. But between leaving and not leaving, while she machine-gunned scraps of yellow canvas in that stable or cathedral or hothouse, while she shared a mattress in a shared room in a shared apartment, while those things were happening, she says, other things were happening that she disregarded, at least in the beginning. There were tiny notices in the papers, between the crime section and the horoscopes. Flyers pasted on bus shelters or streetlights, and on them the faces and names of very young girls. Girls who weren糖心传媒檛 old enough. Old enough for what? What does she know, old enough to be alone, to be lost; to be, basically, all blurry in a black and white photograph, as if their own disappearance had caught them off guard. It糖心传媒檚 true that, in time, all or almost all of them turned up, poor things, mutilated and dirty with dust and blood, abandoned in the empty lots in Lomas de Poleo or the landfills of Santa Elena or the Cerro Bola hillside, under a jumbo inscription written in whitewash that said READ THE BIBLE. Just like that, in the imperative: Read the Bible. They turned up around there, and the newspaper devoted the same tiny space to them again, only now they were a female cadaver, and in the days following the press release someone, merciful or pragmatic, went around taking down the flyers with those photos that looked like they糖心传媒檇 been taken for a First Communion. Other times, other bodies turned up, bodies no one identified or claimed, women for whom nobody had put up posters, and then the press release was even smaller. This is awful, I would say to my sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend, the girl says, although it糖心传媒檚 probably fairer to say that by that time she was not so much the sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend as her own. The girl糖心传媒檚. What糖心传媒檚 awful? the friend would ask. Well, the stuff about those poor little girls. And she, the girl糖心传媒檚 friend, would gesture with whatever she had in her hand, a little scrap of yellow canvas, for example, she would make that gesture and say that it was sad, of course it was sad, but those little girls weren糖心传媒檛 little girls; most of them, in fact, were lost. The girl didn糖心传媒檛 understand: well of course they糖心传媒檙e lost, haven糖心传媒檛 you seen the posters? But her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend, the girl糖心传媒檚 friend, didn糖心传媒檛 mean that. She meant that they worked in prostitution, did she get it? They took drugs or sold them or both. They went out alone at night or in bad company or tempting men in roadside bars. They were girls who paid for the trip north with their bodies, the body糖心传媒檚 ATM, the cuerpom谩tico糖心传媒攁nd on saying this, cuerpom谩tico糖心传媒攖he sister-in- law糖心传媒檚 friend touched her breasts. Oh, the girl says she responded at the time. That was all. And she was left thinking about the pictures she糖心传媒檇 seen on the posters, which looked like they were from a First Communion, or a quince帽era at most. She thought about that for a few days, about their First Communions, about where and how they had celebrated their fifteenth birthdays, and about how their parents must have suffered over the bad lives their daughters were living.

*

Word by word, drink by drink, the girl has drained her glass. Now she fills it again. Time for the second tequila has come and with it, the heaviest part of her story. Because the factory where the girl worked might have had labor agreements, and prizes for attendance and prizes for performance, and employee of the month, employee of the week, and social security, free laundry service for their uniforms, but it also had a very strict policy about punctuality. If you got to work late, even just a minute late, you didn糖心传媒檛 get in. Two minutes. That was how late the sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend was, the friend who was, by that time, the girl糖心传媒檚 friend. At least that糖心传媒檚 how the girl would remember her: as her friend. That糖心传媒檚 how she has been fossilized in her memory: the wee hours of one morning in some summer month in such-and-such a year. It was two minutes past midnight: that she can state with certainty. Two minutes late and they wouldn糖心传媒檛 let her in. That was as much as the girl knew and what she would later tell the police, when at eight o糖心传媒檆lock in the morning she got home, never to see her friend again. She didn糖心传媒檛 actually tell the police right at that time, because first she wanted to be patient, wait a couple of hours, and then because the Mexican police have their procedures and protocols. One was required to wait so many hours, entire days, before filing a report. How many hours, how many days? The girl doesn糖心传媒檛 recall. What she does remember is that the commissioner who met with her was very gentlemanly, very polite, he pulled out a chair for her and even asked how she liked her coffee. She asked for it with a splash of milk because she糖心传媒檇 heard that was a classy way to order, with a splash of milk, although she didn糖心传媒檛 even like milk and only sort of liked coffee; but she was weakened by her tears and intended to please the police every way she could. I-don糖心传媒檛-know-what percentage of the muchachitas糖心传媒攖hat糖心传媒檚 what he called them, 糖心传媒渕uchachitas糖心传媒澨切拇綌reappear within seventy-two hours of their own volition. That糖心传媒檚 what the commissioner said. The girl doesn糖心传媒檛 remember the figure: it was a high percentage. And the other percent? she asked, coffee cup trembling in her hand. The commissioner raised his eyebrows. A short time later, they called to tell her that her friend belonged to the small percentage, not the large group. It wasn糖心传媒檛 the norm: at least not according to the statistics. There were inquiries. There were witnesses who said they糖心传媒檇 seen a black car stopped at the factory entrance, and also a white motorcycle, and a car that was a sort of a pistachio yellow. There was a small press release. There were posters with a blurry photograph. Her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend was nineteen and in the only picture the girl had of her, she was smiling and winking at the camera. That was how the neighbors would see her, multiplied and laminated and cyclostyled by the city糖心传媒檚 streetlights and bus shelters. One afternoon, after posting a dozen leaflets around a block far from the apartment, she overheard a conversation between two boys who stopped to look at one of posters. The picture of her winking friend. She didn糖心传媒檛 hear or didn糖心传媒檛 recall hearing what the first kid said. But the second kid replied: One of those girls with the body糖心传媒檚 ATM, he said, grabbing his balls. She started to cry and the boys asked her if she needed help and she answered that she didn糖心传媒檛 need any help thank-you-very-much. But she didn糖心传媒檛 cry, however, when the police called her. Identifying the body wasn糖心传媒檛 as hard as she糖心传媒檇 imagined, either: by then, she糖心传媒檇 had lots of time to read plenty about the girls who got lost in that city. She knew what she could expect. She knew about ritualistic mutilations, nipples bitten off, rampageous rapes, the female cadavers糖心传媒攁s they were called糖心传媒攖hat turned up with stiff arms, as if embracing the air; as if they were still embracing the last man who fucked them. In gynecologic positions, the experts said, which meant that the thing never ended, that, even dead, they looked like they were still getting fucked. As for her friend, the murder or murderers respected her, all things considered. Up to a certain point, at least. The deceased糖心传媒檚 demise was caused by strangulation, and most certainly occurred the same day as the kidnapping. She had been raped, yes, but only vaginally; no matter how thoroughly they explored her rectum, no signs of abrasion, tearing, or dilation were found. That, the absence of anal rape, was of great consternation to the medical examiner. The modus operandi, he said with a sigh, appears to have changed. But she, the girl, wasn糖心传媒檛 interested in the modus operandi. Over the preceding weeks she had read everything she could get her hands on about the wave of femicides, in the papers or online糖心传媒攂ecause her factory, in addition to paying for your funeral if, God forbid, you died, also had a kind of employee internet caf茅 where they could call their relatives or play solitaire or do whatever they liked. She knew as much as could be known about the subject, which wasn糖心传媒檛 a lot. She knew the guilty party was a serial killer who mimicked other serial killers, imitators in theory but just as lethal in practice. She knew blame lay with the patriarchy. She knew blame lay with excess: an excess of women and an excess of desert. Blame lay with the gringos, who crossed the border like they were going on safari, hunters ready to claim their female trophies. Blame lay with the Mexicans, who no longer believed in the Virgin of Guadalupe with the intensity of yesteryear. Blame lay with the government. With the narcos. With the narco-government. Blame lay with the women, who walked alone. Blame lay with the women, who walked in bad company. Blame lay with the women, who were pretty. Blame lay with shamanic rituals and black magic and the Santa Muerte and the Aztecs. Blame lay with living like this, partway between the city and the desert, between Mexico and the United States, between Heaven and Hell, on that irresolute land between something and nothing. Blame lay with values, with a lack of values. Blame lay with poverty. Blame lay with the desert. That糖心传媒檚 what the girl read, and read, and read, like she糖心传媒檇 read ads before, other claims, other highway signs and leaflets and billboards. Fuck it all. The factory, too: fuck it. As the deceased糖心传媒檚 next of kin糖心传媒�her? she was her sister-in-law糖心传媒檚 friend糖心传媒檚 next of kin?糖心传媒攕he was left a bit of money. With that money, she bought what she had come to buy. Prices had gone up again糖心传媒攕upply and demand, sister, free market糖心传媒攂ut still she had enough, she had enough, and when she went to hand over the bill to the pollero, the girl, who, until that moment, had known nothing, nonetheless knew, or intuited, something, or rather believed something blindly, irrationally, in a way she herself could not reasonably explain: that the price of her friend糖心传媒檚 cheap death meant that she糖心传媒檇 have to pay so dearly for the passage.

*

The end of the story lives at the bottom of the third glass of tequila. The girl looks down at it, and looks again before she finishes.

*

Purchase 听from better bookstores everywhere, , , or .

Dark Constellations by Pola Oloixarac
Translated from the Spanish by Roy Kesey
216 pgs. | pb | 9781616959234 | $22.00

Reviewed by Grant Barber

Dark Constellations, the second novel in translation by the author of Savage Theories, continues the intriguing, complex narratives of science, technology, and searches for meaning and control in the personal and economic/political. Both novels jump around in time. Each epoch pushes boundaries of connectedness between the human and non-human, sometimes mystical, other times exploitive and weirdly, humorously absurd. Readers of Oloixarac糖心传媒檚 novels seem to struggle with how to decide where to shelve these books: there are certainly elements of cyber-punk and science fiction. There is some Venn Diagram of relatedness in which a wider range of genres fits: Richard Power糖心传媒檚 Plowing the Dark, 顿别尝颈濒濒辞糖心传媒檚 White Noise, 厂辞谤辞办颈苍糖心传媒檚 Ice; Bulgakov糖心传媒檚 phantasmagoria and Nicola Barker糖心传媒檚 disrupted narratives; Monty Python when the humor is biting, horrifying; and Andrea Barrett糖心传媒檚 historical scientific concerns. And yet, we are not dealing with magical realism. Oloixarac is part of a grander movement of new Latinx writers, which includes the likes of El Salvadorian Castellano Moya of Dances with Snakes and Samanta Schweblin with Mouthful of Birds. Oloixarac糖心传媒檚 writing is one of many styles of the new, but all these novels consist of ideas grounded in particulars, which is ultimately missing from so many dreary, derivative fictions of USA/British writers of manners and social convention.

Oloixarac糖心传媒檚 writing is original, with unique preoccupations. Dark Constellations starts in the nineteenth century as European scientists seek an orchid糖心传媒檚 pollen in the Canary Islands that is reported to break down barriers of human consciousness between people, but also human and non-human. Traveling into a cave system, scientists such as cartographer Torben Schats and insect merchant (?!) Diotimus Redbach find themselves overwhelmed by the hidden city of an indigenous tribe. They appear again later, but then we move on to Cassius, an student from Argentina studying computer coding and who later works at Stromatoliton, a company that seems to have a stake in the private, the public, the international, the dark web, and a future that breaks down divisions of species, people, corporations, and countries.

At the conclusion of his translation of Savage Theories, Roy Kesey writes a short afterword with observations on Oloixarac糖心传媒檚 writing. He notes a sense of displacement, and already looks toward Dark Constellations, which joins the first 糖心传媒渁s every bit as rich and enfoldingly complex.糖心传媒� This is true on several levels of narrative structure and continuation of images and themes of which the keen reader might want to keep track. On a basic level of sentences (and the challenges the Spanish might have created for a translator), consider this concluding paragraph for one of the final chapters:

Ail铆n laid her head to rest next to the computer. Suddenly, Ail铆n and Noelia and Leni ceased to exist, and Cassio took up his lambskin jacket and patted Mossad, who meowed like a hoarse mockingbird. Cassio waved a liminal goodbye and was jettisoned out of the house. Violet glimmerings descended from the peak of the sky, covering everything, sliding down the side of the frozen mountain. Suddenly, his own trajectory painted itself sharply against the world.

A whole lot is going on just in those few sentences: acting and being acted on, unstable reality at least in perception, species confabulation, sky and earth features, allusion to the secretive political (Mossad) reduced to non-meaning, transcendence, specificity. If asked, could you demonstrate the act of 糖心传媒渁 liminal goodbye?糖心传媒�

We are in the near future. The women named in the above passage are the new 糖心传媒渞esistance,糖心传媒� literally painted as superficial as they try to disguise their faces from being scanned by public cameras, painting them with black and white triangle shapes. Cassio, who has been nurturing virus codes, has planted them throughout the world-wide web, one of the several trans-historical, trans-national, trans-personal constellations of the book糖心传媒檚 title. The government and Cassio糖心传媒檚 company have figured ways to capture the DNA of each person first via live samples, then exhumed corpses, and finally with monitors similar to public security cameras糖心传媒擝ionoses糖心传媒攚hich hoover up airborne DNA molecules from the general public. The revolutionary impulse of the population post-Argentinian dictatorship has devolved into the wearied but predictable co-opting of such projects糖心传媒攊n which the government and corporations use scientific means for threatening but unclear gain.

I don糖心传媒檛 think it is a spoiler to urge the reader to keep with the novel in order to reach a phantasmagoric, wonderfully absurd moment later on: a swarm of rats in a five-year cycle, triggered by the blooming of a specific plant that covers them in a neon-green dust. As the rats later die they first form copies of star constellations. According to one character, we can discern the really real by not looking at the stars/constellations, but at the black voids, the dark, titular constellations where there is no light. Head-scratching, profound sounding, a strung-together set of metaphors that might echo theoretical physics, nihilism, sure sounds like scientific deep thought or one of the earliest human attempts to figure out cause and effect: as above, so below, and vice versa. But these are the musings of a fellow looking at Day-Glo rats being exterminated while mysteriously forming constellation patterns, all brought about by an ability of humans to reach across the species barrier. A deep parallel exists between this descent down to the animalistic as Cassio reveals the technological nodes of the computer virus he has spent a lifetime surreptitiously disseminating, one that no one could debug or contain due to its complexity and reach.

In the end, Cassio comes to embody the worldwide reality, the how and the why waiting to be discovered by the reader who joins the journey of the novel. Another aspect that merits touching on is Oloixarac糖心传媒檚 carna(l)tional, portrayal of the erotic. She writes about women糖心传媒檚 reality, and differently from the more masculine (Updike? Roth?) build-up to a specific eruptive event, often described in cringe worthy language. In contrast, Oloixarac weaves frank, descriptive responses of female characters as incremental parts of life.

Oloixarac has an inventiveness, an imagination that stands apart from all those other (mostly male) writers I referenced at the start. She has control over images and ideas, which makes for little to no waste of words building up this world and its story. I don糖心传媒檛 intend all of this to sound so dry, deadly serious. The writing has wit, playfulness, as Kesey also points out the 糖心传媒渟atiric key糖心传媒� that a reader needs keep in mind while tracking the jumps of time and place. We can look forward to more from this author, and one hopes the same translator, as Oloixarac糖心传媒檚 third novel, Mona, has been recently published in Spanish.

The Truce听by Mario Benedetti
translated from the Spanish by Harry Morales
192 pgs. | pb | 9780141396859 | 拢8.99听

Reviewed by Arianna Aron

Mario Benedetti (1920-2009), Uruguay糖心传媒檚 most beloved writer, was a man who loved to bend the rules. He gave his haikus as many syllables as fit his mood, and wrote a play divided into sections instead of acts. In his country, he was an outspoken supporter of the Frente Amplio, resisting the brutal dictatorship that forced him into a 12-year exile. He was a man who took sides, and took chances. That such a man could invent the intimate diary of a person like Mart铆n Santom茅 says much for Benedetti糖心传媒檚 deep sensitivity to the human condition. The diary is the text for his 1960 novel La Tregua (The Truce).

Mart铆n Santom茅 is a 49-year-old worn out accountant close to retirement, a widower living with his three grown children. A casual bed fellow once described him as looking like a clerk even when he糖心传媒檚 making love. He is so unimaginative that, of all the occupations in the world, what he would choose if he糖心传媒檇 be something other than an accountant, is to be a waiter. As he looks back on the 20 years since his wife糖心传媒檚 death, he realizes that he hasn糖心传媒檛 been happy, but he did right by his children. He was spared 糖心传媒渢he unyielding look that is reserved for heartless fathers.糖心传媒�

A man of his times, Santom茅 is upset by his younger son糖心传媒檚 homosexuality. He blames himself for Jaime糖心传媒檚 糖心传媒渄eviance,糖心传媒� and can糖心传媒檛 understand why Blanca and Esteban turned out 糖心传媒渘ormal.糖心传媒� But Mart铆n Santom茅 continues to be the dutiful father, and we appreciate him for that, just as we forgive him for defining women by their body parts and believing that when they糖心传媒檙e menstruating they can糖心传媒檛 concentrate. Unlike certain contemporary homophobes and misogynists, he has no rancor toward gays and women, and is in fact a person who both tolerates and accepts differences so well that he welcomes a female colleague at work when she is one of three new employees assigned to his department. As with the male workers, he calls her by her family name, which happens to be the surname of the author who wrote a phony Part Two of Don Quixote (a book that made Cervantes very angry because in the counterfeit edition, Don Quixote falls out of love with Dulcinea). Benedetti, the consummate writer, must have seen something compelling there, because soon after Avellaneda comes to work for Santom茅, he falls in love with her糖心传媒攚ith a love that is transformative and enduring.

Mart铆n Santom茅 had never imagined this romance. For a long time he糖心传媒檇 been satisfied with anonymous one-night stands that had nothing in common with the sense of communion he糖心传媒檇 felt with Isabel, his deceased wife. With her, he tells his diary, 糖心传媒渆very one of my impulses mathematically found its own receptive echo. We were made for each other.糖心传媒� The love for Avellaneda, a woman half his age, was a surprise that happened to him, not something he糖心传媒檇 gone looking for.

When the accountant first contemplates what it could be like with Avellaneda, what troubles him most is the mismatch between what he sees as her youthful expectations and his future of guaranteed arthritis糖心传媒攖he portent of a relationship with barely a temporary patent. In ten years, when he糖心传媒檚 pushing 60 and she is 33: will she cheat on him? Leave him for a younger man? As the affair progresses, though, Avellaneda declares her love, explaining to Mart铆n that it糖心传媒檚 not for his face, or his years, or his words, or his intentions that she loves him, but because he is a good man. His preoccupation now becomes her future happiness. He broods over whether there will be enough strength and longevity to give her a good life, a concern that becomes sadly ironic as the story unfolds.

Harry Morales, the translator of this intriguing novel, does a fine job of giving Santom茅 a voice in English. Whether the accountant is speaking of the tedium and frustrations of office work, or the aging lover is fretting over physical and existential issues inherent in May-December romances, or the rejuvenated man is reflecting on his feelings for this 糖心传媒渢ruce糖心传媒� that is occurring in his otherwise dreary life, the diarist糖心传媒檚 entries糖心传媒攁lways a bit reserved糖心传媒攄raw us in and make us a part of his world.

Though Mart铆n Santom茅糖心传媒檚 world is confined to the small middle-class society of Montevideo in mid-twentieth-century Uruguay, his issues with family, career, aging, retirement, and above all, love and loss, resonate beyond borders and time to make his diary a touching and rewarding universal read. Of the ninety books Benedetti published, The Truce stands out for its popularity, with more than a million copies sold, translation into twenty languages, and a 1974 film version by Sergio Ren谩n that was nominated for an Academy Award. In Mart铆n Santom茅糖心传媒檚 simple urban life there is a depth and authenticity that people everywhere can identify with and appreciate, and now, with Harry Morale蝉糖心传媒檚 refreshing new translation, readers of English can enjoy this engaging novel by one of Latin America糖心传媒檚 most acclaimed writers.

Kingdom Cons听by Yuri Herrera
translated from the Spanish by Lisa Dillman
220 pgs. | pb | 9781908276926 |听$13.95听

Reviewed by Sarah Booker

Yuri Herrera is overwhelming in the way that he sucks readers into his worlds, transporting them to a borderland that is at once mythical in its construction and powerfully recognizable as a reflection of its modern-day counterpart. Kingdom Cons, originally published in Spanish in 2004 and translated by Lisa Dillman, is Herrera糖心传媒檚 third novel to be published in English (though the first he wrote in Spanish) and it completes his loosely-connected triptych of border novels. In his other novels, Signs Preceding the End of the World (2015) and The Transmigration of Bodies (2016), Herrera tackles the experience of crossing the border, the conflicts between crime families, and the effects of disease within the context of the US/Mexico border. Taking on the upper echelons of narco-culture in this text, Kingdom Cons examines the possibilities of language, artistic creation, and the construction of power in a way that feels staggeringly contemporary and necessary.

Herrera糖心传媒檚 writing can perhaps best be characterized by the ways that he blends myth and reality. In Kingdom Cons, a drug lord becomes a King, his cartel is depicted as his court, and his palatial residence is transformed into his kingdom. This structure can partly be explained by the author糖心传媒檚 writing approach; in an interview published in 糖心传媒淟atin American Literature Today糖心传媒�: http://www.latinamericanliteraturetoday.org/en/2017/april/literature-political-responsibility-interview-yuri-herrera-radmila-stefkova-and-rodrigo, Herrera explains that he writes lists of words that he will not use (such as Mexico, United States, border, drugs, and narco-trafficking) as a way of avoiding clich茅s, but this also means that his writing takes on a more mythical feeling as it is distanced from the specific culture depicted. While it clearly engages with the genre, Kingdom Cons is not a narco-novela because of this approach and the underlying critique of narco-culture that is embedded in the novel.

The novel is told from the perspective of Lobo, or the Artist, who makes his way into the court by composing and singing songs糖心传媒攐r narcocorridos, as they are commonly known糖心传媒攁bout the grandeur of the King and his court. Also referred to as Songbird, he is an artist-figure navigating a world of crime and violence. He plays and records his songs and the recordings are sold on the streets糖心传媒斕切拇綔After all, isn糖心传媒檛 that the way we do business?糖心传媒� muses the king糖心传媒攁nd this circulation contributes to the construction of the King糖心传媒檚 grandeur. With roots in Spanish romances, the corrido is a traditional Mexican musical form that typically narrates historical events and functions as a primary means of circulating information and news before the advent of radio and television. Narcocorridos draw on these same traditions, but they engage with narco-culture. As can be seen in the novel, this music is banned from public spaces, such as the radio, in an attempt to suppress narco-culture, but they nevertheless have a significant function within these societies as they create and circulate the narratives that legitimize the authority of those in power.

In the novel, the Artist is quickly incorporated into the kingdom because of his ballads, becoming visible to the rest of the community when he is needed to compose or perform. In the meantime, he almost invisibly moves through the kingdom, learning the secrets hidden there and getting involved in a somewhat predictable illicit affair. As the kingdom begins to collapse and the Artist returns to the world he previously occupied and witnesses another kingdom where all he can see is that 糖心传媒�it was all the same,糖心传媒� he begins to understand that he has become a part of a system that makes an individual all-powerful, but that he still maintains agency within this system: 糖心传媒淲ho was the King? An all powerful. A ray of light who had lit up the margins because it couldn糖心传媒檛 be any other way as long as it wasn糖心传媒檛 revealed what he was. A sad sack, a man betrayed. A single drop in the sea of men with stories. A man with no power over the terse fabric inside the artist糖心传媒檚 head.糖心传媒�

For me, the plot and characters of Kingdom Cons are not as compelling as those I found in Signs Preceding the End of the World, which does mark a greater maturity on the writer糖心传媒檚 part, but the beauty and importance of this novel resides more in the underlying questioning of power and the narrative itself. Herrera糖心传媒檚 inventive use of language is well-matched by Dillman糖心传媒檚 own linguistic artistry, leading to a staggeringly beautiful piece of writing. The narrative itself feels like it comes from another time, creating resonances with medieval Spanish literature or the music of the early twentieth-century United States. There is something subversively jazzy about the pace, improvised words, sparsity, and marginality of the narrative that is reminiscent of the Beat writers. For example, there is a heavy use of verbs, some of which are invented, which gives the novel a greater sense of agitated movement, such as in the following example: 糖心传媒淭he man backed up and cactus-armed in fear.糖心传媒� Dillman skillfully adapts Herrera糖心传媒檚 creative use of language into the English糖心传媒攁 challenge that she discusses in her Translator糖心传媒檚 Note in _Signs Preceding the End of the World_糖心传媒攂y using similar techniques to play with the sounds of the language and the images that it conjures. As an example of this, Dillman renders lush imagery while also paying particular attention to the repetition of certain sounds in the following passage: 糖心传媒淗e heard tell of mountains, of jungles, of gulfs, of summits, in singsong accents entirely new to him: yesses like shesses, words with no esses, some whose tone soared up so high and sank so low it seemed each sentence was a journey: it was clear they were from nowhere near here.糖心传媒�

Language, however, is not just an adornment in the novel, but something that is central to the underlying questions of power. Early on there is a discussion of the Artist糖心传媒檚 love of language and the sounds it makes: 糖心传媒淔or him school was brief, a place where he sensed the harmony of letters, the rhythms that strung them together and split them apart.糖心传媒� Words were, for him, an escape from the world rather than a reflection or creation of it:

He started writing songs about stuff that happened to others. He knew nothing of love but he糖心传媒檇 heard stories, so he糖心传媒檇 mention it amid wisdom and proverbs, give it a beat, and sell it. But it was all imitation, a mirror held up to lives overheard. And though he suspected there was more he could do with his songs, he didn糖心传媒檛 know how to go deeper. It had all been said before. Why bother.

Once he becomes a part of the kingdom, though, the Artist糖心传媒檚 words take on a new significance as they are used to create power and to construct reality. Herrera糖心传媒檚 words, on the other hand, reflect a certain reality as his novel demonstrates the ways that power can be systematically created through language in a way that is just as believable in the underground crime world as it is in the contemporary political scene.

The Invented Part听by Rodrigo Fres谩n
translated from the Spanish by Will Vanderhyden
552 pgs. | pb |听9781940953564 | $18.95

Reviewed by Tiffany Nichols

Imagine reading a work that suddenly and very accurately calls out you, the reader, for not providing your full attention to the act of reading. Imagine how embarrassing it is when you, the reader, believe that you are engrossed in a work only to have the work identify and criticize your lack of attention. Yes, my phone was next to me at all times while reading Rodrigo Fres谩n糖心传媒檚 The Invented Part, and often I was tempted to dash off 140 character reactions to the work, only to be shamed by it a few lines down in the text. This is part of the charm that is The Invented Part. Weaved throughout it are reflections and criticisms of our shift from the written word on a page to a screen. The timing of the publication of the English translation is perfect in light of the behaviors of our current news cycle, the relationships our elected officials have with Twitter, email, the methods used to inform themselves of 糖心传媒渞eality,糖心传媒� and our current dilema of phrasing through what is real and what is fake.

The Invented Part can be summarized as creating a discourse around the question: How do writer糖心传媒檚 view their craft, reality, and relationships with readers and with those individuals who play a role in their lives? The response is addressed through distinguishing the invented part糖心传媒攖he part that is created by a writer糖心传媒攁nd the real part糖心传媒攖he reality leveraged by the writer. Through this work, the protagonist, The Writer, draws or focus to the question of our relationship with writers, books, and technology and the literary industry, which frustrates The Writer and causes him in turn to question the role and future physical presence of literature. The Writer is disillusioned with the state of the literary industry and thus decides to travel to CERN and merge with the Higgs boson, resulting in a transformation into invisibility and omnipresence. The publication of the English translation of The Invented Part also coincided with the five-year anniversary of the announcement of the discovery of the Higgs boson particle, also known as (to the dislike of most physicists) the God Particle and largely believed to provide matter with mass.

My only disappointment came in reading the summary of the work on the book糖心传媒檚 cover, as I approached the work with excitement believing that it would tackle such a complex physics concept within the literary sphere. As I worked through this quite long piece of literature with this expectation, I reached the end with great disappointment on the topic of the Higgs boson. It appears that the transformation into the Higgs boson was merely an anthropomorphism for omniscience. Being that most people would likely believe that something called the 糖心传媒淕od Particle糖心传媒� would explain the entire universe, the reference works in this sense because The Invented Part糖心传媒檚 main tool is omniscient narration (with the ability to change reality).

Divided into seven parts, The Invented Part begins with a section entitled The Real Character, which is focused on a family (The Young Man, The Young Woman, and The Boy), which is formed due to a common love for a writer糖心传媒檚 work and ends in separation, although both parties continue to read the same works by the writer. Part Two focuses of the unusual experience of The Young Man糖心传媒檚 and The Young Women糖心传媒檚 stay at the home of The (disappeared) Writer during the making of their documentary film on The Writer糖心传媒檚 life, accompanied with an excursion through the early life of The Writer糖心传媒檚 eccentric sister, who marries into a family (based in the land of Abracadabra) that is hard to distinguish from the Kardashians, or a family with many company brands (think steak, hotels, failed universities) and vast amounts of property, but with no indication of how the money is really made. Part Three focuses on The Writer糖心传媒檚 experience at a hospital as he approaches the age where pain is now a matter of death or a non-issue and is no longer something that can be casually ignored. Part Four contains The Writer糖心传媒檚 personal notes for a work in development concerning the relationship between the Fitzgeralds and the Murphys, written in the biji style and defined as 糖心传媒渃urious anecdotes, nearly blind quotations, random musings, philosophical speculations, private theories regarding intimate matters, criticism of other works, and anything that is owner and author deems appropriate.糖心传媒� The focus in Part Five is the relationship between a father, a friend of The Writer, and his son through the father糖心传媒檚 relationship with music during his teenage years. Part Six brings us back to The Young Man and The Young Woman during an encounter after their separation, where they meet on the stairs to a museum. Finally, in Part Seven, the reader experiences The Writer糖心传媒檚 motivations, insecurities, and what appear to be the beginning of his first work after the disillusionment and transformation.

It was no easy task to get through The Invented Part, mainly because the work presents life experiences in a way that the reader cannot help but reflect on each example, instance, and occurrence presented in the work in real-time. Fres谩n does this by presenting the reader with familiarities糖心传媒擯ink Floyd, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Bob Dylan, Mary Shelley, David Bowie糖心传媒攁nd uses those references to call upon reflection of these bodies of work to explore both our relationship with literature and books surrounding us and the writer, and the writer糖心传媒檚 relationships with the same, and with the feeling of actual experience rather than that of a college lecture. Fres谩n awards the reader who is not only well-read but also well-aware of music originating between the 1960s and 1980s. For example, the following is a list of the literary references by author I noted while reading the work, but I am self-aware enough to know that I did not catch them all.

Borges
Faulkner
Fitzgerald
Dostoyevsky
Mann
Bronte
Nabakov
Burroughs
Beckett
Lovecraft
Tolkien
Quinn
Delillo
Dante
Shikibu
Updike
Conrad
Vonnegut
Hemingway
Wolfe
Lowry
Bradbury
Shelley
Huxley
Gaddis
Flaubert
Amis

Further, Fres谩n has a special way of describing (inventing) the normal and mundane. For example, airports in The Invented Part are not just airports:

Airports are like enormous and devouring leviathans run aground on the shore of all things, too heavy to be pushed back out to sea. Airports are like cathedrals of an always late and retarded faith . . . and airports are the sanctuary where everyone prays and begs that their flights leave on time, and that they arrive on time, and that their luggage doesn糖心传媒檛 disappear in some wrinkle in space-time, and that everything that goes up does come down but doesn糖心传媒檛 fall amen. Airports are like hospitals: you know when you go in but not when you糖心传媒檒l come out and you sit there like something patient, something passing.

And oversharing and not just oversharing:

Being missed has gone missing. Being familiar with so much doesn糖心传媒檛 mean knowing more. There was a time when the definitive proof of success was the very ability to disappear, to be impossible to find, to have nobody know where you are. To be unreachable. To be outside everything.

Lastly and importantly, The Invented Part contains warnings for the future of the book in our age of technological screens and our inability to be disconnected. For example, it is stated that:

E-readers, supposedly, help to facilitate and accelerate the reading experience, but actually it seems, end up removing the desire to continue readings. But糖心传媒攂reaking ancient news, stope the presses糖心传媒攚e still read at the same speed as Aristotle. About four hundred fifty words a minute. So, all that external electric velocity at our disposal ends up colliding with our more deliberate internal electricity. In other words: machines are faster and faster but we are not. We haven糖心传媒檛 gained much and, along the way, we糖心传媒檝e lost the exquisite pleasure of leisure, which is how and where the stuff of hopes and dreams is made. We live and create, determined to increase out machines糖心传媒� capacity to store a number of books that we糖心传媒檒l never be able to read. . . . It seems to me that the paper book is nearer out rhythm (there are nights when I deeply envy the environment of the nineteenth century when it comes to reading nineteenth-century novels by candlelight).

In closing, The Invented Part is a work that I will repeatedly refer to, interact with, and re-read as it captures and questions my relationship with literature in magical and embarrassing ways that will continually change as I refamiliarize myself with the classics, expose myself to new works, and go through the process of aging. This tome will be proudly placed next to my copies of 2666 and People of Paper, both of which also relay the same essence, but through vastly different methods.