In part the story of its own writing, this quasi-autobiographical, postmodern novel weaves a tale of jealousy, sex, dope and alcoholism around the theme of the narrator’s so-far frustrated literary ambitions. The integral and inalienable setting is the urban Mexico of the mid-1980s, with the Cold War still the international political backdrop to everyday life. Wending his way through angst-ridden erotic entanglements and a session with his Freudian analyst (an anti-Lacanian, we learn), the narrator, who goes by the author’s real name, finally arrives at his dream encounter — and ‘dream’ may well be doubly apt, because the episode’s relation to everyday reality is left undefined — with famed Latin-American author and winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1982, Gabriel García Márquez. Perhaps the laureate will write a preface to his latest novel. “It’s about a guy stuck in traffic; he wants to be a writer, to be famous, and Mike, one of the characters, tells him he should write the A Hundred Years of Solitude of the eighties. The guy feels happy at first but then in the middle of the traffic and the smog he realizes that there aren’t any Amarantas and Aurelianos Buendías there, there aren’t any José Arcadios, that all there are are drunks, gangs, poor people trampled by the yuppies — that after all, the jungle is gone.”
Walks Through Memories of Oblivion is a collection of short stories and essays about resistance, prison, and exile; a creative nonfiction narrative based on true events; flashbacks from the former political prisoner Fernando Andres Torres once was at eighteen years of age, during the military regime that overthrew democracy and established a brutal dictatorship (1973-90) in Chile, Torres's homeland. These stories are not about politics, they are personal; the flesh and bones behind the young and restless student militant that Torres once was; there is a good game of dark humor and tales of subtle and small victories of human endurance and perseverance.
With its astounding hardcover reviews Richard Zenith's new complete translation of THE BOOK OF DISQUIET has now taken on a similar iconic status to ULYSSES, THE TRIAL or IN SEARCH OF LOST TIME as one of the greatest but also strangest modernist texts. An assembly of sometimes linked fragments, it is a mesmerising, haunting 'novel' without parallel in any other culture.
For the first time—and in the best translation ever—the complete Book of Disquiet, a masterpiece beyond comparison The Book of Disquiet is the Portuguese modernist master Fernando Pessoa’s greatest literary achievement. An “autobiography” or “diary” containing exquisite melancholy observations, aphorisms, and ruminations, this classic work grapples with all the eternal questions. Now, for the first time the texts are presented chronologically, in a complete English edition by master translator Margaret Jull Costa. Most of the texts in The Book of Disquiet are written under the semi-heteronym Bernardo Soares, an assistant bookkeeper. This existential masterpiece was first published in Portuguese in 1982, forty-seven years after Pessoa’s death. A monumental literary event, this exciting, new, complete edition spans Fernando Pessoa’s entire writing life.
A temporary move to Toronto in the winter of 2000, a twisted ankle, an empty house -- all inspired Moure as she read Alberto Caeiro/Fernando Pessoa's classic long poem O Guardador de Rebanhos. For fun, she started to translate, altering tones and vocabularies. From the Portuguese countryside and roaming sheep of 1914, a 21st century Toronto emerged, its neighbourhoods still echoing the 1950s, their dips and hollows, hordes of wild cats, paved creeks. Her poem became a translation, a transcreation, the jubilant and irrepressible vigil of a fervent person. "Suddenly," says Moure impishly, "I had found my master." Caeiro's sheep were his thoughts and his thoughts, he claimed, were all sensations. Moure's sheep are stray cats and from her place in Caeiro's poetry, she creates a woman alive in an urban world where the rural has not vanished, where the archaic suffuses us even when we do not beckon it, and yet the present tense floods us fully.
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