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Saturday, 19 January 2013

I know this is not what usually public, because it is not fashionable.
But I think you have to read this.
It's a little novel called Continuity of Parks, written by Julio Cortazar.

Continuity of Parks, Julio Cortazar :

He had begun to read the novel a few days before. The abandoned urgent business, opened it again while returning by train to the farm; slowly let himself interested in the plot, by the drawing of the characters. That afternoon, after writing a letter to his attorney and discuss with a question of sharecropping butler returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which looked toward the Oaks Park. Sprawled in his favorite chair with his back to the door that had bothered him as an irritating intrusion possibility, let his left hand caress and over the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the last chapters. His effortless memory retained the names and images of the characters, the fictional illusion him almost immediately. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by line from the things around him, and feel his head while resting comfortably in the high-backed velvet, that cigarettes were at hand, that beyond the windows danced the evening air under the oaks. Word by word, absorbed by the sordid dilemma of the hero, letting go into the images that were arranged and took on color and movement, witnessed the final encounter in the mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came, his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Admirably crackled her blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, had not come to repeat the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths. The dagger warmed to his chest, and underneath liberty pounded squat. A yearning dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and felt that everything was decided from eternity. To those caresses which tangled lover's body as if to hold him and dissuade him, sketched abominably the figure of another body that was necessary to destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, hazards, possible mistakes. Since that time each instant had its use minutely assigned. The ruthless revision was interrupted twice just for a hand caressing his cheek. It began to get dark.
    Without looking now, rigidly fixed to the task that awaited them, they separated at the door of the cabin. She was to follow the path going north. From the opposite way he turned for a moment to see her running with her hair down. He ran in turn, crouching in trees and hedges, to distinguish in the haze of twilight mauve mall leading to the house. Dogs must not bark, and bark. Butler would not be at that time, and was not. He went up the three porch steps and entered. From the blood galloping in his ears came the words of women: first a blue chamber, then a gallery, a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first room, one in the second. The door of the room, and then the knife in his hand. the light of the windows, the high back of a green velvet chair, the head of the man on the couch reading a novel.