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288 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1968
I knew what I refuse to accept now. I was afraid and appealed to anything so as not to believe. I loved you too much to accept that hallucination where you weren’t even present, where you were only a mirror or a book or a shadow in a castle. I lost myself in analogies and bottles of white wine. I got to the brink and preferred not to know.
“Pensar era inútil, como desesperarse por recordar un sueño del que sólo se alcanzan las últimas hilachas al abrir los ojos; pensar era quizá destruir la tela todavía suspendida en algo como el reverso de la sensación, su latencia acaso repetible. Cerrar los ojos, abandonarse, flotar en una disponibilidad total, en una espera propicia. Inútil, siempre había sido inútil; de esas regiones cimerias se volvía más pobre, más lejos de sí mismo.”
“Lo que nos salva a todos es una vida tácita que poco tiene que ver con lo cotidiano o lo astronómico, una influencia espesa que lucha contra la fácil dispersión en cualquier conformismo o cualquier rebeldía más o menos gregarios, una catarata de tortugas que no termina nunca de hacer pie porque desciende con un movimiento retardado que apenas guarda relación con nuestras identidades de foto tres cuartos sobre fondo blanco e impresión dígito-pulgar derecho, la vida como algo ajeno pero que lo mismo hay que cuidar, el niño que le dejan a uno mientras la madre va a hacer una diligencia, la maceta con la begonia que regaremos dos veces por semana y por favor no me le eche más de un jarrito de agua, porque la pobre se me desmejora.”
“…muchas veces cuando ellos vuelven de la ciudad con la boca pastosa y los vagos terrores de la noche, acaban por sospechar que detrás de esos torpes, sucios itinerarios se ha estado escondiendo otra cosa, un cumplimiento, y que tal vez sea en la ciudad donde realmente va a ocurrir lo que aquí les parece abominable o imposible o never more.”
And I had lived through too many attacks of those explosions of a power that came out of myself against myself not to know whether some were mere flashes of lightning that gave way to nothingness without leaving more than a frustration (monotonous deja vu's, meaningful associations, but swallowing their own tails), or other time, like the one that had just happened to me, were something astir in territory deep inside, wounding me all over like an iron claw, which, at the same time, was a door slammed in my face. (pg.22)
la hipótesis de Morelli está realizada parcialmente pero no totalmente. Yo no creo que sea practicable, incluso creo que no tiene interés literario.So let's drop that notion in order to free up mental space to think of other possibilities.
["Morelli’s hypothesis is partially but not fully realised. I do not think it practicable, I even think it lacks literary interest."] 1
All my actions in that last half-hour were placed in a perspective that could only have meaning after what had happened to me in the Polidor, wiping out in a crazy way any ordinary causal bond.I just re-read the novel for a third time, not all the way through, only passages that I marked to re-read because I didn't understand it the second time. Throughout my second reading, I noticed that cause and effect are significantly and intentionally warped in this novel, so that things happening after could cause things that happened before. But I didn't know how to talk about it. Now, my third time through, I think I have more of an idea.
...a lesson of things, a display of how once more the before and the after had fallen apart in his hands, leaving him a light, useless rain of dead moths.The book begins at the end. Juan arrives at the Polidor and looks back at the story that just happened (or is going to happen, depending on your perspective). The book really begins 15% into the book, the section starting "Why was Dr. Daniel Lysons DCL MD holding a branch of..." (There's a weird bit in there about Polanco's dream of finding beating hearts that doesn't really fit in, but whatever)
Look, I will resist to the end the fact that it had to be that way, I will prefer to the end to name Frau Marta who leads me by the hand along the Blutgasse where the palace of the countess is still sketched in its moldy mist. I will persist in substituting a girl from London in the place of one from Paris, one face for another...Similarly, to Hélène, the boy in the hospital was a stand in for Juan. Again, things are made equivalent, and it is as if they are those things.
If in the last redoubt of my honesty she and the countess and Frau Marta were joined together in one same abominable image, hadn’t Hélène said at some time to me—or would tell me later, as if I hadn’t known it all along—that the only image that she could keep of me was that of a man dead in a hospital? We exchanged visions, metaphors, or dreams; sooner or later we would continue on alone, looking at each other so many nights over cups of coffee.There's talk of a deck of cards and how they're dealt. These cards can be dealt in any order, an order that implies before and after. Similarly, the scenes in the book are like a deck of cards, all shuffled out of order. Juan thinks that if he could just get the order of the cards right, that he could meet up with Hélène in the city, and that things would have turned out differently. That he could have prevented it.
and I’ll deal them again my way, time after time, until I convince myself of a repetition without appeal or find you finally as I had wanted to find you in the city or in the zoneMeanwhile Hélène thinks she could have prevented the boy in the hospital (which she associates with Juan) from dying, and that it is similarly a matter of order. Somehow she thinks that vamping on Celia before meeting the boy in the hospital would have helped prevent it (Is this what she's thinking? I'm not sure now, it's hard to figure out what she's thinking. Maybe the boy didn't die because of an accident? Maybe Hélène caused it because she was hungry for blood? I don't know.)
But telling [...] would be putting things in order, like a person dissecting birds, and they know that, too, in the zone, and the first one to smile would be my paredros, the first to yawn would be Polanco, and you too, Hélène, when instead of your name I put out smoke rings and figures of speech.So my third time reading it and I'm back to doubts and questions. Which is as it should be. I feel a bit like I've dissected a bird that I shouldn't have.