I had never heard of Hebe Uhart until I read a review of this in the NYTBR a few weeks ago; it is a rare exception to my almost invariable dislike of books that Dwight Garner likes.
The essays include incidents of Uhart's everyday life in Buenos Aires, travels to various small towns in Argentina and Paraguay, and excursions to Mexico (the Guadalajara Book Fair), Peru, and Colombia. She is an acute observer of small details, often overlooked:
"their houses contain many old books, which were passed on to them by their grandfathers; they don't throw or give them away - it would be like throwing or giving away their grandfather. Nor do they use a feather duster to clean, it would be like feather dusting Grandfather."
"I could have gone on reading in that little room, but it was strange to read Barthes in a place where pigs were running around as they pleased."
(although would that really be stranger than reading Barthes anywhere else?)
"In the central plaza, the only sharply defined details on the monument for General Osorio are the general and his horse; below them a shapeless mass of hazy soldiers, dead, alive, injured. It reminds me of Spinoza: some live, while others die; some rise, while others go to sleep - every variety of existence does nothing more than reflect the unity of nature."
This is a quiet book, not a lot of action, but a lot of observations worth remembering.
"This is what happens to us; we learn things and then forget them after a while."
"We all have asses, Hebe, she replied soberly.
It was a Socratic truth, the moment when Socrates grasps for universal consensus before continuing his argument.
Indeed, Socrates, we all have asses."
(I wish I could have quoted this years ago when I was taking a graduate course on Plato!)