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Not a River
Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize 2024
Three men go out fishing, returning to a favourite spot on the river despite their memories of a terrible accident there years earlier. As a long, sultry day passes, they drink and cook and talk and dance, and try to overcome the ghosts of their past. But they are outsiders, and this intimate, peculiar moment also puts them at odds with the inhabitants of this watery universe, both human and otherwise. The forest presses close, and violence seems inevitable, but can another tragedy be avoided?Rippling across time like the river that runs through it, Selva Almada’s latest novel is the finest expression yet of her compelling style and singular vision of rural Argentina.This masterful novel reveals once again Selva Almada's unique voice and extraordinary sensitivity, allowing its characters to shine and express in action what the depths of their souls harbour.
One of the Best Books of 2020 in Clarín and La Nación Shortlisted for the Mario Vargas Llosa Novel Prize
Three men go out fishing, returning to a favourite spot on the river despite their memories of a terrible accident there years earlier. As a long, sultry day passes, they drink and cook and talk and dance, and try to overcome the ghosts of their past. But they are outsiders, and this intimate, peculiar moment also puts them at odds with the inhabitants of this watery universe, both human and otherwise. The forest presses close, and violence seems inevitable, but can another tragedy be avoided?Rippling across time like the river that runs through it, Selva Almada’s latest novel is the finest expression yet of her compelling style and singular vision of rural Argentina.This masterful novel reveals once again Selva Almada's unique voice and extraordinary sensitivity, allowing its characters to shine and express in action what the depths of their souls harbour.
One of the Best Books of 2020 in Clarín and La Nación Shortlisted for the Mario Vargas Llosa Novel Prize
92 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2020
238 people are currently reading
14809 people want to read
About the author
Selva Almada
32 books900 followersSelva Almada (Entre Ríos, Argentina, 1973) is considered one of the most powerful voices of contemporary Argentinian and Latin American literature and one of the most influential feminist intellectuals of the region. Including her début The Wind that Lays Waste, she has published three novels, a book of short stories, a book of journalistic fiction (Dead Girls) and a kind of film diary (written in the set of Lucrecia Martel’s most recent film Zama, based on Antonio di Benedetto’s novel). She has been finalist of the Rodolfo Walsh Award and of the Tigre Juan Award (both in Spain). Her work has been translated into French, Italian, Portuguese, German, Dutch, Swedish and Turkish. Her most recent novel, No es un río (This is not a River) has just been published in Argentina (2020). Brickmakers is her third book to appear in English and is being published in collaboration with Graywolf Press, US.
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March 26, 2025
Update March 2025: Shortlisted for the Dublin Literary Award 2025
Update 09 April 2024: Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize 2024
The shortlist will be announced Tomorrow and I was hoping to write a few words about the books I’ve already read from the longlist. However, it is hard and I am not particularly looking forward to the task. Why? Because all three novels are books of feeling. You either reverberate with the writing or you don’t. I find it hard to pinpoint why any of them worked for me. Ok, I could say that it is because of the themes, writing but in the end it came down to the easiness and pleasure I absorbed the words that were coming towards me.
In Not a River, Selva Almada tells the story of two friends, Enero and El Negro, who take Tilo, the son of their recently deceased friend fishing to an island on the Paraná River. It is also the place where the father, Eusebio has died, a place which seems to be full of ghosts. The writing is episodic but it flows like a river, hypnotic and poetic but also menacing. It is not always clear what happens and when. Characters and timelines overlap until even reality becomes challenged. The colloquial language and the use of words specific to the area help create a special world and to portray the characters. Similar to The Wind That lay Waste, there is an atmosphere of impending violence that you can smell and feel.
My Review of The Wind That lay Waste is here
Update 09 April 2024: Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize 2024
The shortlist will be announced Tomorrow and I was hoping to write a few words about the books I’ve already read from the longlist. However, it is hard and I am not particularly looking forward to the task. Why? Because all three novels are books of feeling. You either reverberate with the writing or you don’t. I find it hard to pinpoint why any of them worked for me. Ok, I could say that it is because of the themes, writing but in the end it came down to the easiness and pleasure I absorbed the words that were coming towards me.
In Not a River, Selva Almada tells the story of two friends, Enero and El Negro, who take Tilo, the son of their recently deceased friend fishing to an island on the Paraná River. It is also the place where the father, Eusebio has died, a place which seems to be full of ghosts. The writing is episodic but it flows like a river, hypnotic and poetic but also menacing. It is not always clear what happens and when. Characters and timelines overlap until even reality becomes challenged. The colloquial language and the use of words specific to the area help create a special world and to portray the characters. Similar to The Wind That lay Waste, there is an atmosphere of impending violence that you can smell and feel.
My Review of The Wind That lay Waste is here
August 30, 2020
Me devoré este libro, es una belleza! Selva Almada tiene una manera de llevar el lenguaje al mínimo, casi se sostiene con nada, y lo convierte en música, con pocos trazos hace personajes vívidos y memorables. Solo se me ocurre compararla con mi consentido de la vida, Rulfo. Los paisajes y los pueblos de Selva son otros, pero el paisaje es tan parte de la historia, y del lenguaje, como son estos personajes y sus historias. Vayan corriendo por él, es bellísimo. Y si no han leído Viento que arrasa y Ladrilleros, también son hermosos.
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August 28, 2025
'He could swear the woods have closed up behind him.'
This continues my theory that getting on a boat in literature usually leads to a bummer time. But yet a good read. A consistent cycle of tragedy and trauma churns towards the next generation in Selva Almada’s Not a River, a story that serves as an urgent rebuke against submitting to feelings of fatalism and a plea to confront the social forces that drive it. Almada invokes an eerie elegance in this rather laconic tale of reminiscence and retribution where death casts a long shadow over a present always perched on the precipice of horror. Caught in its shadow are two lifelong friends who have come to a rural island river to fish with the teenage son of their friend who perished in the very same river. Sun-soaked into surreality and a sense of otherness amidst a threatening natural world, hostile locals and two mysterious sisters who catch their eye, each page portends disaster as an impending violence can be felt boiling underneath. Annie McDermott harnesses Almada’s prose as it winds like a river between past and present for a gorgeous translation certainly deserving of its shortlisting for the 2024 International Booker. Not a River is a brief yet powerful novella that enacts a chilling social horror through a deep look at masculinity wrapped up in broader issues of poverty, sexuality and violence set against the indifference of nature and human fragility.
‘A summer like this one. Twenty years back, a summer like this one. The same island or the next one along or the one after that. In the memory it's all just the island, with no name or exact coordinates.’
Central to Not a River is, in fact, a river—well ‘not a river, this river’—that takes on new meaning as the story flows around each narrative turn, it’s current carrying the two sets of characters as well as the past and present together. For the locals of this rural Argentinian island, they were ‘baptized by the river,’ for the visitors it is the source of warm memories of youth now waterlogged in grief at the loss of the friend who drowned there. But it is not just the river but the whole of the island and nature that comes alive like a character, interacting with the people and issuing a sense of foreboding with each branch shaking in the breeze.
Selva Almada excels at capturing a sense of eerie and creeping dread that makes the reader wonder if reality is about to be shredded into bloody taters as the abstract horrors underneath claw their way out. The tone of each scene is awash in disoriented unease where orange skies seem to be glowering in the gloam and even a house in daylight feels plunged into the darkness of a haunting—‘its scary in the silent, empty house, even though the sun is still shining’ Violence seems to crouch in every dark corner waiting to spring, and when Almada shines the beam of her prose to reveal the lurking dangers we find it to be unrestrained masculinity made all the more feral on a cocktail of grief and frustration.
‘A night like this, just like this, only darker.’
Almada cites Not a River as the third in a triptych of books aimed at investigating the effects of masculinity and violence, though readers can approach this without having any knowledge of The Wind That Lays Waste or Brickmakers to enjoy this one. Though readers familiar with Almada’s work will once again celebrate her stunning prose and familiar themes still rendered fresh. There is a signature sparseness to her writing that still feels spacious as where a lot is implied just off the page as the story stretches out its arms between past and present, and the imagery and symbolism fill a space far larger than their descriptions. Annie McDermott, who has translated several Almada works already, has a knack for capturing this in English and retaining the unique specifics of her works. In the afterword (publishers, please give translators the space to speak I love this) she gives a few insights into her choices that show genuine care. I was particularly intrigued by her efforts at the use of language on the island:
Another aspect of dialog I found effective in its execution are the ways the dialog is unadorned by quotations (which I honestly find redundant when an author has a good sense of tone anyways) but also offset in separate lines from the speaker. It gives a sense that the characters are detached from their own words as they, like the reader, are more observers to their speech as the surreal menacing atmosphere rolls over them. Like the bartender with words jostling with the smoke from the cigarette that never leaves his mouth,’ language is ghostly, airy, a character of its own apart from the characters who speak it.
‘That feeling would never leave him. That grief. It still hits him from time to time. It hits right now as he's smoking by himself.
In the middle of the river.
In the middle of the night.’
What works so well here is the way past and present blend back and forth with backstories that tease revelations just teetering on the edge of understanding until it all topples into tragedy together. No spoilers but there are some big reveals that land with the force of a book that feels more like 800 pages than 80. ‘Sometimes dreams are echoes of the future,’ the men are told in their youth as we see how the future can also haunt the past and build a sense of helplessness as tragedies seem to roll out in predictable cycles. The men suffer at their own hands yet throw them up in the air as if unable to recognize their own roles for which they are unrepentant. Men that want sex and the company of women but not any responsibility. Men who plot revenge that goes from a frightening warning to a potential murder as they drain the bottles down. Men who can’t seem to let go of a culture of masculinity even when they are drowning in it.
‘In a small town a tragedy's everyone's business, we're all mixed up together around here’
There is also an excellent look at the divide between rural and city here, particularly the way the rural folks stick together and are wary of outsiders. The killing of a ray and the disposal of its body that sets off the events of the novel is not just a ray but an expression of the island and the attitudes of the city to dismiss and dispose of the rural population.
Frustrations fester and lives crack. Aside from the men fishing there is another excellent and haunting narrative about the aging Siomara and her losing battle against her daughters aging into young women lusted after by men, ‘how little by little they were slipping away, how sooner or later they were going to leave her as well.’ In Siomara we also find a juxtaposition to the indifference of nature, however, as she has a habit of setting fires learned after a particular childhood trauma. If nature is indifferent to the life humans, fire is indifferent to the life of nature, though one might have to consider if here fire is a symbol of destruction or purification.
‘Sometimes she thinks the fire talks to her. Not like a person does, not with words. But there's something in the crackle, the soft sound of the flames, as if she could almost hear the air burning away, yes, something, right there, that speaks to her alone...
Come on, you know you want to.
It says.’
Surreal and succinct, Not a River is an impressive and powerful little novel. With prose that crackles like the fires set around the island at night, Almada illuminates the darkness to find the menacing figures of toxic masculinity and violence beleaguering society. As past and present flow together, this story lands some rather haunting twists that culminates to an ending that you’ll sense approaching like the inevitability of death, yet when it arrives it is no less fierce or shocking. Yet amidst it all we still find a drive for survival and to placate the horrors of life. But will the men of this story be able to rise above the rage and resentments, or will the burden once again fall upon the women caught in the blaze.
4.5/5
‘As if just before dying he'd seen something so huge he couldn't take it it.
But what was it? Something too huge, that was for sure.
But also too terrible?
Or too beautiful.’
This continues my theory that getting on a boat in literature usually leads to a bummer time. But yet a good read. A consistent cycle of tragedy and trauma churns towards the next generation in Selva Almada’s Not a River, a story that serves as an urgent rebuke against submitting to feelings of fatalism and a plea to confront the social forces that drive it. Almada invokes an eerie elegance in this rather laconic tale of reminiscence and retribution where death casts a long shadow over a present always perched on the precipice of horror. Caught in its shadow are two lifelong friends who have come to a rural island river to fish with the teenage son of their friend who perished in the very same river. Sun-soaked into surreality and a sense of otherness amidst a threatening natural world, hostile locals and two mysterious sisters who catch their eye, each page portends disaster as an impending violence can be felt boiling underneath. Annie McDermott harnesses Almada’s prose as it winds like a river between past and present for a gorgeous translation certainly deserving of its shortlisting for the 2024 International Booker. Not a River is a brief yet powerful novella that enacts a chilling social horror through a deep look at masculinity wrapped up in broader issues of poverty, sexuality and violence set against the indifference of nature and human fragility.
‘A summer like this one. Twenty years back, a summer like this one. The same island or the next one along or the one after that. In the memory it's all just the island, with no name or exact coordinates.’
Central to Not a River is, in fact, a river—well ‘not a river, this river’—that takes on new meaning as the story flows around each narrative turn, it’s current carrying the two sets of characters as well as the past and present together. For the locals of this rural Argentinian island, they were ‘baptized by the river,’ for the visitors it is the source of warm memories of youth now waterlogged in grief at the loss of the friend who drowned there. But it is not just the river but the whole of the island and nature that comes alive like a character, interacting with the people and issuing a sense of foreboding with each branch shaking in the breeze.
‘This man isn’t from these woods and the woods are well aware. But they leave him be. He can come in, he can stay for as long as it takes to gather kindling. Then the woods themselves will spit him out, his arms full of branches, back to the shore’
Selva Almada excels at capturing a sense of eerie and creeping dread that makes the reader wonder if reality is about to be shredded into bloody taters as the abstract horrors underneath claw their way out. The tone of each scene is awash in disoriented unease where orange skies seem to be glowering in the gloam and even a house in daylight feels plunged into the darkness of a haunting—‘its scary in the silent, empty house, even though the sun is still shining’ Violence seems to crouch in every dark corner waiting to spring, and when Almada shines the beam of her prose to reveal the lurking dangers we find it to be unrestrained masculinity made all the more feral on a cocktail of grief and frustration.
‘A night like this, just like this, only darker.’
Almada cites Not a River as the third in a triptych of books aimed at investigating the effects of masculinity and violence, though readers can approach this without having any knowledge of The Wind That Lays Waste or Brickmakers to enjoy this one. Though readers familiar with Almada’s work will once again celebrate her stunning prose and familiar themes still rendered fresh. There is a signature sparseness to her writing that still feels spacious as where a lot is implied just off the page as the story stretches out its arms between past and present, and the imagery and symbolism fill a space far larger than their descriptions. Annie McDermott, who has translated several Almada works already, has a knack for capturing this in English and retaining the unique specifics of her works. In the afterword (publishers, please give translators the space to speak I love this) she gives a few insights into her choices that show genuine care. I was particularly intrigued by her efforts at the use of language on the island:
‘I was seeking to piece together a language that was earthy and colloquial, as natural as breathing, and could plausibly feel like the way people might speak on this island in the Paraná Delta.’
Another aspect of dialog I found effective in its execution are the ways the dialog is unadorned by quotations (which I honestly find redundant when an author has a good sense of tone anyways) but also offset in separate lines from the speaker. It gives a sense that the characters are detached from their own words as they, like the reader, are more observers to their speech as the surreal menacing atmosphere rolls over them. Like the bartender with words jostling with the smoke from the cigarette that never leaves his mouth,’ language is ghostly, airy, a character of its own apart from the characters who speak it.
‘That feeling would never leave him. That grief. It still hits him from time to time. It hits right now as he's smoking by himself.
In the middle of the river.
In the middle of the night.’
What works so well here is the way past and present blend back and forth with backstories that tease revelations just teetering on the edge of understanding until it all topples into tragedy together. No spoilers but there are some big reveals that land with the force of a book that feels more like 800 pages than 80. ‘Sometimes dreams are echoes of the future,’ the men are told in their youth as we see how the future can also haunt the past and build a sense of helplessness as tragedies seem to roll out in predictable cycles. The men suffer at their own hands yet throw them up in the air as if unable to recognize their own roles for which they are unrepentant. Men that want sex and the company of women but not any responsibility. Men who plot revenge that goes from a frightening warning to a potential murder as they drain the bottles down. Men who can’t seem to let go of a culture of masculinity even when they are drowning in it.
‘In a small town a tragedy's everyone's business, we're all mixed up together around here’
There is also an excellent look at the divide between rural and city here, particularly the way the rural folks stick together and are wary of outsiders. The killing of a ray and the disposal of its body that sets off the events of the novel is not just a ray but an expression of the island and the attitudes of the city to dismiss and dispose of the rural population.
‘It wasn't a ray. It was that ray. A beautiful creature stretched out in the mud at the bottom, she'd have shone white like a bride in the lightless depths. Flat on the riverbed or gliding in her tulle, magnolia from the water, searching for food, chasing transparent larvae, skeletal roots.The hooks buried in her sides, the tug-of-war all afternoon till she can't tight any more. The gunshots. Pulled from the river to be thrown back in later.
Dead.’
Frustrations fester and lives crack. Aside from the men fishing there is another excellent and haunting narrative about the aging Siomara and her losing battle against her daughters aging into young women lusted after by men, ‘how little by little they were slipping away, how sooner or later they were going to leave her as well.’ In Siomara we also find a juxtaposition to the indifference of nature, however, as she has a habit of setting fires learned after a particular childhood trauma. If nature is indifferent to the life humans, fire is indifferent to the life of nature, though one might have to consider if here fire is a symbol of destruction or purification.
‘Sometimes she thinks the fire talks to her. Not like a person does, not with words. But there's something in the crackle, the soft sound of the flames, as if she could almost hear the air burning away, yes, something, right there, that speaks to her alone...
Come on, you know you want to.
It says.’
Surreal and succinct, Not a River is an impressive and powerful little novel. With prose that crackles like the fires set around the island at night, Almada illuminates the darkness to find the menacing figures of toxic masculinity and violence beleaguering society. As past and present flow together, this story lands some rather haunting twists that culminates to an ending that you’ll sense approaching like the inevitability of death, yet when it arrives it is no less fierce or shocking. Yet amidst it all we still find a drive for survival and to placate the horrors of life. But will the men of this story be able to rise above the rage and resentments, or will the burden once again fall upon the women caught in the blaze.
4.5/5
‘As if just before dying he'd seen something so huge he couldn't take it it.
But what was it? Something too huge, that was for sure.
But also too terrible?
Or too beautiful.’
March 27, 2025
Now Shortlisted for the 2025 Dublin Literary Award
Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize 2024
This short Argentinian novel thrives when it comes to creating an intense and brooding atmosphere, full of foreboding and mysterious threat. On the surface level, it's a story about two friends, Enero and El Negro, who take the teenage son of a deceased friend fishing at the Paraná River where his father died in a boating accident. There, they play out whatever comes to mind in the narrative catalogue of toxic masculinity, in this case particularly manifesting in shooting (!) a giant stingray and hanging it in tree, then discarding it in the water - much to the dismay of the (equally hard-drinking and misogynistic) male locals, who plot revenge...
What renders the story interesting is how Almada works with magic realism in the form of ghosts: Not only does the spectre of the deceased friend / father loom large over the fishing buddies, there are also the ghosts of two deceased girls roaming the text, and a fire metaphor illuminates violence and announces destruction. This supernatural element as well as the evocation of atmosphere are excellent...
...but: There is also a lot of smoke here for a rather under-complex message. The men perpetrating the violence are often no more than chiffres, and thus psychologically flat and ultimately boring. The victimized women have no interior lives either. And for the life of me, I couldn't find the political angle to neoliberalism the author claims to have included: In an interview, she connects the story to the Argentinian rendition of Thatcherism and the latest rise of right-wing politics in Argentina, especially the destructive force of La Libertad Avanza, and if that's a point she intended to make, the strategy is misguided. The dynamics between poverty and marginalization and the rise of far-right powers is not illustrated in any persuasive way here, which is a shame, because as someone who actively rallies against the German AfD, I would have loved to learn about the situation in Argentina.
Then again, you could absolutely argue that the author's intention is irrelevant for the strength of the result, that a novel stands on its own, and that's very valid - but then, the whole thing is too long for what it is. Be it as it may, "Not a River" does have many merits and I applaud the experimental angle.
You can listen to our discussion on the podcast (in German) here: https://papierstaupodcast.de/podcast/...
Shortlisted for the International Booker Prize 2024
This short Argentinian novel thrives when it comes to creating an intense and brooding atmosphere, full of foreboding and mysterious threat. On the surface level, it's a story about two friends, Enero and El Negro, who take the teenage son of a deceased friend fishing at the Paraná River where his father died in a boating accident. There, they play out whatever comes to mind in the narrative catalogue of toxic masculinity, in this case particularly manifesting in shooting (!) a giant stingray and hanging it in tree, then discarding it in the water - much to the dismay of the (equally hard-drinking and misogynistic) male locals, who plot revenge...
What renders the story interesting is how Almada works with magic realism in the form of ghosts: Not only does the spectre of the deceased friend / father loom large over the fishing buddies, there are also the ghosts of two deceased girls roaming the text, and a fire metaphor illuminates violence and announces destruction. This supernatural element as well as the evocation of atmosphere are excellent...
...but: There is also a lot of smoke here for a rather under-complex message. The men perpetrating the violence are often no more than chiffres, and thus psychologically flat and ultimately boring. The victimized women have no interior lives either. And for the life of me, I couldn't find the political angle to neoliberalism the author claims to have included: In an interview, she connects the story to the Argentinian rendition of Thatcherism and the latest rise of right-wing politics in Argentina, especially the destructive force of La Libertad Avanza, and if that's a point she intended to make, the strategy is misguided. The dynamics between poverty and marginalization and the rise of far-right powers is not illustrated in any persuasive way here, which is a shame, because as someone who actively rallies against the German AfD, I would have loved to learn about the situation in Argentina.
Then again, you could absolutely argue that the author's intention is irrelevant for the strength of the result, that a novel stands on its own, and that's very valid - but then, the whole thing is too long for what it is. Be it as it may, "Not a River" does have many merits and I applaud the experimental angle.
You can listen to our discussion on the podcast (in German) here: https://papierstaupodcast.de/podcast/...
March 25, 2025
Shortlisted for the Dublin Literary Award
Shortlisted for the 2024 International Booker Prize - deservedly so and Winner of the Shadow Jury Prize from a group of bloggers and online reviewers of which I am part
It’s not a river, it’s this river.
Not a River (2024) is Annie McDermott's translation of Selva Almada's No es un río (2020). It forms the last part of a loose trilogy of novels centred on male characters in remote or hostile environments as the author explained at the time of publication with:
1) The Wind that Lays Waste (2019) translated by Chris Andrews from her debut El viento que arrasa (2012) - my review
2) Brickmakers (2021) translated by Annie McDermott from Ladrilleros (2013) - my review
Almada also writes short-stories, poetry and journalistic non-fictional (chronicles) of which in English we've had Dead Girls (2020) translated by Annie McDermott from Chicas muertas (2014) - my review. All of the above in English are published by Charco Press, this their 47th book overall - I've read and reviewed them all at my dedicated shelf.
'Not a River' was inspired by a conversation at a barbecue with a friend who told how he had caught a giant stingray in the Paraná river by shooting it with a gun, which gives rise to the scene that opens the novel.
Two men in their 50s, Enero and El Negro, are fishing on an island in the Paraná with Tilo, the son of their late friend Eusebio who drowned in the same waters. They catch a giant stingray by shooting it, and hang it from a tree, where it attracts the attention of the locals. But when Enero and friends throw the fish's body back in the river, it raises the ire of the islanders, led by Aguirre.
He stays where he is. Just over the road the woods begin. He knows them like the palm ofhis hand. Better than he's ever known another person. Better than he knows Cesar, who's his friend. Better than he knows his sister, who's a mystery still. Better than he knew his nieces, poor things, they never had the time. He knows the woods better than he knows himself.
Some wind gets in between the trees and it's so quiet at this hour that the rustle of leaves could be the breath of a giant beast. He listens as it breathes. As it huffs and puffs. The branches move like ribs, inflating and deflating with the air that's sucked deep inside.
They're not just trees. Not just bushes.
They're not just birds. Not just bugs.
The quitilipi isn't a wildcat, though perched on a branch it might look like one.
They're not just any guinea pigs. It this guinea pig. This yarará.
This bromeliad, unique, its centre red like a woman's blood.
If he looks farther on, to where the road slopes down, he can just about see the river. A glint that makes his eyes water. And again: it's not a river, it's this river. He's spent more time with it than with anyone.
So.
What gave them the right!
It wasn't a ray. It was that ray. A beautiful creature stretched out in the mud at the bottom, she'd have shone white like a bride in the lightless depths. Flat on the riverbed or gliding in her tulle, magnolia from the water, searching for food, chasing transparent larvae, skeletal roots.The hooks buried in her sides, the tug-of-war all afternoon till she can't tight any more. The gunshots. Pulled from the river to be thrown back in later.
Dead.
The format of the text and lack of chapter breaks is deliberate, to give the effect of prose that flows like a river (gráficamente también se parece a la corriente de un río).
The novel focuses on both the history of the three friends Enero, El Negro and Eusibio, but also of Aguirre, his sister Siomara and her two daughters, Mariela and Lucy, who invite Tilo to a dance, although a local shopkeeper warns them off "Get a grip pal, can't you see they're long gone"
With Aguirre and his friends intent on punishing the fishermen, and Tilo heading for the dance to meet Mariela and Lucy, the sense of impending violence ratchets as this powerful and compact novel heads to a conclusion.
Another impressive work from Almada and McDermott, whose afterword explains some of the context of the novel and some of the translation choices she made.
Read 22nd December, 4 stars
Shortlisted for the 2024 International Booker Prize - deservedly so and Winner of the Shadow Jury Prize from a group of bloggers and online reviewers of which I am part
It’s not a river, it’s this river.
Not a River (2024) is Annie McDermott's translation of Selva Almada's No es un río (2020). It forms the last part of a loose trilogy of novels centred on male characters in remote or hostile environments as the author explained at the time of publication with:
1) The Wind that Lays Waste (2019) translated by Chris Andrews from her debut El viento que arrasa (2012) - my review
2) Brickmakers (2021) translated by Annie McDermott from Ladrilleros (2013) - my review
"Cuando empecé El viento que arrasa no sabía que iban a seguir estas dos novelas, de hecho cuando escribí Ladrilleros tampoco lo sabía. Pero cuando aparecieron las primeras imágenes de esta novela pensé que entre las tres podían formar una especie de trilogía porque están concentradas en personajes masculinos y en el universo de los varones."
(translated per ChatGPT) "When I started 'El viento que arrasa,' I didn't know that these two novels would follow; in fact, when I wrote 'Ladrilleros,' I didn't know either. But when the first images of this novel appeared, I thought that the three could form a kind of trilogy because they are focused on male characters and the universe of men."
Almada also writes short-stories, poetry and journalistic non-fictional (chronicles) of which in English we've had Dead Girls (2020) translated by Annie McDermott from Chicas muertas (2014) - my review. All of the above in English are published by Charco Press, this their 47th book overall - I've read and reviewed them all at my dedicated shelf.
'Not a River' was inspired by a conversation at a barbecue with a friend who told how he had caught a giant stingray in the Paraná river by shooting it with a gun, which gives rise to the scene that opens the novel.
Two men in their 50s, Enero and El Negro, are fishing on an island in the Paraná with Tilo, the son of their late friend Eusebio who drowned in the same waters. They catch a giant stingray by shooting it, and hang it from a tree, where it attracts the attention of the locals. But when Enero and friends throw the fish's body back in the river, it raises the ire of the islanders, led by Aguirre.
He stays where he is. Just over the road the woods begin. He knows them like the palm ofhis hand. Better than he's ever known another person. Better than he knows Cesar, who's his friend. Better than he knows his sister, who's a mystery still. Better than he knew his nieces, poor things, they never had the time. He knows the woods better than he knows himself.
Some wind gets in between the trees and it's so quiet at this hour that the rustle of leaves could be the breath of a giant beast. He listens as it breathes. As it huffs and puffs. The branches move like ribs, inflating and deflating with the air that's sucked deep inside.
They're not just trees. Not just bushes.
They're not just birds. Not just bugs.
The quitilipi isn't a wildcat, though perched on a branch it might look like one.
They're not just any guinea pigs. It this guinea pig. This yarará.
This bromeliad, unique, its centre red like a woman's blood.
If he looks farther on, to where the road slopes down, he can just about see the river. A glint that makes his eyes water. And again: it's not a river, it's this river. He's spent more time with it than with anyone.
So.
What gave them the right!
It wasn't a ray. It was that ray. A beautiful creature stretched out in the mud at the bottom, she'd have shone white like a bride in the lightless depths. Flat on the riverbed or gliding in her tulle, magnolia from the water, searching for food, chasing transparent larvae, skeletal roots.The hooks buried in her sides, the tug-of-war all afternoon till she can't tight any more. The gunshots. Pulled from the river to be thrown back in later.
Dead.
The format of the text and lack of chapter breaks is deliberate, to give the effect of prose that flows like a river (gráficamente también se parece a la corriente de un río).
The novel focuses on both the history of the three friends Enero, El Negro and Eusibio, but also of Aguirre, his sister Siomara and her two daughters, Mariela and Lucy, who invite Tilo to a dance, although a local shopkeeper warns them off "Get a grip pal, can't you see they're long gone"
With Aguirre and his friends intent on punishing the fishermen, and Tilo heading for the dance to meet Mariela and Lucy, the sense of impending violence ratchets as this powerful and compact novel heads to a conclusion.
Another impressive work from Almada and McDermott, whose afterword explains some of the context of the novel and some of the translation choices she made.
Read 22nd December, 4 stars
Read
November 17, 2022La literatura argentina me ha dado tantas alegrías últimamente que no me canso de descubrir a este país a través de sus libros. «No es un río» es una novela corta pero intensa que, a partir de la excursión de pesca de tres amigos, nos introduce de lleno en un universo rural turbio, violento, oscuro y hasta misterioso. A este viaje de fin de semana le sobrevuelan los recuerdos, pero también las tragedias (las que ya pasaron, las que están por llegar) y cierta alegría de vivir que se aferra al momento sin saber lo que podrá venir después. La ambientación me ha parecido sobresaliente, pero me hubiese gustado que las líneas temporales y la caracterización de los personajes fueran un poco menos confusas.
June 17, 2024
Short chapters on two fishing trips gone wrong in connection to death. The author (and translator) paint a vivid portrait of decrepit villages far from the world, with little opportunities, suffering under sweltering heat and sexism
A night like this, just like this, only darker.
Focusing on overlooked masculine, rural settings, this book transports the reader to verdant outer provinces of Argentina. Not much happens in the here and now in Not a River, but the tension and historical slights and disappointments form a strong undercurrent.
Interesting a disregard of nature, and an unearthing (for lack of a better word) of a giant fish, sets events in motion, while any modern concerns about the environment are absent in the narrative.
Sometimes dreams are echoes of the future, but Selva Almada also seems to imply that the present often repeats the past. The mirror, like the observant, still river surface that plays throughout the book is the event that left Eusebio Ponce, dead father to Tulio (on the current trip) missing in the river.
Mates El Negro and Enero now take care of his son. Meanwhile we have some potentially supernatural activity surrounding two sisters, Lucy and Mariela, who may or may not be ghosts.
Island people who carry a grudge is also definitely a thing, as are friends who have secrets for each other. The atmosphere the book manages to conjure is amazing and convincing, the decrepit villages far from the world, with little opportunities, suffering under sweltering heat become oppressively alive.
Sexism and abortions, abusive men, unspoken guilt and grief (hardly much is spoken at all in the book), it is a heavy mixture in a short but impactful book.
A night like this, just like this, only darker.
Focusing on overlooked masculine, rural settings, this book transports the reader to verdant outer provinces of Argentina. Not much happens in the here and now in Not a River, but the tension and historical slights and disappointments form a strong undercurrent.
Interesting a disregard of nature, and an unearthing (for lack of a better word) of a giant fish, sets events in motion, while any modern concerns about the environment are absent in the narrative.
Sometimes dreams are echoes of the future, but Selva Almada also seems to imply that the present often repeats the past. The mirror, like the observant, still river surface that plays throughout the book is the event that left Eusebio Ponce, dead father to Tulio (on the current trip) missing in the river.
Mates El Negro and Enero now take care of his son. Meanwhile we have some potentially supernatural activity surrounding two sisters, Lucy and Mariela, who may or may not be ghosts.
Island people who carry a grudge is also definitely a thing, as are friends who have secrets for each other. The atmosphere the book manages to conjure is amazing and convincing, the decrepit villages far from the world, with little opportunities, suffering under sweltering heat become oppressively alive.
Sexism and abortions, abusive men, unspoken guilt and grief (hardly much is spoken at all in the book), it is a heavy mixture in a short but impactful book.
April 13, 2024
Technically, this seems to execute its intention well but it feels rather simple and straightforward to me so that the story and emotional impact don't do justice to the form. The non-linear narrative and pared back prose promise something that the eventual story doesn't match.
At the narrative level this is a tale of troubled masculinity, from the death at its heart that affects the friends left behind with unspoken guilt and grief, to the competitive masculinity of the present that leads to a fight at a nightclub.
The whole thing is created through stark and bare prose stripped of speech marks (surely a conventional way of indicating 'experimental' writing by now?) and any extraneous markers of textuality. The overlaps of time periods, of 'then' and 'now', of interior thoughts and exterior speech and actions all conform to the shape of the eponymous river, with a nice ebb and flow to the rhythm of the prose and create a definite atmosphere.
Ultimately, though, to me this feels a bit lightweight and the emotional payoff was negligible. I like a short book as much as anyone - 99 pages here - but it doesn't leave much space to say anything beyond what we surely all know about masculine toxicities and the gaps between strangers and friends.
At the narrative level this is a tale of troubled masculinity, from the death at its heart that affects the friends left behind with unspoken guilt and grief, to the competitive masculinity of the present that leads to a fight at a nightclub.
The whole thing is created through stark and bare prose stripped of speech marks (surely a conventional way of indicating 'experimental' writing by now?) and any extraneous markers of textuality. The overlaps of time periods, of 'then' and 'now', of interior thoughts and exterior speech and actions all conform to the shape of the eponymous river, with a nice ebb and flow to the rhythm of the prose and create a definite atmosphere.
Ultimately, though, to me this feels a bit lightweight and the emotional payoff was negligible. I like a short book as much as anyone - 99 pages here - but it doesn't leave much space to say anything beyond what we surely all know about masculine toxicities and the gaps between strangers and friends.
June 29, 2024
The opening of “Not A River” links a river, a fish and a gun. These elements create a contrast between tranquility and violence that flows through the novel much like the eddies of the river that swirl throughout the story.The resultant foreboding aura infuses the novel with a dreamlike quality while exploring the consequences of masculinity, guilt and desire.
The river in question is the Parana, located in rural Argentina. Two longtime friends, Enero Ray and El Negro, embark on a fishing trip with Tilo, the teenaged son of a deceased friend who perished in this same body of water.Their journey is one of expiation and hope. Their hours long struggle with a large stingray culminates with Enero shooting the magnificent fish three times in order to subdue it. This brutal act and subsequent disregard for the natural order enrages the local inhabitants, triggering past grievances and resentments that flow down dangerous paths.
The narrative moves in non linear fashion, unfolding long ago memories and secrets.The past of both the visitors and locals is rooted in virulently destructive systems of masculine behavior. Almada’s prose contrasts this destructiveness with the natural beauty of the region and imparts a shimmering tension that fluctuates between violence and tranquility. The result is a poetic creation of a unique world that contains a story of generational despair and missteps. The men seem to be caught in a cycle of testosterone laced codes of honor and betrayal that spur bursts of irresponsible and aggressive behavior. The women in their lives appear to be locked in cycles of youthful temptation and aged despair, unable to extricate themselves from their maternal optimistic nurturing that leads to disappointment as they mature.The novel culminates with a touch of magic realism that explodes in fire, illuminating the dysfunctional, fragmented communities impacted by these destructive behaviors while they struggle to survive.
There is a political undertone to this brief,densely packed text.The author has stated that the novel can be read as a polemic excoriating the neoliberalism in Argentina that has impoverished and marginalized large portions of the population.Seen through this lens, the execution of the stingray becomes a symbol of disregard for both environment and population. Almada is not didactic in advancing this argument. Instead, her lean,piercing narrative style draws readers into a rarely visited world that is trying to sort out the detritus of rot and entrapment while searching for hope and resilience.
The river in question is the Parana, located in rural Argentina. Two longtime friends, Enero Ray and El Negro, embark on a fishing trip with Tilo, the teenaged son of a deceased friend who perished in this same body of water.Their journey is one of expiation and hope. Their hours long struggle with a large stingray culminates with Enero shooting the magnificent fish three times in order to subdue it. This brutal act and subsequent disregard for the natural order enrages the local inhabitants, triggering past grievances and resentments that flow down dangerous paths.
The narrative moves in non linear fashion, unfolding long ago memories and secrets.The past of both the visitors and locals is rooted in virulently destructive systems of masculine behavior. Almada’s prose contrasts this destructiveness with the natural beauty of the region and imparts a shimmering tension that fluctuates between violence and tranquility. The result is a poetic creation of a unique world that contains a story of generational despair and missteps. The men seem to be caught in a cycle of testosterone laced codes of honor and betrayal that spur bursts of irresponsible and aggressive behavior. The women in their lives appear to be locked in cycles of youthful temptation and aged despair, unable to extricate themselves from their maternal optimistic nurturing that leads to disappointment as they mature.The novel culminates with a touch of magic realism that explodes in fire, illuminating the dysfunctional, fragmented communities impacted by these destructive behaviors while they struggle to survive.
There is a political undertone to this brief,densely packed text.The author has stated that the novel can be read as a polemic excoriating the neoliberalism in Argentina that has impoverished and marginalized large portions of the population.Seen through this lens, the execution of the stingray becomes a symbol of disregard for both environment and population. Almada is not didactic in advancing this argument. Instead, her lean,piercing narrative style draws readers into a rarely visited world that is trying to sort out the detritus of rot and entrapment while searching for hope and resilience.
December 14, 2024
He devorado esta nouvelle de un tirón. Estoy enamorado de los microcosmos folclóricos que construye Selva: la cadencia pueblerina, la humedad litoraleña y ese estilo tan particular que la posiciona, con justicia literaria, como una de las grandes exponentes de la nueva narrativa contemporánea
September 13, 2020
Fascinante. Selva Almada sí que sabe captar la realidad litoraleña y retratarla desde lo simple, así tal cual lo es realmente. Al igual que con el viento que arrasa y con ladrilleros me atrapó desde las primeras páginas. Recomiendo leer si quieren viajar al litoral y conocer a los lugareños de verdad.
January 13, 2025
Качваш се в лодка, хвърляш греблата, лягаш на дъното, затваряш очи, някой да те прибутва в реката и се понасяш… Сънуваш или си буден, не е ясно…
Това е за мен прочита на “Не е река” на Селва Армада. Трескаво и бързо. Не ми стигна. Не историята. Тя е абсолютно прекрасна в своята краткост и 126 страници. Усещането, да я чета. От него искам още. Затова ще я препрочета. Скоро. Лятото, за да усетя лепкавата жега.
Двама най-добри приятели и сина на третия, който липсва…
Убит скат, върнат в реката…
Жена, която пали огън, за да изкара навън този, който гори вътре в нея…
Гората те пуска да влезеш в нея само ако си заченат или роден там, ако ли не те изхвърля…
Сънищата могат да са бъдещето…
Реката не е река…
Познаваш гората по-добре от най-близките си…
Връзките като паяжина…
Реката не е река…
Абсолютно литературно бижу и поредния аржентински автор, който ще следя с интерес. Има нещо много специфично при всички аржентинци, които съм чела до момента. Една смесица от реалност, съновидение, митове, трескавост, недоизказаност от някакъв вид.Страшно много ми харесва как пишат. Езикът на Селва Армада е приковаващ и безкрайно поетичен и красив. Романът определено е една от големите ми изненади.
“Всичко тук в полумрак. Навън слънцето, огнена топка, която угасва в реката.”
“Той остава на мястото си. Само да пресече улицата и започва гората. Познава я като петте си пръста. Както не познава или не е познавал никой човек. … Познава по-добре гората, отколкото познава себе си.”
“Ако се загледа натам, където се спуска пътят,
ще успее да зърне реката. Сияние, което навлажнява очите. И още веднъж: не е река, тази река е. Прекарал е повече време с нея, отколкото когото и да било.”
Това е за мен прочита на “Не е река” на Селва Армада. Трескаво и бързо. Не ми стигна. Не историята. Тя е абсолютно прекрасна в своята краткост и 126 страници. Усещането, да я чета. От него искам още. Затова ще я препрочета. Скоро. Лятото, за да усетя лепкавата жега.
Двама най-добри приятели и сина на третия, който липсва…
Убит скат, върнат в реката…
Жена, която пали огън, за да изкара навън този, който гори вътре в нея…
Гората те пуска да влезеш в нея само ако си заченат или роден там, ако ли не те изхвърля…
Сънищата могат да са бъдещето…
Реката не е река…
Познаваш гората по-добре от най-близките си…
Връзките като паяжина…
Реката не е река…
Абсолютно литературно бижу и поредния аржентински автор, който ще следя с интерес. Има нещо много специфично при всички аржентинци, които съм чела до момента. Една смесица от реалност, съновидение, митове, трескавост, недоизказаност от някакъв вид.Страшно много ми харесва как пишат. Езикът на Селва Армада е приковаващ и безкрайно поетичен и красив. Романът определено е една от големите ми изненади.
“Всичко тук в полумрак. Навън слънцето, огнена топка, която угасва в реката.”
“Той остава на мястото си. Само да пресече улицата и започва гората. Познава я като петте си пръста. Както не познава или не е познавал никой човек. … Познава по-добре гората, отколкото познава себе си.”
“Ако се загледа натам, където се спуска пътят,
ще успее да зърне реката. Сияние, което навлажнява очите. И още веднъж: не е река, тази река е. Прекарал е повече време с нея, отколкото когото и да било.”
September 8, 2025
I read the opening line and let it tell me as much as possible about the story I was about to read.
Being a Charco Press title, I had the wonderful abstract image of the cover, they never fail to contribute to the understanding of what the book might have to say, something I often refer back to look at, as its meaning becomes clearer. This title shows twin rivers, fed by tributaries, running red.
It is clear that there will be blood, death and violence - and more than one episode. Just as the water of the smaller channels has no choice but to flow into the main river, so too the intent of a man standing firm, staring hard awaits his prey. But who or what else might the river claim?
I really enjoyed Selva Almada's The Wind that Lays Waste (my review here) and was looking forward to this next novella, longlisted for the International Booker Prize 2024.
Not a River tells a story - not linear, in a circular fashion - that begins with two men and a boy on a fishing trip, circling back to a previous trip when there were three of them, unfolding a memory that is acting on both men, that will reveal to the reader what happened to their friend.
The second main tributary/narrative follows Siomara and her two daughters Lucy and Mariela. The girls are entering womanhood, the mother is becoming more protective of them.
She lights fires as a way to deal with her emotions, since she is a girl. She has been lighting them more frequently lately.
Again the story turns on itself, something has happened here too, sometimes the mother is living in the past, the present being too much for her to accept. The girls hear about a dance and plan to go.
Sometimes we do not know if we are reading the present or the past, we observe and accept each part of the story's mosaic, until all the pieces have been laid.
The narrative moves back and forth like the tide, river crossings to the mainland, people in the community are connected and affected by events that occur at the river. Paths cross, intertwine. It is necessary to let go of needing to know whether we are in the past or the present. If certain events happened before or after others. The past intrudes, as it does in life.
The longer the men stay in the forest, the more uneasy they feel about what they have done, what has happened in the past and about how unwelcome they are made to feel, inhabiting this place that carries a menacing vibe. They have been invited to a dance, they decide to leave their campsite and go.
Enero has a disturbing dream, twice.
The other two boys are nervous about going to see the healer, but they go anyway.
Mariela also has a dream, she tells her sister Lucy about it.
There is a sense of the repetitive cycles of the generations, girls hide from their families, they grow up to become a mother who can't help but try and prevent their child from repeating the same mistakes. It never works.
In less than 100 pages, the novella depicts many elements of a broken community, broken families, their efforts to try and bond, heal, escape, punish, revel and cope with the aftermath of it all.
"Enero Ray, standing firm on the boat, stocky and beardless, swollen-bellied, legs astride, stares hard at the surface of the river and waits, revolver in hand."
Being a Charco Press title, I had the wonderful abstract image of the cover, they never fail to contribute to the understanding of what the book might have to say, something I often refer back to look at, as its meaning becomes clearer. This title shows twin rivers, fed by tributaries, running red.
It is clear that there will be blood, death and violence - and more than one episode. Just as the water of the smaller channels has no choice but to flow into the main river, so too the intent of a man standing firm, staring hard awaits his prey. But who or what else might the river claim?
I really enjoyed Selva Almada's The Wind that Lays Waste (my review here) and was looking forward to this next novella, longlisted for the International Booker Prize 2024.
Not a River tells a story - not linear, in a circular fashion - that begins with two men and a boy on a fishing trip, circling back to a previous trip when there were three of them, unfolding a memory that is acting on both men, that will reveal to the reader what happened to their friend.
The second main tributary/narrative follows Siomara and her two daughters Lucy and Mariela. The girls are entering womanhood, the mother is becoming more protective of them.
Siomara was in one of those phases she sometimes went through, when she was grouchier than usual. Saying no to everything and dealing out punishments and bans for no reason. All because she could see how the two girls were growing, how little by little they were slipping away, how sooner or later they were going to leave her as well.
She lights fires as a way to deal with her emotions, since she is a girl. She has been lighting them more frequently lately.
Sometimes she thinks the fire talks to her. Not like a person does, not with words. But there's something in the crackle, the soft sound of the flames, as if she could almost hear the air burning away, yes, something, right there, that speaks to her alone...
Come on, you know you want to.
It says.
Again the story turns on itself, something has happened here too, sometimes the mother is living in the past, the present being too much for her to accept. The girls hear about a dance and plan to go.
Lucy wants to be a hairdresser. She wants to give other woman those moments of peace her mother seems to feel when she is doing her hair.
Sometimes we do not know if we are reading the present or the past, we observe and accept each part of the story's mosaic, until all the pieces have been laid.
The narrative moves back and forth like the tide, river crossings to the mainland, people in the community are connected and affected by events that occur at the river. Paths cross, intertwine. It is necessary to let go of needing to know whether we are in the past or the present. If certain events happened before or after others. The past intrudes, as it does in life.
A summer like this one. Twenty years back, a summer like this one. The same island or the next one along or the one after that. In the memory it's all just the island, with no name or exact coordinates.
The longer the men stay in the forest, the more uneasy they feel about what they have done, what has happened in the past and about how unwelcome they are made to feel, inhabiting this place that carries a menacing vibe. They have been invited to a dance, they decide to leave their campsite and go.
Enero has a disturbing dream, twice.
Eusubio looked at him and thought for a moment.
We need to go see my godfather. He knows about this stuff.
He said.
The other two boys are nervous about going to see the healer, but they go anyway.
Mariela also has a dream, she tells her sister Lucy about it.
And what happened in the dream?
I don't know, like I say I just had a kind of flashback. It was weird, there were lights and sirens.
There is a sense of the repetitive cycles of the generations, girls hide from their families, they grow up to become a mother who can't help but try and prevent their child from repeating the same mistakes. It never works.
She pretends not to hear. Still just about strong enough to resist. But for how much longer.
One day, she knows she will answer the fires's call.
In less than 100 pages, the novella depicts many elements of a broken community, broken families, their efforts to try and bond, heal, escape, punish, revel and cope with the aftermath of it all.
The characters in my novel, men and women who live on what the river can provide, are a reflection of what the neo-liberalism of the 1990s has done to Argentina: impoverishing it, condemning a significant part of its citizens to poverty and marginalization.Selva Almada
May 24, 2021
Muy buena novela que va creciendo con el correr de las páginas. La historia está muy bien contada, la autora maneja con oficio la información y crea buenos climas, además de introducir giros narrativos que sorprenden cuando parecía que la suerte de los personajes estaba echada. Otro texto interesantísimo de Almada.
January 29, 2024
I’m officially a Selva Almada fan. This quietly unsettling story of 2 men grieving and feeling guilt at the death of their friend is the 3rd of a loose trilogy of explorations of masculinity. The stories are not linked other than the subject, so no need to read them in any order.
The men take their deceased friend’s son fishing on an island in the Paraná Delta in Argentina, at the site where they last saw, after an argument, the young man’s father. The men are supposed to be fishing, but at the end of the day, tired, hot, and drunk, they shoot a 100 pound stingray then hang its body in a tree at their camp. This ugly incident offends and angers the local residents of the island. This episode sets the tone for the book and gives us an initial idea of who these men are.
What follows is the back stories of the friends and some of the local people on the island, giving us a fuller picture of who is behind the masculine posturing and the long-suffering women in their lives, alternating with the present, which is increasingly tense, foreshadowing a violent encounter.
A mark of an excellent author is the ability to tell a long story with fleshed out characters in just a few paragraphs, Almada achieves this with the characters we only briefly meet in this book.
Almada’s style in this novel was at first off putting to me; she uses short declarative sentences to reference a speaker, which felt abrupt and intrusive. After reading the brilliant Annie McDermott’s Translator’s Note I now feel that Almada succeeded in giving the prose a masculine and sometimes poetic feel.
Don’t read this for plot or character study. This is novel is evocative with lots to think about and discuss.
Strongly recommended!
The men take their deceased friend’s son fishing on an island in the Paraná Delta in Argentina, at the site where they last saw, after an argument, the young man’s father. The men are supposed to be fishing, but at the end of the day, tired, hot, and drunk, they shoot a 100 pound stingray then hang its body in a tree at their camp. This ugly incident offends and angers the local residents of the island. This episode sets the tone for the book and gives us an initial idea of who these men are.
What follows is the back stories of the friends and some of the local people on the island, giving us a fuller picture of who is behind the masculine posturing and the long-suffering women in their lives, alternating with the present, which is increasingly tense, foreshadowing a violent encounter.
A mark of an excellent author is the ability to tell a long story with fleshed out characters in just a few paragraphs, Almada achieves this with the characters we only briefly meet in this book.
Almada’s style in this novel was at first off putting to me; she uses short declarative sentences to reference a speaker, which felt abrupt and intrusive. After reading the brilliant Annie McDermott’s Translator’s Note I now feel that Almada succeeded in giving the prose a masculine and sometimes poetic feel.
Don’t read this for plot or character study. This is novel is evocative with lots to think about and discuss.
Strongly recommended!
August 29, 2025
Mais um livro que veio da estante das novidades da biblioteca municipal. Não é bem novidade, porque esta edição é de 2020, mas como é novidade na biblioteca, deve ser por esse motivo que está na dita estante de novidades, imagino eu.
É o segundo livro que leio de Selva Almada e, mais uma vez, não me conquistou. O início da leitura foi difícil e os saltos temporais não identificados, mas que acabamos por perceber, também não ajudam à festa. Melhorou com o aparecimento das irmãs, uma história mais interessante do que a pesca da raia.
Na contracapa fala em "prosa precisa e económica". É tão económica que, para encher mais linhas, não usa traços, enfim...
"Quando chegam encontram tudo queimado.
Filhos de uma grande puta!
Diz Enero
O barco! Que caralho! O barco novo...
Diz o Negro."
Não é o meu tipo de livro e ainda bem que existem bibliotecas, pois assim podemos ler coisas menos boas sem chorarmos o inv€stim€nto. A nível de tempo, também não roubou assim tanto, já que tem umas económicas 135 páginas em letra de tamanho razoável e com muitos espaços.
É o segundo livro que leio de Selva Almada e, mais uma vez, não me conquistou. O início da leitura foi difícil e os saltos temporais não identificados, mas que acabamos por perceber, também não ajudam à festa. Melhorou com o aparecimento das irmãs, uma história mais interessante do que a pesca da raia.
Na contracapa fala em "prosa precisa e económica". É tão económica que, para encher mais linhas, não usa traços, enfim...
"Quando chegam encontram tudo queimado.
Filhos de uma grande puta!
Diz Enero
O barco! Que caralho! O barco novo...
Diz o Negro."
Não é o meu tipo de livro e ainda bem que existem bibliotecas, pois assim podemos ler coisas menos boas sem chorarmos o inv€stim€nto. A nível de tempo, também não roubou assim tanto, já que tem umas económicas 135 páginas em letra de tamanho razoável e com muitos espaços.
April 9, 2024
April 9, 2024 Update Not a River now announced as one of the 6 books shortlisted for the 2024 International Booker Prize with the winner to be announced Tuesday May 21, 2024.
Fire and Water
Review of the Charco Press paperback edition (January 2024) translated by Annie McDermott from the Spanish language original No es un río (August 2020).
The novella length Not a River was completely engrossing and although at first I thought I would read it in several stages, I found myself reading it in a single sitting. This was especially after a gut-punch twist reveal that comes along at about the 2/3rds mark (no spoiler here from me).
The story is simple enough. A trio of men, two elder ones along with the son of their deceased companion from a tragedy 20 years ago, are vacation fishing on an island set in a river in rural Argentina. It becomes evident that they have little respect for the fishing and the catch. They kill a stingray by shooting it with a gun, and later, having gotten bored with displaying the trophy kill on a tree, throw the carcass away into the river. The local inhabitants don't take kindly to this disrespect for their wildlife and environment and plan revenge. Meanwhile a sister duo of temptresses may be luring the trio to their comeuppance.
As mentioned in translator Annie McDermott's Afterword, she had difficulty finding information about the so-called quitilipi owl which is apparently named after the town of Quitilipi, Argentina. The owl is reputed to resemble a wildcat. I could not find a photo of one, but I could see where various types of Great Horned Owls might look somewhat like a cat. Image sourced from The World's Rarest Birds.
I hadn't read Argentinian author Selva Almada previously, but she had a very distinctive style especially with her method of telegraphic dialogue speech as can be seen in the example above. The translation by Annie McDermott was excellent, even with the occasional Argentinian Spanish word left untranslated, which added local flavour to the text. I especially enjoyed the informative Translator's Afterword which is a feature that is often dropped or ignored by many publishers.
Soundtrack
The ancient elements of fire and water make regular appearances in Not a River, so I immediately thought of the title track from Free's 1970 breakthrough album which you can listen to on YouTube here or on Spotify here.
Trivia and Links
Not a River is longlisted for the 2024 International Booker Prize with the shortlist to be announced on Tuesday April 9, 2024 and the winner on May 21, 2024. There is a Booker Reading Guide for Not a River here and there is a Booker Q&A interview with author Selva Almada and translator Annie McDermott here.
Fire and Water
Review of the Charco Press paperback edition (January 2024) translated by Annie McDermott from the Spanish language original No es un río (August 2020).
Aguirre shakes his head.
Instead he says.
You know those guys who caught the ray.
Beautiful specimen.
Says César, though he never saw it, just heard.
They fucking chucked it away, can you believe?
Suddenly everything stops. The dealer pauses mid-shuffle. The drinkers put down their cups. Everyone looks at him.
They chucked it in the river?
Says Aguirre.
Motherfuckers!
Says César.
We need to teach them a lesson.
Says Aguirre.
What kind of a lesson?
Says César.
The novella length Not a River was completely engrossing and although at first I thought I would read it in several stages, I found myself reading it in a single sitting. This was especially after a gut-punch twist reveal that comes along at about the 2/3rds mark (no spoiler here from me).
The story is simple enough. A trio of men, two elder ones along with the son of their deceased companion from a tragedy 20 years ago, are vacation fishing on an island set in a river in rural Argentina. It becomes evident that they have little respect for the fishing and the catch. They kill a stingray by shooting it with a gun, and later, having gotten bored with displaying the trophy kill on a tree, throw the carcass away into the river. The local inhabitants don't take kindly to this disrespect for their wildlife and environment and plan revenge. Meanwhile a sister duo of temptresses may be luring the trio to their comeuppance.
As mentioned in translator Annie McDermott's Afterword, she had difficulty finding information about the so-called quitilipi owl which is apparently named after the town of Quitilipi, Argentina. The owl is reputed to resemble a wildcat. I could not find a photo of one, but I could see where various types of Great Horned Owls might look somewhat like a cat. Image sourced from The World's Rarest Birds.
I hadn't read Argentinian author Selva Almada previously, but she had a very distinctive style especially with her method of telegraphic dialogue speech as can be seen in the example above. The translation by Annie McDermott was excellent, even with the occasional Argentinian Spanish word left untranslated, which added local flavour to the text. I especially enjoyed the informative Translator's Afterword which is a feature that is often dropped or ignored by many publishers.
Soundtrack
The ancient elements of fire and water make regular appearances in Not a River, so I immediately thought of the title track from Free's 1970 breakthrough album which you can listen to on YouTube here or on Spotify here.
Trivia and Links
Not a River is longlisted for the 2024 International Booker Prize with the shortlist to be announced on Tuesday April 9, 2024 and the winner on May 21, 2024. There is a Booker Reading Guide for Not a River here and there is a Booker Q&A interview with author Selva Almada and translator Annie McDermott here.
Read
April 12, 2024"Not a River" započinje scenom velikog nasilja čoveka prema jednoj životinji. Ta slika, trenutak izliva potisnutog besa i frustracija, uspostavlja ton ovog kratkog ali moćnog romana autorke Selve Almade.
Zatičemo tri muškarca usred divljeg bogatstva ruralne Argentine. Uporno se vraćaju na mesto velike tragedije- reku, kao simboliku vremena i njegove cikličnosti, koje u sebi nosi pretnju bujice sećanja, zaboravljenih moralnih prestupa starijih generacija i opasnosti da potisnuta prošlost preplavi sadašnjost.
Ljudsko nepoštovanje prema ličnoj istoriji i planeti, čine korito toka radnje. Pasusi konstruisani da nalikuju na rečni put kroz sebe nose pozivanje na skoro izbledele relikte mačoizma, negiranje snage prošlih događaja i njihovih implikacija ali najviše od svega nemar prema energiji sveta oko sebe i najveće životne činjenice da je čovek, na kraju svega, gost a ne gospodar ove planete.
Kratka forma, kao trend današnjeg stvaralaštva, sadrži optičku varku. Ipak samo najbolji mogu da pišu najkraće i čitaocu daju složen i realan svet u malom. U sjajnom prevodu Eni Mekdermot, u duhu Hemingveja i Makartija, sa nepogrešivim osećajem za muzikalnost jezika i beskompromisne opise prirode, "Not a River" Selve Almade više je nego jasan pokazatelj da je Južna Amerika moderna književna velesila.
Zatičemo tri muškarca usred divljeg bogatstva ruralne Argentine. Uporno se vraćaju na mesto velike tragedije- reku, kao simboliku vremena i njegove cikličnosti, koje u sebi nosi pretnju bujice sećanja, zaboravljenih moralnih prestupa starijih generacija i opasnosti da potisnuta prošlost preplavi sadašnjost.
Ljudsko nepoštovanje prema ličnoj istoriji i planeti, čine korito toka radnje. Pasusi konstruisani da nalikuju na rečni put kroz sebe nose pozivanje na skoro izbledele relikte mačoizma, negiranje snage prošlih događaja i njihovih implikacija ali najviše od svega nemar prema energiji sveta oko sebe i najveće životne činjenice da je čovek, na kraju svega, gost a ne gospodar ove planete.
Kratka forma, kao trend današnjeg stvaralaštva, sadrži optičku varku. Ipak samo najbolji mogu da pišu najkraće i čitaocu daju složen i realan svet u malom. U sjajnom prevodu Eni Mekdermot, u duhu Hemingveja i Makartija, sa nepogrešivim osećajem za muzikalnost jezika i beskompromisne opise prirode, "Not a River" Selve Almade više je nego jasan pokazatelj da je Južna Amerika moderna književna velesila.
September 9, 2025
selva almada’nın “ölü kızlar”ını çoook evvelden okuduğum ve beğendiğim için “bir nehir değil”i fazla bekletmeden okuyayım dedim.
“ölü kızlar” kadar beğenmedim en başta onu söyleyeyim. birbiriyle gevşek bağlarla bağlı bir üçlemenin son kitabıymış bu novella. ilk ikisi yok zaten daha türkçede. bir kere ele almak istediği konular için çok kısa bir metin bu. o yüzden kafanızda beliren adaletsizlik, öfke, ne olacak böyle duygusu hiç ilerlemiyor çünkü yazar ilerletmemiş. dokunup geçiyor genellikle.
bunu seçmiş zaten yazar çünkü bu da şiirselliğinin başka bir yönü sayılabilir. gerek dize gibi dizilmiş diyaloglarda, gerek “diyor” sözcüğünün ayrı bir satır olarak verildiği yerlerde, gerekse tekrarlarda almada’nın bu metin için böyle şiirsel bir yöntem seçtiği çok belli. beni kitaptan koparan da bu oldu biraz çünkü bu konuya şiirselliğin yakışmadığını düşünüyorum. tam tersi gerçekliğin bam bam verilmesi hoşuma gidiyor ama ben zaten şiir de sevmem malumunuz :)
yine de şehirde yaşayanlarla adada yaşayanların doğaya, nehre bakışındaki farka, 1 kere değil 3 kere vurulan vatozun simgelediklerine, toksik erkekliğin rezilliğini, bitmeyen ve çözülmeyen vicdan azabına, kadınların maruz kaldığı şiddete, hatta kürtaja zorlanmalarına, silahın ve polislik mesleğinin 🤮erkeklerdeki izdüşümüne ve daha pek çok şeye dokunup geçmiş.
piromani bana biraz gereksiz geldi tüm bunların üzerine ama sonuçta benim fikrim. bir de kızların hayalet olmasının bu kadar kör gözüm parmağına değil de ne bileyim bir “altıncı his”inceliğinde yapılmasını tercih ederdim ama bu da benim tercihim.
latin amerikalı kadın yazarlar durmadan durmadan erkeklikle hesaplaşıyorlar, hepsinin yöntemi farklı. aslında arka planda ülkelerinin politikası da oluyor genelde, “bir nehir değil”de buna rastlamadım. bence “ölü kızlar”la başlamak üzere selva almada’yla tanışın. idil dündar’ın çevirisi gayet başarılı.
“ölü kızlar” kadar beğenmedim en başta onu söyleyeyim. birbiriyle gevşek bağlarla bağlı bir üçlemenin son kitabıymış bu novella. ilk ikisi yok zaten daha türkçede. bir kere ele almak istediği konular için çok kısa bir metin bu. o yüzden kafanızda beliren adaletsizlik, öfke, ne olacak böyle duygusu hiç ilerlemiyor çünkü yazar ilerletmemiş. dokunup geçiyor genellikle.
bunu seçmiş zaten yazar çünkü bu da şiirselliğinin başka bir yönü sayılabilir. gerek dize gibi dizilmiş diyaloglarda, gerek “diyor” sözcüğünün ayrı bir satır olarak verildiği yerlerde, gerekse tekrarlarda almada’nın bu metin için böyle şiirsel bir yöntem seçtiği çok belli. beni kitaptan koparan da bu oldu biraz çünkü bu konuya şiirselliğin yakışmadığını düşünüyorum. tam tersi gerçekliğin bam bam verilmesi hoşuma gidiyor ama ben zaten şiir de sevmem malumunuz :)
yine de şehirde yaşayanlarla adada yaşayanların doğaya, nehre bakışındaki farka, 1 kere değil 3 kere vurulan vatozun simgelediklerine, toksik erkekliğin rezilliğini, bitmeyen ve çözülmeyen vicdan azabına, kadınların maruz kaldığı şiddete, hatta kürtaja zorlanmalarına, silahın ve polislik mesleğinin 🤮erkeklerdeki izdüşümüne ve daha pek çok şeye dokunup geçmiş.
piromani bana biraz gereksiz geldi tüm bunların üzerine ama sonuçta benim fikrim. bir de kızların hayalet olmasının bu kadar kör gözüm parmağına değil de ne bileyim bir “altıncı his”inceliğinde yapılmasını tercih ederdim ama bu da benim tercihim.
latin amerikalı kadın yazarlar durmadan durmadan erkeklikle hesaplaşıyorlar, hepsinin yöntemi farklı. aslında arka planda ülkelerinin politikası da oluyor genelde, “bir nehir değil”de buna rastlamadım. bence “ölü kızlar”la başlamak üzere selva almada’yla tanışın. idil dündar’ın çevirisi gayet başarılı.
August 13, 2025
uma escrita poderosa.
January 11, 2024
Selva Almada has got to be one of the more exciting writers out there. I have been waiting quite a while for Not a River, the third part of a very loose trilogy of novels focusing on toxic masculinity, The thing is within these three books there have been an evolution of sorts.
In first volume, The Wind that Lays Waste , the prose is sparse, clear cut and not too dialogue heavy, in the follow up Brickmakers, there’s a change, The writing is more slangy, time is a bit fuddled and it is stuffed with dialogue.
Not a River is the Apex of Selva Almada’s powers: there’s a lot of dialogue, time has not boundaries and there’s a lot of dialogue, without speech marks. As Annie McDermott says in her afterword, this makes the text more poetic and I agree with her.
The book is about three men who go fishing in a new territory and they are not welcome, in fact they cause consternation among the locals. We do find out later that these men have the trauma of an accident wedged in their psyche. There are indications that these men don’t have a clean past either.
As simple as it sounds, Not a River’s themes hit heavy and with this near experimental dressing it oddly reflects the confusion of these men’s minds during their escapades. This does nit make it an easy read but it’s definitely a compelling one.
I would also say that Not a River is an anthropological novel as it gives a snapshot of South American life, the hazy days, the leisurely pace of life and, even the po-facedness of some of the villagers when faced with tragedy, I also found this aspect of the book fascinating.
Selva Almada’s books are genuinely exciting to read – Luckily there are still more of her works which have not been translated into English as yet and hopefully this will happen as the English speaking world needs more daring writers like this.
In first volume, The Wind that Lays Waste , the prose is sparse, clear cut and not too dialogue heavy, in the follow up Brickmakers, there’s a change, The writing is more slangy, time is a bit fuddled and it is stuffed with dialogue.
Not a River is the Apex of Selva Almada’s powers: there’s a lot of dialogue, time has not boundaries and there’s a lot of dialogue, without speech marks. As Annie McDermott says in her afterword, this makes the text more poetic and I agree with her.
The book is about three men who go fishing in a new territory and they are not welcome, in fact they cause consternation among the locals. We do find out later that these men have the trauma of an accident wedged in their psyche. There are indications that these men don’t have a clean past either.
As simple as it sounds, Not a River’s themes hit heavy and with this near experimental dressing it oddly reflects the confusion of these men’s minds during their escapades. This does nit make it an easy read but it’s definitely a compelling one.
I would also say that Not a River is an anthropological novel as it gives a snapshot of South American life, the hazy days, the leisurely pace of life and, even the po-facedness of some of the villagers when faced with tragedy, I also found this aspect of the book fascinating.
Selva Almada’s books are genuinely exciting to read – Luckily there are still more of her works which have not been translated into English as yet and hopefully this will happen as the English speaking world needs more daring writers like this.
June 1, 2024
The only thing wrong with Selva Almada’s stories is that they have to end. Once again she has taken me completely away, removed the entire world, like no other author. While inside this book, nothing else matters, just this place, this tiny, sweaty, tense place. And it was supposed to be relaxing! Just a fishing trip.
Swaddled in another fugue, lost on an unnamed island, maybe in the middle of the Paraná River, under a swarm of mozzies. Hot and heavy with the past, losses real and unforgivable. Things taken too soon, unhealable. All told with Almada’s unrivaled economy of language, humor and love.
I am left with my thoughts about humanity’s death urge, the killing of things just to kill, destruction of the irreplaceable; wondering why we spend so much time mourning our past, instead of being in the wonder of now. Soon enough we will have that to mourn, too.
Almada takes us on walks through Argentine woods, lovely woods, replete with sounds and colors.
Or are they threatening, too dark, too full, too unfamiliar?
I guess it depends.
I am reminded of the poem The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry and this bit:
“I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief.”
Then moments of healing, perfect magical realism that will soothe me. When I have those flawless mornings, when I awaken - painless, legs tingling, momentarily unsure of my age, only aware of the sunlight through the pine outside my window, curiously well rested -I will remember it is because at least one of my dead beloveds was there, too, holding me through the night.
*********
Perfectly translated by Annie McDermott (and published by the blessed Charco Press).
Swaddled in another fugue, lost on an unnamed island, maybe in the middle of the Paraná River, under a swarm of mozzies. Hot and heavy with the past, losses real and unforgivable. Things taken too soon, unhealable. All told with Almada’s unrivaled economy of language, humor and love.
I am left with my thoughts about humanity’s death urge, the killing of things just to kill, destruction of the irreplaceable; wondering why we spend so much time mourning our past, instead of being in the wonder of now. Soon enough we will have that to mourn, too.
Almada takes us on walks through Argentine woods, lovely woods, replete with sounds and colors.
Or are they threatening, too dark, too full, too unfamiliar?
I guess it depends.
I am reminded of the poem The Peace of Wild Things by Wendell Berry and this bit:
“I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief.”
Then moments of healing, perfect magical realism that will soothe me. When I have those flawless mornings, when I awaken - painless, legs tingling, momentarily unsure of my age, only aware of the sunlight through the pine outside my window, curiously well rested -I will remember it is because at least one of my dead beloveds was there, too, holding me through the night.
*********
Perfectly translated by Annie McDermott (and published by the blessed Charco Press).
August 9, 2022
En el río Enero, el Negro y Tilo cazan una raya sin ningún motivo. Esa es la superficie del inicio. En el fondo varias historias que terminan anudándose con las consecuencias de esa cacería.
El pasado con el presente. El lenguaje formal con el coloquial. Lo real con lo no tanto. Todo se mezcla y fluye como agua.
(...) no es un río, es este río (...)
Entonces.
¡Quién les dio permiso!
No era una raya. Era esa raya. Una bicha hermosa desplegada en el barro del fondo, habrá brillado blanca como una novia en la profundidad sin luz. Echada en el limo o planeando con tules, magnolia del agua, buscando comida, persiguiendo las trasparencias de las larvas, las esqueléticas raíces. Los anzuelos enganchados en sus bordes, el tironeo de toda la tarde hasta darse por vencida. Los tiros. Arrancada al río para devolvérsela después.
Muerta.
El pasado con el presente. El lenguaje formal con el coloquial. Lo real con lo no tanto. Todo se mezcla y fluye como agua.
March 25, 2024
Pared down prose and a vivid setting highlight this tension-filled story about masculinity and its devastating effects on a place and people. I think the rhythm of the writing lends this story an energy that ultimately leads to a weak ending. I just wanted a little bit more.
At 99 pages, this could've benefited from some further development while still retaining that power it holds in its simplicity. Themes were hinted at but not explored to give enough power to the story as a whole. I liked the characters and was intrigued only to find them vague outlines rather than real people.
Perhaps in time they will live longer in my memory and I will revisit—ideally in conversation with the other two novels in this 'loose trilogy,' as its described. For now an enjoyable enough read that I surely wouldn't have found were it not for the International Booker Prize.
At 99 pages, this could've benefited from some further development while still retaining that power it holds in its simplicity. Themes were hinted at but not explored to give enough power to the story as a whole. I liked the characters and was intrigued only to find them vague outlines rather than real people.
Perhaps in time they will live longer in my memory and I will revisit—ideally in conversation with the other two novels in this 'loose trilogy,' as its described. For now an enjoyable enough read that I surely wouldn't have found were it not for the International Booker Prize.
April 8, 2024
Qué pedazo de historia y que pedazo de escritora es Selva.... el lenguaje usado y exprimido en su máximo esplendor, leera es como estás cantando, eso hace Selva con las palabras, usar las perfectas para cada oración que parece música.
Una historia de 3 varones amigos, que después siguen siendo 3 aunque uno de ellos haya muerto, les deja a su hijo ¿Qué hacen ellos con esa pérdida, con ese vacío, con ese sentimiento de culpa? ¿Cómo regresan al río? ¿qué hace el río con ellos?
Es una novela que te mete en un delirio, la autora nunca te dice en qué plano de la realidad estás si estás en el lado de los muertos o en el lado de los vivos o en el lado en que las ausencias se lloran.
Librazo qu es parte de una trilogia. Selva es imperdible,
Una historia de 3 varones amigos, que después siguen siendo 3 aunque uno de ellos haya muerto, les deja a su hijo ¿Qué hacen ellos con esa pérdida, con ese vacío, con ese sentimiento de culpa? ¿Cómo regresan al río? ¿qué hace el río con ellos?
Es una novela que te mete en un delirio, la autora nunca te dice en qué plano de la realidad estás si estás en el lado de los muertos o en el lado de los vivos o en el lado en que las ausencias se lloran.
Librazo qu es parte de una trilogia. Selva es imperdible,
September 14, 2020
La agarré con idea porque leí que le faltaba algo en varias reseñas y no estoy nada de acuerdo con eso! El poder que tiene Selva de meterte el litoral en la cabeza me deslumbra. Es una novelita fabulosa con personajes simples e imágenes hermosas.
March 22, 2021
Qué oído, qué precisión. Redondo como un redondel es este libro.
December 23, 2023
A satisfying, spare and dark novel that is also a magnificent feat of translation.
Selva Almada's influences include Faulkner and McCullers, and never more are they on show than in Not A River. This is the tale of three fisherman, haunted by their previous tragedies on the water, who arrive in the backwoods of Argentina for a relaxing getaway. It is not leisure they find, but upset locals who want them to pay for their intrusion into their peculiar but quiet lives. But can they avoid more bloodshed as tempers begin to flare?
Spare, sharp prose and delicious details of the highly localised culture of this corner of Argentina combine to produce a gripping and muscular literary read.
Huge praise to Annie McDermott for the translation (she explains just how tricky it was in her note) and also to Charco Press, who continue to bring the best in South American fiction to English language readers. This is the seventh of their books I've read and have yet to be disappointed. Where many publishers of translated fiction have ended up becoming more niche and less readable, Charco remain publishers of literary fiction that is readable and invigorating.
Selva Almada's influences include Faulkner and McCullers, and never more are they on show than in Not A River. This is the tale of three fisherman, haunted by their previous tragedies on the water, who arrive in the backwoods of Argentina for a relaxing getaway. It is not leisure they find, but upset locals who want them to pay for their intrusion into their peculiar but quiet lives. But can they avoid more bloodshed as tempers begin to flare?
Spare, sharp prose and delicious details of the highly localised culture of this corner of Argentina combine to produce a gripping and muscular literary read.
Huge praise to Annie McDermott for the translation (she explains just how tricky it was in her note) and also to Charco Press, who continue to bring the best in South American fiction to English language readers. This is the seventh of their books I've read and have yet to be disappointed. Where many publishers of translated fiction have ended up becoming more niche and less readable, Charco remain publishers of literary fiction that is readable and invigorating.
September 4, 2020
Ayer terminé este libro y todavía me cuesta un poco saber qué decir. Nunca deja de maravillarme el poder que tiene Selva Almada para construir estos mundos a traves de las palabras y trasladarte a esos climas sin caer en lo fingido. Hay algo poético y envolvente en su prosa, la historia te atrapa, pero cuando llegó al final me dejó una sensación rara, como si faltara un poco más, no sé.
Tres estrellas y media hubiesen sido puntaje ideal pero como no es posible le doy cuatro, a quién le importa esto, no?
Tres estrellas y media hubiesen sido puntaje ideal pero como no es posible le doy cuatro, a quién le importa esto, no?
October 22, 2021
No es un río. ¿Pero entonces qué es?
Enero y el Negro llevan a Tilo, hijo de su amigo muerto, a pescar a un río en una isla. Entre la diversión y los fantasmas del pasado, atrapan y matan una raya enorme. Pero lo que hacen con ella no es del agrado de los isleños que se acercaron a apreciar la pesca. A los isleños no les gusta para nada, así que deciden darles una lección. Porque no es una raya cualquiera, es esta raya. “No es un río, es este río”. Y este río se respeta. El monte se respeta. La isla se respeta.
Almada tiene una prosa directa y eficiente. Con pocas palabras, recrea la vida de un pueblo, la hostilidad del monte ante quienes no son del monte y la parquedad inescrutable de los isleños que lo habitan. Con pocas palabras, logra un realismo que poco a poco tuerce hacia otra cosa.
Enero y el Negro llevan a Tilo, hijo de su amigo muerto, a pescar a un río en una isla. Entre la diversión y los fantasmas del pasado, atrapan y matan una raya enorme. Pero lo que hacen con ella no es del agrado de los isleños que se acercaron a apreciar la pesca. A los isleños no les gusta para nada, así que deciden darles una lección. Porque no es una raya cualquiera, es esta raya. “No es un río, es este río”. Y este río se respeta. El monte se respeta. La isla se respeta.
Almada tiene una prosa directa y eficiente. Con pocas palabras, recrea la vida de un pueblo, la hostilidad del monte ante quienes no son del monte y la parquedad inescrutable de los isleños que lo habitan. Con pocas palabras, logra un realismo que poco a poco tuerce hacia otra cosa.
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