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160 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1951

We were fine, and little by little we stopped thinking. You can live without thinking.
They sleep during the day. There are ten of them. During the day they sleep. With the door closed, the wardrobe is a diurnal night for them, there they sleep out their night in sedate obedience.
Then I sat straight up in bed and almost bawling, I almost run and wake mama, bite her to make her wake up.
How stupid can grown-up people be, she thought, because even the girls were not that young, each person with a bunch of flowers, going about their business, and behaving so rudely.
There’s something going on among the mancuspias, the noise is now a rabid or terrified clamor, in which we can make out the keen howling of the females and the more bronchial ululations of the males.
She offered him the chocolate as if she were begging, but Mario understood the longing in her voice; now he understood everything with a clarity that didn’t come from the moon, not even from Delia herself.
There was nothing to stop her now in her heaven, her own heaven, she gave herself with all of her flesh to that joy and again entered the pattern where Mauro could not follow her. It was her hard-won heaven, her tango played once more for her alone…
…she didn’t move at the Kid’s first scream, they were all running and she was still standing over the snails as if she did not hear the Kid’s new choked cry…
L'efficacia e il senso di un racconto dipendono da quei valori che danno alla poesia e anche al jazz il loro carattere specifico: la tensione, il ritmo, la pulsazione interna, l'imprevisto dentro parametri pre-visti, quella libertà fatale che non ammette alterazione senza una perdita irreparabile. J.Cortázar







