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El último café

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Historias grotescas unas, sórdidas otras, instaladas en una prosa rotunda donde nada se esconde ni nada sobra. Su autor se ha quedado con lo mejor que brinda el periodismo a la literatura: la economía del lenguaje, la precisión, la ausencia de trampas.

La broma de «La playa» puede hacernos reflexionar o simplemente reír. «El último café» , que da título al libro, dibuja con enorme distanciamiento una situación trágica; un distanciamiento que provoca, paradójicamente, una mayor emoción en el lector.

Sin duda, el factor común de todos los relatos es un lenguaje que, sin despreciarlo, no ensalza el adjetivo. Cuenta historias de muy distinta envergadura y en tonos muy diferentes, pero no las califica.

El lector inteligente agradecerá el margen de que dispone para observar personajes y situaciones desde un punto de vista propio. Ef del autor es peculiar, indiscreto; sorprende a los protagonistas en situaciones nada cómodas. Es la mirada del rostro invisible que aguanta la risa cuando nos ha sorprendido dando un traspiés.

Con estas historias modernas, urbanas, repletas de humor y narradas con una prosa ágil pero exigente con los matices, Jorge Martínez Reverte vuelve a la literatura después de un paréntesis de seis años. Sus novelas Demasiado para Gálvez y Gálvez en Euskadi, publicadas ambas actualmente en la colección «Contraseñas» de esta misma editorial, obtuvieron un notable éxito de ventas y crítica.

144 pages, Paperback

First published March 1, 1989

3 people want to read

About the author

Jorge M. Reverte

39 books4 followers
Jorge Martínez Reverte (28 September 1948 – 24 March 2021) was a Spanish writer, journalist, and historian.

Source: Wikpedia

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Profile Image for Natalia Murcia Cencerrado.
89 reviews
April 20, 2025
I was walking along an unknown street in Raval when I saw a side stand filled with books. Immediately I had to stop and have a look, whether Fer liked it or not. Multiple people, including sweet old man dressed in a fancy suit and hat, stopped to chat to the stand owner. Everyone knew each other in that neighbourhood. Amongst the piles of books I saw the complete diaries of Anaïs Nin, some Virginia Woolf. I knew this was my place. This little book only called out to me because of its cover (I do judge ok), "The last coffee" sounded melancholic, I needed it. The stand owner saw me eyeing it and said the title is the same as a song by Julio Sosa, which he played on his phone for me. So I had to buy it.

In the end the actual book is a collection of short stories, however the writing to me felt too much like a middle aged uncle who think he knows more than you about everything. I couldn't connect with it. But the story behind the purchase is good enough for me.
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