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Cargando... Matate, amorpor Ariana Harwicz
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Inscríbete en LibraryThing para averiguar si este libro te gustará. Actualmente no hay Conversaciones sobre este libro. this book is kinda fucked up ( ) A compelling, dark, psychological novella, this stark journey into the psyche of a woman struggling with depression bordering on insanity is unforgettable. Using brutally blunt prose and a stream of consciousness format, which flows like a raging river, the author forcibly drags the reader inside the protagonist's pain, as she struggles with new motherhood after having a baby she didn't want in the first place. Truly a powerful piece of writing which left this reader breathless and sad. My mind is spent, it’s lost on the river bank. When I finally go in, the food will be cold on the counter and there’ll be a note in his writing saying ‘Enjoy your dinner, I love you’. By the end of the night, I’ve built up so much rage that I could drink until I have a heart attack. That’s what I tell myself but it’s not true. I couldn’t even down half a bottle. My days are all like this. Endlessly stagnant. A slow downfall. It would be easy to dispel this book as a simple she-experienced-this-it's-no-real-tour-de-force, but it fucking is. I mean, the author may or may not have lived through some of what's found in here but it's a real barrel of turns and tussles, alright. A lot of dialogue directed towards the main character, mostly from her husband, is not barbed with emotion, but factual counts of what's really said to her. However, her own thoughts are to me the jewels in the crown: Instead of a vagina, he thought his wife had a stone in the depths of a cave. When I fall in love, like this very minute, as I shake myself, I scatter earth onto a coffin. It doesn’t matter whose. And when I masturbate I desecrate crypts, and when I rock my baby I say amen, and when I smile I unplug an iron lung. Hence the kiss. Because after all, since forever and since even before being born, and for the whole time my husband’s been shouting with jealous rage, I’ve been dead. Here's a paragraph that's telling of the entire book, which is only about 100 pages long: Open the door, please, we’ll do it after, I promise. He’s bribing me, but screw him. I’m begging you, it’s not funny. And then, having climbed onto the toilet, I deliver a lengthy existential monologue, adding some philosophical and psychoanalytic touches for good measure. When I’m done, he says: It’s all in your head. That’s all he ever says. In the end I feel sorry for him and leave the bathroom. He gives me an insipid kiss that does nothing for me. I need a buffalo and all I get is a porcupine. He shoves me away from the bathroom door. I hear him defecate, the sound of his shit dropping into the water. I wait for him in bed, try to read something, but all I can think about is satiating my body: it’s chasing after me, sweating. I toss the book aside. The baby is all twisted up in his sleep, coughing like a worker in a Cuban tobacco factory. I straighten him out and decide to go to sleep. My husband is still in the bathroom, playing on his phone. I end up taking off my bra, the underwire hurts, and changing out of my knickers. I scrub my face clean and slather on some lotion. Afterwards, nothing. At dawn, I’m woken by a shrill, trumpet-like scream. A strange whistling sound. The fire in the living room has gone out. I blow on it but that just sends ash flying everywhere, including up my nose. I spit. I sneeze. I have an allergic reaction. Nasal blood. I try to light the fire. The uproar continues outside. Men and animals are fighting it out. A chicken truck has crashed into a car carrying an average family, two point four children in a pile-up. Or it’s a kangaroo giving birth to a troop of joeys and they’ve got stuck on the way out. I leave the house barefoot. I get soaked, slip on the stones, look for the source of the tumult of voices and growls. I walk down the road, through the woods and to the stretch of wasteland scattered with used condoms where the tourists go to procreate. It’s coming from the sky. Hundreds of birds are criss-crossing each other, confused. No one’s leading them. North and south are mixed up. The baby is crying his quota of morning torment. He’s had his nightmare about a hungry wolf climbing in through the window. There’s no smoke detector in his room. I put him to bed with my husband. I wrap their arms around each other and they lie there, sound asleep, breathing the air from each other’s mouths. My vampiric offspring is going to end up a smoker. I go back outside. For the first time, I feel drawn to the sky. The birds are raising the feathers on their wings, they’re riled up like bulls. Then one of them heads south and the rest follow, screeching off into the distance. Back in the house I find the baby under our bed, screaming at the top of his lungs like another bird. I don’t know what we’re doing with our tiny deformity, with our flesh. What we’re doing with our conjoined entrails. We’re letting him grow up among shrubs and bones. We’re letting him get scraped and knocked about. How could you leave him there when you can see I’m sleeping, he said. Are you out of your mind? Then he drifted off again. I lay down between my husband and my son and watched them inhale and exhale as they abandoned themselves to the heavy breathing of sleep. I looked at one face and then at the other, and then at myself in the middle. I eventually got bored of their features and was alarmed to find that, after staring at them for so long, I no longer recognised them. All in all, the book's a dark, torn, terrifying tale of ennui and heartbreaking happenings, and I like it. sin reseñas | añadir una reseña
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Pocas cosas se agradecen m�s en la literatura que el surgimiento de una nueva voz. Y es precisamente eso lo que el lector encuentra en las p�ginas de esta la primera novela de Ariana Harwicz, augurio de lo que pronto llegar�a a convertirse en su inconfundible estilo. La voz Harwicz, feroz, despiadada, valiente, exhibe aqu� su virtuosismo mientras arrasa, a fuerza de frases que parecen huracanes, con nuestros prejuicios sobre lo que significa el amor materno. Un bosque, un ciervo, un beb� y una pareja. Poco m�s necesita la autora para construir este mundo alucinante en el que nuestros temores m�s b�sicos se atreven finalmente a plantarle cara a nuestros deseos. Una escopeta y tal vez un cuchillo. El resto lo logra mediante un manejo extraordinario del lenguaje, consciente de que es all� donde se esconde la �nica libertad posible. Cercana siempre al mundo de Thomas Bernhard pero tambi�n al de Faulkner, lectora de Pizarnik, Harwicz sabe que solo la fuerza del lenguaje puede rendir testimonio de los fantasmas que se esconden tras nuestro cinismo. Matate, amor es pues un libro que aspira a la m�sica y a la poes�a. Una novela que se adentra en el coraz�n de las tinieblas de la familia moderna y se atreve a plantar all�, en medio de los estereotipos esbozados por el lugar com�n y el buen gusto, una escritura explosiva, honesta, vital. No se han encontrado descripciones de biblioteca. |
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Google Books — Cargando... GénerosSistema Decimal Melvil (DDC)863.7Literature Spanish and Portuguese Spanish fiction 21st CenturyClasificación de la Biblioteca del CongresoValoraciónPromedio:
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