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Opening it at random "The venturous and jester angel" (my own translation) unfolded five pages long before my eyes like the live coverage of a decisive moment of any sports event (not necessarily soccer) - having the plot nothing directly related to sports.
But somehow Cela made me believe I was hearing to a real voice through the radio or better, watching the game myself.
The story has nothing to do with soccer - and in the end I knew it had everything to do with it.
If poetry is recited, I cannot imagine why these short-short stories couldn t be read and recorded by a voice of some well known and suited for the purpose sports commentator as if he or she were watching live the final match.
Genius Genius Genius.
I didn t read every story yet. But just one would have been enough to give the 5 STARS.
(And I handle the 5 STARS rating in an extremly sparely manner).
Recomiendo que al leer el libro, se pregunten si ustedes lo condenarian o lo perdonarian.
Cela es un maestro de la prosa.
Es un libro para ser leído al menos dos veces, la primera para disfrutarlo y la segunda o subsecuentes para ser analizado. Así que, si tu intención es el disfrute, aquí tienes algo para disfrutar. Si te interesa el análisis literario, psicológico o sociológico, también lo encuentras en esta obra de Don Camilo.
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Como antesala de esta obra hay que mencionar "Café de Artistas", un relato que Cela escribió a finales de los años cuarenta aunque se público bastante después que "La Colmena". En definitiva una obra compleja que invita a ser releída una y otra vez descubriendo a cada pagina un nuevo matiz con el que completar ese espectro narrativo que surge de la descomposición de la realidad, cuando pasa a través de un prisma óptico llamado Camilo José Cela.
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Pascual Duarte is a brutal Spanish peasant, shaped by poverty, ignorance and hatred. The book recounts his mounting depravity as he goes from killing his dog to knifing a romantic rival to final horrific matricide. Duarte falls prey to the type of alienation and world weariness described by the Existentialists. He describes himself prior to killing his mother:
The day I decided I would have to use my knife on her, I was so weary of it all, so convinced in my bones that bloodletting was the only cure, that the thought of her dying didn't even quicken my pulse. It was something fated, it had to be and would be.
And even as he writes this account of his life as he sits in prison, awaiting death, he acknowledges:
...there are moments when the telling of my own story gives me the most honest of honest pleasures, perhaps because I feel so far removed from what I am telling that I seem to be repeating a story from hearsay about some unknown person.
But Cela, unlike Camus, seems to trace Duarte's pathologies to his environment, to the circumstances of his life, rather than trying to make a universal statement about the human condition. Duarte is a distinct type, but one that has been all too familiar in the Century. His alienation, amorality and brutality are summed up in a chilling assertion of his own inhumanity:
...I'm not made to philosophize, I don't have the heart for it. My heart is more like a machine for making blood to be spilt in a knife fight....
Nor does Cela offer much philosophical elaboration, neither to explain Duarte nor to offer a cure for the world's Duartes. Instead, what is really noticeable here is the absence of any institutions to inculcate values or venues in which to express individual aspirations. Missing are the Church, an open economy and participatory democratic structures, the triune basis of modern Western civil society. In this sense, the novel sounds a cautionary note about the sorts of men that arise in this kind of moral vacuum.
The novel is raw and powerful and compulsively readable. It's outrageous that it is not currently in print in English translation, but it is available through used booksellers and many libraries may stock copies from when he won the Nobel. Either way, it is well worth your effort to track it down.
GRADE: A-
Let's see. If you are a member of the Real Academia de la Lengua (that is the honorific comitee that stablished spanish-spoken rules and tools), Jose Cela, one of its most famous accolites, is a genious rebel whose capabilities are good enough to write a novel in a perfect-grammar but chooses to misspelled everything just for fun. Then, if you are a regular civil reader on a spanish spoken country (like me), he is the funniest Nobel Prize winner around.
The novel goes around the Spanish Civil War on a fascinating but hard line that needs some big focusing effort on the first 50 pages. After the first blast goes by, those voices are here, inside, right into your head. And the bloody-thirsty war suddenly becomes speedy, catchy, even erotic.
On a brilliant touch (one of the funniest in the novel, too), Cela recalls the "nine signs of the mother******". Two examples: the flute style voice and the shortness of extremities. Feel familiar? Well, to find out the other seven you have to check out the mirror this good lecture. Jose Cela is on a trail these days accused of rewriting someone's prior novel. After the Jurors deliberate they may want to sue him for MAZURCA PARA DOS MUERTOS, a sublime journey that rewrites Spain's violent and contradictory soul.
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The author rambles on crossroad villains, murderous prostitutes and countless alien characters in a hodgepodge of virtual repetitive nonsense. His caricaturesque obsession with violence and voluminosity of odd sexuality is of incurable puberty proportions; likely the postscript of a young man frustrated with a generation constantly castigated and chastened by tenebrous forces.
Since my first reading of the book back in 1991, I wonder which contemporary filmaker will take the risk and help us to understand this epic tale on the big screen. But, on a second though, it's better being helpless on such assimilation. CRISTO VS ARIZONA remains intact on my brain, on every state of life and mind, cutting deeper and deeper.
As it happens on James Joyce and other great written-word craftmen, Jose Cela mantains his control over 250 pages in one enormous paragraph. I've been in Arizona many times and I consider myself an active Christ believer, but, oh, put those two symbolic clouds face to face... Think that you are in front of a goodwill classmates of Spanish literature. Ask'em a simple thesis: to read CRISTO VERSUS ARIZONA and rewrite it on classic, small-paragraph style. Inmediatly after, send a copy to me!
For those Henry Rollins and Jeff Noon fans: Speaking of modern literature, this is violence at its smartest.
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The book revolves around murder and revenge in Spanish Galicia circa the Civil War. Cela uses these themes as an excuse to serve a mosaic of idiosyncratic characters, loosely connected to the story line and on occasion affected by it one way or another. On a more subtle level, fate is what drives revenge and the characters are mere puppets bound by their powerlessness, be that through their physical, behavioral, mental or emotional states.
The novel is raw in its sense of humor and its portraits but its chaotic, often repetitive narration inhibits its full potential.
The problem is, the book mostly consists of the repetition of these anecdotes, in different orders and slightly different contexts, a few new ones introduced and a few removed each time around. But once you've been through this freak show once, you've been through it a dozen times (and Cela will make you go through it a dozen times by the time the book is over).
The style robs you of your ability to feel anything for the book's tragic elements and by the third time around, you've lost the ability to laugh at its comic elements. What is terribly funny at first quickly becomes old, then tiring, and by the time the plot of the book is finally recapitulated one last time, this time in more or less chronological order, at the end, you're more than ready for it to be over.
Set in 1936 at the onset of the Spanish Civil War, "Lionheart" Gamuzo is abducted and killed, thus setting off (to borrow from the Greeks) a blood-will-have-blood revenge story. Tony, his brother, knows that revenge is his. Cela is high in symbolism as in these events the blind accordian player Gaudencio continually plays the same mazurka--the book echos just about every musical symbol possible, with its themes, moods, movements, rhythms, melodies, and so forth. Symbolism, too, is not lost on the Spanish society Cela captures and the political, social, and religious overtones are not easily missed. Still, "Mazurka" is a worthy continuation of Cela's writing abilities. Granted, this one's not his best, but still is in keeping with Cela's l989 Nobel Prize winning style. While, quite likely, "something may be lost in translation," still reading Cela, for me, is a pleasurable adventure. (Blllyjhobbs@tyler.net)
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