Gabriel Jos茅 de la Concordia Garc铆颅a M谩rquez was a Colombian novelist, short-story writer, screenwriter and journalist. Garc铆颅a M谩rquez, familiarly known as "Gabo" in his native country, was considered one of the most significant authors of the 20th century. In 1982, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature.
He studied at the University of Bogot谩 and later worked as a reporter for the Colombian newspaper El Espectador and as a foreign correspondent in Rome, Paris, Barcelona, Caracas, and New York. He wrote many acclaimed non-fiction works and short stories, but is best-known for his novels, such as One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967) and Love in the Time of Cholera (1985). His works have achieved significant critical acclaim and widespread commercial success, most notably for popularizing a literary style labeled as magical realism, which uses magical elements and events in order to explain real experiences. Some of his works are set in a fictional village called Macondo, and most of them express the theme of solitude.
Having previously written shorter fiction and screenplays, Garc铆a M谩rquez sequestered himself away in his Mexico City home for an extended period of time to complete his novel Cien a帽os de soledad, or One Hundred Years of Solitude, published in 1967. The author drew international acclaim for the work, which ultimately sold tens of millions of copies worldwide. Garc铆a M谩rquez is credited with helping introduce an array of readers to magical realism, a genre that combines more conventional storytelling forms with vivid, layers of fantasy.
Another one of his novels, El amor en los tiempos del c贸lera (1985), or Love in the Time of Cholera, drew a large global audience as well. The work was partially based on his parents' courtship and was adapted into a 2007 film starring Javier Bardem. Garc铆a M谩rquez wrote seven novels during his life, with additional titles that include El general en su laberinto (1989), or The General in His Labyrinth, and Del amor y otros demonios (1994), or Of Love and Other Demons.
Ojos de Perro Azul = Eyes of a Blue Dog, Gabriel Garc铆颅a M谩rquez
Eyes of a Blue Dog Then she looked at me. I thought that she was looking at me for the first time. But then, when she turned around behind the lamp and I kept feeling her slippery and oily look in back of me, over my shoulder, I understood that it was I who was looking at her for the first time. I lit a cigarette. I took a drag on the harsh, strong smoke, before spinning in the chair, balancing on one of the rear legs.
After that I saw her there, as if she'd been standing beside the lamp looking at me every night. For a few brief minutes that's all we did: look at each other. I looked from the chair, balancing on one of the rear legs. She stood, with a long and quiet hand on the lamp, looking at me. I saw her eyelids lighted up as on every night. It was then that I remembered the usual thing, when I said to her: "Eyes of a blue dog." Without taking her hand off the lamp she said to me: "That. We'll never forget that." She left the orbit, sighing: "Eyes of a blue dog. I've written it everywhere."
I saw her walk over to the dressing table. I watched her appear in the circular glass of the mirror looking at me now at the end of a back and forth of mathematical light. I watched her keep on looking at me with her great hot-coal eyes: looking at me while she opened the little box covered with pink mother of pearl.
I saw her powder her nose. When she finished, she closed the box, stood up again, and walked over to the lamp once more, saying: "I'm afraid that someone is dreaming about this room and revealing my secrets." And over the flame she held the same long and tremulous hand that she had been warming before sitting down at the mirror. And she said: "You don't feel the cold." And I said to her: "Sometimes." And she said to me: "You must feel it now." And then I understood why I couldn't have been alone in the seat. It was the cold that had been giving me the certainty of my solitude. "Now I feel it," I said. "And it's strange because the night is quiet.
Maybe the sheet fell off." She didn't answer. Again she began to move toward the mirror and I turned again in the chair, keeping my back to her. Without seeing her, I knew what she was doing. I knew that she was sitting in front of the mirror again, seeing my back, which had had time to reach the depths of the mirror and be caught by her look, which had also had just enough time to reach the depths and return--before the hand had time to start the second turn--until her lips were anointed now with crimson, from the first turn of her hand in front of the mirror.
I saw, opposite me, the smooth wall, which was like another blind mirror in which I couldn't see her--sitting behind me--but could imagine her where she probably was as if a mirror had been hung in place of the wall. "I see you," I told her. And on the wall I saw what was as if she had raised her eyes and had seen me with my back turned toward her from the chair, in the depths of the mirror, my face turned toward the wall.
Then I saw her lower her eyes again and remain with her eyes always on her brassiere, not talking. And I said to her again: "I see you." And she raised her eyes from her brassiere again. "That's impossible," she said. I asked her why. And she, with her eyes quiet and on her brassiere again: "Because your face is turned toward the wall." Then I spun the chair around.
I had the cigarette clenched in my mouth. When I stayed facing the mirror she was back by the lamp. Now she had her hands open over the flame, like the two wings of a hen, toasting herself, and with her face shaded by her own fingers. "I think I'm going to catch cold," she said. "This must be a city of ice." She turned her face to profile and her skin, from copper to red, suddenly became sad. "Do something about it," she said. And she began to get undressed, item by item, starting at the top with the brassiere. I told her: "I'm going to turn back to the wall."
She said: "No. In any case, you'll see me the way you did when your back was turned." And no sooner had she said it than she was almost completely undressed, with the flame licking her long copper skin. "I've always wanted to see you like that, with the skin of your belly full of deep pits, as if you'd been beaten." And before I realized that my words had become clumsy at the sight of her nakedness she became motionless, warming herself on the globe of the lamp, and she said: "Sometimes I think I'm made of metal." She was silent for an instant. The position of her hands over the flame varied slightly.
I said: "Sometimes in other dreams, I've thought you were only a little bronze statue in the corner of some museum. Maybe that's why you're cold." And she said: "Sometimes, when I sleep on my heart, I can feel my body growing hollow and my skin is like plate. Then, when the blood beats inside me, it's as if someone were calling by knocking on my stomach and I can feel my own copper sound in the bed. It's like--what do you call it--laminated metal." She drew closer to the lamp. "I would have liked to hear you," I said. And she said: "If we find each other sometime, put your ear to my ribs when I sleep on the left side and you'll hear me echoing.
I've always wanted you to do it sometime." I heard her breathe heavily as she talked. And she said that for years she'd done nothing different. Her life had been dedicated to finding me in reality, through that identifying phrase: "Eyes of a blue dog." And she went along the street saying it aloud, as a way of telling the only person who could have understood her:
"I'm the one who comes into your dreams every night and tells you: 'Eyes of a blue dog.'" And she said that she went into restaurants and before ordering said to the waiters: "Eyes of a blue dog." But the waiters bowed reverently, without remembering ever having said that in their dreams.
Then she would write on the napkins and scratch on the varnish of the tables with a knife: "Eyes of a blue dog." And on the steamed-up windows of hotels, stations, all public buildings, she would write with her forefinger: "Eyes of a blue dog." She said that once she went into a drugstore and noticed the same smell that she had smelled in her room one night after having dreamed about me. "He must be near," she thought, seeing the clean, new tiles of the drugstore.
Then she went over to the clerk and said to him: "I always dream about a man who says to me: 'Eyes of a blue dog.'" And she said the clerk had looked at her eyes and told her: "As a matter of fact, miss, you do have eyes like that." And she said to him: "I have to find the man who told me those very words in my dreams." And the clerk started to laugh and moved to the other end of the counter. She kept on seeing the clean tile and smelling the odor. And she opened her purse and on the tiles with her crimson lipstick, she wrote in red letters: "Eyes of a blue dog." The clerk came back from where he had been.
He told her: Madam, you have dirtied the tiles." He gave her a damp cloth, saying: "Clean it up." And she said, still by the lamp, that she had spent the whole afternoon on all fours, washing the tiles and saying: "Eyes of a blue dog," until people gathered at the door and said she was crazy.
Now, when she finished speaking, I remained in the corner, sitting, rocking in the chair. "Every day I try to remember the phrase with which I am to find you," I said. "Now I don't think I'll forget it tomorrow. Still, I've always said the same thing and when I wake up I've always forgotten what the words I can find you with are." And she said: "You invented them yourself on the first day." And I said to her: "I invented them because I saw your eyes of ash. But I never remember the next morning." And she, with clenched fists, beside the lamp, breathed deeply: "If you could at least remember now what city I've been writing it in."
Her tightened teeth gleamed over the flame. "I'd like to touch you now," I said. She raised the face that had been looking at the light; she raised her look, burning, roasting, too, just like her, like her hands, and I felt that she saw me, in the corner where I was sitting, rocking in the chair. "You'd never told me that," she said. "I tell you now and it's the truth," I said. From the other side of the lamp she asked for a cigarette. The butt had disappeared between my fingers. I'd forgotten I was smoking. She said: "I don't know why I can't remember where I wrote it." And I said to her: "For the same reason that tomorrow I won't be able to remember the words." And she said sadly: "No. It's just that sometimes I think that I've dreamed that too."
I stood up and walked toward the lamp. She was a little beyond, and I kept on walking with the cigarettes and matches in my hand, which would not go beyond the lamp. I held the cigarette out to her. She squeezed it between her lips and leaned over to reach the flame before I had time to light the match. "In some city in the world, on all the walls, those words have to appear in writing: 'Eyes of a blue dog," I said. "If I remembered them tomorrow I could find you." She raised her head again and now the lighted coal was between her lips. "Eyes of a blue dog," she sighed, remembered, with the cigarette drooping over her chin and one eye half closed.
Then she sucked in the smoke with the cigarette between her fingers and exclaimed: "This is something else now. I'm warming up." And she said it with her voice a little lukewarm and fleeting, as if she hadn't really said it, but as if she had written it on a piece of paper and had brought the paper close to the flame while I read: "I'm warming," and she had continued with the paper between her thumb and forefinger, turning it around as it was being consumed and I had just read ". . . up," before the paper was completely consumed and dropped all wrinkled to the floor, diminished, converted into light ash dust. "That's better," I said. "Sometimes it frightens me to see you that way. Trembling beside a lamp."
We had been seeing each other for several years. Sometimes, when we were already together, somebody would drop a spoon outside and we would wake up. Little by little we'd been coming to understand that our friendship was subordinated to things, to the simplest of happenings. Our meetings always ended that way, with the fall of a spoon early in the morning.
Now, next to the lamp, she was looking at me. I remembered that she had also looked at me in that way in the past, from that remote dream where I made the chair spin on its back legs and remained facing a strange woman with ashen eyes.
It was in that dream that I asked her for the first time: "Who are you?" And she said to me: "I don't remember." I said to her: "But I think we've seen each other before." And she said, indifferently: "I think I dreamed about you once, about this same room." And I told her: "That's it. I'm beginning to remember now." And she said: "How strange. It's certain that we've met in other dreams."
She took two drags on the cigarette. I was still standing, facing the lamp, when suddenly I kept looking at her. I looked her up and down and she was still copper; no longer hard and cold metal, but yellow, soft, malleable copper. "I'd like to touch you," I said again. And she said: "You'll ruin everything." I said: "It doesn't matter now. All we have to do is turn the pillow in order to meet again." And I held my hand out over the lamp. She didn't move. "You'll ruin everything," she said again before I could touch her. "Maybe, if you come around behind the lamp, we'd wake up frightened in who knows what part of the world."
But I insisted: "It doesn't matter." And she said: "If we turned over the pillow, we'd meet again. But when you wake up you'll have forgotten." I began to move toward the corner. She stayed behind, warming her hands over the flame. And I still wasn't beside the chair when I heard her say behind me: "When I wake up at midnight, I keep turning in bed, with the fringe of the pillow burning my knee, and repeating until dawn: 'Eyes of a blue dog.'"
Then I remained with my face toward the wall. "It's already dawning," I said without looking at her. "When it struck two I was awake and that was a long time back." I went to the door. When I had the knob in my hand, I heard her voice again, the same, invariable. "Don't open that door," she said. "The hallway is full of difficult dreams." And I asked her: "How do you know?" And she told me: "Because I was there a moment ago and I had to come back when I discovered I was sleeping on my heart." I had the door half opened.
I moved it a little and a cold, thin breeze brought me the fresh smell of vegetable earth, damp fields. She spoke again. I gave the turn, still moving the door, mounted on silent hinges, and I told her: "I don't think there's any hallway outside here.
I'm getting the smell of country." And she, a little distant, told me: "I know that better than you. What's happening is that there's a woman outside dreaming about the country." She crossed her arms over the flame. She continued speaking: "It's that woman who always wanted to have a house in the country and was never able to leave the city." I remembered having seen the woman in some previous dream, but I knew, with the door ajar now, that within half an hour I would have to go down for breakfast. And I said: "In any case, I have to leave here in order to wake up." ....
"...the mistaken and absurd world of rational creatures."
These short pieces can be seen as the necessary gathering of ingredients and of the practice of perfecting their measure, which would eventually go into the making of his magnum opus, , as well as his other lesser works.
Death and decay, memory and madness, time and its passing 鈥� here, the young Marquez leads the reader away from the mistaken and absurd world of rational creatures into a world where preconceived notions about everything are shattered and dismissed as facile. And you're pulled into a fascinating maze which is scary and scintillating at the same time.
At least three stories stood out for me. The opening story The Third Resignation, with its claustrophobic ruminations of a man beyond the grave who doesn鈥檛 know he鈥檚 dead (what a premise!). In Nabo: The Black Man Who Made the Angels Wait, Marquez explores the loss of sanity of a man crushed under the twin burdens of racism and poverty, perhaps even slavery. And the third story that struck a chord was Monologue of Isabel Watching it Rain in Macondo. Yes, Macondo didn鈥檛 come into existence with One Hundred Years鈥�; it came into being the moment Marquez picked up his pen for the very first time.
One may make a case that these stories are best appreciated after you have already read Marquez鈥檚 stellar works and are well-acquainted with his major themes. For these are his earliest fictions written in the 1940s and early '50s, when hardly anyone was writing this kind of stuff.
In any case a genuine talent was in the making and the passing of time proved it.
Something is terrifying about Marquez's style. The very worked style adapts well to the morbidity of the subjects; the stories are complex. It is a beautiful little fantastic, dreamlike novel, but it should not abuse it.
The collection Eyes of a Blue Dog (Ojos de perro azul, 1950) is an early anthology of short stories by Gabriel Garc铆a M谩rquez. The central motif of the collection is the fragile boundary between dreams and reality, life and death. The title story, in particular, vividly illustrates this: the protagonists meet only in their dreams, yearning to find each other in reality, but their efforts are doomed to failure. The stories explore themes of loneliness, longing, and alienation, often intertwined with elements of absurdity and mystery.
Although these stories may not be as refined as his later masterpieces, the foundations of M谩rquez's future style and themes are already evident.
Una colecci贸n de cuentos, la primera de Garc铆a M谩rquez en la que mayormente se ve como gran protagonista la muerte entre sus distintos personajes pero igual de ca贸ticos, obsesionados y perdidos.
Muy de cerca hay cuentos sobre el amor, la obsesi贸n, lo absurdo y evidentemente ese realismo m谩gico marcado por los hechos maravillosos que ocurren. Como el fant谩stico relato Mon贸logo de Isabel viendo llover en Macondo y tambi茅n Un hombre viene bajo la lluvia que hace menci贸n a uno de los personajes m谩s importantes de Cien a帽os de soledad.
馃拃La tercera resignaci贸n 3/5 馃悎鈥嶁瑳Eva est谩 dentro de su gato 3/5 鈽狅笍Tubal-Ca铆n forja una estrella 4/5 馃懃La otra costilla de la muerte 4/5 馃獮Di谩logo del espejo 3/5 馃挙Amargura para tres son谩mbulos 3/5 馃憺De c贸mo Natanael hace una visita 3.5/5 馃憗Ojos de perro azul 4/5 馃懇La mujer que llegaba a las seis en punto 4/5 馃La noche de los alcaravanes 4/5 馃尮Alguien desordena estas rosas 3.5/5 馃懠Nabo, el negro que hizo esperar a los 谩ngeles 3.5/5 馃導Un hombre viene bajo la lluvia 3.5/5 馃寠Mon贸logo de Isabel viendo llover en Macondo 4/5
This is a wonderful anthology containing some of the earliest short stories written by Garcia Marquez. Yes, these are some of the first stories he wrote, but that doesn't make them any less good, on the contrary, some of them are simply magic, full of his raw love for words.
The anthology was published in 1974 but the shorts stories within were all written before 1955. One of these stories, The monologue of Isabel watching the rain falling on Macondo, represents the first mention and the foundation stone to what would become 100 years of Solitude.
Along this anthology one can see Marquez's style changing, from his early stories settle in a haunting supernatural world to a more subtle kind of magic, one that almost feels like real life. Reading this book it's easy to understand how magic realism evolve to become the genre and literary current it's nowadays.
I have some favorites:
Eva is inside her cat, is a haunting, claustrophobic tale. Is she dead, alive, dreaming, sleep waking, did she kill a boy (her boy) or has he been dead for centuries, or is she really a spirit with fragmented images of what once her life now possessing a cat? You don't know and you don't need to know, because the not knowing makes reading this story all the better. And I bet you'll crave an orange after you're done reading.
Eyes of a blue dog, this one gives name to the anthology and with good reason. This is a tale of obsession and sadness and loneliness, of a woman in love with someone she dreams about every night. They are both real, she knows it, and he loves her too. But they don't know each other in real life, and everyday he forgets she exists. When awake, she can't remember how he looks or his name, she only knows what he once told her, that she has the eyes of a blue dog. This story is one that stays with me for days each time after I've read it. It has that incoherent but perfectly understandable quality dreams have, and like dreams it follows you around. If you never get to read this anthology cover to cover, at least find Eyes like a blue dog and read it, it is so worth it.
Monologue of Isabel watching the rain falling on Macondo, this one is the latest of all the stories. Here, Marquez writing is already well settled into the style of his novels. The claustrophobia and dreamy incoherence are gone, replace by a subtle pull into un-reality. This is a story that transports us to a new place, a place that may be very different from our everyday life but that through Isabel's eyes feels familiar, like a home, a magic one.
If you don't feel like taking on Marquez novels, give these stories a chance. You may get hook on magic realism.
Il tema della morte, la fredda solitudine, la passionalit脿 negata che sembra bloccare gran parte dei protagonisti a un passo dal realizzar antichi desideri sono alcuni dei temi portanti di questa affascinante raccolta. Un M谩rquez abbastanza insolito, che strizza l'occhio a Kafka, al mistero, al gotico, ma che non manca mai di porre a ogni riga la propria riconoscibile firma. Racconti splendidi, pur se caratterizzati da un velo di tristezza a volte quasi opprimente, che possono conceder di scoprire un nuovo lato artistico di questo grande scrittore e regalare splendide emozioni.
Se帽ora, su ni帽o tiene una enfermedad grave: est谩 muerto Tu chiamale se vuoi 鈥� Raccolta dei primi racconti giovanili di Garcia Marquez, Nobel per la Letteratura nel 1982, scritti tra il 1947 ed il 1955, anno, quest鈥檜ltimo, fondamentale nel percorso evolutivo del genere umano. Riporto maldestramente da Wikipedia: 1. La terza rassegnazione. Un bambino morto all'et脿 di 7 anni continua a crescere per altri 18 nel feretro che la madre gli ha fatto costruire su misure da adulto, disteso su un tavolo in una stanza di casa. 2. L'altra costola della morte. Il protagonista si sveglia spaventato per aver sognato il fratello gemello appena morto di cancro. 3. Eva sta dentro il suo gatto. Immobile nel suo letto, una bambina pensa forse al fratello/doppio morto e sepolto in giardino. 4. Amarezza per tre sonnambuli. Tre fratelli osservano, forse, la madre perseguitata dal sonnambulismo, che hanno ospitato in casa. 5. Dialogo dello specchio. Un uomo al risveglio si guarda allo specchio mentre si rade, ricorda il fratello gemello morto. 6. Occhi di cane azzurro. 脠 il resoconto di un sogno. Nel vedere la bellezza degli occhi grigi di una donna chiusa in una stanza, sola con lui, un uomo dice: Occhi di cane azzurro. 7. La donna che arrivava alle sei. Ogni giorno una donna non pi霉 giovane entra alle sei in punto del pomeriggio nel bar di Jos茅, mangia un piatto che lui non le fa pagare, quindi se ne va ogni volta con un uomo diverso. 8. Nabo, il negro che fece aspettare gli angeli. Un giovane manovale nero che ha l'incarico di badare ai cavalli del padrone, e di manovrare il grammofono per la bambina autistica di casa, riceve un violento calcio in fronte da un cavallo. Perde il senno e il senso della realt脿. 9. Qualcuno scompiglia queste rose. Il fantasma di un bambino morto continua a frequentare la casa dove visse, e dove nel frattempo 猫 tornata a abitare la sua compagna di giochi di quarant'anni prima. 10. La notte dei pivieri. Tre uomini ciechi si trovano in una casa dove sentono la voce e la presenza di una donna, alla quale raccontano che i pivieri hanno strappato i loro occhi perch茅, mentre erano ubriachi, hanno tentato di fare il verso al loro canto. 11. Monologo di Isabel mentre vede piovere su Macondo. La giovane sposa Isabel, in attesa di un bambino, assiste all'arrivo dell'inverno (che ai Caraibi 猫 la stagione delle piogge) dalla veranda della casa familiare.
Atmosfere cupe, ambientazioni dove Nuestra Se帽ora de la Santa Muerte la fa da padrona, Atmosfere allucinanti, personaggi allucinati, che neanche Poe 鈥� Comprensione? Zero. Emozioni? Oltre ogni dire. Tanto da rileggere e rileggere ancora, per cercare un senso, un fil rouge 鈥� Risultato? N茅ant 鈥� Ma il coinvolgimento, il nodo allo stomaco, il senso di smarrimento mi accompagnano da un episodio all鈥檃ltro. Forse anche perch茅 Nuestra Se帽ora, con le sue veglie notturne, 猫 stata presenza costante nella mia vita. Impalpabili, oscuri sogni che penetrano nell鈥檃bisso del mio animo. Quando cade la tristezza in fondo al cuore, come la neve, non fa rumore... dehorsmaisdedans, je vous remercie beaucoup. Albus le Magicien
Siento una profunda fascinaci贸n por la pluma de Garc铆a M谩rquez. M谩s que admiraci贸n, creo que se ha convertido en un cari帽o tremendo por lo magn铆fico de cada l铆nea. Cada cuento dejaba en evidencia la autenticidad de todo lo que este hombre hac铆a, y lo 煤nico de su persona. Es una manera de decir que su esencia se ha convertido en un punto de referencia y tiene un nivel de excelencia al que todos los autores deber铆an aspirar.
No es para menos que al terminar cada obra suya quede tan admirada como si fuera la primera vez que lo leo, y eso que estamos hablando de cuentos de entre los cuarenta y cincuenta, cuando a煤n no hab铆a sido publicada la obra que le har铆a notable (aunque s铆 el mon贸logo que le dio origen), y es que su esplendidez ya era evidente en este tiempo. No es para menos, claro que no, que al terminar cualquier cosa suya, por corta que sea, acabe admirada y casi extasiada por lo que acabo de leer.
Di谩logo del espejo me gust贸 bastante.
Es curioso que en tan tempranas obras se halle tanta inclinaci贸n hacia la muerte, pero sobre todo al extra帽o desconocimiento de la misma, como si fuese una presencia m谩s, como si se tratara de un amigo que ha de sentarse a tu lado a observar c贸mo intentas seguir con una vida que ya no tienes, o a verte experimentar c贸mo reaccionar谩s ante el inminente fin. Es una manera de explorar mundos que no existen y de mezclarlo con el volver a las ra铆ces de los personajes en s铆.
Ne pamtim da sam du啪e 膷itala jednu knjigu. Prve dve pri膷e razvla膷ila sam nekoliko meseci, da bih ostatak knjige pro膷itala za no膰, kad sam kona膷no odlu膷ila da ostavim sve druge planove i posvetim se pravoj vrsti odmora.
Resulta curioso que un joven Garc铆a M谩rquez, - estos cuentos est谩n escritos entre los a帽os 40 y principios de los 50 - , est茅 tan obsesionado con la muerte, los sue帽os y los gemelos. Muy probablemente marcado por el imaginario popular, los muertos de estos cuentos no saben que est谩n muertos y siguen creciendo o buscan cuerpos donde seguir viviendo o se confunden con el hermano gemelo o se niegan al llamado del hombre misterioso para formar parte de un coro. Sue帽os de enamorados que nunca se encuentran, porque el hombre al despertar no recuerda la clave que le permitir谩 identificar a su amada, que ella se empe帽a en escribir en todas las superficies a su alcance (Ojos de Perro Azul), La maestr铆a de Garc铆a M谩rquez ya est谩 presente en estos cuentos, aunque carecen del humor y sentido del absurdo que caracterizar铆a la obra que lo har铆a famoso.