By Javier Marías, Margaret Jull Costa
A guy marries a lady and after the honeymoon she commits suicide. accordingly, he marries her sister and has a son. the unconventional, which gained the Spanish Critics' Award, recounts the son's efforts to find the reality of that mysterious tragedy. by way of the writer of All Souls.
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A guy marries a lady and after the honeymoon she commits suicide. as a result, he marries her sister and has a son. the radical, which received the Spanish Critics' Award, recounts the son's efforts to find the reality of that mysterious tragedy. via the writer of All Souls. summary: If Ranz has advised no lies to his son Juan, that's simply because Juan has requested no questions.
Da neigt sich die Stunde und rührt mich an mit klarem metallenem Schlag: mir zittern die Sinne. Ich fühle: ich kann – und ich fasse den plastischen Tag. Nichts warfare noch vollendet, eh ich es erschaut, ein jedes Werden stand nonetheless. Meine Blicke sind reif, und wie eine Braut kommt jedem das Ding, das er will.
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Additional info for A heart so white
Just as an illness changes our state to such an extent that it obliges us sometimes to stop everything and to keep to our beds for an unforeseeable number of days and to see the world only from our pillow, my marriage disrupted my habits and even my beliefs and, more importantly still, my view of the world. Perhaps that was because it came rather late, I was thirty-four years old when I contracted marriage. The principal and the most common problem at the beginning of any fairly conventional marriage is that, regardless of how fragile an institution marriage is nowadays and regardless of the facilities for disengagement available to the contracting parties, you traditionally experience an unpleasant sense of having arrived and, therefore, of having reached an end, or rather (since the days continue implacably to pass and there is no end), that the time has come to devote yourself to something else.
She gave three more steps without looking up and when she did, when she opened her mouth to insult me or threaten me and began for the nth time to make that prehensile movement, like a lion’s claw, the grasping gesture that meant: “You won’t get away from me” or “You’re mine” or “I’ll see you in hell”, she left it raised in mid-air, her bare arm frozen in action, like that of an athlete. I saw her newly shaved armpit, she’d shaved it carefully for her date. She glanced again to my left then back at me, glanced to my left and again at me.
She asked again. I saw no reason not to tell her the truth and yet I had the feeling as I did so that I wasn’t doing so. At that moment, I was holding a towel one corner of which I’d moistened with water and was busy cooling her face, her throat, the back of her neck (her long, dishevelled hair clung to her skin and a few stray hairs lay across her forehead like fine lines sent by the future to cast a momentary shadow over her). “No one, a woman who mistook me for someone else. She mixed our balcony up with the one next door.