Ernesto de Tal (Portuguese Edition)
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Sabato captures the intensity of passions run into uncharted passages where love promises not tranquillity but danger, Juan Pablo manages to meet Maria, their relationship starts to bloom but it is not usual fairy types of bonds, for it is one of those crippling one which eventually turns out to be obsession wherein jealously gradually takes over infatuation as is the fate of love generally, for the dangers it holds only permeate with time. The inability to control human passion, precisely bounded, here comes across not as melodrama but as icy documentary: The more I thought about it, the more receptive I became to the idea of accepting her love without condition, and the more terrified I became of being left with nothing, absolutely nothing.
From the terror was germinating and flowering the kind of humility possessed only by persons who have no choice.
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This narrative of the book is meticulously condensed as the book is divided into small chapters which contain sparse and succinct sentences which makes them easy to decipher, at the same time the narrative doesn't leave its profoundness to captivate the reader about obsessions and struggles of the narrator. The nightmares of Juan Pablo, in which he turns to a man-size bird, reflects the deep scuffles in consciousness to ascertain existence of a man.
Sabato mocks about idiosyncrasies of life using satirical elements, the deadpan description of a cocktail party filled with psychoanalysts, the portrayal of life of elites wherein redundant conversations fill the intellectual circles, are absolutely bang on, his commentary over vanity is honest and chilling, for human nature is corrupted and man always delude himself: I do not comment on vanity.
As far as I know, no human is devoid of this formidable motivation for Human Progress. People make me laugh when they talk about the modesty of an Einstein, or someone of his kind. My answer to them is that it is easy to be modest when you are famous. That is appear to me modest. View all 21 comments. Just as Opaque the Second Time Round In The Tunnel, Ernesto Sabato has a mysogonistic, puerile, obsessive, apparently psychopathic murderer tell the reader his every thought about a folie a deux with his victim and its rationale.
My first time through The Tunnel left me bewildered. Of what literary rather than ideological merit is this work? For whose edification or amusement is it meant? But I picked up on a hint b Just as Opaque the Second Time Round In The Tunnel, Ernesto Sabato has a mysogonistic, puerile, obsessive, apparently psychopathic murderer tell the reader his every thought about a folie a deux with his victim and its rationale.
But I picked up on a hint by another GR reader and found that Sabato was a scientist before he was a writer and had incorporated quantum physics in The Tunnel as a sort of hidden metaphor. This led me back into The Tunnel for another look. They also point out Borges allusions to alternative and even parallel universes that were of interest to Sabato.
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They contend that Sabato builds on these Borgian tropes to create scenes of discontinuous time in his story. Maybe so. But I find the argument of Halpern and Carpenter to be somewhat tendentious. The metaphor, if there, is certainly not central to this tale of murder and psychopathy. Of course there are always alternative trajectories for any story, or for any historical reality. In one I was talkative, witty something in fact I never am ; in another I was taciturn; in still another, sunny and smiling.
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At times, though it seems incredible, I answered rudely, even with ill-concealed rage. It happened in some of these imaginary meetings that our exchange broke off abruptly because of an absurd irritability on my part, or because I rebuked her, almost crudely, for some comment I found pointless or ill-thought-out.
Juan Pablo is a misanthrope without any mitigating, not to say redeeming, features. In any case: not terribly stimulating. My original review us here: Cui bono? I have been trying to finish this short novel for weeks. But I can only get through 10 pages at a time. I've finally given up. I don't get it. Someone please explain where I am going wrong. You know I was going to review this book but then it occurred to me that I would never know if you have read my review. I mean yes, I do get likes but suppose people are liking them without reading them.
Of course, why would anyone do that?hyguweguduga.tk
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Two possibilities seem to suggest themselves — either they want to make a fool of me by making me keep writing reviews that no one reads or to distract me from something. Of course, that in itself calls for a mass conspiracy because so many people from so man You know I was going to review this book but then it occurred to me that I would never know if you have read my review.
Of course, that in itself calls for a mass conspiracy because so many people from so many countries will be liking my reviews — unless of course, it is one person with many fake accounts.
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Now that I think about it the possibility seems very real… …. The above is how our protagonist might have started a review. But what about artists? What yearnings must they have in themselves to make it their profession to develop those tools; to be on constant look out, at just the right word, phrase, color etc? Is it that they live in constant fear of being misunderstood like Kafka was? Perhaps getting the message right in itself not enough, there must also need be the person who can understand the message. Perhaps that is why artists seek posterity and immortality — to carry to their death bed the hope that what they have to say will be one day be heard in just the way they wanted.
So, is it for that theoretical chance of finding someone who will understand him that keeps the artist going? The trouble begins when he finds a woman does understand him. And he discovers that he has a lot more to say than that single painting. She wants that too — because the need for understanding is mutual. Like Anna Karenina, he needs constant assurances of her fidelity — as is often the case of those who fell in love when they had long given up on any chance of finding it. Like her, he too dwells over suicide but rather prefers killing his girlfriend. Camus commissioned its publishing — and the narrator here too finds himself a stranger in his world but his solitude because he is a nihilist but rather because of his misanthropy.
View all 17 comments. If you want to foreground a sociopath-misogynist-stalker's sense of urban isolation and alienation against a woman's prolonged emotional and physical abuse at the hands of the same person and call it existentialist literature, your choice.
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Just don't expect me to appreciate it. View all 27 comments. Shelves: must-read , favorites , argentine. The Tunnel by Sabato, inspired by Dostoevsky and Kafka, is not just an intriguing novel but also an important existential classic.
It cannot be totally denied that there are some similarities between Castel of this novel and Meursault from The Stranger but Castel is not too nihilistic in his views. The heart of Castel might have been frozen, but there was a drop or two of love - just enough to feed the birds. Solitude is often thought of as something self-warranted.
Sometimes, even a man who built his own fortress of The Tunnel by Sabato, inspired by Dostoevsky and Kafka, is not just an intriguing novel but also an important existential classic. Sometimes, even a man who built his own fortress of solitude from which he can watch and sneer at others, waits eagerly for someone to breach the wall that confines him.
God or Man — Solitude is not indestructible. He was oblivious of all human sorrows in his tunnel of solitude. There were no intruders. His journey inside his tunnel has always been unobtrusive, with occasional, suspicious sneaks from the outside and a faint hope of meeting someone inside from the outside. Slowly, the walls keep narrowing in; Darkness keeps creeping in.
Such was the life of Castel.
I scorn all humankind; people around me seem vile, sordid, stupid, greedy, gross, niggardly. I do not fear solitude; it is almost Olympian. Along came a lovely being, ravaging his solitude and denting his vanity. There was a strange, distant, silent sea which beckoned to them and which would sweep him away in the name of love.
Here is Castel, reflecting on his past and a love affair which otherwise would have lasted, had he not killed the only person who would understand him. What went wrong? Who wronged their love which could have otherwise been beautiful, and maybe, everlasting? His perverse predictions deceived him. His syllogisms had become sinful delusions. His absurd questions made him confront his love.
His fractured love metamorphosed him into a heartless murderer. View all 33 comments. The narr "All our life would it be a succession of anonymous cries in a desert of indifferent stars? The narrator is in jail, but that's nothing compared to the morbid confinement in the ceaseless activity of reasoning, interpretation, scaffolding of assumptions made by his mind, seizing the slightest pause or of a "vestige of a smile" to feed his suspicions, entangled in a delirious logic that distances him from the only person who, according to him, could understand it: "I finally came to formulate my idea in this terrible but indisputable form: Maria and the prostitute have a similar expression; the prostitute simulated pleasure; Maria simulated pleasure; Maria is a prostitute.
One is invited to enter the maze of this mad narrative of the narrator, enticing by his energy, touched by the feeling that Juan has to live his life in a dark and lonely tunnel far from the "hectic life that these people who live in outside, this curious and absurd life where there are balls, and feasts, and joy, and frivolity. Shelves: hello-reality-you-suck , recommended-to-me , classy-as-hell , mind-fucked , writing-i-would-love-to-imitate , tortured-hero , welcome-to-the-dark-side. That is how the story unfolded itself. It began with that one sentence - a simple, staightforward confession.
After I finished the novella, it felt like waking up from a dream. Not just a normal dream but a nightmarish one. The kind that leaves you dazed as its after effect. There was one person who could have understood me. But she was the very person I killed.