Turn in my essay but i ain t no snitch

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Since I found out that Stefania was coming to Prague, I set to work to organize a trip and try to, at least, greet her in person. I walked incessantly throughout the center looking for the hotel on a map with names, whose names and accents I do not know and which danced before me. I sweated like three liters and the time was infinitely long. He approached me, he kissed me and said so calmly, "Soplis, I have a horrible grip" and I answered him... "let me react and assimilate this". Before continuing with the story, I want to clarify, that I did not ask anything that I knew would not answer me, nor was it the mission of my trip. We do not talk about his future trips, nor about his boyfriend with that controversy, nor about the back to back that they have asked so much... for that there are already impertinent journalists! We sat on a sofa in the hotel reception, Roston, Stefania and me. Then it also comes into play... you'll see..! I gave greetings from each and every one of the people who read my blog. We reviewed his reign, we talked about his haircut, the length of his reign and several things that I keep for me! At this point I say "I'm not a journalist but I'm going to ask you several questions"... She notifies everything she will do around the city... There are dresses that sponsors, designers, etc. give you. She works every day of her reign, but the org downloads activities from her calendar and rejects appearances so she can rest!! The food: I could not imagine going out to buy at the supermarket. He has done it without problems, but all purchases are made online. They take the food home and they cook themselves. Then we talked about the good and the bad, about this and about that, they told me certain things that are very good for her that we will soon learn all about and everything we talk about I can summarize the following. Stefania has traveled what they considered prudent. They have rejected many trips because other commitments have needed their presence. The reign of a miss universe can be divided into two. One part dedicated to the production of money and the other to the maintenance of the image. Attend meetings of negotiation, tests and castings. hahahahaha until October we will have it... more or less. He repeated to me that it is a myth that they take each other badly. In the coming weeks we will discover a lot of extraordinary things that will surprise us and that will make her an unforgettable MU. At this point, MUs are already being negotiated for the next two and three years, but there are many factors to take into account in order to make that decision. Roston told me about the whole process and it is a long road of several years, that involves a lot of money and that can not be taken lightly. As we saw the government gave up... Tefa went to rest and prepare. I left the hotel trying to analyze if everything they told me was true.. YES! I went to the hotel, I changed my clothes and as a carnation I was in the hotel at the scheduled time. In the cocktail we drink water, champagne, Stefania took a picture with celebrities from that country and with us while I waited to be instructed to enter his post. In each commercial cut the same. They prostrated themselves in front to obtain every gesture and every movement. There was never a NO, not a bad face or a gesture of fatigue after so many trips and hours of flight in the last three weeks. More silence... between that did not understand what they said, all sitting and a man dressed in black in front, I thought! Pussy is a contest... not a mass..! It was not one of those competitions where the participants take the stage with fear! After that, a song of 1500 years ago came out to sing a young duo... Jesus! The swimsuits were gold and the girls were accompanied by giant columns of fire at their sides. Hahaha, in that room was a former Czech president and was restricted for security! As our bodyguard came out, he said a prayer in Czech and accompanied me to the door of the bathroon! And immediately they passed him a plate, which we put up to the ceiling and that we shared with another mocaccino... and in advertising to run!! Then they went out to sing some guys with a choir, who ballads on glasses, but I was installed eating with the bodyguard in secret! and I got excited with everything you said, as if I was living it =). and a thousand thanks for this blog so complete and wonderful! I'm very excited with your post!!! What a way to fulfill a dream!!! Very proud of her, and very happy for your Soplon experience! Thank you for sharing this wonderful experience with us, your story has no waste. Congratulations, how nice that you could have lived all this that you tell us. And as not reguntaaando all the gossip and things that come to you and from yá we want to know what Stefania1 told you! and to you many congratulations for your great work, success!

The few Republican fighters who have managed to escape death or exile hide in the backs of flamenco tablaos in Madrid while their women carry the burden of the survival of their families. But also of the flame and the cause for which they fought and were defeated. And the informers stalk, any misstep can give your bones at the foot of the cemetery wall. Real stories, by the way, where misery and horror, solidarity and hope roar. Question.- When you start your novel, you will be amazed by that fantastic, shiny and new duplicating machine that nobody knows how to use yet and that seems like a perfect allegory of its history: how to recover the thread of memory when everything has been destroyed. Answer.- Well, it's a real story. And it is also a metaphor for the precariousness of resistance, how difficult it was to resist at that moment, how fragile the connections were. Because, in short, what the novel tells is the story of a network of resistance formed in the most inhospitable and precarious place in the world that is a prison. R. - Of course, it was women's thing because those who were able to exercise it were women. Many men had died in the war, the majority of the prison population constituted them and the Republican army basically evacuated men, so in exile they were also. Solidarity is one of the main themes of this novel. Manolita is a survivor and part of her energy is given by the time she shares with women as willing to survive as she is. Q. - Three real references outline the diagram of coordinates of the novel. R.- Yes, it is the case of a real woman. That in schools like that exploit girls and teenagers is monstrous: they were girls and they had been promised an education. From that chronicle emerges a character as nefarious as spectacular: the chaplain of Porlier prison. Nor did they have it that there were schools like Isabel's, in which the children were exploited. This to put yourself in the place of a snitch and torturer, took it as a narrative challenge or as one of those ungrateful tasks of his trade? R. - The character of the Ears was a personal and literary challenge. Conesa, the real one, is someone who knows almost nothing beyond some professional milestones. And from there I tried to understand it. But then I had already turned him into a fictional character. A.- I am a writer above all and my obligation is to write good books. My fundamental commitment is with literature. What I do is tell a story from one perspective, that of the people who resisted. This cycle of novels has an address and I follow it as I follow my characters, as would any narrator. It is the third book and projects three more. R. - The rest I have already done. I delay in delivering the books because I correct a lot, but I finished it in September and since then I have not written. I had written the first three novels of the cycle followed, without resting. This summer I will return to to write. They ask me, but are not you afraid of getting tired, of leaving the Episodes and moving on to something else? Well, no, the truth, so far not, although I can not exclude that happens to me at another time. But I do not care, I have no obligations and, if at any time I want to write something else, I will. At this time it will not be because the next novel is perhaps the one that tempted me the most since I started thinking about the project. R. - Because it is a novel of Nazis in the form of a spy novel. I really want to sink my teeth. A.- I am sure that great novels will be written about this crisis, what happens is that Literature needs sedimentation. Novels are not capable of immediately capturing the present as cinema does. The novel goes deeper but needs time to pass. I see Blesa without a doubt as the protagonist of a novel. By continuing with navigation we understand that our cookies policy is accepted.

It looked like one of those Barbie dolls my sister plays with. But his hair was not blond but black as night. It was so long that it reached his hips. She was tall and skin shaded by the sun, as if she came from the beach. I liked his way of walking and sitting on the desk. The morochos and Leroux began to whisper when they saw her. When the teacher finished explaining about atoms and molecules, one of the morochos handed him a piece of paper. She read it and turned to them with a smile. Then he wrote in the same paper and passed it to the dark man, who in turn passed it to Leroux. I really did not understand why I did not like that Leroux saw her. Why did I want to kick him when he approached him in the canteen? It was the first time I felt something like this for a girl. Not that I did not know anything about love. At twelve I had seen one or another lumpen novel. The ones Mom saw at night. Those where the rich always falls in love with the poor girl and rescues her. For a few days I dedicated myself to seeing the bulls from the barrier. Leroux had won many points and I had not even introduced myself to him. He suffered from a sickly shyness. And of course, also the panorama did not contribute. Outside of class, I was never alone. If he was not with friends, a stupid court always surrounded her. I think she liked it because they bought her anything she asked for. And he laughed at anything they said, especially what Leroux said. By the way, rumors were already running that they were dating. The first time I saw them holding hands, I felt a blow to the heart. And a rage with Leroux that I had to swallow. I had already seen him on the street strutting with his kimono, and an orange ribbon where he put his thumbs. In the old style of the Western. But that did not stop the urge to kick his ass. I did not like the idea of ​​being embarrassed in front of the girl of my dreams. To say nothing more shameful. It was more pleasant to avoid problems. Where they were, where they went, where they went, I did not give a damn. In the fourteen subjects that were dominating little by little. It had been a hard leap from elementary school to high school. Each teacher came with his rules, with his class plan, with his sulfuric acid ready to dilute our brain. Well, basically all this requirement was good. We learned a lot of things. So much that at the end of the year I felt great. Maybe closer to the guys in the beige shirt. One day I learned that Daniela had left Leroux for a fifth. I was not surprised because that always happens with pretty girls. They always get hooked with the bigger ones. Generally the most popular. The stars of basketball or any other sport. Although basketball was the only thing that was played in the high school.Básquet. It was more than a passion, a disease that infected everyone. Become a promise for the professional league. But being honest, I liked physics more. And I saw myself in the future with an astronaut suit or at least a physique robe. I am sure that if Daniela had known my dream, she would have fallen before me. But even my heart would have broken. Because she became an expert in tricking men. I saw how everyone fell for their beauty. With that big woman tomb that caused a tingling in the body. That strange smell that came out of his skin. Those eyes that suggested putting the world upside down. He seemed to have control of all the boys. A goddess mounted on a throne of brats. He lacked the staff and the whip to make his role better. But the days we saw her with a belly. A belly that we all thought of the basketball player. A belly that separated her from our world. The director met with the parents. The parents met with the children. And they came to an agreement that the basketball star should recognize the baby. The boy threw away the plugs, he got angry, he said that Daniela was just anyone. Daniela's mother was offended. He said his daughter was a girl from his house. That the robacunas was him, that he had taken away her virginity. The first time I heard this word was in the church. When they explained about the Concepción de María. So he had preferred to lock her inside the drawer of unfinished things. Until I heard her that day through the door of the address. And you got into a problem, because this girl is pregnant. The parents of Javier, agreed, but as long as the paternity of their son was proven. This word had been explained to me well in biology. It was a molecule that contains all the properties of the human being. The nexus of the baby with its parents and other more complex things could be determined. But you had to wait until the baby was born. It was risky and complicated to do before. They would have to wait between seven and nine months to find out if Javier was the father. For everyone it would be a nightmare, but above all, for Daniela. Actually the story was worthy of taking it to the screen. His drama had the power to make the Hulk himself cry. The great truth was that Javier was not the father. And I do not know where Daniela took her strength, but she said it. He nearly choked on the crying that no longer came out of his mouth, but out of his soul. A boy who was not even enrolled in high school. She apologized to Javier and hung around his neck. He shouted with despair, as if that day was changed with Marie Antoinette in the guillotine. It was full of tears and snot. Despair led her to tear Javier's shirt. To jump with her belly to hold on to her neck again, but he rejected her. He urged her to leave his presence. That he knew that belly was not his. Daniela was still crying and throwing words that no longer understood or had no meaning. The mother had no moral to defend it. He just apologized to Javier and his parents, and took her away. Daniela's world fell apart. Her parents locked her until she gave birth. They stared at him as if he were a chiripa waiting to be crushed. Then I learned that when the child was born, Tutu visited Daniela's house. I do not know how they let him take the child to the street. He went to the bakery to buy bread and showed it to the baker, and to all his panas on the corner. I was in the bakery indignant. The baker himself saw everything with a disapproving face. "Poor creature, I heard him say. I just knew that Tutu was a first-rate madman. A neighborhood scourge capable of killing his own mother. I was aware of everything, even though I had no part in the life of that baby or Daniela. But I believe that the life of a child is everyone's problem. After a few minutes, Daniela's mother came and took the child from Tutu. As if he wanted to run and nobody saw her. All the neighbors were in the windows fascinated with perspective. The Tutu laughed and said he was happy. That now he could die and leave his little Al Capone in the neighborhood. The baker moved his face from side to side: - Poor creature, said another time. I took the loaves and left, with Daniela's face painted on my mind. Like a sad portrait drawn by a crying artist. I do not know what happened to me, but I think I felt his sadness. It is difficult to describe that sadness. It's like having lost your world. The world that once opened promissory. Although I always avoided meeting Daniela. The one in the honor roll. The boy who gave him repulsion for his face full of acne. And although she was no longer studying at the lyceum, she was my neighbor. Curious thing because he had never noticed it until he started studying at the lyceum. I started to find Daniela very often in the cellar and the bakery. She had already given birth to the child, but she was never seen. I always left him at home with his mother. I gave him a hello as you are, without waiting for him to respond. I remember it was a Friday when we chatted. On Fridays I was allowed to play basketball on the block when I left school. He could arrive at half past six. I think it was an illogical rule, because I played in front of the house, and my grandmother could hear my screams or see me just sticking her head out the window. Well, that Friday I did not play, but I stayed talking with Daniela. I did not want to be guilty of another tear. But she revealed to me her condition. How he felt after his son was born. And from what I could hear, it was fine. She was not sorry for having had him, although if she could go back in time, she would have graduated as a veterinarian first. He said it with a maturity that revealed what he had suffered. I told him I could continue studying at night. He told me that was what I would do. But the only thing that tortured him was the Tutu. That he had threatened his parents that if he did not marry him, he would take the child. That comment took me out of my boxes. She noticed my anger and smiled slightly. He celebrated my friendship and said goodbye. Some comrades approached. They warned me about the danger of approaching Daniela. And he knew that this miscreant was the terror of the neighborhood. That I could get any kind of weapons. That he had dealings with narcos and pranes. But Daniela had resurfaced in my heart. It was clear that I had separated her from my mind because of the studies and because it was a torment to see her with her boyfriends. But now a friendship was born. A sweet friendship that promised deeper things. The tutu was just a horrible monster for her. Someone who wanted to take away from his life forever. When I arrived, my grandmother told me that I was getting in where no one had called me. That Daniela did not suit me at all. That he had seen how he looked at her and that it was not a good sign. I did not really understand what he wanted to save me from. I thought it was just part of overprotection. But then I understood who I wanted to protect myself from. It was not Daniela or the malandro. It was the crazy thing he saw in my eyes. That love I had for Daniela, that eagerness to protect her, could end my future. With those years of studies that I still needed to be a bachelor. Then I nodded and I became reflective. But then, Daniela resurfaced taking every space of my mind. My friendship with Daniela went to the next level. Every day we got to the same point on the sidewalk. She cried almost for anything and I caught her tears. I always managed to avoid that look, that mouth full of brightness, that hypnotic perfume. Daniela was already my secret girlfriend. For the life of Daniela, for the health of our parents, for the child. The Tutu was a risk that we could not run. However, as the months go by. Months in which Daniela became the best teacher she had ever had. The Tutu learned about our love. He had arrived at Daniela's house with a Glock 45. Forcing her to give Daniela's whereabouts. Daniela was no longer in the bakery, she was with me in my house. I had heard the macabre proverb that bullies have snitches everywhere. And this time, the snitch was not missing either. It was terrible to see him knock down my door. Grabbing my grandma by the neck. Threaten us with kill my old woman if I did not give Daniela. She left the closet voluntarily. I was speechless when he did it. I still thank you very much inside the heart. Tutu took her by the hair, threatened to take her child if she did not finish marrying him. I followed them, even with the cries of my grandmother, who also followed me. Tutu said to give me back or I would regret it. But I followed him. I was blind with an anger I had never identified in me. They arrived at the house and Tutu closed the door behind him. Outside they heard the screams of Daniela, her mother, and the baby who did not stop crying. The neighbors had gathered. Nobody dared to call the police for fear of the thug. But also because the morbid tempted them to swallow everything. The scene became more gloomy because Daniela's screams preceded a shot. I went through the window desperate. The image of dead Daniela gave me the courage to challenge the truhan. I saw him hanging Daniela with both hands. The mother was on the floor immobilized by the shot. She stared at me in surprise while I took the Glock 45 slowly. Tutu had thrown it aside to use his hands better. I never knew how I could detonate the weapon. Although the description was detailed in the juvenile court. He had done it with his eyes closed and with both hands. They gave me a thirty-year sentence for manslaughter. But they reduced it to five because of the mitigating factors. He had saved Daniela's life. Every time he comes with his son to visit me, he tells him that I am his father. I needed to isolate the protein that made it immune to any kind of bacterial invasion. He was opening the abdomen of the fly with a tiny scalpel. The blood-colored hemolymph comes out. The fly contorts, moves its legs and begins to despair. Rufus presses with the claw the head of the insect, which makes a sudden movement, as if it wanted to get rid of the rest, but then it contracts. The hemolymph has almost completely left its cavity. Rufus adds an insulator that has worked for many years, is effective for blood cultures. The protein is finally isolated. He has in his hands perhaps the antidote against all the pathogenic elements of the world. They spent months of hard work to produce the Vilorium. Rufus did not want to tell the press until all of its side effects were ruled out. I had two months taking 20cc of the formula to suppress an infection that was caused by miasmas from a chemical industry. Result: The anomalous bacilli could not adhere to their tissues, viscera, or contaminate their blood. On the contrary, the Vilorium increased the number of its platelets strengthening the defenses of its blood, developing its muscle fiber and causing the proliferation of hairs on its skin. Gradually he felt that his strength increased, that his forty-eight years changed to twenty. An ominous and overwhelming omen directed his thoughts to a terrible possibility: The Vilorium formula was perhaps not complete. Maybe from the beginning it was a perfect mistake. The protein should never have been stolen from the fly. He could not believe it, his colleagues would scoff at just saying it. But this time with fear, a fear that showed in his eyes. A fear that caused the involuntary movement of his left cheekbone and an unpleasant cold on his back. What I experience is nothing more than the logical reaction of a drug. The days were in charge of showing Rufus the terrible truth. When the bathroom mirror revealed the proboscis of a horrendous fly. He vomited instantly, staining the mirror with a viscous liquid that melted everything. It was the vomit of a genuine Prosopomya Pallida. Compound eyes reddish, head covered with hair-like filaments, but never comparable. He ran quickly to the large mirror on the roof of the laboratory. He tried stubbornly to lie on the floor to face the mirror, but could not do it because of his huge abdomen. An irresistible itch in the back, it triggered the hiss of two translucent wings. Something gelatinous suddenly expelled from their intestines. It was something black and sticky that stained his legs. I was scared, but angry. To the point of throwing the instruments to the floor, flip tables, pipettes, bottles and refrigerators. Rufus shouted, shouted with a bugle sound. The neighbors warned the police about the noises that came from Dr. Viloria's house. And in a short time, the blues laid down the lab's storehouse. There were firemen, ambulances, reporters, cameras and curious neighbors. They all went in and saw with surprise a giant fly fluttering through the air, hitting things, cursing with a diminished voice that came from somewhere in his horrid head. The sound became more and more inaudible, until it was only perceived as a slight click, and then, the endless hiss of an insect flying through the air. The photos showed the huge dipterous who according to the sources was able to eat a human in one bite. And do not even think that I'll give the wretch another chance. Manrique moved all his tentacles. Men in black roamed the city with dark glasses and Colts 3.8 with silencers. His lustrous black cars mimicked the murky clarity of the lanterns. They had orders to bring him alive or dead. It was a matter of time before they got it. But with the pressures of Manrique, his men became desperate, and they got into any suspicious house. Many times the atrocity was so great that the horrendous photolites occupied the front page. A naked corpse with bruises and a shot of Colt in the groin dawned on the sofa of a house. At five o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, a lump in the Güaire River floated in an evident state of decomposition. According to forensics, it had been a death caused by a Colt's shots. On Saturday at noon, men in suits were seen wearing Colts, by the neighbors of the 9th floor of a building without a name. As they had knocked down the door of '94, and after hearing shots, the owner went out the window crashing on the concrete. The victim had died before the fall by four shots of Colt. Manrique, irate, seeing the last actions of his men, kicked his buldog in the tail, but it clung to his calf biting as he did with his bone. He saw everything gray when the sharp fangs lacerated the tendons of his left leg. An ambulance left him in the clinic, while calling the doctors with cries of urgency: Hurry miserable that my leg is dying! In the midst of his doom he thought of Iturrieta, the leader of the group he had hired to find Viloria. He could not believe that these jackasses exposed him to so much. I wanted to have Iturrieta in front to break her face. Those 3.8 Colt had brought them from Miami to use in their shooting range. It was not what he had told Iturrieta, and every time he thought about it, he regretted more than having placed them in the hands of that group of assholes. He could not imagine his men throwing shots in the face, turning everything into a case of urban chronicles, while the hounds with plaque sniffed the innumerable clues they left behind. Manrique was almost handcuffed in the newspapers, brought before a court for wrongful death, perhaps sentenced to thirty years or more. All because of some assholes that got excited with the weapons that gave them. I wanted a clean job without a crash. He wanted Viloria tied to an armchair in his office, to get paid for five months of financing. Forcing him to work on something important. After Manrique fired Iturrieta and his boys, strangely, the murders continued to take place in the streets. Public opinion related those grotesque deaths with the famous comecarne fly. The newspapers, the TV, the radio, echoed the comments of the people. The conjectures described scenes where a terrible giant fly, made accurate incisions in the skull of humans, sipping its gelatinous matter. Increasingly rugged articles were published in newspapers and magazines. A famous novelist tried to write the story from the beginning, but left it unfinished, because he feared that the fly could take revenge for his audacity. Fear seemed to breathe like air. A dense and hallucinatory air like morphine. Proclive to transmute into a blinding panic. The police were confused because the corpses they found were no longer victims of a Colt, but of strange incisions in the skull. That is why he once again used his most developed persuasion technique to influence the police: bribery. And again an innocent would have to sacrifice thirty years of his life. All because a more powerful man moved those invisible threads, where everything is known, modified, and determined at the convenience of a few. This time the man who paid was Manolo, whose watery look caressed every part of his house. Every corner reminded him of his effort to achieve everything he had achieved in years. The oiled click of the handcuffs was for his heart, the sound of a funeral march. Of his beautiful wife who seemed to burn him with his tears. I would call a lawyer, to see what I could do in a situation like this, where all the evidence accused him. Incriminating evidence that appeared as if by magic, inside his safe. Like the Colts pigs that were also found in his house. They were very strong evidence. Manrique was whistling a Whiskey on the rocks, while detailing on television the transfer of Manolo to the court. A faint remorse bothered him when he saw the face of the supposed criminal and his wife, crying with a face stained with makeup. In short, everything very tragic and moving. But his thought suppressed all scruple: - "I'm sorry Mr. Manolo, but it was you or me". Minutes before Manolo was introduced to the court. He said looking at the cameras, as if he could see through them the face of the real culprit. Suddenly, a screaming rumbled beyond the scene. The people surrounding the suspect scattered running. The reporter threw herself face down on the floor, while she shouted to Crispin to do the whole shot. The shot where the fly grabbed Manolo with his legs, and took it at great speed to hide in the clouds. IV After kilometers of flight, the fly descended suddenly. Manolo half opened his eyes and scanned his proboscis. He made that sound with his wings wiping his eyes with his legs. Manolo was trembling and chattering, as if he wanted to eat his own teeth. It stayed like ice when the fly took it and threw it suddenly towards the door of a fifth. A beautiful villa surrounded by walls and wires. With one of his legs he pointed out the location of some keys under the rug. Manolo opened the door and they entered, and what looked like a beautiful villa, inside, was really a huge laboratory. Manolo suffered a severe stomach complication. Its smelly emissions made it more appetizing for the fly. But she did not gobble it up, but it emitted a sound like a badly tuned radio. He did it for a long time until, in the midst of that stridency, a human voice was heard. Manolo wanted to get out of there, but he was paralyzed with panic. I could see the movement of its long proboscis, similar to the trunk of an anteater, but larger and more horrendous. And those colossal compound eyes. At times it did not even look like a fly, but an alien. I need your help to reverse the effects of my formula. I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. That day had been violent, cruel and fanciful, as part of a story by Stephen King. But the scientist could find help in Manolo to prepare the formula. It was not easy to perform the procedure the first time. When you had a world extract the protein and then mix it with sulfates; in the exact proportions. This time his work depended largely on Manolo executing his instructions to the letter. Because his mental faculties were reduced day by day. His thoughts became more and more diffuse. Little by little, he lost the control he used to have over his body. Both understood that the effects of the Vilorium still remained active in him, degrading every second his human part; perhaps to destroy it completely. And his explosive irritability when Manolo failed in proportion, and had to repeat everything again. Then he knocked down the pipettes, turned the tables, flew through the laboratory hitting the walls, trying perhaps to end his existence. To end the martyrdom that pricked his mind. That martyrdom which in reality was the fear of losing oneself, of existing without knowing that it exists, of being completely absorbed by the irrationality proper to the diptera, and irremediably lost from their world. Manolo managed to sympathize with his condition. To the point of becoming an excellent assistant. Each instruction was executed literally, until the formula could be finished. Thus was born a friendship that became with the passing of the months, almost a nexus of fraternity. The fly put its proboscis into the new formula, and sipped, sipped as it had not done in years. But Rufus had the suspicion that something was wrong, he did not feel the effects of the first time. Excessive sweating, tachycardia, mild dizziness. It was as if the Vilorium had lost its effect. He looked at the smiling, hopeful face of his assistant, perhaps waiting for him to say something. Viloria pointed to the door with her paw. Manolo understood well what it meant. He had warned him in case the experiment failed; He would have to leave and forget everything that had happened. That was the deal, he would respect his life if he never said his whereabouts. On the contrary, Manolo left sad. That the police found him inside that laboratory. That he killed himself or killed him. Manolo came home at night like a ghost. He entered by mocking the security system. He found the wife talking to him before going to sleep as if he were there, on the bed. Maybe he thought he was dead and spoke sadly to his ghost. The wife jumped on him and kissed him, pressed his head between her large breasts. I was distressed for you because that fly... Manolo covered his mouth with his and his hands went over her, they approached her with hunger for content desire for many days. He missed the taste of his flesh, its porosity, its softness. He pressed his fleshy lips with his teeth. It was like biting a plum full of juices. Chichita my love, he said, how I missed you all this time. She did not say anything, just watched him devour her until she lost her senses. Chichita told Manolo everything. It turned out that while he was held incommunicado by the fly, the police had arrested Iturrieta's band. They recognized some murders that they justified with self-defense, because the victims tried to attack them. It hoaxes that the police did not swallow and the courts did not believe. Carpio Manrique was finally taken to prison, after enough incriminating evidence. The sentence was irrevocable for the accused: Manrique, thirty years for intellectual homicide and premeditation in the first degree. Iturrieta and his gang, thirty years for first degree wrongful death. Manolo at a press conference cleaned his name. It never hurt me, I assure you. Everyone laughed, even Manolo smiled. It was clear that his innocence or the arrest of the real culprits was not the news, the news was the fly. And it would continue to be for a long time. The breeze comes in through the windows and freezes the air in the house. A stream comes out of my mouth and condenses into a warm, dense fog. As if my smoker's time came back and exhaled Marlboro smoke. A dangerous temptation that I prefer to keep in oblivion. I wrap myself in an impenetrable blanket, covering any ventilation opening. However, the cold continues to do its job through the tissues. A persistent chill whips me and it is impossible to stop the chattering of the incisors. I try to avoid the descent of a cold and clearing my throat. Now I feel an irresistible itch and cough several times. Finally, I let myself be caught by the plot of "Pez que Fuma" on channel 3. Dimas talks to La Garza, but I do not listen, because a voice comes through the window. I recognize it, but I do not identify it. I get up and walk to the curtain of the window, hiding like a spider in its web. He tells him that he will not wait any longer, that he can not wait until the teacher falls asleep. I immediately remembered his threat the day I put him on the subject. He suspected Pelao's revenge, but not so soon. He had not even made the complaint at the headquarters about the possibility of... being killed? But sometimes things happen unforeseen. I looked at the clock again, it was almost ten o'clock. I turned up the TV and left the lights on. I wanted to give the impression that I was still awake to leave discreetly. My eyes traversed the curtain of the window for the last time, but Pelao was no longer on the post. I was not anywhere on the street. Then I heard murmurs in the hallway. I see how slightly the lock moves. I hear the click sound that makes the cylinder turn. Now I deeply regret not having put a Multilock. It was very similar to movies. The victim hides, in this case, I, that I have the advantage of being in my house and knowing all possible hiding places. At first, Pelao and company are stealthy, pretending to find me maybe sleeping or dozing on the couch or bed. Imagine, I think, finding the easiest way to liquidate me. Maybe face down on the pillow, just push my head down hard and stay there for a few seconds; enough to not be able to breathe. But they do not get me at first sight. I'm not on the furniture or the bed or the kitchen... It's as if I had drunk a formula to disappear, they think. It is evident that they have lost the advantage of surprise and lose patience. They start shouting at me: Profe, listen, it would be better if it comes out! I did not intend to leave, I would not go out for anything in the world. I touch my cell phone and under the volume of the keys. El Pelao laughs when he feels the sound of my breathing inside the closet, which opens suddenly. Both move their clothes and see me helpless and white, like one of my suits with starch. My eyes expand and expand like bolondrones. They put the revolver in my forehead. Another of many guys who are going the wrong way. We saw you grow up playing basketball on the court. Porky bends his head a little and looks at Pelao, who urges him to give me a shot. For a few seconds I notice his bewilderment, but the presence of his accomplice imparts strength. Sure, you can not scratch me now, can you, old man? I thought my senses had deepened: I smelled the gunpowder from the bullet that had not exploded, I heard every organ in my body and blood flow through the artery driven by my heart. I thought that death was so close that I could not tell if it was coming. I never knew if he had died after that day. Sometimes I hear people around me and cry. It turns everything like a nightmare. I would like to feel them when they touch me. Tell them there is always hope. That maybe one day I will get out of this situation. And I can move and stop and walk. By drops counted by that endless beep of the machine. It is something like daydreaming. Only you can not open your eyes. And in that case, it would be the first to die like that. I never really knew how those strokes came out. Also some facets of the main battles. Everything becomes interesting when we uncover the details. The artillery used, uniforms, routes, strategies... among other rudiments. I would have liked to take pictures of that blackboard crammed with images and colors. A lady was watching from the window. He smiled when he saw the kids motivated with those portraits of dead men. Maybe I expected to find a typical boring class. The history teachers have this fame and, when we do something unusual, people are surprised. People like that lady who is still at the door, and does not stop seeing me with luminous eyes. I could get a rough idea of ​​his age. Maybe he's like thirty-seven. I could have studied here as a child. Maybe he was at a parent meeting and he passed without thinking through this classroom of memories. Now he greets me, calls me with his hand. I walk to the window and she tells me that she is Luis Quintero's mother. I say with a friendly smile: -The boy is one of the best. She smiles with all her teeth. But it's not going well in math, do you know anything about math? A true specialist in those conflicts. No, I want it to be you. I want you to help Luisito at my house. His inflection sounded a bit tax, but I said yes, without thinking. She was happy, and at the last moment, her eyes did something mischievous. I try to translate the gesture but it is impossible. In my life there has always been a complete riddle, the multiplicity of forms of communication of a woman. From the most subtle and imperceptible, to the most striking and obvious. But who could even imagine that this woman, Luisito's mother, suffered from some dementia? No such idea passed through my head, what a pity, I could have gotten out in time. I arrived at his house at ten o'clock on Saturday. I agreed only on Saturdays until twelve. Elvira treated me like a king while teaching Luisito. Every Saturday I was more comfortable at home. Until one Saturday she put on my dead husband's robe and slippers. Who could assure that his odor was not yet in the tissues. He started to look strange at me from that day. It was a bright and tender look. I sensed that she was confusing me with her dead husband. Indeed one of those days called me by his name, said clearly: Eulogio, and apologized. His recovery in mathematics was unquestionable; Although my title did not say anything about it. There was no reason to go on Saturdays, and I was not there anymore. But Elvira went to school every day. The unspoken pretext, visit your son. He stopped at the window to look at me for hours. I verified that the vision directed to a specific point, prints a force that can hit the temples. One day he started bringing me lunch in an old lunch box. The boys began to notice the closeness of Elvira and joked behind me. I heard that Luisito was being told, when I approached, that his new father was coming. He could not handle the idea of ​​someone taking the place of his deceased father. Of a fidelity that went beyond death. I understood it, and I liked that I thought so. I would never have wanted him to be deluded with me, I do not know if he had the temper of a father. Also, I did not see Elvira as a future bride, but as a friend. One day Elvira showed up at my house. I can not explain how he found the door. I never gave my true address, because I lived in a smelly ranch of the guarataro. They stole any stranger who happened at any time. But she arrived unharmed and knocked on my door. I opened it and I stayed for a moment, motionless. It was time I knew your house. He passed without permission inside my home. I watched everything with scrutinizing eyes. He reached the kitchen and lifted the lids of the pots. He took a paste from the lacena, peeled some tomatoes and bananas. In half an hour I had lunch. She stood behind me and stroked my neck, my hair. Sometimes the skin tends to make very treacherous. Elvira rolled her tongue in my ear. He hugged me putting his arms inside my shirt. Then I turned and took it and threw it on the bed. His clothes came off with a softness that bristled his own skin. Two imposing snowy peaks challenged me. I climbed them meticulously until its cusp I went down the long central slide, letting myself fall to the island. In the middle of a diminished but soft grass, was the delicious treasure. I took what I needed to satiate my appetite as a debased corsair. But when I finished, I felt empty. As empty as a basin without water. She, on the other hand, had a full face. He lit a cigarette and inhaled it with relish, making spirals of smoke that rose to the ceiling. In seconds I got dressed and she was still on the bed. Because I was crazy to do it with you. I felt trapped in a maze. My physical appearance had deteriorated with the harassment of Elvira. My classes gradually decreased in quality. Like an autistic who tried to flee from a destructive reality. But I think I was partly to blame. Because sometimes, I opened the door for him, and he let me say Eulogio. I just felt that I could not resist, even to the love of a crazy woman. Then he entered into his game of seduction, and drank thirstily the deadly poison of his passion. Then he threw her out of the house repentant, like a diner who puts his fingers after eating, and expels the remains of dinner. The days passed, and everything was repeated again. Like a carousel that turns and increases its speed until it gets out of control. I visited a psychologist, and he told me that the stalker was just a widow with a lack of affection. That no man harmed a woman like that. I saw myself grow old and die without anyone by my side. That's why I looked for her, and gave her a copy of the ranch key. But it was not enough for her, and I made the decision to sell that favela that one day saved me from the elements. I moved to his apartment in Ruperto Lugo. Locked on the ninth floor of a concrete cube. Putting on his clothes, his slippers, sleeping on his favorite side of the bed and copulating with his widow. As a forgetful of my own life, I was assuming new roles. Embedding myself slowly in the skin of the late Eulogio. Julian disappeared completely, and I did not know more about him. I let it sound for a while admired that it was, in effect, my phone. A phone forgotten by the rest of the world that was now remembered again. I urgently needed to hear my name. That impersonal voice had the power to make something break inside me. No, something more precise, as if he were dreaming and suddenly throw a bucket with cold water. It was an unpleasant experience. I felt powerless to be cut off without being able to explain my argument. I do not use cards, I do not have a miserable credit card, let alone that bank. The next day, at the same hour of the morning, just after swallowing the last bite of bread with yolks, Louis Armstrong sang again. The impersonal voice asked for Carmen Montesinos and I repeated that I was wrong. It occurred to me that I should be prepared to throw a corrosive word the next time. A terrible rudeness that the guy could not stand. He felt like me, humiliated and helpless even for once. At work, I told Salcedo about the calls. What he intended to do next time the phone rings. You can tell him that you are certainly a guy who has nothing to do with the bank. I was not interested in his rhetoric about opponents and Chavistas. To understand when someone's rights are violated. The next day, Louis Armstrong sang again. I took the receiver and remained silent for a few seconds. Do not hide Mrs. Montesinos anymore. I felt that the blood literally flowed to my head. I stayed for a while with the phone in my ear listening to the interminable beep. I should have asked that question since I received the call for the first time. Every time he went out, that name rumbled. I had already made a fictional image of the lady in my mind. It was something sudden and deadly to her. As if part of his life was stolen, especially at a time when he expected more from her. Because surely, Carmen was alone in life. His brothers had a life far away For an inexplicable reason she never had children, and that was the trigger for her husband to leave her. Carmen was unemployed, with debts and without children. He did not open the door, he did not answer calls, and every day he was consumed with sadness and despair. Yes, Carmen was in that sad situation. It was logical that he did not pay the bills, the bank cards. It was completely justifiable that I invented a cell phone number, which for life's sake, turned out to be my number. While I was having breakfast, I thought about my long reflection. A reflection that kept me awake for much of the night. How much suffering, how much abandonment. Where will the charitable souls of this world be? At that moment, Louis Armstrong sang again, but I did not answer the phone. I went to the bank to ask the amount of the debt. I received a kind of harsh treatment. Maybe it was the same abuser of phone calls. But I was there trying to do something for that poor unknown woman. The man brought me coffee and said that the same manager would take care of me. I thought the debt must be very large. But hey, at least I would try. A kind of expensive suit called me, shook my hand warmly. He said to me: "Sit down Mr. Eugenio. Look, I know your good intentions, but Mrs. Montesinos paid her debt this morning. I walked to my house experiencing a rare sense of freedom. It could be the conviction that my phone would not ring anymore, maybe never again. I jumped from the bed and closed the glass. I went to bed again without worrying about work, it was Saturday. Charlie started barking and scratching the door, he had spent all night in the street copulating with bad bitches. I jumped out of bed again and opened the pins and the door. Charlie stopped barking and entered like any guy who arrives at his house after a night of partying. I put perrarina on the plate and water in the bowl. I dropped on the bed and closed my eyes. Not ten minutes passed when the phone rang. My mother lived on the top floor so I put on only my bathrobe and left. It took me about twenty minutes to go up and inoculate her. I went down, and again I threw myself on the bed. The sound stunned me to such a degree that I awoke, nor could the heavier sleep with the bell. When I got to the door I had already left leaving a court notice. Almost at the end was the amount in bold. It was a ridiculous amount, eight bolivars with forty. So much discomfort for so little money made me laugh. Anyway, I turned off the lights that had been on since nightfall. I had breakfast on the couch watching TV. While the females can last up to fourteen years, the males do not spend more than eight years of existence... "He had a khaki explorer suit and was a friend of the Maasai tribe. They said he had the ability to tame the Panthera Leo. I liked that deal, in short, it was an adventure I always wanted to live. The lions threw themselves on me and nibbled parts of my skeletal humanity. I tried to use that power they said I had to tame wild beasts, and I think it turned out, because instead of suffering pain, I experienced an uncontrollable laugh. Each bite was actually a lick anywhere on the body. I woke up bathed in Charlie's saliva. I had lunch with Darna in bed. We ate hallaca, salad and ham bread. My belly was pressed by the fullness. Actually I did not measure how many hallacas I ate. I still had to fulfill my part with the girl. It was like doing exercises in the jungle. We burn all the calories of the lunch before doing the digestion. We are left blank and looking towards the ceiling. Wet as doves that get wet with the morning dew. There, I closed my eyes and met Marilyn. A bit frivolous for my tastes but it was Marilyn. He was a gangster pursued by shadowy detectives who could measure thoughts. I saw myself unloading a submachine gun, they also had marksmanship and they hit me in the arm. I felt a prick and then an intense pain. I felt his slaps and I thought he was slowly agonizing with that pain. Darna was on me, her cheeks managed to wake me up. My left arm was hurt between the edge of the bed and the dresser. She said the same as Marilyn-wake up Daddy, wake up! When night came I decided not to sleep. I turned on the companion of the night owls, the TV. Darna had left and so was Charlie. Piqué many potatoes and put them on a pan overflowing with hot oil. I took out the Ketchup sauce, soda and cold meats. I took the sheet and covered myself while I waited for the potatoes. James Bond was attacked by the henchmen of Dr. No and defended himself as always without disheveled. He shot them with his open hand but another threw a K1 bomb through the window. Bond, jumped through the other window and fell into the river Seine. Madeleine was waiting for him in a lighted boat and they left. I started to feel like Bond, I took Madeleine, I put her in the cabin and I kissed her. The launch was moving in a hurry, driven by an automatic pilot. While Dr. No was following us closely with a submarine. I started to smell smoke, a smoke that became dense and filled everything. She said it was the engine, but I knew it was the chips that burned. Another says he does not know who he is. The others do not answer, but their eyes betray that they do. I remain detailing their looks, the direction their heads take when turning them with trembling slowness. I notice that some furtive glances point to a subject turned towards the wall of the cell in a fetal position. I imagined Cuatro more fearsome, behind his back was so narrow, that could pass through a giant noodle. When I saw him I still thought the same about his appearance. I also knew from seeing him why they nicknamed him Four, he had glasses with very powerful magnifications. A four eyes without a doubt. He really did not seem like such a dangerous guy but another fool. My agents put him in the patrol while still pointing him in handcuffs. He did not stop seeing me for a moment, as if he studied all my movements. The gossips or maybe the languages ​​that they used to invent more than the account, said that he was capable of killing even with a pin. I tended to skepticism since I started as an agent thirty-five years ago. I had heard so many fantastic stories that I was not curious to see Cuatro. Although in reality, yes, but not a curiosity to the extent of believing that he was facing a guy out of the Marvel comics. To make sure my agents did things the way they did, I got into the patrol where Four was. It was a caravan of three patrols full of agents and everything was monitored. A helicopter was guarding from above. But beyond all the control I had of the situation, I was very uncomfortable with Cuatro's eyes. It was a very peculiar hateful look, unlike those of other prisoners, it had an inexplicable power of suggestion. The Guarenas-Guatire intercommunal was blocked by an endless line of cars. The sound of the butterflies was intended to open a possible but slow path, until it reached a point that not even that: - Get out! We increased the speed when leaving the tank, but one of the patrols was overheated and we parked while the cat tried to cool the engine. Four wanted to urinate and we put him on the road, everyone pointed to him without losing a detail of his movements. He asked someone to lower his fly because his hands were behind his back handcuffed. I sent Johnny whose hands were shaking as he did so. Four smiled, seemed to enjoy feeling fear in others. He wet Johnny's hands when he moved his thing when he approached him to raise his fly. He laughed because he thought nobody had the guts to hit him. I stood in front of him and gave him one that took his breath away, further back Johnny who took courage to see me. We ride him as a dog in the patrol and follow the Rodeo. It would be thirty years before he could come out to take revenge on us, if he was not killed inside. The latter would be a better solution to the problem. But the safest thing is that they had him as a hero for the policemen he had sent to the afterlife. I said, accustomed to nobody refuting anything. Four looked at my eyes suspiciously, sniffed danger as much as I did. If I had real powers, my plan was already deciphered. I told the cat to deviate. I got off the car and walked long until a spot where the patrol could no longer be seen. I looked around, the ranches encysted in the hills were too far away for some imprudent to appear. I looked at the dusty land full of trash and flies, the ideal place for the death of a beast. I calculated the exact place where his humanity would fall product of the shots. Death must be clean and without loose ends. I constructed the facts of the accident as a holographic projection of my mind on the ground. I looked around again to the highest point of the hills. My view of the sexagenarian had obvious limitations, especially with the twinkling of the sun on the zinc roofs. But as I said before, the hills were very distant and there was not a soul around the perimeter. The only witnesses to what would happen were in the car and now they were approaching with Four. By the way, I noticed that they were late. I put my hand on the left side of the jacket and felt the short tube magnum, I was there ready to fulfill all my wishes. It was not like the classic one regulated by the division, forgotten inside the trunk of the patrol. I wet the tip of my finger and lifted it, there was no wind. Better, the bullet would not deviate from its objective. The smooth and broad forehead of Four would be perforated to the other side. I spat at an inaccurate spot on the floor and rubbed it with my foot, here the head of the victim would fall. The radio was off, another reason to suspect. Another reason for you to come up with crazy ideas. My steps advanced skeptical to where a gray patrol was once. On the ground, two imprints imprinted with tires and two inert bodies with pin-sized wounds. In total 16 works that show dogs with human attitudes, of which 9 showed them playing poker. The others showed the dogs smoking cigars, dancing, playing baseball and declaring in court. Painting of 1884, by Frank Dicksee. I thought that death was so close that I could not tell if it was coming. I never knew if he had died after that day. Sometimes I hear people around me and cry. It turns everything like a nightmare. I would like to feel them when they touch me. Tell them there is always hope. That maybe one day I will get out of this situation. And I can move and stop and walk. By drops counted by that endless beep of the machine. It is something like daydreaming. Only you can not open your eyes. And in that case, it would be the first to die like that. His style communicated fantastic and often absurd stories with common themes and characters. From very early on he dedicated himself to writing and his first novel was completed at the age of nine. He traveled extensively and through multiple countries during his life, giving lectures on social reform in Latin America. The author invites the reader to take an active part in the work, through alternatives in the order of narration and reading. That's why he fixes so much on memory, that's why you can count catastrophes so well. Educated only in the English language during his first years, he acquired a solid literary education in the paternal library. When ever asked: Borges, what do you think is the face of God? The writer replied: I do not believe in God; But if he believed? If I believed in God, I think his face would be my father's! He composed poetry and wrote short stories and stories in which he showed his permanent interest in the concepts of time and space. His work achieved worldwide acceptance of the "Hispanic-American magical realism"; He won the Cervantes Prize in 1980. When he returned to Geneva, Switzerland, he kissed the ground, happy to see his second homeland again and died there some time later. From any hexagon, lower and upper floors are seen: endlessly. The gallery distribution is invariable. One of the free faces leads to a narrow hall, which leads to another gallery, identical to the first and all. There are two tiny cabinets to the left and to the right of the hall. One allows you to sleep standing: another, to satisfy the final needs. There goes the spiral staircase, which abyss and rises towards the remote. In the hall there is a mirror, which faithfully duplicates appearances. At the bottom of the step, to the right, I saw a small iridescent sphere, almost intolerable glare. At first I thought it was rotating; Then I understood that this movement was an illusion produced by the vertiginous spectacles it contained. The diameter of the Aleph would be two or three centimeters, but the cosmic space was there, without decreasing in size. Each thing was infinite, because I clearly saw it from all points of the universe. I saw the populous sea, I saw the dawn and the afternoon, I saw the crowds of America, I saw a silvery web in the center of a black pyramid. My friends tell me that Pascal's thoughts help them think. I have seen them rather as predicates of the subject to Pascal, as traits or epithets of Pascal. One talks about singing and the other about books. The influence especially of his grandmother through local stories and legends, deeply marked his career and is constantly reflected in all his work. The author once described his first impression of Bogotá as a city where: "All men were dressed in black, with a hat, and there was not a single woman." His themes are universal and his language is rich and authentic; also characterizes the author the interior monologue of his characters. His journalistic production has been compiled in: Textos costeños and Entre cachacos. The author has also been moved by a deep social conscience, manifested in all his work, and a constant desire to impart education, reflected in his journalistic work and his thinking. His work has been translated into the main world languages ​​and his books are read throughout the world. He continues to write prolifically in a series of literary genres, including literary criticism and journalism. Among his novels there are comedies, police novels, historical and political novels. Many of Vargas Llosa's works are influenced by the writer's perception of Peruvian society and by his own experiences as a Peruvian; however, he has increasingly addressed issues from other parts of the world. He has lived in Europe most of the time since 1958, when he began his literary career, so that in his work is also perceived a certain European influence. Like other Latin American authors, Vargas Llosa has participated in politics throughout his career. He studied at the school of San Gabriel in his childhood, having heard many stories and local anecdotes that served as inspiration later for his prose. Later he studied at the universities of Guadalajara and Mexico City. He did not finish his legal career because of economic reasons and because of "lack of interest". He worked as an immigration agent for some time and read the European classics. His style was characterized by a very original structure, high poetic content and dramatic plots. The author paints the violence and the moral stagnation of his region. Death is the central theme of its creation and all within flows of consciousness, a mixture of points of view and interior monologues. Gabo is one of those great writers who have found their own, personal and well-defined form of expression. "The author died in Mexico City at the age of 68. Last night, while we were having dinner, they began to put together the great uproar and did not stop. of singing until dawn. My godmother also says that, that the screaming of the frogs frightened her sleep. Frogs are green from all to all, except in the belly. Also my godmother's eyes are black. Frogs are good for eating with them. Toads do not eat; but I have eaten them too, although they do not eat and they taste just like frogs. Felipa is the one who says it's bad to eat toads. Felipa has green eyes like the eyes of cats. She is the one who feeds me in the kitchen every time I eat. Tell them not to kill me, Justin! Tell them to do it for charity. There's a sergeant there who does not want to hear about you. Give the tricks and tell him that for scares has already been good. Tell him to do it out of God's charity. After so many hours of walking without finding a tree shadow, a tree seed, or a root of anything, you hear a dog barking. Pedro Páramo approached, kneeling beside him: I know you hated him, father. He placed a fist of gold coins on the kneeler and stood up. Father Renteria picked up the coins one by one and approached the altar. and there she wept with sorrow and sadness until her tears were exhausted. It's good Lord, you win, he said later. From early on he worked in multiple jobs, from doorman to vendor and waiter. In 1974 when he was part of a literary jury, he was accused of being a danger to the military dictatorship of the time and was placed in prison for three months, after which he left his homeland never to return, even when democracy He returned to the country. Onetti liked to write early, although his work only began to be known worldwide in the 60's. His style was considered ambiguous because of the long and sinuous of his phrases, being simultaneously ironic, of a deep imagination and great existentialist content. He was an intense admirer of William Faulkner and inherited from the great American writer complex prose and rich imagination. Although not very traditional in its creation, Onetti shows a large fund of compassion and religion in his work. His creation describes the struggle of purity and virtue faced with evil and corruption and understanding this is essential to understand his novels and short stories. Childhood represents virtue in his work, while mature age reflects decadence, being evil the natural product of the act of suffering and living. The author died in Madrid refusing to return to Uruguay until the end. The final union of the three realities is a clear example of Onetti's rich imagination. The novel renews itself in an endless way in multiple exploratory repetitions, becoming a theater where each character plays a role, participating in the absurd and endless game of life. The creation is an example of the style called: "Novel within another novel". The transitory of life prevents the human attempt to communicate or create emotional bonds. Imaginary creation becomes for the character the only way to give meaning to existence. The English shakes his head with alarm, as if discovering the ghosts that reproduce without impatience over the stonemasons; they are partially hidden behind the trunks. He commented on Larsen's thinness, exhibited the gifts, and even told farewell to the events of the lost world, the monotonous vicissitudes of women and friends. His prolific literary output included more than 80 books, some of which were translated into more than 20 languages. In Italy he was wounded in war action. Lover of action and adventure, participated in different kinds of sports including bullfighting and was on the verge of dying several times for serious accidents. He was a realistic writer whose simple style deceives those who read it for the first time. He always tried to be authentic and his work is largely autobiographical. Hemingway was married four times. The author who He had promised himself not to suffer the humiliations of age, he took his own life in 1961 at 61 years of age. Her father died when she was eleven years old and her mother taught her at home, encouraging her to write from a very young age. On December 3, 1926, he disappeared for ten days while in Sunningdale, causing great alarm in the press. His car was found abandoned in a quarry in Newland's Corner. She claimed to have suffered amnesia from a nervous breakdown following the death of her mother and the confession of infidelity on the part of her husband. It is still debated whether everything is true or simply a publicity stunt. In 1930 he married the archaeologist Max Mallowan, 14 years younger than her. He accompanied him on his trips to the Middle East, which served as background to several of his novels. Although he liked to vary the established form of the detective story, he was scrupulous in playing fair with the reader when making sure to give all the information to solve the problem. Several of his books have been published posthumously, including his autobiography. One of the main characteristics of the detective prose of Agatha Christie is that it develops in what is called the whodunit; which allows the reader to test hypotheses and in short to try to guess the identity of the culprit before finishing the reading of the story. Agatha Christie wrote 80 books, all within the category of suspense and mystery, where she used seven main characters as detectives, having cases where they were grouped to solve the crime. Author of extraordinary talent, he forced the limits of literature in a series of novels with which he established himself as one of the most important and personal voices of the Latin American narrative. He soon decided that he wanted to be a writer and started working as a columnist in different media. When he turned twenty he wanted to return to Chile. They ran the days before the coup d'etat and Bolaño joined the resistance, but he was arrested. After eight days in prison, he decided to return to Mexico and dedicate himself fully to literature. After traveling through several European countries and the African continent, he finally decided to settle in Spain. It was not an easy time; he was alone, without papers, he had economic difficulties... He worked in multiple trades until he could maintain himself through his participation in literary contests. All these experiences would convert them, later, into the subject of their fiction. Two years later he settled in the coastal town of Blanes, where, without abandoning his interest in poetry, he focused more and more on the narrative. He wrote three folios a day; If things went well, up to ten. He took great care of the structure of his books and rewrote a lot. In 1993 doctors diagnosed a serious liver disease. From then on Bolaño became obsessed with leaving a literary legacy of importance and devoted himself even more zealously to writing and multiplied his publications. That same year they saw the light Los perros románticos, a compilation of the poetic work created between 1977 and 1990, and the novel La pista de hielo. The novel, in which highlights "the wasted humor, rare in literature written in Spanish", tells the adventures of two men embarked on the search for a Mexican writer disappeared during the revolution. Efforts to find it will last from 1976 to 1996. Shortly after this public recognition, and after twenty-five years of absence, Bolaño visited Chile. His state of health worsened, and decided to consecrate "what remains of my life" to what should be his masterpiece, 2666.


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