By Isabel Allende
Veintitrés relatos de amor y violencia secretamente entrelazados por un fino hilo narrativo y un rico lenguaje que recrea azarosas peripecias en un mundo exuberante y voluptuoso.
Una niña solitaria se enamora del amante de su madre y practica misteriosas ceremonias rituales; una mujer permanece medio siglo encerrada en un sótano, víctima de un caudillo celoso; en el fragor de una batalla, un hombre viola a una muchacha y mata a su padre... Éstas son algunas de las historias reunidas en este volumen, que recupera con pulso vibrante los inolvidables protagonistas de l. a. novela Eva Luna: Rolf Carlé, l. a. maestra Inés, el Benefactor...
«Estos cuentos son delicados, sus imágenes parecen poesía. Y, como l. a. poesía, esta prosa requiere los angeles más cuidadosa atención.»
Barbara Kingsolver, The big apple occasions ebook Review
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An excellent new number of brief tales from [b]“the conspicuously talented” (Time) Rivka Galchen.
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Additional resources for Cuentos de Eva Luna
Bird-watching at Night WHAT KIND OF BIRD is that? An owl. What kind of bird was that? Another owl. What was it? A quick and small owl. One night, when I was sixteen, I was driving with my girlfriend up on Little Falls Flat and this barn owl swooped down over the road, maybe fifty feet or so in front of us, and came flying straight toward our windshield. It was huge, pterodactyl-size, and my girlfriend screamed. And—well, I screamed, too, because that thing was heading straight for us, but you know what I did?
The doctor peered into one ear, saw an obstruction, reached in with small tweezers, and pulled out a cockroach, then reached into the other ear, and extracted a much larger cockroach. Did you know that ear wax is a delicacy for roaches? I would free the poor thing, and she’d unfurl and pat dry her tiny wings, then fly to my lips and give me a sweet kiss for sheltering her metamorphosis. , completely unable to hear out of my clogged right ear, and positive that a damn swarm of locusts was wedged inside, I left a message for my doctor, and told him that I would be sitting outside his office when he reported to work.
Simply stated, I could not fucking hear a thing from that side, so I had to turn my head to understand what my two sons, ages eight and ten, were saying. And I had not heard them. “Mom would have fed us by now,” they said. Their mother had left for Italy with her mother two days ago. My sons and I were going to enjoy a boys’ week, filled with unwashed socks, REI rock wall climbing, and ridiculous heaps of pasta. So I, for just a moment, could only weakly blame the silence—no, the contradictory roar that only I could hear.