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A certain writer ("past sixty, enjoying 'a certain renown'") strolls through the old book market in a Buenos Aires park: "My Sunday walk through the market, repeated over so many years, was part of my general fantasizing about books." It helps him "know what my as-yet unwritten books would be about." Unfortunately, he is currently suffering writer's block. Soon, however, that proves to be the least of our hero's problems. There in the market, he tries and fails to avoid the insufferable boor Ovando--"a complete loser," but a "man supremely full of himself": "Conceit was never less justified." And yet, is Ovando a master magician? Can he turn sugar cubes into pure gold? And can our protagonist decline the offer Ovando proposes: absolute power if the writer never in his life reads another book? And, is his publisher also a great magician?And the writer's wife? Only César Aira could have cooked up this witch's potion (and only he would plop phantom Mont Blanc pens into his cauldron, as well as jackals and fearsome crocodiles from the banks of the Nile)--a brew bubbling over with the question: where does literature end and magic begin?… (plus d'informations)
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One Sunday morning, when I had already passed the age of sixty and come to enjoy a certain renown as a writer, I was strolling through the book market in Parque Rivadavia, not looking for anything in particular, just enjoying the sunshine, with no pressing tasks to fulfill or problems weighing on my mind.
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Informations provenant du Partage des connaissances anglais.Modifiez pour passer à votre langue.
"I didn't let you out of my sight, not that I doubt your ability to get out of a scrape, most of the time anyway, but when the scrape is a product of your imagination, it can turn against you, I mean it can turn into something real, although you never meant for it to escape from the realm of your thoughts, and that's where I have to step in."
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A certain writer ("past sixty, enjoying 'a certain renown'") strolls through the old book market in a Buenos Aires park: "My Sunday walk through the market, repeated over so many years, was part of my general fantasizing about books." It helps him "know what my as-yet unwritten books would be about." Unfortunately, he is currently suffering writer's block. Soon, however, that proves to be the least of our hero's problems. There in the market, he tries and fails to avoid the insufferable boor Ovando--"a complete loser," but a "man supremely full of himself": "Conceit was never less justified." And yet, is Ovando a master magician? Can he turn sugar cubes into pure gold? And can our protagonist decline the offer Ovando proposes: absolute power if the writer never in his life reads another book? And, is his publisher also a great magician?And the writer's wife? Only César Aira could have cooked up this witch's potion (and only he would plop phantom Mont Blanc pens into his cauldron, as well as jackals and fearsome crocodiles from the banks of the Nile)--a brew bubbling over with the question: where does literature end and magic begin?
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