Either I'm becoming a grumpy early (anything can be), or have finally lost all traces and trace-critical aesthetic sense (something I always feared and suspected), or unknowingly I have become in one of those flimsy little characters to which clouds the view, equal parts envy exogenous weld and frustration ... or call to renew the novel's narrative canon Basque business novel, profound and universal guards speaking, the novel that has garnered several national awards lately, this novel whose name bla bla bla (now let's play the puzzles) contains pages in a childish unbearable, to the extent that it infringes both common sense and the sense of shame. I save your judgments about syntax telegram or phrase full of indigestible expressions ("each loss is a dark ring within", "my inner voice showed me that picture was important," "more than one occasion I asked I would have done in the situation ... I can not tell, this has to have lived the same time, "" eyes [...] as if it supports the weight of the world ", etc.). Nor be I who would go after the poetics of the intimate, private memory, beauty, say one of her fellow-of the intra. Jump on the fact that a text, very touching that is intended, try to fool your reader. That is, in fact, what I feel metanarrative reflections reading so embarrassing alleged as irritating as me saving appointment.
protested the other day, Miguel Barrero against Booby implicit in the fact that in this country are edited and read many more books are translated and indigenous foreigners, and not take away reason, he has. Memory reviewing the books bought and read (actions that involve not always) this quarter, I have to agree. But I do not know if agree with me that sometimes we just have a poke in the alleged hits of contemporary peninsular fiction, you can stay with a good inch of his nose.
Thus, to mention some of these recent trips, I will quote a novel pangeica called to renew the conventional boundaries of narrative text, cite the second installment of a trilogy pospoética (and conclusive, I'm late) call to be turned upside down, although I do not know why, the future of the genre (and it appears that, as had so many prejudices in this regard, I liked it a lot more than expected ...) I have already mentioned that other discovery to revolutionize meta-narrative technique (in fact, now that I think, one is written in Euskera and the other two in the dialect of the post-postmodernism: well, the three I have left as far as the nordic narrative mystery.) Add a monosyllabic late debut as absorbing and disturbing in its plot and, while, unconvincing in the construction of dialogue, characters, and I begin to wonder if, after all, its amazing or allegorical content shall not simply a tricky final. The national book I liked lately is, in fact, a compilation of stories from one type of over sixty years, so it's clear: I was stuck, as a reader at least an old-fashioned episteme. (I dread to think what I write then, nineteenth-century would be a compliment, at this point.)
Obviously, there is much more material to cut from that quote, my arguments in this regard fall under its own weight. And there have been considerable clunkers in the "great foreign authors" means the last nouvelle -first I read again last- enfant terrible of Belgian not worth review, the penultimate one of the largest and most loved had not where to take them. In short: no lecturing, just let my anecdotal evidence of confusion. But really, at times, one does not understand the world we live. And that's scary. Either that or I'm becoming a curmudgeon unbearable, of course.
protested the other day, Miguel Barrero against Booby implicit in the fact that in this country are edited and read many more books are translated and indigenous foreigners, and not take away reason, he has. Memory reviewing the books bought and read (actions that involve not always) this quarter, I have to agree. But I do not know if agree with me that sometimes we just have a poke in the alleged hits of contemporary peninsular fiction, you can stay with a good inch of his nose.
Thus, to mention some of these recent trips, I will quote a novel pangeica called to renew the conventional boundaries of narrative text, cite the second installment of a trilogy pospoética (and conclusive, I'm late) call to be turned upside down, although I do not know why, the future of the genre (and it appears that, as had so many prejudices in this regard, I liked it a lot more than expected ...) I have already mentioned that other discovery to revolutionize meta-narrative technique (in fact, now that I think, one is written in Euskera and the other two in the dialect of the post-postmodernism: well, the three I have left as far as the nordic narrative mystery.) Add a monosyllabic late debut as absorbing and disturbing in its plot and, while, unconvincing in the construction of dialogue, characters, and I begin to wonder if, after all, its amazing or allegorical content shall not simply a tricky final. The national book I liked lately is, in fact, a compilation of stories from one type of over sixty years, so it's clear: I was stuck, as a reader at least an old-fashioned episteme. (I dread to think what I write then, nineteenth-century would be a compliment, at this point.)
Obviously, there is much more material to cut from that quote, my arguments in this regard fall under its own weight. And there have been considerable clunkers in the "great foreign authors" means the last nouvelle -first I read again last- enfant terrible of Belgian not worth review, the penultimate one of the largest and most loved had not where to take them. In short: no lecturing, just let my anecdotal evidence of confusion. But really, at times, one does not understand the world we live. And that's scary. Either that or I'm becoming a curmudgeon unbearable, of course.
(Sorry for the inconvenience: will this fucking end of the course, which looks more like a crappy re fall than anything else.)
