LA TREGUA MARIO BENEDETTI PDF

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La Tregua Mario Benedetti Pdf

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Descargar libro la tregua mario benedetti pdf gratis We also share information about you for the uses described in these privacy guidelines. Download La tregua Mario Benedetti libros en PDF, Una novela sobre la soledad y la incomunicación, el amor y la sexualidad, la muerte y los problemas. Get Free Read & Download Files La Tregua Mario Benedetti On Line PDF. LA TREGUA MARIO BENEDETTI ON LINE. Download: La Tregua Mario Benedetti.

He became bored in San Pablo and is returning at the end of the month. He is a womanizer, and I limit myself to whoever is available. The truth is, on many occasions, he pushes me to make a decision; and at other times, it is I who curbs him with my doubts.

When my mother died — it will be fifteen years in August — I was a wreck. Only a fervent hatred of God, my relatives, and my fellow man sustained me during that period. Every time I remember that endless wake I feel disgusted. Those who attended were divided into two classes: those who started to cry as soon as they walked through the door and afterwards shook me in an embrace, and those who came out of courtesy, shook my hand with cloying remorse, and ten minutes later were telling dirty jokes.

His natural manner was a kind of balm, a real consolation; which I interpreted as the finest homage that anyone could pay to my mother and I during my grief.

It was merely a gesture, an almost insignificant episode, this I well understand. But it occurred during one of those moments in which the pain of loss makes one exaggeratedly receptive. Saturday, April 6th A wild dream. I had just walked through Aliados Park dressed in my pajamas, when all of a sudden I saw Avellaneda standing on the sidewalk of a luxurious two-story house. I approached without hesitating.

She was wearing a plain dress, without any embellishments or a belt, and no underwear. She was sitting on a little kitchen bench next to a eucalyptus tree, peeling potatoes.

To make matters worse, I tried to explain that I was talking to myself. Sunday, April 7th Almost every Sunday, I eat lunch and dinner alone and inevitably become melancholy. In my particular case, there have been no irrational changes or unusual and sudden switches. Good God, how mean and coarse this sounds. I mean to say that when Isabel died I was 28 years old and she was We were, then, at the very peak of desire.

I think she was the inspiration for my most impassioned physical desire. Why do the palms of my hands have a more faithful memory than I do? Because all of our real harmony inexorably depended on what happened in the bedroom, our bedroom.

In our everyday life we used a good dose of mutual consent. But how could we put an end to the outbursts, the overflows? By simply enjoying our evenings and their protective presence in the midst of the displeasures of the day.

If at any time we were tempted by hatred and started to become angry, the lure of past and future evenings would flash before our eyes, and then, inevitably, we would become wrapped up in a wave of tenderness that pacified every outburst of anger. My marriage was a good thing, and a happy time in my life. But what about the rest? There is the opinion that one can have about oneself, which incredibly, has very little to do with being vain.

I remember a time between the ages of 16 and 20 during which I had a good, and can almost say, excellent opinion of myself. My intention was more modest; simply, to be of use to my peers who had a more understandable right to need from me. In truth, that excellent opinion of myself has decayed quite a bit. Today I feel common, and in some respects, defenseless. I have devised my own routine, but in the simplest way: by accumulation.

In this way, my routine never had character or definition; it has always been temporary, has always represented a precarious route. A route to be followed only as long as my procrastination lasted, and only to secure the right of the journey during that period of preparation that I apparently considered indispensable before finally leaping into the refuge of my destiny. What nonsense, huh?

First, because I feel I have limited strength with which to gamble on a change of life, and also, how valid is what I wanted to be back then, to me now?

It would almost be like consciously rushing into premature senility. What I desire now is much more modest than what I desired thirty years ago, and, above all, it matters much less if I get it. To retire, for example.

Tuesday, April 9th Blockhead Vignale called me this morning. He wants to come to the house. We agreed to meet on Thursday night, after dinner. But what is it?

Vignale is coming over tonight, but only Blanca and I will be here. Jaime and Esteban disappeared as soon as they found out he was coming. A change has come over Blanca.

“The Truce” by Mario Benedetti

She has color in her cheeks now. It pleases me to hear her singing. Are they in the middle of uphill aspirations? His problem is very simple: his sister-in-law is in love with him. And if you were to see her in a bathing suit, you would be knocked speechless. But hey, looking is one thing, taking advantage is another. What do you want from me? My wife is already middle-aged and besides, doing the housework and taking care of the kids has exhausted her.

Critical Perspectives on Art, Politics and Culture

First, there was the exchange of glances and me pretending not to notice. Although I was sure it was a waste of time and effort, I reminded her about her husband, or that is to say, my brother-in-law, and do you know what she said? That moron? One of the most pleasant things in life is seeing how the sun filters through the leaves.

It was a good morning. But this afternoon I took a nap for four hours and woke up in a bad mood. I was observing her today. She moves well, arranges her hair nicely, and has a peach-like fuzz on her cheeks. I wonder what she does with her boyfriend? Or better yet, what does her boyfriend do with her? A key question for a suitor: envious? Wednesday, April 17th Esteban says if I want to retire by the end of the year, we have to begin the process right away.

That which is simply honorable in one environment, could be just as idiotic in another. Thursday, April 18th The amiable, heavily moustached auditor came to the office today. No one would have thought he could be so annoying. He started by asking for some data from the last balance sheet and ended by requesting a discriminate record of captions which appear in the initial inventory.

I spent the day, from morning until afternoon, carting old and shabby books. In the beginning, I was amassing my anger, mumbling, and mentally cursing. Later, my anger turned into a different emotion. I started to feel old. It was I who had entered that data back in ; the entries and counter-entries that appeared in the rough draft of the daybook, and the transport figures written in pencil in the cash book. I feel a little bit like the Herodotus of the company, its registrar and scribe, and the surviving witness to its history.

Twenty-five years, five periods of five years, or a quarter of a century. When she reached for a payroll document and I saw that her hand was trembling, I asked her point blank: Talking to her is a real problem. I always have to be midway between strictness and trustfulness. She has defined features, loyal. When she becomes a little confused with the work, her hair inevitably becomes disheveled and she looks good like that. It was ten minutes after nine before we finally found the discrepancy.

I asked her if she wanted me to accompany her home. She also turned down a cup of coffee. I asked her where she lived and with whom. With her mother and father, she replied. Did she have a boyfriend? Apparently, outside the office I inspire less respect in her, as she answered affirmatively and in a normal tone of voice. I think that after having told me she had a boyfriend, she felt more secure and began to interpret my questions as being rooted in an almost paternal interest on my part.

She summoned all of her courage to inquire whether or not I was married, had children, etc. She became very serious upon learning that I was a widower and I think she was struggling over whether or not to quickly change the subject or share my sense of loss twenty years later. Common sense prevailed and she went on to talk about her boyfriend. She had just told me he worked for the city government, when her trolley appeared.

She shook my hand and everything; good Lord! He became bored in San Pablo and is returning at the end of the month. He is a womanizer, and I limit myself to whoever is available. The truth is, on many occasions, he pushes me to make a decision; and at other times, it is I who curbs him with my doubts. When my mother died — it will be fifteen years in August — I was a wreck. Only a fervent hatred of God, my relatives, and my fellow man sustained me during that period.

Every time I remember that endless wake I feel disgusted. Those who attended were divided into two classes: His natural manner was a kind of balm, a real consolation; which I interpreted as the finest homage that anyone could pay to my mother and I during my grief. It was merely a gesture, an almost insignificant episode, this I well understand. But it occurred during one of those moments in which the pain of loss makes one exaggeratedly receptive.

A wild dream. I had just walked through Aliados Park dressed in my pajamas, when all of a sudden I saw Avellaneda standing on the sidewalk of a luxurious two-story house. I approached without hesitating. She was wearing a plain dress, without any embellishments or a belt, and no underwear.

She was sitting on a little kitchen bench next to a eucalyptus tree, peeling potatoes. I suddenly realized it was already night time and I approached and said: To make matters worse, I tried to explain that I was talking to myself.

Almost every Sunday, I eat lunch and dinner alone and inevitably become melancholy. In my particular case, there have been no irrational changes or unusual and sudden switches. Good God, how mean and coarse this sounds. I mean to say that when Isabel died I was 28 years old and she was We were, then, at the very peak of desire.

I think she was the inspiration for my most impassioned physical desire. Why do the palms of my hands have a more faithful memory than I do? One conclusion that I can draw from all of this is that if Isabel had lived long enough for her body to sag that was one good thing about her: Because all of our real harmony inexorably depended on what happened in the bedroom, our bedroom.

In our everyday life we used a good dose of mutual consent. But how could we put an end to the outbursts, the overflows? By simply enjoying our evenings and their protective presence in the midst of the displeasures of the day. If at any time we were tempted by hatred and started to become angry, the lure of past and future evenings would flash before our eyes, and then, inevitably, we would become wrapped up in a wave of tenderness that pacified every outburst of anger.

My marriage was a good thing, and a happy time in my life. But what about the rest? There is the opinion that one can have about oneself, which incredibly, has very little to do with being vain. I remember a time between the ages of 16 and 20 during which I had a good, and can almost say, excellent opinion of myself. My intention was more modest; simply, to be of use to my peers who had a more understandable right to need from me.

In truth, that excellent opinion of myself has decayed quite a bit.

Today I feel common, and in some respects, defenseless. I have devised my own routine, but in the simplest way: In this way, my routine never had character or definition; it has always been temporary, has always represented a precarious route. A route to be followed only as long as my procrastination lasted, and only to secure the right of the journey during that period of preparation that I apparently considered indispensable before finally leaping into the refuge of my destiny.

What nonsense, huh? Because if at this moment I were to decide to reassure myself, in a kind of belated oath: First, because I feel I have limited strength with which to gamble on a change of life, and also, how valid is what I wanted to be back then, to me now?

It would almost be like consciously rushing into premature senility. What I desire now is much more modest than what I desired thirty years ago, and, above all, it matters much less if I get it.

To retire, for example.

Blockhead Vignale called me this morning. He wants to come to the house. We agreed to meet on Thursday night, after dinner. Vignale is coming over tonight, but only Blanca and I will be here. Jaime and Esteban disappeared as soon as they found out he was coming. A change has come over Blanca. She has color in her cheeks now. It pleases me to hear her singing. Are they in the middle of uphill aspirations? His problem is very simple: And if you were to see her in a bathing suit, you would be knocked speechless.

But hey, looking is one thing, taking advantage is another. What do you want from me? My wife is already middle-aged and besides, doing the housework and taking care of the kids has exhausted her.

First, there was the exchange of glances and me pretending not to notice. But the other day she was wearing those shorts when she simply crossed her legs and I had no other choice but to say to her: Although I was sure it was a waste of time and effort, I reminded her about her husband, or that is to say, my brother-in-law, and do you know what she said? That moron?

La Tregua by Mario Benedetti (Hardcover)

He left remorseful, preoccupied, and undecided. This morning I took the bus and got off at Agraciada and 19 de Abril. I was observing her today. She moves well, arranges her hair nicely, and has a peach-like fuzz on her cheeks.

I wonder what she does with her boyfriend? Or better yet, what does her boyfriend do with her? A key question for a suitor: Esteban says if I want to retire by the end of the year, we have to begin the process right away. That which is simply honorable in one environment, could be just as idiotic in another. The amiable, heavily moustached auditor came to the office today. No one would have thought he could be so annoying.

He started by asking for some data from the last balance sheet and ended by requesting a discriminate record of captions which appear in the initial inventory. I spent the day, from morning until afternoon, carting old and shabby books. The auditor was a charming man; he smiled, begged your pardon, and said: In the beginning, I was amassing my anger, mumbling, and mentally cursing. Later, my anger turned into a different emotion.

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I started to feel old. It was I who had entered that data back in ; the entries and counter-entries that appeared in the rough draft of the daybook, and the transport figures written in pencil in the cash book. I feel a little bit like the Herodotus of the company, its registrar and scribe, and the surviving witness to its history.

Twenty-five years, five periods of five years, or a quarter of a century. And how my handwriting has changed over these twenty-five years! In , I had uneven penmanship: In , the era of capital letters began and so did my great pleasure in embellishing them with ample curves, spectacular and useless. Now my handwriting has become artificial, level, disciplined, and genuine.In this way, my routine never had character or definition; it has always been temporary, has always represented a precarious route.

Do you trust me?

The Brooklyn Rail

I told him that if the only thing he did was get nervous, then there was no danger. Talking to her is a real problem. Saturday, April 20th Could I be dried up? I asked her if she wanted me to accompany her home.

Because all of our real harmony inexorably depended on what happened in the bedroom, our bedroom.