Saturday, January 15, 2005


Last week I read Pedro Paramo, by Juan Rulfo, a Mexican author. It's a small book, a quick read. It's not well known like Gabriel Garcia Marquez, yet it's credited as one of the sources of magical realism. Someone recommended it to me years ago, but I never could remember the title until I stumbled across it in a bookstore a few weeks ago. It's a ghost story. It's a collection of voices that made me think of a lecture on the many voices in The Waste Land. The author never published another novel, although he apparently wrote and destroyed one.


Has my cat made the connection between the silver box lighting up and the room filling with rhythmic sounds?


It's silly to be depressed by it. I mean one thinks of it like being alive in a box, one keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one is dead... which should make a difference... shouldn't it? I mean, you'd never know you were in a box, would you? It would be just like being asleep in a box. Not that I'd like to sleep in a box, mind you, not without any air - you'd wake up dead, for a start and then where would you be? Apart from inside a box. That's the bit I don't like, frankly. That's why I don't think of it. (from Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz & Guildenstern are Dead)


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