Antonio di Benedetto was born in 1922 in Mendoza, Argentina. He died in Buenos Aires on October 10, 1986. His professional life takes dedicated to journalism, becoming responsible for some major publications in the country. In times of dictator Videla was arrested and tortured. For several years he lived in exile in Spain.
this author did not know until I read an excellent overview of David Pérez Vega. As a teenager who discovers Quevedo language or tone of Cervantes, and enjoying the writing of Antonio di Benedetto. Especially impressed by the unexpected use of some verbs, which surprises the reader with expressions that seem not to have ever written, is the master tool that allows the novel function as a precise machine without losing the taste scale.
The story begins with the appearance of a first person narrative. Late eighteenth century, a magistrate whose work has been confined in a small town, away from the capital, has his life while awaiting the arrival of his salary and a new destination more comfortable and closer to his family.
In a more or less linear plot in the first part, the author introduces us to a strange environment, a mixture of equal parts of sixteenth-century picaresque novel and Kafka novel of the twentieth century. At the end of the book, betrayal, pain, torture and the absurdity of existence, take shape and outcome of the story.
" I wondered, why not live, but why had lived. I figured that by waiting and wanted to know if it expected something. I thought so.
always expect more.
However, this is what my understanding discerned, but regardless it was delivered to a gross inertia, as if my share was nearly exhausted, as if the world were to be depopulated because I was not going to be more in it. "
Reading
Zama has made me feel guilty. Guilty of not reading for years Latin American literature in the second half of the twentieth century. Vargas Llosa or lack saves me because I still novels like War doomsday or Conversation in the Cathedral. Di
Bendetto brought me to mind the English cult of America, between singing and spectacular, always precise, always perfect. It brought to mind the deep impression that I was Hundred Years of Solitude and sin of a pending re-reading. I came to blame for farmhouse, Jose Donoso, unread for years. I remembered the acrid taste of sweat in the humid jungle of green house and guilt of not reading yet ...
Unforgivable Manuel Puig.
The book has a dedication, even page is specified in the index. "Victims of waiting."
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