By Adolfo Bioy Casares
This selection of conventional and experimental tales through Argentinian novelist Bioy Casares ( The Adventures of a Photographer in los angeles Plata ) deals refined, seamless prose, in addition to magical realism and biting political satire. - Publishers Weekly
A Russian Doll and different tales is the 9th number of brief fiction through certainly one of this century's prime Argentinian writers who, together with his fellow countrymen Julio Cortázar and Jorge Luis Borges, helped swap the world's belief of Latin American literature. Bioy Casares's narratives are stylish and urbane, his variety special and streamlined, as he paces his characters via seriocomic traps of fate––ensnared through love, impelled by means of lust, ambition, or simple greed, even metamorphosed through prescription drugs. those aren't tales in a mental mode yet just like the snapshot of the Russian doll of the identify piece are conscientiously wrought congeries of intractable selves inside of selves.
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Extra resources for A Russian Doll & Other Stories
Felix! Felix! " as if she 'd gone crazy. Enid was to think the fight lasted a long time, a terrible long time, but in fact it ended in the fourth round-less than twelve minutes of actual fighting. She was to think her uncle had been hurt, since by the end of the fight he was bleeding from a cut in his forehead, but Mr. Stevick said no, she shouldn't worry, Felix was trained to take punish ment and bleeding was nothing to him-not that kind of bleeding anyway. A few quick stitches, said Mr. Stevick, and good as new.
Then abruptly he's awake. Awake and lying in his own bed, his heart beating hard , terrifyingly hard , pajamas soaked in sweat and that panic taste in his mouth-for a minute or two not really knowing where he is though Hannah is sleeping beside him, he's restored to himself again, his body, his muscular coordination, his ability to scream for help should he want to scream for help. Yes, he has escaped the white-walled room again, he has narrowly escaped going insane, but he knows it's there waiting for him and his father too, cold, stiff, dead , waiting, those terrible eyes of his open, waiting for his son to close them.
Stevick said. "Ask her. " Enid was in the living room crouched by the stairs around the corner from them but she could picture her mother's flushed face, the wide cheekbones, eyes pinched at the corners, narrowed. Momma would be standing with her feet apart, arms wound in a loose fold of her apron as she did when she was nervous and talking fast, not always knowing what she said. Close up you could feel the heat coming off her, and the smells that were hers-something rich, milky, biscuity, over-sweet-were intensified.