The colonel put the envelope in his pants pocket. He was small, Indian-looking, with weather-beaten skin, and his breath smelled like a child's. Also unlike the colonel, however, she is the one who suffers most from reality. He gave his voice a convincing severity. After studying Crónica de una muerte anunciada the year before, I thought that this was a waste of my time and absolutely hated this book because Chronicle of a Death Foretold was a sublime read and to me, at that time, No One Writes to the Colonel seemed like a bore.
I liked the book a lot,both for its plot and presentation. The writing, though excellent, seems a little bit pinched, as in cramped by limitations of form. You know how they usually make you read physically big and heavy books in world literature class? He entered the house directly to give his condolences to the mother of the dead man. When he saw the colonel, he emitted an almost human, guttural monologue and tossed his head back. Now everybody has his future assured and you're dying of hunger, completely alone.
Well, this one was a tiny book, and I suspected two things: 1 It was going to be such a tough book and we were all going to flunk the test; 2 It was such Gabriel Garcia Marquez has been my favorite author for eleven years now. The colonel felt no emotion. There is no dignity in being poor and having to beg for daily food,if one is not doing it our of mere whim or out of craving for spiritual enlightenment. What I don't like about stories is when they don't have a full plot and end abruptly without any real resolution or purpose other than presenting a snapshot of life. Stretched out in bed, the woman was still thinking about the dead man.
Gabriel Garcia Marquez has been my favorite author for eleven years now. He wrote an asterisk and noted in the margin, 'acquired rights. He knew his wife's character, naturally hard, and hardened even more by forty years of bitterness. I believe that he is one of the great writers of the 20th Century. He had a cup of coffee at the tailor's while Agustin's companions leafed through the newspapers.
Her voice began to darken with rage. He removed the pot from the fire, poured half the water onto the earthen floor, and scraped the inside of the can with a knife until the last scrapings of the ground coffee, mixed with bits of rust, fell into the pot. The front page was almost completely covered by paid funeral announcements. The heat became unbearable in the closed living room. The Colonel, who is never named, has lost everything to the war. Conto intenso, escrito por um dos maiores escritores que já existiu. His wife stayed in bed until nine.
Then he wrote on a second sheet down to the middle, and he signed it. I intend to read Marquez in Spanish one day, but my level is still quite elementary at the moment! But when the tailor shop closed, he had to face up to reality. Além, é claro, de traduzir em re Esse conto foi um dos primeiros trabalhos de Gabo. The colonel felt the dry snap, articulate and cold, of a rifle being cocked behind his back. The colonel lives with his asthmatic wife in a small village under martial law. Maybe because we share a lot of things, e.
He gave the doctor his packet of newspapers. It was still raining when the launches whistled. Almost sixty years later, the colonel was still waiting. He uncovered a jumbled interior: riding boots piled up, stirrups and reins, and an aluminum pail full of riding spurs. It's been the same story for forty years.
But he didn't recognize him because he was stiff and dynamic and seemed as disconcerted as he, wrapped in white cloths and with his trumpet in his hands. We all broke our backs to save the Republic. October was one of the few things which arrived. Above his head a mysterious system of little metal rods opened. Then he put the lamp on the floor, hung his hammock up, and lay down to read the newspapers. The colonel methodically repeated his morning activities, two hours behind schedule, and waited for his wife to eat breakfast.