A Booksmith Journal

The man who landed in Buenos Aires in 1871 bore the name of Johannes Dahlmann and he was a minister in the Evangelical Church. In 1939, one of his grandchlidren, Juan Dahlmann, was secretary of a municipal library on Calle Cordoba, and he considered himself profoundly Argentinian. His maternal grandfather had been that Francisco Flores, of the Second Line-Infantry Division, who had died on the frontier of Buenos Aires, run through with a lance by Indians from Catriel; in the discord inherent between his two lines of descent, Juan Dahlmann (perhaps driven to it by his Germanic blood) chose the line represented by his romantic ancestor, his ancestor of the romantic death. An old sword, a leather frame containing the daguerreotype of a blank-faced man with a beard, the dash and grace of certin music, the familiar strophes of Martin Fierro, the passing years, boredom and solitude, all went to foster this voluntary, but never ostentatioous nationalism. At the cost of numerous small privat

A non-personal opinion about forced happy/cheerful stories.

by Horacio Quiroga Alicia's entire honeymoon gave her hot and cold shivers. A blonde, angelic, and timid young girl, the childish fancies she had dreamed about being a bride had been chilled by her husband's rough character. She loved him very much, nonetheless, although sometimes she gave a light shudder when, as they returned home through the streets together at night, she cast a furtive glance at the impressive stature of her Jordan, who had been silent for an hour. He, for his part, loved her profoundly but never let it be seen. For three months--they had been married in April--they lived in a special kind of bliss. Doubtless she would have wished less severity in the rigorous sky of love, more expansive and less cautious tenderness, but her husband's impassive manner always restrained her. The house in which they lived influenced her chills and shuddering to no small degree. The whiteness of the silent patio--friezes, columns, and marble statues--produced the

It was very early in the morning, the streets clean and deserted, I was walking to the station. As I compared the tower clock with my watch I realized that it was already much later than I had thought, I had to hurry, the shock of this discovery made me unsure of the way, I did not yet know my way very well in this town; luckily, a policeman was nearby, I ran up to him and breathlessly asked him the way. He smiled and said: “From me you want to know the way?” “Yes,” I said, “since I cannot find it myself.” “Give it up! Give it up,” he said, and turned away with a sudden jerk, like people who want to be alone with their laughter.

by Ambrose Bierce I A man stood upon a railroad bridge in northern Alabama, looking down into the swift water twenty feet below. The man's hands were behind his back, the wrists bound with a cord. A rope closely encircled his neck. It was attached to a stout cross-timber above his head and the slack feel to the level of his knees. Some loose boards laid upon the ties supporting the rails of the railway supplied a footing for him and his executioners - two private soldiers of the Federal army, directed by a sergeant who in civil life may have been a deputy sheriff. At a short remove upon the same temporary platform was an officer in the uniform of his rank, armed. He was a captain. A sentinel at each end of the bridge stood with his rifle in the position known as "support," that is to say, vertical in front of the left shoulder, the hammer resting on the forearm thrown straight across the chest - a formal and unnatural position, enforcing an erect carriage of the b

Continuity of the Parks by Julio Cortázar He had begun to read the novel a few days before. He had put it aside because of some urgent business conferences, opened it again on his way back to the estate by train; he permitted himself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the characterizations. That afternoon, after writing a letter giving his power of attorney and discussing a matter of joint ownership with the manager of his estate, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which looked out upon the park with its oaks. Sprawled in his favorite armchair, its back toward the door--even the possibility of an intrusion would have irritated him, had he thought of it--he let his left hand caress repeatedly the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters. He remembered effortlessly the names and his mental image of the characters; the novel spread its glamour over him almost at once. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by

Poesia Vertical (1958) I Una red de mirada mantiene unido al mundo no lo deja caerse. Y aunque yo no sepa qué pasa con los ciegos, mis ojos van a apoyarse en una espalda que puede ser de dios. Sin embargo, ellos buscan otra red, otro hilo, que anda cerrando ojos con un traje prestado y descuelga una lluvia ya sin suelo ni cielo. Mis ojos buscan eso que nos hace sacarnos los zapatos para ver si hay algo más sosteniéndonos debajo o inventar un pájaro para averiguar si existe el aire o crear un mundo para saber si hay dios o ponernos el sombrero para comprobar que existimos. --------------------- I A net of gazes maintains the world united, keeps it from falling. And although I don't know what happens with the blind, my eyes will aid a back that could be god's. Nevertheless, they search for another net, another thread, than goes closing eyes with loaned clothing and leaves a rain already without floor or cieling. My eyes seek for this which makes us take off our shoes to see

List are my thing. Since my earliest times in life I have made lists for different purposes: To Do lists, Goal lists, Shopping lists, contact lists, music (play)lists, and -of course- reading lists. There's a secret desire implicit in all this, and it's the idea of knowing it all. Not only having a vast knowledge, also the gift of clarity and pragmatism. Needless to say, that it was -and still is- too much. But Life-long learning isn't a bad philosophy of life. In fact, there are many reasons to believe that the possibility of knowing-it-all is more accessible in the internet era. At the same time, just by appraising the task on the screen, we can clearly see how unreachable that is. Still, many people like me can't just get rid of their secret ambition. And, when browsing the web, sooner or later we run into sites that give us the sense of empowerment: "this is possible!", we say again innocently. Wikipedia started it for me, then places like Khan Aca

Since the fall of Berlin wall, the world is writing the pages of a new international scenario. Perhaps it may look like an inedit moment in history. Or, perhaps we need to read more history books. Last weekend, France witnessed the largest rally in their history, and that is not a minor detail for a country with such a long history. There is a sense of harmony and unity among the french, and while the unanimous voices are “Je suis Charlie” and “we are not afraid”, the necessary question of the present day should be, “Now what?”. Unlike the common voices that claim that we are not going to stand still, to talk and do nothing, that this is the time for convincing action, we should make the act of listening our priority. Listen to us, listen to them, try to understand who are them. Furthermore, we need to find how much of them we have inside of us. The islamic religion covers a wide spectrum, and it is safe to say that radical extremist is one regrettable part, but not a general represe