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I thank you all for sharing this year's work of writing in the workshop.
To continue the metaphor, we have reached the end of the journey ...

I wish you very happy holidays, and a 2009 full, growth and harmony,
Enjoy your holidays!
greetings Celia

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arrival at destination folders and delivery notes delivery

Hi all,

The return dates of the folders are:

Commission 57: Wednesday, 10 between 19 and 20 hours.

Commission 61: Thursday 11 December between 15 and 16 hours,

If you want, at the suggestion that I have done some, took the opportunity to make a toast New Year with drinks and snacks ...

If they fail to be able to go, please send someone to remove the folder note.

The books are signed on the end tables,

greetings and up the other week, Celia

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second quarter

second term deliveries:
Deadlines: Commission
-57: 19 November.
-Commission 61: November 20

1-Includes the work of the first quarter and an index in the folder. Those who were able to complete work on this issue.
2 - Short essay on Central Station.
3 - Cards (2 sets of 4 cards each). Clarify name authors. 4-Notes
reader of The Chronicle Argentina
5 - Cardona-paragraph apply concepts of travelers in the travel diary and writing. 6-signing
marked problems in the first part of the folder.
7-Short essay on Argentina Chronicle.
commission 8-( 57) Note of opinion on the power situation.
9-Review Conference table of the race. 10-Notes
reader notebook tests (Calvin, Montaigne and other 2 nd choice).
11 - 12
Test Plan - Test Edition a partner (criteria: cohesion and textual coherence, Specifications / thesis, argumentative development, intertextos, style, gender appropriateness).
theoretical 13-signings.

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In the framework of the Days of the career of communication, the Chair organized a meeting between the committees of this workshop to share what has worked during the year. The meeting is Thursday 30 at the time of the second theory (the 19 hs.), Room 104.

is a good opportunity to learn about writing and the work of other committees. The

I hope you all there. Bring copies of their stories end. They can choose a piece to read, and if you prefer, you can count the writing process.

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I leave a phrase of Rodolfo Walsh (in his autobiography):

"Writing is a laborious progress through their own stupidity."

(in the entry "class notes" can see the summary of the last class for the two commissions).

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For next class: Prepare

-testing plan that includes a mapping issue and problem and possible structure of the test. Intertexts also include use and a preview of quotations from these texts (for delivery). Remember, the test has to have a relationship with the theme of travel. Travel notebook review and write previous quarter. Get
-essay book is notes. Those who were not the last class, read the trial of Calvin Stock Arena.
-test notebook, I recommend starting by reading the first paragraph and second. The first, beginning with the initial definition and Eco's text from the second, I recommend starting by Sarlo.


greetings Celia

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Class Notes Release Notes and tap class for coming

For all
1-Commission 61 (Thursday): The next Thursday I'm going to teach.

2-Finish reading the book, continue with notes of the history that interest them, as the survey of authors' reflections on gender. Coming soon: a brief ensayito based on this reading of the book (taking, of course, reading scores have made). 3-To

take the next class thought the final essay topic. Re-look at all the reading materials and writing assignments. There you will find the topics that interest them (an issue related to the trip). Lead a "brainstorming" made around that theme (appointments, associations with readings, films, experiences, ideas loose, counterarguments, etc.).

4 - Stay tuned: soon test out the notebook models possible to take into account.

5 - Go the motto of Cardona I left for the holidays: Underline all the characteristics described in travel writing Cardona and try to find these in the texts in "travelers" del cuaderno del primer cuatrimestre. Lo voy a pedir para dentro de un par de clases.

saludos a todos, y buen fin de semana!

Celia

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Comparto con ustedes una frase del escultor francés Rodin. Estaba en la muestra que se hizo en el Museo de Arte Decorativo. Creo que hay interesantes analogías con la escritura:

"Es feo en el arte lo que es falso, lo que es artificial, lo que pretende ser bonito y precioso, lo que sonríe sin motivo, lo que amenaza sin razón, lo que se arquea o se endereza sin causa, todo lo que carece de alma y verdad, todo lo que no es más que alarde de hermosura y gracia, todo lo que miente".

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As anticipated by mail next week subscribe to unemployment, which we will be just the one with the two commissions. I leave work for the next class:
1 - Bring the letter of a character (literary or historical film) in which he tries to convince another of something.
2 - Raising the Central Station essay on the blog.
3 - Read the prologue and the first three notes of Argentina Chronicle.
to-analyze the structure of the notes and try to draw or diagram the structure (as you guys. Intuit that can represent the structure of a text).

b-appointments underscore the prologue and the comments of the authors behind the notes about the chronic gender. The aim is to comment on these underlined in class in order to build a future short essay on the subject.

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Next Class new Central Station

Blog In the chair:
http://tallerunoccc.blogspot.com/2008/08/segundo-cuatrimestre.html
will find a link to the booklet of argument let's work this semester.

(No forget to watch the film Central Station)

greetings Celia

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Hi all,
I propose that the class comes to see the film Central Station and bring a short text essay on a topic tone of the film to see together in class next week.

greetings Celia

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Please publish all papers that have given in this part of the semester in their respective blogs.
This will allow me to read at a distance.

Thank you, Celia

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Blogs For the second quarter

I remind the slack for the observations and outline some proposals:

1-On the first day of classes for the second quarter delivered the final report. The idea is to note that much more research in this paper. The investigation can be worked in several areas: historical, political and social intertextos (novels, short stories, newspaper articles, theoretical texts, films on the subject, new interviews with travelers or people around you and can help build your history, etc. .). I suggest give the excuses (Footage, synthesis of other texts, etc..) Together with the final text. Remember also that the semester begins Aug. 11.

2 - Find and start reading the book The Argentina chronic with reports compiled by Maxine Thomas and Caparrós prologue. Trasncurso In the first weeks of class will go reader notes asking for at least 5 of the chronicles of the book and then reading an essay, taking up the definitions of the authors chronicle.

3-Read the "passengers" Travel notebook and writing and trying to connect to one of the definitions of travelers included. Detected in each text the procedures outlined by Cardona in travel writing. This work will also ask in the first weeks of class.

4-Those who have not seen the film Central Station between the hours of theory must rent. In the blog of the chair is going to raise a guide to work on the film.


Greetings to all and have a good holiday. Celia

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List of works for the folder

For the holidays: 1-read
chronic, Argentina, with reports compiled by Maxine Thomas and Caparrós prologue.
2-Read the "passengers" Travel notebook and writing and trying to connect to one of the definitions of travelers included. In each text also stressed the procedures outlined by Cardona in travel writing.

The binder is delivered next week. This is the list of jobs. In cases where missing one or two jobs, can supplementing them by mail during the week.

1-Significant experience writing and reading (with a given one by Prof. Rise Com 61) Significant experience
2-3-
travel thoughts about selection of quotations about travel notebook
4-Reflections on the figures of the journalist and ethnographer relate Geertz)
5-Story based on a dream
6-Hypothesis 1 history 1 and history in the story book tales (based on Piglia)
7-Chronicle of the day
smoke BAFICI 8-Chronicle
Timeline 9-travel genre texts from
Cardona Moreno and 10-area reader notes Missions (Walsh, Caparros Quiroga at least)
11-First four questions based on Rio Arriba
12-Text from testimony (it's a good idea if you also include the delivery of raw transcription)
13 - (optional) Notes on Capote ( preface, a day's work)
14-Planning final report based on testimony (narrator, structure, research on historical, biographical research, field research, gender, etc.).
problems signing 15-16-signing marked

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Woman, Rodolfo Walsh

Colonel praises my punctuality:
-is punctual as Germans, "he says.
-O as the English.
The colonel's last name is German.
is a big man, gray-haired, broad face, toast.
"I read his stuff-proposed. I congratulate you.
While serving two large glasses of whiskey, I will report, incidentally, who has twenty years of information services, who has studied philosophy and literature, which is a curious art. No points at all, simply leave the field set in which we operate, an area common vaguely.
From the large window on the tenth floor is the city at dusk, the pale lights of river. From here it is easy to love, even momentarily, to Buenos Aires. But there is no conceivable way that we love Colonel reunido.El search has some names, some papers that perhaps I have.
I seek dead, a place on the map. Still not a search, it's just a fantasy: the fantasy kind of evil that occurred to some suspect it might.
Someday (I think in times of anger) I'll go look. She means nothing to me, yet will go after the mystery of his death, his body behind to rot slowly in some remote cemetery. If I find fresh high waves of anger, fear and frustration Love will rise, vengeful powerful waves, and for a moment and not feel alone because I feel like a dragged bitter, forgotten shadow.
The colonel knows where.
moves easily on the floor of ornate furniture, decorated in ivory and bronzes, Meissen and Cantonese dishes. Jongkind smile at the false, the Fígari doubtful. I think that it would face if I told you who manufactures Jongkind, but instead praising his whiskey.
The baby with vigor, health, with enthusiasm, joy, superiority, contempt. His face changes and changes, while their fat hands slowly rotate the glass.
"Those papers," he says.
I look.
"That woman, Colonel.
Smile.
"Everything is strung-philosophy. Poticha
A Vienna porcelain lacks a fragment at the base. Una lámpara de cristal está rajada. El coronel, con los ojos brumosos y sonriendo, habla de la bomba.
—La pusieron en el palier. Creen que yo tengo la culpa. Si supieran lo que he hecho por ellos, esos roñosos.
—¿Mucho daño? —pregunto. Me importa un carajo.
—Bastante. Mi hija. La he puesto en manos de un psiquiatra. Tiene doce años —dice.
El coronel bebe, con ira, con tristeza, con miedo, con remordimiento.
Entra su mujer, con dos pocillos de café.
Contale vos, Negra.
Ella se va sin contestar; una mujer alta, orgullosa, con un rictus de neurosis. Su desdén queda flotando como una nubecita.
—La pobre quedó muy affected, "says the colonel. But you do not mind this.
- How not to import me! ... I heard that Captain N and the higher X also something terrible happened to them after that.
Colonel laughs.
-popular fantasy, "he says. See how it works. But deep down do not invent anything. Merely to repeat.
lights a Marlboro, the package leaves my hands on the table.
"Tell me any joke," he says.
think. I can not think.
"Tell me any political joke, whoever wants to, and I'll show you was invented twenty years ago, fifty years a century. Was used after the defeat at Sedan, or purpose of Hindenburg, Dollfuss, Badoglio.
- What's this?
-The tomb of Tutankhamen, "said the colonel. Lord Carnavon. Trash.
Colonel dried perspiration with fat, hairy hand.
"But the biggest X had an accident killed his wife.
- what else? "He says, rattling the ice in the glass.
"I shot a dawn.
-La mistaken for a robber Colonel smiles. These things happen. "But the captain
N. . .
"He had a car crash, who has either, and more he is not saddled a horse when he gets a fart.
- And you, colonel?
-Mine is different, "he says. I have freaked.
He stops, goes around the table.
"They think I have the fault. These rusty do not know what I did for them. But someday you will write the story. Maybe going to write you.
"I'd like.
"And I'm going to stay clean, I'll be fine. Not that I mind a good impression on those rusty, but to history, you know? "I wish
depend on me, Colonel.
-walked hovering. One night, one is encouraged. Left pump in the shield and ran.
Put your hand in a cabinet, takes out a polychrome porcelain figurine, a pastor with a basket of flowers.
"Look. The pastor
lacks a little arm.
"Derby says. Two hundred years.
The pastor lost his fingers suddenly tender. The colonel has a face of iron on the night side, sore.
- Why do you blame?
"Because I got from where it was, that's true, and I took her where she is now, that's true. But they know not what they wanted to do, those rusty know nothing, and do not know it was me who stopped him.
Colonel baby passionately, proudly, fiercely, with eloquence, method.
"Because I studied history. I can see things in historical perspective. I have read Hegel.
- What did they do?
-anchor in the river, throw an airplane, burn and throw the remains down the toilet, dilute acid. How much waste has to hear one! This country is covered with garbage, you do not know where it comes from so much trash, but we're all up to the neck.
-all, Colonel. Because deep down we agree, right? It's time to destroy. Would have to break everything.
-up and urinate.
"But no regrets, colonel. Merrily flying bomb and the cattle prod. Cheers "I say lifting the vessel.
No answer. We sat by the window. The harbor lights shine blue mercury. At times, you hear the car horns, trailing far as the voices of a dream. The colonel is just the gray spot on his face white spot on his shirt.
"That woman" I hear him mutter. She was naked in the coffin and looked like a virgin. Her skin had become transparent. Were cancer metastasis, such as those little pictures that you do on a wet window.
Colonel baby. It's tough.
-Nude "he says. There were four or five and no wanted to watch us. He was the captain, and Galician that embalmed, and I do not remember who else. And when we took the coffin-Colonel passes his hand over his forehead, when we get it, that disgusting ...
Galician Sunset by degrees, as in a theater. The colonel's face is almost invisible. Only the whiskey in his glass shines like a slowly dying fire. Through the open door of the department reach remote noises. The elevator door closed on the ground floor, has opened closer. The huge building whispers, breathes, gurgles with their pipes, their incinerators, their kitchens, their kids, their televisions, their servants, and now the colonel has standing, clutching a machine gun that did not see him out of nowhere, and walks on tiptoe towards the shield, turn on the light hitting, see the ascetic, geometric, ironically bearing vacuum, elevator, staircase, where no There is absolutely no one and come back slowly, dragging the machine gun.
"I thought I heard. These rusty I will get sloppy, like last time.
sits closer to the window now. The machine gun is gone and Colonel rambles again on the great scene of his life.
- ... he pulled over, the Galician disgusting. I was in love with the corpse, touched her, fondled her nipples. I gave him a punch, look-the Colonel looks knuckles, I threw it against the wall. It's all rotten, do not respect or death. Do you mind the dark?
-No.
-Best. From here I can see the street. And think. I always think. In the dark it is thought best.
back to down a whiskey.
"But this woman was naked," he says, argues against an invisible gainsaying. I had to cover her mons, I put a shroud and belt Franciscan. Suddenly
laughs.
"I had to pay the shroud of my pocket. Fourteen hundred dollars. That shows you, eh? That proves.
Repeat several times "That proves," as a mechanical toy, without saying what that shows me.
"I had to seek help to change the coffin. I called some workmen who were there. Imagine as stayed. For them it was a goddess, I do not know the things they put in the head, poor people.
- "Poor people?
"Yes, poor people. "Colonel anger against an elusive interior. I am also in Argentina.
"I, Colonel, me too. We all Argentines.
"Oh, well," he says.
- They saw it?
"Yes, I said that this woman was naked. A goddess, naked and dead. With all the death in the air, You know However, with all ...
The colonel's voice is lost in a surreal perspective, that little phrase remove increasingly framed in its lines of flight, and the decline of the voice to maintain a divine proportion or what. I also serve whiskey.
"For me there is nothing," said the colonel. I'm used to seeing naked women. Many in my life. And dead men. Many in Poland, 39. I was a military attache, realize.
I realize, more men naked women sumo dead, but the result gives me, not me, not me ... With a single muscle movement I get sober, like a dog shakes off water.
"Me I could not surprising. But they ...
- Do you impressed?
-One fainted. I woke him up by smacking. I said, "Faggot," this is what you do when you have to bury your queen? Acordate of San Pedro, who fell asleep when he killed Christ. "Then I thanked him.
looked at the street. "Coca" reads the sign, silver on red. "Cola" reads the sign, silver on red. The pupil grows huge, red circle after circle concentric red, filling the night, the city and the world. "Drink."
"Drink," says the colonel.
Bebo.
- Can you hear me?
"I listen.
you cut your finger.
- Was it necessary?
Colonel is silver now. Looking at the tip of the index, demarcates the thumbnail and rising.
-Tantita well. For identification.
- Do not know who he was?
He laughs. The hand will turn red. "Drink."
-wise, yes. Things have to be legal. It was a historic act, see?
"I understand.
-Digital printing does not grasp if the finger is dead. You have to moisturize. Paste it later.
- And?
"It was her. That woman was her.
- Very changed?
"No, no, you do not understand. lgualita. Seemed about to speak, that would ... The finger is to make everything legal. Professor R. controlled everything, he took x-rays.
- Professor R.?
"Yes. That I could not do either. We needed someone with scientific authority, moral.
Somewhere in the house sounds, distant, breathy, a little bell. I do not go to the colonel's wife, but suddenly it's there, his voice bitter, unconquerable.
- I turn?
-No.
-Phone.
"Tell them I'm not.
disappears. "It's for putearme
" says the colonel. Call me anytime. At three in the morning at five.
-Willingness to fuck "I say cheerfully.
-changed three times the number of the phone. But always find out.
- What did you say?
"That my daughter would hold the polio. I'm going to cut the eggs. Trash.
I hear the ice in the glass, like a distant bell.
"I did a ceremony, the harangue. I respect the ideas, I said. That woman did a lot for you. I'm going to bury a Christian. But they have to help me.
The Colonel is standing and drinking with courage, with exasperation, with great ideas that flow back and high on him as big and tall waves against a rock and leave it untouched and dry, trimmed and black, red and silver.
-La we get in a van, had at Viamonte, then on May 25, always cared for, protected, hiding. I wanted it removed, do something with it. I covered with a tarp, was in my office, about a wardrobe, very high. When I asked what it was told it was the transmitter of Cordoba, the Voice of Liberty.
I do not know where the Colonel. The reflection looks for silver, the red pupil. Perhaps it has gone. Perhaps wanders among the furniture. The building smells vaguely of soup in the kitchen, cologne in the bathroom, diapers in the crib, medicines, cigarettes, life, death. "It rains
"Says his strange voice.
I look at the sky: Sirius dog, the hunter Orion.
"It rains every other day," says the colonel. It rains every other day in a garden where everything rots, roses, pine, Franciscan belt. Where
, I think, where.
- Stands! "Cries the colonel. The buried stop, as Facundo, because it was a male!
Then I see it, on the other side of the table. And for a moment when the glow of blue bathing, I think I cry, big tears down her face.
"Do not mind me," he says, sits. I'm drunk. And long rains
in his memory.
I stand, touched her shoulder.
- Huh? "He says Huh? "He says.
And look at me suspiciously, like a drunk who wakes up in a train unknown.
- Is out of the country?
"Yes.
- Do you got?
"Yes.
- How many people know?
-DOS.
- Old knows?
He laughs.
-Cree who knows.
- Where?
No answer.
"You have to write, publish.
"Yes. Someday.
looks tired, remote.
- Now! "I am exasperated. Did not concerned about the story? I write the story, and you are well, well, forever, Colonel!
The tongue hits the palate, teeth.
"When the time comes ... you'll be the first ...
" Not now. Think. Paris Match. Life. Five thousand dollars. Ten thousand. Whatever.
He laughs.
- Where, Colonel, where?
is to slow, I do not know. Perhaps you are wondering who I am, what I do there.
And while I'm defeated, thinking that I must return, or never come. As my index finger starts and that indefatigable itinerary with maps, combining isohyets, probabilities, complicity. While I know it does not interest me, and that just will not move a finger, even on a map, the colonel's voice reaches me as a revelation.
"It's mine," he says simply. That woman is mine.


("That woman" was published in "The land offices", Ediciones De la Flor, 1986).

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Truman Capote Caparrós

Preface to Music for Chameleons, Truman Capote

My life - as an artist, at least - can be projected on a graph with the same precision as a fever, recorded high and low cycles specifically defined .

I started writing at eight years, unexpectedly, without the inspiration of a model. I knew no one to write. In fact, he hardly knew anyone to read. The fact was that only four things I was interested in reading, going to movies, tap dance and drawing. Then one day, I started writing, not knowing that I was chained for life to a noble but merciless master. When God gives a gift, at the same time gives us a whip, and it only aims at self-flagellation.

But of course I did not know. I wrote adventure stories, detective stories, skits, stories I had told former slaves and Civil War veterans. I had fun much at first. I stopped having fun when I discovered the difference between good and bad writing, and then made an alarming discovery: the difference between good writing and true art. A subtle difference, but fierce. After that, dropped his whip.

Just as some people practicing the piano or violin four to five hours a day, I practiced with my pens and papers. However, did not show anyone what he was doing. If someone asked me what I was busy all the time, told them to my homework. In fact, never did homework. The literary kept me fully occupied: it was my learning the altar of art, craft, the devilish complications of paragraphing, punctuation, use of dialogue, not to mention the great overall design, the great arc that requires a beginning, middle and end. Had to learn, and many sources: not only books but music, painting, the mere observation daily.

In fact, the most interesting thing I wrote at that time were simple everyday observations that sat in my journal. Descriptions of a neighbor. Long verbatim transcripts of conversations heard. Local gossip. A kind of story, a way of "seeing" and "hear" more forward would seriously affect me, but then I did not realize, because all the "formal" writing, so carefully polished by machine and spending was more or less fictional.

at seventeen I was an accomplished writer. Of being a pianist, that had been the right time for the first concert in public. Being a writer, I decided it was time to publish. I sent stories to the major literary publications and nationally distributed magazine, which published the stories in those days more "quality" as Story, The New Yorker, Harper's Bazaar, Mademoiselle, Harper's, Atlantic Monthly. My stories appeared punctually in them.

Then in 1948, I published a novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms. It was well received by critics and was a bestseller. Also, due to an exotic picture of its author in the back, was the beginning of a certain notoriety that has haunted me all these years. In fact, many people have attributed the commercial success of the novel to the photo. Others downplayed the book as if it were a freak accident: "Amazing that someone so young can write so well." Surprising? Only fourteen years to write, day after day! In general, the novel was a successful conclusion the first stage of my development.

A short novel, Breakfast at Tiffany's, completed the second season in 1958. For ten years I experimented with almost all literary forms and styles, trying to master a variety of technical virtuosity achieved so strong and flexible as a fisherman's net. Of course, I failed in several areas that I tried, but it is true that one learns more from failure than from success. That was in my case, and later I could apply what I learned great benefit. Anyway, during that decade of exploration wrote collections of short stories (A tree at night, I remember Christmas) essays and portraits (Local Color, Comments, the work contained in Dogs bark), plays (The Grass Harp, House of flowers), scripts for films (Beat the Devil, The Innocents), and an enormous number of reports, mostly for The New Yorker.

In fact, from the point of view of my creative destination, the most interesting thing I did throughout this second phase first appeared in The New Yorker as a series of articles, and later in a book called the muses are heard. The topic was the first cultural exchange between the Soviet Union and the United States: a tour made by Russia in 1955 by a series of black Americans representing Porgy and Bess. I conceived the whole adventure as a short comic novel "true", the first of all.

few years earlier, had published Picture Lillian Ross, a history of the making of a film, The Red Badge of Courage. With its quick cuts, flashbacks, or anticipatory, was in itself, like a movie, and as I read it I wondered what would happen if the author left his harsh discipline and direct reporting line to treat the material like it's a novel: win or lose the book? I decided to see what happened, when I submit the appropriate topic. Porgy and Bess in Russia, in winter, it seemed appropriate.

muses are heard received rave reviews, including media was generally praised by some benevolent me. Still, it drew special attention, and sales were modest. However, the book was an important event for me, as I wrote, I realized I may have found a solution to what had always been my greatest creative quandary.

For many years I was attracted to journalism as an art form in itself, for two reasons: first, because it seemed that nothing had been truly innovative in the prose, or literature in general, from the decade 1920, and second because journalism as an art was almost virgin territory, for the simple reason that very few writers are engaged in journalism and, when they did, writing travel essays and autobiographies. Muses are heard made me think quite differently. I wanted to write a journalistic novel, something on a larger scale than had the plausibility of the facts, the immediate quality of a film, the depth and freedom of prose and precision of poetry.

Only in 1959 a mysterious instinct directed my steps towards a dark theme-murder case in an isolated region of Kansas, and finally, in 1996, I publish the results: In Cold Blood.

In a story by Henry James, I think The Middle Years, the protagonist, a writer in the shadows of maturity, he laments: "We live in darkness, we do what we can, the rest is the madness of art. He says this, more or less. Anyway, James spoke frankly, telling us the truth. The darkest of the dark, the worst of the madness is the inevitable risk involved. The writers, at least those who are willing to take real risks, venturing to all, have much in common with another breed of loners, those who make a living playing pool and cards. Many thought he was crazy to spend six years roaming the plains of Kansas, while others rejected my conception of "true novel" Decree unworthy of a writer "serious." Norman Mailer described it as "a failure of imagination", meaning, I suppose, that a novelist should write about something imaginary and not real.

Yes, it was like playing very high stakes poker. For six long years, I felt the nerves insane, I did not know whether it was a book. Were long summers and cold winters, but what remained firm against the table, playing the best hand. Then, it turned out he did have a book. Several Critics complained that "nonfiction novel" was a term to call attention to a fraud, and that there was nothing new or original in what I had done. Others, however, felt differently. They realized the value of my experiment and will soon put into practice. No one was faster than Norman Mailer, who won a lot of money and won many awards with his novels nonfiction (The Armies of the Night, Of a Fire on the Moon, The Executioner's Song), but has been careful not to describe never "true novels." No matter: it is a good writer and a great guy and I'm thankful for being able to do a small favor.

The zigzag line on the graph of my reputation as a writer reached a healthy level, and there I left a while before going to my fourth cycle, which I assume will be the last. For four years, roughly between 1968 and 1972, I began to read, select, edit and sort my own letters, those of others, my day (which contain detailed descriptions of hundreds of scenes and conversations) for the period 1943-1965. He intended to use much of this material in a book he planned for years: a variant of the novel true. I titled Answered Prayers (Prayers heard), which is a quote from St. Teresa, who said: "More tears are shed for answered prayers not heard." I started working on this book in 1972, first writing the last chapter (always good to know where one). Then I wrote the first, "Monsters are not spoiled," after the fifth, "a severe insult to the brain", then the seventh, "La Côte Basque." I continued in this way, writing several chapters out of sequence. I do so because the argument, or arguments, rather, were true, and all the characters, real. It was hard to remember everything, because I had not invented nothing. However, it was not my intention to write a roman à clef, that genre where the facts are disguised as fiction. My intentions were the opposite: to remove the costume, not manufacture them.

In 1975 and 1976 four chapters of the book published in Esquire. This anger in some circles, in which it was felt that I was betraying confidences, abusing friends and / or enemies. I will not argue that it's about social policy and not artistic merit. Simply say that all you have to work the writer is the material that has gathered as a result of their own efforts and observations, and not be denied the right to use it. It may condemn its use, but not deny.

Yet Answered Prayers interrupted in September 1977, a fact that had nothing to do with public reaction received by the parties and published. The interruption was because I was having a terrible time, going through a personal and creative crisis while. As the face was not related staff, except very tangentially, with the creative, you need only refer to the creative chaos.

Although it was a real torment, now I'm glad it happened. After all, changed my whole conception of literature, my attitude towards art, life, the balance between them and my understanding the difference between true and really real.
For starters, I think most writers, even the best, recharge the ink. I prefer to lighten them, using a simple and crystal field as a stream. I discovered that my style became too dense, I took three pages to get effects that should be achieved in a single paragraph. I read and reread everything I had written in Answered Prayers, and I began to have doubts, not about the material or my approach, but the texture of the style. I reread In Cold Blood and I had the same reaction: in many parts of the style was not as good as it should be, and did not release the full potential. Slowly, with an alarm was increasing, I read that never once in my writing career, had exploited all the excitement and energy contained in the material aesthetic. I realized that even in the best parts, working with half or even one-third of the potential he had. Why?

The answer, I was released after months of meditation, was simple but not very satisfactory. He did nothing, of course, to lessen my depression. On the contrary, the worse. The response created a seemingly intractable problem and, if he could not solve, the better stop writing. The problem was: how can a writer combined with good outcome in one way, say the story-all he knows of all other literary forms? Well, this was where my work was often poorly lit, the voltage was, but to restrict myself to the techniques of how he wrote at the time, not using all he knew the art of writing, all what he had learned of librettos, plays, stories, poems, stories, nouvelles, novels. A writer should be available on his palette, all colors, all abilities so that they can combine and, where appropriate, be applied simultaneously. The question was: how?

I returned
Answered Prayers. Dismissed a chapter and rewrote two centers. Better, definitely better. But the truth was that he should return to kindergarten. There was, again, at a table game, but excited because I was lit by an invisible sun. Still, my first attempts were clumsy. I looked like a child with a box of crayons.

From a technical standpoint, the biggest difficulty I had to write In Cold Blood was not participating. Typically, the reporter must enter into the play as a character witness as an observer, if he wants to keep the book within the realm of the plausible. I felt it was essential for the seemingly objective tone of the book that the author was absent. In fact, in all my stories, I always tried to stay as invisible as possible.

Now, however, I put them on center stage and began to rebuild, in a severe and minimum daily conversations with ordinary people: the manager of my building, a trainer at the gym, an old school friend my dentist. After writing hundreds of pages simple, I get a style. He had discovered a framework within which he could take everything I knew about the art of writing.

More Later, using a modified version of this technique, I wrote a true nouvelle (Coffins carved by hand) and a number of stories. The result is this book, Music for Chameleons.

How has all this to the rest of my work in progress, Answered Prayers? Considerably. Meanwhile, here I am alone, lost in my dark madness, all alone with my deck of cards and, of course, the whip God gave me.

Cervix High Until 7dpo

Notes Couples

Notes / Missions - The Interior, Martin Caparros

Couples, Andrea A.

17.mayo.2008

------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------------------------- ------------------

the end, (why is it that a "start" a phrase with the word "final ? - imagine contradictions of language) could start this with the phrase: "everything has to do with it." And bye. That would be enough. But today I have no desire to be as less expressive, and say a little more. It turns out that The Interior is Martin Caparros for me, one of those books I call the book "screen", a sort of book hinge, which was planted in front of me leaving a mark, just that, making a difference. A before and after, as in any trip. This book is one of those who leave something (even today can not specify what) and more, he confirmed the existence of questions that I can never answer, answered and made so many new ones that will be there in the air, because more Beyond finding or not the answers someday, I'm interested, I mobilized, the simple fact that these questions exist. Exist in the air. These questions remain there, flying help me change the look, my gaze. In light and the passage of time, the landscape, days, years. Watching. Exist. Thinking. Noting the speed with which the eyes of others happens, just happens, you can see, but can not watch. Or do not want to watch.

After all, now I know I'm not the only one who ever questioned about the interior. The real inside, that is there, full of roads, trips, routes, looks, words, characters, stories, which mobilizes the interior-interior. That being one, that is not material, but although you can not see, you can look, and concentrate on the question. Questioning the questions that everyone out there in the air, floating, bouncing.

I do not know whether to choose reread The Interior in the bus line 26 in Rosario and Centenera way - Retirement has been a good idea. But it happened. So I read and especially to look at missions. It was a strange journey, a journey within a journey into another trip, and another and another. When passed by the Abasto, the corner Aguero and Corrientes, I imagined, but actually I think he saw talking to Don Fernando Caparrós about the wonders of Andresito. A I wondered whether women had a long way to stop Pueyrredón, I think it took to respond, as if it never travel at 26. Is that she was asking if I Interior vacation this winter, when I accompanied my grandfather to The Falls, I could not ask him to go through Andresito, and to see if the street with the name of Don Fernando already exists or not. And when my phone rang and it was Evan on the other side, explaining that he was in retirement, I "hung up" looking for a plant on Avenida Corrientes, I think it's much if I say I saw three. And I thought that if missions is two colors, red and green, earth and grass. Buenos Aires, but above all Corrientes Avenue, is gray, a lot of gray and black taxis, subways, theaters, Once and Obelisk. And I laughed. I laughed because I remembered something I once heard from a Mexican "is not easy to summarize in a few words all that is Buenos Aires. For a look that falls short of adjectives to describe where each small place. " I think that deep down it bothered me that "La Reina del Plata" glimpse both eyes looking at coming to this country. I wonder what they see, what they really look and what actually exists. The book could be a quiet Caparros Be guided national and be offered to every traveler who comes at us, coming to Argentina to learn the tango and nothing else.

Already in the last stretch of 26 on the Avenida Leandro N. Alem, before you reach retirement, I was four or five blocks remembering or trying to put together a list, list in my head had meant everything for my mission in these twenty years, five months and one day old, and this was I got:

- Falls, travel to get wet. And although not before drenching, now say that one is much less wet.

- The beautiful red earth that I could not find anywhere else.

- The cutest perfume of damp earth.

- The burgundy color, strong, red soil that is wet now.

- The penultimate journey that my grandparents did together.

- The place where my grandfather wants to come back because she misses my grandmother and said that there's any wonder a little less.

- anecdotes my grandfather told me when I was 10 years on monkeys and giant toads.

- The next trip I'm going to do with my grandfather.

- The province of Argentina which, by their geographical location seems more brasuca that spic.

- Yerba

- Mate

- mates Afternoon , trips to Junín and great talks with friends.

- Caparrós / Erre / Don Fernando / Andresito / Posadas.

- Line 26.

- Avenida Corrientes.

- Mates was going to take that afternoon with Evan.

- reader notes I write.

- The pen I bought for the first time to write these words, then there is the computer and everything is easier, of course.

And that was how the first became final. Finally, I realize that everything has to do with everything. And I remembered that good hobby that has the Lord of the funny whiskers (Caparrós for those who do not know), you can make reading my favorite. Retirement had reached almost without realizing it. This ability to show some distant landscapes with words, and even for some, invisible to the eye. "Invisible" until we read it and so we can imagine. And check that many times the file can be equal, not more, than a thousand words. Because sometimes, when you're away from certain places (and believe me I say for knowingly) words also take you, help you to be there. To be able to watch.

When I realized, was already in retreat, and when you finish browsing Missions and turn the page, Caparrós beginning to look to the province of Corrientes. I had to travel in Corrientes. It's funny how I got carried away. How I love that constantly take me inside. After all, I will always be more rather than from here, the inner part of the interior. For Missions also mine.

the end, Evan came to visit from La Plata, Buenos Aires, I went to look at retirement, without leaving the province of Buenos Aires, I traveled but I walked Corrientes Misiones. The world, my country is a beautiful scarf.

Generateur Cle Cd Mount And Blade

Andrea Arzuaga Iñaki test 2007 on the Interior,

Iñaki Arzuaga

Slogan: Essay on the Interior Martin Caparros, returning to the previous reader's notes on the first chapters of the book.

Seeking Neverland

A journalist is one who can tell things would not usually creatively designed and how the account. The world is the color of glass that looks, they say. Should be added that is also what the shape of the frame of the telescope allows you to frame. For as Angela would say, the girl she jumped When looking and seeing is not the same. One looks with what you have within yourself. The Interior is like a ball that unwinds slowly, ironically, and in the various crosses the road being built a web-shaped country. That country that the reporter is made of what was lost, but trying to find throughout the trip because there is a voice that says "look for what you never lost"

"The idea is that if People do not think it will never overthrow it, and here you can learn to think collectively. This is the early history, Martin, is neither history nor the sixties. You think that again you need to start thinking, looking for something that is not that screen that tells you buy this, buy that. Think you're going to be the fertilizer, the way bones that many people will step until you can change something ... "As would León (IPCC)," is how people think sometimes the difference. " And is this what the writer tries to see, show, think. This reporter who arrives to the last page thinking that his story is part of the story of something that has never lost (a country).

Elinterior (well, all together) is "more than one country, one word," says the columnist. In the word is the power of identity, seems to say. And it's also the way (well, all together), the form in which reality becomes a symbol. But later, this reporter that historicized, which envelops and develops, but it comes to, he discovers that the origins of the country, the locals took him to Cordoba "a symbol of his power, the only print the country to install it Plaza de Mayo and say here is where they print the word where it is decided and handled the word. " And again, how important a word?, What a thought?, Who has the floor? ... The word is control. And rebellion.

Throughout the chapters, the writer is concerned about the power of words to generate action and sustain identities. And deals with conceptualizing from the description of the effect of those who monopolize the word, the status of the word. In San Juan the chronicler says that the publicity given the prestige of being modern. "Mar del Plata awaits you," said one ad I remember last summer ... A "expect something perhaps? Would not people who should expect things? Who has the power to decide what to watch: the sea or the people? Chango Spasiuk would say, the flower needs no explanation, only makes sense if someone is coming, the look, the smell ... and the flower is there, without any sign that says "this is a flower" Why is that tourism needs labels?, it seems asked the reporter ... Media and tourism, travel and look ... Pairs of zero-sum: if you win one, lose another.

Interior, media, power, stereotypes and monopoly of the word are condensed in the following passage that suspends columnist, making substitute silence is more than eloquent: "I read on page thirteen of Diario de Cuyo yesterday killed three people in traffic accidents. After the article says that one was a rural worker stepped bike by a truck when he went to work, another boy hit by a bus while playing football and the other a cyclist by a truck. I imagine the front page titles if he had died in an assault "media decision? "Business decision? "Pattern unconscious? "Political decision? Excessive confidence in the media, probably ... As the lady who hoped that the problem of transcending a worm sandwich, or the man who thought the population of the city because he said it Clarín. The power of the media ...

A media project and what a politician does with it is, arguably, one aspect of the border. A political project is, in every sense, the definition of something: a something. "... The children of Argentines are also very familiar with Portuguese, especially on television "... "At the entrance of the village is a sign: only love what we know. The country begins at the border. Welcome to Bernardo de Irigoyen "Again, what is a border?, What is home?, When you enter a country," a border "is a statement? The media come into play identities that undermine or are in the wings because the only thing of interest (not always) is to mount a stage where things happen. As that scene Minimal Stories in the small town girl who makes a multiprocessor ends with the useless set of beauty because he has nowhere to plug it. There was something hidden, beautiful, in the eyes of that girl that the staging of the television program on the part did not come to reflect. In those holes gets the chronicler

"... that it serves the media and radio in this case, so that everyone can travel, some of the facts, others with the imagination that is also the social task that the media owe the people "and the chronicler laughs, a little ... Perhaps the task for social or exaggerated that will assist in the lives of people that seem to tell the media that the meeting echoed: traveling with imagination, equality. Noble task of the media ...

Cruel in the poster

sends propaganda

Cruel in the poster

"Travelling in the tourist areas is more complicated, because everything is done to make it easier. It's like watching TV, all ready to fulfill the role of receptor to let in a limited, closed. " Tourism closing, the trip that opens (questions).

In short, all those thing you see The reporter can be everyday. As the mate, that is, sucking water through a skewers. But see, be aware of what constitutes us is seed planted by a reporter. See generally not easy when it comes to what is self-Argentinean. A few days ago someone told me that her daughter in their twenties who leaves the country at least twice a year (and not say "travels "...), had returned from Machu Pichu and a commentary on the coffee had been that was losing his sense of wonder. I said nothing to that person. Just imagine what would be in front of Aconcagua, or feet in a river in Córdoba, or walking the red soil of Misiones or Salta Valley, simpler still, I thought of that description that the writer makes his return, in plain view that peace of mind again. Back in need, be able to maintain the surprise, watch ("that which, otherwise, it would look"), not to be frightened of being at peace or be lost in the known / unknown travel would that be?

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Caparros Online Books

On this site you can find very interesting online material:
http://www.librostauro.com.ar/

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Accession to stop Link

Hi all,
I notice that I will adhere the strike on Wednesday, making no class. They also send information sent by historical CONADU explaining the reasons for the claim.
greetings Celia

Historical CONADU Stop

TUESDAY 29 and WEDNESDAY 30 APRIL

NATIONAL FEDERATION OF TEACHERS, RESEARCHERS AND DESIGNERS UNIVERSITY

MTEySS union status
No. 339/08 MEMBER OF Central of Argentine Workers

Delegation Buenos Aires: Paraná 446 to 7 º "A" (1017 ) - Buenos Aires

Tel / fax: (54) (11) 43745459 - E-mail: conaduh @ arnet. com.ar ; conaduhistorica@arnet.com. ar ; secretariageneral @ conaduh.org. ar

www.conaduh. org.ar

Directing Council resolutions HISTORICAL-CTA CONADU

In the City of Buenos Aires, at 25 day of April 2008, and 13:00. it is the Whole of Secretaries General of the National Federation of Teachers, Researchers and Creators University (CONADU Historical), with the presence of representatives of the following Associations Base: 1) AGD-UBA, 2) ADIUNJu (Jujuy), 3) ADUNCE (Center), 4) ADUNC (Comahue), 5) FADIUNC (Cuyo), 6) ADULTS (Litoral) 7) ADUNLU (Luján), 8) ADUNNE (Northeast), 9) ADIUNSa (Salta), 10) ADICUS (San Juan), 11) ADUNS (South), 12) ADU (La Pampa), 13) ADUNaM (Misiones) , 14) ADIUNQ (Quilmes), 15) AGD-IUNA and 16) ADIUNT (Tucumán), 17) ADU-PSJB (Pata. SJB)

After the Executive Board report for General Secretariat and the Associations for Base through / as General Secretaries, and after deliberations on the basis of mandates obtained about future action plan, the plenary of the CONADU HISTORICAL RESOLVED:

1) Reject the proposal national government salary because:

¨ extended is made in installments through December 2008,

¨ Adds non-subsidized amounts

¨ Destroy the nomenclature of even more charges, dedications and seniority.

¨ its amount is insufficient compared to real inflation.

2) continuity Ratify Plan of the National Wrestling Federation for a salary equivalent the average food basket for the witness fee ($ 2,000), implementation and full enforcement of the nomenclature of the year '87, retirement mobile payment to the ad-honorem, teaching career and job stability, free teacher training and budget for improved hygiene infrastructure and security.

3) Convene a national strike of university teachers for 48 hours on Tuesday 29 and Wednesday 30 April with mobilization efforts and debate across the country.

4) next Plenary Convene on Saturday May 3 at 10am.

City of Buenos Aires, April 11, 2008 .-

Claudia Baigorria Jose Del Frari Jorge Ramírez General Sec

Deputy Sec Sec general Sec Organization

(011) 15 6725 8433 (011) 15 6733 1864 (011) 15 6733 1860

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Commentary on Walsh notes in 1969 *

IN MARCH 1969 WALSH was published in CGT what would be his last "production journalists" for that newspaper, "Return the sect of prod trigger. "In May of that year a piece of Who killed Rosendo? under the title" What is the Vandoren. "But that month, Walsh is already elsewhere: in Fisherton and Resistance and The rough and Villa Ocampo, making, with Pablo Alonso, research for a story about the glory and decadence of La Forest, the infamous tannin production company. Seven days invests Walsh on that trip. Between May and August, the month of publication of note in Georama, CGT newspaper is banned and went underground. Regardless of what Walsh thought at that time, the fact is that it must return to the kind of journalism. In Georama, Seven Days, Panorama and La Opinión appear during the two years following sporadic collaborations. Who killed Rosendo?, meanwhile, becomes a bestseller. The notes are reproduced below continue, thematically and rhetorically, the two sets of Panorama presented earlier. On the note published in Seven Days writes, which gives a good idea of \u200b\u200bhis working method: "For the note on invested electric light 60 pages of notes and transcripts, some 30 pages of draft and 20 original pages, ie a total of 110 facets typed. I made about 6 hours of recording. I spent a total of 87 hours spread over 13 days, or almost 7 hours a day. "

* Published in the craft of writing violent, ed. Planeta, 1995.

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Kimonos in the red earth, of Rodolfo Walsh

KIMONO IN THE RED EARTH

came from afar with their tractors and their songs.

Nine years later, secular face disgrace del campe­sino japonés: no era esta la tierra prometida.

Sobre la tierra roja que se abre muy cerca en perspectivas de selva, las muchachas bailan vestidas con el kimono y el obi multicolores y toca­das con grandes sombreros de paja. El tiempo, el sol y el agua han propiciado la cosecha que las conmovidas voces agradecen al cielo en su canto, mientras las manos miman el movimiento de sembrar.

Las campesinas que en la media luz del crepúsculo reviven las an­tiguas invocaciones mágicas se llaman Yashiko Takeichi, Aíko Kanmuse, Sachiko Kawamura, Yoshiko Koto, but on the merits of the photograph that records their dance, trimmed dark in the sky a lapacho.

Because this is not Japan. This is missions.

Alonso When Paul and I are going this evening in Cologne Lujan, the penalty we did not stay longer with these wonderful people and unhappy. And in the most unexpected places haunt me kono melody ionomers Hana, tearing afternoon, I smile with imperturbable seriousness Sinichi child, or dialogue without words as possible with the old woman who lost Yatsuda who knows what mists of separation and sorrow to go sew your packages.

is already much later on a bus rattled by roads impossible to exit or entry of any people, or yellow ocher dust of boredom and fatigue, I hear Paul murmuring in his sleep:

"Princess.

And I certainly possible that being appointed to Yuki, and is watching as I see it, removing his shoes to enter his room, his hands from the sheets of music or her notebook beautiful face saying words I can never understand.

THE LAND OF PROMISE

On Route 14, halfway way between Posadas and Puerto Iguazú, the 3,100 acre spread purchased in 1957 by the Japanese government to file migrants ninety families. The nearest town is Garhuapé and influence central Puerto Rico.

How you got here Shigemori Matonaga summarizes how the others arrived. Farmers in the province of Niasaki, owned four acres. They offered him thirty in the remote missions. "Missions? They showed movies which were orange color even, gentle hills covered with pine, tung trees with pink flowers. He sold his farm, he paid the first installment of the unknown land that was worth two thousand dollars and came with his family of seven people.

What was not told that half of his farm was covered with forest, the rocks that outcrop on earth would shatter the plowshares that the rain ruined again and again their harvest of snuff.

A Yamato Sadehiro they painted an even more idyllic. In a short time would become so rich that would have a black car, and his wife a red car, and their children a green car. Three years later, a contrite look at Hitachi recorder that is being printed the story of his disillusionment.

-Yo recorder before I have, "he says. Sold. Picture machines, two I have also sold Radyo, motobizicureta, terra Japanese, all sold. This vendo motor years, nothing remains.

had brought their machines, vehicles, equipment generators. Today only three jeeps, a tractor. Men plow the land with oxen slow, women carry water in buckets subject to long poles, kerosene lamps flickering at night in the houses.

-all thinking how to live, "says the man in the administration of round glasses framing a small dark eyes where lies a mysterious joy. Settlers very poor ones, if not help Missions colony lifts colony.

Suso Sekiya laughs briefly after this dramatic statement. Everyone knows that Mission, which is undergoing its worst crisis of the last thirty years can not help. In fact, the colony is depopulating itself. Last year there were fifteen families, Posadas, Buenos Aires, or return to Japan. This year, another fifteen.

In Puerto Rico, the dealer Osvaldo Brandt explains what happened:

-Initiated long-term cultures: tung, citrus, wood. These plantations yield after several years. They ran out of money, nobody financed, had to sell the machines for living. It is a shame because more would soon surfaced.

In the winter of 1966, the general exodus was a certainty unless some miracle.

THE MOOR

arrived on the roads of the colony reduced to a farm where the family lives malezal Nisiuchi. A shack made of wooden slats lags (a gift from the nearby mill) shakes in the wind.

The father is out working. Mrs. Nisiuchi, dressed in patched pants, hunched walking, looking sideways with a toothless smile.

"There prata-repeated endlessly, comprising the desolate landscape. Capueras everything, everything.

That "everything" explosive, almost monosyllabic, defines the world reduced to moor, lost hopes in the days and nights of work on drills and linens, poverty preys on the six kids (two Argentineans) that flit around.

arrived after an incredible high, disemboweled reed and straw barn, which is both home, house, drying of snuff. An old white-haired and sweet face walks into the hazy twilight of sunlight split, lost and alone and sad like a ghost.

-Going "he says. Going.

Is all that is understood before again recites an elegy unfathomable to herself, walking, playing the drawers where he packed his things, under the high ceiling, paper-thin walls where the wind is bitter and strained cold.

laughs like crazy when he discovers Pablo crouched trying to photograph. He is now sitting on a bed, sewing a small pouch in which case your clothes. Glasses has been and still muttering that deep litany, until suddenly come clear in Castilian those two words "husband die", followed again by the flow indecipherable: Magoga rokuni ... This is Mrs. Yatsuda, oblivious to herself, a symbol, a shadow, returned to a childhood in which humming and walking through a meadow, far away, and is happy because no one has died.

His son tells the same story for everyone. The snuff. Rain. September snuff plant. Snuff harvest in March. Snuff sold in July. But always rain, rain rot snuff. Smile that smile impregnable, and is perhaps a moment of weakness that is when he says:

"Here, so few friends.

In the farm of Yatsuda, tung fruit rots in the ground. Those who planted and had to wait six or seven years to harvest, have watched helplessly, the huge drop in price. Yamato took 75,000 pesos for his two tons of snuff, but their expenses for the year amounted to 200,000. Sasaki won 240,000 pesos, you need 350,000. Nomatica has turned his back on his planting of grass, which the crop is banned this year and defended with a small store. Yamato, again, look at his small plantation of jute and says with resigned humor:

do -Con jute twine. With rope, hanged. But others still resist.

WHICH ARE

front of the house of bricks and wood Hidesaburo Hayashi, lies the spot Black tung fruit hanging to dry. With his wife Yoshiko and son tomoto, are eighteen acres this year gave its first harvest and allowed them to associate with tungalera Santo Pipo. In the stable Twenty pigs grunt and twelve piglets. The Hayashi admit that so far worked only for food, but next year is to reach them for removal the rest of his farm.

They are safe.

old man also appears to be pregnant out of a picture walking bent unlikely angle. Takahei called Shin and has 75 years. His children tell us that not even think to leave. Spent four years in Santo Domingo, came because they had many revolutions. The old man walks into the kitchen, comes closer to the fire, where squatting a black pot boiling, and the smile that says "Thank You" when we leave it also seems inspired by an ancient fire.

In Ida family courtyard there is a jeep, and inside the house the family finishes lunch: soup of leeks (misusiru), rice with chopsticks, and as a tea, green mate and transparent pitchers Porcelain.

Harumi Ida was eighteen years old in 1937 when he went to fight in China as a private. Four years later he returned home and was stationed in Shikoku to the end of the war. When he returned to his hometown, his home did not exist and his family had died. The city was Hiroshima.

Harumi In the house, one enters in the rush something insolent demand a weary office; out by bowing and clasping instinctive feet. There is something intangible that goes beyond the certain courtesy of every movement, every word, as if among these farmers the word culture reassume its original meaning.

We ask you to sing and see, and not surprisingly, all five family members read music. There are all together around the table, rested Harumi, Mrs. Yoshiko's peaceful, beautiful Yuuki, the earnest young Shogi Ryuske and pressing a guitar. Suddenly united in the memory of the country they left, singing with sweet voices and tuned to the moon hovering over the old castle in ruins Kosy no tsuki.

Ida's family arrived a year ago. In these hopes are intact, such as wooden walls of his house, the electric motor, the jeep, the firm smile Harumi and her children.

Shinichi AND COMPANY

In the gallery of the school, Hoka Kasuya Castilian speaks in a clear but shaken by electric currents. Kasuya has ten years, a porcelain beauty and a jocund malice and outrageous.

On the way, about a small figure, with his briefcase under his arm.

"Here comes Shinichi Kasuya says.

"Oh, I answer. Is your friend?

"No," Kasuya. Is Shinichi.

"But is your friend.

"No," Kasuya. It is my enemy.

Unlike Kasuya, Shinichi has an unflinching seriousness. He walks and moves stiffly ceremonious elegance that it is ancestral.

"Good morning, Shinichi" I say.

Shinichi's eyes dilated with wonder (we have not been delivered). It seems to be smiling, but is contained and is barely perceptible gesture of fun and intrigue as you draw on his lips. It makes a little bow and says,

"Good morning.

Sinichi twelve. Take the black coat, buttoned to the neck with gold buttons embossed emblems, which they do at home the school.

Kasuya "So is your enemy," he commented.

"No," Shinichi. It is not my enemy.

"He says yes.

"No," said Shinichi. It's hostile environment. In Northeast rural teachers are used to solve difficult problems. Perhaps none more difficult than it was presented to the spouses Kiang when in 1963 took over the provincial little school number 86, which serves the neighborhood. Argentine Cesar Kiang is descended from Japanese and Okinawa, but did not speak a word of Japanese. His wife, Myriam Acevedo is Corrientes.

Castilian Kids do not understand and communicate with them seemed impossible.

-Les told little stories, following the usual method, Myriam recalls. I saw those eyes wide and fixed, after the first yawn. They did not understand anything and were bored. I appealed to the drawings and things improved. Asked dictionaries and gradually learned the Japanese. Today kids in sixth grade study with those of first grade and they serve as interpreters.

The eldest of the Kiang has eight and studied at the same school with the sixty Japanese girl. César Antonio is called, but they have renamed Koshi. It is curious to hear this little blond-haired correntino talk in Japanese with their peers. Koshi course is developing early philological skills. Cheerfully explains that "Ana" means devil, both Japanese and Guarani.

The exodus from the colony worries Kiang.

"Now that things were going well in school," says Caesar, "start to go.

VOICES IN THE TWILIGHT

There is a flower (the song said) that grows like the other but no one to see and dying with tears. It is the flower of first love.

There was a samurai who was returning from distant lands with their wounded comrade and vowed to die with him, and when he stepped on his homeland was the harakiri to the dead warrior.

There was a keeper who had a daughter, and daughter all afternoon watching the sea where her fiancé had never come back.

Evening unfolds in ancient songs, slow dances and magical on the red earth missionary gloss ivory hands, the faces hieratic beauty, splendor of silk under the last sun. A red umbrella is down on the floor. Aiko Kanmuse last dance with their partners. Tomorrow will go to Buenos Aires.

early in the shadows of the night float with poignant irony strange words thanking the good crop land. Because that, too, seems now a legend.