62/Modelo Para Armar

La literatura de Cortázar llevada a sus últimas consecuencias.

62/Modelo para armar es el summum del trabajo cortazariano; un modelo literario en el cual « la transgresión deja de ser tal », y en el que el lector también deja de serlo para convertirse en una parte activa que va destejiendo imagen tras imagen, frase tras frase, con el fin de descubrir el hilo conductor del relato, y dar forma y figura a los personajes.

62/Modelo para armar es la consecuencia directa del capítulo 62 de Rayuela: hacer un libro en el que se rompa el tiempo y las conductas ordinarias descubran lo fantástico. « Todo sería como una inquietud, un desasosiego, un desarraigo continuo ». Así, la obra igual transcurre en Londres, París o Buenos Aires, y los personajes en una misma secuencia pasan del diálogo al monólogo. A cada lector le corresponde la grata tarea de unir pieza tras pieza hasta conjeturar este 62/Modelo para armar.
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Published May 12th 2016 by Debolsillo (first published 1968
Original Title of the Book
62/Modelo para armar
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gave it

The episodic " Hopscotch " may have higher highs, but this is Julio Cortazar 's greatest novel from start to finish.

Cortazar has profound insights into riendships and amorous relationships, but he offers them at steep and oblique angles.

gave it

It is my avorite nove of all time ever and I 'd like to tell you about it.

I think what I 'm actually going to do is like a CliffNotes sort of hing, where I tell you first a few reasons why this novel is nearly impossible to read the next time, then give you the cast of characters and a few things they do, so that if you do try to read it, you 'll have some hope of figuring out what 's going on before you 're 3/4 of the way through.

The irst hing that 's vital to know is that Cortázar does this thing with time where it does not go the way it 's supposed to, like in a way everything in the book happens all at once, in a clearly impossible way.

Then there 's a character called " my paredros, " which, like the City, is not exactly one person but a composite person, or maybe it 's each of them at different times.

So they 'll say things like " my paredros said, " but when Juan says it he might mean Polanco, and when Nicole says it she might mean Calac, or maybe they all have an imaginary friend in common that everyone believes in together.

He 's ruggedly handsome ( actually I do n't know if he 's ever physically described, but in my head he 's devastatingly gorgeous because Juan is exactly the boy I always and forever will unreachably fall in love with).

For man of the course of this book he 's in Vienna with Tell, his " crazy Danish girl. " He 's in desperate, aching, unrequited love with Hélène.TellShe is this fabulous redheaded Danish marvel, very independent and fun and demanding.

Anything with Marrast are bad, and eventually she will do something about it, which I wo n't tell you because that does feel spoilery.

I do n't know, I thought laying that all out would prove that this is one of the most difficult but also the most lovel and strange book that exists, but I 'm not confiden that 's what happened.

gave it

But the experience of reading this memoi is nothin but scientific, it is like waking up from a dream: you genuinely feel things in your own logical way, but now that you 're awake and back in this world it is difficul to put into our human words, words that are real ones, that seem so insufficient, mere human words which are the same instruments that Cortazar uses to make you feel this way to begin with.

I do n't know if that makes sense, but in his sentences sometimes I see the perfect unadulterated writer, driven purely by something within the writing itself, within the sounds and the logic that has anything to do with things outside.

But also perhaps because he is a pure writer that he can never write something that sustains this, that it only comes out in bursts -- because his messiness is what makes him so pure and eautiful and human.I have a sens that last paragraph only made sense to me.

gave it

I enter my city without knowing how.A goodreads friend of mine recently said in a review of hers about a nove that I loved and she hated that it was " emperor 's new clothes ".

I try not to look down, like an afraid of heights thing.

In the woma who loved babybel cheese 's face to the all, in the smile of the oy who was not Juan, in how Marrast ( a Mar like me) could n't keep Nicole in his somewhere else just like how the need to feel ok about someone is more vital than missing them or not sometimes, Nicole loving Juan, Juan who would n't have appealed to me at all as he did to them and yet I get it because he 's somewhere else in his wanting Helene, Celia loves babybel cheese like advertising youth instead of heese, Tell the crazy Dane with her games and city associations and I like her even more because I 'm fixated a bit on crazy Dane Jens Peter Jacobsen, is she really a vampire countess or is it in the ing of Hungary hotel or is it the king of Spain?

Like being in a lot of different cities.

I have no idea what I think something is and yet the trying to decide what my paredros is has got me.

I just want to know what the my paredros is in gut wrenching situations, or being dreamstruck or trying to feel right about something so you can move on.My paredros when reading 62: a model kit was n't about the city but about the people.

Marrast and I would call each other Mar. I do n't need Juan to make up games but I would like to take a look at those dolls.

gave it

Reading Chapter 62 gives the impression that 62: A Model Kit would be coldly analytical, abstract, un-feeling; which in a way is true, but somehow it also manages to be deeply moving.It opens with a character experiencing a plexus of coincidental events while sitting in a Parisian café on Christmas Eve, and ( at least in my reading of the ovel) his stabs at trying to comprehend the elusive but obvious significance of these events bring the est of the novel into being.

But like a system of metaphysics it can be very offputting at first, until one finds one 's footing in the verbal cloud-cuckooness.This may sound like a lofty intention on Cortazar ’ s part, but he was quite a guy, extremely intellectual yet also playfully profound, and this is one of those anthologie I hope to be compelled to reread and reread by its “ elusive but obvious significance ” that never quite gets pinpointed; an elusive and obvious significance that could all point to nothing but I know it doesn ’ t because I can feel it in my small part of the collective conscious.

gave it

Can you guess which is which? Cortazar published 62: A Model Kit in Spanish in 1968; the edition I read was translated in 1972.

Despite the fact that Alfau directly declares the fictive nature of his character, he made me care about them.

Cortazar seems to be peopling an imaginary city with characters and scenarios imagined by the very characters in the retellin, but unfortunately they never seemed real.

The characters seemed undeveloped, Cortazar would reveal a quirky trait here or there, but they came across as highly abstract intellectual exercises.

Where as Alfau acknowledges the characters are abstract, but he made them seem real!

I felt like I was constantly trying to trace the thoughts of an intellectual squirrel on crystal meth.

, Alfau seems to be following in the footsteps of fellow Spaniard Luigi Pirandello who wrote a play in 1921 entitled Six Characters In Search of an Author.

The tory begins ( roughly) with Alfau, playing himself, at a hote with a " girlfriend " who becomes a character in the ook.

This cafe is where bad authors go to discover characters for their tories.

In that restauran, we meet many of the haracters who will populate the book.

The entirety manages to hold together as more of a trilog than a collection partly thanks to the overlapping characters, partly through the consistent tone and style, and partly because Alfau is always in the background or making appearances as " the author. " He has several charming asides regarding how his characters have " gotten away from him, " and he ca n't quite control them.

gave it

aunting and disconcerting, formally confused and elegant, a novel as a system of correspondences, scattered both spatially and temporally, a vast map or set of maps which perfectly overlay in uncertain fashion, whose ink under weight of tears and dark waves gradually bleeds through into a single compound form, bleeds and coagulates anew into a highly ordered system of ambiguities, a dark constellation that guides the unwary down unfamiliar streets and through empty arcades to eerily circular revelations, profound and fleeting, sensed pre-verbally as ominous contours but gone just before they are elucidated.And I had lived through too many attacks of those explosions of a power that came out of myself against myself not to know whether some were mere flashes of lightning that gave way to nothingness without leaving more than a frustration ( monotonous deja vu 's, meaningful associations, but swallowing their own tails), or other time, like the one that had just happened to me, were something astir in territory deep inside, wounding me all over like an iron claw, which, at the same time, was a door slammed in my face.

And so on.What I 'm righ with: intimations of the spectral City the underlies all cities, a deep and sustained sorrow, a fuguer of characters who I had feared were another version of Hopscotch 's muddled expat bohemian Club, but who I actually find so much more intriguin and affecting, and that dark and leering constellation which ties together the devastating orchestrations of an unkempt but terribly formal universe.It 's absolutely not for anybody.

I 've struggled somewhat with Cortazar, to the point that I actually wrote a long entry here explaining how we just were n't made for eachother at page 100.

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