What do you think?
Rate this book


147 pages, Paperback
First published November 8, 1999
Ma queste cose vanno bene se ti mancano le ore, se credi che il tempo è una festa da celebrare prima che finisca ; adesso, quando invece ti sembra che le ore non passano mai, che non è l'ultima notte ma semplicemente la stessa, la prima e l'unica notte, allora trovare qualcosa da fare, soprattutto se è qualcosa che significhi ordine, è addirittura la salvezza dalla pazzia ...
and then she kissed me in a different way, a long, sad kiss i didn't fully understand. i felt more passionate than ever that night, and my whole life has been sort of begging for scraps of that feeling ever since.published when he was only 22 (and begun at 19), andrés neuman's debut novel, bariloche — available in english translation at long last — is almost inconceivably good. what might be considered the zenith of any other literary career was for the argentine-spanish writer but the opening movement in an increasingly impressive symphony still being composed today. runner-up for the prestigious herralde prize in 1999 (won by marcos giralt torrente for paris), bariloche was (in)famously praised by roberto bolaño (winner himself of the herralde the year prior for the savage detectives), jurist for the award:
"in [bariloche's] pages, any good reader will invariably perceive something that can only be found in high literature, in the work of true poets, the ones who dare to enter the darkness with open eyes and keep them open no matter what."bariloche comprises sixty-six vignette-like chapters, episodes in the life of buenos aires garbage collector demetrio rota. set in the present, but with flashbacks to a largely bucolic youth in the titular patagonian town, neuman's first novel is a melancholic beauty punctuated by a striking command of language and a richness of emotion belying the author's age. first love; idyllic moments of youth; idealized experiences elapsed in all but mind and fleeting feeling; the sham, drudgery, and broken dreams of adulthood; the listlessness of urbanity; memory as an inescapable echoing; aching reverence for the natural world; neuman effortlessly alights on so many themes, touching each with a grace all his own.
the thickets twist and curl around oblivion, as a figure in a nightgown, spectral, haunting, quickly cuts through the myrtles like the only happenstance of time stopped still.the fourth of his novels now available in translation, bariloche offers a portrait of the young artist eager to demonstrate his chops — and how! two of the most defining and enthralling characteristics of neuman's work, evident both here in his earliest novel and throughout his fiction, are the splendor of his prose and the immense empathy with which he writes. gifted with a vocabulary to make even the most ardent logophile blush, neuman's words and phrases and sentences each seem so carefully placed. it's as if he were the conductor of a secret orchestra whose instruments swell and surge at will, a maestro whose piano inexplicably contains far more than its standard 88 keys. a compassionate storyteller, neuman's characters are always so remarkably authentic, near-perfect sketches of imperfect people.
the friday frenzy was a tangible thing. pedestrians and bus passengers scuffled almost enthusiastically over the same opaque, manhandled air of all the other days. squinting, observing the hard brakes and zealous lurches, demetrio savored the weekend in advance and imagined a kind of contentment only possible on friday afternoon, when leisure is still an unbroken promise.the less known about demetrio the dissectologist trashman and bariloche in advance, the more rewarding the experience of discovering them. neuman's debut is magnificent in its mournfulness and touching in its tenor — and while each of his novels (traveler of the century, talking to ourselves, and fracture) are so completely distinct from one another, bariloche exhibits a massive talent already in place from the very start.
ancient, the tree bark seems to bear sole witness to the passing years, amid so much eternal water and so many flowers dying young.