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167 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1929
I know in advance that most of my colleagues and readers today will not reproach me for the pruning I have carried out in the interests of smoothness and clearness: on the contrary, they may think I could have done more. As I like approval, this pleases me. In our days, the gifted spirits tend to produce in the shadows, employing disturbing forms and, with their backs turned to nature, brilliant but incomprehensible works. To penetrate their meaning one must struggle hard, trying the doors with seven golden keys. And when one finally reaches the inner sanctum, what one wearily finds is a veiled question mark suspended above an abyss. As for me, and I say it with the satisfaction of a duty observed, I have always carried to cubist expositions and dadaist anthologies a soul garbed in humility and thirsting after faith. And just as at spiritualist séances, I have never seen or heard anything around me but darkness and silence.Hell, I don't even agree with the sentiment of that paragraph but I still love reading it.
Paternally solicitous, that very day, equipped with knife and the other necessary tools, Daniel skinned Little Rain Cloud to use the hide—you’ll never guess—for a comforting disguise. The next morning he dipped the pathetic remains in brine and put that slashed, salty, abbreviated attire, so touchingly similar to that of the mother—the same reddish color, the same broad white belt around the middle, the same White forelegs—over the back of another calf. Making sure that the manifest imposture was within reach of the eyes and muzzle of the sorrowing mother, he tied the disguised calf to one of her front legs. Rain Cloud, all emotion after sniffing the beloved hide, which not only comforted her soul but delighted her tongue, happiness turning into milk, gave herself up to licking the brine with which the adored remains were impregnated. Like all idealists, she found pleasure in illusion, and in the salt the symbol of wisdom. Like so many unhappy lovers, she kissed the departed soul in a strange body. Meanwhile, the happy deceiver, sole heir of the departed, not only put on his attire, but guzzled his ration of milk.Alright, I'm off to try and force this book on my wife.
The imposture lasted for several days. After that, the disguise and the salt were no longer needed. The calf, whom habit had legitimized, replaced the son. Daniel was right: the dead are forgotten. This does not mean that they are not deeply and sincerely mourned for some time.
"Goodbye for now, and I'm sorry for the trouble."
“No sé qué tal sería para mis hermanitas; por lo que a mí respecta, puedo asegurar que en el trapiche, esperando el momento propicio de soltar la molienda, chupando gajos de caña, con las manos pegajosas y con varios riachuelos de zumo corriéndome por el cuello y por los brazos, pasé los ratos más amenos de mi vida”.
Las vivencias de la inocente Blanca Nieves, a sus cinco años, con sus travesuras, sus pequeños y grandes dramas, siempre en contacto con la naturaleza, recrean un lugar idílico rodeado de los personajes que marcarían su porvenir. No solo es una lectura amena, sino también deliciosamente entrañable y nostálgica.
Las memorias de Mamá Blanca son las evocaciones de una infancia apacible, feliz y privilegiada a mediados del siglo XIX. El retrato de una nación que intenta consolidarse entre revoluciones y alzamientos militares, donde aún se perciben las huellas del pasado colonial; un entorno lleno de contrastes que experimentará profundos cambios económicos, políticos y sociales antes de entrar en el siglo XX.
La prosa de Teresa de la Parra es tan cercana, íntima y familiar que resulta fácil identificarse con la pequeña protagonista, transportarse al lejano 1855 e imaginarse recorriendo Piedra Azul como un habitante más.
Un clásico de la literatura hispanoamericana, e imprescindible si se quiere conocer la narrativa venezolana.