Blow-Up: And Other Stories
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A young girl spends her summer vacation in a country house where a tiger roams . . . A man reading a mystery finds out too late that he is the murderer's victim . . . In the fifteen stories collected here—including "Blow-Up," which was the basis for Michelangelo Antonioni's film of the same name—Julio Cortazar explores the boundary where the everyday meets the mysterious, perhaps even the terrible.
themselves, the descendants of the Aegeans, were guilty of that mistake. But nothing’s important now. Look, it goes like this.” Close to the idol, he raised one hand and laid it gently over the breasts and the belly. The other caressed the neck, went up to the statue’s absent mouth, and Morand heard Somoza speaking in a stifled and opaque voice, a little as if it were his hands or perhaps that nonexistent mouth, they that were speaking of the hunt in the caverns of smoke, of the number of deer
gave me as a present when I was fourteen, and what happened with that. It happened I was out in the garden in spite of the fact that a summer storm was ready to break, you could already hear the thunder cracking, and I’d just started to put a derrick together on the table under the arbor near the gate to the street. Someone called me from the house and I had to go in for a minute. When I got back, the box and the erector set were gone and the gate was wide open. Screaming desperately, I ran out
more conscientious study. The Statues were determined, almost all of them, by the choice of ornaments, and here absolute liberty reigned. So that a statue would come out of it, one had to think carefully of every detail in the costume. It was a rule of the game that the one chosen could not take part in the selection; the two remaining argued out the business at hand and then fitted the ornaments on. The winner had to invent her statue taking into account what they’d dressed her in, and in this
the elevator was time, if I can put it that way. Now realize that I haven’t forgotten the mortgage or the religion. Like it’s the mortgage and the religion are a suit I’m not wearing at the moment; I know that the suit’s in the closet, but at that moment you can’t tell me that that suit exists. The suit exists when I put it on, and the mortgage and religion existed when I got finished playing and the old lady came in with her hair, dangling big hunks of hair all over me and complaining I’m
got back from the Belgian tour. He’d played very well everyplace, and I was so happy.” “I wonder where he got the heroin from,” I said, looking her right in the eye. “Don’t know. He’d been drinking wine and cognac almost constantly. He’s been shooting up too, but less than there …” There was Baltimore and New York, three months in Bellevue psychiatric, and a long stretch in Camarillo. “Did Johnny play really well in Belgium, Dédée?” “Yes, Bruno, better than ever, seems to me. The people went