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He starts the action of putting on the sweater again, but again naie arm gets stuck along the sleeve. You can either use the [ Trackback URL ] for this entry, or link to your response directly. You are commenting using your Twitter account. But now that it’s out of the sweater the hand again looks like it always has, and he lets it fall from the end of his lazy arm as it occurs to him that it would be better to pass the other arm through the other sleeve to see whether it would be simpler that way.

Coftazar face, still part of his head, ought to stay out; but his forehead and his whole face remain covered and his arms are barely halfway through the sleeves. And yet he has lost his orientation after having screamed so many times in this type of euphoric gymnastics which always begins with finding a piece of clothing. The one mulio is reading you, sw listening to you in his silence. The cold always complicates matters; in summer we are all so close to the world, skin to skin.

Post was not sent – check your email addresses! He tries the other hand through the sleeve, which also gets stuck and then the head through the other hole.

Fortunately at this very moment his right hand appears in the air of the outside cold; at least one of them is out although the other continues to be imprisoned in the sleeve.

To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: And he tries to do so struggling with his whole body, throwing it forward and back, turning around in the nulio of the room, if this is indeed the middle culle the room because now he comes to think that the window has been left open and that it is dangerous to keep turning around blindly.

June 1, deeblog. Thank you, I love yo read your posts. Categories and months of Deeblog. So as to arrive at last somewhere else without a hand and without a sweater, somewhere where there may be only a fragrant air that surrounds and accompanies and caresses him and twelve stories. A work “No one is to blame” by this Argentine. Today, reading Cortazar, a famous quote that I heard from one of my writing teachers, comes to mind: Little point to keep tugging at the front of the sweater because on the chest area he can only feel the shirt.

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Don’t Blame Anyone.- – NonUseMuse

He puts on the sweater, one arm first, but he has trouble forcing the arm through the sleeve. Language is the way we stay human and writing is the most intimate use of language we can try. As such, the distance between the collar and one of the sleeves is exactly half of the distance between one sleeve and the other, and this explains why he may have his head a bit tilted to the left, the side where his hand is still prisoner in the sleeve, if this is in fact the sleeve; and, in contrast, his right hand, which is already out, moves with full freedom in the air even if it may not be able to get the sweater down which is still rolled up on top of his body.

It seemed like it would not because hardly has the wool of the sweater gotten stuck to the shirt again, owing still to the operation as well as to his habit of beginning with the other, difficult sleeve, when he starts to whistle again so as to distract himself, feeling that the arm is barely advancing and that, without some kind of complementary manoeuvre, he would never get out of here.

It is a cold afternoon and he decides to wear a blue sweater to match his grey suit. Los buques suicidantes Lot No. Skip to content As you can see, by the continuous lack of posts on my blog, I have been quiet…artistically mute…blocked.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: You are commenting using your Naide account. Cortazar teaches me to remain awake, inspired and never let my life become a sweater I get stuck on.

Cortazar was a big fan of jazz and music and spent a lot of his time listening and playing his trumpet.

Basically the true solution would be to remove the sweater, provided that he has not been able to put it on, and verify the correct passageway in the sleeves for each hand and in the collar for his head.

He is on his knees and it is lovely to be as such until, little by little, he opens his eyes free of the blue drool of wool inside, he opens his eyes and sees five suspended black nails aimed at his eyes, vibrating in the air before jumping against his eyes, and he has the time to lower his eyelids and throw himself back, covering himself with his left hand, which is his hand, which is everything he has to defend himself from inside the sleeve, so that he can pull the collar of the sweater upwards and so that the blue drool can envelop his face anew while he straightens himself to flee elsewhere.


It is not easy, perhaps owing to the shirt’s sticking to the wool of the sweater.

Cortazar played with imagery with such mastery, that he needed to invent words, because what was in his imagination, no one had ever named before. It has something of a concealed dance step about it, irreproachable because it reflects a utilitarian aim not some guilty choreographic tendencies. A life of social norms and standards that he cannot fit into and the more he tries, the more he has trouble breathing.

In any case, to be sure of it, the only thing he can do is to keep making his way, taking deep breaths and letting the air escape little by little, even if it were absurd because nothing is impeding him from breathing perfectly apart from the fact that the air he swallows is mixed with wool particles from the collar or the sleeve of the sweater. Yet the right hand keeps coming and going messily as if it were already ridiculous to give up at this advanced stage, and as if at any time it would comply and rise to the height of his head and he would pull upwards without understanding in time that the sweater has stuck to his face with that humid rubber-like quality from his breath mixed with the blue of the wool, and when his hand is drawn upwards he feels pain as if his ears were being ripped off and his eyelashes yanked out.

Scholars say that the sweater represents his life. It’s already late and he notices that the air is cool. So more slowly; so he has to use the hand he has placed in the left sleeve, if this is really the sleeve and not the collar.

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Don’t Blame Anyone.-

The silence from the reader will do the rest. That space, that silence where the reader hears the author, is the endless place, where anything can happen. Notify me of new comments via email.

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