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Villa Gesell buy weed

Last night I got a bunch of people excited on Twitter my feed is a bit more. We signed this on a while back, shortly after translator Andrea G. This is a novel in voices, all set within Villa Gesell, a real-life resort town a few hours from Buenos Aires. Like most small towns, this Villa is corrupt as fuck. Reading books like this—a fragmentary mosaic of sorts—requires letting the rhythm of the text take you over. The hundreds of characters, dozens of voices take you over and impose themselves, creating their own tragic, comic beats. Last night I fell into this book in the most complete of ways. You know, I had this idea, jefe , Remigio says. We could make a pile of dough. The two of us, partners. In a novel, Remigio goes on. A pile of dough. I tell you what I know about everybody. And you write it. Simple, jefe. You write a novel about the Villa, one chapter for each character. Chicks and dudes. I go see the person and tell them someone is writing a novel about the Villa. And that the person, a chick or a dude, shows up in one chapter. I give them a copy of the chapter to read. Who wants their deepest secrets made public. Since everyone here has a price, figure it out. Everyone pays up. Call it whatever you want, jefe. Yours is to write about it. And then I go by to collect. Whadda you say. Besides, what do you expect from posterity, tell me: a street with your name on it. Think it over right here and now. What matters is now, enjoying life. Now the night envelops the car as it pulls up to the first lights of the Villa. Through his dark lenses, a blink of shimmer. Dante lights another cigarette. In spite of the shadows, Remigio scrutinizes him through the rear view mirror. Look how your face has changed. Imagine for a second what it would be like. We rake in the money and split. Think it over, jefe. You know how many Chiquitas are on the horizon. If everything is written, so too is the next act. And against that one, we cannot rebel. The most we can do is to read it. In the facts, in the sky, in the wind. But our condition as readers is conditioned. Never afterward. Sometimes we think we suspect why. But our suspicions can never be confirmed. If we are nothing but texts, we are innocent. As long as we are words, we might reason, let no one be blamed. In any case, the guiltiest party is none other than the author of our days. God is our consolation. Though if we really think about the matter, God is crafty: all He does is deceive us with readings, force us to doubt everything all the time, even His own existence. And then we ask ourselves if any greater evil than that — constant doubt — can be written, a doubt that gradually becomes suspicion, and so we end up suspecting not only everyone else, but ourselves as well. And if your in-laws come, try to keep your plastic smile from becoming facial paralysis. Because, tell me, who can put up with their parents or in-laws in the house for three days straight. Then there are the kids. Forget about a quickie with your wife. Head toward the beach, they ask you. Till they wear you out, and even though you know you could get trapped in the sand, you let them have their way and look for a road down to the beach through the dunes. For a while you feel like it was worth it to indulge them, driving along the shore. That half-adventurous, half-romantic feeling. Everybody out. Get out and push. Hand me a shovel. Take out the mat and put it under the wheels. Help me dig. And the tide coming in. The tide. Call the Auto Club. You forgot to charge the cell phone. Me too, Dad. Get into the car. Once there was a sea lion. It washed up on this beach, to the south. For days it was stuck in the sand. It looked like it was dying. Wounds all over, abrasions. Along its flanks the skin was open, its flesh red, purple, dark. Every so often it moved its head. It was dying slowly. The beach dogs came over to it. Although the sea lion hardly moved, none of them got too close. If the sea lion, always in the same place, moved just a little, the dogs would back up, barking. Then came a long weekend. The tourists brought their children to see the oddity. The kids gathered stones. And threw them at it. A fun game, stoning it. The boldest ones, goaded by their parents, went after sticks to poke in its wounds. The parents seemed to enjoy it more than their children. Till a southeaster knocked over the crowd of adults and children. The rising tide dragged the sea lion back into the ocean. No doubt when they returned to the city, the kids would have a good story to tell. And they lived happily ever after. I had the talent to come here. Mine was a literary decision. No sooner did I get set up in a house in the forest than I got started on a novel. I gave him the first half of the novel. A combination of Henry Miller and Raymond Carver, my masters, from whom I leared to seek and find my own voice. What happened was, when I was halfway through I got into songwriting. Because I also have talent for music. I wrote twenty-four, all at once. For a double album: I Surrender , I was gonna call it. Romantic songs, protest songs, metaphysical stuff. First I played piano. Then I turned to guitar. And without weed or booze. For example, when I was about to sign on with an independent label, I started thinking about the album cover and I got into painting. I always had talent for the visual arts. As a kid I won several sketching contests; I went to a painting workshop and even took part in a collective exhibition. A style somewhere between Rothko and Pollock was what my first stuff was like, but with a vibe of my own. I almost had the sample ready: Fly, Crazy Heart. Of course, the images I captured had to do with my personal thing. But I hit a dry spell. Sometimes inspiration takes its time. Sometimes it comes sooner, when you least expect it. You know, inspiration means a lot in art. And around here there are lots of people like me, people with talent, who understand you. Because talent can result in a goal scored against you. What counts is precision, discipline, staying in shape. She had trouble getting over what happened to her in the classroom. She was writing on the board. She turned around. It was the silence of terror. The silence was all that could be heard. She walked toward the boy, holding out her hand, hoping he would hand over the weapon. Please, Anita said. The only thing that came out of her was that please. With her hand extended. He was a good student, not outstanding, but a good, hard-working kid. He was dating the adorable Gabrielita Ferri, daughter of a very Catholic family. Gabi was the one who cried for him the most. That boy had everything, says Anita to anyone who wants to listen. She refused to have an abortion. She replied that if she had to choose between the two deaths, she preferred his. You should be able to preorder this in the near future, and for now, you can always add it to your GoodReads shelf. But does it seem wrong to anyone else that you have to live in New York to serve on the Heim Translation grant committee? I mentioned this to the PEN Translation Committee when they mentioned this qualification at a public event. I call this geographical discrimination! Partners in what, Dante asks. A best seller, Dante goads him on. But secret, a secret best seller. A secret text, Dante says. What then. The only thing left is for you to make up your mind. And what about fame, Dante asks. Because every writer is after glory. And the tide. Tags: andrea labinger , gesell dome , guillermo saccomanno , pen heim translation grants. Search for:.

Another Really 'Important' Book We Publish: Guillermo Saccomanno's 'Gesell Dome'

Villa Gesell buy weed

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Villa Gesell buy weed