The Luminous Novel
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- $ 59.900,00
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- $ 59.900,00
Descripción editorial
'Perhaps the luminous novel is this thing that I started writing today; just now. Maybe these sheets of paper are a warm-up exercise. […] But it's quite possible that if I go on writing – as I usually do – with no plan; although this time I know very well what I want to say; things will start to take shape; to come together. I can feel the familiar taste of a literary adventure in my throat.
I'll take that as confirmation; then; and start describing what I think was the beginning of my spiritual awakening – though nobody should expect religious sermons at this point; they'll come later. It all began with some ruminations prompted by a dog.'
A writer attempts to complete the novel for which he has been awarded a big fat Guggenheim grant; though for a long time he succeeds mainly in procrastinating – getting an electrician to rewire his living room so he can reposition his computer; buying an armchair; or rather; two: 'In one; you can't possibly read: it's uncomfortable and your back ends up crooked and sore. In the other; you can't possibly relax: the hard backrest means you have to sit up straight and pay attention; which makes it ideal if you want to read.'
Insomniacs; romantics and anyone who's ever written (or failed to write) will fall in love with this compelling masterpiece told by a true original; with all his infuriating faults; charming wit and intriguing musings.
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
The puzzling second work in English from the late Uruguayan author Levrero (1940–2004, after Empty Words) follows a 60-year-old writer named Mario who's just received a Guggenheim grant. Mario begins keeping a diary until he feels ready to return to what he describes as a "luminous novel," which he started 16 years earlier, but never finished. Mario can't sleep; he plays computer games and downloads pornography; tries to quit smoking and using the computer so much; records and analyzes his dreams; reads detective novels; laments the heat; and more than anything, bemoans that his relationship with "beautiful and seductive" Chl is no longer sexual, even though she still brings him food and occasionally spends the night. What Mario does not do, until nearly a year later, is write the novel, which mainly recounts the women he slept with. Indeed, Mario believes that "these days a novel is practically anything you can put between a front and back cover." It's a credible documentation of writer's block and narcissism, but readers will be left wondering what purpose it serves. This is literature in the same way that John Cage's 4'33" is music.
