EN MEMORIA DE PAULINA BIOY CASARES PDF

“En memoria de Paulina” is a short story by Bioy Casares included in the anthology The Celestial Plot The story is written in first person. The author is in love. Get this from a library! En memoria de Paulina. [Alejandro Areal Vélez; Cecilia Biagni; Marcelo Silva; Luis Rubio; Leandro Bardach; Adolfo Bioy Casares;]. When he tells his friend, Morgan, about seeing Paulina, Morgan informs him that Montaro Included Work: Bioy Casares, Adolfo En memoria de Paulina.

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The conclusion to a story “In memory of Paulina” by this native of Buenos Aires. You can read the original here. The evening I arrived from Europe, my thoughts returned to Paulina. There lurked the fear that the memories of her might be too vivid once I was home. When I entered my room I was beset by emotion, and I stopped respectfully to commemorate the past and the extremes of happiness and grief which I had known. Then I had an embarrassing revelation: After these niceties, I asked him meekly for half a kilo of bread.

He asked me, as he always had:. It was a day as clear as crystal and very cold. While I prepared my coffee, I thought of Paulina. We would always drink a cup of black coffee towards the end of the afternoon. Upon seeing her I fell to my knees, sank my face into my hands and, for the first time, sobbed out all the pain of having lost her.

Her arrival occurred thus: It seems to me but, cassres addition to relapsing into those same mistakes, I am unfaithful to that evening that she corrected them with excessive determination. I abandoned myself to pure delight.

Outside, on the roof, against the walls, it was raining. I interpreted this rain — which was the whole world surging forth anew — as the panicked expansion of our love. Here and there when she spoke I had the unpleasant impression that I was listening to my rival.

I recognized the characteristic weightiness of his locution, the ingenuous and laborious attempts to find the precise word or turn of phrase, and, most embarrassingly, his incontrovertible vulgarity.

With effort I was able to superimpose myself. I gazed at her face, her smile, her eyes.

There was Paulina, whole and perfect. There, for me, she had not changed. Then, while I was considering her in the mercurial shadows of the mirror, surrounded by a frame of garlands, crowns, and black angels, she seemed different.

It was as if I had discovered another version of Paulina, as if I saw her now in another way. I was thankful for this separation that interrupted my habit of seeing her, now more beautiful than ever. Cqsares was a strange mix of scorn and anguish in her voice which troubled me. Paulina, in other times, would not have betrayed anyone.

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When I lifted my gaze, she was already gone. I called her again, went down to the entrance, and ran through the street. Coming back I felt cold. I said to myself: It was just a simple shower. Not having any desire to go out to eat, I was afraid of running into someone I knew.

I made a bit of coffee, drank two or three cups, and nibbled at the end of a piece of bread. I wanted to talk to Paulina. I wanted to ask her to explain … Suddenly, my ingratitude frightened me. That evening was the culmination of our lives. It seemed impossible to me to have to wait until the following day to see Paulina.

Very soon thereafter, I decided against it: Then I thought that the best thing would be to go to bed and sleep. Rested, I would see everything with greater understanding. On the other hand, I was not ready for frivolous talk about Paulina.

Getting into bed I had the impression of setting foot into a trap perhaps I remembered sleepless nights in which one stayed in bed without realizing one was awake. I turned off the lights. I knew far too little to understand the situation.

Since I was no longer able to turn biky mind off and stop thinking, I sought alee in the memories of that evening. Her face was the one she always had, that pure and marvelous jewel that had loved me paaulina the abominable appearance of Montero. Or was everything a sham? Was I in love with a blind projection of my desires and dislikes?

Had I never really known Paulina? I selected an image from that evening, Paulina before the smooth dark profundity of the mirror, and I tried to summon it.

When I caught sight of it, I had an instantaneous revelation: I doubted why I forgot Paulina. I wanted to devote myself to the contemplation of her image. Memory and imagination are capricious faculties: I recalled disheveled hair, pleated clothes, the vague surrounding shadows. But my beloved vanished. Many images, inspired by unavoidable energy, passed between my closed eyes. Then suddenly I made a discovery.

As if on the dark edge of an abyss, in an angle of the mirror, at the right of Paulina appeared the little horse of green stone. At the time that it occurred, the vision did not seem strange.

Only minutes later did I remember that the horse was not in the house. I had given it to Paulina two years ago as a gift. This was from, I said to myself, the superimposition of anachronistic memories the oldest being the little horse and the most recent being Paulina. The matter was clarified, and I grew calm and fell asleep. I then came up with an embarrassing thought, and, in light of what I would later confirm, a pathetic one. I never put it in the bedroom.

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Terrified, I wanted to take another look at those memories. The mirror reappeared, surrounded by angels and garlands of wood, with Paulina in the center and the little horse at the right. I was not pahlina of what the room reflected.

Cuento de Bioy Casares: En memoria de Paulina | Borges | Pinterest

Perhaps it reflected her, if in a brief and vague way. Instead, the horse was clearly reared up on the library shelf. Then, with scant interest, I noticed that I was this figure. I woke up crying. All I know is that the dream was not invented. Unconsciously I continued my imaginings and faithfully reproduced the scenes from that evening. I looked at the clock: This resolution did not mitigate biot anguish. I got up at half past seven, took a long bath and slowly got dressed. The concierge lent me the phonebook and a Green Guide.

I wandered through the streets without seeing a thing, momentarily shifting my attention to the shape of the molding of a particular wall or to the sense of a word heard by chance.

En memoria de Paulina

I remember a mejoria in the Plaza Independencia with her shoes in one hand and a book in the other passing barefoot over the wet lawn. Morgan received me in bed, his face in a giant bowl which he held with both hands. I caught a glimpse of a whitish liquid, and, floating, a piece of bread. Having already drunk all the milk, he now proceeded to scoop up the pieces of bread from menoria bottom of the bowl.

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Doubtless he thought that my lack of knowledge only encompassed that one detail, but because he liked to talk, he told me everything that had occurred. I thought I had lost consciousness and fallen into a sudden precipice. But there I still heard his clear, ceremonious, and implacable voice relating incomprehensible facts with the monstrous and persuasive conviction that they were familiar to me. Morgan told me the following: Seeing her leave, he followed her then questioned her in the street.

When curious onlookers began to gather, he threw her into a rental car and took off. They drove the whole night through the Costanera and the lakes, and at dawn, at a certain Hotel del Tigre, he killed her with a bullet. This had not happened the night before this morning, but on the night before my trip to Europe. It had occurred two years ago. This was when I asked Morgan:.

Now, however, I remember: At the entrance, I ran into the concierge.

Affecting indifference, I asked him:.