I'm not sure how difficult it may be to find her stories translated, but if you do, buy them. She was a great writer who doesn't get nearly enough praise.
Since I couldn't find a translated story of hers on the web for teasing, I'll leave this translation I made some time ago. Quite sure it doesn't do it justice but I guess it's still better than nothing.
The Crappy Portrait(El retrato mal hecho)
The kids must have loved to sit on Eponina's wide skirts, since her dresses were like full armchairs. But Eponina, jailed under the dark waters of her moiré-patterned dress, was distant and mysterious; one half of her face had been erased but she kept the sober movements of a miniature statue. Seldom had the kids sat on her skirts, because of the disappearance of her knees and arms, which she would drop with unwilling frequency.
She hated those kids, she had hated them one by one as they were being born, as thieves of her adolescense who nobody would arrest other than the arms that brought them to sleep. The arms of Ana, the maid, were like cradles for her mischievous children.
Life was a long weariness of resting too much; life was a bunch of ladies chatting without hearing each other in the living rooms of houses where every afternoon waited for a party as relief. And thus, by dint of always living in the posture of a crappy portrait, Eponina's impatience became patient and compressed, and identical to the paper roses growing below the lanterns.
The maid distracted her with songs during the morning, when she was cleaning the rooms. Ana had her eyes hanging asleep on a very awake body, and kept the extatic stillness of casters in her activity. Untiringly, she was the first one to wake up and the last one to go to sleep. She was the one who handed out breakfasts and clean clothes around the house, the one who distributed the compotes, the one who made and unmade the beds, the one who served the table.
It was on April 5th of 1890, during lunchtime; the kids were pl...
I'm not sure how difficult it may be to find her stories translated, but if you do, buy them. She was a great writer who doesn't get nearly enough praise.
Since I couldn't find a translated story of hers on the web for teasing, I'll leave this translation I made some time ago. Quite sure it doesn't do it justice but I guess it's still better than nothing.
The Crappy Portrait(El retrato mal hecho)
The kids must have loved to sit on Eponina's wide skirts, since her dresses were like full armchairs. But Eponina, jailed under the dark waters of her moiré-patterned dress, was distant and mysterious; one half of her face had been erased but she kept the sober movements of a miniature statue. Seldom had the kids sat on her skirts, because of the disappearance of her knees and arms, which she would drop with unwilling frequency.
She hated those kids, she had hated them one by one as they were being born, as thieves of her adolescense who nobody would arrest other than the arms that brought them to sleep. The arms of Ana, the maid, were like cradles for her mischievous children.
Life was a long weariness of resting too much; life was a bunch of ladies chatting without hearing each other in the living rooms of houses where every afternoon waited for a party as relief. And thus, by dint of always living in the posture of a crappy portrait, Eponina's impatience became patient and compressed, and identical to the paper roses growing below the lanterns.
The maid distracted her with songs during the morning, when she was cleaning the rooms. Ana had her eyes hanging asleep on a very awake body, and kept the extatic stillness of casters in her activity. Untiringly, she was the first one to wake up and the last one to go to sleep. She was the one who handed out breakfasts and clean clothes around the house, the one who distributed the compotes, the one who made and unmade the beds, the one who served the table.
It was on April 5th of 1890, during lunchtime; the kids were playing in the backyard; Eponina read in a fashion magazin: “This strip is embrodied over dark bronce corduroy”, or: “Travelling dress for young ladies, myrtle green dress”, or: “Lockstitch, herringbone, knotted-sticht, straight-stictch and slip-stitch.” The kids were screaming in the backyard. Eponina kept reading: “The leaves are made with olive silk” or: “the trellises are pink and blue”, or: “the big flower is flesh-colored”, or :“the veins and stems are apricot.”
Ana hadn't come with the food yet; all family members, the aunts, the husbands and the handful of cousins were searching for her in every corner of the house. The only place left to explore was the mezzanine. Eponina left the paper on the table, she didn't know what apricot meant: “The veins and stems are apricot.” She went to the mezzanine and pushed the door until the furniture holding it back fell to the ground. The flight of blind bats wrapped the broken roof. Amidst a crowding of ramshackled chairs and old basins there was Ana with her castaway waist loose, sitting on the vault; her apron, always clean, was now covered with blood. Eponina took her hand and lifted her up. Ana, pointing at the vault, answered to the silence: “I killed him”.
Eponina opened the vault and saw her dead son, the one who aspired the most to climb up her skirts: he was now asleep over the chest of one of her oldest dresses, searching for its heart.
The family, speechless in horror under the door's treshold, was crying out intermittent shoutings for the police. They had heard everything, they had seen everything; the ones who didn't faint were caught in hatred and horror.
Eponina embraced Ana with an unused gesture of tenderness. Eponina's lips moved in a slow boiling: “4-year-old kid dressed with skin-colored cotton satin. Pelerine covered of a crease which figures as trimmed waves with a white lace. The veins and stems are golden brown, myrtle green or crimson”.
I'm not sure how difficult it may be to find her stories translated, but if you do, buy them. She was a great writer who doesn't get nearly enough praise. Since I couldn't find a translated story of hers on the web for teasing, I'll leave this translation I made some time ago. Quite sure it doesn't do it justice but I guess it's still better than nothing.
The Crappy Portrait (El retrato mal hecho)
The kids must have loved to sit on Eponina's wide skirts, since her dresses were like full armchairs. But Eponina, jailed under the dark waters of her moiré-patterned dress, was distant and mysterious; one half of her face had been erased but she kept the sober movements of a miniature statue. Seldom had the kids sat on her skirts, because of the disappearance of her knees and arms, which she would drop with unwilling frequency.
She hated those kids, she had hated them one by one as they were being born, as thieves of her adolescense who nobody would arrest other than the arms that brought them to sleep. The arms of Ana, the maid, were like cradles for her mischievous children.
Life was a long weariness of resting too much; life was a bunch of ladies chatting without hearing each other in the living rooms of houses where every afternoon waited for a party as relief. And thus, by dint of always living in the posture of a crappy portrait, Eponina's impatience became patient and compressed, and identical to the paper roses growing below the lanterns.
The maid distracted her with songs during the morning, when she was cleaning the rooms. Ana had her eyes hanging asleep on a very awake body, and kept the extatic stillness of casters in her activity. Untiringly, she was the first one to wake up and the last one to go to sleep. She was the one who handed out breakfasts and clean clothes around the house, the one who distributed the compotes, the one who made and unmade the beds, the one who served the table.
It was on April 5th of 1890, during lunchtime; the kids were pl...
Read FullPhenomenal. Pleasure meeting you.
Thank you! Nice to meet you too, you bring some of the most interesting snaps in the site!