No Variations (Argentinian Literature Series) Read Free

meant someone who played the euphonium in an orchestra. Ah, those good old hippy crackpots.
     
    Good old Julian Cope!
     
    The land where everything is possible (especially if it isn’t true), because there’s no such thing as criticism there. THD’s (Toribio Hesker Dubbio’s) niggling praise of Quaglia’s novel ( Existential Resignation ?) is an obvious example: like one of those old Unitarian matrons, a grande dame who, having read her first novel, commends the author’s diligence and intelligence for having brought its historical setting to life … and not merely a historical setting but a geographical one to boot—although lacking an appendix of fold-out maps, sadly. The kind of mordant observation the resentful Eiralis would make.
    Beneath the sign of the capital [S]: sibilant, sinuous—more than deserving of those protective parentheses: brackets guarding against all the excess, malice, and falsehood in the world.
    Luini isn’t tall. Neither is he short. In fact, no one quite knows his height [see Kenner on Pound]. He’s cynical, he’s droll. And he lives in an age when this conjunction of qualities boils down to the single abominable adjective: intriguing. He edits, corrects—usually what’s already been corrected. He practices the art of supererogatory copyediting.
    Luini, a disciple of Leonardo. Opacity.
    Dos is homosexual ( smart , camp , bitchy ). He’s the first to extol the genius and glamor of the women in the group, their absent muses: Elena, Eloísa, Irena, Inés.

    The painting is from the early seventies, based on the original photograph showing them all seated together at a table in Estrambote, a restaurant belonging to Dos (double, Charlie). Nicasio’s prominent place in the picture is intended to highlight [“underscore,” perhaps?] the position of Inés (Eloísa), who’s attempting to imitate Rimbaud’s pose in the F-L original, despite there being no coin in the frame. Nicasio sits with his barracan jacket slightly open, his hand reaching—in plenipotentiary gesture—for his wallet (“ample as a library,” according to Dos) so he can pay the bill. To his left, Elena—slouched forward like a haystack—has a puzzled expression, her hand seeming to tug at a piece of thread, as if to unravel the solution to some cryptic name game; and seated next to her, the Dostoyevsky of the group, Lalo (Sabatani), seems to be searching for a way out of the shot. Above left, in the top hat, Luini stands next to the leisurely Dos, who has a “silk scarf draped in modest abandon” around his neck, standing in stark contrast to the shy and bespectacled Prosan. Ah, and I almost forgot about the cadaverous figure of Belisario Tregua (or Basilio Ugarte?), seated bottom left. The photo was taken by Remo Scacchi, but the barely conspicuous watercolor hanging on the wall (deep down he liked to imagine that it was his own portrait of Elena hanging there, sketched in sanguine chalk) was actually painted by his brother. In the early stages of his painting, he took care to capture her likeness accurately, but in the end he succumbed, as he always did, to his annoying proclivity for disfiguring his work with brash and gaudy brushstrokes. Reckless Expressionism, I call it.
    Eiralis describing either the first group meeting or the first group photo.
    People like B[] P[] who, in his strict observance of Q’s exercises in obedience, has become impervious to the teachings of Borges.
    Another one smuggling in Glenn Gould under his shirt.
    Who, because of his droning inanity, and making use of one of his own awkward metaphorical niceties, was given the nickname: “Luminous puree.”
     
    Lunar puree. Woolen puree.
     
    Add after A.P. on the women who
    Intersection of adulteries / collaborative writing
     
    Some bit of idiocy, as in Guattari?
    Analysis of the variations provided by only two options (remember, two wasn’t even a number before Socrates [see the pre-Socratics, Barnes, Watts]): two bloodlines: two