By Daniel Alarcón
The breakout ebook from a prizewinning younger author: a wide ranging, suspenseful tale of 1 man's obsessive seek to discover the reality of one other man's downfall. Nelson's existence isn't really turning out the way in which he was hoping. His female friend is slumbering with one other guy, his brother has left their South American state, leaving Nelson to deal with their widowed mom, and his appearing occupation can't appear to get off the floor. that's, until eventually he lands a starring position in a traveling revival of The fool President, a mythical play via Nelson's hero, Henry Nunez, chief of the storied guerrilla theater troupe Diciembre. And that's while the true hassle starts off. The travel takes Nelson out of the defend of town and throughout a panorama he's by no means visible, which nonetheless bears the scars of the civil struggle. With each one functionality, Nelson grows towards his fellow actors, changing into hopelessly entangled of their advanced lives, until eventually, in the course of one memorable functionality, a long-buried betrayal surfaces to strength the troupe into chaos. Nelson's destiny is slowly printed in the course of the research of the narrator, a tender guy enthusiastic about Nelson's story'and probably towards it than he shall we on. In sharp, bright, and lovely prose, Alarcn grants a compulsively readable narrative and a provocative meditation on destiny, id, and the big results which can end result from even our smallest offerings.
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Additional resources for At Night We Walk in Circles
I gathered up the pages and handed them to him, not daring to meet his gaze. Don Basilio sat down at the next table and turned on the lamp. His eyes skimmed the text, betraying no emotion. Then he rested his cigar on the end of the table for a moment, glared at me, and read out the first line: Night falls on the city and the streets carry the scent of gunpowder like the breath of a curse. Don Basilio looked at me out of the corner of his eye and I hid behind a smile that didn’t leave a single tooth uncovered.
He then hugged me until there was no strength left in his arms and lay down, stretched out on the floor with the hypodermic needle still stuck in his skin. I pulled out the needle and covered him with a blanket. After that, he began to lock himself in. We lived in a small attic suspended over the building site of the new auditorium, the Palau de la Música. It was a cold, narrow place in which wind and humidity seemed to mock the walls. I used to sit on the tiny balcony with my legs dangling out, watching people pass by and gazing at the battlement of weird sculptures and columns that was growing on the other side of the street.
And you’ll be right to do so, because you’re not a journalist and you never will be. But you’re not a crime novelist yet, even if you think you are. ” At that moment, my guard down, I was so overwhelmed by gratitude that I wanted to hug that great bulk of a man. Don Basilio, his fierce mask back in place, gave me a steely look and pointed toward the door. “No scenes, please. Close the door. ” … The following Monday, when I arrived at the editorial room ready to sit at my own desk for the very first time, I found a coarse gray envelope with a ribbon and my name on it in the same recognizable type that I had been typing out for years.