The Death of Artemio Cruz: A Novel (FSG Classics)
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As the novel opens, Artemio Cruz, the all-powerful newspaper magnate and land baron, lies confined to his bed and, in dreamlike flashes, recalls the pivotal episodes of his life. Carlos Fuentes manipulates the ensuing kaleidoscope of images with dazzling inventiveness, layering memory upon memory, from Cruz's heroic campaigns during the Mexican Revolution, through his relentless climb from poverty to wealth, to his uneasy death. Perhaps Fuentes's masterpiece, The Death of Artemio Cruz is a haunting voyage into the soul of modern Mexico.
aide, disappeared behind the sweat and dust coating him, when he reined in his horse in a dry whinny. “Come quickly,” he said, panting as he wiped his face with a handkerchief. “There’s big news: we’re moving out right away. Have you had breakfast? They’re serving eggs over at headquarters.” “Eggs? I’ve already got mine,” he joked, patting his crotch. Regina’s embrace was an embrace of dust. Only when Loreto’s horse vanished and the dust settled did the whole woman, clinging to the shoulders of
word, and your word is my word; word of honor, a word between men: wheel word: mill word: imprecation, intention, greeting, life project, affiliation, memory, the voice of those in despair, liberation of the poor, order of the powerful, invitation to fight and to work, epigraph of love, astrological sign, threat, jeer, word under oath, pal at parties, and when you get drunk, sword of courage, throne of power, tooth of the cunning, coat of arms for the race, life preserver when you’ve reached your
by a pale starch, when he realized that no one could hear his shouts. After all, how could two graceful bodies swimming under the opaline water, parallel to each other and not touching, as if they were floating in a second level of air, hear him? Xavier Adame left them on the dock and returned to the yacht: he wanted to go on skiing. He said goodbye from the prow. She waved her blouse, and in her eyes there was nothing of what he would have wanted to see. Just as, during lunch on the shore of
disoriented as they walked along, because one of the women ran after them, saying, “Not that way. Come with us.” When they got used to the light of night, they found themselves face down on the sidewalk. The collapsed building shielded them from the enemy machine guns: he breathed in the dust, but he also inhaled the sweat from the girls stretched out next to him. He tried to see their faces. All he saw was a beret and a wool cap, until the girl who’d thrown herself down at his side raised her
proud to know that there’s always one who goes to war. I know you’d be proud. But now this fight’s coming to an end. As soon as we cross the border, this late arrival to the international brigades calls it quits and begins a new life. I’ll never forget this one, Papa, because I learned everything I know here. It’s simple. I’ll tell you everything when I get back. Just now I can’t think of the right words.” With one finger, he touched the letter in the inside pocket of his shirt. He couldn’t open