The Mandarin and Other Stories (Dedalus European Classics)
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Eca de Queiroz's sharply satirical work aimed to expose the hypocrisies of his age. In The Mandarin his lascivious anti-heroes Teodoro and Teodorico,are dragged from their narrow Lisbon lives into exotic encounters with Chinese mandarins, the Devil (in the guise of a dark-suited civil servant)and Jesus Christ Himself. This short novel is accompanied by the short stories Jose Matias, The Hanged Man and The Idiosyncrasies of a young blonde woman.
over the pony’s haunches. Around a distant corner appeared a blaze of torches: the rabble! I galloped off beneath the high wall that ran beside me like a vast, black ribbon furiously unravelling. All at once, I spotted a breach in the wall, a huge gap bristling with brambles, on the other side of which lay the moonlit plain, like a vast sheet of sleeping water! I headed desperately in that direction, buffeted about by my prancing pony, and for a long time I galloped hard across the open plain.
you tomorrow.’ ‘That’s a good idea,’ said Macário, ‘yes, indeed. It really is very pretty, isn’t it? The pearls are so well-matched in size, and so bright. Very pretty. And what about those earrings?’ he added, moving to the end of the counter to another display cabinet. ‘Those ones shaped like a shell.’ ‘They cost ten moedas,’ said the assistant. And meanwhile Luísa continued examining the rings, trying them on all her fingers, rummaging through that delicate, glittering, precious display.
to fall hopelessly in love with her on the May morning when he first saw her kneeling before the altar, caught in a beam of light, her golden hair like a halo about her head, her long lashes lowered as she read her Book of Hours, her rosary slipping through her slender fingers, indeed, everything about her was slender, soft and white, the whiteness of a lily blooming in the shadows, even whiter when set amongst the black laces and satins that fell in stiff folds about her graceful figure,
city better suited than Beja to the enjoyment of a scandalous and secret happiness. João Seco is also from Beja and had spent Christmas there. He knew the supervisor and the ladies from Villa Côrte Moreira and he understood the whole story at a glance when he looked out one day from the windows of no. 214, where he was cataloguing the Morgado library, and saw Elisa on the balcony on the corner and the ex-supervisor slipping happily in through the street door, well-dressed, well-shod, in pale
land serve as a perfumed rose or a tasty cabbage. Killing, my son, is almost always a question of balancing universal needs, a question of eliminating excess here in order to supply a lack there. Just ponder this solid philosophy a while. A poor seamstress in London longs to see a flower bloom in the pot of black soil on her garret windowsill. A flower would console that unfortunate woman, but, alas, given the current disposition of beings, the matter that should produce a rose there is still