Diary Of Andres Fava by Julio CortazarDiary Of Andres Fava by Julio Cortazar

Diary Of Andres Fava

byJulio CortazarTranslated byAnn Mclean

Paperback | May 2, 2005

Pricing and Purchase Info


Earn 70 plum® points

Prices and offers may vary in store


Ships within 1-2 weeks

Ships free on orders over $25

Not available in stores


Diary of Andrés Fava is pure reflection: on his reading, dreams, conversations, and writing. This unpredictable journal of the protagonist of Cortázar’s posthumously published El Examen is peppered with quotes from French poets and American jazzmen. Cortázar’s brilliance and irreverence are in full power. Exploratory and honest, Diary of Andrés Fava lets us in on his own intimate reflections on literature, music, friendship, love, and the act of writing. It’s full of bold jabs and devilish claims. A late-night rap session with Cortázar–he lets down his guard and we have the impossible pleasure of watching this lovable genius think and feel out loud.
Julio Cortázar was born in Brussels in 1914 and grew up on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. His other works include Autonauts of the Cosmoroute, Hopscotch, Blow-Up and Other Stories, All Fires the Fire, We Love Glenda So Much, A Certain Lucas, Around the Day in Eighty Worlds, and Cronopios and Famas. He died in Paris in 1984. Anne McLean...
Title:Diary Of Andres FavaFormat:PaperbackDimensions:103 pages, 7 × 6 × 0.36 inPublished:May 2, 2005Publisher:Steerforth PressLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0974968064

ISBN - 13:9780974968063

Look for similar items by category:


Read from the Book

This mental mucus is driving me mad. The Japanese blow their noses on paper too. "Diary of life," day by day; day-to-day life. Poor soul, you’ll end up speaking journalese. You already do now and then. An encouraging little tango: "Go on, don’t stop, Just keep playing along —," And this line by Eduardo Lozano: My heart, imitation moss. What they tend to call "classic" is always a product achieved by the sacrifice of truth to beauty. Waiting for a bus at Chacarita. Storm brewing, low sky over the cemetery. Keeping my place in line I spend a long time staring at the tops of the trees that lead up to the peristyle. A continuous line of crowns (deepened and purified by the gray sky), waving gracefully as if at the edge of the clouds. High up on the peri- style, the enormous angel hovers among the silhouettes of trees; it looks as though he’s resting his foot on the leaves. A second of per- fect beauty, then shouts, shoves, climb onto the bus, move further back, fifteen or ten centavo ticket, life. Farewell, my beauties, one day I’ll rest snugly wrapped in that delicate lace, which will protect me evermore from buses. (The gentle idiocy of some sentences. Verbal sighs.) I’m only interested in the primitives and my contemporaries, Simone Martini and Gischia, Guillaume de Machault and Alban Berg. From the sixteenth century to the nineteenth I have the impression that art was neither alive enough nor dead enough. Rimbaud, "ambulatory" poet. Fatigue: stimulus for revelation to jump up and settle in. Idleness begets idleness, and so on. Yester- day I was going home on the 168, squeezing in among people and odors. Suddenly the visitation, the piercing happiness. To have the wordless poem, entirely formulated and waiting; to know it. Without a theme, without words, and knowing it. A single pure line: Saintly, like a swallow.

Editorial Reviews

This beautiful amalgam of 'marvelous instances' tilts against the 'airy blades' of empty thought with vengeance. Equal parts tender wit, elegant aside and acid observation, Diary of Andrés Fava, which comes to us from the desk of one of the 20th century's greatest literary explorers, is 100 percent delight. —Laird Hunt Anyone who doesn't read Cortázar is doomed. Not to read him is a serious invisible disease which in time can have terrible consequences. Something similar to a man who has never tasted peaches. He would quietly become sadder...and, probably, little by little, he would lose his hair. —Pablo Neruda Cortázar is a unique storyteller. He can induce the kind of chilling unease that strikes like a sound in the night. —Time Magazine