El Jarama (Spanish Edition) [Rafael Sanchez Ferlosio] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. El Jarama inagura una nueva epoca de la. El Jarama [Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio] on *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. Rare book. : The River: El Jarama (Dedalus Europe ) ( ): Rafael Sanchez Ferlosio, Margaret Jull Costa: Books.

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The fruitseller’s daughter, with her quince-lips, still bloodless, ingenuously kissed that slice-of-watermelon laugh.

Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio (Author of El Jarama)

It was when there were geraniums on the balconies, sunflower-seed stands in the Moncloa, herds of yearling sheep in the vacant lots of the Guindalera.

Mientras no cambien los dioses, nada ha cambiado 4. Discover new books on Goodreads. He slept in a pension where no one else stayed. He would dance in the elevators and on the landings, spill ink wells, beat on pianos with his rigid jaram gloved hands.

Books by Rafael Sánchez Ferlosio

Every morning he would put on his bright red shoes and have them cleaned. Don Zana used to walk through the outskirts of Madrid and catch small dirty fish in the Manzanares. Want to Read Currently Reading Read. The girl cried when days passed without Don Zana’s going by her street. Her flesh was slack and she was some forty-five years old.


Don Zana said to her, ‘You don’t pay for art, kid. Sign in with Facebook Sign in options.

Margaret Jull Costa Translator. Topics Mentioning This Author.

He awoke one morning, hanging in the dusty storeroom jzrama a theater, next to a lady of the eighteenth century, with many white ringlets and a cornucopia of a face. Just a moment while we sign you in to your Goodreads account.

El testimonio de Yarfoz 3. One day he took her out for a walk. He would breakfast on a large cup of chocolate and he would not return until night or dawn. Esas Yndias Equivocadas Y Malditas: Then he would light a fire of dry leaves and fry them. Many ssanchez his dry, wooden slap; many listened to his odious songs, and all saw him dance on the tables. His chest was a trapezoid.

This was Don Zana ‘The Marionette,’ the one who used to dance on the tables and the coffins. Refresh and try again.

A rose and mauve lady that had not yet gathered her flesh and her beauty into dark clothes, and still waited, like a rose stripped of its petals, with her faded colors and her artificial smile, bitter as a grimace. The fruitseller’s daughter fell in love with him and gave him apricots and plums.

Then, then was the story of Don Zana ‘The Marionette. She returned home crying and, without saying anything to anyone, died of bitterness. They were dragging their heavy wool, eating the grass among the rubbish, bleating to the neighborhood.


He wore a white shirt, a jacket of green flannel, a bow tie, light trousers, and shoes of Corinthian red on his little dancing feet. Don Zana broke the flower pots with his hand and he laughed at everything.

This lady was waiting for a husband. Rate this book Clear rating 1 of 5 stars 2 of 5 stars 3 of 5 stars 4 of 5 stars 5 of 5 stars. Or they stepped on the spread-out sheets, undershirts, or pink chemises clinging to the ground like the gay shadow of a handsome young girl.

Want to Read saving… Error rating jaama. Want to Read saving…. Don Zana kept the pits to make her believe he loved her. Sometimes they stole into the patios; they ate up the parsley, a little green sprig of parsley, in the summer, in the watered shade of the patios, in the cool windows of the basements at foot level.