By Julio Cortazar
Horacio Oliveira is an Argentinian author who lives in Paris along with his mistress, los angeles Maga, surrounded through a loose-knit circle of bohemian pals who name themselves "the Club." A kid's dying and l. a. Maga's disappearance positioned an finish to his lifetime of empty pleasures and highbrow acrobatics, and suggested Oliveira to come to Buenos Aires, the place he works through turns as a salesperson, a keeper of a circus cat which could actually count number, and an attendant in an insane asylum. Hopscotch is the fabulous, free-wheeling account of Oliveira's dazzling adventures.
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Extra resources for Hopscotch
Sample text
In those days we used to go to art movies to see silent pictures, because I had my culture, maybe not, but you, poor thing, didn't understand anything at all about that yellow and convulsed shrieking which had all taken place before you were born, that grooved emulsion in which dead people ran about. But suddenly Harold Lloyd would go by and then you would shake off the water of your dream and would finally be convinced that all was well, and that Pabst, and that Fritz Lang. You used to make me a little sick with your mania for perfection, with your rundown shoes, with your refusal to accept the acceptable.
It grieved me to recognize that with artificial blows, with Manichaean beams of light, or desiccated, stupid dichotomies I could not make my way up the steps of the Gare de Montparnasse where La Maga had dragged me to visit Rocamadour. Why couldn't I accept what was happening without trying to explain it, without bringing up ideas of order and disorder, of freedom and Rocamadour, as one sets out geranium pots in a courtyard on the Calle Cochabamba? Maybe one had to fall into the depths of stupidity in order to make the key fit the lock to the latrine or to the Garden of Olives.
Ever since childhood, whenever I drop something I must pick it up, no matter what, because if I don't a disaster will happen, not to me, but to someone I love whose name begins with the same letter as the thing I dropped. The worst is that nothing can stop me when I drop something, and it doesn't work if somebody else picks it up because the curse will still be effective. People usually think I'm crazy and I really am crazy when I do it, when I pounce on a pencil or a piece of paper which I have dropped, like the night I dropped a lump of sugar in that restaurant on the Rue Scribe, a posh place with an overload of salesmen, whores with silver foxes, and well-established married couples.