LA NOCHE BOCA ARRIBA JULIO CORTAZAR PDF

No hay notas en la diapositiva. La moto ronroneaba entre sus piernas, y un viento fresco le chicoteaba los pantalones. Fue como dormirse de golpe. El hombre de blanco se le 5.

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And in certain epochs they would go to hunt enemies; They called this the war of flowers. The sun filtered through the tall buildings downtown and, because he needed no name to think, he got on the machine savoring the excursion. The bike purred between his legs and his pants succumbed to the whips of fresh wind.

The ministries in pink and white went by, then a series of stores on Central street with brilliant shop windows. Now he entered the most pleasurable part of the commute, the true journey: a long street lined with trees with little traffic and huge villas which let their gardens come up to the pavements, hardly marked by low hedges.

Somewhat distracted by perhaps, but keeping to the right side as was proper, he let himself go to the smoothness, to the light tension of that day hardly begun. Perhaps his involuntary relaxation prevented him from avoiding the accident. When he saw that the woman standing at the corner was rushing onto the road despite the green lights, it was already too late for simple solutions. It was as if he had suddenly fallen asleep. Having fainted, he woke violently.

Four or five young men were pulling out him from beneath his cycle. He felt the taste of salt, the taste of blood, his knee hurt, and he shouted once they lifted him out because the pressure on his right arm was unbearable. His only consolation was hearing someone confirm that he had had the right of way crossing that corner. Trying to control the nausea stirring in his throat, he asked about the woman.

The police ambulance arrived within five minutes. They put him onto a white stretcher where he could lie comfortably. In all lucidity, but knowing that he was still under the effects of a terrible collision, he gave his address to the policeman accompanying him.

Blood was pouring out onto his whole face from a cut in his brow. He licked his lips once or twice to drink some. He felt good: it was an accident; bad luck. Then the guard shook his hand as they arrived at the hospital and wished him good luck. His nausea was already coming back bit by bit. They took him by gurney to the back building, passing under trees full of birds.

He closed his eyes and wished he were asleep or chloroformed. But they kept him for a long time in a room with that hospital smell filling out a form, taking off his clothes and putting on a grayish, stiff shirt. They moved his arm carefully without causing him any pain. All the while, the nurses were telling jokes. Almost happy. They took him to radiography. Twenty minutes later, with his wet sheets still clinging to his breast like a black gravestone, he went on to the operation room.

Someone tall, slim and dressed in white came up to him and began examining the charts. Smiling, the man in white approached him again with something shiny in his right hand. He placed his hand on his cheek and signaled to someone standing behind him. A strange dream, this, because it was full of smells and he had never dreamt of smells.

First, there was the smell of a swamp, there on the left side of the road where the marshes began, those moving bogs from which no one ever came back. But this smell ceased. It was exchanged for a fragrance both composite and dark like the night in which he moved, fleeing the Aztecs.

And all of this was so natural: he had to flee the Aztecs because they were hunting man, and his only chance was to hide in the thickest part of the jungle and to try not to budge from that narrow road of which only they, the Motecas, knew. But nothing tortured him more than the smell. It was as if, in absolute acceptance of the dream, something unusual had been revealed that contradicted that dream that then later had not been part of the game.

An unexpected sound made him duck and keep still, apart from a slight shiver. There was nothing odd about being afraid: his nightscapes teemed with fear. He waited, covered by the branches of a shrub and the night without stars.

Very far off, probably on the other side of the great lake, there seemed to be campfires; a resplendent reddish tint filled that part of the sky. The sound did not occur again. Something like a snapped branch. Perhaps an animal who, like he, was escaping the smell of war. Smelling the air around him, he straightened slowly. But fear persisted there like a smell, that sickly sweet incense that belonged to the war of flowers.

He had to keep on; he had to reach the heart of the jungle while evading the marshes. Feeling his way forward, crouching at every opportunity to touch the hard ground of the road, he took some steps. He would have liked to take off running, but quivering sensations beat at his side.

In the path in darkness, he found the course. And then he got a whiff of the smell he feared most. And desperate, he leapt forward. The sun was already low in the large windows of the long hall.

His arm, in a plaster cast, was hanging from a device with weights and pulleys. He saw them bring in a small white trolley and place it at the side of his bed.

A blonde nurse then wiped the front part of his thigh with alcohol and stuck him with a thick needle connected to a tube that reached up to a bottle filled with an opaline liquid. Then a young doctor came over with an apparatus made of metal and leather and adjusted it to his good arm to check on something.

Night fell, and his fever dragged him blandly into a state where things began to assume forms one might find on the other end of opera glasses: they were real and sweet and at the same time slightly repugnant, as if watching a boring film and thinking that it was even worse outside, and then staying put in the theater. Then came a cup of gold filled with marvelous broth and scents of leeks, celery, and parsley.

A little piece of bread, more beautiful than an entire banquet, was chewed bit by bit. His arm no longer hurt any more, and only on his brow, where they had sutured his wound, he felt at times a hot and rapid piercing. When the large windows opposite swerved back to spots of dark blue he thought that it would be rather easy to fall asleep. A little uncomfortable there on his back, but when he passed his tongue over his dry, hot lips he felt the taste of the broth, and he took happy and carefree breaths.

At first there was some confusion, an attraction for an instant of all the dull and confounded sensations towards him. He understood that he was running in total darkness, although the sky above, crossed with treetops, was less black than the rest. Panting, he realized that that he was cornered despite the darkness and silence, and he crouched down to listen. Perhaps the road was nearby; were things different, he would have caught sight of it at daybreak.

But now nothing could help him find it. The hand which had instinctively clung to the hilt of the dagger now rose like a swamp scorpion up to his neck where it seized his protective amulet. Hardly moving his lips he mumbled the prayer of the corn which bore the happy moons, and the supplication to the Most High, the dispenser of Moteca goods.

Yet at the same time he sensed that his ankles were sinking slowly into the mud, and the wait in the darkness in the unknown chaparral made it unbearable. The war of flowers had begun with the moon and had already lasted for three days and three nights.

If he continued to take refuge in the depths of the forest, abandoning the road more in the region of the swamps, perhaps the warriors would not be able to pick up his trail. He thought about all those prisoners who could have done that.

But it was the sacred time, not quantity that mattered. The hunt would continue until the priests gave the signal to return. Everything had its order and its end, and he was in the sacred time on the opposite side of the hunters. He heard the shouts and stood up straight, his dagger in hand. Just as if the sky were burning on the horizon, he saw torches moving between the branches very close to him. The smell of war was unbearable, and when the first enemy leapt upon his neck he almost took pleasure in sinking the stone blade into his chest.

Now lights and happy screams had already surrounded him. He managed to slice through the air once or twice before a rope caught him from behind.

Compared to the night from which he returned, the lukewarm darkness of the room seemed marvelous. A violet lamp kept vigil at the top of the wall in the back of a room like a protective eye. He heard coughing, heavy breathing, at times a dialogue in low voices. There were so many things to keep himself occupied. He began to look at the plaster on his arm, the pulleys which so comfortably held it in the air.

At some point during the night they had placed a bottle of mineral water on the table next to him. He drank gluttonously from the neck of the bottle. Now he was able to discern the shapes in the room, the thirty beds, the glass display cabinets. His fever had to be lower now, and his face felt so fresh. His brow hardly hurt at all, as if it were just a memory. He pictured himself exiting the hotel and getting his motorbike. Who could have thought that things would turn out this way? And at the same time he had the feeling that this gap, this nothing, had taken an eternity.

And not even time, but more like he had passed through something and traveled across great distances.

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La noche boca arriba: resumen, análisis, personajes y más

Argumento[ editar ] Un joven sale del hotel en su motocicleta y recorre la ciudad. Mientras atraviesa una calle no se da cuenta de que una mujer cruza la calzada, por lo que ocurre un accidente. Ella sale ilesa, mientras que el hombre tiene varias heridas. Posteriormente, despierta en el hospital recostado en una cama y con sus heridas curadas. Se vuelve a quedar dormido, debido a la fiebre.

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‘La noche boca arriba’, de Julio Cortázar

And in certain epochs they would go to hunt enemies; They called this the war of flowers. The sun filtered through the tall buildings downtown and, because he needed no name to think, he got on the machine savoring the excursion. The bike purred between his legs and his pants succumbed to the whips of fresh wind. The ministries in pink and white went by, then a series of stores on Central street with brilliant shop windows. Now he entered the most pleasurable part of the commute, the true journey: a long street lined with trees with little traffic and huge villas which let their gardens come up to the pavements, hardly marked by low hedges. Somewhat distracted by perhaps, but keeping to the right side as was proper, he let himself go to the smoothness, to the light tension of that day hardly begun.

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