MARIO BENEDETTI was born on September 14, 1920 in Uruguay. In 1953, he published his first novel, Quién de Nosotros, but it was with the publication of Montevideanos: Cuentos (Stories), in 1959, that the urban concept of his narrative style took shape. With the publication of La Tregua in 1960, Benedetti acquired international pre-eminence. He passed away on May 17, 2009.
Translator HARRY MORALES is also the author of the novel The Suit and Skirt Farm (Xlibris, 2002). He has translated the work of the Uruguayan poet and novelist, Mario Benedetti, Eugenio María de Hostos, Emir Rodríguez Monegal, Juan Rulfo, Cristina Peri Rossi, Julia de Burgos, Alberto Ruy-Sánchez, and Ilan Stavans, among many others.
FEB 2012 | Fiction
I dont see my children very often. Especially Jaime. Its interesting, because its Jaime in particular who I would especially like to see more often. Of the three of them, hes the only one with a sense of humor.
APR 2012 | Fiction
Time flies. Sometimes I think I should live hurriedly instead of trying to get the most out of these remaining years. These days, after having scrutinized my wrinkles, anyone can say to me: But youre still a young man. Still. But how many years are left in still.
JUNE 2012 | Fiction
The manager called me into his office. I could never stand that man; hes so marvelously common and cowardly. On a few occasions hes tried to bare his soul to me, his abstract existence, and Ive encountered a repulsive image.
DEC 11-JAN 12 | Fiction
This is the second English translation of the novel, La Tregua by Mario Benedetti that was first published by Editorial Nueva Imagen, S.A. in 1960. Originally translated by Benjamin Graham and published in 1969 by Harper & Row as The Truce, the novel is long out of print in English. The Rail will be serializing this Benedetti masterpiece over the winter and into the spring of 2012.
MARCH 2009 | Fiction
At first, I would greet her from my sidewalk and she would respond with a nervous and instantaneous gesture. Afterwards, she would leap away, striking her knuckles against the walls, and, upon arriving at the corner, vanish without looking back. From the beginning, I liked her long face, her disdainful agility, and her striking blue jacket that looked more like a boys.
MAY 2008 | Fiction
I met Dr. Siles Zuazo in Montevideo twenty years ago, when he arrived in Uruguay as an exile (the word was pronounced differently then) following the triumph of one of the many military coups that have always corrupted the history of Bolivia. I had a few books published at the time and worked in the bookkeeping section of a large furniture company.
MAR 2012 | Fiction
The dullest May Day in world history. To make matters worse, it was a gray, rainy, and prematurely wintry day. There were no people, buses, or anything in the streets. And me in my room, in my single bed, in this dark, heavy silence of seven-thirty.
MAY 2012 | Fiction
Its hard to believe, but I hadnt seen Aníbal since he returned from Brazil at the beginning of May. He made me happy when he called yesterday. I needed to talk to someone, confide in someone.
JUL-AUG 2012 | Fiction
The party is over. Back to the office again tomorrow. Im thinking about the sales reports, the soft eraser, the carbon copy books, the checkbooks, the managers voice and then my stomach turns.
JUL-AUG 2010 | Fiction
This must be the thirtieth departure. Its a procedure that Fernando Varengo knows only too well. As a witness, of course; not as a traveler.
MAY 2008 | Fiction
The death of a friend (and more so when one is referring to someone as dear as Luvis Pedemonte) is always a heartbreak, a rupture. But when death is the culmination of his troubles in exile, and even if that death occurs in a location as fraternal as this one, the heartbreak has other implications, some other significance.
MAY 2008 | Fiction
Graciela, said the girl, with a cup in her hand, do you want some lemonade? Shes dressed in a white blouse, jeans and sandals. Her hair is long and black, although not too long, and is tied at the back of her neck with a yellow ribbon. Her skin is very white and shes nine years old, maybe ten. Ive already told you not to call me Graciela.