Pampas Quotes

There was just one moon. That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose--a gleaming, round saucer--over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul--or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. THAT moon.

Soon enough his head would be swimming with tales of derring-do and high adventure, tales of beautiful maidens kissed, of evildoers shot with pistols or fought with swords, of bags of gold, of diamonds as big as the tip of your thumb, of lost cities and of vast mountains, of steam-trains and clipper ships, of pampas, oceans, deserts, tundra.

Sympathy beyond the confines of man, that is humanity to the lower animals, seems to be one of the latest moral acquisitions. It is apparently unfelt by savages, except towards their pets. How little the old Romans knew of it is shewn by their abhorrent gladiatorial exhibitions. The very idea of humanity, as far as I could observe, was new to most of the Gauchos of the Pampas. This virtue, one of the noblest with which man is endowed, seems to arise incidentally from our sympathies becoming more tender and more widely diffused, until they are extended to all sentient beings. As

These were both nothing more than a pair of minor incidents that happened in my trivial little life. Short side trips along the way. Even if they hadn’t happened, I doubt my life would have wound up much different from what it is now. But still, these memories return to me sometimes, traveling down a very long passageway to arrive. And when they do, their unexpected power shakes me to the core. Like an autumn wind that gusts at night, swirling fallen leaves in a forest, flattening the pampas grass in fields, and pounding hard on the doors to people’s homes, over and over again.

As we will see, it did not succeed. In this way Pampa learned the lesson every creator must learn, even God himself. Once you had created your characters, you had to be bound by their choices. You were no longer free to remake them according to your own desires

Were the “pampas,” perhaps, flatter than the land they were crossing? He doubted it; what could be flatter than a horizontal plane?

The bigger things get the smaller and duller or flatter the globe gets. It is getting to be all one blasted little provincial suburb. When they have introduced American sanitation, morale-pep, feminism, and mass production throughout the Near East, Middle East, Far East, U.S.S.R., the Pampas, el Gran Chaco, the Danubian Basin, Equatorial Africa, Hirther Further and Inner Mumbo-land, Gondhwannaland, Lhasas, and the villages of darkest Berkshire, how happy we shall be . At any rate it out to cut down travel. There will be nowhere to go. So people will (I opine) go all the faster. (leter 53)

I get it. Having had Satoru take me in as his cat, I think I felt as lucky as he did. Strays, by definition, have been abandoned or left behind, but Satoru rescued me when I broke my leg. He made me the happiest cat on earth. I'll always remember those five years we had together. And I'll forever go by the name Nana, the name that - let's face it - is pretty unusual for a male cat. The town where Satoru grew up, too, I would remember that. And the green seedlings swaying in the fields. The sea, with its frighteningly loud roar. Mount Fuji, looming over us. How cosy it felt on top of that boxy TV. That wonderful lady cat, Momo. That nervy but earnest hound, Toramaru. That huge white ferry, which swallowed up cars into its stomach. The dogs in the pet holding area, wagging their tails at Satoru. That foul-mouthed chinchilla telling me Guddo rakku! The land in Hokkaido stretching out forever. Those vibrant purple and yellow flowers by the side of the road. The field of pampas grass like an ocean. The horses chomping on grass. The bright-red berries on the mountain-ash trees. The shades of red on the mountain ash that Satoru taught me. The stands of slender white birch. The graveyard, with its wide-open vista. The bouquet of flowers in rainbow colours. The white heart-shaped bottom of the deer. That huge, huge, huge double rainbow growing out of the ground. I would remember these for the rest of my life. And Kosuke, and Yoshimine, and Sugi and Chikako. And above all, the one who brought up Satoru and made it possible for us to meet - Noriko. Could anyone be happier than this?

I never wanted to be Protestant. Jews do, plenty of them. Not me. To be assimilated, to be respectable, to be detached like the Wasps, I understand the desire, but I knew never to try. I see all those distinguished Wasps with the beautiful gray hair and the pinstripe suits who don't have pimples on their ass. They're my lawyers....These guys are quiet. I don't want to be that way. I couldn't begin to be that way. I'm the wild Jew of the pampas. I am the Golem of the U.S.A.

I, Pampa Kampana, am the author of this book. I have lived to see an empire rise and fall. How are they remembered now, these kings, these queens? They exist now only in words. While they lived, they were victors, or vanquished, or both. Now they are neither. Words are the only victors. What they did, or thought, or felt, no longer exists. Only these words describing those things remain. They will be remembered in the way I have chosen to remember them. Their deeds will only be known in the way they have been set down. They will mean what I wish them to mean. I myself am nothing now. All that remains is this city of words. Words are the only victors.

All the benefit that a New Yorker gets out of Kansas is no more than what he might get out of Saskatchewan, the Argentine pampas, of Siberia. But New York to a Kansan is not only a place where he may get drunk, look at dirty shows and buy bogus antiques; it is also a place where he may enforce his dunghill ideas upon his betters.

My homeland is about as ugly as a place gets. There's nothing in south Georgia, people will tell you, except straight, lonely roads, one-horse towns, sprawling farms, and tracts of planted pines. It’s flat, monotonous, used-up, hotter than hell in summer and cold enough in winter that orange trees won’t grow. No mountains, no canyons, no rocky streams, no waterfalls. The rivers are muddy, wide and flat, like somebody’s feet. The coastal plain lacks the stark grace of the desert or the umber panache of the pampas

Ningún sonido. Sintió en los oídos un pitido, la ilusión acústica que se produce cuando nada suena a nuestro alrededor. La pampa transmitía la música de la muerte.

pampas

There's a pirate asleep in the pampas just beneath us,' Peter told him. 'If you like, we'll go down and kill him.

He thought of Darwin sleeping out on the pampas during his Beagle trip, a middle-class white kid travelling the world, the first of the backpackers. It was only afterwards, really, that he had made any sense of what he had seen. Alex wondered what, in the fullness of time, he himself would make sense of, what small, crucial detail might be lodging itself in his brain that would shake his life to its foundations.

Of all the passers-through, the species that means most to me, even more than geese and cranes, is the upland plover, the drab plump grassland bird that used to remind my gentle hunting uncle of the way things once had been, as it still reminds me. It flies from the far Northern prairies to the pampas of Argentina and then back again in spring, a miracle of navigation and a tremendous journey for six or eight ounces of flesh and feathers and entrails and hollow bones, fueled with bug meat. I see them sometimes in our pastures, standing still or dashing after prey in the grass, but mainly I know their presence through the mournful yet eager quavering whistles they cast down from the night sky in passing, and it makes me think of what the whistling must have been like when the American plains were virgin and their plover came through in millions. To grow up among tradition-minded people leads one often into backward yearnings and regrets, unprofitable feelings of which I was granted my share in youth-not having been born in time to get killed fighting Yankees, for one, or not having ridden up the cattle trails. But the only such regret that has strongly endured is not to have known the land when when it was whole and sprawling and rich and fresh, and the plover that whet one's edge every spring and every fall. In recent decades it has become customary- and right, I guess, and easy enough with hindsight- to damn the ancestral frame of mind that ravaged the world so fully and so soon. What I myself seem to damn mainly, though, is just not having seen it. Without any virtuous hindsight, I would likely have helped in the ravaging as did even most of those who loved it best. But God, to have viewed it entire, the soul and guts of what we had and gone forever now, except in books and such poignant remnants as small swift birds that journey to and from the distant Argentine and call at night in the sky.

Israel could fit inside New Jersey. The West Bank was smaller than Delaware. Four Gazas could be shoehorned inside London. One hundred Israels could be placed inside Argentina and you’d still have some room for the pampas. Israel and Palestine together were one-fifth the size of Illinois.

Hassan drafts a Magna Carta and asks that a taxman pass a Tax Act - a cash grab that can tax all farmland and grant a dastard at cards what hard cash Hassan lacks. Hassan asks that an apt draftsman map what ranchland a ranchhand can farm: all grasslands and pampas, all marshlands and swamps, flatlands and savannahs (standard badlands that spawn chaparral and crabgrass). Hassan asks that all farmhands at farms plant flax and award Hassan, as a tax, half what straw a landsman can stash at a barn. A ranchman at a ranch warns campagnards that a shah has spat at hard-and-fast laws that ban cadastral graft.

Argentina's like a novel, he said, a lie, or make-believe at best. Buenos Aires is full of crooks and loudmouths, a hellish place, with nothing to recommend it except the women, and some of the writers, but only a few. Ah, but the pampas—the pampas are eternal. A limitless cemetery, that's what they're like.

Thanks to their mastery of horses and rifles, the Plains Indians of North America, the Araucanian Indians of southern Chile, and the Pampas Indians of Argentina fought off invading whites longer than did any other Native Americans, succumbing only to massive army operations by white governments in the 1870s and 1880s.

these memories return to me sometimes, traveling down a very long passageway to arrive. and when they do, their unexpected power shakes me to the core. like an autumn wind that gusts at night, swirling fallen leaves in a forest, flattening the pampas grass in fields, and pounding hard on the doors to people's homes, over and over again.

But still, these memories return to me sometimes, traveling down a very long passageway to arrive. And when they do, their unexpected power shakes me to de core. Like an autumn wind that gusts at night, swirling fallen leaves in a forest, flattening the pampas grass in fields, and pounding hard on the doors to people’s homes, over and over again.

Zoe returned her attention to the map of southern Argentina on the computer. “What on earth could possibly be worth using that much nuclear power on? There’s nothing around there but mountains and sea.” “There’s guanacos,” Murray said helpfully. “What the heck’s a guanaco?” Zoe asked. “It’s a relative of the camel,” Murray explained. “It kind of looks like an anorexic llama. From what I understand, the pampas down there are full of them.” “And you think SPYDER wants to nuke them all?” Zoe said. “What good is a whole bunch of vaporized guanacos?” “Suppose they only nuked one,” Murray said ominously. “What if they focused all that nuclear energy on it? If a single irradiated iguana could turn into Godzilla, just imagine what a giant guanaco would look like. It’d be terrifying!” Zoe gave him a withering look. “The only terrifying thing about this plan is that you actually think it’s possible. Godzilla never existed!” “But maybe he could,” Murray countered. “Or worse . . . Guanacazilla!” He gave a roar that was probably supposed to be half llama, half monster, but it sounded more like an angry hamster. We all considered him for a moment. “Moving on,” Erica said. “Does anyone have a suggestion that isn’t completely idiotic?” “Ha ha,” Murray said petulantly. “You mock me now, but we’ll see who’s laughing when there’s a thirty-story guanaco running rampant through Buenos Aires.

There’s guanacos,” Murray said helpfully. “What the heck’s a guanaco?” Zoe asked. “It’s a relative of the camel,” Murray explained. “It kind of looks like an anorexic llama. From what I understand, the pampas down there are full of them.” “And you think SPYDER wants to nuke them all?” Zoe said. “What good is a whole bunch of vaporized guanacos?” “Suppose they only nuked one,” Murray said ominously. “What if they focused all that nuclear energy on it? If a single irradiated iguana could turn into Godzilla, just imagine what a giant guanaco would look like. It’d be terrifying!” Zoe gave him a withering look. “The only terrifying thing about this plan is that you actually think it’s possible. Godzilla never existed!

Within a few decades after the conquests of Cortés and Pizarro, the cattle population of Spanish America doubled as rapidly as every fifteen months. From Mexico to the pampas of Argentina, the vast open spaces of the New World swarmed black with livestock. One French observer in Mexico wrote in wonderment at the "great, level plains, stretching endlessly and everywhere covered with an infinite number of cattle.

¡Oh selva, esposa del silencio, madre de la soledad y de la neblina! ¿Qué hado maligno me dejó prisionero en tu cárcel verde? …Déjame huir, oh selva, de tus enfermizas penumbras formadas con el hálito de los seres que agonizaron en el abandono de tu majestad. ¡Tú misma pareces un cementerio enorme donde te pudres y resucitas! ¡Quiero volver a las regiones donde el secreto no aterra a nadie, donde es imposible la esclavitud, donde la vida no tiene obstáculos y se encumbra el espíritu en la luz libre! ¡Quiero el calor de los arenales, el espejeo de las canículas, la vibración de las pampas abiertas! ¡Déjame tornar a la tierra de donde vine, para desandar esa ruta de lágrimas y sangre que recorrí en nefando día, cuando tras la huella de una mujer me arrastré por montes y desiertos, en busca de la Venganza diosa implacable que sólo sonríe sobre las tumbas!

There was just one moon. That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose—a gleaming, round saucer—over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul—or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. That moon.

she approached the town of Pampa. This part of the Panhandle was so flat that it was paradoxically vertiginous, a two-dimensional planetary surface off which, having no trace of topography to hold on to, you felt you could fall or be swept. No relief in any sense of the word. The land so commercially and agriculturally marginal that Pampans thought nothing of wasting it by the half acre, so that each low and ugly building sat by itself. Dusty dead or dying halfheartedly planted trees floated by in Leila’s headlights. To her they were Texan and therefore lovely in their way. The Sonic parking

In New York, he tried in vain to forget her. The first few days were tinged with melancholy and regret and JT thought he would never recover. Anyway: recover why? And yet, with the passage of time, in his heart he understood that he'd gained much more than he'd lost. At least, he said to himself, I've met the woman of my dreams. Other people, most people, glimpse something in films, the shadow of great actresses, the gaze of true love. But I saw her in the flesh, heard her voice, saw her silhouetted against the endless pampa. I talked to her and she talked back. What do I have to complain about?

La popolazione di Buenos-Ayres disseminata in lande immense, avendo per tetto mal costrutte capanne, lontane fra loro, in un paese tristissimo, difettante d'acqua e di legna, contrae dall'isolamento, dalle privazioni e dalle distanze, un carattere tetro, insocievole, barbaro; i suoi istinti tengono dell'indiano selvaggio delle frontiere del paese, da cui riceve le piume di struzzo, mantelli per i cavalli e legno per lancie, oggetti tutti d'un paese, in cui la civiltà europea non ha penetrato, scambiandoli coll'acquavite e col tabacco che gli Indiani poi recano in quelle immense pianure dei Pampas donde presero il nome, o cui forse diedero il loro.

Lo digo ingenuamente, prefiero el aire libre del desierto, su cielo, su sublime y poética soledad, a estas calles encajonadas, a este hormiguero de gente atareada, a estos horizontes circunscritos que no me permiten ver el firmamento cubierto de estrellas, sin levantar la cabeza, ni gozar del espectáculo imponente de la tempestad cuando serpentean los relámpagos luminosos y ruge el trueno.

The temple was in a field of graves suddenly a pitiful-looking skeleton appeared and said: A melancholy autumn wind Blows through the world; the pampas grass waves As we drift to the moor, Drift to the sea. What can be done With the mind of a man That should be clear But though he is dressed up in a monk's robe, Just lets life pass him by? Such deep musings Made me uneasy, I could not sleep. Towards dawn I dozed off... I found myself surrounded by a group of skeletons, acting as they had when they were still alive. One skeleton came over to me and said: Memories Flee and Are no more. All are empty dreams Devoid of meaning. Violate the reality of things And babble about 'God' and 'the Buddha' And you will never find the true Way. Still breathing, You feel animated, So a corpse in a field Seems to be something Apart from you. If chunks of rock Can serve as a memento To the dead A better headstone Would be a simple tea-mortar. Humans are indeed frightful things. A single moon Bright and clear In an unclouded sky; Yet we still stumble In the world's darkness. This world Is but A fleeting dream So why be alarmed At its evanescence? The vagaries of life, Though painful, Teach us Not to cling To this floating world. Why do people Lavish decoration On this set of bones, Destined to disappear Without a trace? The original body Must return to Its original place. Do not search For what cannot be found. No one really knows The nature of birth Nor the true dwelling place. We return to the source And turn to dust. Many paths lead from The foot of the mountain, But at the peak We all gaze at the Single bright moon. If at the end of our journey There is no final Resting place, Then we need not fear Losing our Way. No beginning. No end. Our mind Is born and dies; The emptiness of emptiness! Relax, And the mind Runs wild; Control the world And you can cast it aside. Rain, hail, snow, and ice: All are different But when they fall They become to same water As the valley stream. The ways of proclaiming The Mind all vary, But the same heavenly truth Can be seen In each and every one. Cover your path With fallen pine needles So no one will be able To locate your True dwelling place. How vain, The endless funderals at the Cremation grounds of Mount Toribe! Don't the mourner realize That they will be next? 'Life is fleeeting!' We think at the sight Of smoke drifting from Mount Toribe, But when will we realize That we are in the same boat? All is in vain! This morning, A healthy friend; This evening, A wisp of cremation smoke. What a pity! Evening smoke from Mount Toribe Blown violently To and fro By the wind. When burned We become ashes, and earth when buried. Is it only our sins That remain behind? All the sins Committed In the Three Worlds Will fade away Together with me.

Jana était mapuche, fille d'un peuple sur lequel on avait tiré à vue dans la pampa.

La nature sud-américaine a fabriqué, elle fabrique encore des hommes admirables, pauvres, dur à la peine: le gaucho de la pampa, le caboclo brésilien, le paysan mexicain, le peón (peão). (...) Le misérable isolé du monde par la nature, l'espace, ou sa seule misère, reste toujours le héros littéraire par excellence.

Los pastizales se bamboleaban con el viento cuando salimos y parecía la pampa un mar de dos colores: cuando se dejaban vencer los tallos, era blanca y destellaba como espuma; cuando volvían a su posición inicial, era verde y fulguraban los distintos tonos de los pastos, que parecían brotes tiernos aunque ya casi nada brotaba. Más bien volvía todo a la tierra haciéndose marrón, iba del verde claro, el amarillo, el oro y el ocre a la caída. Otra vez respirábamos, como si hubiéramos salido de una cueva, como si el aire de la estancia hubiera sido turbio, pesado [...].

En la pampa legendaria donde relincha el peludo había una yegua muerta con una flor en el culo.

From his shoulder, I leapt down to the ground and nosed my way into the pampas grass. The path before me was blocked by the thick stems. I lifted my head and saw, far above me, the white ears waving against a clear blue sky. 'Nana?' Satoru's worried voice reached my ears. 'Nana, where are you-uuu?' There was the sound of dry grass being trampled so I knew that Satoru had entered the pampas grass sea, too. I'm here, just here, just near you. But as he called me, Satoru's voice drifted further away. From where I was, I could see Satoru, but he couldn't see me, hidden as I was by the pampas. I guess I have no choice, I thought, and followed quickly after Satoru so he wouldn't get lost. 'Nana?' Right here! I answered him, but it seemed like my voice was being carried away by the wind and didn't reach him. 'Naaaaana!' Satoru began to sound desperate. 'Nana! Nana, where are you-uuuuu?' Satoru started to call out into the distance and, unable to bear it, I let out a loud shout, as big as I could make it. I'm right heeeere! And then there he was, framed against the sky, gazing down on me. The instant our eyes met, his stern look melted. His eyes softened and light caught the trails of water sliding down his cheeks. Without a word, he knelt down on the earth, placed his big hands around my middle and hugged me. That hurts! My guts are going to squeeze out. 'You silly thing! If you wander off in here, I'll never be able to find you!' Satoru's whole body shook with his sobs. 'For someone your size, this field is like a sea of trees!

he pointed to the ocean and said, that’s the pampa. You can’t tell how big it is by looking at it. You have to travel through it, the unchangingness, day after day. In some parts the wind is strong as a fist, but it’s completely silent, it’ll knock you flat but you’ll never hear a thing. No trees is why: not an ombú, not a poplar, nada.

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vitesse de 1000 kilomètres à l’heure et plus tard, l'IA 58 Pucara et l'IA 63 Pampa mais jamais un vrai ovni. Remarque : Les États-Unis et la Grande-Bretagne ont essayé avec grands efforts de recruter Kurt Tank mais sans aval.

she approached the town of Pampa. This part of the Panhandle was so flat that it was paradoxically vertiginous, a two-dimensional planetary surface off which, having no trace of topography to hold on to, you felt you could fall or be swept. No relief in any sense of the word. The land so commercially and agriculturally marginal that Pampans thought nothing of wasting it by the half acre, so that each low and ugly building sat by itself. Dusty dead or dying halfheartedly planted trees floated by in Leila’s headlights. To her they were Texan and therefore lovely in their way.

El historiador Hernán Ramírez Necochea estima que entre 1901 y 1970 murieron alrededor de quince mil personas producto de la acción de uniformados en matanzas como la de las oficinas La Coruña y Buenaventura, la masacre del Seguro Obrero o las muertes en Pampa Irigoin a fines de los sesenta. Hay que sumarle las más de tres mil víctimas reconocidas de la dictadura cívico-militar y el panorama es desolador: el Estado chileno, a través de sus Fuerzas Armadas y de Orden, ha matado a más compatriotas que a extranjeros, más que a todos los muertos en toda la Guerra del Pacífico o en cualquier conflicto que hayan enfrentado con fuerzas extranjeras.

las estrellas son la guía que el gaucho tiene en la pampa.

Cuando el trompetista, con sonidos honestos y bien colocados, me preguntó abiertamente adónde teníamos que ir a buscar a la dichosa pulpera, cómo era el país donde se perdió, y prácticamente me exigió que le describiera la pampa, le respondí lo mejor que pude: Hay un estrellerío tremendo en la noche pampeana. La Vía Láctea escandalosamente visible atraviesa el espacio astronómico y como si eso fuera poco todavía se pierde más allá, fuera del espacio y de la vida, en un silencio tan patente que parece ocultar un estallido. El viajero, a pie, a caballo, en tren, en pálpitos, se detiene, mira hacia la dispersión allá arriba, se vuelve a su estatura y girando hacia todos los horizontes de la rosa de los vientos sólo ve extensión llanista, como la de arriba, y piensa en la imposibilidad de buscar nada en el desorden patético del mundo, del cual uno es una pieza más, desordenada, le digo. Mastropiero pone un poco de color en mis tintes patéticos introduciendo un tren que atraviesa la pampa echando chispas y humo, dando pitidos infantiles, y como si esto fuera poco agrega un barco que se ve pasar junto al horizonte; escucho su sirena, el juego de notas deja en la ambigüedad si se trata del barco en que Eugenia llegó a las pampas o el barco en que las abandonó, no dice si ella viaja en él o no; es sólo un barco, como cualquier otro, dicen los datos sonoros, un barquito que acompaña al tren por la orilla del mar próximo, como ayudándole a orientarse por la pampa. Lo acompaño añadiendo los sonidos del tren, mientras él se ocupa de los del barco, y entonces la trompeta intenta decir rápidamente que estamos llegando al lugar conocido como Santa Lucía donde cantaba la pulpera, lo único que falta es el andén de la estación y el cartel con el nombre del lugar; refuto drásticamente sobre la cuarta cuerda diciéndole que lo único que hay en medio de esa dispersión caótica es la voz de la madre contando/cantando la historia de la pulpera. Insiste la trompeta con coloraturas muy alegres que ya suenan a broma, me gustaría ver la cara que pone Mastropiero cuando toca esa secuencia pero no puedo, no 38

les rogué que me dieran acceso al patio de atrás, si todavía existía, que lindaba con los fondos de otra finca, de la que la nuestra estaba separada por un cerco vivo de rosas trepadoras y ligustros y un tejido de alambre de trama romboidal. La enredadera de rosas y los ligustros no existían pero sí el cerco de alambre a través del cual ella y yo pasábamos los brazos para tocarnos y conocernos, como si fuésemos ciegos. Imposible determinar cuál era el rombo por el que, muchos años atrás, pasé mi mano para el otro lado y atravesando la trama de hojas y de pequeñas rosas estuve a punto de alcanzar su rostro. Elegí uno al azar imaginándome que como entonces ella estaba al otro lado, y me costó meter la mano, tuve que estirar los dedos adelgazándola; pero al llegar al codo se acabó el intento. Aquella vez en cambio, aunque el codo encajado en el rombo me impidió seguir avanzando, ella acercó su rostro infantil atravesando las hojas y rosas trepadoras y lo puso al alcance de las yemas de mis dedos; acariciaba sus mejillas sintiendo que el olor intenso de los ligustros aplastados penetraba en nosotros a través de nuestra respiración agitada. Entre las hojas verdes y las pequeñas rosas pálidas le brillaban unos ojos grandes y celestes.“Ahora yo”, dijo en un español que venía del otro lado del mar, estiró los dedos y pasó la mano por el mismo rombo; su brazo se deslizó sin tocar los alambres y al llegar a la altura del codo éste pasó rozándolos apenas. Me acarició la cara diciéndome “me llamo Eugenia y tú eres Juan”, en su lengua transoceánica. Retiró el brazo, soltó una risita breve y me sacó la lengua. Era plena siesta. El alambrado tiritaba ante el paso, muy cercano, de uno de esos trenes largos que viajan hacia el sur. Cuando el ruido cesó oímos que al otro lado de las vías, donde acababa la ciudad y empezaba la pampa interminable, cantaban las palomas

Soy del norte, cumpa, donde está la flor del coplerío. Donde los changuitos ioran descalzos por esos cerros donde ia no crecen ni los iuios. No hay ni chancua pa darle a los changuitos, ni charqui ni guaschalocro ni mistol ni algarroba, ay juayputa q’hemos hecho señora magre de dios pa que andemos tan pobres. Y güeno, amigo Pezuela, aunque la cosa vaya mesturada, qué lindura ¿no le parece? poder hablar en cristiano con usté. Me vine a estos pagos madrileños medio engolosinao, y ando por aquí de puro bagual. Campeando un cariño maver si nos acollaramos. Se llama Eugenia la chiruza. Lindazo el nombre, ¿no? Vea, soy un foráneo, amigazo, pero de buena laya. Un gaucho de los de endenantes, de los que pelearon contra usté. De ésos que llevaban en sus venas la sangre que el presidente Sarmiento quería pa regar las pampas, porque él nos odeaba, como odeaba también a los españoles y a todo lo que no juera alemán o inglés, él quería poblar las pampas con ingleses y alemanes pero le falló la cosa, porque al final el país se le enllenó de italianos, turcos y judíos. Gaucho de los de endenantes, mi nombre es Juan, de apelativo Bravo, pero no se me asuste ni recule, ando desmontao, no tengo ni caballo ni facón, apenas un cuchillito moto pa cortar el naco de los vicios. Viera el cebruno que montaba allá en mi tierra, al galopar era una luz prendida. Aquí uno anda pobre y de sotreta, sin jergas ni pellones, sin taculona p’hablar con naides, mesmo que de la cuarta al pértigo, como tristón y envaretao por no poder hallar a la chinita Eugenia. Pero tengo un entripao con usté mi general Pezuela, y se me hace que usté también lo tiene conmigo. Dende chiquito me enseñaron a dispreciarlo, porque usté era de la laya de los enemigos que llamábamos godos. Usté no nos quería libres y tuvimos que correrlo del pago a chuzazo limpio, y aura que la lluvia y el tiempo nos han acollarao no sé cómo pedirle las disculpas, seguro que usté durante todo el tiempo que pasó dende entonces anda juntando herrumbre, no como estatua, claro, le estoy hablando al hombre. Soy persona pacífica, como endenantes le dije, ando por estos pagos desmontao y sin facón. Pero si a usté no se le ha ido entoavía la rabia, si quiere peliar, peliemos. Si la ocasión no es güena y le hace frío yo le empriesto mi poncho y no se aflija, que hasta al cuchillito moto se lo empriesto.Yo, amigazo, pa cobrarme tengo de sobra con el cabo ‘e mi rebenque. De no, podemos hablar de pingos. El caballo, compadre, es la única patria de verdá que tuvo el gaucho, porque tuito lo demás ha sido siempre de los que vinieron quién sabe de ánde. En un caballo uno podía ir cambiando de sitio, asigún molestara a los demás con su presencia. Irse campo ajuera, ande lo llevara el viento.¿Compriende, aparcero? A caballo, 47

I knew the Tam were already a success by the greeting I got. The women in their canoes in the middle of the lake called out loud hellos that I heard over my engine, and a few men and children came down to the beach and gave me big floppy Tam waves. A noticeable shift from the chary welcome we’d received six weeks earlier. I cut the engine and several men came and pulled the boat to shore, and without my having to say a word two swaybacked young lads with something that looked like red berries woven in their curled hair led me up a path and down a road, past a spirit house with an enormous carved face over the entryway—a lean and angry fellow with three thick bones through his nose and a wide open mouth with many sharp teeth and a snake’s head for a tongue. It was much more skilled than the Kiona’s rudimentary depictions, the lines cleaner, the colors—red, black, green, and white—far more vivid and glossy, as if the paint were still wet. We passed several of these ceremonial houses and from the doorways men called down to my guides and they called back. They took me in one direction then, as if I wouldn’t notice, turned me around and doubled back down the same road past the same houses, the lake once again in full view. Just when I thought their only plan was to parade me round town all day, they turned a corner and stopped before a large house, freshly built, with a sort of portico in front and blue-and-white cloth curtains hanging in the windows and doorway. I laughed out loud at this English tea shop encircled by pampas grass in the middle of the Territories. A few pigs were digging around the base of the ladder. From below I heard footsteps creaking the new floor. The cloth at the windows and doors puffed in and out from the movement within. ‘Hallo the house!’ I’d heard this in an American frontier film once. I waited for someone to emerge but no one did, so I climbed up and stood on the narrow porch and knocked on one of the posts. The sound was absorbed by the voices inside, quiet, nearly whispery, but insistent, like the drone of a circling aeroplane. I stepped closer and pulled the curtain aside a few inches. I was struck first by the heat, then the smell. There were at least thirty Tam in the front room, on the floor or perched oddly on chairs, in little groups or even alone, everyone with a project in front of them. Many were children and adolescents, but

Cuando el primer sol de la mañana alzándose detrás de los cerros, nos condecoró de oro la frente, nos sentimos grandes y hermosos avanzando bajo su tutela y en su misma dirección oeste... tensado al máximo el arco del pecho, ágiles los pasos en la arena, era como si el cansancio y la fatiga nos volvieran sublimemente inmortales. [...] Marchamos. Desafiando la aridez planetaria de la pampa... marchamos para reclamar la porción justa de pan que nos correspondía por cada gota de sudor y de sangre derramada en nuestro trabajo.

One extraordinary feature of the private quintas or orchards and plantations in the vicinity of the Saladeros was the walls or hedges. These were built entirely of cows' skulls, seven, eight, or nine deep, placed evenly like stones, the horns projecting. Hundreds of thousands of skulls had been thus used, and some of the old, very long walls, crowned with green grass and with creepers and wild flowers growing from the cavities in the bones, had a strangely picturesque but somewhat uncanny appearance.

This was how men were, Pampa Kampana thought. A man philosophized about peace but in his treatment of the helpless girl sleeping in his cave his deeds were not in alignment with his philosophy.

pampa y La cabeza de Goliat; el abandono de Borges del criollismo vanguardista de Fervor de Buenos Aires en beneficio de sus preferencias metafísicas; el reemplazo, en Oliverio Girondo, del humorismo predominante en Veinte poemas para ser leídos en el tranvía o en Calcomanías, a favor de las exasperaciones que en Espantapájaros culminan en una suerte de “memento mori barroco”. Digo, para no abundar en las notas existenciales de Interlunio o en los perfiles que bordean la mística de Persuasión de los días.

On the last day of her life, when she was two hundred and forty-seven years old, the blind poet, miracle worker, and prophetess Pampa Kampana completed her immense narrative poem about Bisnaga and buried it in a clay pot sealed with wax in the heart of the ruined Royal Enclosure, as a message to the future.

Veeraloka Book House - A Center point of Kannada Writing 207, 2nd Floor, 3rd Main Rd, Chamrajpet, Bengaluru, Karnataka 560018 Call – +91 7022122121 Veeraloka kannada bookshop is a famous objective for admirers of Kannada writing, known for its rich assortment and commitment to advancing territorial works. Arranged in the core of Karnataka, this notable bookshop fills in as a social guide, offering perusers admittance to probably the best works in Kannada writing. Whether you're an enthusiastic peruser, an understudy, or a specialist, Veeraloka Book House has turned into the go-to put for anybody looking for quality Kannada books. A Tradition of Kannada Writing Veeraloka Book House was established with the mission of safeguarding and advancing Kannada writing. Throughout the long term, it has become something other than a bookshop — it has transformed into a social establishment. The book shop invests heavily in being one of only a handful of exceptional spots where one can track down uncommon and exemplary works, contemporary books, and instructive materials across the board place. It has contributed altogether to supporting the Kannada language by making writing open to perusers of any age and foundations. A Tremendous Assortment One of the greatest draws of Veeraloka Book House is its broad assortment of books. The shop brags a wide cluster types, including verse, books, verifiable works, life stories, expositions, and examination materials. From the compositions of antiquated Kannada artists like Pampa and Ranna to current creators like Kuvempu, U.R. Ananthamurthy, and Girish Karnad, Veeraloka Book House takes care of a wide range of scholarly preferences. Other than writing, the shop additionally offers reading material, scholarly works, youngsters' writing, and books on way of thinking, otherworldliness, and self-advancement. This guarantees that the bookshop isn't just for easygoing perusers yet in addition for researchers and understudies looking for information on a large number of subjects. Support for Arising Scholars Veeraloka Book House has likewise turned into a stage for maturing writers. The book shop frequently has book dispatches, verse readings, and scholarly conversations, offering new essayists a chance to introduce their work to a more extensive crowd. This has made the bookshop a huge piece of Karnataka's scholarly biological system. By supporting arising creators, it guarantees that the fate of Kannada writing keeps on thriving. Local area Commitment and Occasions Aside from being a spot for purchasing books, Veeraloka kannada bookshop assumes a vital part in drawing in with the neighborhood local area. The book shop oftentimes arranges scholarly occasions, studios, and conversations, welcoming perusers, authors, and learned people to share their adoration for Kannada writing. These occasions advance perusing as well as encourage a feeling of social character and pride among Kannada speakers. Online Presence With regards to present day patterns, Veeraloka kannada bookshop has embraced the computerized world by making its assortment accessible on the web. This permits Kannada perusers from across the globe to get to their number one books with only a couple of snaps. The web-based entry is easy to understand and gives definite portrayals of each book, guaranteeing that clients have a simple and consistent shopping experience. End Veeraloka Book House is something other than a book shop; it is an image of Karnataka's rich scholarly legacy. With its wide assortment, support for arising essayists, and profound commitment with the local area, the shop keeps on being a treasured spot for anybody energetic about Kannada writing. Whether you visit face to face or peruse its broad web-based assortment, Veeraloka Book House offers an advancing encounter for all book sweethearts.

Bone would pierce his skin, and once he'd fallen to the earth, his blood would seep out of his flesh and drip into the soil. An endless world of miniature organisms would rise and fall within his blood, nourishing the pampas grass beneath his boots. Entire ecosystems and galaxies would expand and shrink, feeding off his remains, passing along the breath of life through nutrients sipped by plant roots.

espléndidas amarguras”, como las calificó Borges, de Radiografía de la pampa, de 1933. Sin

Some of the most clear-cut examples of desertification are those that have occurred on farmland because the resulting declines in crop yield are relatively straightforward to monitor. Fields on which just a single crop is grown year after year, so-called ‘monocultures’, will slowly become degraded, as studies on cropland in the semi-arid Pampas of Argentina have shown. The long-term cultivation of millet has affected both the chemical and physical properties of soils. The depletion of nutrients means that larger amounts of fertilizers have to be applied to maintain crop yields, while declines in organic matter and soil stability have meant a greater susceptibility to erosion.

I need a third hand, like a bird that the others cannot send to sleep. I need to hear dizzy gallopings in the pampas.

Cuando la tarde se inclina sollozando al occidente, corre una sombra doliente sobre la pampa argentina. Y cuando el sol ilumina Con luz brillante y serena del ancho campo la escena, la melancólica sombra huye besando su alfombra con el afán de la pena.

Diablos del día, catástrofes del olvido pasado, catástrofes del olvido que viene, mugen de pampa, falsa es la ilusión de otra ilusión.

Bukka was thinking about Pampa Kampana. “She talked a lot about peace but if that’s what she wants why did she grow us this army?” he wondered. “Is it peace she really wants, or revenge? For her mother’s death, I mean.

Only such witnessing could have inspired the mildly epiphanic passage in Seeds of Man, in which the clear air of the mountainous borderland all too briefly serves as an antidote to the industrial poisons that had choked the life out of both Okemah and Pampa. As Guthrie recalled it: “The feel and the breath of the air was all different, new, high, clear, clean, and light. None of the smokes and carbons, none of the charcoal smells of the oil fields. None of the sooty oil-field fires, none of the blackening slush-pond blazes, none of those big sheet-iron petroleum refineries, none of those big smoky carbon-black plants. No smells of the wild oil gusher on the breeze. No smells from that wild gas well blowing off twenty million feet into the good air every day.”30

In this way Pampa learned the lesson every creator must learn, even God himself. Once you had created your characters, you had to be bound by their choices. You were no longer free to remake them according to your own desires. They were what they were and they would do what they would do. This was 'free will'. She could not change them if they did not want to be changed.

En este sentido, la premio Nobel Rigoberta Menchú presentó (curiosamente) ante la Audiencia Nacional española en 1999 una querella contra el Gobierno guatemalteco —ante la imposibilidad de hacerlo en Guatemala— para investigar crímenes cometidos por oficiales guatemaltecos contra las mujeres mayas, ¡en pleno siglo xx!. De hecho, la discriminación de los indios en Latinoamérica no fue menor una vez que las colonias se independizaron de España, sino que en ocasiones fue incluso mucho más intensa. Es el caso de Argentina donde los indios llegaron a desaparecer… tras la descolonización. En la llamada campaña del Desierto (1878-1885), cuando hacía más de sesenta años de la independencia de España (por tanto quienes mandaban eran ya una generación nacida en una Argentina independiente), el Ejército argentino cargó contra los pueblos amerindios, principalmente de las etnias mapuche y tehuelche que vivían hasta entonces tranquilamente en la región pampeana y la Patagonia. Según estimaciones de un comité científico que acompañó al ejército argentino, de 15.000 indígenas que habitaban potencialmente la zona, 14.000 murieron o fueron hechos prisioneros. Otras estimaciones elevan tanto el número de pobladores, como de muertos o separados de sus familias. El objetivo, reconocido por el propio Congreso argentino, fue el exterminio de los indios salvajes de la Pampa y la Patagonia.

Puta pampa de mierda sin ningún arbusto y con puras piedras, lomas y tierra.

El dios bueno, “Chachao”, se aburría en la eternidad del Cielo. Quiso bajar a la Tierra, aún anegadiza y lluviosa, donde las cosas eran efímeras y mutables; tomó la Vía Láctea, que entonces llegaba hasta la pampa y todavía es llamada “el Camino del Cielo” en la lengua vernácula. Gozó Chachao o “Indio Viejo”, que era emocionalmente un eterno niño, ensuciándose las manos y chapoteando en la tierra enlodada; moldeó con barro figuras de fantasía y las sopló, irresponsablemente, para infundirles vida. Así fueron creados los animales. Para darles espacio donde correr, de otro soplo aventó las lluvias, secó los pantanos y dio firmeza a la pampa. Vio su imagen reflejada en una laguna y tuvo el capricho de reproducirla en estatuillas de dos pies que vestían, como él, chiripá y poncho. No eran reproducciones perfectas sino casi caricaturas, pues el Viejo estaba de buen humor y solamente buscaba reírse de sí mismo. Pero un incidente inesperado transforma en tragedia la escena de la Creación. El ñandú, entusiasmado con sus carreras por la pampa seca, quiso subir al cielo por la Vía Láctea y aprovechó la distracción de Chachao para ascender algunos tramos. Al darse cuenta este de que una criatura de barro iba a ensuciar las alturas celestiales, desató sus boleadoras y las arrojó contra el osado, que de una espantada volvió a la pampa dejando en el Cielo, a comienzos de la Vía Láctea, la huella de sus tres dedos y garrón: la Cruz del Sur; también quedaron las boleadoras del Viejo, Alfa y Beta de Centauro, junto a la huella. Ocupado en espantar al ñandú no se dio cuenta Chachao de que su hermano “Gualicho”, dios malo, había descendido a la Tierra para gastarle la pesada broma de soplar los monigotes bípedos acabados de esculpir. Se llenaron de espanto ambos hijos del Cielo cuando vieron a los objetos de barro moverse, pavonearse y discurrir como si fueran dioses. Chachao escapó horrorizado por la Vía Láctea. Con su cuchillo de piedra cortó el Camino del Cielo para que los monstruos —es decir, los seres humanos— no subieran. Dejó a Gualicho en la Tierra en castigo por haberles infundido el aliento divino a esos grotescos y efímeros muñecos de barro. El dios bueno no volvió más a la pampa, ni pudo salir el dios malo de ella. Desde entonces busca Gualicho destruir su imprudencia aniquilando a los hombres con enfermedades, guerras y hambres. Lo hace de lejos, pues verlos le causa horror y remuerde la conciencia; por eso vive en lo profundo de los montes y solo se arriesga a salir cuando las noches son oscuras. (Tomado de José M. Rosa).

The first price we had to pay for such happiness was the dust. I, having lived wholly inside the dust, having been little more than one of the many forms that dust took there, having been contained in the atmosphere - the earth of the pampa is also sky - started to feel it, to notice it, to hate it when it made my teeth gritty, when it stuck to my sweat, when it weighed down my hat. We declared war on the dust, all the while knowing that we were fighting a losing battle: we come from dust.

Para algunos ensayistas como Ezequiel Martínez Estrada, ya no existían salidas, al menos en su Radiografía de la pampa (1933). Diferente fue la postura de Eduardo Mallea, quien propuso en su Historia de una pasión argentina (1937) otra versión del ser nacional. Para Mallea, la Argentina de los años treinta se encontraba bajo el signo de la pérdida, pues se habían olvidado los valores esenciales. Esos valores, sin embargo, no se habían perdido para siempre, sino que se encontraban sumergidos en lo que Mallea denominó “la Argentina invisible

para correr tierras. Desembarqué en Buenos Aires, en 1866, a los 18 años, sin dinero, ni oficio, ni carta de recomendación, ni, por fin, el menor conocimiento del idioma. Para no rebajarme a la prosa de la vida, fui al campo, que entonces era de veras la pampa. Me hice hombre entre gauchos, sin perder un ápice de mi orgulloso idealismo. Volví a la ciudad a los 20 años, hablando ya y escribiendo a medias el castellano”.

Borges mira a Buenos Aires desde un espacio recordado, un espacio mítico que él mismo, más que recibir del pasado, impulsa como su propia novedad en la literatura argentina: la ciudad criolla que persiste en la ciudad moderna, la llanura pampeana que se refleja en el patio, en los cercos vivos del suburbio, en las calles “sin vereda de enfrente”, es decir las calles que tocan la pampa y se pierden en la extensión de un paisaje familiar.

Domestic Horticulture Enforcement Agency,” explained John as we walked towards the SpecOps building. “SO-32. I’m starting an office here. There’s been a rise in the number of hackers just recently. The Pampas Grass Vigilante Squad are becoming more brazen in their activities; pampas grass might well be an eyesore, but there’s nothing illegal in it.

«Parliamo e non ci capiamo», disse scoraggiato. «Parliamo la stessa lingua, ma non parliamo la stessa lingua.» Questo era vero, e chi non lo sa? Un cittadino e un cafone difficilmente possono capirsi. Quando lui parlava era un cittadino, non poteva cessare di essere un cittadino, non poteva parlare che da cittadino. Ma noi eravamo cafoni. Noi capivamo tutto da cafoni, cioè, a modo nostro. Migliaia di volte, nella mia vita, ho fatto questa osservazione: cittadini e cafoni sono due cose differenti. In gioventù sono stato in Argentina, nella Pampa; parlavo con cafoni di tutte le razze, dagli spagnuoli agl’indii, e ci capivamo come se fossimo stati a Fontamara; ma con un italiano che veniva dalla città, ogni domenica, mandato dal consolato, parlavamo e non ci capivamo; anzi, spesso capivamo il contrario di quello che ci diceva.

Fragmento de El fantasma de Harlot(una historia novelada de la CIA), Norman Mailer ,1991. Ahora, por supuesto, hay toda clase de bullicio en algunas partes de la ciudad. Las tiendas tienen nombres como Lola y Marbella, y sólo venden ropa. Este sábado hay hordas de compradores de aspecto materialista. Las reses cuelgan en las carnicerías, terriblemente sanguinolentas. De hecho, se come tanta carne en este país (¡ciento veinte kilos per cápita!), que es posible oler grasa de barbacoa en todas las esquinas. El olor se mete en todo lo que uno come, pescado, pollo, huevos. Proviene de los grandes bovinos que galopan por las pampas. Pero no es este olor de las parrillas el elemento que encuentro único. Son las calles laterales. Montevideo es una ciudad que se desparrama, y las partes antiguas permanecen; sólo se les hace una suerte de refacción. La mayoría de los nativos no viven en la historia tal cual la conocemos nosotros. Cuando me marché de Washington, todo el mundo estaba preocupado por Hungría y Suez y la campaña presidencial. Ahora me siento alejado de los problemas del mundo. En Montevideo, todos los relojes públicos parecen haberse detenido.