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Esta es la historia de un hombre que a mediados del siglo XIX, pone su voluntad al servicio de un sueno: descubrir el secreto de la mas preciosa calidad de te, adentrandose en el corazon de Asia, hasta perderse en el Imperio Celeste. Un gran viaje espiritual que, entre mitos, ritos y secretos de esencia milenaria, conduce a su protagonista de la dulzura del te a la del opio, mediante el descubrimiento del placer de los sentidos y del amor por la mujer mas hermosa y seductora del mundo. Pero el viaje desemboca en lo imprevisto y una verdad trastornadora cambiara para siempre su vida.

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This book guides its principal character thru a spiritual journey where myths, rituals and opium go along with each other. Seller Inventory ARN Book Description Editorial Anagrama, Condition: Brand New.

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Buy with confidence, excellent customer service!. Seller Inventory n. I turn them over in the dawn, I lose them, I find them; I tell them to the few stray dogs and to the few stray stars of the dawn. Your dark rich life. I must get at you, somehow: I put away those illustrious toys you have left me, I want your hidden look, your real smile—that lonely, mocking smile your cool mirror knows.

I offer you lean streets, desperate sunsets, the moon of the ragged suburbs. I offer you the bitterness of a man who has looked long and long at the lonely moon. I offer you whatever insight my books may hold, whatever manliness or humour my life. I offer you the loyalty of a man who has never been loyal. I offer you that kernel of myself that I have saved, somehow—the central heart that deals not in words, traffics not with dreams and is untouched by time, by joy, by adversities.

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I offer you the memory of a yellow rose seen at sunset, years before you were born. I offer you explanations of yourself, theories about yourself, authentic and surprising news of your- self. I can give you my loneliness, my darkness, the hunger of my heart; I am trying to bribe you with uncertainty, with danger, with defeat.

David Hume de Edimburgo dijo la misma cosa. In future epochs the centaur will oppress With solid uncleft hoof the breast of the Lapith; When Rome is dust the Minotaur will moan Once more in the endless dark of its rank palace. Every sleepless night will come back in minute Detail. This writing hand will be born from the same Womb, and bitter armies contrive their doom.

I do not know if we will recur in a second Cycle, like numbers in a periodic fraction; But I know that a vague Pythagorean rotation Night after night sets me down in the world On the outskirts of this city.

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A remote street Which might be either north or west or south, But always with a blue-washed wall, the shade Of a fig tree, and a sidewalk of broken concrete. This, here, is Buenos Aires. Names in which secret bugle calls are sounding, Invoking republics, cavalry, and mornings, Joyful victories, men dying in action. La noche lateral de los pantanos me acecha y me demora.

Oigo los cascos de mi caliente muerte que me busca con jinetes, con belfos y con lanzas. A wind is up, blowing full of cinders as the day and this chaotic battle straggle to a close. I, Francisco Narciso Laprida, who studied both canon law and civil and whose voice declared the independence of this entire untamed territory, in defeat, my face marked by blood and sweat, holding neither hope nor fear, the way lost, strike out for the South through the back country. Like that captain in Purgatorio who fleeing on foot left blood on the plain and was blinded and then trampled by death where an obscure river loses its name, so I too will fall.

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Today is the end. The night and to right and left the marshes— in ambush, clogging my steps. I hear the hooves of my own hot death riding me down with horsemen, frothing muzzles, and lances. I who longed to be someone else, to weigh judgments, to read books, to hand down the law, will lie in the open out in these swamps; but a secret joy somehow swells my breast. En el espejo de esta noche alcanzo mi insospechado rostro eterno. Pisan mis pies la sombra de las lanzas que me buscan. I was carried to this ruinous hour by the intricate labyrinth of steps woven by my days from a day that goes back to my birth.

I wait to let it come. My feet tread the shadows of the lances that spar for the kill. The river of years has lost them from its numbered current; you are a word in an index. To others the gods gave glory that has no end: inscriptions, names on coins, monuments, conscientious historians; all that we know of you, eclipsed friend, is that you heard the nightingale one evening.

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Among the asphodels of the Shadow, your shade, in its vanity, must consider the gods ungenerous. But the days are a web of small troubles, and is there a greater blessing than to be the ash of which oblivion is made? Above other heads the gods kindled the inexorable light of glory, which peers into the secret parts and discovers each separate fault; glory, that at last shrivels the rose it reveres; they were more considerate with you, brother.

Thirteen years he served in the Wars of Independence. The battle is everlasting and can do without the pomp of actual armies and of trumpets. Humo y silbidos escalaban la noche, Que de golpe fue el Juicio Universal. At my feet The shunting trains trace iron labyrinths. Steam hisses up and up into the night, Which becomes at a stroke the night of the Last Judgment.

From the unseen horizon And from the very center of my being, An infinite voice pronounced these things— Things, not words. You have used up the years and they have used up you, And still, and still, you have not written the poem. Quiere matar, quiere derramar brusca sangre. It was forged in Toledo at the end of the last century. Evaristo Carriego once held it in his hand.

Whoever lays eyes on it has to pick up the dagger and toy with it, as if he had always been on the lookout for it. The hand is quick to grip the waiting hilt, and the powerful obeying blade slides in and out of the sheath with a click. This is not what the dagger wants.

It is more than a structure of metal; men conceived it and shaped it with a single end in mind. It wants to kill, it wants to shed sudden blood. On wielding it the hand comes alive because the metal comes alive, sensing itself, each time handled, in touch with the killer for whom it was forged. At times I am sorry for it. Such power and single- mindedness, so impassive or innocent its pride, and the years slip by, unheeding.

Beyond the name there lies what has no name; Today I have felt its shadow stir the aim Of this blue needle, light and keen, whose sweep Homes to the utmost of the sea its love, Suggestive of a watch in dreams, or of Some bird, perhaps, who shifts a bit in sleep. Lima con lenta pluma sus rigores Y se detiene. Slowly he shapes it; yet the impulse fails. He stops, perhaps at a strange slight music shed From time coming and its holy dread, A murmuring of far-off nightingales. Did he sense that others were to follow, That the arcane, incredible Apollo Had revealed an archetypal thing, A whirlpool mirror that would draw and hold All that night could hide or day unfold: Daedalus, labyrinth, riddle, Oedipus King?

To blot out or to mitigate the pain Of all reality, he hid in dream; A magic past was opened up to him Through Roland and the tales of Ancient Britain. At sunset he would contemplate the vast Plain with its copper light lingering on; He felt himself defeated, poor, alone, Ignorant of what music he was master; Already, in the still depths of some dream, Don Quixote and Sancho were alive in him. Para siempre cerraste alguna puerta Y hay un espejo que te aguarda en vano; La encrucijada te parece abierta Y la vigila, cuadrifronte, Jano.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness, Who will tell us to whom in this house We without knowing it have said farewell? Through the dawning window night withdraws And among the stacked books which throw Irregular shadows on the dim table, There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate, With its cement urns and planted cactus, Which is already forbidden to my entry, Inaccessible, as in a lithograph. There is a door you have closed forever And some mirror is expecting you in vain; To you the crossroads seem wide open, Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus. You will not be seen going down to that fountain Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon. You will never recapture what the Persian Said in his language woven with birds and roses, When, in the sunset, before the light disperses, You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake, All that vast yesterday over which today I bend? They will be as lost as Carthage, Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt. At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent Murmur of crowds milling and fading away; They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by; Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me. Era tenaz. Obraron su fortuna Remos, redes, arado, espada, escudo; La dura mano que guerreaba pudo Grabar con hierro una porfiada runa.