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More Cortázar, Because I Can't Believe How Awesome This Book Is
Of course, the arguments have absolutely nothing to do with swallows, as anyone who understands the language of the two Tartars can testify.
"Of all the people I know, you are the biggest cronk," Calac says.
"And you are the biggest pettifor," Polanco says. "You call me a cronk, sir, but it's obvious that you've never boneyed your face in a mirror."
"What you're trying to do is start a fight with me, mister," Calac says.
The two boney each other with a fearful mulgh. Then Polanco takes out a piece of chalk and draws a zott on the floor.
"You are the biggest cronk," Calac says.
"And you're the biggest pettifor," Polanco says.
Calac bulls the zott with the sole of his shoe. They seem to be at the point of maphing each other.
"You're the biggest cronk," Calac says.
"And you're the biggest pettifor," says Polanco.
"What you're trying to do is start a fight with me," Calac says.
"You bulled my zott," says Polanco.
"I bulled it because you nicked me as a pettifor."
"And I nick you again, if that's what we've come to."
"Because you're a cronk," Calac says.
"A cronk is a lot better than a pettifor," Polanco says.
Polanco takes a terfulgh from his pocket and sticks it on Calac, who doesn't remune.
"Now you're going to reboy me for saying I'm a cronk," Polanco says.
"I'll reboy you for anything you want and I'll bull any zott you have," Calac says.
"Then I maphe you with this trefulgh in the mondong."
"And you'll still be a cronk."
"And you a poor little pettifor."
"And for a cronk like you every zott will be bulled, even if you pull a trefulgh with six stars."
"I maphe this trefulgh on you," says Polanco, who boneys it very tight. "Nobody bulls my zott or goes around nicking me for a cronk."
"The blame for what happens will be yours because you nicked me first," Calac says.
"You nicked me first," Polanco says. "Then I counternicked as you deserved and you bulled my zott and reboyed me by saying I'm a cronk."
"I reboyed you because you boneyed me first."
"And you, why did you bull my zott?"
"I bulled it because you were boneying me in an ugly way. No pettifor boneys me even if he pulls a trefulgh on me."
"All right, all right," Juan says. "It's getting like a session at the disarmament conference in Geneva, I can tell you from first hand."
"Didn't you ever maphe that trefulgh?" asks my paredros, who always acts if he knows what's going on.
"Watch out," Polanco says. "Put it so that it will rust on me later with all it's cost me to keep it in shape. Arms are a delicate matter, you know."
"My chest will be silver sheath which that filthy thing doesn't deserve," Calac says, "Go on, put it back in your pocket, because what you like the best is the fuzzy kind."
- 62: A Model Kit,
Julio Cortázar, tr. Gregory Rabassa
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Since you've read this, can I ask what your take on the "my paredros" figure is? I'm reading it as sort of a moveable, collective identity--sort of a group familiar or something. I'm not finding anything helpful about it online.
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Your reading of paredros is the same as mine, and one of the awesome things about Cortazar is that we might be entirely wrong, but it works anyway. Beautiful.
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Yes, exactly. It's the sort of thing that works because you're forced to make it work--much like the nonsense words that Calac and Polanco are making up. Man. I've only read this and Hopscotch thus far, but at this point I'm ready to make a pilgrimage to the man's grave. And this from a guy who's never been able to think of enough reasons to go to Paris.
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just wow.
that is amazing.
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