A person living the last days of a life similar to that of Carlos Keen, but in Mexico.

Fuentes invites us on a journey to the final straight of Artemio Cruz's path, the days when he watches in private screening the succession of his memories. Don Artemio may die, but he sees clearly - and becomes the judge of his life.

Is there a life that is not wrongly spent, is there an end that is not ignoble? Cruz answers successively: no, yes, and again no.

Unforgettable is the scene of the New Year's Eve party, when in front of the throne of the old king Solomon-Artemio, his invited guests are presented, along with some of his glittering spoils; all and everything is there as a measure of his earthly greatness, but he is already elsewhere. Smoke and mirrors - Wikipedia

In contrast to the spectacle, the memory of his first, great and tragic love: “…abundance without time... what can the world tell us... what could it add to this?”. One of the last scenes on his screen, before the delirious phantasmagoria of the end (p. 307). Perhaps there, in the limbo, in the rejection of the obligation of evaluation, in the entanglement with the present and the definitive union with his ghosts, lies the final answer for Cruz.

Herald of "One Hundred Years of Solitude" - which will be published five years later, it may be lacking only in that it is somewhat uneven in terms of the literary density of its individual parts; I think the 33-year-old Fuentes must have gone through different phases as he wrote it. Perhaps Marquez was more mature technically - he was forty at the time of the publication of his masterpiece.

However, the author - river Carlos Fuentes, delivered a work full of lyricism, symbols and images - both delicate and harsh - in an excessive, almost baroque quantity. A novel that has been constructed with a complex and idiosyncratic architecture. The translation work of Mrs. Efis Giannopoulou is excellent.

Juan Posada: El gran panteón amoroso – Museo Nacional de Arte

When I go towards Foucault, to a great extent, my mind is at ease that in the end I won't be lazy, powerless, and disheartened. Foucault has never disappointed me.

However, because of the form of narration, the intervals of getting the book should be shorter. And it should never be read in a state of fatigue. One should roam and travel within the text along with the author who is reviewing his entire life and each page might be a point in his life.

I want to apologize to Mr. Foucault that I couldn't do justice to this book and read it as it deserves.

Expansion: When I embark on the journey towards Foucault, a sense of tranquility pervades my mind. I am confident that I won't succumb to laziness, powerlessness, or discouragement. Foucault has always been a source of inspiration and enlightenment for me.

Nevertheless, due to the specific form of narration in his works, it is necessary to approach the reading with shorter intervals. This allows for a more in-depth understanding and absorption of the complex ideas presented.

Moreover, it is essential never to read Foucault's works when one is fatigued. The mind needs to be sharp and receptive to fully engage with the profound thoughts and concepts within the text.

I feel a sense of remorse for not being able to do full justice to his books and read them in the manner they truly deserve. I strive to improve my reading skills and approach Foucault's works with the respect and attention they demand.

Caveat: This review is specific to my current, idiosyncratic reading needs. Specifically, I need not to have my depression exacerbated.

Short version: if you are ill and trying not to focus on your physical being, and would be disturbed by the graphic depiction of the physical decomposition and mental fragmentation of a dying protagonist who is sociopathic, power-consumed, hateful and in no imaginable way sympathetic, don't read this book. Longer version follows.

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Some people achieve greatness, and some people assiduously avoid it and have great novels thrust upon them. This one was inflicted on me by my book club, which chose it, presumably, to honor the recently-deceased Fuentes (who unquestionably deserves to be honored). I chose to read the Spanish edition, just because I could and would have felt guilty about doing otherwise. So your mileage may vary, linguistically speaking, if the English translation is especially good or bad, but I think my opinion would be language-invariant over all editions. I'm sure it'd be equally unremittingly depressing rendered into any form of human communication. (Don't get me wrong; it's a powerful, superlatively-well-written, historically- and politically-illuminating novel. Don't read it if you're already dysphoric, though.)

Understand that this isn't going to be incisive literary analysis (fat chance of that; sooner will I press a Mack truck than succeed in deconstructing Fuente's narrative technique). I'm really more interested in the politics of power and brutality and oppression.

Mikhail Bakunin said that, the day after the revolution, the revolutionary ought to be executed. With the caveat that I don't personally believe in executing anyone, ever, I think that Artemio Cruz makes a pretty good case for Bakunin's assertion. Cruz starts out at the very bottom of the social hierarchy, conceivably with a measure of good intentions in participating in the revolution -- though also an obvious propensity for violence. (He kills his uncle and rapes the woman who's to become the love of his life.) He's more a Mexican Charles Foster Kane, though, than he is the sort of privileged-from-birth man-fratboy sociopathic narcissist that, say, certain right-wing American politicians seem to be. (He's definitely sociopathic, just not born to the manner.) But he decays spiritually through the flashbacks, if you can put them into any kind of order (as he does physically, in the present) and becomes a monster. (Though, from my personal perspective, anyone willing to participate in extremities of violence in the first place, no matter what the pretext, doesn't exactly start out from a place of spiritual purity; even revolutionary wars don't enchant me.) If Cruz's early life is supposed to redeem him, it doesn't work for me, though his older persona becomes something even more appalling. Winston Churchill, quoting some French general whose name eludes me, is himself famously quoted as having said that young men who aren't liberal have no hearts, and that older men who haven't become conservative have no brains. I remember once declaring to some of my students campaigning for a candidate who shall go nameless that, \\"as the brainless addressing the heartless,\\" I really didn't like their politics.\\" Why this occurs to me is that I think Fuentes is playing on the perceived ineluctability of this transmogrification from idealist to monster, and it bothers me, because although it may be common, I don't think it is ineluctable. Also, it fails adequately to indict the silver-spoon, cradle-to-grave sociopaths and megalomaniacs, though I'm sure Fuentes has no use for them, either.

I have some sympathy for Cruz, mostly because he's dying painfully, and it's excruciating to be asked to partake of that experience vicariously when your own health isn't good, and few of us are immune from health issues. There is kind of a \\"stereo-optical\\" effect. Could Fuentes have achieved the same effect without plunging us full-bore into moribundity and putrescence? No, I don't think so.

Would I have been more interested in trying to empathize with a character who had exhibited or retained some measure of youthful idealism (and had, consequently, much less (toxic) effect on the world)? Yes, but persistent idealists (e.g., M.L. King, Jr.) are the ones who do actually end up being assassinated, rather than the revolutionaries ripe to become oppressors in their own right, and such a tome wouldn't have been particularly revelatory of the realities of any sort of history or politics.

I admire Fuentes. I think he's a kindred spirit, politically and ideologically. But he merely reaffirms my worst perceptions of the world as a place where \\"feeble conviction\\" is almost invariably overborne by toxic \\"passionate intensity,\\" even in the history of one life. It's deeply depressing.

Shocking beginning:

"I wake up. The contact of this cold body with my limb wakes me up. I didn't know that a person sometimes cries helplessly."

It is one of those books that you must read in the cold season. The cold and heavy atmosphere, the interweaving of sleep and dream and thought, the past and the present, the sentences of the present in the past, the past in the present, Carlos Fuentes can play well with these things.

"One must think about the body. How tiring it is to think about the body. About one's own body. About the bodies that are connected to each other. It is tiring. One cannot stop thinking. There is existence. I think, I am a witness. I am, a body. It remains. It goes... it goes..."

Artemio Cruz, this general lying in bed,

His desire to survive, his tendency to have useless wealth, his eagerness, his lust, his death,

Could I understand it or was I too young to narrate it?!

Is the decline of a human being really so simple and soulless?

"This will not be the first time. Your life has been full of death, full of moments of simple and short movements."

If one day I become so old that I lie in bed and want to spend my lazy and disease-ridden days, this is the book that I will pick up again in my hands.

Last June:

Even more shocking ending:

"I had you with me and I will die with you... everyone... we are dying... you... you are dying... you are dead... I will die."

99/8/1

Maliciously spoken, audacious, corrupt, opportunistic, and with an infinite number of other descriptors, Artemio Cruz represents the paradoxes of the history of Mexico at that time, which was contemporary. He embodies the political system that governed, the customs of the middle and upper classes deeply rooted in power. In the end, he is a radiograph of the history of Mexico. Starting from a corrupt man who uses his means to remain in power, it leads us to question to what extent his life determined his death and if this represents a broader historical context. Carlos Fuentes presents in the last hours his thesis that argues that one dies as one lives. In each fragment, in some way, the physical sufferings of Artemio are presented. His illness was not clean, much less dignified. He was dying from the inside out and it did not allow him to live his last moments in peace.

This novel offers a profound exploration of the human condition and the complex web of history, power, and morality. It forces the reader to confront the uncomfortable truths about society and the individuals who inhabit it.

For a complete review, visit: http://mariana-is-reading.blogspot.co...

The malfunctioning appendix of a person whose life was extremely chaotic and full of contradictions, just before crossing into the zone of non-existence.

This individual had led a tumultuous existence, with various conflicts and uncertainties plaguing his days. His relationships were in disarray, his career was in a state of flux, and he seemed to be constantly at odds with himself and the world around him.

As his appendix began to malfunction, it was as if his body was rebelling against the chaos within. The pain and discomfort served as a stark reminder of the instability in his life. And yet, in a strange way, it also offered a glimmer of hope. Perhaps this physical ailment would force him to confront his inner turmoil and find a way to bring some semblance of order and peace to his existence.

But as the situation worsened and he was on the verge of passing into the unknown, one could only wonder what would become of him. Would he find the answers he so desperately sought? Or would he simply fade away, leaving behind a legacy of chaos and contradiction?

After six days of continuous reading, I finished this work by Fuentes. Although the title is similar to "The Death of Ivan Ilyich" by Tolstoy or "The Death of Artemio Cruz" by Carlos Fuentes or "The Death of a Salesman" by Miller... except that the title here is more experimental than it is about death or even digestion.

The book tells the story of Artemio Cruz, who is seventy-one years old and is dealing with a wife who doesn't care about him and a daughter who doesn't get along with him, as if you are reading a fake version of "The Knot of the Fates." The novel also deals with the history of the Mexican Revolution in the 1920s, which I didn't find myself related to or connected with.

Three stars out of five, for the author is Carlos Fuentes. God be with you all.

The complexity of the book slightly annoyed me. Maybe it's because I was on a trip and that's how it seemed to me. But in general, it wasn't too bad.

I think that sometimes when we are in a different environment, our perception of things can change. For example, when we are traveling, we might be more distracted or stressed, which could affect how we feel about a book.

However, despite the initial annoyance, I still found some aspects of the book interesting. It had some unique ideas and perspectives that made me think.

Overall, I would say that the book was an average read. It wasn't great, but it wasn't terrible either. Maybe if I had read it in a different setting, I might have had a different opinion.

I can understand and recognize the reasons why this particular work is regarded as a literary masterpiece. However, for me personally, the only truly satisfying moment within the entire book occurred when I finally reached the very last page. Throughout the reading process, it simply failed to fully capture my attention or ignite within me a strong desire to delve deeper and learn more about the Mexican Revolution that the book was presumably centered around.

At the halfway mark, I found myself compelled to stop and go back to the beginning in an attempt to better understand the events that were unfolding and to get a sense of where the story might be headed. This rereading did provide a slight amount of assistance in clarifying some of the details, but it was not sufficient enough to make me want to undertake a complete reread of the entire book.

In conclusion, while I can appreciate the literary merits of the work on an objective level, it ultimately did not resonate with me on a personal level in a way that would have made it a truly engaging and memorable reading experience.

Man lies on his deathbed and looks back on his (not too glorious) life, which is intertwined with Mexican history. Carlos Fuentes brings out the heavy literary artillery by describing this from three perspectives (one of which is in stream-of-consciousness style). And a more seasoned person like me could write a lot of intelligent things about it.

However, I am who I am, and although this novel contains some powerful moments (such as the part about his son), for me, they were lost in the excess of inflated language use and the constant use of lists and repetitions. As a result, most of the time, I just thought, "DIE ALREADY, DAMMIT."

And that's exactly what he does in the end.

No. I felt it, but no.

However much it was supposed to be a "must-read", the reading has been almost unbearable for me.

The avant-garde cravings of the author cannot override the story, the characters, and the reader.

Page after page of chaos, perhaps there is a small good story within.

But the smoke and form curtain is so dense that one doesn't know where to grab it.

The only thing I don't understand is how I managed to tolerate finishing it.

Maybe the author was trying to be too experimental, which led to this convoluted mess.

The lack of a clear narrative made it difficult for me to engage with the story and the characters.

I found myself constantly getting lost in the jumble of words and ideas.

Despite this, I did manage to persevere until the end, hoping that there would be some sort of payoff.

But unfortunately, it just wasn't there.

This book was a disappointment for me, and I don't think I would recommend it to others.

Ah, the mid-century third-world novel.

Once upon a time, leftist writers across Latin America, Africa, and Asia, inspired by Brecht and Tolstoy, penned magnificent epics that delved deep into the lives of peasants and landlords, colonizers and compradors. However, those glorious days have long since vanished into the annals of history.

This truly sucks. These are the very types of novels that we are gradually forgetting how to appreciate. They are firmly rooted in a particular place and culture, yet simultaneously embrace universalist and humanist ideals. Novels from the "third world" still enjoy popularity, but all too often, the ones that gain prominence are marred by the stench of knockoff magical-realist drivel. Enchanted orphans, magic rings, and other such nonsense - AH GO FUCK YOURSELF.

This is precisely why you should turn to the works of Carlos Fuentes (alongside Pramoedya Ananta Toer, Chinua Achebe, and others). These are books that explore the essence of life, poverty, and hope, appealing to those who are drawn to the profound insights of Dostoyevsky, rather than those who are captivated by the Hunger Games.