{"product_id":"blowup-isbn-9780394728810","title":"Blow-Up","description":"A young girl spends her summer vacation in a country house where a tiger roams . . . A man reading a mystery finds out too late that he is the murderer’s intended victim . . . \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOriginally published in hardcover as \u003ci\u003eEnd of the Game and Other Stories, \u003c\/i\u003ethe fifteen stories collected here—including “Blow-Up,” which was the basis for Michelangelo Antonioni’s film of the same name—shows Julio Cortázar's nimble capacity to explore the shadowy realm where the everyday meets the mysterious, perhaps even the terrible.ONE\u003cbr\u003eAxolotl  3\u003cbr\u003eHouse Taken Over  10 \u003cbr\u003eThe Idol of the Cyclades  28\u003cbr\u003eLetter to a Young Lady in Paris  39 \u003cbr\u003eA Yellow Flower  51\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTWO\u003cbr\u003eContinuity of Parks  63\u003cbr\u003eThe Night Face Up  66\u003cbr\u003eBestiary  77\u003cbr\u003eThe Gates of Heaven  97 \u003cbr\u003eBlow-Up  114\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHREE\u003cbr\u003eEnd of the Game  135 \u003cbr\u003eAt Your Service  150 \u003cbr\u003eThe Pursuer  182\u003cbr\u003eSecret Weapons  248\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eBlow-Up and Other Stories\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"[Cortázar] is a unique storyteller. He can induce the kind of chilling unease that strikes like a sound in the night.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eTime\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Julio Cortázar is a stunning writer. It is difficult to imagine how he could improve as a writer of short stories.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Christian Science Monitor\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A glittering showcase for a daring talent . . . Julio Cortázar is a dazzler.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A first-class literary imagination at work.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Cortázar displays throughout his stories the ability to elevate them above the condition of those gimmicky tales which depend for effect solely on a twist ending. His genius here lies in the knack for constructing striking, artistically 'right' subordinate circumstances out of which his fantastic and metaphysical whimsies appear normally to spring.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSaturday Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eJULIO CORTÁZAR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e was born in Brussels to Argentinian parents in 1914, was raised in Argentina, and in 1952 moved to Paris, where he continued to live for the rest of his life. He was a poet, translator, an amateur jazz musician as well as the author of several novels and volumes of short stories. Ten of his books have been published in English: \u003ci\u003eThe Winners, Hopscotch \u003c\/i\u003e(which won the National Book Award)\u003ci\u003e, Blow-Up and Other Stories, Cronopios and Famas, 62: A Model Kit, A Change of Light, We Love Glenda So Much, \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eA Certain Lucas.\u003c\/i\u003e He received the Prix Médicis Award (France, 1974) and the Rubén Darío Order of Cultural Independence (Nicaragua, 1983),\u003ci\u003e among other accolades. \u003c\/i\u003eConsidered one of the great modern Latin American authors, he died in Paris in February 1984.\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCONTINUITY OF PARKS\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eHe had begun to read the novel a few days before. He had put it down because of some urgent business conferences, opened it again on his way back to the estate by train; he permitted himself a slowly growing interest in the plot, in the characterizations. That afternoon, after writing a letter giving his power of attorney and discussing a matter of joint ownership with the manager of his estate, he returned to the book in the tranquility of his study which looked out upon the park with its oaks. Sprawled in his favorite armchair, its back toward the door—even the possibility of an intrusion would have irritated him, had he thought of it—he let his left hand caress repeatedly the green velvet upholstery and set to reading the final chapters. He remembered effortlessly the names and his mental images of the characters; the novel spread its glamour over him almost at once. He tasted the almost perverse pleasure of disengaging himself line by line from the things around him, and at the same time feeling his head rest comfortably on the green velvet of the chair with its high back, sensing that the cigarettes rested within reach of his hand, that beyond the great windows the air of afternoon danced under the oak trees in the park. Word by word, licked up by the sordid dilemma of the hero and heroine, letting himself be absorbed to the point where the images settled down and took on color and movement, he was witness to the final encounter in the mountain cabin. The woman arrived first, apprehensive; now the lover came in, his face cut by the backlash of a branch. Admirably, she stanched the blood with her kisses, but he rebuffed her caresses, he had not come to perform again the ceremonies of a secret passion, protected by a world of dry leaves and furtive paths through the forest. The dagger warmed itself against his chest, and underneath liberty pounded, hidden close. A lustful, panting dialogue raced down the pages like a rivulet of snakes, and one felt it had all been decided from eternity. Even to those caresses which writhed about the lover’s body, as though wishing to keep him there, to dissuade him from it; they sketched abominably the frame of that other body it was necessary to destroy. Nothing had been forgotten: alibis, unforeseen hazards, possible mistakes. From this hour on, each instant had its use minutely assigned. The cold-blooded, twice-gone-over re-examination of the details was barely broken off so that a hand could caress a cheek. It was not beginning to get dark.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eNot looking at one another now, rigidly fixed upon the task which awaited them, they separated at the cabin door. She was to follow the trail that led north. On the path leading in the opposite direction, he turned for a moment to watch her running, her hair loosened and flying. He ran in turn, crouching among the trees and hedges until, in the yellowish fog of dusk, he could distinguish the avenue of trees which led up to the house. The dogs were not supposed to bark, they did not bark. The estate manager would not be there at this hour, and he was not there. He went up the three porch steps and entered. The woman’s words reached him over the thudding of blood in his ears: first a blue chamber, then a hall, then a carpeted stairway. At the top, two doors. No one in the first room, no one in the second. The door of the salon, and then, the knife in hand, the light from the great windows, the high back of an armchair covered in green velvet, the head of the man in the chair reading a novel.","brand":"Pantheon","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303064326373,"sku":"NP9780394728810","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780394728810.jpg?v=1767722824","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/blowup-isbn-9780394728810","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}