Selva Almada

It’s not a river, it’s this river. A hot, motionless afternoon. Enero and El Negro are fishing with Tilo, their dead friend’s teenage son. After hours of struggling with a hooked stingray, Enero aims his revolver into the water and shoots it. They hang the ray’s enormous corpse from a tree at their campsite and let it go to rot, drawing the attention of some local islanders and igniting a long-simmering fury toward outsiders and their carelessness. It’s only the two sisters―the teenage nieces of one of the locals, Aguirre―with their hair black as cowbird feathers and giving off the scent of green grass, who are curious about the trio and invite them to a dance. But the girls are not quite as they seem. As night approaches and tensions rise, Enero and El Negro return to the charged memories of their friend who years ago drowned in this same river. As uneasy and saturated as a prophetic dream, Not a River is another extraordinary novel by Selva Almada about masculinity, guilt, and irrepressible desire, written in a style that is spare and timeless.

The Wind That Lays Waste begins in the great pause before a storm. Reverend Pearson is evangelizing across the Argentinian countryside with Leni, his teenage daughter, when their car breaks down. This act of God - or fate - leads them to the home of an aging mechanic called Gringo Brauer and his young boy named Tapioca. As a long day passes, curiosity and intrigue transform into an unexpected intimacy between four people: one man who believes deeply in God, morality, and his own righteousness, and another whose life experiences have only entrenched his moral relativism and mild apathy; a quietly earnest and idealistic mechanic’s assistant, and a restless, sceptical preacher’s daughter. As tensions between these characters ebb and flow, beliefs are questioned and allegiances are tested, until finally the growing storm breaks over the plains. Selva Almada’s exquisitely crafted début, with its limpid and confident prose, is profound and poetic, a tactile experience of arid landscapes, heat, squat trees, broken cars, sweat-stained shirts, and ruined lives. The Wind That Lays Waste is a philosophical, beautiful, and powerfully distinctive novel that marks the arrival in English of an author whose talent and poise are undeniable.

Pájaro Tamai and Marciano Miranda, two young men, are dying in a deserted amusement park. The story begins almost at its end, just a little after the two main characters have faced off in a knife fight: the culmination of a rivalry that has pitted them against one another since childhood. The present in Brickmakers is a state of impending death, at moments marked by oneiric visions: Marciano is visited by the ghost of his father, who was murdered when he was a teenager, a father he had sworn to avenge, in a promise he could not keep. Pájaro is also visited, in a recurring nightmare, by his abusive father who disappeared years earlier. Narrated with fury and passion, reminiscent of the pace in Faulkner and Hemingway’s prose, Almada’s second novel is a rural tragedy in the great American tradition, a story of love and violence where everything is put at stake. Continuing with the force and imagery of the filmic landscape of The Winds That Lays Waste, and the threatening atmosphere of Dead Girls, Brickmakers is yet another proof of Almada’s talent.

Femicide is generally defined as the murder of women simply because they are women. In 2018, 139 women died in the UK as a result of male violence (The Guardian). In Argentina this number is far higher, with 278 cases registered for that same year. Following the success of The Wind That Lays Waste, internationally acclaimed Argentinian author Selva Almada dives into the heart of this problem with this journalistic novel, comparable to Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood or John Hersey’s Hiroshima, in response to the urgent need for attention to a serious problem of our times. Almada narrates the case of three small-town teenage girls murdered in the 1980’s; three unpunished deaths that occurred before the word ‘femicide’ was even coined. In this brutal but necessary novel, Almada brings to the fore these crimes committed in the interior of the country, while Argentina was celebrating the return of democracy. Three deaths without culprits: 19-year old Andrea Danne, stabbed in her own bed; 15-year old María Luisa Quevedo, raped, strangled, and dumped in wasteland; and 20-year old Sarita Mundín, whose disfigured body was found on a river bank. Selva Almada takes these and other tales of abused women to weave together a dry, straightforward portrait of gender violence that surpasses national borders and speaks to readers’ consciousness all over the world. This is not a police chronicle, although there is an investigation. This is not a thriller, although there is mystery and suspense. The real noir element of Dead Girls lies in the heart of the women described here and of the men that have abused them. With her unique style of prose that captures the invisible, and with lyrical brutality, Almada manages to blaze new trails in this kind of journalistic fiction.

Un reverendo y su hija de viaje por el Chaco, en un clima de conflictos y tormentas, entreveros y catástrofes latentes, diálogos filosos y locura solapada. Casi cinematográfica, El viento que arrasa es una novela en la que los personajes son nítidos, corpóreos, se escuchan sus voces, sus modos. Y los del paisaje: el monte, el sol fuerte, los árboles achaparrados, los autos rotos, las camisas transpiradas y las vidas destruidas.

Pendeta Pearson mencurahkan hidupnya untuk mewartakan firman Tuhan ke pelosok utara Argentina. Bersama Leni, putrinya, dia menyusuri dataran gersang dengan mengendarai sebuah mobil tua. Ketika mobil itu mogok, takdir menuntun mereka untuk berjumpa dengan Brauer, seorang montir paruh baya, serta asistennya, seorang bocah laki-laki yang biasa dipanggil Tapioca. Awan mendung mengintip di kejauhan. Badai akan menjelang. Dalam rentang satu hari yang terasa panjang, hubungan keempat tokoh mengalami pasang-surut. Watak mereka serta ketegangan antara satu sama lain pelahan terkuak: Pearson dengan kekakuannya, Brauer dengan kesinisannya, Leni dengan kesangsiannya dan Tapioca dengan kepolosannya. Ketika akhirnya badai menerjang, pergulatan yang tak terhindarkan pun meledak. Dikisahkan dalam tempo yang lambat tetapi mengalir, mendetail, dan indah, Sapuan Angin menandai kemunculan Selva Almada sebagai salah satu penulis paling berpengaruh dalam kesusastraan Argentina dan Amerika Latin kontemporer.

Tres adolescentes de provincia asesinadas en la década de 1980, tres muertes impunes ocurridas cuando todavía, en nuestro país, desconocíamos el término “femicidio”. Tres asesinatos entre los cientos que no alcanzan para titulares de tapa ni convocan a las cámaras de los canales de Buenos Aires. Tres casos que llegan desordenados: los anuncia la radio, los conmemora un diario de pueblo, alguien los recuerda en una conversación. Tres crímenes ocurridos en el interior del país, mientras la Argentina festejaba el regreso de la democracia. Tres muertes sin culpables. Convertidos en obsesión con el paso de los años, estos casos dan lugar a una investigación atípica e infructuosa. La prosa nítida de Selva Almada plasma en negro lo invisible, y las formas cotidianas de la violencia contra nenas y mujeres pasan a integrar una misma trama intensa y vívida. Con este libro, la autora abre nuevos rumbos a la no-ficción latinoamericana.

Las siestas y los arroyos, los cardos y las máquinas, los caminos del litoral argentino. El calor. Compañeros, hermanos, abuelas, padres, amantes, amigos. Y, entre todos ellos, los códigos tácitos que revelan el carácter de los vínculos que los unen o los diálogos que los consienten y transforman, pero que sólo una autora de su talento permite que se escuchen cuando se los lee... Dispersos o inhallables, estos relatos dan nuevo acceso a la literatura de Selva Almada, conocida por crónicas y novelas varias veces traducidas, elogiadas por la crítica y celebradas por los lectores.

Enero y el Negro llevan de pesca a Tilo, hijo adolescente de Eusebio, el amigo muerto. Mientras beben y cocinan y hablan y bailan, lidian con los fantasmas del pasado y con los del presente, que se confunden en el ánimo alterado por el vino y el sopor. Una red mezcla realidad y sueño, hechos y conjeturas, isleños, agua, noche, fuego, peces, bichos. Humana, pero a la vez animal y vegetal, esta novela fluye como un cauce, una larga conversación o el afecto entre seres que se quieren: madres, hijos, hermanos, amantes, ahijados. Con No es un río, Selva Almada completa su trilogía de varones, inaugurada con El viento que arrasa y seguida inmediatamente por Ladrilleros. En esta novela magistral vuelven a brillar sus formas del decir y su extraordinaria sensibilidad para lograr que los personajes expresen en el hacer lo que habita en lo profundo de sus almas, en lo lejos de sus propias vidas.