Narraciones 1892-1924 by Maxim Gorky
By Maxim Gorky
Los angeles publicación a principios de l. a. década de 1890 de los primeros relatos de Maksim Gorki revelaron a un autor insólito en las letras rusas: no sólo conocía con profundidad las leyendas populares y se movía con desenvoltura en l. a. tradición de l. a. narración oral, sino que había recorrido los angeles inmensidad de las estepas, de las orillas del Volga y el mar Negro, de las tierras del Cáucaso y Crimea, y convivido con una legión de vagabundos, jornaleros, delincuentes y prostitutas que hasta entonces nadie había reclamado con tanta veracidad para l. a. literatura. Los «exhombres» (como se titula uno de sus más célebres relatos) tomaron por sorpresa l. a. escena literaria, y sus vidas atribuladas, sus pasiones brutales y su dignidad perdida se colaron en las tramas del realismo, ofreciendo una imagen inédita de un mundo sin justicia humana en medio de una naturaleza colosal. Chéjov y Tolstói no tardaron en declarar su admiración, y a principios del siglo XX Gorki period ya, junto a ellos, el escritor más well known de su tiempo. Este volumen de Narraciones reúne catorce de sus mejores piezas, en una selección amplia y representativa que cubre, desde el principio, los años más productivos de su carrera.
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Extra resources for Narraciones 1892-1924
You’re nothing but a piece of clay,” she said bitterly to Dad. Mom was speaking very softly but we all heard her . . he too. “You’re a good-for-nothing goofy nincompoop unfit even to be shot by a good cannon. ” Mom kept scolding Dad and us. Dad didn’t say anything; he knew that if he said something they might end fighting with the wooden poker. ” When Mom finished scolding she got up from the bench, made a step toward the stove, and snatched the bag. Giving Dad a look that almost made him stagger, she slammed the door and left.
I was afraid Mom might take a peek inside where she had surprised me already with a book in my hands. I got out through a hole on the side, crawled on the ground, until I reached the threshing floor. Then I be gan to run. I ran along field boundaries, then turned onto the street. The dark night made my fears grow and grow. I walked and walked, not knowing where to stop. Lukashka! W hy not go to him? I thought. Lukashka always slept in his master’s barn. “This is my The Two Kinds of Truth 39 nest/’ he’d tell me.
There’re two, you know. One’s poor, carries a bag; the other’s rich, has a trunk. ” I thought of the flour and the beating mother gave me. “You’re so right,” I said sadly. ” “Uh, don’t worry,” Lukashka mutered. He might have been talking to me or to himself. He woke me up early next morning. “Go on home now, Vasya,” he told me. ” I went toward home but then stopped behind the corner of our 40 T r e a su r y of R u ss ia n S ho rt S tories cottage to watch; mother was driving the sheep out to pasture —her face was smeared, tearful.