Ariadne in the Grotesque Labyrinth (Catalan Literature) by Salvador Espriu

I wouldn ’ t risk it, I swear. »
    « It is to be feared. My dissertation sufficiently ruined me, » the doctor regretted. « And it would be indecorous at his age. »
    « Watch out for the boy, he ’ s scaring me, » the woman said to her husband, now that they were alone. « Look, he ’ s very young, and you two have some conversations   .   .   .   I don ’ t follow it, poor me, but I ’ m telling you   .   .   .   And he works so much that it frightens me. It can ’ t be. He can ’ t fall sick on us. »
    « Nonsense. He ’ s strong as an oak! » the father optimistically laughed. « May he study, may he study. You ’ ll see your son, you ’ ll see: he ’ s going to end up a tenured professor. »
    « In order to earn the salary of a cop, a cap-maker, a hot-air-balloon captain, » the mother lamented, addicted by instinct to the puzzles provided by statistics.
    « And for whom have I migrated and pined away? » toyed the obese, rotund, and metaphoric father. « I ’ ll be diligent in giving him my support. »
    Meanwhile, upstairs, the boy dreamed of the normal perils, a bicycle to mess around on, and Em í lia, who had incredible legs, at his side. And, already lodged in the dream, he felt a pair of eyes staring fixedly at him. Under the orders of those eyes he went through a list of names just as he ’ d learned them: Mehuman, Bizta, Harbona, Hegai, Bigtan, Teres. Those eyes examined him as though he were already dead and, at the same time, as though they only proposed to save the everlastingness of a moment. Abagta, Atac, Zetar, Carcas. They were a pair of eyes that, through the alembics of subtle reason, respected everyone, without either loving or hating, with a cold sadness, and almost never appreciated anyone, as though they contemplated things from a past cloaked in mist, as though they spied from a remote future. And a pair of long hands removed the puppet, the marionette, from a dark box, and slipped it on like a glove, or moved it around with invisible strings, moved it for a pathetic and superfluous instant, and immediately put it away again with the other dolls, an anonymous mix. Memucan, Carsena, Aman, Sethar, Admata. But the eyes weren ’ t outside of time, eternal — they were mortal, like the show. Trained, cautious, strange, distanced, tired, without any answer to any question. Mortal. The profound acceptance of an ineluctable law perhaps dignified them, and perhaps they attempted from that law to justify their characters, understanding themselves a little in their characters. Tarsis, Meres, Marsena. Though how would the adolescent Tianet rummage and toil in the chaos? The eyes moved away from him, erasing him, and the bicycle and Em í lia ’ s legs again filled all his sleep. Keep in mind, keep in mind, that those imaginings would transitorily weaken the memory, and Tianet had to keep his own paired off and prompt for today ’ s show in the garden of five trees: Forsandata, Dalfon, Asfata. And Forata, Ahalia, Aridata. And Farmasta, Arisai, Aridai. And Vaizata.

The Conversion and Death of Quim Federal
    I
    Quim Federal, lying atop a crumpled straw mattress, prophesized that the point of no return had arrived, and told Rossenda, erect and disheveled before him. The conversation, in the disorder of the bedroom, strained into screaming.
    « Ai, I ’ m dying, Rossenda! »
    « Your mother! »
    « I ’ m telling you that I ’ m dying, love, that the same women won ’ t touch me tomorrow. »
    « Don ’ t scare me; I ’ m in a delicate state and I can ’ t take it. »
    « I ’ m kicking the bucket. »
    « Murderer! »
    « Now this I don ’ t get. »
    « What ’ s wrong with you, Federal? What ’ s all this chitter-chatter for? »
    « I swear to you, Rossenda, you ’ re going to see me cooking sardines up there, not even fifty-three. »
    « You ’ re stealing from the faith, non-believer: you ’ re close to ten times six, big baby; you know as much. And me, a teacher, getting