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See Ivan Jaksic, Andres Bella. Author of a Nation Berkeley-Los Angeles, , pp. ElMercurio, Valparaiso, 12 May Recuerdos literarios, p. Recuerdos literarios, pp.
Writing under the pseudonym "Jotabeche," José Joaquín Vallejo wrote forty-one short articles on Chilean life and society in the early republic. Known for their. ecmerweaha.tk: Sketches of Life in Chile, (Library of Latin America): Jose Joaquin Vallejo, Simon Collier, Frederick H. Fornoff.
Domingo F. Sarmiento, Recuerdos deprovincia , gth ed. Buenos Aires, , p. Cambridge, , I, Mis viajes.
Memorias de un exilado, 2 vols. Santiago, , 1, Gilliss, The U.
Washington, D. Chamber of Deputies, 8 June ElMercurio, Valparaiso, 6 July Un decenis de la historia de Chile, , 2 vols. Santiago, , II, Lastarria, Diariopolitico Santiago, , p. La Actualidad, no. In terms of Chilean topography, he cannot easily be forgotten: a 19,foot mountain in the Andes, on roughly the same latitude as Chanarcillo, now bears the name Nevado Jotabeche.
This page intentionally left blank Note on the Text and Translation The texts translated for the present collection have been taken from those printed in Obras de don Jose Joaquin Valtejo Jotabeche , edited by Alberto Edwards Santiago, , in the Biblloteca de Escritores de Chile.
This is by far the best edition of Jotabeche's essays, and also includes a selection of his correspondence and articles from before and after the principal series of jotabeches between and The texts here are of thirty-three articles from the main sequence, together with three indicated by asterisks from outside the sequence. Original titles in order of appearance in this collection are: I "Copiapo," "jQuien te vio y quien te ve!
You can buy men's and women's clothing in this store. Although Atacama Province was the most open, least traditional region of nineteenth-century Chile, the festivals, social rituals, and amusements to be found in Copiapo itself were much the same as in any Spanish-American city of the period, large or small: religious holidays, with their processions and masked figures, the pre-Lenten Carnival with its rough horseplay, the regular evening tertulias, the chief social gatherings of the time—all these are vividly and precisely brought to life by Jotabeche. You have then filmmaking a bad summary. He gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Vallejo's first political, "campaign" was thus a complete failure. Considered the founder of his country's "genuinely national literature," he is the first creative writer of stature to emerge in Chile after the country's wars of independence. The letters and packages whose recipients did not show up are deposited in the respective agency until they come to pick them up.
Recuerdos de There followed a long series of years in which poverty, hunger and thirst, pestilence, and earthquakes imprinted the seal of misery on it one after another, forcing its inhabitants to emigrate or die, razing the town limits, and wearing down the verdure of the valley in which it was situated until it looked just like the wasteland surrounding it.
In my youth I visited Copiapo. A terrible earthquake had just laid it waste. The people had abandoned it almost completely and were wandering among the arid boulders scattered around the town weeping over their lost homes and trying to placate the wrath of God by doing penance.
Its streets, marked at that time by parallel lines in the rubble, provoked an overwhelming sadness, a suffering as mute as the silence of its ruins.
Nothing is more melancholy than the sight of an empty yard in a town where no one lives any longer. A cemetery has more signs of life: the crosses, the epitaphs, and even the sepulchres that vanity has adorned with decorations—these reveal to us a new existence, the existence of eternity; but an abandoned city is the image of chaos, the general destruction of the universe.
All of them overcome by bitterness, they said their goodbyes to the land of their childhood, almost as if they were taking leave of a friend, leaving him abandoned in a state of irreparable misery.
tenlistteelo.tk They were fleeing from a place in which they feared they would find their graves, but they were weeping, because even a happy refuge in a foreign land makes us remember with double bitterness the misfortunes of our homeland. Twenty-two years later I have walked once again on this ground that back then depicted the image of a malediction.. What a difference! What a contrast between what I see now and my memories of what it was then! Luck, or Fortune, or whatever invisible entity it is that rules the destinies of men and towns!
Commerce, agriculture, arts, and luxuries have now erased with their riches the very memory of those times. The sound of a great gathering, always busy and active, ever occupied in speculations and business deals or given over to the happiness of nocturnal amusements, echoes today through those places where previously nothing could be heard but the cry of a bird of night, or the barking of the dog who, patrolling the ruins, still felt the urge to keep watch over the destroyed fortune of its fugitive masters.
From whichever direction you travel to Copiapo, you have to cross deserts of sand, arid crags, and vast plains stripped of all sign of vegetation. Heat and thirst, perhaps, don't mortify the traveler as much as the horrible aspect of lifeless, graceless nature, garnished only by boulders as black as the complexion of an African native, and by hills whose tangled strata and harsh ruggedness resemble the wrinkled brow of the old miser trying to defend his buried treasures against the world's greed. On drawing near to Copiapo, therefore, and catching sight of its groves of trees, its tall willows whose cheerful verdure stands out against the pallor of the heights that complete the landscape, the soul thinks it's awakened from a hateful nightmare, and involuntarily our excitement surfaces as if after a long voyage we discerned the shore of our country and the air were carrying the fragrance of its forests to us.
Cheers, lovely valley, enchanted oasis of the desert! The weary traveler approaches you as happily as he would the home of his parents; he catches sight of you like a friend after a long absence and blesses you as a pilgrim blesses the room that lodges him for the night. The town of Copiapo, because of its layout, is different from many others. Its narrow streets, irregular and twisted, are far more adapted to 4 variety, the only fixed base that until now we've seen prevail over the usual taste of the human species: two straight lines, endless and parallel, of white houses are a constant monotony, a life given over to idleness.
In Copiapo it's not like that. At every turn we come upon different looking houses, different kinds of fig trees, different locust trees. Farther along, a long, narrow cart of which, only a few yards back, we could only make out the horns of an ox; then there's a small plaza; right in front of us, then, a foundry oven that, two minutes later, has vanished from sight, and then we're entering a sandy lot where we encounter a church halfburied.
Another half-turn, a new scene! An ancient carob-tree with its trunk transformed into a cross, then a smelter, and then a tiled house, ground down, crumbled, its tiles broken off by earthquakes; and so it goes as we walk forward always surprised by something you can't see unless you follow the humps and twists of the streets.
There's something unpleasant about the buildings, whose roofs are low and covered with mud, but for that very reason we are surprised when we see the comfort, ease, and luxury with which the interiors are adorned. The inhabitants are for the most part foreigners, and of these a large number are Argentines, yet we can't be sure that tomorrow or the next day we might not have a different mix in Copiapo, because every day entire squadrons show up to surrender their weapons to these authorities, though they wouldn't be of much use to the Republic the weapons, I mean since they're as knicked and abused as, apparently, the United Provinces of the River Plate1 must be.
Their conduct in this town earns them credit as men of orderly habits; if they have been as brave in battle as they are here in matters of love, there's no way to explain their defeats except as some ill turn of fate, some caprice of fortune. The fair sex in Copiapo is like the fair sex everywhere, and I mean this as homage. Where is it that women aren't pleasant, lovely, gracious, and endowed with goodness and talent? Who is the wretched fellow who, in whatever clime, hasn't found them to be charming in habit and custom, attractive at play, and conducive of warmth in the head, attributes without which it is impossible to live among them?
When I was young and traveled, as I now travel being old, I had the good fortune, which many men must have had, to find in each town six or eight houses with two girls each, all of whom I liked simultaneously. The one who didn't have green eyes had blue ones or black ones; if they were brown, a color regarded as insignificant in eyes, I found them to be irresistible for the curly lashes around them, and I even recall that I almost fell for two that were crossed and seemed enchanting, because I discovered in them a certain je ne sais 5 quoi that was impossible to define.
It was the same with all their features; I found them all delightful; and the same thing would happen to me today in Copiapo if my faith in baptism didn't weigh so heavily on me. What a collection of eyes of different sorts! Even now, when my blood circulates just so as not to lose the habit, a kind of leftover from the impulse I'd ascribe to youthful ardor in past years, I feel knocked for a loop by sleepy eyes whose intriguing sadness fills my soul with joy; by some dimples, or a mole.
There's a neighborhood here too that's called Chimba, where every stroll ends up, and from which no one ever returns without a pretty cluster of carnations and jazmins. It's in this part of the town where the orchards and flower and vegetable gardens are most carefully cultivated, because of which the residents of Chimba are visited assiduously by all who know how to appreciate the simplicity of their hospitality and the coolness of their grape arbors and groves. The way back from these strolls on moonlit nights is delightful. A soft breeze from the west sprinkles the balmy air with the fragrance of the magnolia, not to mention the spectacle of a bright, pure, crystalline sky that any enamored poet would be compelled to compare to the gaze of his beloved's eyes.
Man's labors end at six in the evening, and shortly thereafter begin the labors of the guitar strings. Any young man or woman who goes to bed without dancing a country dance can exclaim like that emperor when he retired to bed without having performed an act of largesse: "I've wasted the day. I just got a letter from Chanarcillo. Two deals almost settled. We'll have to celebrate this. Where will I see you tonight? We've arranged to meet his pretty cousins there.
I'll show up with the girls next door, and I'll get so-and-so and his pal and you-know-who to pay us a visit with what's-her-name and a couple of her friends. Hey, I've got to get to the smelter. The house hosting the visits provides the tea; the men, usually, only ask for water. But this water from Copiapo, perhaps because of the metallic particles floating in it, is so crude and indigestible 6 that, as a precaution. Square dance French quadrilles. Grab the ladies!