Cambio de piel (Penguin Clásicos) by Carlos Fuentes

By Carlos Fuentes

Un clásico de l. a. genuine narrativa en español, por uno de los autores fundamentales de l. a. literatura mexicana contemporánea: Carlos Fuentes.

Cuatro personajes que viajan en automóvil de México a Veracruz se ven obligados a pernoctar en Cholula, donde visitan una pirámide que parece ocultar secretos, y donde aflorarán los más oscuros secretos de cada uno...

El Domingo de Ramos de 1965 cuatro personajes inician un viaje hacia Veracruz y se detienen en Cholula, ciudad de las pirámides aztecas. En el laberinto de sus galerías se internarán las dos parejas, como en un descenso a los infiernos, que concluirá con una tragedia ritual inesperada.

Ficción overall en palabras del propio autor, Cambio de piel indaga en el mito del México prehispánico y en el holocausto europeo a través de l. a. memoria de sus protagonistas para decirnos que, en definitiva, todas las violencias son l. a. misma violencia.

La crítica ha opinado:

"Cambio de piel (1967) premio Biblioteca Breve, es una de las novelas mejor logradas, posee una estructura de impotencia en los angeles que cuatro personajes viajan en vehicle desde l. a. Ciudad de México hasta reunirse en un inn de Cholula y en una pirámide que se derrumba ante ellos. Propuesta abstracta de Carlos Fuentes con personajes intercambiables y decadentes." -Sergio Martínez Estrada, Animal Político-

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He said, running toward the building. Less than a minute later, rain fell so hard we could barely see the road. Creeping along westward with the windshield wipers not keeping up, I bumped the dashboard with the heel of my hand. ” I had realized then that I couldn’t talk about our trip along the border without including the Border Patrol front and center. I knew it would be the first of many encounters, and so I wanted to start documenting them right away. / Mexico interchange. S. ” That meant a huge change, but it was not the first revamping.

The gentle rhythm of the Gulf waves and the mild ocean breeze, along with the view in front of us of three Mexican fishermen, likely a father and two sons, casting a net, calmed my nerves almost instantly. I let my shoulders drop and took off my shoes, as if to let my stress run out of my legs and into the sand. The sand was cool and soft, the waves gentle, the water inviting. While planning the trip, I’d imagined confrontations in a no-man’sland with border guards in black uniforms, fences, spotlights, motion detectors, and signs warning of dire consequences: violators will be prosecuted, no photographs!

New venom spewed on talk radio and TV. New vigilante groups sprang up. We began holding the line even more, and the Border Patrol numbers shot up to twenty thousand, which included new recruits like Officer Johnson stationed on Route 4. Boca Chica wasn’t the first place where I had been stopped by Border Patrol officers. I’d gone through numerous roadblocks while driving in Arizona in previous summers, often with groups of students in a BorderLinks van.

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