" In faraway China there is a mandarin filthy rich. Nothing you know about him, or his name or his face, or that silk dress. To inherit his inexhaustible riches enough to touch the bell that is your hand on a book. Mandarin only exhale a sigh on the borders of Mongolia. When will a dead body. And you will see at your feet more gold than you can dream. You who are reading this and you are mortal man, "will touch the bell?"
My first reading provided on this Portuguese author was Basilio's cousin, but before I forward this delightful short story called The Mandarin, of which 90 pages are read almost anything, like a story (east in this case) is involved.
known Teodoro existence of a great bell of a mandarin, he decides to play, because if you do, Mandarin die and inherit all its immense riches. Teodoro just do not know what to do, though at first the euphoria of power has not made you aware if anything ... The hero learns that wealth is absolute and can not give happiness, but rather the opposite, envelope the degree of moral decay and personal destruction. If you stop to think it's frightening. In this story, with fantastic trip to East and descriptions, the author leaves us with a disturbing final. From all this, you can take positive or optimistic analysis, and is to hold on to keep us more material things will make us happier.
Queiroz's first experience has been rewarding, it is certainly a good storyteller, so I recommend this novella. Right now I'll discover his work. Next to outline here is Basilio's cousin. A friend of mine calls it the Portuguese Galdós. And I will be discussing my views on this new author.
"Our eyes were wet sometimes a black satin box above the couch, where they were, in Chinese characters, phrases sacred holy book of Li-Nun on the duties of the wife. But none of us understood the Chinese ... And in the silence, our kisses turned to start, spaced, sounding sweet and comparable (in the flowery language of those countries) pearls falling one by one, on a silver platter ... Oh, soft nap in the gardens of Beijing! Where are you now? Where are you, dead leaves of the scarlet lilies of Japan? "
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