Quizás lo más flojo que he leído de Enriquez hasta la fecha. Mis relatos favoritos de la colección han sido "El aljibe", "El desentierro de la angelita" y "Cuando hablábamos con los muertos".
In this collection of short stories, firmly rooted in a tradition of lucid supernaturalism mixed with a bout of the surreal, some of the stories are little gems, hitting their mark with a sober accuracy that feels fresh and true.
However, not all of them. The opening story, for example, succeeds in setting a macabre scenery that succeeds in feeling immersive (and very creepy), but then… just goes nowhere. Neither Borgès, Marquez, Murakami nor Conrad would have abided that - well, in any case, that does not work for me.
That first story sets a tone, a mood, a frame of expectations that for me took a few jolts to shake off as I read in, and in the end there turned out to be a lot to be enjoyed in this book.
Perhaps my perception of this tome would have benefited from reading the first story last.
