In Patagonia (Penguin Classics)
Bruce Chatwin
Language: English
Pages: 240
ISBN: 0142437190
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
The masterpiece of travel writing that revolutionized the genre and made its author famous overnight
An exhilarating look at a place that still retains the exotic mystery of a far-off, unseen land, Bruce Chatwin’s exquisite account of his journey through Patagonia teems with evocative descriptions, remarkable bits of history, and unforgettable anecdotes. Fueled by an unmistakable lust for life and adventure and a singular gift for storytelling, Chatwin treks through “the uttermost part of the earth”—that stretch of land at the southern tip of South America, where bandits were once made welcome—in search of almost-forgotten legends, the descendants of Welsh immigrants, and the log cabin built by Butch Cassidy. An instant classic upon publication in 1977, In Patagonia is a masterpiece that has cast a long shadow upon the literary world.
For more than seventy years, Penguin has been the leading publisher of classic literature in the English-speaking world. With more than 1,700 titles, Penguin Classics represents a global bookshelf of the best works throughout history and across genres and disciplines. Readers trust the series to provide authoritative texts enhanced by introductions and notes by distinguished scholars and contemporary authors, as well as up-to-date translations by award-winning translators.
with black stove pipes and a tangle of electric wires above. Where the brick houses gave out, the shacks of the Indians began. These were patched out of packing cases, sheet plastic and sacking. A single man was walking up the street, his brown felt hat pulled low over his face. He was carrying a sack and walking into the white dustclouds, out into the country. Some children sheltered in a doorway and tormented a lamb. From one hut came the noise of the radio and sizzling fat. A lumpy arm
Powell said: ‘It’s better to talk than work. Let’s have an asado.’ She went to the barn and set a table with a red and white check cloth. Eddy lit the fire and his father went to an underground larder. He cut a side of mutton from a hanging carcass, stripped off the fat and gave it to the dog. He fixed the meat to an asador, which is an iron spit in the shape of a cross, and stuck it in the ground slanting over the fire. Later we ate the asado with a sauce called salmuera, made of vinegar,
above and offered her his hand. ‘I like this painting,’ she said. ‘It is my guardian angel. My Angel, who has always saved me.’ A copy of The Pale Bride lay open on the music stand of the piano. Black gaps yawned where the ivory had come off. I noticed that not all her fingernails were painted. Some were red. Some she had left blank. Perhaps she did not have enough nailpaint to complete both hands. I left the soprano and went to call on the Germans: 32 THE WIND blew the smell of rain
questions on a pad. He was her second husband and they had been married twenty years. She liked the refinements of English life. She liked using a silver toast-rack. She liked nice linen and fresh chintzes and polished brass. She did not like Patagonia. She hated the winter and missed having flowers. ‘I’ve a terrible time getting things to grow. Lupins do well, but my carnations never survive the cold, and mostly I make do with annuals—godetias, clarkias, larkspurs and marigolds—but you can
for the soldiers in three lines, in homespun clothes smelling of sheep and horse and stale urine, their felt hats drawn down low, and their rifles and ammunition piled three paces in front, and their saddles, their lariats and their knives. They thought they were going home, thought they’d be expelled and sent back to Chile. But the soldiers herded them back into the shearing shed, and when they shot the two Germans, they knew what was going to happen. About three hundred men were in the shed