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Comentarios sobre "Crónica de una muerte anunciada" de Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Crónica de una muerte anunciada


Crónica de una muerte anunciada es una novela del escritor colombiano Gabriel García Márquez, publicada por primera vez en 1981. Fue incluida en la lista de las 100 mejores novelas en español del siglo XX del periódico español El Mundo.1​

La novela representó un acercamiento entre lo periodístico, lo narrativo, y una aproximación a la novela policial. La historia contada se inspira en un suceso real, ocurrido en 1951 en el Municipio de Sucre, ubicado al sur del Departamento de Sucre, en Colombia, del que el autor tomó la acción central (el crimen), los protagonistas, el escenario y las circunstancias, alterándolo narrativamente, pero sin descuidar nunca los datos y las precisiones obligadas en toda crónica periodística.2​

Argumento
En un pequeño y aislado pueblo en la costa del Caribe, se casan Bayardo San Román, un hombre rico y recién llegado, y Ángela Vicario. Al celebrar su boda, los recién casados se van a su nueva casa, y allí Bayardo descubre que su esposa no es virgen. Inmediatamente, Bayardo devuelve a Ángela Vicario a la casa de sus padres donde es golpeada por su madre e interrogada por sus hermanos, Ángela culpará a Santiago Nasar, un vecino del pueblo.

Los hermanos Vicario –Pedro y Pablo–, obligados por la defensa del honor familiar, anuncian a la mayoría del pueblo que matarían a Santiago Nasar. Este no se entera, sino minutos antes de morir. Los hermanos matan a cuchillazos a Santiago, después de pensarlo en varias ocasiones, en la puerta de su casa, a la vista de la gente que no hizo o no pudo hacer nada para evitarlo. Pasados 27 años, el amigo de Santiago (el narrador) reconstruye los hechos, de los que él fue testigo, en forma de crónica, combinando narración y testimonios.

Años después, Ángela Vicario estaría escribiendo cada día a Bayardo, primero formalmente, después con cartas de joven enamorada y, al final, fingiendo enfermedades. Así, Bayardo vuelve 17 años después, claramente desmejorado y con todas las cartas sin abrir.

Técnica narrativa
La novela se presenta como la reconstrucción de una historia: un narrador en primera persona y testigo de algunos hechos asume, años después del amargo suceso, la función del investigador para reconstruir la historia mediante informes, cartas, testimonios diversos y su memoria (pues él mismo estuvo en el pueblo el día de la boda). El punto de vista desde el que se narra la historia es cambiante, hay multi-perspectivismo, en tanto que la visión de los hechos se presenta no solo desde el punto de vista del narrador, sino también de los demás personajes (protagonistas y testigos de los hechos). A veces coinciden, pero en otras ocasiones se contradicen; la historia se presenta, entonces, como ambigua, llena de dudas, sobre todo en lo que se refiere a quién 'deshonró' a Ángela o, por ejemplo, el clima del día, que varía de ser lluvioso y nublado a ser de un soleado cegador, según los testimonios.

El narrador presenta la historia dividida en cinco partes (cada una de las cuales desarrolla temas concretos y gira alrededor de los diferentes protagonistas) alterando la ordenación de los hechos y su ordenación temporal. El tiempo fluye de forma alineal, circular y caótico, consiguiéndose a través de anticipaciones, retrocesos, reiteraciones, superposiciones, elipsis, etc. El resultado es una especie de 'rompecabezas'. La novela presenta una estructura cerrado-circular: la muerte de Santiago a manos de los Vicario, anunciada súbitamente en las primeras líneas, es el motivo narrativo que, con pormenorizado y macabro tratamiento, cierra también la historia. La novela presenta abundantes diálogos (fragmentarios y breves, y en estilo directo normalmente, con lo que se logra cortar el ritmo narrativo, introduciendo variedad en la narración y en el estilo) y fragmentos descriptivos (de objetos, personajes, escenarios, ambientes). Lo estrictamente narrativo se reduce a pasajes breves, recurrentes, que, en muchas ocasiones, están enmarcados dentro de descripciones.

Estilo narrativo
Oscila entre el uso de la lengua oral, en un registro coloquial o familiar, y el uso de la lengua escrita, en un registro culto-literario, con fuerte retoricismo y con matices de , humor, fantasía, sensualismo, etc.

Se percibe claramente la influencia del género periodístico, visible ya desde el propio título ("crónica").

Hay un gran número de personajes enmarcados en los hechos, característica recurrente en las obras de Gabriel García Márquez. Esto permite a la historia dotarse de las múltiples perspectivas, de los diversos testimonios y de juicios de valor que nutren la trama. La narración manifiesta un claro gusto por el detalle y por la puntualización de todos los pormenores.

El realismo mágico se observa en el gusto por insertar lo extraordinario dentro de la normalidad de lo cotidiano. Se aprecia en la forma en que el olor de Santiago Nasar permaneció en los gemelos Vicario días después de muerto, la aparición de un "pájaro fluorescente", una especie de ánima sobre la iglesia del pueblo; la mención del alma de Yolanda de Xius quien se dice está haciendo todo lo posible para recuperar sus cachivaches y su casa de muerte.

Fuente: https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cr%C3%B3nica_de_una_muerte_anunciada

En este link encontrarás puntos claves del libro y actividades para hacer

http://www.willamette.edu/~mblanco/ggm/


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Un día de estos, Gabriel García Marquez



One of These Days
by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (1928-____ )

Monday dawned warm and rainless. Aurelio Escovar, a dentist without a degree, and a very early riser, opened his office at six. He took some false teeth, still mounted in their plaster mold, out of the glass case and put on the table a fistful of instruments which he arranged in size order, as if they were on display. He wore a collarless striped shirt, closed at the neck with a golden stud, and pants held up by suspenders He was erect and skinny, with a look that rarely corresponded to the situation, the way deaf people have of looking.
When he had things arranged on the table, he pulled the drill toward the dental chair and sat down to polish the false teeth. He seemed not to be thinking about what he was doing, but worked steadily, pumping the drill with his feet, even when he didn't need it.
After eight he stopped for a while to look at the sky through the window, and he saw two pensive buzzards who were drying themselves in the sun on the ridgepole of the house next door. He went on working with the idea that before lunch it would rain again. The shrill voice of his elevenyear-old son interrupted his concentration.
"Papa."
"What?"
"The Mayor wants to know if you'll pull his tooth."
"Tell him I'm not here."
He was polishing a gold tooth. He held it at arm's length, and examined it with his eyes half closed. His son shouted again from the little waiting room.
"He says you are, too, because he can hear you."
The dentist kept examining the tooth. Only when he had put it on the table with the finished work did he say:
"So much the better."
He operated the drill again. He took several pieces of a bridge out of a cardboard box where he kept the things he still had to do and began to polish the gold.
"Papa."
"What?"
He still hadn't changed his expression.
"He says if you don't take out his tooth, he'll shoot you."
Without hurrying, with an extremely tranquil movement, he stopped pedaling the drill, pushed it away from the chair, and pulled the lower drawer of the table all the way out. There was a revolver. "O.K.," he said. "Tell him to come and shoot me."
He rolled the chair over opposite the door, his hand resting on the edge of the drawer. The Mayor appeared at the door. He had shaved the left side of his face, but the other side, swollen and in pain, had a five-day-old beard. The dentist saw many nights of desperation in his dull eyes. He closed the drawer with his fingertips and said softly:
"Sit down."
"Good morning," said the Mayor.
"Morning," said the dentist.
While the instruments were boiling, the Mayor leaned his skull on the headrest of the chair and felt better. His breath was icy. It was a poor office: an old wooden chair, the pedal drill, a glass case with ceramic bottles. Opposite the chair was a window with a shoulder-high cloth curtain. When he felt the dentist approach, the Mayor braced his heels and opened his mouth.
Aurelio Escovar turned his head toward the light. After inspecting the infected tooth, he closed the Mayor's jaw with a cautious pressure of his fingers.
"It has to be without anesthesia," he said.
"Why?"
"Because you have an abscess."
The Mayor looked him in the eye. "All right," he said, and tried to smile. The dentist did not return the smile. He brought the basin of sterilized instruments to the worktable and took them out of the water with a pair of cold tweezers, still without hurrying. Then he pushed the spittoon with the tip of his shoe, and went to wash his hands in the washbasin. He did all this without looking at the Mayor. But the Mayor didn't take his eyes off him.
It was a lower wisdom tooth. The dentist spread his feet and grasped the tooth with the hot forceps. The Mayor seized the arms of the chair, braced his feet with all his strength, and felt an icy void in his kidneys, but didn't make a sound. The dentist moved only his wrist. Without rancor, rather with a bitter tenderness, he said:
"Now you'll pay for our twenty dead men."
The Mayor felt the crunch of bones in his jaw, and his eyes filled with tears. But he didn't breathe until he felt the tooth come out. Then he saw it through his tears. It seemed so foreign to his pain that he failed to understand his torture of the five previous nights.
Bent over the spittoon, sweating, panting, he unbuttoned his tunic and reached for the handkerchief in his pants pocket. The dentist gave him a clean cloth.
"Dry your tears," he said.
The Mayor did. He was trembling. While the dentist washed his hands, he saw the crumbling ceiling and a dusty spider web with spider's eggs and dead insects. The dentist returned, drying his hands. "Go to bed," he said, "and gargle with salt water." The Mayor stood up, said goodbye with a casual military salute, and walked toward the door, stretching his legs, without buttoning up his tunic.
"Send the bill," he said.
"To you or the town?"
The Mayor didn't look at him. He closed the door and said through the screen:
"It's the same damn thing."


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