The Relic (European Classics) by Eca de Queiroz
By Eca de Queiroz
Translated via Margaret Jull Costa
Novelist and short-story author, one of many best intellectuals of the iteration of 1870. Eca de Queiroz brought naturalism and realism to Portuguese literature. he's thought of the main novelist of his iteration. The Relic used to be a picaresque tale of non secular hypocrisy and fact. Its writing coincided along with his marriage and drew at the travels along with his wife's brother to Egypt and the close to East. The younger Teodorico desires to get away from the chains of his non secular domestic. He visits Jerusalem to procure a therapeutic relic, quickly he's transported again in time together with his spouse, the German pupil Topsius, and meets Jesus himself, witnessing the crucifixion. He sees the still-living Jesus is smuggled in a grave, and after adventures Teodorico returns again to his personal century.
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Additional resources for The Relic (European Classics)
I am the most slavish of students, with here a dictionary, there a note-book in which I enter curious uses of the past participle. But one cannot go on for ever cutting these ancient inscriptions clearer with a knife. Shall I always draw the red-serge curtain close and see my book, laid like a block of marble, pale under the lamp? That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.
Then I shall drop you. ‘I am one person – myself. I do not impersonate Catullus, whom I adore. I am the most slavish of students, with here a dictionary, there a note-book in which I enter curious uses of the past participle. But one cannot go on for ever cutting these ancient inscriptions clearer with a knife. Shall I always draw the red-serge curtain close and see my book, laid like a block of marble, pale under the lamp? That would be a glorious life, to addict oneself to perfection; to follow the curve of the sentence wherever it might lead, into deserts, under drifts of sand, regardless of lures, of seductions; to be poor always and unkempt; to be ridiculous in Piccadilly.
But now we have regained our territory after that brief brush with the bicycles and the lime scent and the vanishing figures in the distracted street. Here we are masters of tranquillity and order; inheritors of proud tradition. The lights are beginning to make yellow slits across the square. Mists from the river are filling these ancient spaces. They cling, gently, to the hoary stone. The leaves now are thick in country lanes, sheep cough in the damp fields; but here in your room we are dry. We talk privately.