By Henry James
A mediados del siglo XIX, cuando las nuevas clases emergentes ya empezaban a mudarse al norte de big apple, un rico y prestigioso médico neoyorquino se construye una casa en Washington sq.. Es una «casa bonita, moderna», con terraza y porche de mármol. A ella se traslada a vivir en compañía de su hermana, una viuda romántica y sentimental, amiga de los secretos, y de su única hija Catherine, que a los veinticinco años no ha conseguido ser, según su padre, ni hermosa ni inteligente. A Catherine le corresponde, sin embargo, una herencia huge, y cuando en su vida aparece un joven guapo y encantador, aunque sin oficio ni beneficio, el healthcare professional no duda de que no puede sentirse atraído por ninguna cualidad de su hija que no sea el dinero. Henry James trazó en Washington sq. (1880) un soberbio retrato de inside alrededor de una mujer que se descubrirá en posesión de algo que, rodeada de tiranía y oscuridad, ni siquiera había intuido que tenía: voluntad.
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We went to New York—I forget what the situation was, two colored girls—there were no girls there; they were supposed to meet him in a diner and didn’t show up. We went to his parking lot where he had a few things to do—change his clothes in the shack in back and spruce up a bit in front of a cracked mirror and so on, and then we took off. And that was the night Dean met Carlo Marx. A tremendous thing happened when Dean met Carlo Marx. Two keen minds that they are, they took to each other at the drop of a hat.
I had to buy more cigarettes. Gene and the blond boy followed me to stretch their legs. I walked into the least likely place in the world, a kind of lonely Plains soda fountain for the local teenage girls and boys. They were dancing, a few of them, to the music on the jukebox. There was a lull when we came in. Gene and Blondey just stood there, looking at nobody; all they wanted was cigarettes. There were some pretty girls, too. And one of them made eyes at Blondey and he never saw it, and if he had he wouldn’t have cared, he was so sad and gone.
Well, that sounds like him. ” “That’s right. Louisiana Slim he’s sometimes called. ” “East Texas is right. ” And that was exactly right; and still I couldn’t believe Gene could have really known Slim, whom I’d been looking for, more or less, for years. ” “I reckon. ” “Well, damn me, I’m amazed you know him. This is a big country. ” “Yessir, I know Big Slim pretty well. Always generous with his money when he’s got some. ” That sounded like Big Slim; he was always practicing that one punch in the air; he looked like Jack Dempsey, but a young Jack Dempsey who drank.
Washington Square by Henry James