Niebla

Niebla➽ [Download] ✤ Niebla By Miguel de Unamuno ➲ – Bluevapours.co.uk En este año se cumple un siglo de la primera edición de Niebla, una de las grandes novelas de nuestra literatura Si bien llevaba escrita siete años, no se publicó hasta , por el tiempo en que Una En este añose cumple un siglo de la primera edición de Niebla, una de las grandes novelas de nuestra literatura Si bien llevaba escrita siete años, no se publicó hasta , por el tiempo en que Unamuno era cesado como rector de Salamanca por liberal La vida de don Miguel fue, como el lector sabe, aciaga y controvertida, y su independencia intelectual le hizo pagar un alto precio en repetidas ocasiones y acabaría llevándolo a la tumbaA Augusto Pérez, un hombre bueno y simple, pero filósofo y mujeriego –o mejor dicho, admirador del bello sexo– fueron su entusiasmo y la voluntad del propio Unamuno, su creador, los que le llevaron a la tumba Que esto sea una nivola o una novela tanto da, como explica Pollux Hernúñez en su extroducción En cualquier caso se trata de una edición revisada, anotada apenas, ilustrada y hecha con el cuidado que la centenaria celebración merece.

Miguel de Unamuno was born in the medieval centre of Bilbao, Basque Country, the son of Félix de Unamuno and Salomé Jugo As a young man, he was interested in the Basque language, and competed for a teaching position in the Instituto de Bilbao, against Sabino Arana The contest was finally won by the Basque scholar Resurrección María de AzcueUnamuno worked in all major genres: the essay, the nove.

Paperback  ☆ Niebla ePUB ✓
    Paperback ☆ Niebla ePUB ✓ su creador, los que le llevaron a la tumba Que esto sea una nivola o una novela tanto da, como explica Pollux Hernúñez en su extroducción En cualquier caso se trata de una edición revisada, anotada apenas, ilustrada y hecha con el cuidado que la centenaria celebración merece."/>
  • Paperback
  • 239 pages
  • Niebla
  • Miguel de Unamuno
  • Spanish
  • 12 March 2017
  • 9789871187201

10 thoughts on “Niebla

  1. Kalliope says:


    I am surprised this novel is not better known outside Spain. Or may be I am not.

    Niebla, or Mist, was published in 1914 but it was written considerably earlier, in 1907. Consequently, it ranks amongst the earliest modernist novels, on a par with Pirandello’s Il fu Mattia Pascal (from 1904 and which I have not read - yet) and with Proust’s Du côté de chez Swann (published in 1913 but also written from 1909 onwards).




    Don Miguel de Unamuno (1864-1939) is associated to what is known as the “98 Generation” (Generación del 98), or a group of writers and thinkers, who with a relatively international outlook, were marked by a pessimism that resulted from their realization of the serious decline of Spain. The year of 1898, when Spain lost its last colonies, Cuba and the Philippines, became their identity mark. They formed a group with shared friendships and allegiances and a general interest in new literary forms.

    This mist of a novel is not so misty. The language is crystal clear and reads as easily as a soft breeze blows through one’s hair. Its supposed modernist quality is, however, a bit more obscure. Or may be it is not.

    The title, Niebla, is a play of words with the word Novela (novel) and a term that Unamuno coined for a new literary genre of his own cooking: Nívola”. Niebla therefore does not refer to the plot, and even if the word crops up regularly and playfully in the novel, it refers indirectly to what Unamuno believed a novel should be. This is then his nebulous experiment.

    Reading Niebla we follow Unamuno’s somewhat foolish character Don Augusto Pérez and the silly plot as he questions the premises of the realist novel. His questioning is also rooted in his fascination with the work by the other Don Miguel of Spanish literature, and Don Quijote makes its presence in Niebla both through the invocation of the “ingenioso hidalgo” and through some of the literary characteristics of the work.

    In this Nívola of Niebla, all the modernist ingredients are there: clearly spelled out.

    Unamuno’s first concern is with the principle of cohesive and ordered narrative and with the structure of the novel. As an alternative he proposes to let the novel write itself, without plan. The plot is to unfold in a muddled and disorderly fashion, similarly to life. The characters will form themselves through their use of language, through what they say, but in a loose and pointless talk (or “hablar por hablar”). They will speak a great deal even if they have nothing to say but this language will portray them. There is consequently a great deal of dialogue, or the most natural of spontaneous of languages, in Niebla. This writing without a goal is however, at a great distance from the later Surrealist automatic writing.

    Niebla then reads very similarly to a play. There is no Modernist twisting of meanings. Instead, the emptying of human utterance and the emphasis on its banality underlines Unamuno’s concern about the theatricality and falsehood of speech. Language in its social aspect becomes suspect. Alternatively, he also wants to explore the inner language and how to get into the mind of the protagonist without making the author too impossibly intrusive. Rather than a Woolfian stream of consciousness, we have a dog. This is a charming dog. The suitably named Orfeo becomes the Alter-Ego of Don Augusto, so that we know what he thinks, again through dialogue, and at the end the dog will also utter his own words. This literary role of the dog is explicitly explained to us by Unamuno, who increasingly interferes in his novel.

    There are more modernist characteristics in this Nívola. Musings on Time and its meaning are often encountered (Y así, sin término, devanando la madeja de nuestro destino, deshaciendo todo el infinito que en una eternidad nos ha hecho, caminando a la nada, sin llegar nunca a ella, pues que ella nunca fue). Identity and its definition or fragmentation is also found, even if Don Augusto’s paltry insistence on his “Yo soy yo”, or ”el otro soy yo” and “si, yo soy el otro, yo soy otro” just made me laugh.

    But the most striking aspect of this novel is Unamuno playing with himself and his Authorship. It all begins with the fictitious Prologue of a fictitious writer who disagrees with the real author on what is the true plot of the novel. The author will then later on creep in the novel to tell us that his characters are talking about him and rebelling against him, but he laughs at their futile efforts, since he is the god of this literary creation (Yo soy el Dios de estos dos pobres diablos nivolescos). And the novel finishes with the argument between the protagonist and the author on how the Nívola, and Don Augusto’s life, should end. Who do you think got the upper hand?

    At the beginning of my reading, the clarity and simplicity in the writing disappointed me. I felt a divergence between the intentions and the form, but as I proceeded, I detected more and more of the humour and laughed out loud several times.

    I applaud Unamuno in his ability to formulate a parody of something which was not quite there yet.


  2. Fran says:

    1914. Politically unsettling times at the onset of The Great War. Fragmentation in the world and a tendency to see through a glass darkly perhaps was the inspiration for Fog written by Miguel de Unamuno.

    Augusto, a pampered, wealthy intellectual, still reeling two years after his mother's death, was bored with life. Bored, until the day he spotted a girl with beautiful eyes. He followed her home and gleaned the necessary information. She was single, orphaned, and lived with her aunt and uncle. Left almost destitute by her father after a stock market crash, she gave piano lessons to pay off the heavily mortgaged house she had inherited. Up until now, Augusto existed in a fog. He now had wild dreams about the undying love of his own creation.

    Augusto, introverted and unsure of himself, confers with friend Victor. Victor tells him that Eugenia's presence has awakened Augusto's senses to women collectively. Feelings for a singular woman will help him to consider branching out and experiencing life and love. Augusto's over the top fascination with Eugenia is problematic since Eugenia has a fiance, Mauricio. Despite Mauricio's presence, Augusto is selfless. He pays off Eugenia's mortgage and eliminates her debts.

    While Eugenia's aunt calls Augusto her favorite suitor, strong willed Eugenia is determined to marry lazy, unemployed Mauricio, a bum who detests the idea of work. She feels that Augusto is trying to buy her.

    The fog that is life envelopes Augusto. He converses with his dog Orfeo, who listens to his soliloquies and thoughts on love. Augusto wants to end his own life. He visits author Unamuno, his creator. Unamuno informs him that he is just a character in a novel and only an author can make life or death decisions for the characters.

    Fog by Miguel de Unamuno is a tragic-comedy with existential themes. It is very creative and thought provoking. A most enjoyable tome.

    Thank you Northwestern University Press and Net Galley for the opportunity to read and review Fog.

  3. Simona B says:

    ¿No es acaso la liturgia de todas las religiones un modo de brezar el sueño de Dios y que no despierte y deje de soñarnos?

    Is not the whole liturgy, of all religions, only a way perhaps of soothing God in His dreams, so that He shall not wake and cease to dream us?

    Mind-boggling concept, and yet it manages to still seem desolately average -it's a miracle.

    It may just be that in this period words seem to not want to come at me -they almost seem to refuse to be summoned, or maybe they want me me to seek them harder, and I can't. So it may be me, it may be the words, but in this case I think it is the book. I don't feel like there is much about it to be said.

    You should probably know, before my attempt at saying something, that I am a huge admirer of Luigi Pirandello's work. To me, he is one of a kind, and he is unequalled. My Spanish professor swears up and down that Unamuno and Pirandello never read each other's works, but their philosophies are disconcertingly similar, and, useless to say, Unamuno's appears to me ad the rough copy of Pirandello's. This may be due exclusively to the fact that I'd read (and loved. And reread. And reloved) Pirandello before Unamuno's arrival in my literary panorama, or it may be due to the fact that Pirandello's world is so wide and deep and ample no matter the dimension you're considering, and Unamuno gave me not even the littlest hint of the vertigo Pirandello gives me.

    Now, moving on to the book: Niebla is one of the most interesting literary experiments I've ever had the pleasure to see. It's about the collision of two worlds, the real and the fictional ones, and this I can't help but enjoy. It's the story that the author uses as background where the main flaw of the book lies: uneventful, uninteresting, gray. Un-meaningful more than meaningless, and I can't say whether the latter would have been a less unappreciative adjective. Especially when reading books that I know have been written following a solid and sound conceptual system, I expect to and enjoy finding in each episode of the plot a more or less veiled reference to that system. I like when actions are soaked with thoughts. And what I felt was that in this book, if not very superficially, they weren't.

    I think I will just stick with Pirandello.

  4. Michael says:

    A philosophical novel, recently republished, with a sufficient dose of the fun factor to make it a pleasure for me. Unamuno was a leftist novelist, playwright, and essayist who served as a professor of Greek and Classics at the University of Salamanca. Written in 1907 and published in 1914, “Niebla” (translated as mist or fog) purports through one of its characters to represent a new form of fiction, called the “nivola”, which is concerned more with the personification of ideas than realism. It plays on proto-existentialist concepts such as the absurdity of the illusion of free will, the Shakespearean sense of our life as being like actors on a stage, and more ancient notions of our existence being but a dream by our God. The special and delightful twist comes when our main character, Augusto, recognizes Unamumo himself as the god-author responsible for his torments in seeking love. Thus, we get a foretaste of the over-the-top shenanigans I recently read in Pirandello’s play “Six Characters in Search of an Author” (published the same year as Ulysses, 1922), which in turn presages the “Theater of the Absurd”, which Beckett initiated in the 50s, as well as the intersections of characters, readers, and authors seen in Calvino’s “If on a winter’s night a traveler” (1979).

    Recognizing this book as innovative does not prove it to be a fun read for contemporary readers. Let me paint the scenario a bit to help you see if it could be your cup of tea. We meet Augusto who is an aimless aristocrat. Strike one against our loving him. But he begins to charm us with his innocence and naivete and can readily appreciate his impetus to seek love to fill some of the emptiness he feels in life. A random encounter and glance with a woman on the street, Eugenia, leads him to follow her and then to dig information about her from the concierge at her residence. Strike two against him for stalking. But as he convinces himself he is in love with her and persuades her guardian aunt and uncle (a “theoretical anarchist”) of the virtues of his intentions, we begin to root for him much as we would for the fantasies of Don Quixote over Dulcinea. A windmill he must tilt at is that Eugenia is already engaged to marry. Maybe he is deluded, but his eloquence can be fetching:

    Thanks to love, I can feel my soul in a palpable way, I can touch it. The very core of my soul aches, thanks to love. And what is the soul if not love, if not the incarnation of pain?
    …Days come and go and love remains. Deep within, in the innermost depths, this world’s current rubs and grates against the other world’s current, and from this rubbing and grating comes the saddest and sweetest heartache of all, the heartache of living.

    As Augusto recognizes that only virtue can win the day for him, he bides his time while demonstrating selfless generosities to Eugenia. Meanwhile, the love awakened in his heart opens him to the susceptibility of falling in love with other women he encounters. The laundry girl, Rosario, catches his eye, and soon the dance of affection ensues between them. In his egocentric state of loving two women, Augusto seeks out advice from his writer friend Victor, framed as a quest to understand “feminine psychology.” He fills Augusto’s head with the notion from some 17th century doctor that women share a communal soul, that love is all in his head (“how do you know you are really in love and not just that you think you are?”), and that he should commit himself to the experiment of marrying either one immediately. To Augusto’s objection about the permanence of marriage, Victor is dismissive: Anybody who wants to run an experiment with a way out, without burning bridges, will never attain any real knowledge.

    I found myself engaged in a hit at the plate beating a strike-three count. What would be Augusto’s just fate? Just as he is about to take his fate into his own hands, we get the absurdity of him taking his case to the author. But the reader gets the last laugh. Victor has set up the idea of the reader’s power in this earlier dialogue with Augusto:
    “All right, but what am I going to do right now?”
    “Do…do…do! You’re already feeling like a character in a play or novel. …Aren’t we doing something when we talk like this? …As if talk were not action. In the beginning was the Word, and through the Word everything was created.”
    …” The soul of a character in a play or a novel, or a nivola, is given to him by …”
    “By his author.”
    “No, by the reader.”

    A charming dessert at the end is an internal soliloquy by Augusto’s dog, Orfeo, who has had to put up with his master’s endless blather for so long. As a sliver of a sample of this perfect end to the tale, Orfeo concludes:
    Man is such a strange animal. …There is no way of knowing what he wants—if he himself even knows. …Language enables him to lie, to invent what doesn’t exist and get confused. …Man is a sick animal, no doubt about it.

    This book was provided by the publisher for review through the Netgalley program.

  5. Fabian says:

    I got my paws on an English translation of NIEBLA by Miguel de Unamuno. It was written over 100 years ago & it reeks of postmodern metafiction, you know, the type in which a character finds himself literally becoming invented or destroyed by his god, our author. It is an important feat, a relevant historical artifact in how the writer tries to break ties with classic conventions of the novel. We exist, we exist! is the cry of these malcontents, these fictional persons. But read now, in the middle of the #MeToo movement, it could be a wee unsavory, as Unamuno traverses the societal & personal reasons for dating women. In the 1910's.

    And how could Fog not be this way, when the author himself alludes to THE premier Spanish work, obviously DON QUIXOTE. This is an extension of that very Spanish trait--the one in which the writer cannot unglue himself from his creation, indeed intrinsically becoming part of the work himself.

  6. Jacob Overmark says:

    While Unamunos influence on the Spanish modernist literature is evident, I failed to pay him the respect he may have deserved.
    Some of the identity games that may have been new and interesting thoughts to the then Spanish audience are today utterly uninteresting.
    Did my duty, had a few smiles along the road but easily forgot the characters and the idea.

  7. Roy Lotz says:

    I had such a positive experience with my first Spanish review that I'm attempting another one. Once again, if anyone notices any errors, don't hesitate to tell me! I'm still a big guiri. (The translation is in the spoiler below.)

    La palabra, este producto social, se ha hecho para mentir.

    Recuerdo cuando visité la Universidad de Salamanca. Es una de las universidades más viejas en Europa que todavía está abierta. La fachada del edificio de las escuelas mayores es un ejemplo glorioso del estilo plateresco. Dentro hay mapas históricos, una biblioteca maravillosa, y varias salas de lectura. Una de estas salas está dedicada a Miguel de Unamuno, profesor, filósofo, y escritor. Durante el régimen de Franco, no podrías encontrar el nombre de Unamuno allí, porque él estuvo en contra del dictador. Pero ahora tiene la dedicación del que se merece.

    Niebla es uno de sus libros más famosos. Es un ejemplo temprano de la novela modernista. Pero es muy diferente de otros ejemplos que conozco. Su lenguaje es muy simple y directo. La mayoría del libro es diálogo, por consiguiente la experiencia de leerla es como la experiencia de leer una obra de teatro. El resto es un monólogo interior de la protagonista. La idea es permitir que los personajes se escriban. Se escriben por conversación, y con frecuencia esta conversación es desorganizada e inconsecuente.

    El argumento es un poco de un telenovela, con un montón de dramatismo tonto. Pero también hay preguntas filosóficas sobre la relación entre ficción y realidad, en concreto la relación entre un autor y sus personajes. Esta cuestión también está en la obra más famosa de literatura española: Don Quijote. Sin duda, esto es intencional. Cervantes tiene una presencia grande en estas paginas; él era obviamente un héroe de Unamuno. Y en mi opinión, Niebla es un sucesor digno de la obra maestra de Cervantes; es graciosa, inteligente, y original. Los personajes son memorable, y el fin es estupendo. Ahora tengo ganas a leer una obra filosófica de Unamuno, específicamente su libro Del sentimiento trágico de la vida.

    (view spoiler)[I remember when I visited the University of Salamanca. It is one of the oldest universities in Europe that’s still open. The façade of the Escuela Mayores building is a glorious example of the plateresque style. Inside are historical maps, a marvellous library, and various lecture rooms. One of these rooms is dedicated to Miguel de Unamuno, professor, philosopher, and writer. During Franco’s reign, you couldn’t find Unamuno’s name there, because he was opposed to the dictator. But now he has the dedication he deserves.

    Niebla is one of his most famous books. It is an early example of the modernist novel. But it is very different from other examples I know. His language is very simple and straightforward. The majority of the book is dialogue, and consequently the experience of reading it is like the experience of reading a play. The rest is an interior monologue of the protagonist. The idea is to allow the characters to write themselves. They write themselves through conversation, and frequently the conversation is disorganized and inconsequential.

    The plot is a bit like a soap opera, with a lot of silly drama. But there are also philosophical questions about the relationship between fiction and reality, more precisely the relationship between the author and his characters. This question is also addressed in the most famous work of Spanish literature: Don Quixote. Without doubt, this is intentional. Cervantes has a big presence in these pages; he was obviously a hero of Unamuno. And in my opinion Niebla is a worth succesor to Cervantes’s masterpiece; it is funny, intelligent, and original. The characters are memorable, and the ending is terrific. Now I’m excited to read a philosophical work by Unamuno, specifically his Tragic Sense of Life. (hide spoiler)]

  8. Joseph says:

    In his introduction to this English edition of Miguel de Unamuno’s Niebla (“Mist” or, as in Elena Barcia’s new translation – “Fog”), Alberto Manguel makes a bold claim for the novel. Critics, he tells us, have almost unanimously placed it amongst the great Modernist texts, next to Virginia Woolf’s The Waves and Pirandello’s Sei personaggi in cerca d'autore. Except that Unamuno’s novel precedes them both, having been published in 1914 and commenced years before.

    Now I have a confession to make. Although a fan of Italian literature, I have never read Luigi Pirandello, mainly because I have always been afraid that my tastes are too traditional to appreciate this experimental master. As for The Waves – I did read the novel over twenty years ago, but that was only because it was lent to me by a girl I fancied. And if the rocker Meat Loaf sang that he “would do anything for Love”, I guessed that having a go at Woolf was no big deal. Alas, The Waves washed over me without leaving any long-lasting ripples and I’ve never felt any inclination to tackle Woolf since then. It was therefore with some trepidation that I approached Unamuno’s book. I needn’t have worried, as the novel turned out to be really fun to read. And by “fun” I do not simply mean that it is “interesting” and “intellectually satisfying” (although it is that is well) but it is also seriously entertaining.

    As in any self-respecting Modernist novel, the plot is secondary, if not inexistent. Bored bachelor Augusto Pérez has lost his doting mother who, before passing on, insists that he find himself a wife. It takes the gaze of piano-teacher Eugenia to finally awake Augusto’s passions. There is a problem though - the wilful Eugenia is not particularly drawn to Augusto. Apart from the fact that she already has a fiancé. Moreover, thanks to Eugenia, Augusto’s eyes are finally open to the charms of women in general, and the ones who surround him in particular. Meaning that he is soon embroiled in a nascent affair with the earthier Rosario, the young woman who does his laundry. In between Augusto’s hapless attempts at lovemaking, he indulges in philosophical discussions and meta-fictional discourses with the other characters, which culminate in a showdown with the Author himself. Add a prologue purportedly written by one of Unamuno’s fictional characters, a “postprologue” by the author, and an epilogue by Augusto’s dog, and you have the makings of a Modernist text, a work which challenges preconceptions about the role of the author, his characters and his readers.

    What is surprising is that even at his most abstruse, Unamuno retains a light and comic touch. Indeed, when not exploding novelistic conventions to smithereens, he indulges in a type of comedy which reminds me of early Evelyn Waugh. I particularly enjoyed the scenes involving Eugenia’s uncle - a self-declared “theoretical, mystical anarchist” who believes that Esperanto will bring about world peace.

    I sincerely hope that Elena Barcia’s translation will bring this novel to the attention of a wider English-speaking (and reading) public. It deserves to be known not only for its literary-historical merits, but also – and perhaps more importantly – because it is such a great read.

  9. blakeR says:

    This was a very slow, difficult and tedious read that surged in quality at the end after the author inserted himself into the story. Though there are some interesting metaphysical discussions, almost nothing happens for the first 3/4 of the novel; all we have is a bored playboy pining for one or two different women and talking to people (mostly himself) about it. (Caveat: I read this book in Spanish and while I'm fluent and understood over 95% of the book, the energy needed to understand a non-native language surely factored into my feeling of tediousness. I have little doubt that I would have enjoyed it more in English.)

    I believe I understand what Unamuno was trying to do to the format by creating a nivola instead of a novela (Span.). His surrogate character explains, What we have is dialogue; above all, dialogue. The thing is that the characters talk, they talk a lot, although they say nothing. . . because people like conversation in itself, even though nothing is said. Toward the end, when the anguished Augusto asks What am I going to do now? Victor responds (my translation):

    Do, do, do! Bah, you're acting like a character in a drama or novel! Let's content ourselves with being those of a. . . nivola! Do. . . do. . . do! Does it seem to you that we're not doing enough by talking like this? It's the mania of action, or in other words, of pantomime. They say that many things occur in a drama when the actors can make many gestures and take giant steps and fake duels and jump and. . . Pantomime! Pantomime! Other times it's said, 'They talk too much!' As if talking weren't doing. In the beginning was the Word and by the Word everything was made. . .
    This passage and those around it are excellent descriptions of what you're in for if you pick up this book. I like this concept and I agree that conversation and discourse have been devalued (even moreso almost 100 years after this book was published). However, that doesn't automatically make the embodiment of these ideas into a compelling reading experience, and this one struggles on that level. To be sure there are also cultural and linguistic differences at play here. Hispanic language and culture value the circuitous in speaking and writing, which can be a difficult and frustrating adjustment for us Anglos.

    Probably the most famous part of the book is when Unamuno himself comes in and really spices things up. He is able to discuss directly with his protagonist the nature and value of existence, fictional and otherwise. Augusto raises an excellent point that he, in fact, is more real than Unamuno since he will last longer as a fictional entity than Unamuno will in history. I love these ideas, although again, reading them in a novel is not very engaging.

    Ultimately, however, I am very happy to have experienced the book and recommend other students of literature -- whether professional or amateur -- do the same. Abel Sanchez and Other Stories, which I read just before this, was both more entertaining and less thought-provoking (although it's amusing to go back and see that my principle critique of Abel was that it was too talky).

    Still, the most impressive aspect of Unamuno remains the quote that first brought his name to my attention, when in 1936 he replied to a fascist speech by General Millán-Astray at the university where he would later have to resign. This is what he said:
    You are waiting for my words. You know me well, and know I cannot remain silent for long. Sometimes, to remain silent is to lie, since silence can be interpreted as assent. . . But now I have heard this insensible and necrophilous oath, ¡Viva la Muerte!, and I, having spent my life writing paradoxes that have provoked the ire of those who do not understand what I have written, and being an expert in this matter, find this ridiculous paradox repellent. General Millán-Astray is a cripple. There is no need for us to say this with whispered tones. He is a war cripple. So was Cervantes. But unfortunately, Spain today has too many cripples. And, if God does not help us, soon it will have very many more. It torments me to think that General Millán-Astray could dictate the norms of the psychology of the masses. A cripple, who lacks the spiritual greatness of Cervantes, hopes to find relief by adding to the number of cripples around him.

    [Millán-Astray responded, ¡Muera la inteligencia! ¡Viva la Muerte! (Death to intelligence! Long live death!), provoking applause from the Falangists.]

    [Unamuno continued] This is the temple of intelligence, and I am its high priest. You are profaning its sacred domain. You will win, because you have enough brute force. But you will not convince. In order to convince it is necessary to persuade, and to persuade you will need something that you lack: reason and right in the struggle. I see it is useless to ask you to think of Spain. I have spoken.

    He was escorted to safety by Franco's wife, and then removed from his post at the University of Salamanca. He died 10 weeks later.

    Thus anything I read by Unamuno will be colored by my knowledge that the man was a bonafide hero.

    Not Bad Reviews

    @pointblaek

  10. Leonela says:

    Such an amazing book. Metafiction at its finest.

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