domingo, 16 de abril de 2017


By Julio Cortázar
Translated by Sandra Dermark
16th of April, MMXVII

The general has only got eighty men, while the enemy is five thousand strong. In his tent, the general is cursing and sobbing. Then, in a flash of inspiration, he writes a proclamation, which homing pigeons pour out over the enemy camp. Two hundred enemy footfolk switch over to the general's side. A skirmish ensues, the general easily wins, and two enemy regiments switch over to his side. Three days later, the enemy is only eighty men strong, while the general's host is five thousand strong. Then, the general writes another proclamation, and seventy-nine men switch over to his side. There is only one enemy left, surrounded by the army of a general who waits in silence. The night goes on, and the enemy has not switched over to his side yet. The general is cursing and sobbing in his tent. At dawn, the enemy slowly draws steel and advances towards the general's tent. He enters and looks at the general. The general's army scatters, the sun rises.

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