Literary Text on Rain

Literary Text on Rain

A literary text It is a type of writing that is committed to providing the reader with an aesthetic experience, that is, an experience of beauty. This means that a literary text gives great importance not only to what it says, but to how it says it and the plurality of meanings that it can express through the appropriate words.

Literary texts have been part of the artistic tradition of humanity since ancient times, that is, of the literature, and are organized into large groups known as genres, which have more or less common basic features. At present, literary genres are the poetry, the narrative (the story, the novel, the chronicle) and dramaturgy (that is, theatrical texts).

1. Poem: "What is your life, my soul?" by Miguel de Unamuno (1864-1936)

What is your life, my soul? What is your payment?
Rain on the lake!
What is your life, my soul, your habit?
Wind at the top!

How is your life, my soul, renewed?
Shadow in the cave!
Rain on the lake!
Wind at the top!
Shadow in the cave!

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Tears is the rain from the sky,
and the wind is sobbing without departure,
regret, the shadow without any consolation,
and rain and wind and shadow make life.

About the Author

Miguel de Unamuno is perhaps the most prominent of the Spanish writers of the Generation of '98. He cultivated various literary genres such as the novel, the theater, poetry and the test, and he was rector of the University of Salamanca during three different periods, as well as a deputy in the constituent Cortes of the Second Republic. His poetry is part of the Romantic movement and much of it is written using traditional metrics, such as romance and the sonnet. The religion, the country and domestic life were some of his favorite subjects.

1. Poem: "The rain" by Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986)

Abruptly the afternoon has cleared
because the minute rain is already falling.
Falls or fell. Rain is one thing
That certainly happens in the past.

Whoever hears her fall has recovered
the time when lucky luck
revealed a flower called rose
and the curious color of red.

This rain that blinds the windows
will rejoice in lost suburbs
the black grapes of a vine indeed
patio that no longer exists. The wet one
late brings me the voice, the desired voice,
of my father who returns and has not died.

About the Author

Jorge Luis Borges is the best known and most acclaimed Argentine writer of all, an outstanding author of short stories, essays and poems. He is considered an important figure in Hispanic literature and a key author for the emergence of Latin American magical realism. Despite being blind at 55, he produced important works such as short story collections. Fictions and The Aleph, probably the best known, and he also left a powerful poetic work, in which his masterful mastery of the adjectives.

1. Story: "The Cat in the Rain" by Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961)

Only two Americans stopped at the hotel. They did not know any of the people who walked up and down the stairs to and from their rooms. His was on the second floor across from the sea and to the war memorial, in the public garden of large palm trees and green benches.

When the weather was good, there was a painter with his easel. The artists liked those trees and the bright colors of the hotels facing the sea.

Italians came from afar to see the war memorial, made of bronze that gleamed in the rain. The water ran down the palm trees and puddled on the stone walkways. The waves broke in a long line and the sea receded from the beach to return and break again in the rain. The cars drove away from the square where the monument was. On the other side, at the entrance to a cafe, a waiter was looking at the now lonely place.

The American lady watched everything from the window. On the floor just below the window, a cat had huddled under one of the green benches. She tried to get as small as possible to avoid the drops of water that fell on the sides of her shelter.

"I'm going to find that kitten," she said.

"I'll go, if you want," her husband offered from the bed.

"No, I'm going." The poor pussycat has huddled under the bench so as not to get wet. Poor thing!

The man continued reading, propped up on two pillows at the foot of the bed.

"Don't get wet," she warned him.

The woman came downstairs and the hotel owner got up and bowed to her as she passed her office, which had the desk at the back. The owner was an old man and very tall.

–Il piove –The American woman said. The owner of the hotel was friendly.

-Yes Yes Signora, Brutto Tempo. It is a very bad time.

As the American walked past the office, the padrone leaned from her desk. She experienced a strange feeling. She stayed behind the desk at the back of the dark room.

The woman liked it. She liked the seriousness with which she took any complaints. She liked her dignity and the way he served her and played the role of her hotelier. She liked her sad old face and her big hands. He was thinking about that when he opened the door and poked his head out. The rain had intensified. A man in a raincoat crossed the empty square and entered the cafe. The cat had to be on the right. Perhaps she could approach protected by the eaves. Meanwhile, an umbrella opened behind. She was the maid in charge of her room, sent, no doubt, by the hotelier.

"You mustn't get wet," the girl said in Italian, smiling.

While the maid held the umbrella beside her, the American walked along the stone path until she reached the indicated spot, under the window. The bench was there, glistening in the rain, but the cat was gone. The woman was disappointed. The maid looked at her curiously.

–He lost anything, Signora?

"There was a cat here," the American answered.

-A cat?

-Yes il gatto.

-A cat? The maid laughed. A cat in the rain?

-Yes; she had taken refuge in the bank - and after. Oh! I liked it so much! She wanted to have a kitten.

When she spoke in English, the maid became serious.

-Come on, Signora. We have to go back. If not, he will get wet.

"I imagine it," said the stranger.

They returned to the hotel along the stone path. The girl stopped at the door to close the umbrella. As the American walked past the office, the padrone leaned from her desk. She experienced a strange feeling. Her padrone made her feel very small and, at the same time, important. She had the impression of great importance. After climbing the ladder, he opened the door to his room. George was still reading in bed.

-And the cat? She –she asked, abandoning the reading.

-It is gone.

"And where could he have gone?" He said, resting his eyes a little.

The woman sat on the bed.

"I liked it so much!" I don't know why he loved it so much. I liked that poor kitty. It must not be pleasant to be a poor pussycat in the rain.

George started reading again.

Her wife sat in front of the dressing table mirror and began to look at herself with the hand mirror. She studied her profile, first from one side and then the other, and lastly she looked at the nape and neck of her.

"Don't you think I should let my hair grow out?" She asked him, looking back at herself in profile.

George looked up and saw the back of his woman's neck, shaved like a boy's.

- I like how he is.

"I'm tired of wearing it so short!" I'm sick of always looking like a boy.

George shifted position on the bed. He hadn't taken his eyes off her since she began to speak.

-Caramba! You are very pretty, ”he said.

The woman put the mirror on the dresser and went to look out the window. She was already dusk.

–I wish I had longer hair, so I could make a bun. I'm tired of feeling the back of my neck naked every time I touch it. And I also wish I had a kitten that would lie on my lap and purr when I stroked it.

-Yes? George said.

–And besides, I want to eat at a table with candles and with my own dishes. And I want it to be spring and brush my hair in front of the mirror, have a kitten and some new dresses. I wish I had all that.

-Oh! Why don't you shut up and read something? –George said, resuming reading him.

Her wife was watching from the window. It was already dark and it was still raining through the palm trees.

"Anyway, I want a cat," she said. I want a cat. I want a cat. Right now. If I can't have long hair or have fun, at least I need a cat.

George wasn't listening to her. He was reading his book. From the window, she saw that the light had come on in the square. Someone knocked on the door.

–Avanti George said, looking over the book. At the door was the maid. She was carrying a large tortoiseshell cat that struggled to free itself from the arms that held it.

"With permission," said the girl, "the padrone commissioned me to bring this for the Signora.

About the Author

Ernest Hemingway is considered one of the masters of the contemporary American tale, initiator of the narrative school known as "dirty realism", of short sentences and lean style. He was an acclaimed journalist, novelist, and short story writer, winning the Pulitzer Prize in 1953 and the Nobel Prize for Literature the following year. A boxing fan, he was a war reporter in the Spanish Civil War and in the Second World War, and lived the end of his days in Cuba. He committed suicide at the age of 61 by a shotgun blast.

References:

• "Types of texts" in Wikipedia.

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