Example of the Narration

The narrative exposes human events outside the writer's privacy, although he may also appear in it. The description is different from the narrative; the first insists on the external aspect of the facts, sensibly perceived; the second takes in the facts and delves into the characters, in their moral intimacy.
The narration can be considered as an extended description. In the description the human being may be absent; in the narration, no. If I write that my friend's house is surrounded by a garden, and that in the back there is a mushroom-shaped fountain, I am describing; but I narrate if I give the description of the house and tell the life of its inhabitants.
For ancient rhetoric, "the narrative was one of the parts into which the discourse was divided, precisely the one in which the matter was clarified through the narrative of the facts."
Writing a letter is a task that can be learned without difficulty; but "the talent of narrating," says Martín Alonso, "is the application, training and culture of the individual. It is not enough to have an attractive subject; it is necessary to present it with interest. Some people are extraordinary storytellers in conversation; but they are given a pen and they are disturbed: they lack inspiration and cannot write as they speak.

Narrating is a vital art that is implicit in the human essence: we have all, to varying degrees, been storytellers, on more than one occasion. In chatting with friends, there is no lack of spicy "gossip" that is related and listened to with a certain "sadistic delight"; We look forward to returning from our trip to share with relatives and friends the interesting experiences we have acquired. There are women who are eager to tell the sequences of the film that left a deep impression on them. The grandmother tells beautiful stories to her grandchildren, and the old people from the province like to spice up the conversation with tasty anecdotes from her hometown.
These everyday narratives are spontaneous; some are fluid and beautiful; a great number of those who do them lack the most elementary instruction. The narrative is essentially innate. There is a lot that / cannot be learned with it and a lot that can be learned. The great narratives do not admit the typecasting in prescriptive schemes; all great storytellers are different from each other. They establish rules that only they apply.
The narrative - more than other literary genres - must be simple, original and sincere; his imitation is a copy without freshness, without a life of its own. However, we will hardly become good storytellers if we do not begin by imitating the greats, recognizing that this procedure is provisional, it is a support or crutch to learn to walk and, later, if history dictates it, we jump and run alone on the wide path of the literature.
For the theory to have practical application, I write down two narrative snippets. In Death and Other Surprises, by Mario Benedetti, I find one that penetrates the personality of an individual.
THE OTHER ME
"He was an ordinary boy: his pants formed knee pads, he read comics, he made noise when he ate, he put his fingers in his nose, he snored in his nap, his name was Armando. Current in everything except one thing: he had another me.
The other me used a certain poetry in his eyes, fell in love with actresses, lied cautiously, got emotional in the evenings. The boy was very concerned about his other self and made him feel uncomfortable in front of his friends. On the other hand, the other me was melancholic and, because of this, Armando could not be as vulgar as his desire was.
One afternoon, Armando came home tired from work, took off his shoes, slowly wiggled his toes, and turned on the radio. Mozart was on the radio, but the boy fell asleep. When he woke up, the other me was crying disconsolately. At first, the boy didn't know what to do, but then he pulled himself together and conscientiously insulted the other me. He said nothing, but the next morning he had committed suicide.
At first, the death of the other me was a rude blow to poor Armando, but he immediately thought that now he could be completely vulgar. That thought comforted him.
He had only been in mourning for five days when he took to the streets in order to show off his new and complete vulgarity. From afar he saw his friends approaching. That filled him with happiness and he immediately burst into laughter. However, when they passed him, they did not notice his presence. To make matters worse, the boy managed to hear that they commented: "Poor Armando. And to think that he seemed so strong, so healthy. "
The boy had no choice but to stop laughing, and, at the same time, he felt at the level of his sternum a suffocation that was quite like nostalgia. But he could not feel true melancholy, because all the melancholy had been taken away by the other me. "{Cf. Complementary bibliography, N? 7)
The story "Los novios", included in El Diosero, by Francisco Rojas González, presents us with the classic shyness of two lovers who meet:
"He was from Bachajón, he came from a family of potters; His hands, since they were little girls, had learned to round the shape, to handle the clay with such delicacy that when he molded, it seemed more as if he was caressing. He was an only child, but a certain restlessness born of the soul was separating him, day by day, from his parents, carried away by a sweet vertigo... For a long time the murmur of the stream had enraptured him and his heart had an unusual palpitations; also the honey bee scent of the poinsettia had taken to captivate him and the sighs curled into. His chest gushed out in silence, hidden, as unease arises when a serious offense has been committed... Sometimes a sad little tune settled on his lips, which he hummed quietly, such as if he was selfishly savoring an acrid delicacy, but very gratifying. "That bird wants tuna" —commented his father one day, when he surprised her singing.
The boy, full of shame, did not sing again; but the father — Juan Lucas, a Tzeltal Indian from Bachajón — had taken over the secret of his son.
She was also from Bachajón; small, round and smooth. Day after day, when she went through the water to the stream, she passed in front of Juan Lucas's gate.. There a young man seated before a pot of raw clay, a round pitcher and a jug, to which those skillful and tireless hands never gave an end ...
God knows how, one morning two glances collided. There was neither spark, nor flame, nor fire after that stop, which could barely make the wings of the robin nestled among the farmer's branches that grew in the lot flutter.
However, since then, she shortened her steps in front of the potter's house and risked a gaze of urgent timidity with her hook.
On his side, he suspended his work for a moment, raised his eyes, and embraced with them the silhouette that was going after the path, until he lost himself in the foliage / qjie, borders the river... "(Cfr. Complementary bibliography, N? 48)