Collected short stories (1995)
Grouped together in this volume according to their theme, Scliar’s stories reveal the strength of his fiction. Relationships between parents and children are exposed in an unusual way, the Bible is revisited from a surprising perspective, and power games and passion are viewed from unusual angles, all in an atmosphere of humor and fantasy.
Dictionary of the intrepid traveler (1995)
In this book, you’ll find, from A to Z, a humorous collection of stories, tips, memories and anecdotes told by a writer who knows what he’s talking about. A frequent traveler himself, Scliar uses the theme of travel to write good literature, traversing countries and scrutinizing the eager soul of the tourist in a delightful narrative that leads to situations with which many of us will surely identify. Illustrated and full of aphorisms about traveling and foreign countries, the book is divided into 31 chapters, such as “P for Prowling” or “J for Jerusalem.” With the author’s characteristic light-hearted humor, readers are offered the most amusing tales of countries, tourist routes, in short, the various aspects of this strange habit of traveling. While reading the (Dictionary of the intrepid traveler), we will experience different sensations, the most unimaginable adventures, and surprises that those who decide to travel are subject to. It is a book for those who love to travel and for those who believe that the best part of a trip is coming home.
Van Gogh’s Ear (1989)
We were, as usual, on the brink of ruin. My father, the owner of a small grocery store, owed a substantial amount of money to one of his suppliers. And there was no way he could pay. But if Father was short of money, he certainly wasn’t lacking in imagination. He was an intelligent, cultivated man with a cheerful disposition. He hadn’t finished school; fate had confined him to a modest grocery store where, amid baloneys and sausages, he bravely repulsed the attack of existence. His customers liked him because, among other reasons, he granted them credit and never exacted payment. With his suppliers, however, it was a different story. Those aggressive gentlemen wanted their money. The man to whom Father happened to owe money at that point in time was known as being a particularly ruthless creditor. Any other person would have been driven to despair under the circumstances. Any other person would have considered running away, or even committing suicide. Not Father, though. Always the optimist, he was convinced that he would find a way of dealing with his creditor. This man must have a weakness, he would say, and that’s how we’re going to get him. By making some inquiries here and there, Father dug up something promising. This creditor, who to all appearances was a boorish and insensitive man, had a secret passion for Van Gogh. His house was full of reproductions of the work of the great painter. And he had seen the movie about the tragic life of the artist, with Kirk Douglas in the starring role, at least half a dozen times. Father borrowed a biography of Van Gogh from the library and spent a whole weekend immersed in the book. Then, late on Sunday afternoon, the door of his bedroom opened, and he emerged, triumphant: “I’ve found it!” Taking me aside—at the age of twelve I was his confidant and accomplice—he then whispered, his eyes glittering: “Van Gogh’s ear. His ear will save us.” What are the two of you whispering about over there? asked Mother, who didn’t have much tolerance for what she called the shenanigans of her husband. Nothing, nothing, replied Father, and then to me, lowering his voice, I’ll explain later. Which he did. As the story went, Van Gogh had cut his ear off in a fit of madness and then sent it to his beloved. This fact led Father to devise a scheme: He would go to his creditor and tell him that his great-grandfather, the lover of the woman with whom Van Gogh had fallen in love, had bequeathed him the mummified ear of the painter. Father was willing to let his creditor have this relic in exchange for the cancellation of his debt and the granting of additional credit. “What do you think?” Mother was right: He lived in another world, in a fantasy world. However, the main problem wasn’t the absurdity of his idea; after all, since we were in such dire straits, anything was worth a try. Rather, it was something else that was open to question. “But what about the ear?” “The ear?” He looked at me astounded, as if the matter had never crossed his mind. Yes, I said, Van Gogh’s ear, where in the world are you going to get it? Ah, he said, no problem, we can easily get one from the morgue. A friend of mine works there, and he’ll do anything for me. On the following day he left home early in the morning. He returned at noon, radiant, with a parcel which he then proceeded to unwrap carefully. It was a small jar willed with formaldehyde. Inside, there was something dark, of an indefinite shape. Van Gogh’s ear, he announced, triumphant. And who would say it wasn’t? Anyhow, just in case, he stuck a label on the jar: Van Gogh—his ear. In the afternoon the two of us headed for the creditor’s house. Father went in and I waited outside. Five minutes later he came out, disconcerted and indeed quite furious. The man had not only rejected the proposal, but he had also snatched the jar from my father and hurled it through the window. “Of all the gall!” On this point I had to agree with Father, although I had sort of expected such a denouement. We started to walk along the tranquil street, with Father muttering all the time: Of all the gall! Of all the gall! Suddenly he stopped dead in his tracks, and stared fixedly at me: “ Was it the right one, or the left one?” “What?” I asked, without getting it. “The ear that Van Gogh cut off. Was it the right one, or the left one? “How should I know?” I said, already irritated by the whole thing. “You’re the one who read the book. You’re the one should know.” “But I don’t,” he said, dispirited. “I confess that I don’t know.” We stood silent for a while. I was then assailed with a nagging doubt, a doubt that I didn’t dare to articulate because I knew that the answer could well be the end of my childhood. However: “And the one in the jar?” I asked. “Was it the right one, or the left one? He stared at me, dumbfounded. “You know what? I haven’t the faintest,” he murmured in a weak, hoarse voice. Then we continued to walk, headed for home. If you examine an ear carefully—any ear, whether Van Gogh’s or not—you’ll see that it is designed much like a labyrinth. In that labyrinth, I got lost. And I was never to find my way out again. Moacyr Scliar. In: The Collected Stories of Moacyr Scliar / 1st ed. The University of New Mexico Press, 1999, p. 405–408. Translation by Eloah F. Giacomelli, Introduction by Ilan Stavans.
The Enigmatic Eye (1986)
Exposing the contradictions of everyday life, unusual aspects of reality emerge in each of the short stories in The Enigmatic Eye, which skillfully combine realism and fantasy, blending poetry and philosophy. Exemplary in their conciseness, some of these short stories constitute masterpieces, placing their author, Moacyr Scliar, among the most important figures in Brazilian literature today.
Best stories of Moacyr Scliar (1984)
When the fantastic meets humor, the result is, to say the least, unusual, surprising, and unexpected, especially if self-deprecating Jewish humor is taken to the extreme, halfway between despair and irony. Add to this: well-controlled doses of eroticism, the sacred (and a constant temptation to desecrate it) and a certain jocular quality, and we have all the main ingredients that make up the art of storyteller Moacyr Scliar. Such a simple mix, of course, is not enough to create a good story or to please readers. This depends exclusively on the talent of the author, the skill with which he controls the narrative technique, his mischievous view of the world, the choice of themes and a certain cruelty with which he treats the characters, in contrast to his compassion for the human condition. Contradiction is the hallmark of the human being. Scliar’s universe is populated by human beings, or tormented by human feelings, whether they are mere mortals, a dwarf who lives inside a television set, or a corpse lying on a morgue table, evaluating and judging the medical students who dissect its body. An unusual situation coupled with a realistic description results in a change in the perspective of the story, its development as an apology or parable of the modern world. Of course, when talking about the present day, violence, the cruelty of man towards his fellow man, and the overuse of sex as an element of domination, everything has to be present. Another major aspect of Scliar’s fiction is Jewish immigrant life, the difficulties faced in adapting, and their persistence in maintaining habits brought from very different societies. All of this, as Regina Zilbermann observes in the preface, is approached with veiled tenderness, constituting the most powerful form of Scliar’s art in assuming its own individuality and meaning.
10 Selected Short Stories (1984)
The Japanese masseuse (1984)
This is a collection of 35 chronicles written by Moacyr Scliar in the 1980s. As is typical of his work as a chronicler the author uses the minor details of everyday life as raw material, always imbued with humor. With a keen eye for the absurd, Scliar gives new contours to the mundane, denouncing the madness of everyday life through the absurd. In the text that gives the book its name, the shock of reality caused by the Japanese masseuse is just one example of the great art of writing about the minutiae of life.
The Dwarf in the Television Set (1979)
A collection of 19 short stories by Moacyr Scliar.
