Hotel Montparnasse
Letters to César Vallejo
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Hotel Montparnasse: Letters to César Vallejo is a verse-novel composed in letters written to the famous Peruvian poet César Vallejo, who died in Paris in 1938. He was buried in the Montparnasse Cemetery, but soon after, according to these letters, found himself residing at the nearby Hotel Montparnasse, perhaps against his will. This book tells of his friendships, involvement with a resident named Jeanette, problems with the hotel management, and his eventual disappearance (or is it escape?) from the hotel. Most of the letter-poems are written by the residents of Hotel Montparnasse, except f...
Hotel Montparnasse: Letters to César Vallejo is a verse-novel composed in letters written to the famous Peruvian poet César Vallejo, who died in Paris in 1938. He was buried in the Montparnasse Cemetery, but soon after, according to these letters, found himself residing at the nearby Hotel Montparnasse, perhaps against his will. This book tells of his friendships, involvement with a resident named Jeanette, problems with the hotel management, and his eventual disappearance (or is it escape?) from the hotel. Most of the letter-poems are written by the residents of Hotel Montparnasse, except for those composed by a certain Álvaro de Campos, who reveals little about himself. This is a book about the mystery of the afterlife, the persistence of desire, and the lasting legacy of César Vallejo.SAMPLE:You checked into room number 39 because You checked into room number 39 because that's the age of the worker who dug your grave. And because you can't bear to tell the desk clerk she needs a zinc bathtub of warm milk to soak her tired feet--and tired back and skull- for at least 39 minutes. Relax, says the aloe plant in your window. Nothing to fear, says the chipped radiator. Says the newspaper's wilted corpse on the faded floral carpet. Says the shirt hugging the back of the chair consoling the desk gone dizzy from staring at the many coffee rings. Nothing to be said, says that black pubic hair clinging to the stiff, sallow lampshade. A hotel room with closet, bed, sink, mirror, because here it's harder for God to pull you back to the morgue, back to that dreamless hole in the ground. Relax, says the mirror, take off your clothes. And so you do. Falling back on the clean towel you spread on the bed, your flesh tickled by the nappy fabric. Room 39, you say. The black hair still clinging to the sullen lampshade. Your friend,Álvaro of the Campos
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