BOLETÍN
“ROMANTICISM, REALISM AND THE PRESENCE OF THE WORD,” MEDIA, CONSCIOUSNESS AND CULTURE. ED. BRUCE GRONBECK ET AL. NEW YORK: SAGE. (VERSIÓN COMPLETA “FORTUNATA Y JACINTA, MADAME BOVARY AND ORAL TRACE,” LETRAS PENINSULARES.
“ON MONSTROUS BIRTH: LEOPOLDO ALAS AND THE INCHOATE,” NATURALISM IN THE EUROPEAN NOVEL. ED. BRIAN NELSON. OXFORD: BERG, 1991.
LINDA M. WILLEM
“A DICKENSIAN INTERLUDE IN GALDÓS’S ROSALÍA,” BULLETIN OF HISPANIC STUDIES.
“THE NARRATIVE PREMISE OF GALDÓS’S LO PROHIBIDO,” ROMANCE QUARTERLY, 38 (1991).
“THE NARRATIVE VOICE PRESENTATION OF ROSALÍA DE BRINGAS IN TWO GALDOSIAN NOVELS,” CRÍTICA HISPÁNICA, 12 (1990).
[6] OTRAS NOTICIAS
STELLA MORENO (CENTRAL WASHINGTON UNIVERSITY) PREPARA ACTUALMENTE SU DISERTACIÓN DOCTORAL SOBRE EL TENA “LOVE, MARRIAGE AND DESIRE IN THE NOVELAS CONTEMPORÁNEAS OF GALDÓS.”
A DIANE UREY (ILLINOIS STATE UNIVERSITY) LE HA SIDO OTORGADA UNA N.E.H. FELLOWSHIP PARA QUE PREPARE UN LIBRO SOBRE LOS PRIMEROS EPISODIOS NACIONALES.
[7] NECROLOGÍA
RICARDO GULLÓN, MADRID.
[8] PRÓXIMO NÚMERO DEL BOLETÍN DE LA AIG
SE INCLUIRÁN EN ÉL:
A) COMUNICACIONES SOBRE LAS ENTIDADES Y PUBLICACIONES SIGUIENTES:
LA ASOCIACIÓN CULTURAL BENITO PÉREZ GALDÓS. (JOHN W. KRONIK)
EL CENTRO DE INVESTIGACIÓN “PÉREZ GALDÓS” DE LA FACULTAD DE CIENCIAS DE LA INFORMACIÓN, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE, MADRID. (M[UNCLEAR] DEL PILAR PALOMO Y JULIÁN AVILA ARRELLANO)
EL OMNIBUS GALDOSIANO. (PEDRO ORTIX ARMENGOL)
EL CRUPO DE AMIGOS DE GALDÓS. (PEDRO ORTIX ARMENGOL)
“GALDÓS EN MADRID, MADRID EN GALDÓS.” (JULIO RODRÍGUEX PUÉRTOLAS)
B) RESÚMENES DEL CONTENIDO DE LAS ACTAS SIGUIENTES:
ACTAS DEL TERCER CONGRESO INTERNACIONAL DE ESTUDIOS GALDOSIANOS. LAS PALMAS: CABILDO INSULAR DE GRAN CANARIA, 1989. I, 316; II, 569.
GALDÓS, CENTENARIO DE ‘FORTUNATA Y JACINTA’ (1887–1987). ACTAS (CONGRESO INTERNACIONAL, 23–28 DE NOVIEMBRE). MADRID: UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE, 1989. PP. 669.
GALDÓS, EN EL CENTENARIO DE ‘FORTUNATA Y JACINTA’. ED. JULIO RODRÍGUER PUÉRTOLAS. PALMA DE MALLORCA: PRENSA UNIVERSITARIA, 1989. PP. 110.
I imagine that, his nonchalance notwithstanding, Eric must at least have crossed his fingers as I’ve seen him do many times, however much of a Londoner he may be, and of course I crossed mine, just in case, knocked on various types of wood, and got all tangled up in a string of garlic — I can never remember what exactly it’s for or how you’re supposed to put it on or use it or what you’re supposed to pass through it — and though it wasn’t exactly relevant nor was I having lunch when I read the letter, I threw salt over the shoulders of my polo shirt which for no apparent reason shrank like mad at the next washing. Perhaps all of it was not in vain, however ignorant and clumsy I was in the execution of my false superstitions. Eric Southworth is still alive (though his friend Hemingway, who called him six years ago to make sure of that fact, is not) and his health is as good as can be expected in someone who works a great deal and does not give up the more pleasurable of his minor vices. Still, in the years since this happened, every time he has travelled abroad he’s met with some mishap or accident. He fainted in Orly airport, apparently as a result of a very bad case of food poisoning contracted at a lunch given by the director of the Paris branch of the Instituto Cervantes, and once home in Oxford he had to keep to his bed for far too many alarming days; at Madrid’s Barajas airport he missed a plane to Santiago de Compostela (the airport’s fault) and, unable to go back to the house where he’d been staying — he’d already returned the keys — he had to drag his suitcases loaded with books around Madrid for an entire day since there was no luggage check where he could leave them (our airport, warm and obliging as ever), placing a severe strain on his back, the consequences of which afflicted him to such an extent that he had to cancel part of a planned car trip through Galicia; later, crossing the southern United States, also by car, he and his travelling companion Nick Clapton fell, for twelve hours, into the hands of an absurd sect hidden away in a valley or on a mountain near Tuscaloosa, Alabama, who called themselves God’s Trappers, and all, regardless of gender, wore anachronistic coonskin caps complete with fake tails, like Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone; needless to say, these cultists went hunting for the Englishmen and trapped them, but fortunately they were neither violent nor particularly tenacious, and let them go as soon as they saw they couldn’t convert them, though they could just as easily have sacrificed the two like a pair of beavers to their trapper deity. Then, in Tuscany, Eric fell down an embankment one insufficiently starry night and received multiple fractures that confined him for weeks to an open ward in an Italian hospital, like the other Hemingway, who wrote A Farewell to Arms. According to his doctors, with a little less luck and from a different spot this fall could have sent him straight to Purgatory (subito, addirittura, they scared him in Italian), and one of his ears was permanently damaged by the impact.