Epitaph of a Small Winner A Novel

Why have the weirdest fictions all come out of South America? Funnier than Borges, wackier than Marquez, Machado de Assis is probably the greatest genius you've never heard of. It is comico-nihilistic modernism (admittedly an acquired taste, but tremendously cathartic in small doses) at its best- and this was written in the 1880s!! Suffice it to quote this passage, oft cited in the other Goodreads reviews of this small masterpiece: "Tis good to be sad and say nothing..." I remember that I was sitting under a tamarind tree, with the poet's book open in my hands and my spirit as crestfallen as a sick chicken. I pressed my silent grief to my breast and experienced a curious feeling, something that might be called the voluptuousness of misery. Voluptuousness of misery. Memorize this phrase, reader; store it away, take it out and study it from time to time, and, if you do not succeed in understanding it, you may conclude that you have missed one of the most subtle emotions of which man is capable. And now, for a few of Machado's many wonderful one-liners: "You are alive: I wish you no other calamity." "We were two young men, the people and I..." "You who still live, believe me, there is nothing in the world so monstrously vast as our indifference." "Each period in life is a new edition that corrects the preceding one and that in turn will be corrected by the next, until publication of the definitive edition, which the publisher donates to the worms." And, finally, the entirety of chapter 45: Sobs, tears, an improvised altar with saints and crucifix, black curtains on the walls, strips of black velvet framing an entrance, a man who came to dress the corpse, another man who took the measurements for the coffin; candelabra, the coffin on a table covered with gold-and-black silk with candles at the corners, invitations, guests who entered slowly with muffled step and pressed the hand of each member of the family, some of them sad, all of them serious and silent, priest, sacristan, prayers, sprinkling of holy water, the closing of the coffin with hammer and nails; six persons who removes the coffin from the table, lift it, carry it, with difficulty, down the stairs despite the cries, sobs, and new tears of the family, walk with it to the hearse, place it on the slab, strap it securely with leather thongs; the rolling of the hearse, the rolling of the carriages one by one… These are the notes that I took for a sad and commonplace chapter which I shall not write.

Posthumous memoirs of a wealthy writer in short chapters, playful modernism, a bit bonkers. Years ahead of its time.