Structure Of Prayer
Описание книги
”Christianity, from a priest and a nun, two stories crossed by the secret, by the suffering of not recognizing themselves in their ”sins”, in denying a reality that is telling them, more and more strongly, that they are weak before the acceptance of their wrong decisions. The characters are just mere figures placed in the plot to delve into a constant and disturbing message: someone is always on top of someone else; someone who sentences with ideas conditioned to their benefit”. ALEXIS CUZME, writer ” Structure of prayer is developed in an environment of religiosity and erudition, because in relation to the famous painting The Garden of Delights, by Hieronymus Bosch, the protagonist – who is a priest – interprets his own behavior and that of other human beings, from the beginning to the end of time”. VERÓNICA FALCONÍ, writer A priest tormented by his instincts. Is this a pointless fight against the devil or a test of the heavens? A pregnant novice. Is it a transgression of the rules or a miracle in times of skepticism? A parade of exalted characters who defend the foundations of doctrine, and others, from miserable existences, whose lives call into question the foundations that support theology. Narrated from different points of view and approached through formal and thematic daring, Structure of Prayer immerses us in dense dramas where the spiritual decomposition of each of the protagonists will shorten the space for redemption, which not all will reach. The theological virtues and the mysteries of faith merge to give rise to the extensive Way of the Cross that circulates throughout these pages through the seven capital sins that are presented in the form of a bestiary, with each demon as a symbol of excess: Asmodeus, lust; Belfegor, laziness; Beelzebub, gluttony; Amon, anger; Leviathan, revenge; Mammon, greed; and, Lucifer, pride. Despite the crudeness of its lines, this novel is a spiritual book.
Отрывок из книги
Darkness is the blindness of thoughts, it is the thunder of silence. Darkness is a plague that turns into dizziness, a caress of nothingness, a cold that pierces the bones, a bitterness that swallows with tears. Darkness is a condemnation to the fears of the past, an uncertainty to the calamities of the future, a nebula that compacts the senses. The darkness. And suddenly, my children, you can contemplate the world. I emerge to the vigil as if excreted from the abyss of the womb. I feel reborn though aware of the deception of my senses. I perceive my morning smell of liver stench adhering to my muzzles, impregnated in the pillow cloth or simply integrated into the atmosphere of the room. Meanwhile, the world remains there. I stand up and the glare coming through the window blinds me and forces me to cover my face. I have woken up from an uneasy sleep that my soul has endured not without shocks. I observe almost in amazement, as if it were the first time, the dryness of the walls of the room, the sadness that distills from its old cracks, the grey photos held in contrast in the colourful frames, the painting of a world enclosed in a glass bubble that may be a protection so that some external danger does not hurt the surface again, or it may remain as a containment so that the evils embedded in that devastated land do not germinate, so that no curious Pandora will ever uncover its stench again. In the background, behind the world, I observe once again the image of God. Closing my eyes, I pray. Beloved Father, deliver me from all sin, for yours is the kingdom of earth and heaven and your designs are pure and unquestionable, cleanse my soul from temptation and bless my day.
I get up and feel the bitterness of the wine established in my entrails, somewhere in my tissues. I slide into the bathroom where the mirror shows the sediments that stain my eyes and that I push away with my fingertips, making the process cause me a shudder. I shake my face with soap and water. The toothpaste rinses my mouth, which gives off the morning stench that I am used to. I excrete with pleasure and notice on the front of my underwear the accumulated splashes that give away the viscosity of the morning and almost daily substance of rare radiance. Oh, Lord, how beautiful and cruel dreams are. Inside a dream is the only space where I can show myself as I am.
.....
I met an old friend at the market. We had a pleasant, if brief, chat.
Mrs. Salome has arrived while I was away. She explains to me, by way of justification, her hardships. I tell her to avoid worries, that I understand the situation and that she should take the week off. She insists on preparing today's lunch as compensation for her future absence. I do not make myself beg. While the mistress is cooking I lock myself in my room and reach for a bottle of wine from the place of my secrets. I start drinking with long sips.
.....