"Bestiary", a short story by Cortázar

Magical realism is a concession to human rational capacity. It seeks to broaden the scope of reality and entrust the most varied human idiosyncrasies, from the most intimate intimacy to the greatest ambition, to the intellectual domain. Its enemy is not nonsense or unbridled madness, but rather the absurd: the manifestly impossible. Thus, if an individual vomits bunnies (Letter to a Girl in Paris), they do not question the reason or become intellectually embarrassed by what happened. Beyond the pragmatic side of the issue, no waves are raised or probes are sent into the heart of reality. Magical realism accepts reality as it presents itself; that is, it is, in its essence, an innocent gaze upon the world and nature. It is a human and humanist perspective on things, above all.

There is an epistemological assumption in this literature that we can trace back to David Hume – there is a bifurcation in knowledge: on the one hand, there are relations of ideas , and on the other , questions of fact . The former include expressions such as "a triangle has three sides" or "the shortest distance between two points is a straight line" (in Euclidean theory); to deny any of these principles is absurd and, as such, a logical, physical, or metaphysical impossibility. The latter derive from statements such as "grass is green" or "snow is white"; the negation of each of these statements does not involve a contradiction; that is, it is a serious possibility in the world and should be considered as such. The main difference between the two branches of the bifurcation lies in the fact that questions of fact depend entirely and solely on our senses for verification. Therefore, it should not cause anyone surprise or indignation that snow can be blue, purple, or orange. It is this rational impressionism that marks the novelty of this type of narrative.

This first part of the essay, admittedly theoretical, is crucial to understanding the works that fall within this Latin American movement. Focusing on the short story in question, Bestiário focuses on a family and the internal and external architectural structures that constitute their home and allow their movements. Despite being a family home, we always have the feeling—through the eyes of the protagonist, Isabel—that it is a summer house, a second home that one never quite masters or understands. The protagonist moves through the house with the joy and ease of a guest, listening to the advice and permissions of the permanent residents. The building is well-proportioned and large enough to, using the right words—and the author always has them—be considered large, spacious, and comfortable. There is nothing strange about the architectural ensemble: the walls don't creak, there are no strange sounds coming from the attic or basement; in short, there are no ghosts inhabiting it. The residents also possess nothing unique: a family, with reasonably balanced relationships, with the characteristic sadness of their bourgeois bearing—as Cortázar would say. The short story writer gently leads us by the hand—as is his timbre—through the words and sentences, paragraphs and pages. The art is splendidly mastered, and the specimens emerge naturally throughout the narrative: a painting, a wall, a table, a rug, a garden, a tiger, an office… In this perfect narrative semantic and syntactic control, the feline, in its wild state (the beast's indomitability is fundamental to the narrative's success), appears naturally, as if there were a tiger in any Argentine family home. There are no exclamations like "Beware of the tiger!" or "My God, there's a tiger here!" It is this naturalness (as opposed to a supernaturality or otherness) that summons us and causes us, like a patina, mental and physical discomfort. Of course, we know—the author relies on this—that there are no tigers in the Americas, especially in the highly touristy city of Mar del Plata. However, we also recognize that, if we're being picky, the animal could have escaped from a circus or a zoo. It's the actions and reactions, whether of the guest or the hosts, that evoke a certain magic in us: "Be careful with the coffee cup, it's too close to the edge of the table" or "Watch the step, it's loose"; or, in our case, "The foreman said the tiger is in so-and-so's office, we can go to the garden"... Life goes on with the safety of everyday life, that is, with the possible safety that we can ensure and maintain. There is a tiger in the house, however, if we pay attention and communicate clearly, nothing bad will happen: "The traffic light is green for pedestrians, we can cross the street safely," etc.

If it weren't a short story, the plot could end without incident. However, for the sake of all of us, it's best for fiction to contain friction: in the end, there's a death caused by the animal; a careless act, a lack of attention, and someone—the property owner—dies in the feline attack. Once again, I emphasize that this doesn't correspond to a climax, a pre-established outcome, but simply a coincidence: "In the wrong place at the wrong time." Until the fatality, the prose is restrained and firmly in the writer's grasp; during the final attack, in full view of everyone except the protagonist, there are the natural screams, the understandably scandalized reactions of surprise and disbelief, the horror, the horror...