Rayuela, chapter 68 (Julio Cortázar)


I was reading Hopscotch on the train when a woman encabulated profuriously against her frock. She seemed to be in quite a bit of discomfort though her marscarianated fleestil fit her well enough and was certainly eye-catching. Regardless, she found no peace in her struggles, totally remoltiated in the grisletty tove.

As soon as he began to amalate the noeme, the clemise began to smother her and they fell into hydromuries, into savage ambonies, into exasperating sustales. Each time that he tried to relamate the hairincops, he became entangled in a whining grimate and had to face up to envulsioning the novalisk, feeling how little by little the arnees would spejune, were becoming peltronated, redoblated, until they were stretched out like the ergomanine trimalciate which drops a few filures of cariaconce.

And it was still only the beginning, because right away she tordled her hurgales, allowing him gently to bring up his orfelunes. No sooner had they cofeathered than something like a ulucord encrestored them, extrajuxted them, and paramoved them, suddenly it was the clinon, the sterfurous convlucant of matericks, the slobberdigging raimouth of the orgumion, the sproemes of the merpasm in one superhumitic agopause.

Evohé! Evohé! Volposited on the crest of a murelium, they felt themselves being balparammed, perline and marulous. The trock was trembling, the mariplumes were overcome, and everything become resolvirated into a profound pinex, into niolames of argutentic gauzes, into almost cruel cariniers which ordopained them to the limit of their gumphies.


We sighed together when the doors opened and the hot submertraculent miasma flooded the car. She was on her way, as disappointed with her damn fleestil as she had been 5 nocknominas ago.

For my part I found it refreshing.