¿Cómo Aplica 'El Príncipe' A La Política Actual?

In 'El Principito', the fox symbolizes the essence of relationships and the process of taming—literally and metaphorically. It teaches the prince that true connections require time, patience, and mutual investment. 'You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed,' the fox says, emphasizing the weight of emotional bonds. The fox’s golden fur mirrors the value of these bonds, while its wisdom contrasts the prince’s initial naivety. It introduces the idea of 'unique' relationships—like the wheat fields that remind the fox of the prince’s hair—showing how love transforms ordinary things into something irreplaceable. The fox’s farewell, though bittersweet, underscores the beauty of fleeting moments and the lasting imprint they leave.

The aviator in 'El Principito' is the narrator of the story, a grown-up who recalls his childhood encounter with the Little Prince in the Sahara Desert. As a pilot, he’s pragmatic yet introspective, grounded in the realities of adulthood but deeply nostalgic for the imagination of youth. His plane crash strands him in the desert, where the Little Prince’s arrival forces him to confront lost creativity and the emptiness of 'grown-up' priorities like numbers and authority. The aviator’s journey mirrors Saint-Exupéry’s own life—a blend of adventure and melancholy, yearning for simplicity amid complexity. What makes the aviator compelling is his duality. He’s both a seasoned adult and a secret dreamer, skeptical yet enchanted by the prince’s tales of interstellar travels and whimsical planets. His sketches—like the infamous 'boa constrictor digesting an elephant'—reveal his stifled childlike perspective. Through their conversations, he rediscovers the value of love, friendship, and seeing with the heart. The aviator isn’t just a narrator; he’s a bridge between the reader’s world and the prince’s poetic universe.

The protagonist of 'El túnel' is Juan Pablo Castel, a tortured artist whose psyche unravels as he narrates his obsession with María Iribarne. From his prison cell, Castel recounts how a fleeting encounter with María at an art exhibition spirals into destructive fixation. His unreliable narration blurs reality—was María truly complicit in his torment, or did his paranoia invent her betrayal? Castel embodies existential isolation, painting himself as both predator and victim. His artistic genius contrasts with emotional poverty, making every interaction with María a battleground of control. The novel's brilliance lies in Castel's voice—brutally self-aware yet incapable of change. His crimes stem not from passion but from the abyss within, where art and madness collide.

According to some historians, the term "El Dorado" is derived from Spanish and means "The Gilded One". Legend has it that there was once a great king or city in South America which abounded in riches untold. Tales about this legendary country drove the Age of Exploration and Conquest! Apparently, the story began with a Muisca ritual where a new leader would wear golden dust and bathe in a holy lake. In time, the story of this golden king was combined with stories of cities of gold and easy money... A fitting example of how reality twists itself into legend.

I just finished reading 'El túnel' by Ernesto Sábato, and that ending left me staring at the wall for a good ten minutes. It’s one of those psychological rollercoasters where the protagonist, Juan Pablo Castel, spirals so deep into obsession that you almost see it coming—yet it still shocks you. The novel builds this suffocating tension between Castel and María Iribarne, his obsession, until it all collapses in a single, brutal moment. He murders her. Not in a fit of rage, but with chilling deliberation, as if it’s the only logical conclusion to their twisted connection. The way Sábato writes it feels inevitable, like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Castel’s narration is so detached afterward, recounting the act with eerie calm, that it makes your skin crawl. The tunnel metaphor? It’s literal by this point—he’s dug himself so far into isolation that even crime doesn’t free him. He turns himself in, almost relieved to be caught, because the guilt is quieter than the madness that drove him there. What haunts me most isn’t the murder itself, but how Castel describes María’s final moments. She doesn’t fight. She seems to accept it, as if she’d foreseen this ending too. That resignation makes the violence even more horrifying. And then there’s the aftermath: Castel writing his confession from prison, trying to justify the unjustifiable. The novel ends with him still trapped in his own head, the tunnel now a prison of his making. No redemption, no grand revelation—just the bleak acceptance that some people destroy what they love because they can’t understand it. Sábato doesn’t wrap things up neatly; he leaves you drowning in the discomfort of Castel’s psyche. It’s brilliant, but god, it’s heavy. I keep thinking about how the painting that first connects Castel to María becomes a symbol of their doomed relationship. A tiny figure in a vast landscape—just like Castel, alone in his obsession. The ending mirrors that painting: small, stark, and utterly hopeless. If you’re into stories that stick like tar in your brain, this one’s a masterpiece. Just maybe don’t read it before bed.

The protagonist of 'El Leviatán' is a man named Tomás Vergara, a former naval officer grappling with the weight of his past and the haunting mysteries of the sea. The novel paints him as a complex figure—stoic yet deeply emotional, burdened by guilt but driven by an unyielding sense of duty. His journey intertwines with legends of a colossal sea creature, blurring the lines between myth and reality. Vergara’s character is a masterclass in resilience. His naval background lends him a disciplined, analytical mind, but the ocean’s secrets unravel his composure. The Leviathan isn’t just a beast; it’s a metaphor for his inner turmoil—his regrets, his battles with addiction, and his fractured relationships. The sea mirrors his soul: vast, unpredictable, and teeming with hidden depths. The story’s brilliance lies in how Vergara’s personal demons clash with the literal monster, making his arc as gripping as the folklore itself.

In 'El psicoanalista', the killer is revealed to be Dr. David Keller's own patient, Victor Karler. The twist is chilling—Victor isn't just any patient but a meticulously crafted alter ego of Keller himself, born from repressed trauma. The novel peels back layers of psychological manipulation, showing how Keller's subconscious fractures under guilt, creating Victor as a vessel for his violent impulses. The climax exposes Keller's dual existence, where therapy sessions become a grotesque dance between doctor and monster. The brilliance lies in how the narrative mirrors psychoanalytic theory, making the reader question reality alongside Keller. Victor's crimes—targeting those connected to Keller's past—serve as a macabre form of self-punishment. It's a masterclass in unreliable narration, where the killer's identity isn't just hidden but buried within the protagonist's psyche. The revelation forces us to confront the fragility of sanity and the shadows lurking in therapy's quiet rooms.

Reading 'El Zarco' by Ignacio Manuel Altamirano, the antagonist isn't just a single person but a representation of societal decay and lawlessness. The main figure embodying this is Nicolás, the leader of the bandits known as 'los plateados.' He's not your typical villain with grand schemes; his evil is rooted in the brutal reality of post-war Mexico. Nicolás thrives in chaos, preying on the weak and symbolizing the unchecked violence that plagues the countryside. His relationship with Manuela, who becomes entangled in his world, adds layers to his character—showing how corruption can seduce even those who initially seem innocent. The brilliance of 'El Zarco' lies in how Altamirano paints Nicolás as both a product and a perpetuator of Mexico's struggles. The bandits aren't just criminals; they're symptoms of a broken system where justice is scarce. Nicolás's cruelty—especially toward the protagonist, Martín—highlights the desperation of rural life. The novel doesn't excuse his actions but contextualizes them, making him a tragic antagonist shaped by a country in turmoil. The real villainy isn't just Nicolás but the environment that breeds such figures, where survival often means abandoning morality.