En Todas las almas se narraban los años que Deza pasó —como el propio Marías— dando clases en Oxford, sumergido en su atmosfera irreal y sus anacrónicos rituales, rodeado de extraños personajes —extravagantes catedráticos, escritores olvidados, antiguos espías. Su etapa oxoniense llegó a su fin y Deza regresó a España, se casó con Luisa y tuvo dos hijos. Pero las cosas no han ido como esperaba y, tras separarse de su mujer, ha vuelto Londres, donde pasa sus días entre un monótono trabajo en la BBC, su solitario apartamento de soltero y las visitas a su buen amigo y mentor Peter Wheeler. Marias allows his characters to wax philosophical, and almost all who figure at all prominently are mind-men rather than men of action. Es Wheeler quien va a introducir a Deza en un oscuro grupo, vagamente vinculado al MI6, en el que un puñado de personas que tienen el mismo don que ambos, Deza y Wheeler, prestan no se sabe bien qué servicios —sospechosamente bien pagados— a no se sabe quién. ¿En qué consiste ese misterioso don? A medio camino entre la sobrenatural capacidad de leer el alma —¿o es quizá la mente?— de otras personas y simplemente tener buenas dotes de observación y una intuición bien afinada, los integrantes de este grupo son capaces, o creen serlo, de predecir cómo se comportarán en el futuro o ante determinadas circunstancias (“¿podría este hombre capaz de matar si se viera amenazado?” o “¿será aquella mujer capaz de mantener un secreto bajo presión?” o más simplemente “¿está diciendo la verdad este influyente personaje?”) sujetos a los que entrevistan, estudian en vídeos o con los incluso coinciden en una cena organizada a tal efecto. Si se piensa con detenimiento, es un don de lo más literario. No debería uno contar nunca nada, ni dar datos ni aportar historias ni hacer que la gente recuerde a seres que jamás han existido ni pisado la tierra o cruzado el mundo, o que sí pasaron pero estaban ya medio a salvo en el tuerto e inseguro olvido. Contar es casi siempre un regalo, incluso cuando lleva e inyecta veneno el cuento, también es un vínculo y otorgar confianza, y rara es la confianza que antes o después no se traiciona, raro el vínculo que no se enreda o anuda, y así acaba apretando y hay que tirar de navaja o filo para cortarlo. linguistiğe karşı ilgisi olan okurlar bu kitaba bayılacaklar(misal ben, Sine, Yazgülü). çünkü anlatıcı anlattıklarını ingilizce ve ispanyolca dil karşılaştırmalarıyla beraber aktarıyor. ve siz çok şanslı bir türk okuyucu olarak her iki dile olağanüstü hakim olan ve mükemmel çeviri yapan Roza Hakmen kaleminden okuyorsunuz bu kitabı. kitabı türkçe'ye Roza Hakmen'den başka biri çevirmiş olsaydı eminim bütün kitap boyunca keşke Roza Hakmen çevirseydi diye ağlayarak okurdum, teşekkürler Metis.

The third story is a mystery involving the disappearance of a (real) Spanish Communist and the assassination of Deza's uncle during the Spanish Civil War. These events are also linked to the unexplained betrayal of his father in Franco Spain. Much is made of the connection with the James Bond figure of Ian Fleming's From Russia With Love, in which book there appear to be significant references to at least the first event. Cuando se publicó Fiebre y lanza, el primer volumen de la trilogía, yo ya había leído, y releído, todo lo que Marías había publicado anteriormente, incluidos infinidad de artículos. Además, el narrador de Tu rostro mañana era en muchos sentidos un alter ego del autor, no solo por su biografía sino por muchos rasgos de su carácter. En suma, estaba un poco saturado de Marías.Recounting seems a means for him to try, again, to understand some puzzling things, a way of trying to work things out.

This last question is especially relevant, when you recognise that, even within the first part, there are different styles and subject matter. The book is almost entirely without sex, too. Is there anything more annoying than to be reading along contentedly one minute only to find oneself fully aroused the next? This wouldn’t be so bad if the narrative thrust wasn’t entirely interrupted during fictional sex. But it’s the rare writer who can make coition a functional part of the narrative. Marías, bless him, doesn’t even try. Someone said here that there wasn't enough character development, and I would agree. In the traditional sense there isn't much. But Marías is trying to imply character in a kind of refracted way, especially through the intelligence profiles mentioned above, and also in the long speeches by Wheeler and others. So it's there, though kind of inverted. Marías operated a small publishing house under the name of Reino de Redonda. He also wrote a weekly column in El País. An English version of his column "La Zona Fantasma" is published in the monthly magazine The Believer.Javier Marias'ın ustalık eseri denilen seriyi yazarla tanışma kitabı olarak seçmediğim için mutluyum çünkü yarım bırakabilirdim. Yazarın üslubuna alışkın olmak önemli. Kesinlikle sabır isteyen bir metin, yazarın okuduğum tüm kitapları öyleydi gerçi. kimilerince romantik bir savaş olan Guerra Civil Española (İspanya İç Savaşı)’yı, faşist bir lider ile yönetilmeyi. That is what Javier Marías (September 20, 1951–September 11, 2022) explores in some stunning passages from his 2002 novel Your Face Tomorrow ( public library). Art by Olivier Tallec from Big Wolf & Little Wolf

Cómo puedo no conocer hoy Tu rostro mañana, el que ya está o se fragua bajo la cara que enseñas o bajo la careta que llevas, y que me mostrarás tan sólo cuando no lo espere? This first section of the novel, though marked only by an unnumbered quasi-chapter break, seemed to be preoccupied by experiments in sentence craft.

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Der Gedanke als Klang: Marias ist ein Virtuose dieses Klangs, und zwar ein derart vollendeter, dass der Roman den Wunsch nach Handlung gar nicht erst aufkommen lässt. Dein Gesicht morgen ist ein wunderbares "livre sur rien", ist betörende Wortkunst, die den Leser nicht mehr loslässt. Verwaist und an den Rand gedrängt findet sich hier die Story." - Kersten Knipp, Neue Zürcher Zeitung

The first person narrator, Jacobo Deza, is just divorced. He’s about forty and until recently lived in Madrid with his wife Luisa, but they have separated for reasons unknown and he has now come to London working for BBC on programmes about Spain and its culture. He has academic connections at Oxford where he once taught. There the history professor/spy Peter Wheeler introduces him to the suave Mr. Bertram Tupra who in turn hires him for his business of clandestine intelligence assessment. He become a kind of consulting spy, paid to read and interpret people. He's also known for his formidable memory and intelligence. Marías dissects most delicately the fine membranes that separate the arguably justifiable wars of the 20th century from the farragos in which we now find ourselves enmeshed, if only as the payers of tax and viewers of television. This is another thing that makes the one-to-one account of the atrocities known to Jaime's father the more humbling and chilling: though Jaime leads his life sceptical of any "fact", it dawns on him that recounting cannot really be stopped.So yeah, I suppose that if you write an actionless, multi-volume novel with a vulgarly high comma-to-period ratio and no actual events save a party and stuffy rich erudite people yakking, you must be consciously placing yourself in a specific European literary tradition, and inviting certain comparisons to some celebrated, endless plotlessness that has come before. So yes, to answer the question blazing in everyone's mind: if Marcel Proust were Spanish and writing a twenty-first-century spy novel, I suppose it might be at least vaguely like this. I should say that it took me a while to succumb to its charms. There isn't much of the instantly gratifying, high-gloss surface detail by which novels in the more empirical Anglo-American tradition ingratiate themselves with their readers. Nor is there much attempt to differentiate characters in terms of how they speak or think (odd, perhaps, in a book that consists largely of people talking or thinking out loud). And the ratio of action to abstract speculation feels rather low at times, especially in the first volume, where the ruminative passages often seem to expand more by repetition and tautology than the actual development of a thought. But as the work proceeds and the wonderfully macabre dramas begin to fill out the large intellectual frameworks, and all the recurring motifs – the mysterious drop of blood Deza finds at the top of a staircase, for example, or the notion he calls "narrative horror" whereby a famous life such as JFK's or Jayne Mansfield's is overshadowed by an infamous death – begin to release their implications, so one becomes increasingly aware of the book's immense boldness and originality.