A little further away is the shady trunk of the ombù, under which the novel took shape, and the tank where the first, unsold copies of Cuentos de muerte y de sangre ended up.
When its members realised that this was nonetheless where they came from, that they were marked by soil and blood, loneliness and independence, distances and huge open spaces, dexterity, sombreness and pride, it was too late and nostalgia was all that was left, acute, irremediable, incurable.
DonSegundoSombra (of which Adelphi published a beautiful edition twenty years ago, now out of print, the most beautiful of foreign language editions says Manuel Guiraldes wife) represents the written testimony of this, a novel of initiation and training, a hymn to the gaucho way of life.
This 
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