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Descriptive Magic. Published in 1917, the book is still a beloved classic from Barcelona to Lima. For children it holds the place that Alice in Wonderland and Beatrix Potter's Tale of Peter Rabbit hold in the affections of English and U.S. moppets. For adults it has not only the nostalgia of childhood but deeper hints of pleasure and pain. With its unashamed lyricism, its admixture of sentiment and sentimentality. Platero and I will hardly please admirers of realism in prose and verse. But it will charm those who do not mind being caught out in moments of simple humanity. Sentiment aside, few readers will be able to resist the sheer descriptive magic of a passage (from the Roach translation) such as this:
I have told you, Platero, that the soul of our town is wine, have I not? No; the soul of our town is bread. Moguer is like a loaf of wheat bread, white inside like the crumb and golden on the outside like the soft crust.
At noon, when the sun is at its warmest, the town begins to smoke and to smell of pine wood and warm bread. The whole town opens its mouth. It is like a huge mouth that eats a huge loaf of bread. Bread is life. It goes with everything: with the oil, the stew, the cheese, and the grapes, giving its flavor of kisses; with the wine, the soup, the ham, with itself, bread with bread. Also it may be bread alone, like hope, or bread with an illusion . . .
The bakers' boys come on their trotting horses and stop before each closed door. They clap their hands and call out:
Bread! Bread!
Baskets are held tip by bare arms; one hears the thud of the quarter-loaves as they fall against the buns, the large loaves falling against the rolls . . .
And poor children immediately ring the bell at iron gratings or knock at heavy doors and cry, sending plaintive echoes down the corridors:
"A little bit of bread, please!"