Another time, he made them sit on the edge of a cliff with their legs dangling over the sharp ledge.ĭuring the years in San Ignacio, Quiroga farmed inhospitable land, whilst continuing to write successful stories and poems. Once, he left them alone in the jungle one night to fend for themselves. From a young age, his offspring were immersed in what could be called dangerous situations, supposedly so that they could overcome fears and go through life being able to overcome any obstacle. He settled down in the wild backwoods of the Misiones area, marrying Ana Maria Cires and having two children. By this time he had already published many short stories, including his famous horror tale The Feather Pillow, and was often compared to his greatest influence, Edgar Allen Poe. In 1908, he bought the plot of land in the dense jungle region of San Ignacio, where he would build his own bungalow. After four days in detention, he was released without charge. When his friend Frederico Ferrando was challenged to a duel, Quiroga offered to clean and inspect the dueling gun, but accidentally fired it, shooting his friend in the mouth and killing him instantly. Two years after that, his two brothers died of Typhoid fever, and there was still more tragedy to come in that same year. When Quiroga was twenty two years old, he found the body of his step father who had committed suicide.

Before he was even two and a half months old, his father had died by accidentally firing a gun he was carrying. The walkway wound on like a labyrinth, and every few metres there would be panels detailing the life story of the writer.Īnd what a tragic world surrounded the life of Quiroga! With each short stroll to the next biographical display board, the reader becomes more and more depressed, and yet the tragedy that struck the novelist’s life was to such an immense degree, that one can’t help but find it a trifle funny, forgetting for a moment that this story is actually true and not one of Quiroga’s inventions. Simply walking through the tall bamboo-like sticks that completely sheltered any view of the house was interesting enough. The narrow trail was walled by tall, all encompassing sugarcane poles. I did so, stood at their front door, and was pointed to a path that led to the writer’s house. But it was the right place to purchase a ticket. Some locals were lounging in the sun by the porch. Finally, I arrived at a modern looking Argentinian house at the end of a path. I gave up relying on their information, wondering how long the walk was going to be. After another five hundred metres I’d find a sign saying ‘700 metros’. Eight hundred metres later, another would say ‘500 metros’ again. The signs seemed to be a joke erected by bored townsfolk. I followed the crudely hand painted signs and arrows that led down the dusty roads, pointing the way to his house. Seeing as I was spending two nights in the town and had already seen the ruins, I decided I might as well locate Quiroga’s house, which is open to the public as a museum.

A macabre writer of stories, comparable to Edgar Allan Poe in their sheer darkness and suspense, but one I’d never actually heard of. The town has another tourist site, which isn’t frequented half as much: the house of Uruguayan novelist and poet Horacio Quiroga. They arrive to see San Ignacio Mini, one of the best preserved ruins of the splendid seventeenth century Jesuit missions. They’re just shops, attached to locals’ houses, with a few old plastic chairs and tables outside, where they’ll serve you a choice of three types of empañadas and a pizza if you’re lucky.ĭespite the quietness of the slow paced Argentinian town, tour buses still pull up most days. In fact, the most popular restaurants for locals aren’t even ‘real’ restaurants. There’s one cash machine, few shops and only a handful of restaurants. In small town San Ignacio, the population seems to be permanently on siesta.

El hijo horacio quiroga