Horacio Quiroga (1878–1937) was an Uruguayan writer whose mastery of the short story made him one of the foundational figures of Latin American narrative literature. Deeply influenced by Edgar Allan Poe and Guy de Maupassant, Quiroga infused his tales with psychological intensity, fatalism, and a fascination with the darker aspects of human existence. His celebrated collection Stories of Love, Madness and Death (1917) exemplifies his ability to merge realism with the gothic and horror genres, exploring themes of obsession, insanity, and the implacable forces of nature. Set often in the wild landscapes of Misiones or within the urban upper class of Montevideo, his stories evoke both physical and moral struggle, where man confronts an indifferent universe.
Quiroga’s concise style, psychological depth, and innovative use of atmosphere established a model for subsequent generations of Latin American short-story writers, from Borges to García Márquez, making him a pivotal precursor of the region’s modern narrative tradition.
À la deriva – Drifting – de Cuentos de amor, de locura y de muerte – Stories of Love, Madness and Death, de Horacio Quiroga – 1917 – Translated from Spanish 🇪🇸 into English 🏴 by Enzo Martinelli
©️ Enzo Martinelli 2026
🏴 Drifting, by Horacio Quiroga
The man stepped on something squishy and immediately felt a bite on his foot. He leaped forward, and as he spun around cursing, he saw a yararacusú coiled up, waiting for another attack.
The man glanced quickly at his foot, where two tiny drops of blood were struggling to form, and drew the machete from his waist. The snake saw the threat and buried its head deeper into the very center of its coil; but the machete came down flat, dislocating its vertebrae.
The man bent down to the bite, wiped away the droplets of blood, and gazed at it for a moment. A sharp pain arose from the two tiny purple dots and began to spread throughout his entire foot. He hurriedly tied his ankle with his handkerchief and continued along the trail toward his cabin.
The pain in his foot intensified, accompanied by a sensation of tight, swollen tightness, and suddenly the man felt two or three searing stabs that, like flashes of lightning, had radiated from the wound to the middle of his calf. He moved his leg with difficulty; a metallic dryness in his throat, followed by a burning thirst, wrung another curse from him.
He finally reached the ranch and collapsed, leaning on the wheel of a sugar mill. The two little purple dots were now disappearing into the monstrous swelling of his entire foot. The skin looked thin and taut, as if it were about to give way. He tried to call out to his wife, but his voice cracked into a hoarse rasp from his parched throat. Thirst was devouring him.
“Dorotea!” he managed to gasp. “Give me sugarcane!”
His wife rushed back with a full glass, which the man gulped down in three swigs. But he hadn’t tasted a thing.
“I asked for sugarcane juice, not water!” he roared again. “Give me sugarcane juice!”
“But it is sugarcane juice, Paulino!” protested the woman, horrified.
“No, you gave me water! I want sugarcane juice, I tell you!”
The woman ran off again, returning with the demijohn. The man downed two glasses one after the other, but felt nothing in his throat.
“Well, this is getting ugly,” he muttered then, looking at his livid foot, which was already taking on a gangrenous sheen. Above the tight bandage, the flesh bulged out like a monstrous blood sausage.
The searing pains came in a continuous flurry, now reaching his groin. The excruciating dryness in his throat—which his breath seemed to make even hotter—intensified at the same time. When he tried to sit up, a violent bout of vomiting kept him there for half a minute with his forehead resting against the wooden wheel.
But the man did not want to die, and making his way down to the shore, he climbed into his canoe. He sat in the stern and began paddling toward the middle of the Paraná. There, the river’s current—which flows at six miles per hour near Iguazú—would carry him to Tacurú-Pucú in less than five hours.
With grim determination, the man did indeed manage to reach the middle of the river; but there his numb hands let the paddle fall into the canoe, and after another bout of vomiting—blood this time—he cast a glance at the sun, which was already sinking behind the forest.
His entire leg, down to mid-thigh, was now a misshapen, rock-hard mass that was tearing through his clothes. The man cut the bandage and slit open his pants with his knife: his lower abdomen bulged, swollen, covered with large livid patches, and terribly painful. The man realized he could never reach Tacurú-Pucú on his own, and decided to ask his friend Alves for help, even though they had been estranged for a long time.
The river’s current was now rushing toward the Brazilian shore, and the man was able to easily pull ashore. He crawled up the steep path, but after twenty meters, exhausted, he lay face down on the ground.
“Alves!” he shouted with all his might; but he listened in vain. “Compadre Alves! Don’t deny me this favor!” he cried again, lifting his head off the ground. Not a single sound was heard in the silence of the jungle. The man still had the strength to make it to his canoe, and the current, seizing it once more, carried it swiftly downstream.
The Paraná flows there at the bottom of an immense basin, whose walls, a hundred meters high, funereally enclose the river. From the banks lined with black basalt boulders, the forest rises, black as well. Ahead, to the sides, and behind, the eternal, gloomy wall, at the bottom of which the churning river plunges in ceaseless swirls of muddy water. The landscape is forbidding, and a deathly silence reigns over it. At dusk, however, its somber and calm beauty takes on a unique majesty.
The sun had already set when the man, half-reclining at the bottom of the canoe, felt a violent chill. And suddenly, in astonishment, he raised his head with a heavy effort: he felt better. His leg hardly hurt at all, his thirst was subsiding, and his chest, now unburdened, expanded with a slow breath.
The poison was beginning to wear off; there was no doubt about it. He was almost well, and although he lacked the strength to move his hand, he counted on the dew to restore him completely. He estimated that he would be in Tacurú-Pucú within three hours.
A sense of well-being washed over him, and with it a drowsiness filled with memories. He could no longer feel anything in his leg or his stomach. Was his friend Gaona still alive in Tacurú-Pucú? Perhaps he would also see his former employer, Mr. Dougald, and the foreman at the logging camp.
Would he arrive soon? The sky to the west was now opening up like a golden screen, and the river had taken on the same hue. From the Paraguayan shore, already growing dark, the forest cast its twilight coolness over the river, in penetrating scents of orange blossom and wild honey. A pair of macaws flew high and silently toward Paraguay.
Down below, on the golden river, the canoe drifted swiftly, occasionally spinning on its axis amid the bubbling of a whirlpool. The man in it felt better and better, and meanwhile thought about exactly how long it had been since he’d last seen his former employer, Dougald. Three years? Perhaps not—not quite that long. Two years and nine months? Maybe. Eight and a half months? That’s for sure.
Suddenly, he felt himself grow cold all the way up to his chest. What could it be? And his breathing, too…
He had met Mr. Dougald’s woodcutter, Lorenzo Cubilla, in Puerto Esperanza on Good Friday… Friday? Yes, or Thursday…
The man slowly stretched out the fingers of his hand.
“A Thursday…”
And he stopped breathing.
Step into the eerie, beautiful, and captivating world of Horacio Quiroga, the master of the short story in Latin American literature. Known for his gripping tales that blur the lines between man and nature, life and death, and reason and madness, Quiroga’s stories are as haunting today as when they were first written.
This new translation brings a fresh, modern voice to Quiroga’s timeless works, making them more accessible than ever to contemporary English readers. From the perilous jungles of Misiones to the psychological depths of human nature, Quiroga’s narratives pull you into a world where survival and horror are intricately intertwined.
What sets this edition apart is its complementary critical analysis, offering insights into Quiroga’s writing style, thematic preoccupations, and his influence on modern horror and psychological fiction. Explore how his tragic personal life shaped his fascination with death, isolation, and the frailty of the human mind.
Additionally, this edition features stunning AI-generated imagerybringing Quiroga’s vivid and unsettling landscapes to life in a way never before seen. These visuals, inspired by the visceral imagery of his stories, serve as an artistic interpretation of the strange and eerie atmospheres that define his work.
Whether you are new to Quiroga or a longtime fan, this collection promises to both captivate and unsettle, offering a fresh lens on the terrifying beauty of his storytelling.
🇪🇸 A la deriva, de Horacio Quiroga
El hombre pisó algo blanduzco, y enseguida sintió la mordedura en el pie. Saltó adelante, y al volverse con un juramento vio una yararacusú que arrollada sobre sí misma, esperaba otro ataque.
El hombre echó una veloz ojeada a su pie, donde dos gotitas de sangre engrosaban dificultosamente, y sacó el machete de la cintura. La víbora vio la amenaza, y hundió más la cabeza en el centro mismo de su espiral; pero el machete cayó de plano, dislocándole las vértebras.
El hombre se bajó hasta la mordedura, quitó las gotitas de sangre, y durante un instante contempló. Un dolor agudo nacía de los dos puntitos violetas, y comenzaba a invadir todo el pie. Apresuradamente se ligó el tobillo con su pañuelo y siguió por la picada hacia su rancho.
El dolor en el pie aumentaba, con sensación de tirante abultamiento, y de pronto el hombre sintió dos o tres fulgurantes puntadas que, como relámpagos habían irradiado desde la herida hasta la mitad de la pantorrilla. Movía la pierna con dificultad; una metálica sequedad de garganta, seguida de sed quemante, le arrancó un nuevo juramento.
Llegó por fin al rancho, y se echó de brazos sobre la rueda de un trapiche. Los dos puntitos violeta desaparecían ahora en la monstruosa hinchazón del pie entero. La piel parecía adelgazada y a punto de ceder, de tensa. Quiso llamar a su mujer, y la voz se quebró en un ronco arrastre de garganta reseca. La sed lo devoraba.
—¡Dorotea! —alcanzó a lanzar en un estertor—. ¡Dame caña!
Su mujer corrió con un vaso lleno, que el hombre sorbió en tres tragos. Pero no había sentido gusto alguno.
—¡Te pedí caña, no agua! —rugió de nuevo—. ¡Dame caña!
—¡Pero es caña, Paulino! —protestó la mujer espantada.
—¡No, me diste agua! ¡Quiero caña, te digo!
La mujer corrió otra vez, volviendo con la damajuana. El hombre tragó uno tras otro dos vasos, pero no sintió nada en la garganta.
—Bueno; esto se pone feo —murmuró entonces, mirando su pie lívido y ya con lustre gangrenoso. Sobre la honda ligadura del pañuelo, la carne desbordaba como una monstruosa morcilla.
Los dolores fulgurantes se sucedían en continuos relampagueos, y llegaban ahora a la ingle. La atroz sequedad de garganta que el aliento parecía caldear más, aumentaba a la par. Cuando pretendió incorporarse, un fulminante vómito lo mantuvo medio minuto con la frente apoyada en la rueda de palo.
Pero el hombre no quería morir, y descendiendo hasta la costa subió a su canoa. Sentóse en la popa y comenzó a palear hasta el centro del Paraná. Allí la corriente del río, que en las inmediaciones del Iguazú corre seis millas, lo llevaría antes de cinco horas a Tacurú-Pucú.
El hombre, con sombría energía, pudo efectivamente llegar hasta el medio del río; pero allí sus manos dormidas dejaron caer la pala en la canoa, y tras un nuevo vómito —de sangre esta vez— dirigió una mirada al sol que ya trasponía el monte.
La pierna entera, hasta medio muslo, era ya un bloque deforme y durísimo que reventaba la ropa. El hombre cortó la ligadura y abrió el pantalón con su cuchillo: el bajo vientre desbordó hinchado, con grandes manchas lívidas y terriblemente doloroso. El hombre pensó que no podría jamás llegar él solo a Tacurú-Pucú, y se decidió a pedir ayuda a su compadre Alves, aunque hacía mucho tiempo que estaban disgustados.
La corriente del río se precipitaba ahora hacia la costa brasileña, y el hombre pudo fácilmente atracar. Se arrastró por la picada en cuesta arriba, pero a los veinte metros, exhausto, quedó tendido de pecho.
—¡Alves! —gritó con cuanta fuerza pudo; y prestó oído en vano-. ¡Compadre Alves! ¡No me niegue este favor! —clamó de nuevo, alzando la cabeza del suelo. En el silencio de la selva no se oyó un solo rumor. El hombre tuvo aún valor para llegar hasta su canoa, y la corriente, cogiéndola de nuevo, la llevó velozmente a la deriva.
El Paraná corre allí en el fondo de una inmensa hoya, cuyas paredes, altas de cien metros, encajonan fúnebremente el río. Desde las orillas bordeadas de negros bloques de basalto, asciende el bosque, negro también. Adelante, a los costados, atrás, la eterna muralla lúgubre, en cuyo fondo el río arremolinado se precipita en incesantes borbollones de agua fangosa. El paisaje es agresivo, y reina en él un silencio de muerte. Al atardecer, sin embargo, su belleza sombría y calma cobra una majestad única.
El sol había caído ya cuando el hombre, semitendido en el fondo de la canoa, tuvo un violento escalofrío. Y de pronto, con asombro, enderezó pesadamente la cabeza: se sentía mejor. La pierna le dolía apenas, la sed disminuía, y su pecho, libre ya, se abría en lenta inspiración.
El veneno comenzaba a irse, no había duda. Se hallaba casi bien, y aunque no tenía fuerzas para mover la mano, contaba con la caída del rocío para reponerse del todo. Calculó que antes de tres horas estaría en Tacurú-Pucú.
El bienestar avanzaba, y con él una somnolencia llena de recuerdos. No sentía ya nada ni en la pierna ni en el vientre. ¿Viviría aún su compadre Gaona en Tacurú-Pucú? Acaso viera también a su ex patrón mister Dougald, y al recibidor del obraje.
¿Llegaría pronto? El cielo, al poniente, se abría ahora en pantalla de oro, y el río se había coloreado también. Desde la costa paraguaya, ya entenebrecida, el monte dejaba caer sobre el río su frescura crepuscular, en penetrantes efluvios de azahar y miel silvestre. Una pareja de guacamayos cruzó muy alto y en silencio hacia el Paraguay.
Allá abajo, sobre el río de oro, la canoa derivaba velozmente, girando a ratos sobre sí misma ante el borbollón de un remolino. El hombre que iba en ella se sentía cada vez mejor, y pensaba entretanto en el tiempo justo que había pasado sin ver a su ex patrón Dougald. ¿Tres años? Tal vez no, no tanto. ¿Dos años y nueve meses? Acaso. ¿Ocho meses y medio? Eso sí, seguramente.
De pronto sintió que estaba helado hasta el pecho. ¿Qué sería? Y la respiración también…
Al recibidor de maderas de mister Dougald, Lorenzo Cubilla, lo había conocido en Puerto Esperanza un viernes santo… ¿Viernes? Sí, o jueves…
El hombre estiró lentamente los dedos de la mano.
—Un jueves…
Y cesó de respirar.
The top 3 most popular Jungle Tales by Quiroga
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