Another Rose from the Concrete
Esta es mi gente, mi tierra, y por eso canto hoy.
Another Rose from the Concrete
+
amalgamable:

summer of 2002.
+
theparisreview:

“We Americans share more than what divides us.”
For National Library Week, a photographic essay by Robert Dawson on America’s public libraries.
theparisreview:

“We Americans share more than what divides us.”
For National Library Week, a photographic essay by Robert Dawson on America’s public libraries.
+
"The question about language is not who is right or wrong but, in the old Hegelian scheme, who is the master and who the slave? Puns are my freedom and my control."
Guillermo Cabrera Infante (via theparisreview)
+
eye-contact:

Full Metal Jacket
+
mexicanfoodporn:

Gabriel García Márquez 
+
theparisreview:

“I see dreams as part of life in general, but reality is much richer.”
RIP Gabriel García Márquez
+
guardian:

Gabriel García Márquez, Nobel laureate writer, dies aged 87
The Colombian Nobel laureate Gabriel García Márquez, who unleashed the worldwide boom in Spanish literature with his novel 100 Years of Solitude, has died at the age of 87, a person close to the family has said. García Márquez had been admitted to hospital in Mexico City on 3 April with pneumonia. Full story
Pictured: Gabriel García Márquez at his house in Mexico City, 2010. Photograph: Miguel Tovar/AP
+
"Until you’re about the age of twenty, you read everything, and you like it simply because you are reading it. Then between twenty and thirty you pick what you want, and you read the best, you read all the great works. After that you sit and wait for them to be written. But you know, the least known, the least famous writers, they are the better ones."
Rest in peace, Gabriel García Márquez. (via theatlantic)
+
the-final-sentence:

the-final-sentence:

March 6 - Gabriel García Márquez
Bio:  Born on March 6, 1928, writer Gabriel García Márquez grew up listening to family tales. After college, he became a journalist. His work introduced readers to magical realism, which combines fact and fantasy. His novels Cien años de soledad (One Hundred Years of Solitude) and El amor en los tiempos del cólera (Love in the Time of Cholera) have drawn worldwide audiences. He won a Nobel Prize in 1982. [2]
Anecdotes:
The highly political Marquez has long been a friend of Cuban president Fidel Castro. [3]
He claims that he wrote the book “One Hundred Years of Solitude” barricaded in his study in Mexico, after receiving a vision. One day, while he and his wife and children were in their car driving to Acapulco, he saw that he “had to tell [his] story the way his grandmother used to tell hers, and that [he] was to start from that afternoon in which a father took his child to discover ice.” He made an abrupt U-turn on the highway, the car never made it to Acapulco, and he locked himself in his study. Fifteen months later, he emerged with the manuscript, only to meet his wife holding a stack of bills. They traded papers, and she put the manuscript in the mail to his publisher. [4]
He has a yellow rose or tulip on his writing desk each day. [5]
When he was diagnosed with lymphatic cancer, he gamely declared to the world that the disease was an “enormous stroke of luck” because it finally forced him to write his memoirs. [6]
Final sentences:






‘Forever,’ he said.

from Love in the Time of Cholera (translated by Edith Grossman)











[He stumbled on the last step, but he got up at once. “He even took care to brush off the dirt that was stuck to his guts,” my Aunt Wene told me.] Then he went into his house through the back door that had been open since six and fell on his face in the kitchen.

from Chronicle of a Death Foretold











[And she, with a sad smile—which was already a smile of surrender to the impossible, the unreachable—said: “Yet you won’t remember anything during the day.” And she put her hands back over the lamp, her features darkened by a bitter cloud.] “You’re the only man who doesn’t remember anything of what he’s dreamed after he wakes up.

from Eyes of a Blue Dog (short story)

Only then did she understand that three thousand years had passed since the day she had had a desire to eat the first orange.

from Eva is Inside Her Cat (short story)

Before reaching the final line, however, he had already understood that he would never leave that room, for it was foreseen that the city of mirrors (or mirages) would be wiped out by the wind and exiled from the memory of men at the precise moment when Aureliano Babilonia would finish deciphering the parchments, and that everything written on them was unrepeatable since time immemorial and forever more, because races condemned to one hundred years of solitude did not have a second opportunity on earth.

from One Hundred Years of Solitude





Sources: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

RIP Gabriel García Márquez
+
"I think the average guy thinks they’re pro-woman, just because they think they’re a nice guy and someone has told them that they’re awesome. But the truth is far from it. Unless you are actively, consciously working against the gravitational pull of the culture, you will predictably, thematically, create these sort of fucked-up representations."
Junot Diaz (via luciaferr)