Classic · Colombian Culture · Colombian Literature · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fantasy · Historical Fiction · Latin-American Boom · Latin-American Culture · Latin-American Literature · Magical Realism · Mexican Culture · Paraphrase · Quote · Romanticism

Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez

He pleaded so much that he lost his voice. His bones began to fill with words. ― Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, One Hundred Years of Solitude. (Harper; 1st edition June 24, 2003) published June 1st 1967. Advertisements

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Contemporary · Excerpt · German Culture · German Literature · Historical · Historical Fiction · Holocaust · Paraphrase · Quote · Science Fiction · War · World War II

W. G. Sebald

I think how little we can hold in mind, how everything is constantly lapsing into oblivion with every extinguished life, how the world is, as it were, draining itself, in that the history of countless places and objects which themselves have no power of memory is never heard, never described or passed on.  — W.… Continue reading W. G. Sebald

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Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Online Magazine · Periodical · Poetry

Jamey Gallagher

You and I have always had complex dreams that open up into new conjoined universes that explode on impact and make us groggy in the morning, groping for our oversized coffee mugs. New exercises for new muscles. Gargling. Dilation. A double dose of happy hygiene. Good morning, honey. Our beaks clack when we kiss. —… Continue reading Jamey Gallagher

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Contemporary · Excerpt · Latin-American Culture · Latin-American Literature · Paraphrase · Quote

César Aira

Forgetting is like a great alchemy free of secrets, limpid, transforming everything to the present. In the end it makes our lives into this visible and tangible thing we hold in our hands, with no folds left hidden in the past. — César Aira, The Seamstress and the Wind. (New Directions June 30, 2011) Originally… Continue reading César Aira

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Classic · Collection · Contemporary · Excerpt · Fragment · Literature · Poetry

Dorianne Laux

And I saw it didn’t matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds—nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries… Continue reading Dorianne Laux

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