Bring me a drink. I need to think a little. Paper. Pen. And I could use the stink of a good cigar–even though the sun’s out. The grackles in the trees. The grackles inside my heart. Broken feathers and stiff wings. I could jump. But I don’t. You could kill me. But you won’t. The… Continue reading Sandra Cisneros
Upset by two nostalgias facing each other like two mirrors, he lost his marvelous sense of unreality and he ended up recommending to all of them that they leave Macondo, that they forget everything he had taught them about the world and the human heart, that they shit on Horace, and that wherever they might… Continue reading Gabriel García Márquez
He sank into the rocking chair, the same one in which Rebecca had sat during the early days of the house to give embroidery lessons, and in which Amaranta had played Chinese checkers with Colonel Gerineldo Marquez, and in which Amarana Ursula had sewn the tiny clothing for the child, and in that flash of… Continue reading Gabriel García Márquez
no do not mistake this myth for love— that is a different kind of burning — Sandra Cisneros, from “Valparaiso,” My Wicked Ways: Poems. (Knopf, November 17, 1992)
The only regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love. ― Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera. (Alfred A. Knopf, 1988)
With shadows I draw worlds, I scatter worlds with shadows. I hear the light beat on the other side. — Octavio Paz, from “This Side,” The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz: 1957-1987, trans. Eliot Weinberger (New Directions, 1987)
In the dimly lit room I had a brief glimpse of bliss: sight of your naked body like a god reclining. That was all. Quite unaware you got up to get your clothes just naturally while I shuddered like the earth split open by lightning. — Daisy Zamora, “Vision of Your Body,” UniVerse: Nicaragua.