#Chilean author

[tempting-seduction]

Born on 20 February 1953 in Valparaíso, Chile, Roberto Ampuero is a Chilean author, columnist, and the former Minister of Foreign Affairs of Chile, a position he held from March 11, 2018 to June 13, 2019.

[lost-myself-in-translation]

The boy who went madly in love, by Enrique Barrios (1915)

Prologue: Have you ever heard a bird singing at night? Sometimes a sliver of golden moonlight spills between the mysterious foliage, reaches the branch where the little bird is nestled, and wakes her up. The bird may think is the dawn, but it's not. And still, she sings. Then, if the little bird is poised and strong, once she discovers that it was all a trick, she will bury her beak between her feathers and fall asleep once more.  However, there are a lot of different birds. Restless and fragile, to whom the sliver of moonlight had put under a spell. Who after singing, stunned, they jump and try to fly. But as the sun has not risen yet, they become lost in the darkness, or they drown in the lake illuminated by a pale golden sliver of light, or they get their chests embedded with the thorns of a rose bush which could have heard their bests songs and ignite their most delirious joys in the morning. What is the poisonous beam of light that awake some souls in the night, robs them of dawn and drowns them in an existence of darkness? I am about to reveal you the secret of a boy who went madly in love. Outside of myself, no one —not even his mother, turned into his slave— ever possessed the truth behind the madness of this child. I would not reveal yet how this painful and naïve notebook fell into my hands. I can only tell you that I am publishing this because it cannot hurt anyone anymore. I respected for years the secret of that child. Of that little bird who sang in the night and lost his dawn. Fate brought this notebook to me, and I have kept it dutifully. With the respect a saddened and sentimental child deserves. A victim of the poisonous beam that sheds a light into hearts before their time and throws them into that blazing and dark vortex; sweet and terrible, called love.

[satorugojowidow]

Welcome to the first edition of this humble reading club! In this first round we are doing poetry with an open conception about what poetry is. Each member of the club will be posting a piece of literature of their own country (in english and the original language). There will be one post per week every friday. Every member will post from their own blog respecting the style and using “les tumblrinas du mal” as tag. The discussion around the piece of literature will be on the same post in the section of comments (only). The club is open to new members, everyone can interact with post without being part of the club.

................

"Manifesto (I Speak For My Difference)" by Pedro Lemebel

Pedro Lemebel (1952–2015) was a Chilean artist, writer, and queer revolutionary. Lemebel first made their mark on Chilean literature through a series of performances and readings made in the 1980s. Their writings (including poetry, short stories, and non-fiction pieces) were known for their boldly queer and provocative stance, as well as for their ability to commemorate the beauty and the grit of working-class queer life in Chile.

In 1986, there was a large gathering of left-leaning opposition groups in the Mapocho Station of Santiago. It was here that Lemebel would make their defiant entry into Chile’s literary culture, dressed in high heels and with a hammer and sickle dolled onto their face. It is this context, of an intransigent public intervention against the established left in Chile, that the poem should be read.

credits to Sebastian Sanchez

I Speak For My Difference

I am not Pasolini asking for explanations

I am not Ginsberg expelled from Cuba

I am not a fag disguised as a poet

I don’t need a disguise

Here is my face

I speak for my difference

I defend what I am

And I am not so strange

I hate injustice

And I don’t trust this democratic dance

But don’t talk to me about the proletariat

Because being poor and a faggot is worse

You gotta be rough to bear it

It’s crossing the street when you see those lads on the corner

It’s a father that hates you

Because his one and only son has a limp wrist

It’s having a mother with hands cut by chlorine

Aged by cleaning

Cradling you when you’re sick

Because of bad habits

Because of bad luck

Like the dictatorship

Worse than the dictatorship

Because dictatorships end

And then comes democracy

And right behind it socialism too

And so?

What will they do with us, comrades?

Will we be tied by our braids into bundles

bound for a Cuban AIDS sanitorium?

They’ll put us on some train to nowhere

Like on General Ibáñez’s ship

Where we learned to swim

But none of us made it to shore

Because of that Valparaíso dimmed its red lights

Because of that the whorehouses

Poured out a single black tear

For those fruits feasted on by crabs

That year the Commission of Human Rights

doesn’t remember

Because of that, comrade, I’m asking you

Does the Siberian train that

reactionaries decry still exist?

That train that passes before your eyes

When my voice starts to get too sweet

And you?

What will you do with that childhood memory

Of us stroking our cocks together (among other things)

While on holiday in Cartagena?

Will the future be in black and white?

Will the difference between night time

and the working day always be clear?

Won’t there be a faggot on some corner

Throwing the future of your new man off balance?

Will they let us embroider birds

on the flags of our free homeland?

I leave the rifle to you

Who is cold-blooded

And it’s not fear

I lost my fear

Of dodging knives

In the seedy basements where I spent my time

And don’t feel attacked

If I speak to you of these things

And check out your bulge

I’m not a hypocrite.

Don’t a woman’s tits

Make you lower your gaze?

Don’t you think

That alone in the mountains

Something would happen between us?

Even if you hate me afterwards

For corrupting your revolutionary morals.

Are you scared I’ll homosexualize your life?

And I’m not just talking about putting it in

& taking it out & taking it out & putting it in

I’m talking about tenderness, comrade

You don’t know

How much it costs to find love

In these conditions

You don’t know

What it’s like to carry this leprosy

People keep their distance

People understand and say:

He’s a fag but he writes well

He’s a fag but he’s a good friend

Real-good-vibes

But I’m not good vibes

I accept the world

Without asking for those good vibes

But either way they laugh

There are scars of laughter on my back

You say I think with my ass

And that with the first shock of the electric prod

I’d let it all slip

You don’t know that I never learnt

My manhood in the barracks

The night taught me my manhood

Behind a post

That manhood you boast of

Was drilled into you in boot camp

By a murderous pig

Like the ones still in power

I didn’t get my manhood from the party

Because they rejected me with sniggers

More than once

I learnt my manhood participating

In the struggle of those years

And they laughed at my faggy voice

Chanting: And it’s gonna fall, and it’s gonna fall

And although you shout like a man

You’ve brought nothing down

My manhood was the gag

It wasn’t going to the stadium

And getting into scraps for Colo-Colo

Football is another form of repressed homosexuality

Like boxing, politics, and wine

My manhood was biting down on my tongue

Eating my rage so I didn’t kill the whole world

My manhood is accepting myself as different

Being a coward is much more difficult

The only other cheek I’ll turn,

Comrade, is on my ass

And that is my vengeance

My manhood waits patiently

For the chauvinists to get old

Because at this stage of the game

The left is trading its limp ass

In parliament

My manhood was difficult

That’s why I won’t get on this train

Without knowing where it’s going

I won’t change for Marxism

Which rejected me so many times

I don’t need to change

I’m more subversive than you

I won’t change just

Because of the rich and the poor

Give me a break

I also wont change because capitalism is unjust

In New York fags kiss on the street

But I’ll let you chew on that

You who are so interested

In the revolution not rotting away

To you I leave this message

And this is not for me

I am old

And your utopia is for those who are to come

There are so many children who will be born

With a broken wing

And I want them to soar, comrade

I want your revolution

To give them a piece of red sky

So they can fly.

...

Hablo por mi diferencia

No soy Pasolini pidiendo explicaciones

No soy Ginsberg expulsado de Cuba

No soy un marica disfrazado de poeta

No necesito disfraz

Aquí está mi cara

Hablo por mi diferencia

Defiendo lo que soy

Y no soy tan raro

Me apesta la injusticia

Y sospecho de esta cueca democrática

Pero no me hable del proletariado

Porque ser pobre y maricón es peor

Hay que ser ácido para soportarlo

Es darle un rodeo a los machitos de la esquina

Es un padre que te odia

Porque al hijo se le dobla la patita

Es tener una madre de manos tajeadas por el cloro

Envejecidas de limpieza

Acunándote de enfermo

Por malas costumbres

Por la mala suerte

Como la dictadura

Peor que la dictadura

Porque la dictadura pasa

Y viene la democracia

Y detrasito el socialismo

¿Y entonces?

¿Qué harán con nosotros, compañeros?

¿Nos amarrarán de las trenzas en fardos

con destino a un sidario cubano?

Nos meterán en algún tren de ninguna parte

Como en el barco del general Ibáñez

Donde aprendimos a nadar

Pero ninguno llegó a la costa

Por eso Valparaíso apagó sus luces rojas

Por eso las casas de caramba

Le brindaron una lágrima negra

A los colizas comidos por las jaibas

Ese año que la Comisión de Derechos Humanos

no recuerda

Por eso, compañero, le pregunto

¿Existe aún el tren siberiano

de la propaganda reaccionaria?

Ese tren que pasa por sus pupilas

Cuando mi voz se pone demasiado dulce

¿Y usted?

¿Qué hará con ese recuerdo de niños

Pajeándonos y otras cosas

En las vacaciones de Cartagena?

¿El futuro será en blanco y negro?

¿El tiempo en noche y día laboral

sin ambigüedades?

¿No habrá un maricón en alguna esquina

desequilibrando el futuro de su hombre nuevo?

¿Van a dejarnos bordar de pájaros

las banderas de la patria libre?

El fusil se lo dejo a usted

Que tiene la sangre fría

Y no es miedo

El miedo se me fue pasando

De atajar cuchillos

En los sótanos sexuales donde anduve

Y no se sienta agredido         

Si le hablo de estas cosas                  

Y le miro el bulto

No soy hipócrita

¿Acaso las tetas de una mujer

no lo hacen bajar la vista?

¿No cree usted

que solos en la sierra

algo se nos iba a ocurrir?

Aunque después me odie

Por corromper su moral revolucionaria

¿Tiene miedo que se homosexualice la vida?

Y no hablo de meterlo y sacarlo

Y sacarlo y meterlo solamente

Hablo de ternura, compañero

Usted no sabe

Cómo cuesta encontrar el amor

En estas condiciones

Usted no sabe

Qué es cargar con esta lepra

La gente guarda las distancias

La gente comprende y dice:

Es marica pero escribe bien

Es marica pero es buen amigo

Súper-buena-onda

Yo no soy buena onda

Yo acepto al mundo

Sin pedirle esa buena onda

Pero igual se ríen

Tengo cicatrices de risas en la espalda

Usted cree que pienso con el poto

Y que al primer parrillazo de la CNI

Lo iba a soltar todo

No sabe que la hombría

Nunca la aprendí en los cuarteles

Mi hombría me la enseñó la noche

Detrás de un poste

Esa hombría de la que usted se jacta

Se la metieron en el regimiento

Un milico asesino

De esos que aún están en el poder

Mi hombría no la recibí del partido

Porque me rechazaron con risitas

Muchas veces

Mi hombría la aprendí participando

En la dura de esos años

Y se rieron de mi voz amariconada

Gritando: Y va a caer, y va a caer

Y aunque usted grita como hombre

No ha conseguido que se vaya

Mi hombría fue la mordaza

No fue ir al estadio

Y agarrarme a combos por el Colo Colo

El fútbol es otra homosexualidad tapada

Como el box, la política y el vino

Mi hombría fue morderme las burlas

Comer rabia para no matar a todo el mundo

Mi hombría es aceptarme diferente

Ser cobarde es mucho más duro

Yo no pongo la otra mejilla

Pongo el culo, compañero

Y ésa es mi venganza

Mi hombría espera paciente

Que los machos se hagan viejos

Porque a esta altura del partido

La izquierda tranza su culo lacio

En el parlamento

Mi hombría fue difícil

Por eso a este tren no me subo

Sin saber dónde va

Yo no voy a cambiar por el marxismo

Que me rechazó tantas veces

No necesito cambiar

Soy más subversivo que usted

No voy a cambiar solamente

Porque los pobres y los ricos

A otro perro con ese hueso

Tampoco porque el capitalismo es injusto

En Nueva York los maricas se besan en la calle

Pero esa parte se la dejo a usted

Que tanto le interesa

Que la revolución no se pudra del todo

A usted le doy este mensaje

Y no es por mí

Yo estoy viejo

Y su utopía es para las generaciones futuras

Hay tantos niños que van a nacer

Con una alíta rota

Y yo quiero que vuelen, compañero

Que su revolución

Les dé un pedazo de cielo rojo

Para que puedan volar.

[nepobabyeurydice]

Some of you really don’t know what you're doing with latino characters and it shows

[voces-y-versos]

LOKIUS AU - Bajo la luz de la luna: Capítulo 2

Hace algunos meses, Loki concluyó sus estudios en periodismo y desde entonces se lanzó al escabroso terreno de la búsqueda laboral con premura. No deseaba un año de pausa, sino ejercer de inmediato.

La prisa en su paso se justificaba en parte por la constante admonición que durante toda su vida le señaló un horizonte oscuro laboralmente, sentenciándolo a la inutilidad debido a su condición autista. ¡Basura absoluta! Como si el ser autista le negara la facultad de hallar trabajo, una falacia indignante. Como si el ser autista le restara su humanidad.

Quizás, para ser justos, algo de veracidad guardaban aquellos augurios. Casi un año transcurrió desde el inicio de su búsqueda laboral y aún no hallaba quien confiara en sus habilidades. Tal vez confesar su autismo en las entrevistas incidía en estas negativas, pero su integridad y transparencia le impedían ocultarlo a sus posibles superiores, precaviéndose de futuras dificultades.

En una encrucijada se hallaba Loki, preso entre la necesidad de trabajar y la áspera realidad de la discriminación que afrontaba por su condición autista. A pesar de las sugerencias de ocultar su autismo en las entrevistas, su ética y franqueza le impedían ejecutarlo.

La frustración se avivaba día a día, el rechazo laboral resonaba constante en su mente. A pesar de sus logros académicos, se veía constreñido por una sociedad renuente a comprender o aceptar sus diferencias.

Pero, siendo franca, sus desempeños académicos no fueron sobresalientes, más bien... decentes.

Otro dilema que acosaba a Loki era la reacción de las personas ante su revelación autista. Algunos adoptaban dos posturas: unos lo consideraban incapaz de valerse por sí mismo, necesitado de asistencia para todo; otros lo miraban como un genio intelectual, dueño del saber absoluto sobre lo existente y lo venidero.

Y eso resultaba, francamente, insoportable. Tan desastroso como la peor calamidad.

Lo más doloroso para Loki era lamentar la carencia de contactos durante sus años de estudio. Pero, ¿cómo, alguien como él, habría de tejer lazos en la universidad? A duras penas conversaba con sus compañeros; las escasas veces que intentó una conexión social, fue rechazado.

Una parte de él envidiaba a su hermano Thor, tan... distinto a él. Thor simplemente era Thor, todo en él parecía en orden.

En primer término, su género coincidía con el asignado al nacer.

Maldición.

Quizá la causa de su no contratación también yacía en su identidad de género no convencional.

Pese a haber culminado su transición de género en sus documentos en su adolescencia y haber masculinizado su físico con mastectomía y tratamiento hormonal, conservaba rasgos ligeramente afeminados, algo que, honestamente, apreciaba. Por fin hallaba comodidad en su imagen.

Mas, ello no mitigaba el malestar ante comentarios hirientes.

Un "maricón" susurrado al cruzar la calle era habitual; agradecía que los "maricón" vociferados desde los camiones fueran escasos, al menos, cuatro veces le ha ocurrido.

Loki se cuestionaba si su apariencia de "maricón" le cerraba las puertas laborales.

Había escuchado a uno de los entrevistadores referirse a él con ese término al abandonar la sala hace unos meses.

No bastaba con ser autista, también era un "maricón".

¡Pobre destino el suyo! No era de extrañar su no contratación.

No obstante, para ser sinceros, a Loki le agradaba su semblante de "maricón"; se sentía hermoso con ello. En ocasiones, hasta se maquillaba hasta parecer monstruoso, y aquello le encantaba, sensorial y visualmente. Disfrutaba especialmente el suave roce de las esponjas cubiertas de agua micelar de rosas sobre su piel.

Aquella travesía había comenzado en su adolescencia. Contemplar en las calles el "resiste marika" grafiteado en las paredes lo hacía sentir menos solo.

A Odín, en un inicio, no le complació la idea, mas con el tiempo comenzó a tratarlo como a un hombre. Fue pasajero, hasta que descubrió el tipo de hombre que era Loki. Odín deseaba hijos varoniles y rectos, no "maricones" que se maquillaban y resultaban... ambiguos.

Su madre, en cambio, lo apoyó en todo, aunque se sintiera abandonado en su condición autista. Para Frigga, el autismo parecía un no-ser, como si el diagnóstico no hubiera sido nunca recibido. Lo obligaba a consumir cosas intolerables, a vestir texturas insoportables. A participar en eventos sociales que resultaban insoportables.

Curiosamente, halló más apoyo en Odín respecto a su autismo, aunque de otra índole. Odín consideraba que al ser autista, sería excepcional en todo, capaz de lograrlo todo. Por ende, debía solo ceder a los caprichos de Loki. Ah, sí, Loki olvidaba este punto, para Odín, sus necesidades sensoriales eran solo un capricho.

Thor le brindó mucha ayuda, o mejor dicho, compañía, algo que apreciaba sobremanera. Siempre estuvo allí para acompañarlo, incluso abrazándolo fuertemente cuando a Loki lo invadía alguna crisis.

Con afecto recuerda Loki los almuerzos en el campus. Si bien estudiaban en facultades diferentes, compartían el mismo entorno universitario. En ocasiones, Thor dejaba de lado a sus propios amigos para acompañar a Loki en el almuerzo.

Loki siempre comía en el mismo lugar.

Una sala privada, destinada al estudio, mas Loki, acreditando su diagnóstico de autismo, tenía acceso a estos espacios para usos más flexibles, ya fuera para almorzar, descansar o regularse, balanceándose y haciendo estereotipias.

A Thor le agradaba el sitio; fresco y con una iluminación tenue. Una atmósfera muy distinta al bullicio del patio del campus, un lugar de estridente música, grupos sociales ruidosos, venta de alcohol y, si se buscaba bien, alguna que otra droga.

En su último semestre, Loki se encontró con un grupo del campus llamado "Autistas Autoconvocados". Si hubiera hecho antes este encuentro, no habría padecido cinco años de soledad extrema.

Durante sus años universitarios, Loki tuvo tres flechazos. Primero, con un compañero, bajo, esbelto, rubio de cabello largo y ondulado, de ojos celestes, vestido como salido de un cuento de hadas. Segundo, otro compañero, moreno, casi rapado, bajo y rechoncho, casual y rudo, casi parecía un rapero, pensaba Loki. El chico caminaba con gracia. Y tercero, un estudiante de cine, más bajo que él, cabello oscuro y ondulado, ojos café claro, y vestía como un auténtico director de cine; todo un hipster.

Fue entonces cuando Loki descubrió su atracción por los hombres de baja estatura.

Por lo tanto, aquí yace el conflicto: Loki, autista, "maricón", con inclinaciones por hombres bajitos, aún no halla puerta abierta laboral. Demonios, Loki solo anhela ejercer algo relacionado con su carrera, aunque sea como editor.

. . . Lunes 1 de enero, 2024. 1056 palabras.

HOLA, espero les guste.

[farolero-posting]

The author

What's the first song that comes to mind when you think about them?

[link to the ask game used.]

OH. I DO Have a song...

Well. It's more like a song that reminds me of what he may have been like when he was younger. Mind you! The song is not in English but I could translate the full lyrics for you. It's basically about a guy wanting to see everything the world has to offer, both urban, rural, unexplored, north, south... And people, in all their aspects.

The song has a cheerful tone overall and I think it captures his vibes a lot.

I think the only part that's funnily enough not fitting for him is one verse where the singer mentions having no kids and uh. Well. But still, a fitting song.

[dragonomatopoeia]

Would like to preface this by agreeing with OP-- we are well past the time of pretending that every piece of classic literature is written by a white man. I'd even hazard a step further and say that it's time to dispense with the excuse that white writers are the only ones assigned in English classes.

For one, the Jewish identities of many prominent USAmerican writers tend to get swept aside when dismissing the classics as 'written by a bunch of white guys'. Isaac Asimov, Ira Levin, Arthur Miller, and J.D. Salinger are all commonly read in high school English courses, and they were all Jewish-American.

For another, I can only attest to my own experience; however, I attended a different high school every year until I graduated, and Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe was assigned no less than three times across those schools. One of those instances was smack dab in the middle of the bible belt, in a school that didn't have enough funding to replace the doors to their bathroom stalls. That being established, I'd like to change tacks

A mutual rightly pointed out that even within America there are a wealth of classics written by people of color. Furthermore, the modern literary scene would be unidentifiable without their contributions and influences.

Could you imagine modern literature without the Harlem Renaissance? Without Langston Hughes? Nella Larson? Or what about the influences, the knock-on effects of it? Imagine modern literature without Maya Angelou. James Baldwin. Ralph Ellison. Lorraine Hansberry.

Imagine modern literature without Magical Realism. Without Isabelle Allende. Gabriel García Márquez. Toni Morrison.

Fortunately, we do not have to. In any case, it would be an impossible feat, even before we move into considering how inextricable the literary traditions of Indigenous storytellers are from American art as a whole.

We do not have to imagine a world without Leslie Marmon Silko. Simon J. Ortiz. Vine Deloria Jr. Ryan RedCorn. Thomas King

The world of American literature is not a small white box! There is such a vast and varied world of writing to explore! We are all in conversation with one another. The world outside is beautiful, the world around us is beautiful, and our neighbors and relatives and friends and ancestors have stories and experiences to share! Absolutely reach beyond the literature of your country, your continent, but don't forget how many different people and communities are around you, trying to hold a conversation with you, every day.

kills me that "every single classic out there is written by white people" is such a common take. are the literary traditions of other countries a fucking joke to you? come on. go read the journey to the west or something I beg

[northwindow]

reading on reading

a literary syllabus [x]

how to read now by elaine castillo

a collection of essays by novelist and essayist elaine castillo about the politics and ethics of reading. castillo exposes the inherently colonial premises behind not only the works of many individual writers; but the way reading cultures analyze and canonize works, the tokenizing nature of the publishing industry that fails writers and readers of color, and the unfulfilled promises by bibliophiles and literary institutions to "build empathy" through reading diverse books.

"time in the codex" and "lastingness" by lisa robertson

two essays by poet lisa robertson from her prose collection nilling, both meditations on reading. “time in the codex” is an ode to the sensory and cognitive processes that reading evokes. “lastingness” explores the relationship between passivity and will when it comes to receiving the stories and ideas we read, using the work of hannah arendt to analyze texts by lucretius and pauline réage. 

a history of reading by alberto manguel

alberto manguel (former director of argentina's national library) compiles a history of reading that encompasses the prehistory of books in ancient mesopotamia, the story of the library of alexandria and its influence in libraries that followed, literary societies such as the heian court, book thieves throughout time, book banning in multiple cultures, and the progression of text formats around the world from clay tablets to modern bookbinding.

selections from not to read by alejandro zambra (trans. megan mcdowell)

essays taken from the collection not to read by chilean writer alejandro zambra about the practice of reading, his own evolving reading life, and writing books; mixed with a variety of literary criticism. selections include "in praise of the photocopy," "against poets," "obligatory readings," "traveling with books," and "novels-- forget it."

"how do we read?", "the reading ape", and "inventing reading" by stanislas dahaene

three chapters from cognitive neuroscientist stainslas dahaene's book reading in the brain. "how do we read?" functionally breaks down how our brain understands written words. "the reading ape" imagines how our ability to read evolved by recycling preexisting neural circuits. "inventing reading" explores how languages themselves have formed over time to serve the way we think.

"when robots read books" by inderjeet mani

essay by computational linguist inderjeet mani on ways that artificial intelligence could enhance literary criticism by analyzing classic texts, particularly cumulative corpuses of works. examples of literary AI usage include finding similar character traits, archetypes, and tropes between different books and authors; quantitatively tracking literary trends; and generating timelines and maps of information pulled from narratives. 

"uncritical reading" by michael warner

essay by english professor michael warner which attempts to define what "critical reading" actually is, the beginnings of a history of that practice, its alignment with agency and morality in academic culture, and what the qualities of "uncritical reading" (such as “identification, self-forgetfulness, reverie, sentimentality, enthusiasm, literalism, aversion, distraction") might offer us.

"someone reading a book is a sign of order in the world" by mary ruefle

essay adapted from a lecture in poet mary ruefle’s madness, rack, and honey that traces a reader's development through personal experiences in her own reading life. topics include rereading, what it means to read “the right book at the right time”, and the pleasure of finding imaginative connections between books. 

[tempting-seduction]

Born on 7 January 1956 in Santiago, Chile, Ignacio Walker Prieto is a Chilean lawyer, politician, and, author who was Foreign Minister of Chile (2004–2006).

[lost-myself-in-translation]

The boy who went madly in love, by Enrique Barrios (1915)

Chapter 5

My brothers don't like me. They never invite me to play with them because they say I don't know how. And they are right, I don't understand their games, and I don't like to play them. I don't like to play with other boys because I've noticed I'm very different from them. They forget themselves and everything else and can play freely. While I can't do that, and never pay attention to the games and I always lose and make my team lose too. That's why my grandmother says I'm a poor creature, that I'm too thin and too pale, that my legs look like sticks and that she feels sorry for me. Well, I feel sorry for her! her hands are all vein-y, her face is the same colour as dry dirt, her lips are pale and her teeth yellow, she doesn't know how to play the piano like mom, and all she does all day is fight with the servants. If I was grown up, I would do a lot of different things. And what if I'm a sensitive boy? why should anyone care? Furthermore, I've always been like this; except that before I only felt sad in occasions, in random days. But nowadays I tend to feel much more sadness, and it's because of Angélica, but it's a sadness that I like. When will she be back? My Angélica of my soul...! I thought I would be able to write in this notebook every sweet nothing that I dedicate to her in my mind; but now I see that even if no one reads this, it's embarrassing to externalise those words I dedicate in thought alone to her or to her portrait. Last night, before going to sleep, I stole her portrait from the living room. I brought it to my bed, and I kept kissing it, and I told it all the things I'm too embarrassed to write here. I wanted to keep it forever in my notebook, but suddenly I got too scared of the thought that someone might find out that it's missing, so I got up in my pyjamas and returned it to the family album. Of course! Someone might have found out it was me because as soon as they asked, I would have gotten too nervous, and my face would have given it away. Tomorrow is Sunday, maybe I'll see her at church, and if I don't, I'm going to ask my mom if we can go visit my cousins. Angélica goes there on Sunday's afternoons, and I can stay in the balcony the whole afternoon with her and my auntie Carmencita, who loves me a lot because she says I'm very affectionate. She is kind and very pretty, her hands are soft and chubby, and she reads me stories with her calm and soft voice.

[zvaigzdelasas]

Chilean authorities Friday inaugurated the South American country's first high-speed train service. The convoy, which has four cars and can accommodate 236 passengers, links connects Santiago with Curicó in two hours and three minutes at a maximum speed of 160 km/h. [...]

The new service cuts down travel time by 20 minutes, it was explained. The cost of a ticket between Santiago and Curicó on this new train varies between US$ 12 and US$ 24. The new service is expected to reach the city of Chillán, some 400 km south of Santiago later this year.[...]

The Chinese-built trains manufactured by CRRC Sifang have automatic electric and diesel power supply systems (dual trains or BMU). In other words, they can run on fuel in the absence of electricity.

Until the early 1970s, Chile had an extensive rail network which was dismantled under dictator Augusto Pinochet Ugarte (1973-1990) to prioritize road transport.

20 Jan 24

[nowtoboldlygo]

twenty books in spanish, tbr

for when i'm fluent!! most with translations in english.

Sistema Nervoso, Lina Meruane (2021) - Latin American literature professor from Chile, contemporary litfic

Ansibles, perfiladores y otras máquinas de ingenio, Andrea Chapela (2020) - short story collection from a Mexican scifi author, likened to Black Mirror

Nuestra parte de noche, Mariana Enríquez (2019) - very long literary horror novel by incredibly famous Argentine journalist 

Canto yo y la montaña baila, Irene Solà (2019) - translated into Spanish from Castilian by Concha Cardeñoso, contemporary litfic

Las malas, Camila Sosa Villada (2019) - very well rated memoir/autofiction from a trans Argentine author

Humo, Gabriela Alemán (2017) - short litfic set in Paraguay, by Ecuadoran author

La dimensión desconocida, Nona Fernández (2016) - really anything by this Chilean actress/writer; this one is a Pinochet-era historical fiction & v short

Distancia de rescate, Samanta Schweblin (2014) - super short litfic by an Argentinian author based in Germany, loved Fever Dream in English

La ridícula idea de no volver a verte, Rosa Montero (2013) - nonfiction; Spanish author discusses scientist Maria Skłodowska-Curie and through Curie, her own life

Lágrimas en la lluvia, Rosa Montero (2011) - sff trilogy by a Spanish journalist

Los peligros de fumar en la cama, Mariana Enríquez (2009) - short story collection, author noted above

Delirio, Laura Restrepo (2004) - most popular book (maybe) by an award-winning Colombian author; literary fiction

Todos los amores, Carmen Boullosa (1998) - poetry! very popular Mexican author, really open to anything on the backlist this is just inexpensive used online

Olvidado rey Gudú, Ana María Matute (1997) - cult classic, medieval fantasy-ish, award-winning Spanish author

Como agua para chocolate, Laura Esquivel (1989) - v famous novel by v famous Mexican author

Ekomo, María Nsué Angüe (1985) - super short litfic about woman's family, post-colonial Equatoguinean novel; out of print

La casa de los espíritus, Isabelle Allende (1982) - or really anything by her, Chilean author known for magical realism; read in English & didn't particularly love but would be willing to give it another try

Nada, Carmen Laforet (1945) - Spanish author who wrote after the Spanish civil war, v famous novel

Los pazos de Ulloa, Emilia Pardo Bazán (1886) - book one in a family drama literary fiction duology by a famous Galician author, pretty dense compared to the above

La Respuesta, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz (1691) -  i actually have a bilingual poetry collection from our favorite 17th century feminist Mexican nun; this is an essay defending the right of women to be engaged in intellectual work (& it includes some poems)

bookmarked websites:

Separata Árabe, linked by Arablit

reading challenge Un viaje por la literatura en español

[voces-y-versos]

Sensible Capítulo 1

El sonido incesante de las cajas de supermercado llena el aire, un ritmo constante y monótono que nunca cesa. Las luces blancas de los fluorescentes se reflejan en los pasillos anchos, creando un resplandor frío que resalta la inmensidad del lugar. Es un supermercado enorme, con estantes repletos de productos que parecen multiplicarse sin fin. Aquí, en la caja 5, está Soila.

El pitido de cada producto escaneado se entrelaza con el murmullo de las conversaciones de los clientes, creando una sinfonía de ruido que Soila conoce demasiado bien. Es un sonido que la envuelve, un eco constante que parece sincronizarse con el latido de su corazón. Mientras pasa el tiempo, los pitidos se convierten en una especie de mantra, una repetición que se convierte en su única compañía durante largas horas.

Soila se encuentra en medio de este torbellino sonoro, su rostro una máscara de concentración tranquila. Cada artículo que pasa por su caja es una pequeña historia que ella conoce demasiado bien: el arroz que una familia comprará para la cena, el jugo de naranja que una madre llevará a casa para sus hijos. Sin embargo, en el fondo de su mente, una tormenta de pensamientos y sentimientos la atormenta.

Su vida es un ciclo interminable de trabajo y esfuerzo, un constante viaje en un tren de suburbanos que la lleva desde su hogar en un barrio de pobladores populares hasta este lugar de lujo. Cada mañana, la hora de trayecto se convierte en un ritual de preparación mental, donde se entrena para enfrentar el día con una sonrisa, escondiendo el cansancio y las preocupaciones detrás de un rostro amable.

En los breves momentos entre clientes, Soila deja que sus pensamientos floten libremente. Imagina un mundo más allá de los pasillos del supermercado, un lugar donde sus sueños de ser artista, guionista, escritora y poeta puedan hacerse realidad. Cada suspiro es un intento de soltar el peso de su realidad y darle vida a sus aspiraciones más profundas.

La maldición de Soila es su incapacidad para comunicar lo que ocurre en su mente. Cada palabra que intenta expresar sus pensamientos poéticos parece desvanecerse antes de llegar a su destino. Sus compañeros de trabajo la ven como una figura silenciosa, una sombra que se mueve entre las cajas sin mostrar sus verdaderas emociones. Incluso ella misma lucha por entender el caos interno que la consume.

Un cliente se acerca a la caja con una sonrisa afable, rompiendo el ritmo monótono de los pitidos. Soila lo saluda con amabilidad, pero en su mente, el pitido se convierte en un latido de su propio corazón, un recordatorio constante de su lucha interna. Mientras escanea los productos, sus pensamientos se dispersan entre la poesía que le gustaría escribir y los problemas que enfrenta en su vida diaria.

Cuando finalmente el cliente se va y el siguiente se acerca, Soila toma un breve respiro, permitiendo que sus emociones se mezclen con el sonido de los pitidos. Es en estos momentos de quietud que sus pensamientos poéticos encuentran su voz, aunque solo sea en su interior. En su mente, la lucha entre la realidad y el deseo, el dolor y la esperanza, se entrelaza en un poema interminable.

El ciclo continúa, y con cada pitido, Soila sigue escribiendo en su corazón, cada verso un testimonio silencioso de su pasión y su sufrimiento. En el bullicio de la caja 5, en medio de las luces blancas y los pasillos anchos, ella encuentra su propio ritmo, una melodía que solo ella puede oír, una forma de exorcizar su alma en el caos cotidiano.

....

1 de agosto, 2024. 01:25 am. 597 palabras. Comenten si les gustó, saludos.

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 11 July 1918, Jewish Ukrainian anarchist mechanic Simón Radowitzky escaped from the Ushuaia concentration camp on the island of Tierra del Fuego, Argentina (content note: sexual violence). Radowitzky was serving an indefinite sentence for assassinating the chief of Buenos Aires police, who had ordered the Red Week massacre of workers during a May Day demonstration in 1909. Previously, Radowitzky had become a spokesperson for prisoners, and had led hunger strikes and protests. In retaliation, prison authorities first tried to torture him with sleep deprivation, then the governor and three guards raped him in 1918. This enraged the anarchist movement in Buenos Aires, which began a campaign for his freedom, and songs about him were sung in workers' meetings and assemblies around the city. In addition to the campaign, some anarchists decided to try to break out of prison, and used a smuggler's ship to rescue him. But after 23 days he was recaptured by the Chilean navy and returned to prison. He was eventually released in 1930, then deported to Uruguay. He was then deported from Uruguay for his role in the struggle against the dictator, so he travelled to Spain to join the fight against general Francisco Franco in the civil war. He survived the war, only to be interned in a concentration camp in France, after which he moved to Mexico, where he spent the remainder of his life, working in a toy factory and remaining active in the revolutionary movement. More information, sources and map: https://stories.workingclasshistory.com/article/8308/simon-radowitzky-escapes https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=660013872838498&set=a.602588028581083&type=3

[anexperimentallife]

JD Vance Just Blurbed a Book Arguing That Progressives Are Subhuman

As I keep pointing out, anyone who has studied 1930s-40s German history will tell you that today's GOP is cribbing directly from the Nazi playbook. Even their "support" of Israel's genocidal colonialist settler state (and lip service "support" of non-Israeli Jews) is primarily rooted in a combination of antisemitism, white supremacy, and Islamophobia. (Gift link at the bottom of the article excerpt.)

Michelle Goldberg writes:

---

In a normal political environment, there would be little need to pay attention to a new book by the far-right provocateur Jack Posobiec, who is probably best known for promoting the conspiracy theory that Democrats ran a satanic child abuse ring beneath a popular Washington pizzeria. But “Unhumans,” an anti-democratic screed that Posobiec co-wrote with the professional ghostwriter Joshua Lisec, comes with endorsements from some of the most influential people in Republican politics, including, most significantly, vice-presidential candidate JD Vance.

The word “fascist” gets thrown around a lot in politics, but it’s hard to find a more apt one for “Unhumans,” which came out last month. The book argues that leftists don’t deserve the status of human beings — that they are, as the title says, unhumans — and that they are waging a shadow war against all that is good and decent, which will end in apocalyptic slaughter if they are not stopped. “As they are opposed to humanity itself, they place themselves outside of the category completely, in an entirely new misery-driven subdivision, the unhuman,” write Posobiec and Lisec.

As they tell it, modern progressivism is just the latest incarnation of an ancient evil dating back to the late Roman Republic and continuing through the French Revolution and Communism to today. Often, they write, “great men of means” are required to crush this scourge. The contempt for democracy in “Unhumans” is not subtle. “Our study of history has brought us to this conclusion: Democracy has never worked to protect innocents from the unhumans,” write Posobiec and Lisec.

One of their book’s heroes is the Spanish dictator Francisco Franco, who overthrew the democratic Second Spanish Republic in the country’s 1930s civil war. The authors call him a “great man of history” and compare him to George Washington. They quote him on what doesn’t work against the unhuman threat: “We do not believe in government through the voting booth. The Spanish national will was never freely expressed through the ballot box.”

Nakedly authoritarian ideas like this one are not uncommon in the dank corners of the reactionary internet, or among the sort of groups that led the Jan. 6 insurrection. “Unhumans” lauds Augusto Pinochet, leader of the Chilean military junta who led a coup against Salvador Allende’s elected government in 1973, ushering in a reign of torture and repression that involved tossing political enemies from helicopters.

Pinochet-inspired helicopter memes have been common in the MAGA movement for years. And as the historian David Austin Walsh wrote last year, there’s long been a cult of Franco on the right. Nevertheless, it’s extremely unusual for a candidate for vice president of the United States to openly align himself with autocratic terror.

Vance provided the first blurb on the “Unhumans” book jacket. “In the past, communists marched in the streets waving red flags. Today, they march through H.R., college campuses and courtrooms to wage lawfare against good, honest people,” he wrote. “Jack Posobiec and Joshua Lisec reveal their plans and show us what to do to fight back.”

Other endorsements come from Tucker Carlson and Donald Trump Jr., a key figure in his father’s presidential campaign. The foreword is by Stephen Bannon, Donald Trump’s former chief strategist.

Now, it is always possible that Vance recommended “Unhumans” without actually reading it, a practice that’s not unheard-of in book publishing. But unless and until he credibly distances himself from it, we should take him at his word that he shares the book’s analysis. After all, some of the language in “Unhumans” resembles his own rhetoric.

“The great American counterrevolution to depose the Cultural Marxists must occur on all terrains of society they currently possess and on those they aim to seize,” write Posobiec and Lisec, adding, “It is achievable but only with the resolve of Franco and the thoroughness of McCarthy.” (They mean Joseph McCarthy, another of the book’s icons.) Compare that to what Vance said on the alt-right podcast “Jack Murphy Live” in 2021, when he argued that Republicans, upon taking power, should purge their opponents the way Iraq’s government once purged members of Saddam Hussein’s Baath Party.

“I tend to think that we should seize the institutions of the left and turn them against the left,” said Vance. “We need like a de-Baathification program, but like a de-wokification program in the United States.” He argued that “we don’t have a real constitutional republic anymore,” suggesting that Donald Trump need not be limited by the norms of republican governance. Trump, said Vance, should “fire every single midlevel bureaucrat, every civil servant in the administrative state, replace them with our people.” And if the courts try to stand in his way, Trump should “stand before the country like Andrew Jackson did and say: ‘The chief justice has made his ruling. Now let him enforce it.’”

You can and should laugh at Vance’s melodramatic self-importance and creepy subcultural fixations. (On “Jack Murphy Live,” Vance respectfully references Curtis Yarvin, a right-wing blogger popular in reactionary Silicon Valley circles who calls for replacing democracy with a sort of techno-monarchy.) It’s good that Democrats have found, in the epithet “weird,” simple language to describe the 4Chan side of the Republican Party. But in the Venn diagram between “weird” and “dangerous,” there’s a lot of overlap.

“Much like the United States founding fathers, Franco and his fellows saw themselves as rebels intended to overthrow a corrupt, tyrannical government that aided and abetted murder and rape as well as other repugnant sins,” write Posobiec and Lisec. We should take seriously the possibility that Vance and his fellows see themselves the same way.

Gift link: https://www.nytimes.com/2024/08/05/opinion/jd-vance-fascism-unhumans.html?unlocked_article_code=1.A04.-t6I.Jie2a3Abas5a&smid=url-share

[lowcountry-gothic]

Illustrations for the 50th anniversary edition of Colombian author Gabriel García Márquez’ Cien años de soledad (One Hundred Years of Solitude). Art by Chilean illustrator Luisa Rivera.