#Valeria Luiselli

[thensson]

Thinking of you, even now

Darling, I Left the House, by Joseph Brodsky || Nickie Zimov || Faces in the Crowd, Valeria Luiselli || Garden of Words, Makoto Shinkai || Love, Alex Dimitrov || This is Not a Love Poem, Caitlyn Siehl

[sicknessinmotion]

I MISS YOU MORE THAN I REMEMBER YOU; ON FATHERS AND THEIR GHOSTS

valeria luisielli // cecilia corrigan // clementine von radics // ocean vuong // nicola yoon // catherine lacey // leanna firestone

[litandlifequotes]

I also like the constant tension in those pictures, a tension between document and fabrication, between capturing a unique fleeting instant and staging an instant. She wrote somewhere that photographs create their own memories, and supplant the past. In her pictures there isn’t nostalgia for the fleeting moment, captured by chance with a camera. Rather, there’s a confession: this moment captured is not a moment stumbled upon and preserved but a moment stolen, plucked from the continuum of experience in order to be preserved.

Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli

[sublecturas]

“Desierto sonoro” de Valeria Luiselli

[elwenyere]

“I had made the very common mistake of thinking that marriage was a mode of absolute commonality and a breaking down of all boundaries, instead of understanding it simply as a pact between two people willing to be the guardians of each other’s solitude.”

― Valeria Luiselli, from Lost Children Archive

[ghostingfee]

read a little over half of The Story of My Teeth by Valeria Luiselli tonight and was surprised how much I ended up liking it. Looking forward to finishing it tomorrow or the day after tomorrow

[gerbie7]

Valeria Luiselli – Vertel me het einde

Denk dat dit essay grotendeels autobiografisch is. Heb een geweldig boek van haar gelezen, een novelle waar ik niet veel van begreep. Haar passie is duidelijk, haar hart zit op de juiste plek. In dit essay gaat het over de vragen die minderjarige vluchtelingen krijgen voordat wordt besloten of ze mogen blijven in de VS. Daar zitten logische vragen tussen, maar ook absurde. De hele procedure is…

[johnesimpson]

Awfully Far Out, but Not Yet Drowning

Charles Bukowski, Stevie Smith, et al.: 'Awfully Far Out, but Not Yet Drowning'

[Image: “Badlands Seascape,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river: Dinosauria, We (excerpt) We are Born like this Into this Into these carefully mad wars Into the sight of broken factory windows of emptiness Into bars where people no longer speak to each other Into fist fights that end as shootings…

[butyourewrong]

Los ingrávidos, Valeria Luiselli

[sesamereviews]

Tell Me How it Ends by Valeria Luiselli

Luiselli’s writing style throughout this essay was consistently understandable and attractive to me. She evokes empathy even with limited perspectives. The title, referring to her daughter asking her “Tell me how it ends” as she recounts stories of the children she encounters, is rather heartbreaking with the reminder that the victims of violence and neglect from the countries they came from and continue to suffer through the immigration system (no matter how much patriots of the US want to defend its benefits), they are just children who are undeserving of the harm they’ve suffered and are in need of a better life. They shouldn’t have to justify their need for help and prove their trauma; the 40 questions, while helpful for building a defense case, are understandably hard to answer and are lacking empathy in essence (although not from the nonprofit organizations that created them, but rather from the system that demands them). 

My only wish would have been for it to be more extended and more in-depth about the more memorable cases she took on. However, that’s also understandable given the way she relates them to her own immigration process. The question asked most, in the end, is this; “Why did they/you/I come to the United States?”

It draws attention to a system barely any mainstream news media pay attention to anymore, at least from what I’ve seen, mainly since I also lived in the States during the time of Trump’s inauguration and heard the news of “Mexico paying for a wall” and the immigration crisis. I simply didn’t understand and suffered none of its consequences since I was so young then, and I had the privilege of holding an American passport and citizenship because my mother purposely traveled there when giving birth to me. It makes me want to do better, which makes the hopeful note at the end all the more impactful and admirable.

[wyllzel]

That poem ends with a vow to the passing stranger: “I am to see to it that I do not lose you.” It’s a promise of permanence: this fleeting moment of intimacy shared between you and me, two strangers, will leave a trace, will reverberate forever. And in many ways, I think we kept that promise with some of the strangers we encountered and recorded over the years—their voices and stories coming back to haunt us. But we never imagined that that poem, and especially that last line, was also a sort of cautionary tale for us. Committed as we were to collecting intimacies with strangers, devoted as we were to listening so attentively to their voices, we never suspected that silence would slowly grow between the two of us. We never imagined that one day, we would have somehow lost each other amid the crowd.

—from Lost Children Archive by Valeria Luiselli.

[judgingbooksbycovers]

Lost Children Archive

By Valeria Luiselli.

Design by Jo Walker.

[damoreads]

"The Reality of Child Immigration: A Review of 'Tell Me How It Ends'"

I have found myself shaking my head quite often while reading Tell Me How It Ends: An Essay in Forty Questions by Valeria Luiselli. This is because what the young Mexican writer recounts in her approximately 100 pages essay leaves the reader perplexed.

The book describes Valeria Luiselli's experience and thoughts as an interpreter supporting minors from Central America (Mexico, Ecuador, Honduras, just to name a few). These children find themselves alone in the United States.

Their stay involves undergoing a 40-question questionnaire that the Government requires them to complete before presenting their case to a judge who will ultimately determine whether they can remain in the country or not. In this process, Luiselli serves as an interpreter, tasked with translating the questions and answers for the minors.

Reading the various stories of the minors interviewed by the writer, one can't help but shake their head in disbelief. These heart-wrenching tales depict the long and arduous journeys that these children undertake to escape poverty and organized crime in their home countries. Their pilgrimage towards the United States is fraught with danger, including the risk of kidnappings and sexual assaults.

The book is structured in such a way that each chapter corresponds to one of the 40 questions, creating a sense of order and structure within the chaotic and overwhelming reality that these minors face. However, as the stories unfold, a surrealism emerges that underscores the Kafkaesque nature of a bureaucratic process attempting to organize and simplify the lives of children who have arrived alone in a foreign country seeking refuge.

What sets this book apart is Luiselli's unique perspective. She straddles two worlds: that of the bureaucracy that is tasked with summarizing a minor's fate in just a few pages, and that of a woman who has firsthand experience of the anxiety and uncertainty that comes with waiting to obtain a green card.

[sublecturas]

"Desierto sonoro", de Valeria Luiselli

[7r0773r]

The Story of My Teeth by Valeria Luiselli, translated by Christina MacSweeney

I am Gustavo Sánchez Sánchez, I said. I am the peerless Highway. And I am my teeth. They may seem to you to be yellowed and a little worse for wear, but I can assure you: these teeth once belonged to none other than Marilyn Monroe, and she needs no introduction. If you want them, you will have to take me along too. I gave no further explanation.

Who will open the bidding? I asked in a quiet, calm tone, catching Siddhartha's eyes, fixed on me.

Who will open the bidding for me and my teeth? I repeated to an undaunted audience. A hand went up. Exactly what I'd imagined occurred. For the price of 1,000 pesos, Siddhartha bought me. (p. 62)

***

After a while, the same lethargic, nasal voice sounded from the loudspeaker.

The great Fancioulle! it said, oozing with snide humor.

I assumed that the clown on my left was now addressing me, the one with the multiple ascending eyebrows.

I know what you're thinking, great, great Fancioulle.

What?

You're thinking you're better than the rest of us.

No, that's not so.

Have you heard the parable of the red-haired man, by the great writer and philosopher Danil Kharms?

I have, in fact.

Well, you're like the red-haired man he wrote about,

Fancioulle, so listen carefully:

There was once a red-haired man who had no eyes or ears. Nor did he have any hair, so he was only red-haired on a theoretical level. He couldn't speak, because he didn't have a mouth either. Nor did he have a nose. He didn't even have arms or legs. He had no stomach, no shoulders, no dorsal spine, and no intestines at all. The man had nothing! Hence, there is no way of knowing of whom we are talking. In fact, it would be better to say nothing else about him.

End of story.

End of story?

End of story.

That's not a parable. It's an allegory.

It's a superb parable, a supraparable, and one that seems inspired by your very self, Fancioulle. What do you think?

It's informative.

Really? Just informative?

Very informative, and also ingenious. But I don't understand why it's a parable.

And so what would you suggest I do about it, great Fancioulle?

I wouldn't suggest anything.

That's what I thought. Don't you realize that you've got nothing to offer?

Yes, I guess I do.

And that the schism between the perception you have of yourself and the perception other people have of you is irreconcilable?

Maybe.

You're also incapable of laughing at a joke that isn't your own. You're incapable of appreciating humor. And that reveals the limitations of your intelligence.

Fine.

And if you cross the boundaries of eccentricity, Fancioulle, what's on the other side is buffoonery: you're a clown.

Please, enough is enough.

That's just what I say, Fancioulle. Enough is enough. And if you did me a favor?

What is it?

I need a monograph on the Russian Revolution. Will you get it from the stationery store for me?

Yes, of course, I replied, suddenly finding myself swamped in docility.

And I need "Cotton and Its Derivatives" and "Arctic and Antarctic," plus one called "Whales and Their Derivatives," and maybe also "Flags of Asia." 

O.K., I'll find them for you.

Thanks, replied the voice, satisfied.

By the way, you don't happen to know what model his VW is, do you? I inquired, pointing to the clown in the red bodysuit, who was looking at me in complete silence, blinking from time to time.

A white VW70, there's no doubt about it.

And which pound is it in?

I think it must be in the one over in Calle Ferrocaril. But why are you going for his car?

Because it was my fault they towed it away.

I waited for the clown's reply. It didn't come for some time.

When the ventriloquist voice sounded again, I immediately knew that it was the fourth clown talking to me, the one with the sinister face painted red and black. I was by then prepared for the blows, the humiliation, for his outrageous attempts to wear me down. What that son of a fat sow didn't know is that the peerless Highway is unconfoundable and unbreakable. I decided to get in first, matching my face and voice to my predicament.

Fancioulle, at your service. What can I get you, Siddhartha?

There was a long silence.

What would you like, son? I repeated. 

Nothing, he eventually replied.

No, really. What can I get you?

Nothing, really, nothing.

Come on, tell me. Something, anything at all, I insisted.

Honestly, you can't get me anything, sir.

A glass of water, at least?

No.

You're not going to refuse a glass of water!

Well, O.K. A glass of water.

I’ll fetch it for you, I said, finally getting up from the floor and stretching my arms and legs. It took me a few moments to regain my balance, but as soon as I felt steady in my shoes, I crossed the room in a state of sudden, unconcealed euphoria. I felt light, freed of something. I suppose my uncle Fredo Sánchez Dostoyevsky was right when he said that insult, after all, is a purification of the soul. I made a polite bow to the catatonic clowns and went out the door: la-la-tra, la-la-tra. (pp. 86-90)

***

ALLEGORIC LOT NO. 6: BAT Artist: Miguel Sánchez Calderón Listing: 6M

Guillermo Fadanelli was reading The Phenomenology of Spirit by a one-quarter namesake of his, Jorge Guillermo Federico Hegel, when suddenly a midget came into the Shanghai Star restaurant in which he was seated, pulled up a chair, and sat down opposite him. The man identified himself as Pushkin. They asked the waiter for a round of beers and Pushkin started to cry. The reason for his tears, he told Guillermo Fadanelli, was that his father was a rake. The word he used was донжуан, and it is not certain if the translation "rake" is correct.

Half an hour later, Pushkin took his leave. Immediately afterwards, another midget entered the restaurant and came to sit at the table. Guillermo Fadanelli invited him to have a drink. After taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping away the tears streaming down his face, and noisily blowing his nose, the midget said that his name was Gogol and that the reason for his unhappiness was that he'd learned that his father was a degenerate. In this case, the word he used was вырождаться. Everything would appear to indicate that the translation "degenerate" is correct.

When Gogol left, a third midget came into the restaurant. Predictably, he repeated the same routine as his two predecessors and sat down at the table. Studying him as he blew his nose, Guillermo Fadanelli said: Let me guess, your name is Dostoyevsky, and you are wretched because your wife is a трутень. The midget stared at him in astonishment. Why do you say that? he asked, after taking a long swig of beer. Guillermo Fadanelli answered that догадался по горячности своего голоса and gave a slightly ironic smile. You're wrong, Guillermo. My name is Danil Kharms, and I'm blowing my nose because I'm allergic to pollen.

At that moment, the waiter approached the table holding a basket of Chinese fortune cookies. Guillermo Fadanelli took one and split it into two halves the way you would crack an egg. He let the slip of paper fall onto the table. Then, slowly unfolding it, he read aloud:

That is how one imagines the Bat of History. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees a single catastrophe that piles ruin onto ruin and he hurls it to his feet. He would dearly like to stop, to awaken the dead and to reassemble what has been torn to shreds, but a hurricane is blowing in from Paradise and becomes tangled in his wings, forming a knot of brilliant lights, a knot so strong that the angel can no longer close its wings. This hurricane impels him inevitably toward the future, to which his back is turned, while the rubble rises up to the sky before him. That hurricane is what we call progress. (WALTER BENJAMIN, SLIGHTLY CHANGED)

Does the slip of paper say all that? asked Danil Kharms.

Yes, replied Guillermo Fadanelli.

I don't believe you, Kharms retorted, and shot Fadanelli between the eyes.

He then extracted a cookie from the basket the waiter was still holding out. Copying his now defunct companion's movements, he broke it into two identical halves, let the slip of paper fall onto the table, picked it up, and read:

When biting bamboo sprouts with your teeth, remember the man who planted them. (pp. 133-35)

***

In mid-nineteenth century Cuba, the strange métier of "tobacco reader" was invented. The idea is attributed to Nicolás Azcárate, a journalist and active abolitionist, who put it into practice in a cigar factory. In order to reduce the tedium of repetitive labor, a tobacco reader would read aloud to the other workers while they made the cigars. Emile Zola and Victor Hugo were among the favorites, though lofty volumes of Spanish history were also read. The practice spread to other Latin American countries but disappeared in the twentieth century. In Cuba, however, tobacco readers are still common. Around the same time this practice emerged, the modern serial novel was also invented. In 1836, Balzac's La Vieille Fille was published in France, and Dickens's The Pickwick Papers was published in England. Distributed as affordable, serialized chapbooks, they reached an audience not traditionally accustomed to reading fiction. I realized I could combine these two literary devices that had once proven adequate in contexts not too different from the one I was facing. In order to pay tribute to and learn from these reading and publishing practices, I decided to write a novel in installments for the workers, who could then read it out loud in the factory. (p. 192)

[elwenyere]

“She wrote somewhere that photographs create their own memories, and supplant the past. In her pictures there isn’t nostalgia for the fleeting moment, captured by chance with a camera. Rather, there’s a confession: this moment captured is not a moment stumbled upon and preserved but a moment stolen, plucked from the continuum of experience in order to be preserved.”

― Valeria Luiselli, from Lost Children Archive