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Tainari88 wrote:The list is vast with writers. Since I am a woman and Latin American I like Latin American women authors. One of the most famous is Isabel Allende, the Chilean writer who lives in San Francisco, California and is married to an Anglo American writer of crime stories or detective stories. She wrote such novels translated into English such as: Daughter of Fortune,The House of the Spirits, Paula--Paula moved me a lot. It is about her daughter who in her twenties fell ill and slipped into a coma for a year before dying. During that year, Isabel Allende would read to her and speak to her about everything, family stories, her past, and all that she could tell her daughter hoping to be able to bring her back to life, it was a type of catharsis for her and it is so moving, I cried many days after finishing her book. It is really about loss, and how we lose loved ones,and we feel pain and grief, and break apart spiritually losing them. Her daughter was gone, and yet the process of remembering Paula kept her alive. It is a very, very beautiful book.
I'm sure you can recommend me some Latin-American short story writers.
Potemkin wrote:I bought a copy of her Collected Poems from Amazon several months ago, Tainari. I love her poem 'To Julia de Burgos' especially. In that poem, she enacts Rimbaud's dictum that "Je est un autre' better than any other poet I know. Please forgive me for quoting it in an English translation. It's a great poem even in a bad English translation....
TO JULIA DE BURGOS
by Julia de Burgos
Already the people murmur that I am your enemy
because they say that in verse I give the world your me.
They lie, Julia de Burgos. They lie, Julia de Burgos.
Who rises in my verses is not your voice. It is my voice
because you are the dressing and the essence is me;
and the most profound abyss is spread between us.
You are the cold doll of social lies,
and me, the virile starburst of the human truth.
You, honey of courtesan hypocrisies; not me;
in all my poems I undress my heart.
You are like your world, selfish; not me
who gambles everything betting on what I am.
You are only the ponderous lady very lady;
not me; I am life, strength, woman.
You belong to your husband, your master; not me;
I belong to nobody, or all, because to all, to all
I give myself in my clean feeling and in my thought.
You curl your hair and paint yourself; not me;
the wind curls my hair, the sun paints me.
You are a housewife, resigned, submissive,
tied to the prejudices of men; not me;
unbridled, I am a runaway Rocinante
snorting horizons of God's justice.
You in yourself have no say; everyone governs you;
your husband, your parents, your family,
the priest, the dressmaker, the theatre, the dance hall,
the auto, the fine furnishings, the feast, champagne,
heaven and hell, and the social, "what will they say."
Not in me, in me only my heart governs,
only my thought; who governs in me is me.
You, flower of aristocracy; and me, flower of the people.
You in you have everything and you owe it to everyone,
while me, my nothing I owe to nobody.
You nailed to the static ancestral dividend,
and me, a one in the numerical social divider,
we are the duel to death who fatally approaches.
When the multitudes run rioting
leaving behind ashes of burned injustices,
and with the torch of the seven virtues,
the multitudes run after the seven sins,
against you and against everything unjust and inhuman,
I will be in their midst with the torch in my hand.
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