In Literary News

Hello Gentle Reader

Carmen Balcells in Spanish and Latin American literature is a name to be reckoned with. She has been nicknamed La Mamá Grande – after one of Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s short stories (Big Momma’s Funeral). She is the literary agent of some of the greatest giants of the Latin American Boom, and Spanish language literature in general. She has managed six Nobel Laureates in Literature – including the recently deceased Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Mario Vargas Llosa. She has been referred to as one of the most influential women in Spanish letters. However, at eighty three years old, La Mamá Grande is aware of her age. The Latin Boom maybe over, but it is in debt to Carmen Balcells, for her liaison between Spain and Latin America; and the eventual release of such books translated into English for the rest of the world to enjoy. The backlist of the Boom lives on; however Balcells has no clear successor; which leaves a purgatory for her authors work. Who would negotiate and broker deals with foreign publishers? Who would ensure that her authors got their fair cut of the deal? All of this Balcells had done for each of them before hand, ensuring that each of her authors budded and bloomed accordingly. Her lavish parties are the talk of legends; and each of her authors adore, Balcells, looking to her as a friend and confidant. Yet with the onslaught of time, Balcells has come to a deal with the American literary agent Andrew Wylie, to create the Balcells-Wylie agency; in which Carmen Balcells authors would come under joint management of herself and Andrew Wylie. What this means for Wylie is that he is getting a deeper and more lucrative hold into the publishing industry of Spain and Latin America – specifically for Latin America; as sales continue to rise; since Spain was hit hard by the economic crisis. Wylie has attempted three times to get a stronger foot hold into this literary market. Hopefully this means more Spanish authors that are not well known, will soon be published into English, and the Spanish speaking worlds of Latin America and Spain, will be able to achieve a stronger dialogue between the two languages. Time will have to tell.

Continuing with the Latin American Spanish language theme:

Recently new poems by Nobel Laureate Pablo Neruda had been discovered. What is interesting in regards to this ‘universal significance,’ as the manager of Neruda’s estate has stated; is that the poems discovered are in Neruda’s mature style. These are not amateur poems, by a younger poet; but the poetry that Neruda has become famous for. Six of the twenty poems that were discovered are love poems; and the other fourteen vary in the themes of Neruda’s universe. Though these poems are to be published in Latin America this year, and then in Spain next year; there is no news when they will be published in English.

[Last and least:]

The Peace Prize of the German Book Trade has also announced this years winner. The American writer, computer scientist and composer of classical music: Jaron Lannier has been announced to receive the prize; which he will receive October during the Frankfurt Book Fair. Previous winners include Liao Yiwu the expatriate Chinese author in two-thousand and twelve and the Belarusian journalist and writer Svetlana Alexievich who won in two-thousand and thirteen. Congratulations to Jaron Lannier.

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M. Mary

IMPAC Literary Dublin Award

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This year’s IMPAC Literary Dublin Award, has been awarded to the Colombian novelist Juan Gabriel Vásquez, for his novel: “The Sound of Things Falling.” The novel traces the Colombian drug trade, and was cited by critics as a: “consummate literary thriller that resonates long after the final page.” The judges citation for the prize had the following to say:

“Through a masterly command of layered time periods, spiralling mysteries and a noir palette, it reveals how intimate lives are overshadowed by history; how the past preys on the present; and how the fate of individuals as well as countries is moulded by distant, or covert, events.”

Juan Gabriel Vásquez was up against such veteran authors like Karl Ove Knausgaard from Norway and Frances Marie NDiaye; both of whom were named heavy contenders for the lucrative prize.

Congratulations are in order to Juan Gabriel Vásquez for his winning novel.

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M. Mary

Poetry and the Everyday – A Great Divide

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Jeremy Paxman a British broadcaster; who is known as the host on the BBC program “Newsnight,” – which after twenty five years of hosting, he is now leaving; was one of the judges for the Forward Prize for Poetry. Paxman was very receptive to the poetry that he read, going as far as to state: “nothing on the shortlist that I don't feel better for having read.” However Paxman made a rather controversial statement, in the end – a statement that I agree with:

From “The Guardian: Books,” Article:

“I think poetry has really rather connived at its own irrelevance and that shouldn't happen, because it's the most delightful thing," said Paxman. "It seems to me very often that poets now seem to be talking to other poets and that is not talking to people as a whole.”

In this case Paxman is right. Poetry has locked itself away from the public, and become a reclusive old man or woman, hiding behind volumes and volumes of poetry, barricaded in the ivory tower, in which they only communicate with other poets via a ‘correspondence of air.’ In a sense poetry and poets have lost sight of the greater and larger world around them. There appears to be a lack of mutual grounds of agreement with poets and the everyday reader, and that has since alienated poetry from the general public, and the general public from poetry. Where one has moved on with their lives – choosing to engage with films, daytime soap operas, talk shows, and the dreaded ‘reality tv,’ that can be summed up as: sixteen and pregnant, [some] shore, or the [supposedly] real housewives of [insert some place]; as well as video games, and other such forms of entertainment. The other however, hides away from a world, which they could neither fathom nor wish to be a part of. Now there is regret and resentment in the decision to hide away from the world. Poetry sales decline more and more. The art of writing poetry is now seen as a specialty in itself. It has the connotations of: ‘scholars only,’ attached to it; or the thought of lovers struck by their desire to be with each other; or that of the broken hearted; weaving their feelings into words. In the end poetry has since been rendered to the most superficial forms, and has been left as the begrudged obligations that one’s English teacher must teach in their class. The groans of students when the sentence: “today we start discussing poetry,” can still be heard echoing in the minds of every former student of High School; each of whom have happily forgotten the Italian and Shakespearian sonnet.

Still poetry is not entirely written in vain. Poetry (as those who have come to its defense) is often recited at funerals and marriages; why else do we have poet laureates, and a poem recited at presidential inaugurations. Poetry is the expression of emotion through imagery, laced together in a form that straddles the lines between prose and music. Poetry’s place in the world is small. It is recited at events of meaning. They can be used to up the sentimental value of the moment. They drive a point home in recitation of a specific line; as I had just done the other day when discussing ‘love,’ with a co-worker the two lines that I recited were from two different poets:

“It is better to have loved and lost, then to have never loved at all.”
- Lord Alfred Tennyson

“The heart will break, but broken live on.”
- Lord Byron

Through the words of two poets, I was able to drive my point home. It appears that poetry is not entirely dead. It is alienated from the everyday reader; who have moved away from poetry and moved into other areas of pastimes. However poetry is still around and alive. Though poets have locked themselves away from the world, and some have found great success in the literary world; John Paxman’s comments that poetry has become: “rather connived at its own irrelevance.” It still is finding new ways to engage with the world, such as performance poetry, and poetry slams.

Should poets be forced to answer to inquisitions as John Paxman has suggested; to defend their choice of words, imagery, and the form itself? Perhaps it’s not always the poets to blame. In my opinion: it is how we teach poetry, and how we learn poetry that could make the difference. Poetry should be taught not as a black and white, subject, but be open to interpretation, and all interpretations should be openly discussed. This way students do not receive a dreadful disgust of poetry, but rather are asked to think for themselves, see something in a new and different light, and formulate an opinion based upon their own thoughts and associations from the poem.

I would like to leave off with the satirical poem: “Poetry Reading,” by Wisława Szymborska:

“To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds?
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare
it's time to start this cultural affair.
Half came inside because it started raining,
the rest are relatives. O Muse.

The women here would love to rant and rave,
but that's for boxing. Here they must behave.
Dante's Infemo is ringside nowadays.
Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.

Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet,
one sentenced to hard shelleying for life,
for lack of muscles forced to show the world
the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists
with luck. O Muse,
O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.

In the first row, a sweet old man's soft snore:
he dreams his wife's alive again. What's more,
she's making him that tart she used to bake.
Aflame, but carefully-don't burn his cake!
we start to read. O Muse.”


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M. Mary

Maya Angelou Dies Aged 86

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Last night at work, a co-worker, was reading posts from a website called: “People of New York,” and one of them discussed Maya Angelou. The speaker, described no matter how many times they (as gender is unknown) tried to dissect and comprehend Angelou, they are always astounded by who she was and where she came from. From her harsh upbringing, to her harsh early adulthood, to her eventual social activism, memoires, and poetry; the speaker, described how Angelou was born into adversity; and set forth to make a better life for herself. Angelou was born in the Depression Era; into a segregated society. She survived a childhood rape. Went on to give birth as a teenager. She worked as a prostitute, a exotic dancer; and was one of the first African-American streetcar conductors. Angelou’s life was varied and full. From her lonely and difficult upbringing – to her eventual recitation of her poem: “On the Pulse of the Morning,” at Bill Clinton's 1993; it showed her drive for a better world, a desire for a better earth; and a compassion for all mankind. She has written seven autobiographies and several collections of poetry. Her work continuous to touch people to this day around the world. Be it “I know Why The Caged Bird Sings,” or “Oh Pray My Wings Are Gonna Fit Me Well,” Angelou had the poets and literary geniuses touch, to connect with people on multiple different wavelengths. America has lost one of their greatest National Treasures; both for her historical achievements in civil rights; but also for her literary production and output. Angelou was a humanitarian through and through; never looking at her fellow man as superior to one another; but as equal to each other, in a shared dream for a better and brighter future, that waits tomorrow, in the morning.

Rest in Peace Maya Angelou

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M. Mary

The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize Winner

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The Independent Foreign Fiction Prize has announced its winner; and it’s quite a groundbreaking one. In its twenty-four year run the Independent Foreign Fiction Prize, has awarded this year’s prize to an Arabic author, for the first time. Hassan Blasim, the Iraqi born writer, has won the prize for his second short story collection: “The Iraqi Christ.” What is even more exciting about this win is it is the first time a short story collection has been victorious. “The Iraqi Christ,” is part reportage, memoir, and dark fantastical collection. It showcases with brutal honesty Iraq post-sadam and post-invasion; this collection of stories, provides harrowing and honest depiction of contemporary Iraq and its society. Blasim no longer residing in Iraq because of persecution has settled down in Finland with help of a friend; after four years of illegal migration, through such countries as Turkey, Iran, Bulgaria, and Serbia.

Congratulations are in order to Hassan Blasim, for this historic win; as it is (once again) the first time an Arabic writer has won the award; but it is also a historic win for the Short Story as a writing from, proving once again that the short story is not the poor related cousin to the novel.

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M. Mary

Tadeusz Różewicz Passes Away

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Poland, a small Eastern European country, which has a had difficult and tumultuous past; is now a fiercely proud and independent country, has lost (again) one of its greatest practitioners of literature. Tadeusz Różewicz aged ninety-two years old, passed away on April 24th of twenty fourteen. Over a month ago; and to you, my Gentle Reader, I am sorry not to have reported this sooner. – To continue nonetheless: Różewicz is one of the greatest writers, to have written about the, twentieth century’s difficult reality in both its historical content and its effects still reverberating in the present. However one of the most recognizable, traits of Różewicz work is his deeply felt human sympathy. Różewicz is the kind of writer, who was disappointed with the ever changing world, to quick to forget, the twentieth century as nothing more than forgotten bad dream; comparing the fall of the Berlin Wall, and its cries of hope and progress, as being disillusioned and his generation just petering out to be forgotten for their tenacious survival through brutality, after inhumanity; and through all forms of indignity. Różewicz will most likely not be forgotten. His poetry and his plays are well performed, and read. He is one of the great torch bearers of both historical witness and Polish literature; along with fellow writers and poets Wisława Szymborska, Czeslaw Milosz, and Adam Zagajewski. Tadeusz Różewicz is the kind of poet and writer, who writes with profound creativity and inventive language. Poetry in his hands, escaped the grasp of political ideologies, and a stifling concept of ‘party approved literature,’ and bore witness to humanity in suffering; but its unwavering dignity to fight adversity in the face of being alone. He is one of those truly great writes, who have experienced, witnessed, and then turned it into literature, and make that empathetic connection with the reader. It is one of those great shames Różewicz never won the Nobel along with compatriots Szymborska and Milosz; but a writer of such immense talent, and understanding of mankind’s continuous struggle and success; its guilty conscious and its redemptive nature; does not need a award, to cement his name in the great tapestry of international literature.

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M. Mary

[ I again apologise Gentle Reader, for the delay of this post, in reporting this passing earlier; but most of all I apologize to the memory of Tadeusz Różewicz; in which case my respects should have been paid sooner. ]

Seiobo There Below

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Countless times while reading Krasznahorkai’s newest book “Seiobo There Below,” people continually asked me: “Is that in English?” It goes to show, how small the world is – for a piece of a foreign land, by a foreign author sits in my hands, for my reading amusements; and yet it shows still how small minded our world is. For many, to experience China all they need to do is travel to Chinatown; or travel too little Italy and eat ‘authentic,’ Italian food; this is what experiencing culture beyond our own doorstep, has come down to. It is a cheap caricature. It is readily available and never too far from our own homes. The same could be said about buying sushi at the grocery store. It is proudly advertised:“made fresh daily”. It’s a quick shot or experience, in which one can dabble into the exotic, and then continue with daily life. It is to my own disappointment that many people had continually asked about the language of the book – it had originated in Hungarian; but was translated into English. Why should it have mattered if it were in any other language – then again if I were to look at the surroundings of what kind of place I do live in; the best way to describe it would be: “redneck.” These are the kinds of people who, it appears could not – or cannot; fathom a world outside their own backyard. For outside there is a world; a world where a multitude of languages are spoken. Yet these people feel that their own little patch of grass is theirs and theirs alone. What lies beyond it, is neither their concern or of any interest. But they become slightly agitated or hostile, when the greater world in some form or another impedes or enters their small backyard – their patch of grass.

László Krasznahorkai is not impudent when it comes to the wider world. He is not ignorant or frightened of what will await him. Krasznahorkai in fact has travelled wildly, as a writer. While writing his novel “War & War,” Krasznahorkai had traveled throughout Europe; and it is with the assistance of the American poet Allen Ginsberg, and his hospitality – for whom Krasznahorkai stayed with; that “War & War,” came to life. It was during the nineteen-ninety’s that the author was able to spend greater time in East Asia. At which point the author, travelled extensively throughout Japan and China. With his works “The Prisoner of Ugra,” and “Ruin and Sorrow Beneath the Heavens,” (both novels have yet to be translated), Krasznahorkai discussed his experiences, in Mongolia and China. “Seiobo There Below,” shows Krasznahorkai’s increased influences from Eastern Asia countries – specifically Japan with this work; hence Seiobo. Japanese mythology Seiobo is often referred to as “Queen Mother of the West,” and it is said that in her garden she cultivates peach trees. These tree’s only blossom every thousand years; and when the fruit of these ten century old fruits are consumed, one is granted immortality.

Throughout the novel – or collected interconnected short stories; an alien narrator often makes an appearance; who one can eventually see is Seiobo. A transcendent goddess, who has come down from the heavens, and observes, the protagonists or subjects of the stories, who appreciate the aesthetic sublime; some of which has been created; and other times is in their power or craft to create, an object or piece of creation that is beautiful. At times, though this alien narrator is not explicit, in revealing who it is. In the beginning, at times with passages, that appear dry and dull, that as a reader, it would appear that this alien narrator is none other than László Krasznahorkai himself, discussing the subject matter in which he repeatedly turns to again and again throughout the novel – the aesthetic sublime, and human kinds need to appreciate the aesthetic beauty, that is apparent to them. However it became dry and difficult to sit though, as the discussion, appeared to be more essayistic and less novelistic in its writing. It became academic, and felt directionless. However once the baring’s of the novel were understood and grasped more tightly, the novel began to take a more apparent shape.

For someone who had been called: “the contemporary Hungarian master of the apocalypse,” “Seiobo There Below,” appeared more melancholic in the beginning and softer around the edges then his other novels – especially the only other one that I have had the chance to read: “Satantango.” However over time one begins to see the old characteristics of Krasznahorkai coming back into play. Each story or chapter begins to come to come to gravitate in its own right. Each one is a self-contained world that drifts aimlessly through the abysmal void of space. They barely validate the works that have come before it or after its conception and eventual publication. They are far flung, in their geographies and times; from ancient Persia, to Kyoto, to Venice. Yet their subject matter is what keeps them in constant contact; and what sends them spinning across the void at each other, knocking into each other, pushing them out of their orbit. For their quick and intense contact is all that they have, with each other. Yet over time, one begins to sense the dread. That unbearable and uncertain existential dread that appears to well up, from the pages, in such an, intensity; that one finally feels that they have discovered that ‘classic,’ Krasznahorkai. Such as a man being chased through Venice; or another who finds himself, in an apartment building that, houses Old Russian iconographic art. There is that constant feeling, of breaking and entering. That aching suspicion that one should not be there. That inclination that they are trespassing, and that at any moment the ground from beneath our feet will shatter or creak to give away our own presence. Yet we remain. We watch as a restoration team, begins to restore a Buddha. We observe a heron, hunting, in its perfect solitary contemplation, only to quickly spear the prey. As a reader, we are introduced into the small world of a Noh mask creator – who creates a demonic shaped mask, that he realizes will eventually do harm. Throughout it all though, Krasznahorkai contemplates the artistic and the act of creation in its utmost pure sense of the word. The novel becomes a rant after a while. It is a rant on the necessary patronage of art in life. It is the light that destroys the constant humdrum of life; the bleak commute to work, in which one needs to work, in order to pay off their car, that they used to get to work, only to go home to a house they work to pay off, and which the spend little time in; only to go on vacation later, to get away from the stress of work. In this sense, Krasznahorkai praises the beauty we overlook, or that we miss in a constant in motion world.

Art – or rather the concept of art, which is discussed in “Seiobo There Below,” is that it is divinely inspired, and at the same time humanely possible. It is that part of existence that can no longer be contained. It is that part of our body and our souls, which must come forth, through some other intervention. It takes shape in some other aspect. Through painting, carving, designing, music, literature – in Krasznahorkai’s world it is the only, aspect of the human psyche and mind, that makes existence, and life itself, worth living and bearable. Without it, without the appreciation of what can be achieved – that is both necessary and unnecessary; life falls into a grey stasis; a state of stagnation. How else can, the human race, move forward, without thoughts and understandings of the possibilities the future can hold; and what better way than attempt perfecting and crafting an art of some sort?

“Seiobo There Below,” in the beginning struck me as a ‘lighter,’ novel in its tone and subject matter; more so then “Satantango.” However over time one begins to see that is not entirely true. Once one begins to understand the beauty on the surface, they begin to understand lies beneath a surface without the proper instruction in beauty and understanding and appreciating it. Each story or scene or chapter, ends with its finality – its absolute certainty that it will end. At times its much appreciated; as some of the works appear more drawn out then necessary. The structural issues of this book itself – its labyrinth maze of long winding sentences, that appear to have lost their beginning, never reached the middle, and an ending is out of the question – often leave the reader confused and searching for a understanding or a grasp of where they were before. However in Krasznahorkai defense, that is his writing style, and one should certainly expect nothing less then, when cracking open this book. At times the constant lecture and rants, that László Krasznahorkai goes on about, throughout the entire book, becomes a bit much. However, Krasznahorkai is an author of redeeming qualities. Where he becomes dry or lack lustered, one can find his, classic self, taking shape later on. Where there is an overwhelming intensity of hatred, that one character experiences, as a homeless man wandering through Barcelona – or a man fleeing, as he is pursued by another man – or a man who chides himself on being an idiot on going to see the acropolis in the blazing Mediterranean summer, that makes it impossible for him to enjoy the site. Then there comes the times when Krasznahorkai sums everything up, in a quick worded ending – it is then that one understands what the fuss was about. The author may make the road difficult, long and challenging, but there is ones fair share in the rewards. Personally I am on the edge with “Seiobo There Below.” I cannot say that I overtly enjoyed it, and not entirely upset by it either. It’s one of those books, which one mulls over, for a bit before making any decision on whether or not they liked it. For now “Seiobo There Below,” reminds me more of an art lecture, rather than a novel – yet compels me to keep it in perspective in its moments of great achievement, which is where neutrality is met. Perhaps in the long run it will need another read through at a different point in time.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
Take Care
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*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

[ Again congratulations are in order to László Krasznahorkai, for winning for wining twice now in a row The Best Translated Book Award. ]

Playing Catch Up

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Work has been a bit busy lately, as I had completely missed the Best Translated Book Award winner; almost a week ago, tomorrow. For some reason I had thought that, the Best Translated Book Award, was being awarded in May. However as I have just learned it was announced back in April; April twenty-eighth to be exact. It had been a start of a long and crazy week. Now with today off; it is time to play catch up.

For the fiction section of the Best Translated Book Award; the Hungaarian writer László Krasznahorkai wins for the second time; and in a row as well. The twenty-thirteen, fiction award, went to Krasznahorkai’s “Satantango,” and this year it goes to his novel/short story collection/cycle “Seiobo There Below.” A review of this said book should be coming in a couple of weeks.

For the poetry section, Italian poet Elisa Biagini wins for her poetry collection “The Guest in the Woods.” A poetry collection I have been aware of this poetry collection, and upon reading some of Biagini’s poems online, she appears to be a force to be reckoned with.

Congratulations to both Elisa Biagini and László Krasznahorkai for winning this year’s award, for fiction and for poetry. For Krasznahorkai this is a reaffirmation of his status as a compelling writer, of contemporary fiction; on an international stage. For Biagini, this is a great success, as this is her fist collection of poetry translated and published into English.

Now that I am done playing catch up; hopefully I can keep my eye out for other literary news, and the prizes that have yet to announce their winners.

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
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*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary

Alistair MacLeod Dies 77

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The Canadian short story writer, and novelist, Alistair MacLeod has recently passed away at the age of seventy-seven. MacLeod is one of those quintessential Canadian authors. Though he like Jacques Poulin, and Nobel Laureate in Literature Alice Munro, often flew under the radar; or were overshadowed more well-known Canadian authors like Margaret Atwood and Michael Ondaatje; MacLeod had found his niche in writing, and in the Canadian literary scene. Much like Huron County was to Alice Munro; so was Cape Breton to Macleod. Though MacLeod taught English and creative writing for forty years, at the University of Windsor; he had always returned to his cabin in Cape Breton every summer – which faced Prince Edward Island; and it was there that he did his writing. MacLeod often chronicled the lives of those that lived in Cape Breton; and for his only novel “No Great Mischief,” won the Impac Literary Dublin award and the Trillium Book Award.

MacLeod was born in the prairies of Canada – Saskatchewan to be exact; not as exotic as it sounds; at the age of ten MacLeod, moved with his family to Nova Scotia. It is at Dunvegan, Inverness County, Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia, that a love affair of the landscape was born, and the literary love affair with the culture and the people was formed. To discuss MacLeod in his literary obsessions, and emotional attachments; one had best quote Irene Guilford:

“Alistair MacLeod's birthplace is Canadian, his emotional heartland is Cape Breton, his heritage Scottish, but his writing is of the world.”

I may not have read any of MacLeod’s books, but his writing is something, that many Canadians read, and often admit: he gets what it means to write about a place that is exemplary: ‘Canadian.’ How such a small part of a vast country reflects, the greater whole, only comes to showcase, the literary provinciality of Canadian Literature – and how it communicates with itself throughout its fragmented nature. That is what makes MacLeod a great writer, and a literary champion of this country.

Rest In Peace Alistair MacLeod.

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M. Mary

Gabriel Garcia Marquez “Gabo,” Passes Away

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One of the giants of the Latin American Boom; and one of the greatest practitioners of the ambiguous literary style ‘magical realism,’ has passed away, at the age of eighty-seven. Marquez is a Nobel Laureate; and most famous for his masterpiece, “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” a novel that has gone on to influence a generation of writers. To this day the novel is read, and herald as a fine piece of literary craftsmanship. Marquez (affectionately referred to as Gabo) had written many novels since. Those novels include: “A Chronicle of Death Foretold,” “Love in the Time of Cholera,” as well as “The Autumn of the Patriarch.” However Marquez, was also an accomplished short story writer; find both literary modes of writing, adequate, in order to explore his literary world view. He has been referred to as the greatest, predecessor of Cervantes, according to the late Carlos Fuentes. It is obvious from numerous articles, tweets and speeches; that the literary world is in mourning for this giant of literature, however it has been stated: such giants of literature; never truly die. I suspect this will be proven as true. May Marquez rest in peace, and he will never be forgotten in the Latin American world – or the South American world either. He will be recognized as a writer, not only for his talents in conveying a story, with a style; but also for his political work: befriending Castro; as well as helping shape negations between guerilla’s and the Colombian government. With his work Marquez brought Latin America out of its solitude, and offered the world a glimpse into the identity of the world, often overlooked.

Rest in Peace Gabriel Garcia Marquez “Gabo.”

Thank-you For Reading Gentle Reader
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*And Remember: Downloading Books Illegally is Thievery and Wrong.*

M. Mary