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A courageous, honest and cathartic approach is found in this therapeutic journey, which allows us to accompany it. This family portrait, autobiographical and subjective approach to the Restrepo Case allows us to live and feel the documentary from the point of view of the director and not through an external perspective, as the classic documentary does. A clear example is given to the 20 years of the disappearance of his brothers, we see the preparations in the family home, with his father and cousins, looking for the banner and going to the square to demonstrate. But our surprise is great, seeing the Plaza Mayor completely crowded with people who come to support the cause. To guide us throughout the documentary, the director has used a series of elements that she has known how to articulate with great skill. With my heart in Yambo is a long-winded film, 137 minutes that at times has certain narrative ups and downs but the strength of its testimony, its honesty, courage and need to tell a story of 24 years of struggle are irrelevant. You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account. You are commenting using your Google+ account. Cancel Connecting to% s Notify me of new comments by email. Search: Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog, and receive notifications of new messages by mail. Error checking email. Please try again Sorry, your blog can not share posts by email.

It was probably uncertainty that kept her awake. Once he had seen a heron fly over the estuary, while it was in the air trying to swallow an eel that had just caught fish. The eel, in turn, struggled to escape the heron's throat and was seen a quarter, half or sometimes three quarters of the body hanging. The indecision expressed by both creatures was pitiful. Florence had the feeling that if she had not slept at all-and people often say this when she wants to say something very different-it must have been because of thinking about that heron. Florence had a good heart, although that serves little good when it comes to survival. Survival was often considered the only thing that could be demanded in the cold, clear air of eastern England. Death or cure, their neighbors thought, a long-lived life or immediate delivery to the saline land of the cemetery. She was small in appearance, thin and bony, a little insignificant from the front and completely insignificant from behind. He made few seasonal changes in his attire. Everyone knew his winter coat, which was one of those that perhaps were designed to last a year longer. In a way, he felt the need for all these things, but nobody had thought of it-and of course nobody thought that Mrs. Green would have thought of it either-to open a bookstore in the town. Continue reading on this link. It is the act of reading that activates and encourages it. Reading is, in itself, a dialogue with the author or with oneself, which is usually extended to other readers through a new writing. The reader becomes a writer to transmit what he has read, to relate his impressions and the paper trips undertaken. The reader's desire is there to be contagious. When I was six years old, I answered the question about reading in an uncommon way. Suddenly, an adult feigned interest in my academic condition. For nine years I studied all the subjects in that language, except for the National Language. The written acquisition of Spanish represented for me the displacement towards a later, subaltern, strangely "simple" language, which for that reason I liked but also seemed unimportant. In a not always intentional way, I have tried to preserve that relationship with my language. But as a reader I appreciate the "alienness" of others, their peculiar creation of a private, unique language, so write in Spanish. The full text can read it here. For me writing is still a fundamentally critical exercise. "For the novelist and essayist, the best book is the one that bothers and touches sensitive fibers. He did not exchange letters or listen to him in a conversation or see him by chance in the street. A devout and critical link at the same time. That is why where it says "reading", verticality and less passivity should not be understood. And then ditch: "This is, then then and without a doubt, a Rulfo of mine." And about the Mexico of the mid-twentieth century and the Mexico of today. And about the progress associated with dispossession. And, ultimately, about the flashing traces of time in the present. Maybe the constant returns, continuous, evoked over the years, up to that handful of pages. Or perhaps the joyful, strenuous journeys through the mountains of Oaxaca. There is, in all these projects or explorations, the need and the pleasure of being as close as possible to an admired and beloved script. We say Juan Pérez to indicate normality, mediocrity. Rivera Garza asks himself in this book what it meant to work "for a writer of half a century who saw himself as the provider of a house". And his answer goes to the bone: "It meant, among other things, walking on daggers." The author carefully unearths these daggers and shows the writer as a foreman of workers, sales agent and editor of a travel guide for a tire transnational, which boosted the tourism business in Mexico. Then - it was perhaps inevitable - this book, which expands the multiple readings of the author and his work, has been finding detractors. It is more: it prohibited to the university the use of its name in the activity. In social networks, discordant voices have also emerged. The writer Heriberto Yépez, for example, has spoken of "appropriation" and "discredit", and has referred to the book as a "yellow portrait". For me, writing remains a fundamentally critical exercise. If an argument based on concrete evidence and an investigation in public archives to which any reader has access is uncomfortable, something good should be done. A book that touches such delicate fibers and provokes such vehement reactions must undoubtedly be a necessary book ». Sometimes write a comment; in others, draw or scribble on the virgin lands of the page. To that custom Coleridge called it marginalia. 260 years before, in the Bastille, a young Voltaire studied literature and wrote in the margins of the works he read. Coleridge, a compulsive prompter, called this habit marginalia. The comments of the English poet were so famous that his friends left him his books to be returned marked. Sometimes irony transforms into a scathing critique. Coleridge questioned the quality of Robert Southey's metaphors. The small, precise handwriting of Nabokov used to translate into English, lapidary phrases around the paragraphs he did not approve. The full text can be read here. In her text, the Argentine writer reflects on the non-fiction work of Foster Wallace and his unique looking machine. The temperature of the air dropped so fast that we could see how our hair bristled. " The article - which he had originally titled "Derived Sport in the Turn of the Turns" - liked it. It is difficult to know how far it would have come. What new things he could have dragged to Earth, from the cones of the galaxy in which he lived, his miraculous way of seeing the world. The full text can be read here. I share some fragments: I do not remember when I lost respect for the pages of books; if I ever had it. For many years I began to emphasize lines, then paragraphs and even complete pages while reading. It also enclosed phrases, opened brackets or parentheses, put question marks or admiration and many other brands that spoiled the silence and tranquility of the letters printed there. I started using a pencil, only. Everything read and underlined, like a bird of prey that glides over the vast field of the page and suddenly, looking at its prey, descends to catch it. The mere fact of wielding a pen or pencil during reading, in an attack position, modified the form of my reading, my approach to the text. It is the movement of a predator, but also that of someone who helps to maintain, in its own way, the vitality of a book. Legere connotes 'choose', 'gather', 'harvest' or 'collect' ". Whoever writes has left us a land planted. We emphasize life with life, to say it with the poet. Perhaps the dignity and imaginative quality of a book is recognized by the underlining that motivated the reader. Because always, always, always, I write as if I boxed. Surely because that scene does not exist. I remember, barely, a half-broken sticker, stuck on the tiles in the kitchen of the small rented apartment on Narbondo Street in the city of Junin where I lived with my parents. It is a false, unnecessary start. Something that I wrote just because I did not want to go straight to the subject. I come to ask what materials are in what I write, and why they are those and not others, and where they come from. By then I had some heroes. Neither Indian nor white, neither here nor there, I dreamed of being like him, living what I had in my saddlebags and wandering aimlessly. Eternally exiled from a place he would always long for, Nippur only had a sword, a thirst for vengeance and unrepentant wandering. To them was added, shortly after, the great hero: the Maltese Corto. Email check failed, please try again Sorry, your blog can not share posts by email.

Gitanízate Gitanize? In what? Rajko Đuric is the most important living gypsy poet. It has been translated into different languages ​​and, finally, into Spanish. His work, both academic and artistic, focuses on Roma history and culture. This way it tries to show that the gypsies, even lacking of a territory, have known how to preserve their true identity. In 1991, he had to go into exile in Berlin so as not to get involved in the wars in Yugoslavia. Raјko Đurić has written more than 500 articles and 34 books. When I say, spike O Federico was the same. When the sea and its song was honey From every ear and palate well made. When Ulises and Sancho did not exist. When things were more of God And more of all. We continue with the poems of Rajko. This poem is the one that gives title to all the anthologies that of his poetry have been published. I look at khelipen len kerdǒl, O ilo katar or devel dikhǒl. Oj, khelipen look gilavipnasqo! My dance becomes a river And my heart appears to me from the sky. Good people and really loving, without jojana. As a musician he has published more than 20 albums, he performs daily in the best stages with his group Alexian in which his son and his two daughters also participate. As a writer he has published more than 10 books between essay, poetry and theater. He is one of the most famous gypsies in Italy. He is a polyglot who expresses himself fluently and proficiently in English, French, Spanish and German. He dominated various Roma dialects. In addition to several dozen poems of a humanist and Renaissance tone and others of a didactic nature, he translated classical works chosen from many different literatures into Romany. One of his last works was a Latvian-Romano-English etymological dictionary. He was a great promoter of the Roma identity. We reproduce two of his poems that we included in No. 8 of the Archione Magazine. You are commenting using your Twitter account. You are commenting using your Facebook account. You are commenting using your Google+ account. Cancel Connecting to% s Notify me of new comments by email. Error checking email. Please try again Sorry, your blog can not share posts by email.

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