Este libro es una muestra del imaginario de Carlos Busqued. Constituido por una selección de posteos de su blog, contiene todo su mundo poético y los lectores reconocerán en él las preocupaciones literarias, musicales y audiovisuales que después desembocaron en dos memorables libros narrativos. "Estoy escribiendo", dice Busqued en una de las entradas, y a continuación glosa una escena de lo que con el tiempo sería Bajo este sol tremendo. De esta novela muestra pasajes enteros que finalmente no formaron parte de la versión definitiva del libro. Son bocetos, borradores en los que lentamente la novela va tomando forma. Acá tenemos el potente imaginario de Busqued, el germen de su primera novela y un arco narrativo que va desde la preparación para escribir ese libro, su escritura, la publicación y la manera como tomó, a veces con ironía, las primeras repercusiones tras la publicación. Borderline Carlito es un libro imprescindible para completar el universo del autor de Bajo este sol tremendo y Magnetizado.
A stoner travels to remote Argentina to identify the bodies of his murdered mother and brother. What could possibly go wrong? Cetarti spends his days in a cloud of pot smoke, watching nature documentaries on television. He is torn from his lethargy by a call informing him that his mother and brother have been murdered, and that he must identify the bodies. After making sure he has enough weed for the trip, he sets out to the remote Argentinian village of Lapachito, an ominous place where the houses are sinking deeper and deeper into the mud and a lurid, horrific sun is driving everyone crazy. When Duarte, a former military man turned dedicated criminal, ropes Cetarti into a scheme to cash in on his mother’s life insurance, events quickly spiral out of control... A riveting, thrilling, and shocking read, Under This Terrible Sun will appeal to readers of Mario Vargas Llosa and Robert Bolaño. It paints a vital portrait of a civilization in terminal decline, where the border between reality and nightmare is increasingly blurred. Carlos Busqued was born in the northern Argentinian province of Chaco in 1970. He currently lives in Buenos Aires. Under This Terrible Sun is his first novel. ‘A weird mandala of despair slowly rotating on the page’ Full Stop ‘There is a latent primal energy that courses just beneath the surface, but never actually breaks through... it's a harrowing journey’ The Indiscriminate Critic ‘Aside from the train wreck like inescapability of it all, the rubber necking that you take part in as a reader, the realization that as much as you want to you can’t look away, you can’t put down the book, you must keep turning the pages to see what happens next, even though you know it’s going to ruin you emotionally, as if you need more, a big part of what makes Under This Terrible Sun work so effectively is that Busqued refuses to let you escape the grasp of his chosen subjects for even a single second.’ Typographical Era
NPR, One of the Best Books of the Year A “chilling but fascinating portrait” of a serial killer, and “a must-read for true crime fans” who enjoyed My Dark Places, The Stranger Beside Me, or I’ll Be Gone In the Dark (Buzzfeed) One of Argentina’s most innovative writers brings to life the story of a teenager who murdered 4 taxi drivers in 1982 Buenos Aires—without any apparent motive. Over the course of one ghastly week in September 1982, the bodies of 4 taxi drivers were found in Buenos Aires, each murder carried out with the same cold precision. The assailant: a 19–year–old boy, odd and taciturn, who gave the impression of being completely sane. But the crimes themselves were not: 4 murders, as exact as they were senseless. More than 30 years later, Argentine author Carlos Busqued began visiting Ricardo Melogno, the serial killer, in prison. Their conversations return to the nebulous era of the crimes and a story full of missing pieces. The result is a book at once hypnotic and unnerving, constructed from forensic documents, newspaper clippings, and interviews with Melogno himself. Without imposing judgment, Busqued allows for the killer to describe his way of retreating from the world and to explain his crimes as best he can. In his own words, Melogno recalls a visit from Pope Francis, grim depictions of daily life in prison, and childhood remembrances of an unloving mother who drove her son to Brazil to study witchcraft. As these conversations progress, the focus slowly shifts from the crimes themselves, to Melogno’s mistreatment and misdiagnosis while in prison, to his current fate: incarcerated in perpetuity despite having served his full sentence. Using these personal interviews, alongside forensic documents and newspaper clippings, Busqued crafted Magnetized, a captivating story about one man’s crimes, and a meditation on how one chooses to inhabit the world, or to become absent from it.
A "haunting and unsettling" psychological portrait for readers of true crime classics such as My Dark Places, The Stranger Beside Me, and I’ll Be Gone In the Dark, one of Argentina’s most innovative writers brings to life the story of a serial killer who, in 1982, murdered four taxi drivers without any apparent motive (NPR, One of the Best Books of the Year). Over the course of one ghastly week in September 1982, the bodies of four taxi drivers were found in Buenos Aires, each murder carried out with the same cold precision. The assailant: a nineteen–year–old boy, odd and taciturn, who gave the impression of being completely sane. But the crimes themselves were not: four murders, as exact as they were senseless. More than thirty years later, Argentine author Carlos Busqued began visiting Ricardo Melogno, the serial killer, in prison. Their conversations return to the nebulous era of the crimes and a story full of missing pieces. The result is a book at once hypnotic and unnerving, constructed from forensic documents, newspaper clippings, and interviews with Melogno himself. Without imposing judgment, Busqued allows for the killer to describe his way of retreating from the world and to explain his crimes as best he can. In his own words, Melogno recalls a visit from Pope Francis, grim depictions of daily life in prison, and childhood remembrances of an unloving mother who drove her son to Brazil to study witchcraft. As these conversations progress, the focus slowly shifts from the crimes themselves, to Melogno’s mistreatment and mis–diagnosis while in prison, to his current fate: incarcerated in perpetuity despite having served his full sentence. Using these personal interviews, alongside forensic documents and newspaper clippings, Busqued crafted Magnetized, a captivating story about one man’s crimes, and a meditation on how one chooses to inhabit the world, or to become absent from it.
Carlos R. Barron grew up in Bolivia, but he was determined to come to the United States of America. He and his friend, Enrique, went to extraordinary lengths to make their dream happeneven infiltrating the Amerian Embassy in La Paz, Bolivia, to plead ther case before being stopped and interrogated (and eventually let go) by American civilian police. They also wrote a letter to President Dwight Eisenhower seeking his help in coming to the U.S.A. and they were astounded when he wrote back, suggesting they apply to certain institutions. three years later, the author was accepted to the Milwaukee School of Engineering. Barrons mother had to sell her house to pay his $350 airfare, and he was able to cash in a small scholarship to help pay for his studies, but he was on his own after arriving in the United States in September 1958. After a professor sponsored Barron for a green card, he became an official resident, and before long, he was drafted into the Army. He looks back at his amazing adventure in this memoir.
Continuing the personal saga begun in the National Book Award-winning Waiting for Snow in Havana, the inspiring, sad, funny, bafflingly beautiful story of a boy uprooted by the Cuban Revolution and transplanted to Miami during the years of the Kennedy administration. In his 2003 National Book Award–winning memoir Waiting for Snow in Havana, Carlos Eire narrated his coming of age in Cuba just before and during the Castro revolution. That book literally ends in midair as eleven-year-old Carlos and his older brother leave Havana on an airplane—along with thousands of other children—to begin their new life in Miami in 1962. It would be years before he would see his mother again. He would never again see his beloved father. Learning to Die in Miami opens as the plane lands and Carlos faces, with trepidation and excitement, his new life. He quickly realizes that in order for his new American self to emerge, his Cuban self must “die.” And so, with great enterprise and purpose, he begins his journey. We follow Carlos as he adjusts to life in his new home. Faced with learning English, attending American schools, and an uncertain future, young Carlos confronts the age-old immigrant’s plight: being surrounded by American bounty, but not able to partake right away. The abundance America has to offer excites him and, regardless of how grim his living situation becomes, he eagerly forges ahead with his own personal assimilation program, shedding the vestiges of his old life almost immediately, even changing his name to Charles. Cuba becomes a remote and vague idea in the back of his mind, something he used to know well, but now it “had ceased to be part of the world.” But as Carlos comes to grips with his strange surroundings, he must also struggle with everyday issues of growing up. His constant movement between foster homes and the eventual realization that his parents are far away in Cuba bring on an acute awareness that his life has irrevocably changed. Flashing back and forth between past and future, we watch as Carlos balances the divide between his past and present homes and finds his way in this strange new world, one that seems to hold the exhilarating promise of infinite possibilities and one that he will eventually claim as his own. An exorcism and an ode, Learning to Die in Miami is a celebration of renewal—of those times when we’re certain we have died and then are somehow, miraculously, reborn.
Dr. Juan Carlos Ortiz narrates the story of how he went from the jungles to the cathedrals. Through the pages of this book, he leads the reader on his journey from his humble beginnings with an alcoholic father, to when Jesus, in the form of two missionaries, transformed his life. In spite of his mother’s resistance to waste any time on “nonsense”, their persistence to share the good news of the gospel paid off. They spoke the words her broken heart longed to hear. Jesus became their provider, their comforter, their joy. Although his mother couldn’t meet all their needs through her work, supernaturally they always had enough. The impossibility of him and his siblings to attend school was suddenly a possibility. As a young man, Dr. Ortiz feels the need to serve the One who changed their lives. He enters into the seminary beginning his journey into the ministry. Along the way he is influenced by great international leaders like Tommy Hicks, who leave a lasting impression on his life. Soon after, he becomes pastor of the Crystal Cathedral in California, one of the most important churches in the United States.
In Myself with Others, Fuentes has assembled essays reflecting three of the great elements of his work: autobiography, love of literature, and politics. They include his reflections on his beginning as a writer, his celebrated Harvard University commencement address, and his trenchant examinations of Cervantes, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, and Borges.
A political dissident who was jailed and tortured by Uruguayas military regime, Carlos Liscano movingly recounts those experiences in Truck of Fools. His narrative, a mosaic of brief, powerful vignettes, offers unique insight into the physical and psychological plight of the prisoner, as well as into the mindset of his tormentors. Liscano survived these horrors to become a gifted writer and Uruguayas most well known novelist.
In 1968 University of California Press published an unusual manuscript by an anthropology student named Carlos Castaneda.ÊThe Teachings of Don Juan enthralled a generation of seekers dissatisfied with the limitations of the Western worldview. Castaneda's now classic book remains controversial for the alternative way of seeing that it presents and the revolution in cognition it demands. Whether read as ethnographic fact or creative fiction, it is the story of a remarkable journey that has left an indelible impression on the life of more than a million readers around the world.
In his 2003 National Book Award–winning memoir Waiting for Snow in Havana, Carlos Eire narrated his coming of age in Cuba just before and during the Castro revolution. That book literally ends in midair as eleven-year-old Carlos and his older brother leave Havana on an airplane—along with thousands of other children—to begin their new life in Miami in 1962. It would be years before he would see his mother again. He would never again see his beloved father. Learning to Die in Miami opens as the plane lands and Carlos faces, with trepidation and excitement, his new life. He quickly realizes that in order for his new American self to emerge, his Cuban self must "die." And so, with great enterprise and purpose, he begins his journey. We follow Carlos as he adjusts to life in his new home. Faced with learning English, attending American schools, and an uncertain future, young Carlos confronts the age-old immigrant’s plight: being surrounded by American bounty, but not able to partake right away. The abundance America has to offer excites him and, regardless of how grim his living situation becomes, he eagerly forges ahead with his own personal assimilation program, shedding the vestiges of his old life almost immediately, even changing his name to Charles. Cuba becomes a remote and vague idea in the back of his mind, something he used to know well, but now it "had ceased to be part of the world." But as Carlos comes to grips with his strange surroundings, he must also struggle with everyday issues of growing up. His constant movement between foster homes and the eventual realization that his parents are far away in Cuba bring on an acute awareness that his life has irrevocably changed. Flashing back and forth between past and future, we watch as Carlos balances the divide between his past and present homes and finds his way in this strange new world, one that seems to hold the exhilarating promise of infinite possibilities and one that he will eventually claim as his own. An exorcism and an ode, Learning to Die in Miami is a celebration of renewal—of those times when we’re certain we have died and then are somehow, miraculously, reborn.
Una historia real está forjada también por sus hechos tardíos, las astillas desprendidas del cuerpo mayor de acontecimientos. Si la política que surge de los hechos de armas de los años 70 inventó su estilo, sus procedimientos y sus percepciones éticas frente a la vida y la muerte, y todo ello resulta hoy muy conocido, el resplandor rezagado de los grupos armados que actuaron fugazmente una década y media después, luego de la caída del régimen militar, son un capítulo poco notorio, menos enlutado, pero no carente de vibración trágica. La historia de Krmpotic se convierte en un ejercicio rememorativo repleto de vivacidad y sagaces comentarios sobre la vida carcelaria. Krmpotic formaba parte de la ORP y ese grupo, concebido como un avatar enérgico de la justicia de urgencia, intenta secuestrar al médico Bergés, notorio oficiante de los actos de suplicio contra las encarceladas y encarcelados en centros clandestinos, y presionar a grandes supermercados para que entreguen parte de sus ganancias a finalidades solidarias. La voz de Krmpotic parece venir de muy lejos, pero se enlaza perfectamente con los drásticos y rotundos relatos sobre los destinos militantes, la condición del prisionero, la autoridad del que decide recordar. La cicatriz endurecida con la que analiza los tramos penumbrosos de la vida y la política, son retratos firmes sostenidos con una agudeza donde conviven la ironía y la amargura. Y a pesar de que sus reflexiones están encajadas en palabras maduradas por duras experiencias, todo parece basarse en la incertidumbre sobre el origen del propio nombre. Horacio González
July 16, 2007 There goes the church bell again. I wonder who died this time. I have to look even though I know I will get in trouble for getting up in class again. It’s not my fault the church bells sound so much like music. Wow, so many people in black. Why do people wear black to a funeral? Shouldn’t they wear white if their friend is going to heaven? Where is everyone going in a hurry? I like that store; they have the best candy. I’m going to buy that abandon building, and I will make my own school someday. But it will be a fun school where we can get dirty and have fun while learning. Maybe, I will be Mayor, and the people will love how I changed this neighborhood. The church bells stopped and she is looking at me that way again. I better sit down before she calls out my name and then it’s back to the principal’s office. Hey, can you hear that dad? It’s the church bells from Saint Joseph. Man they’re loud. Those are the eight o’clock bells. So it’s barley eight. I like these sunsets. Look how the sun goes behind those trees. That tree looks like a lion roaring at the sky. Look at those trees. They look like waves that are drowning the sun. Mom gave me a radio. What station do you like? When you were in Vietnam, were you scared? Do you still have nightmares? Well, I am glad you made it back home. You know that old white building in front of our church. I want to buy it someday. I use to look at it all the time thinking that I could do something good with it. Yeah, the sky does look pretty when it’s gold and pink. The clouds look like a castle floating on mountains. Look at those birds. Where do you think they’re going? The church bells stopped. We should go inside before the mosquitoes come out. Do you think these mosquitoes are getting bigger? Hey, stop you guys. Do you hear that? It sounds like music. Yeah, it’s the church bell. I heard they’re hiring at that church for coaches for their summer program. I think I am going to go apply. Come with me. Hello, are you still taking applications for summer coaches. That’s too bad. I really wanted to work here. I heard of all the good things you do for the community. I agree with what you are doing here. We do need good positive role models in the neighborhood. I am not going to school right now, but I want to be a teacher someday. Do you know that old building across from us? I want to buy it. It’s going to be either a recreational center or an early learning center like Head Start. Wow, I can still hear those church bells. Well, thank you for your time. And, yes, I do plan to attend college this fall; I am going to be a teacher. I will keep in touch. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, amen. Dear Father, thank you for all that you do, the seen and unseen. Thank you for my beautiful wife and our amazing daughter. Thank you for bringing me here today to slow me down from this busy world and catch my breath. This is the best part of the church when it is just you and me alone talking just like this. O’ there goes the twelve o’ clock bells. They sound so beautiful. Father, please give us strength when we are weak. Help us to be understanding, patient, and compassionate to each other. Help me be the best teacher that I can be. Let me receive the skills that I need so that I can come back into this community and teach them there is more than just this neighborhood, that my students can be anything they want if they just believe and have someone believing in them. I haven’t forgotten about that old building. What was that Lord? Is it time to wakeup? Will I still be able to hear the music in the bells? In that case, ring those bells, and I’ll get to work.
A poet’s debut essay collection exploring American faults through the eyes of a Dominican American In Traveling Freely: Essays, Roberto Carlos Garcia explores intersecting topics such as race, identity, American socioeconomic inequality, police violence, our inability to partake in our culture as innocents, and our complicity as Americans in all that’s wrong with the United States from the author’s specific vantage point as a Black Dominican American man. The voice in these essays is both clear and nuanced, and as readers move through the collection, the various themes cohere into a multilayered investigation of institutional racism and the inherent exploitations of capitalism. In essays that are uniquely straightforward and accessible, Garcia insists that in order to resist state-sanctioned violence against marginalized bodies and populations, we must understand our shared history of oppression—so that we can rise against it effectively and find new paths forward.
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