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"Acabo de enterarme con profundo pesar que Gabriel García Márquez ha muerto. El único consuelo es que su obra es inmortal. Muy pocas obras literarias sobreviven el implacable paso del tiempo, muy pocos autores son recordados, pero García Márquez esta en el panteón de los clásicos, junto a los grandes de la literatura universal. Es el más importante de los escritores latinoamericanos de todos los tiempos, el gran exponente del realismo mágico, el pilar del Boom de nuestra literatura, la voz que le contó al mundo quienes somos y nos mostró a los latinoamericanos nuestra propia imagen en el espejo de sus páginas. Todos somos de Macondo. El inmenso talento de García Márquez puso la vara muy alta para todos los escritores que vinieron antes y después, su influencia ha sido como la marea, va y viene en oleadas. Yo le debo el impulso y la libertad para lanzarme a la escritura, porque en sus libros encontré a mi propia familia, mi país, los personajes que me son familiares, el color, el ritmo y la abundancia de mi continente. Mi maestro ha muerto y para no llorarlo, seguiré leyéndolo una y otra vez"

- Isabel Allende, 17 de abril, 2014, via Facebook

yaoyuandedifang:

i’ve seen that ‘neo-nazis get arrested in germany’ posting several times over my dashboard, … 

actually no. yes, there are stricter laws in germany and austria, but there is still a shitload of neo-nazis out there. it’s not that utopian. not to mention all those still existing old nazis who managed to sneak through, still keep good positions (in politics etc) … and not to mention those shitloads of tons of right-wing politicians who also just sneak through law by knowing what to say and what not and if they accidentally say something they mean, there will be weeks of ‘i didn’t mean it like this, blablablabladiarrheadiarrheablabla’. 

i’m often shocked by how  neonazis outside of germany & austria can deal with their shit in public but just because they don’t do it openly here, it doesn’t mean that they don’t exist and that they also do shit. 

idk somewhere in germany there is even a whole fucking village just inhabited by neonazis. 

i hate neonazis, especially on tuesdays

1Q84, Ch. 14: Amomame - This Little One of Mine

One time, as the cold wind blew and she kept watch over the playground, Aomame realized she believed in God. It was a sudden discovery, like finding, with the soles of your feet, solid ground beneath the mud. It was a mysterious sensation, an unexpected awareness. Ever since she could remember, she had always hated this thing called God. More precisely, she rejected the people and the system that intervened between her and God. For years she had equated those people and that system with God. Hating them meant hating God.
Since the moment she was born they had been near her, controlling her, ordering her around, all in the name of God, driving her into a corner. In the name of God, they stole her time and her freedom, putting shackles on her heart. They preached about God’s kindness, but preached twice as much about his wrath and intolerance. At age eleven, Aomame made up her mind and was ultimately able to break free from that world. In doing so, though, much had been sacrificed.
If God didn’t exist, then how much brighter my life would be, how much richer. Aomame often thought this. Then she should be able to share all the beautiful memories that normal children had, without the constant anger and fear that tormented her. And then how much more positive, peaceful, and fulfilling her life might be.
Despite all this, as she sat there, her palm resting on her belly, peeking through the slats of the plastic boards at the deserted playground, she couldn’t help but come to the realization that she believed in God. When she had mechanically repeated the words of the prayer, when she brought her hands together, she had believed in a God outside the conscious realm. It was a feeling that had seeped into her marrow, something that could not be driven away by logic or emotion. Even hatred and anger couldn’t erase it.
But this isn’t their God, she decided. It’s my God. This is a God I have found through sacrificing my own life, through my flesh being cut, my skin ripped off, my blood sucked away, my nails torn, all my time and hopes and memories being stolen from me. This is not a God with a form. No white clothes, no long beard. This God has no doctrine, no scripture, no precepts. No reward, no punishment. This God doesn’t give, and doesn’t take away. There is no heaven up in the sky, no hell down below. When it’s hot, and when it’s cold, God is simply there.

Fragment of 1Q84, Ch. 14. Haruki Murakami, 2011.

(Source: elib.quancoconline.com)

"Five mysteries hold the keys to the unseen: the act of love, and the birth of a baby, and the contemplation of great art, and being in the presence of death or disaster, and hearing the human voice lifted in song."

- Salman Rushdie, The Ground Beneath Her Feet.

yaoyuandedifang:

randomhouse:

seasighing:

Life tip: bring a book with you everywhere you go

Life pro tip: bring two, in case you finish the first one.

(my) life pro tip: bring more than two because you’ll never know what you want to read; also you could be kidnapped and taken to a remote place for a long time and wtf will you do there there will be no internet. also, it will fuck up your back muscles because you are carrying around kilograms of books and your back will hurt and life will never be boring again

(my) life pro tip: bring even more than two, because you might commit a crime and get sentenced to 25 years in prison and you’ll want something to read, a take-out menu, russian literature, anything, and you’ll want to have something to do while you’re in prison so that you don’t attract attention and get buttraped.