Gabriel Garcia Marquez

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, an author best known for his epic novels, 100 Years of Solitude and Love in the Time of Cholera, passed away last month, on April 17th.  He was the fourth Latin American and first Columbian to ever win the Nobel Prize (1982). Upon his death, Juan Manuel Santos, the President of Columbia, described him as the "the greatest Colombian who ever lived".

Garcia Marquez was raised by his maternal grandparents, whose lives deeply influenced his fictions.  His Grandfather, Colonel Nicolas Ricardo Marquez Mejia,was a highly respected Columbian liberal who enchanted his grandson with heroic tales of revolutionaries and set the tone for the socialist and anti-imperialistic views that would later be expressed through his most important works.  His grandmother, also a storyteller, “treated the extraordinary as something perfectly natural” tellingghost stories with deadpan seriousness that would also influence both his unique form of magic realism and his narrative voice.

Though he began his career as a journalist, his passion for the stream-of-consciousness techniques of Joyce and especially Virginia Woolf inspired his first attempt at fiction, a novella entitled “The Leaf Storm” about a child’s first experience of death.  This novella takes place during a half hour in a single room and the author claims that, through writing it, he knew that nothing would stop him from trying to become “the best writer in the world.”  He wrote “The Leaf Storm” in 1953, but it would be 14 years (1967) and five books later before he’d see his first royalty check.

From Ernest Hemingway he learned to “stop intellectualizing”—a common tendency he believed ruins young writers.  He learned to “write for his friends” and always had a friend in mind—and concern about what the friend would think—when producing his work.

But most important to his vision as an author was William Faulkner, whose sense of history and the importance of the regional, along with his narrative technique, is most evident in the novels that brought himpopular and critical success:  100 Years of Solitude(1967) and Love in the Time of Cholera (1985).  Both novels are stories taken directly from his childhood with his grandparents.  Love in the Time of Cholera is based on his grandparents’ love affair and 100 Years of Solitudeon the greater community in which he grew up. The latter novel sold 30,000,000 copies and solidly affirmed his literary stature.

With literary success he left his native Columbia to livein Barcelona for several years before settling in Mexico City. The theme of solitude pervades his writing, which became more and more concerned with the “solitude of power” as he explored the nature of dictatorship (controversially, he counted among his friends, Fidel Castro and Mario Vargas Llosa) in Autumn of the Patriarch (1975) and several of his short-stories.

Often considered the “father of magic realism”—he argued that there was nothing “magical” about his fictions but that they revealed a “psychological suppleness”.  His stories belong to a non-dual, post-quantum world wherein inner and outer experience are part of one field and the observer has the power to influence reality. As such, he leaves out important story details so that his reader must actively participate in the construction of his stories. He claimed that Europeans could see “magic” in his work but could not see the realities of which he spoke because “their rationalism prevents them from seeing that reality isn’t limited to the price of tomatoes and eggs.”

Afflicted with lymphoma in 1999, he began writing memoirs which would later become Living to Tell the Tale (2002) and a final novel Memories of my Melancholy Whores. He was diagnosed with dementia in 2012 and died of pneumonia at the age of 87.

Novels[edit]

In Evil Hour (1962)

One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967)

The Autumn of the Patriarch (1975)

Love in the Time of Cholera (1985)

The General in His Labyrinth (1989)

Of Love and Other Demons (1994)

Novellas[edit]

Leaf Storm (1955)

No One Writes to the Colonel (1961)

Chronicle of a Death Foretold (1981)

Memories of My Melancholy Whores (2004)

Short story collections[edit]

Eyes of a Blue Dog (1947)

Big Mama's Funeral (1962)

The Incredible and Sad Tale of Innocent Erendira and Her Heartless Grandmother (1978)

Collected Stories (1984)

Strange Pilgrims (1993)

Non-fiction[edit]

The Story of a Shipwrecked Sailor (1970)

The Solitude of Latin America (1982)

The Fragrance of Guava (1982, with Plinio Apuleyo Mendoza)

Clandestine in Chile (1986)

News of a Kidnapping (1996)

A Country for Children (1998)

Living to Tell the Tale (2002)

Most of the detail for this article comes from the Paris Review interview of the author by Peter Stone, Art of Fiction Issue, Vol. 82, Winter 1981.

Nightdreaming

I believed you were my moon,

that you’d spend every single night with me

for the rest of my fleeting existence,

that your light would gently caress my cheek

wipe away my sorrow,

that you'd make my skin gleam

while you engulfed my sleeping figure

it turns out I was just nightdreaming

spending my nights with the remaining light

of an already bursted star

and i don't know why

I still leave the windows open at night

I could kill him

By Florien Van weerelt 

I could kill him. How could he do that to me? What the hell was he thinking? I mean, I know I’ve been busy lately and we haven’t had that much time to ourselves, but I never expected that he’d cheat on me. And he didn’t even try to cover it up, he told me as if it was totally normal..

“Listen, Hannah, this is just an innocent and casual thing. It’s not anything against you, but you know how much my boss hates me. I don’t know why, but he can’t stand me. And um anyways, one day his daughter came here to have lunch with him, but some big meeting came up and he couldn’t go anymore, so I kept her company. Well, we were just flirting a little, and the next thing I know we were back in my office with the blinds closed. And, Han, listen to me. I felt so bad about it, and I was going to tell you, but then I realized something. I realized that Sarah, that’s Mr. Jensen’s daughter, actually liked me. And I figured that if I made her happy that she would talk highly of me to her father, and then maybe I would get a raise or a promotion or something. I don’t really know what I was expecting, I just wanted him to treat me better.”

“That’s complete and utter-“

“No it’s not Hannah. Remember that raise I got last week? Well, it’s really helped us financially. We’re finally able to send the kids to Brearley, one of New York’s most prestigious schools. I know that’s what you’ve always wanted, and I’m just trying to provide our kids with the most opportunities possible later in life.”

“Are you serious? Are you really telling me this right now? For God’s sake! You’re telling me that you’re having an affair with your boss’ daughter for our kids. Do you not realize what this will do to them? Growing up with only one parent is going to be tough for them and they’re always going to feel like they’re missing out on something. How could you jeopardize all of our lives like this?”

“It’s not my fault. God, get over it. What is it with you women? MOVE. ON. You let your emotions control every little thing. Seriously, it’s not that big of a deal, you’re just making it so much worse than it actually is. If only there could be a world without women like you…”

“What is wrong with you, Will? Try to honestly answer me. There’s nothing wrong with me, or women for that matter, you’re just a misogynistic pig.”

Trying to hold back the tears, I rushed out of his office with my head down, and I bumped into the one and only than Sarah. Not acknowledging her, I pushed her to the side and pressed the elevator button. What am I supposed to now? I can’t afford to live in New York city with the kids as a single parent. Where do I go now? I have to go somewhere, but I don’t deserve to have to leave. Will should leave. Maybe if I jeopardize his job he’ll be fired…Hmm, I’ll do that. I’m sure I have some embarrassing pictures and stories of him, many of which were related to illegal matters…Thank God for social media. It’s going to be so easy for me to post about him. I’ll start a blog, that way I can post stories, pictures, videos and whatever I want about him…And not only about him, but also about that tramp who he’s been cheating on with me.

But of course I need to make sure that I hurt Will the most at the end of all this. So I’ll target that whore first and I’ll target Will after that.

When I finally got home, I was a woman with a plan. First of all, I sent Will a text saying that I was sorry and that I had overreacted. I told him that I just needed some time to myself and asked him if I could have the apartment to myself tonight. He replied that it was okay and that he was glad that I had come to my senses. Walking towards my desk, I sat down and got ready for the next stage of my plan, turning on the computer.

The computer hummed to life and a blank screen popped up. After setting up an anonymous account on a blog site, the stories began.

POST 1: “Truth is that Sarah Jensen has been getting naughty with her daddy’s employees. Last I heard she has been having an affair with a married man - and not only that but, he has two young children as well. Talk about a home wrecker. The affair has been going on for months and while it seemed like she was only going to the office to visit her dad, she was actually going to sleep with another dad. To all of you out there: STEER CLEAR OF SARAH SLUT JENSEN AND THE WHOLE JENSEN FAMILY.”

—> SENT. POST SUCCESSFUL.

The amount of satisfaction that posting that first story brought me was indescribable. I quickly posted some images taken off of Sarah’s facebook page on the blog as well, and my work was done for the day. I spent the evening scoping out some good and embarrassing pictures of Will and writing down all the embarrassing and career-threatening stories I could think of.

The next morning, I opened up my computer and nearly fainted when I saw the headlines on the news.

“CEO OF NEW YORK TIMES FIRED AFTER SCANDALOUS DAUGHTER GETS BUSY WITH EMPLOYEES”

Intrigued of course, I clicked on it and my jaw dropped when I saw it: “Mark Jensen was fired last night after various scandalous stories involving his daughter were put up on an anonymous blog site. These stories were confirmed and are being further investigated. Apparently, Mark’s daughter, Sarah, has been causing quite a ruckus at the office and despite having affairs with employees, she has even had quite an influence in the decision making and legal matters of the company. Her father has been aware of what she has been doing this whole time and has refused to act. This is extremely unprofessional and last night, the board voted to have Mark Jensen removed from the company.”

I had done that. Oh my god. I couldn’t believe it! Besides causing problems for Sarah, I had gotten her father fired from his job! Logging on to my blog, I was astonished. More than 1 million views in one day! I knew it was time to post stories about Will and reveal that he has been having an affair with Sarah.

POST 5: “William Lantson has been revealed to be the employee that Sarah Jensen was having an affair with. Will has two children himself, but he didn’t let that stop him from sleeping with his boss’ daughter. But hey, I guess some people will do whatever it takes to get a promotion.”

Pleased with myself, I decided to treat myself to a lunch out with some friends. Within fifteen minutes I was seated at Panera Bread with Nicole and Julia, my two closest friends in the city.

“Wait, so that was you? That blog is yours?” They exclaimed when I told them about the blog.

“Yeah, it was me. Can you believe that I did something like that?”

“No, I mean, wow. Wait, so Will cheated on you?”

Cassie part two

by Anna Caporusso

Two black 'eyes' looking like dark pearls in her porcelain face let me freeze.

"I can't tell you. But trust me, we've to go."

"Where do we have to go?"

"Far away. Please. Come with me."

She took my hand again and tried to pull me with her. I stayed where I was.

"Cassie..."

"Dean! Come with me!"

"No, Cassie. Tell me what's up and where we have to go."

"I can't! We don't have any time left!", she shouted at me.

We heard voices coming out of the forest and steps that became louder every second. A small beam of a torch fell on my face.

"Run!"

Cassie's stunned face was reason enough for realizing that we had to run as fast as we could, if we wanted to survive this night. I grabbed her hand and began to sprint. Wood cracked beneath my naked feet but I didn't feel the pain I usually should have had. I heard men shouting only few meters behind us. I couldn't see anything, we were too fast again, unbelievable fast. How could it be possible that they're running almost as fast as we did? The shouting voices came closer and my heart beat so fast that I could her it loud in my own head. A gunshot made me stop suddenly. I could see the pain in Cassie's face, she got tears in her eyes, then she closed them. Her legs failed and she hit the dark, cold and dirty ground. A bit of blood ran out of her mouth. It didn't take long to think about what to do, I took her over my shoulder and continued the escape. Warm blood from her mouth dripped on my naked chest. Then suddenly, a second gunshot. Something black fell from the sky and hit the ground in front of me. One last tremble ran through the black feathered wings of the small crow. I jumped over the small, black, bleeding body and kept on running. I mustn't stop! They mustn't get us! 

I didn't know how long I was running now but I knew that I wouldn't maintain it any longer. I didn't get enough air anymore, it was hard to breath and my legs trembled. I slowed down. Afraid of what I could see now, I turned around. It was still in the middle of the night even if I had a feeling like running since hours. There was nobody behind me anymore. I really managed it. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes for a moment. I gasped when I suddenly heard a coughing close to me and realized that I was still carrying Cassie on my shoulder. I went on my knees and carefully put her on the ground. I softly stroked her hair from her face and looked at the dried blood on her chin. She coughed again.

"Cassie?"

Her eyes opened a little bit. But the way she looked at me was cold and it seemed more like she looked right through me. One single tear slowly ran down her face and mixed with a new drop of blood on her full lips which were pale and blue instead of red like they always were. 

"Cassie!"

No reaction. She was cold as ice, I noticed, when I touched her arm. She took one deep, loud breath. Then she closed her eyes again. No. She couldn't be dead now. She couldn't be dead. All the magic around her couldn't be gone. I felt it, all the time. There was a special kind of love between us. A love which couldn't die now. I enjoyed it to be close to her, to watch her smiling, to be with her, no matter how the situation was. I couldn't lose her now. I took her hands into mine. Thinking about losing her caused the most awful pain I've ever had. Pain in my chest which became bigger with every single breath. Pain which started burning through my whole body. I closed my eyes but I couldn't stop my tears. 

Toni Morrison

Our Feature Writer of the month is Toni Morrison, a contemporary Afro-American novelist—still living—who was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1988 for her novel, Beloved, and the Nobel Prize for literature in 1993.

She was born “Chloe Ardella Woffard” in 1931 to a working-class family in Lorain, Ohio, but changed her name to “Toni” after St. Anthony when she became a Catholic at the age of 12.  She did not always aspire to becoming a writer, but dreamed instead of becoming a book publisher and university teacher.  She studied English at Howard University and then attended graduate school at Cornell University, where she wrote a thesis onWilliam Faulkner and Virginia Woolf before returning to Howard as a professor.  Her first novel, The Bluest Eye, was the result of a creative writing exercise she pursued while participating in a poetry group at Howard.

Morrison’s first efforts as a writer did not meet with immediate success. More committed to establishing a venue for Afro-American authors in American publishing, Morrison left Howard to work at Random House and, eventually, to teach at Yale University. Her own novel-in-progress did not meet with much encouragement and so took her ten years to finish writing.  Influenced by the Afro-American folk tales her father used to tell her, and the stream-of-consciousness of Faulkner and Woolf, her mythical story of a black child longing to have blue eyes like the white child-star Shirley Temple was too fresh and original to fit with the expectations of mainstream publishing.

Despite or maybe because of the misunderstanding her work met, the plight of the The Bluest Eye stirred up Morrison’s own confidence and sense of herself as a writer. When it was finally published in 1970, her powers as a writer were unleashed and in quick succession she wrote many of the novels she’s come to be known for:  Sula (1973), which was nominated for the National Book Award, Song of Solomon (1977), a best-seller that brought her national recognition, and ultimately Beloved  (1987) which won the Pulitzer Prize and the American Book Award and led to her nomination for the highest literary acclaim of all: The Nobel Prize (1993). Her subsequent novels include:  Jazz (1992), Paradise (1997), Love (2003), A Mercy (2008) and Home (2012). Beloved was made into a successful feature film in 1998.

Her novels are not an easy read as she explores multiple and shifting points of view and the poetic cadences of Afro-American dialect in an attempt to rewrite history from the sensibility of her oppressed ancestors.

Morrison has received the highest accolades as a writer and is also credited with founding the prestigious Princeton Atelier at Princeton University, a workshop that brings students into contact with established and well- renowned artists. Now in her 80s, she continues to influence young writers through her position as Writer-in-Residence at Oberlin College.

Self-love

if you loved yourself

as much as I love you

you'd eat your vegetables everyday

you'd always look both ways before crossing the rode

you'd tie up your shoelaces twice, just in case

you wouldn't have to cover your wrists with bracelets

you wouldn't listen to the whispers on the corridors

you'd know that they don't really know you 

you wouldn't skip any meals

or refuse something as good as chocolate

because you'd look in the mirror and you'd know

that there's absolutely nothing wrong with you

you'd smile to strangers on the streets

because you'd know that your smile

is the most beautiful of all

and only your smile

has the power turn person's life around

so if you loved yourself

just half as much as I love you

you'd love yourself endlessly 

Your Sestina

By Laura Campos

A- space

B-sunflowers

C- skin

D-stop

E- poem

F-door

A-you needed space

B-but we could be sunflowers

C-growing together, touching skin 

D-and never stop

E-like a co-written poem 

F-no exit doors

F-my open door 

A-the bed now has much more space

E-I’m back to writing poems

B-and drawing dead sunflowers 

D-I don’t think i’ll ever stop 

C-not until i can feel the touch of your skin

C-the open wound on my skin

F-and the open crack on the front door

D-I wish i could just stop

A-tell me how much you need space

B-you’re the sun, i’m the sunflower

E-following you like the verses of a poem

E-my poem

C-feels like the coldness of your skin

B-and the rotten dying sunflower

F-I’ll just leave the open door

A-waiting for you to regret your space

D-waiting for sadness to stop

D-“I can’t stop!”

E-tell me how to drop the pen, stop the poems

A-the constellations don’t guide me from space

C-my stars are the freckles on your skin

F-which fell and hit the door 

B-onto a field of sunflowers

B-oh, dear sunflower

D-make my tears stop

F-walk into the door

E-and get out of my poem

C-your skin against my skin

A-sharing the same space

Irish Luck

by Elisa Peirano

I'm pacing out of the Dublin airport. Wind is blowing in my hair and raindrops make my jacket damp. Here I am, finally In the Anglo-saxon capital of literature and playwriting. 

The flight from New York was long, I could not sit still. I feel nostalgic about leaving my home town. 

Last month, Julie, my editor, screamed from her office "Sarah, we need to talk!”

I raced into her office, "You wanted to see me?”

She stared at me, showing no satisfaction, “I am going to be very blunt here, but you aren’t an asset to our newspaper anymore, I just can’t keep someone who isn't useful. Why don't you take some time off, and get inspired?” Julie took a long and deep breath, “And maybe we’ll take you back.”

I understand what Julie was taking about: all my columns have involved yellow cabs and tall buildings. I decided that I needed a change in pace, a story that would define who I really am.

Before moving here, I spent nights sitting in front of my computer, typing the words ‘Dublin’ and ‘literature’ into Google, I really wanted to be prepared for my trip. 

And then I find myself here, racing through the city of Dublin. I can’t get enough of the pubs, libraries are theaters. I have been looking into James Joyce and W.B Yeats the most. I had studied them in high school but I had never noticed how grand their work was until I moved here. 

I am walking thought the streets of Dublin and I am pulled into peaceful tune a young woman is playing on her violin. I turn around and an old man is smoothly moving a long paintbrush on a small canvas. I am mesmerized by the amount of art in one street, in one town.

The Irish people have been raised with a belief: they either want Ireland to be free from the UK or they wanted to be one united country. This quality allows Irish people to be unique and this is what I needed to learn from them. I needed to believe in something, something that defines me.

As I am watching ‘The Risen People,’ I feel suffocated in the amount of passion people have in their own country. I usually sit back, take notes and sometimes I get a few ideas for a future column or short story I might write. 

I look to my right and an interesting young man is watching the play as if he truly believed it.

The curtains close. “Hello, are you enjoying the play?” I ask.

“I’m loving it, I’m Jacob, nice to meet you.”

I hold out my hand, “Sarah, Sarah Oakley.” 

Jacob stares down at my green notebook I’ve been scribbling down on all night on and says, “What is it you’ve been writing?”

“Nothing, unless you’re interested in a very boring idea for a story I might write.”

“Well, who says I’m not interested? May I take a look?”

I am startled that someone would want to read my notebook, but I gently pass it to him. 

The curtains open and I whisper, “You better not read too much!”

After the play, we go to a pub and discuss our careers. We stay up until 3 o’clock in the morning and I show him my portfolio. It turns out he is an aspiring editor and is fascinated by my New Yorker point of view on Ireland. He takes a few pieces of my writing and wants me to turn them into a column for his newspaper: ‘The Dublin Times.’

        As of now, I am not sure if I will have a future in Dublin, but all I know is that I have leased my apartment for another month.

A Beautiful Nightmare

by Pedro Irrera

It was a grey Halloween night, just like every other year William and his friend Maude were given the permission by both their families to go around the North Inner city neighbourhood trick-or-treating.

It was a typical October evening in Dublin. A cold wind was blowing, shaking the few autumn leaves left on the trees. The streets were filled with puddles, which had formed during the afternoon’s heavy showers. The air was chilly and humid.Everything looked and felt like many of the other Halloweens William and Maud had spent together. Little did they know that that evening was going to be very different.

They decided to meet at Merrion Square, around 9 pm.  William had always been an obscure boy, keeping his feelings and thoughts to himself. But with Maud it had always felt different. They had been friends forever and he knew he could rely on her. It was 9pm, William on time as usual, spotted Maud coming from a few blocks away. Observing Maud’s shadow getting closer to him, William was overwhelmed a sense of discomfort. It was as if he felt somehow that this was going to be a different Halloween from all the past ones. They ran to the first door and knocked loudly, nobody answered. They waited patiently for someone to come out but nobody was there. Tired of waiting, William and Maud went to the next door and knocked a few times. No one there.

The next house was in Fitzwilliam Place, about two or three blocks away from William’s house, it was thought to be a haunted house, nobody came in, nobody came out from there. William had always prided himself as being braver than everyone else and Maud knew it. But unlike him, she was more cautious. It was as if they compensated each other. Though different, both had a free revolutionary spirit, never afraid of getting in trouble when they felt it was for a just and noble cause. Just a few months earlier, for instance, they had ignited a mini-revolt in their school when a group of English students had decided to occupy the football pitch during lunch breaks. Maud and William refused to leave the pitch and led a large group of students as they they reconquered their right to play football during their break.

This spirit for adventure was also what had brought them together in front of this house that Halloween. Although Maud protested, as she too felt something creepy in the air, William knocked on the door. Again no one answered. Yet unlike what had happened in front of the other homes, William decided to let himself in. He kicked the door, and when he turned away he heard a squeaky sound and saw Maud’s face which had turned extremely pale. He turned around and saw the door had opened.

Obviously the first idea that went through his mind was to run inside the house, and that’s what he did. He heard Maud mumbling behind him, as she followed him.. 
The house was dark, there were no lights on, and every step you made you could here the floor creak. “Is anyone there?” William shouted. He waited for an answer, but all they could hear was silence.

He walked up the stairs as slowly as he could. He turned around to check on Maud. She wasn’t there anymore. As if she had vanished in thin air.

“Maud?” said William, nobody replied. “Maud where are you?” he screamed desperately. No answer.

Then he saw her laying in a a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs. Large grey filthy rats raced over her. William screamed so loud he woke up from this terrible nightmare.  Maud was next to him reading a book of about the Irish Revival.

“What’s wrong?” she asked jolting from her chair.

“Nothing,” he said. “I dreamed that someone had died in a strange place.”

A light ray of sunshine peered through the clouds outside his window, and came to rest on Maud’s shoulder. It had been a regular Halloween after all, William thought.
Or maybe not?

Fading into Black

by Rebecca Branca

I watched as the curtains were drawn for the last time tonight.

“Finally” I muttered to myself. My parents had dragged me to yet another one of the Abbey theatre’s long and badly acted plays. I looked down at my phone checking the time for what seemed like the hundredth time this hour. The screen showed 8:30 pm, meaning I still had time to make it to my friend Chelsea’s surprise party. I looked over at my parents who were happily chatting away with another old couple. Beginning to grow more and more impatient I looked back down at my phone, where I had received a text from my friend Kate telling me to hurry up. I looked back up at my parents who were still conversing with the old couple. “Mum, dad, please! We need to go now or I’ll miss Chelsea’s surprise!” I whined desperately.

After saying goodbye, my parents and I made our way through the rain, to where our car was parked. ‘Ugh’ I groaned, looking down at my clothes that were now completely saturated from the rain. Typical Dublin weather I thought to myself. I glanced down at the time, 8:50 already?

“Crap” I cussed under my breath. “Dad can you drive any faster? You’re going so slow!” He turned around and glared at me:

“The road is slippery from the storm, unless you want us to have an accident I suggest…” but my dad was cut off by a horrific sound of crunching metal. Then it all faded into black.

Floating, that’s what it felt like. Like I was floating high above the clouds. But something was wrong. I tried opening my eyes, but I couldn’t. I suddenly became aware of a burning ache that took over my body. I kept fighting to open my eyes, and when I succeeded, I instantly regretted it. My eyes burned and my ears rang. I looked over to where my mum was previously sitting, to find her body laying limp, with blood covering her face. The windscreen in front of her unconscious body was completely shattered. I struggled, trying to lean over and grab her but when I tried an electrifying pain coursed through my body.

‘Ava, can you hear me? Ava please?’ I heard a distorted but audible cry from next to me. I turned to see a blurry face that looked a lot like my fathers and once again everything faded into black.