Latin American author Gabriel Garcia Marquez, who won the Nobel Prize in literature in 1982, died Thursday. He was 87. Garcia Marquez, the master of a style known as magic realism, was and remains Latin America’s best-known writer.
His novels were filled with miraculous and enchanting events and characters; love and madness; wars, politics, dreams and death. And everything he had written, Garcia Marquez once said, he knew or heard before he was 8 years old.
Chilean novelist Ariel Dorfman says Marquez’s Nobel Prize acceptance speech was one of the author’s most important messages to the world.
"Garcia Marquez is speaking about all the people who are marginal to history, who have not had a voice," Dorfman says. "He gives a voice to all those who died. He gives a voice to all those who are not born yet. He gives a voice to Latin America."
Read our full appreciation here.
Image via See Colombia
We’ve lost one of the best, and I don’t know who can or will pick up his echo with as much conviction now.
Have you seen them?
The words cut open your poor intestines
Can’t deny when the inky periods drip from your mailbox and blood flies dip and glide reach down
There’s something living in these lines.
And when your newest kisser is peeking
You dress yourself up tonight get all tangled up in arms and legs it’s cramped up and someone grabs a hold do you go
Should you go home?
There’s something starting don’t know why.
And in a house so cozy few words are spoken
Let’s take our shoes off and unwind when there’s minuets off in the background drowning out eyes off ears off test the kiss
A kiss goodnight
Don’t keep my loving on my mind.
Because it’s messy, yes, this mess is mine
Though mine is messy yours is maybe nine
Look we’ve had similar stitches
Look we have similar frowns
Do the elderly couples still kiss and hug and grab their big wrinkly skin so tough wrinkly wrink wrink wrinkly rough…?
Did you see the words you know?
(Give me rabies bring you babies at the hospital)
Violent ends with friends that go
(I kissed a few in sticky shoes our cartoon show is broken)
Doo, doo, doo, doo…
Oh, oh, oh, oh…
In September 1991, Ötzi, a well preserved mummy who lived
around 3,300 BCE, was unearthed by explorers in the Ötztal Alps
and stored, along with his belongings, in an Italian museum of archeology.
The experience overall has been a grave shock to Ötzi,
who remains silent and frigid among the company
of his speculating admirers.
I came to see Ötzi, the frozen cadaver,
copper-splayed millennial man,
on a slab in Bolanzo, Italy; The Fool,
as if chained by wood to medieval stocks,
trapped in an amber fear; prey
to the hooks and digs of those touristic eyes, prying, piercing.
His life once a buried hatchet, now a heart
laid open artless — with a decaying arm strapped to his chest
as a shield, a sign — a feast for gossip.
He does not consent. With scalpels they jab for
the what, why, and how,
cleaving their theories in a leaky skull. I,
I do not consent.
If I lay beside him, will I wake to a circle of amateur surgeons
scraping the flesh from my past?
One must have veins of ice to endure
such exposure to the elements of time, which,
in time, strip all skin,
unveiling exhibits of what’s mine, what’s his,
what’s passed out to everyone in gift bags and lies.
So ablated, Ötzi’s face peels away. Mine turns too:
I recede into snow-breasted Alps, mountains of
secrets concealed in a smile,
congealed in an icy stare. Half-there. So no thieving mountaineer
might abuse the bone meal I left behind —
a face cryogenically oblique, and the outline of a body
in morning snow, alive, yes, yet thawing for no one.
“I like punk rock. I like girls with weird eyes. I like drugs. I like passion. I like things that are built well. I like innocence. I like and am grateful for the blue collar worker whose existence allows artists to not have to work at menial jobs. I like killing gluttony. I like playing my cards wrong. I like various styles of music. I like making fun of musicians whom I feel plagiarize or offend music as art by exploiting their embarrassingly pathetic versions of their work. I like to write poetry. I like to ignore others’ poetry. I like vinyl. I like nature and animals. I like to be by myself. I like to feel guilty for being a white, American male.” - Kurt Cobain