Diaz Brothers Quotes

We aren't here to eat, we are being eaten. Come, pretty girl. Let us devour our lives.

this hidden glacier hungry for a taste of Titanic flesh, this pleasure altar, French-kiss sweatshop, abacus of one night stands, hippocampus whorehouse, oubliette of regret

Flyblown figs shimmer at you my bug-eyed boy. The glitzy-bodied flies boogie-woogie to your static grin numbing you while sexy screwworms empty you like a black hole.

I will walk beside you, or in front of you, but I refuse to be pulled behind you like a toy on a string.

He grinned and smoothed her hair back from her face. “That’s exactly what we’re about to do, darlin’. Negotiate.

But the main virtue his brother and the naturalist shared was their ability to endow the world with meaning. The stars, the seasons, the forest—Linus had stories about them all, and through these stories life was contained, becoming something that could be examined and understood. Just as the ocean had swelled when Linus was not there to dam its immensity with his words, now, since Lorimer's illness, the desert had violently expanded to an endless blank. Without his friend's theories, Håkan's smallness was as vast as the expanse ahead.

Here’s the deal.” She sat on the bed next to me and grabbed my hand, cradling it in her own. Let me repeat that. Sienna Diaz—movie star, hilarious comedian, and all-round extraordinary human being—sat on the bed next to me and grabbed my hand. And it was not an hallucination. Life is so weird. “I am obsessed with your lemon custardcakes,” she confessed on a rush. “Obsessed. But your bakery hasn’t been carrying them for over a week.” “Oh, sorry about that.” She shook her head quickly. “Don’t apologize. Here’s the deal: if and when you’re feeling up to it, I want to pay you—handsomely—to keep me well stocked in lemon custard cakes for the next six months. And maybe for the rest of my life. And my children’s lives.” I cracked a smile because the woman was funny. “You don’t have to pay me. I’ll be happy to do it for you.” She shook her head. “No. No, no, no. I’m paying you. You’re being put on retainer. I’ll have my lawyer draw up a contract. We’re making this official, because I need those cakes, and I want to be able to hold you accountable in a court of law if you don’t deliver.

Beau must’ve guessed my intentions as he swung open his door and jumped to his feet, continuing to poke at me. “Jet, we’re all dying to know what’s going on with you and Sienna Diaz.” “No one is dying.” Roscoe unfolded from the Pontiac after I pushed my seat forward. He grinned at me as he straightened. “We’re just close to apoplexy.” “Well, I’m more worried about the blueberries.” Cletus climbed out on Beau’s side and the frown he tossed at me was grim. “Blueberries aren’t in season yet.” “Would you forget about the blueberries?” Beau hissed. I spotted Jessica’s Jag kicking up dust as it pulled up our drive. Ignoring Beau, I shut my door and made for the porch. “I share Cletus’s worry over the blueberries,” I said, just to rankle Beau. “See? Jethro’s worried, and he’s never worried.” Cletus gestured toward me then pointed at Beau. “You should be worried, too.” Jess parked next to Beau’s vintage Pontiac, and Duane held up two pints of blueberries as he stood from her fancy Jaguar. “You can stop panicking, Cletus. I have the berries.” “Oh, thank God.” Cletus held his chest and stumbled a step backward. “You should have live-tweeted your progress. I was near a fit.

It was a country of slavery, where human beings were sold like cattle, and its native peoples, the Yaquis, the Papagos, the Tomasachics, exterminated through deportation, or reduced to worse than peonage, their lands in thrall or the hands of foreigners. And in Oaxaca lay the terrible Valle Nacional where Juan himself, a bona-fide slave aged seven, had seen an older brother beaten to death, and another, bought for forty-five pesos, starved to death in seven months, because it was cheaper this should happen, and the slave-holder buy another slave, than simply have one slave better fed merely worked to death in a year. All this spelt Porfirio Diaz: rurales everywhere, jefes políticos, and murder, the extirpation of liberal political institutions, the army an engine of massacre, an instrument of exile. Juan knew this, having suffered it; and more. For later in the revolution, his mother was murdered. And later still Juan himself killed his father, who had fought with Huerta, but turned “traitor. Ah, guilt and sorrow had dogged Juan's footsteps too, for he was not a Catholic who could rise refreshed from the cold bath of confession. Yet the banality stood: that the past was irrevocably past. And conscience had been given man to regret it only in so far as that might change the future. For man, every man, Juan seemed to be telling him, even as Mexico, must ceaselessly struggle upward. What was life but a warfare and a stranger's sojourn? Revolution rages too in the tierra caliente of each human soul. No peace but that must pay full toll to hell.