Havana Quotes

I don't care a damn about men who are loyal to the people who pay them, to organizations...I don't think even my country means all that much. There are many countries in our blood, aren't there, but only one person. Would the world be in the mess it is if we were loyal to love and not to countries?

Fiction has been maligned for centuries as being "false," "untrue," yet good fiction provides more truth about the world, about life, and even about the reader, than can be found in non-fiction.

In a museum in Havana, there are two skulls of Christopher Columbus, one when he was a boy and one when he was a man

Life isn't long enough to enjoy and understand all at the same time. You have to decide which is more important

Havana is like a woman who was grand once and has fallen on hard times, and yet hints of her former brilliance remain, traces of an era since passed, a photograph faded by time and circumstance, its edges crumbling to dust.

That’s the thing about death—even when you think someone is gone, glimpses of them remain in those they loved and left behind.

They haven't left us much to believe in, have they?--even disbelief. I can't believe in anything bigger than a home or vaguer than a human being.

Life is too short to be unhappy, to play it safe. To do what is expected of you rather than follow your heart

To be in exile is to have the things you love most in the world - the air you breathe, the earth you walk upon - taken from you. They exist on the other side of a wall - there and not - unaltered by time and circumstance, preserved in a perfect memory in a land of dreams.

It is a great danger for everyone when what is shocking changes.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is decide to leave when it is no longer wise to stay.

We are silk and lace, and beneath them we are steel.

You should dream more. Reality in our century is not something to be faced.

They can print statistics and count the populations in hundreds of thousands, but to each man a city consists of no more than a few streets, a few houses, a few people. Remove those few and a city exists no longer except as a pain in the memory, like a pain of an amputated leg no longer there.

As long as nothing happens anything is possible...

There was always another side to a joke, the side of the victim.

He checked his parachute and launched himself into the Sea of Sarcasm. --Havana Red

You never know what’s to come. That’s the beauty of life. If everything happened the way we wished, the way we planned, we’d miss out on the best parts, the unexpected pleasures.

You speak of passion, but what about companionship, mutual respect, friendship? Why do people always seize on the spark that can peter out as the measure of a relationship?

Michael still thought of Havana as home, because he was born there. And he had been Miguel Arroya there. Here, he was Michael.

... but the older you get, the more you learn to appreciate the moments life gives you. Getting them certainly isn't a given, and I feel blessed to have carved out a life here where I could be happy even if it wasn't quite the happiness I envisioned, if the things I dreamed of never quite came to pass.

At the end of the day, the only thing you have left is what you stand for. If I said nothing, if I did nothing, I could not live with myself. I would not be a man. This is the position I choose to take, and for better or worse, I will accept the consequences of my actions.

You should dream more, Mr. Wormold. Reality in our century is not something to be faced.

Time gives poetry to a battlefield...

A romantic is usually afraid in case reality doesn't come up to expectations.

Ten years ago he would have followed her, but middle-age is the period of sad caution.

I eat a catfish sandwich with onions and red sauce 20c. (Havana 1953)

revolutions don’t care much for broken hearts and shattered dreams.

You are interested in a person, not in life, and people die or leave us ... But if you are interested in life it never lets you down. I am interested in the blueness of cheese. You don't do crosswords, do you, Mr. Wormold? I do, and they are like people: one reaches an end. I can finish any crossword within an hour, but I have a discovery concerning the blueness of cheese that will never come to a conclusion.

It's dizzying to think how huge the world is, or to realize how tiny you are

The line between hero and villain is a precariously fragile one.

When you feel unable to change your bar you have become old.

Terrible things rarely happen all at once, she answers. They're incremental, so people don't realize how bad things have gotten until it's too late.

For some, there is only one true love. But not everyone is lucky enough to have that love work out for them. And for some, the love we cannot have is the most powerful one of all.

That's because true travel, the kind with no predetermined end, is one of the most selfish endeavors we can possibly undertake-an act in which we focus solely on our own fulfillment, with little regard to those we leave behind. After all, we're the ones venturing out into the big crazy world, filling up journals, growing like weeds. And we have the gall to think they're just sitting at home, soaking in security and stability. It is only when we reopen these wrapped and ribboned boxes, upon our triumphant return home, that we discover nothing is the way we had left it before.

It was a city to visit, not a city to live in, but it was the city where Wormold had first fallen in love and he was held to it as though to the scene of a disaster. Time gives poetry to a battlefield.

You speak as though politics is its own separate entity,” he says. “As though it isn’t in the air around us, as though every single part of us isn’t political. How can you dismiss something that is so fundamental to the integrity of who we are as a people, as a country? How can you dismiss something that directly affects the lives of so many?

Terrible things rarely happen all at once,” she answers. “They’re incremental, so people don’t realize how bad things have gotten until it’s too late. He swore up and down that he wasn’t a communist. That he wanted democracy. Some believed him. Others didn’t.

When they reached their ship, Ed gazed out at the bay. It was black. The sky was black, but the bay was even blacker. It was a slick, oily blackness that glowed and reflected the moonlight like a black jewel. Ed saw the tiny specks of light around the edges of the bay where he knew ships must be docked, and at different points within the bay where vessels would be anchored. The lights were pale and sickly yellow when compared with the bright blue-white sparkle of the stars overhead, but the stars glinted hard as diamonds, cold as ice. Pg. 26.

They had the comfort of not learning from experience.

The Americans preach liberty, and freedom, and democracy at home, and practice tyranny throughout the rest of the world.

Loyalty is a complicated thing — where does family fit on the hierarchy? Above or below country? Above or below the natural order of things? Or are we above all else loyal to ourselves, to our hearts, our convictions, the internal voice that guides us?

Cuba may be the only place in the world where you can be yourself and more than yourself at the same time

A picture postcard is a symptom of loneliness.

When power is up for grabs,” Pitt said, “the first casualty is often liberty.

To be Cuban is to be proud—it is both our greatest gift and our biggest curse. We serve no kings, bow no heads, bear our troubles on our backs as though they are nothing at all. There is an art to this, you see. An art to appearing as though everything is effortless, that your world is a gilded one, when the reality is that your knees beneath your silk gown buckle from the weight of it all. We are silk and lace, and beneath them we are steel.

Man can never be more perfect than the sun. The sun burns us with the same light that warms us. The sun has spots (stains). The ungrateful only talk about the spots (stains). The grateful talk about the light.

Havana, Cuba, in which city yellow fever had not failed to make its yearly appearance during the past one hundred and forty years... Havana was freed from yellow fever within ninety days. Dr. Walter Reed, 1902

Childhood was the germ of all mistrust. You were cruelly joked upon and then you cruelly joked. You lost the remembrance of pain through inflicting it.

And how is Uncle Edward? or is he dead? I've reached the time of life when relatives die unnoticed.

Che abandoned his first wife, Hilda, a Peruvian woman of Indian extraction, for a taller, blonder trophy wife (also named Aleida). Their 1959 wedding in Havana was the social event of the year and featured Raul Castro as "best man." After he married Aleida, Che would continue to "upgrade" his women, taking the worldly Tamara "Tania" Bunke, born of German parents in Argentina, as his mistress.

If it was difficult for a visitor to find anything to eat impromptu in Moscow, Havana, Tirana, Bucharest, or Pyongyang, it took little effort to understand the connection of this difficulty with the vulgar anti-commercialism of Saint Karl and Saint Vladimir. Indeed, it would have taken all the ingenuity of the cleverest academics not to have understood it.

While guidebooks might tell you that time collapsed here, another theory says that in Latin America, all of history coexists at once.

Havana vanities come to dust in Miami.

You think you know someone, imagine you know them better than anyone, and then little by little, the fabric of their life unravels before your eyes and you realize how little you knew.

That woman is a volcano on the point of eruption, with a libido of igneous magma yet the heart of an angel,' he said licking his lips. 'If I had to establish a true parallel, she reminds me of my succulent mulatto girl in Havana, who was very devout and always worshiped her saints. But since, deep down, I'm an old-fashioned gent who doesn't like to take advantage of women, I contend myself with a chaste kiss on the cheek. I'm not in a hurry, you see? All good things must wait. There are yokels out there who think that if they touch a woman's behind and she doesn't complain, they've hooked her. Amateurs. The female heart is a labyrinth of subtleties, too challenging for the uncouth mind of the male racketeer. If you really want to possess a woman, you must think like her, and the first thing to do is win over her soul. The rest, that sweet, soft wrapping that steals away your senses and your virtue, is a bonus

The crisis isn’t over. The prospect of nuclear war has never been greater. The United States is so close to invading Cuba that one bad joke in the nonstop series of ExComm meetings is that Bobby Kennedy will soon be mayor of Havana.

There are times, aren't there, when Shakespeare is a little dull.

The act of lust and the act of love are the same; it cannot be falsified like a sentiment.

You think too much," she said. "OK, no more thinking.

You should dream more, Mr Wormold. Reality in our century is not something to be faced.’ 2

He began to realize what the criminal class knows so well, the impossibility of explaining anything to a man with power.

Burn a little incense, sacrifice a chicken or two, smoke a cigar, then shake your maracas and dance.

If she’s happy, that’s all that matters,

My love is like a powder keg My love is like a powder keg in the corner of an empty warehouse Somewhere just outside of town About to burn down My love is like a Cuban plane My love is like a Cuban plane flying from Havana Up the Florida coast to the 'Glades Soviet made Our love is like the border between Greece and Albania Our love is like the border between Greece and Albania Trucks loaded down with weapons Crossing over every night Moon yellow and bright There is a shortage in the blood supply But there is no shortage of blood The way I feel about you baby can't explain it You got the best of my love

I’ve started dreaming in Spanish, which has never happened before. I wake up feeling different, like something inside me is changing, something chemical and irreversible. There’s a magic here working its way through my veins. There’s something about the vegetation, too, that I respond to instinctively - the stunning bougainvillea, the flamboyants and jacarandas, the orchids growing from the trunks of the mysterious ceiba trees. And I love Havana, its noise and decay and painted ladyness. I could happily sit on one of those wrought-iron balconies for days, or keep my grandmother company on her porch, with its ringside view of the sea. I’m afraid to lose all this, to lose Abuela Celia again. But sooner or later I’d have to return to New York. I know now it’s where I belong - not instead of here, but more than here. How can I tell my grandmother this?

I am Cuban, and yet, I am not. I don’t know where I fit here, in the land of my grandparents, attempting to recreate a Cuba that no longer exists in reality. Perhaps we’re the dreamers in all of this. The hopeful ones. Dreaming of a Cuba we cannot see with our eyes, that we cannot touch, whose taste lingers on our palates, with the tang of memory. The exiles are the historians, the memory keepers of a lost Cuba, one that’s nearly forgotten.

She put up her posters, which mainly consisted of one five-foot-wide panorama of Diego Luna doing a split on the set of Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights-which Penelope had decided would be an excellent conversation topic, because that is a movie everyone likes.

My dear Gorgas, Instead of being simply satisfied to make friends and draw your pay, it is worth doing your duty, to the best of your ability, for duty’s sake; and in doing this, while the indolent sleep, you may accomplish something that will be of real value to humanity. Your good friend, Reed Dr. Walter Reed encouraging Dr. William Gorgas who went on to make history eradicating Yellow Fever in Havana, 1902 and Panama, 1906, liberating the entire North American continent from centuries of Yellow Fever epidemics.

A man's allowed to make lots of small mistakes, and there's nothing wrong with that. But if the mistakes are big ones and they weigh him down, his only solution is to stop taking himself seriously. It's the only way to avoid suffering - suffering, prolonged, can be fatal.

Such fears seemed more than imaginary because, in 1839, fifty-three recently enslaved Africans had overthrown the white crew of the Cuban slave-ship Amistad as they were being transported from Havana to the island’s eastern sugar frontier. Trying to sail to Africa, the rebels made an accidental landfall on the Connecticut coast. State authorities charged them with murder, but abolitionists intervened and pushed the case into the Supreme Court. Concluding that the Amistad’s cargo had been illegally transported across the Atlantic, the Court made its only pre-twentieth-century antislavery decision. It ruled that the rebels had been kidnapped, that they had freed themselves, and that they could return to Africa.19

For many being Cuban is something they carry with them in their hearts, something they fight to preserve even when all they have are their memories. When they left, they couldn’t take anything with them. No photographs, no official documents, no family heirlooms or mementos. That kind of exile makes you angry.

...her other paramour was a student at the UASD -- one of those City College types who's been in school eleven years and is always five credits shy of a degree. Students today don't mean na; but in Latin America whipped into a frenzy by the fall of Arbenz, by the stoning of Nixon, by the Guerillas of the Sierra Madre, by the endless cynical maneuverings of the Yankee Pig Dogs -- in a Latin America already a year and a half into the Decade of Guerilla -- a student was something else altogether, an agent for change, a quantum string in the staid Newtonian universe. Such a student was Arquimedes. He also listened to the shortwave, but not for Dodgers scores; what he risked his life for was the news leaking out of Havana, news of the future. Arquemides was, therefore, a student, the son of a Zapatero and a midwife, a tirapiedra and a quemagoma for life. Being a student wasn't a joke, not with Trujillo and Johnny Abbes scooping up everybody following the foiled Cuban Invasion of 1959.

I said what do you mean by his country? A flag someone invented two hundred years ago? The Bench of Bishops arguing about divorce and the House of Commons shouting Ya at each other across the floor? Or do you mean the T.U.C. and British Railways and the Co-op?

He felt the sad relief of a man who realizes that there is one love at least that no longer hurts him.

The fish are always selling well. They are the only one of God’s creatures that never disappoints.

Russell Bufalino had secret interests in Las Vegas casinos and not-so secret connections to the Cuban dictator Fulgencio Batista, whom Fidel Castro toppled in 1959. With Batista’s blessings Bufalino had owned a racetrack and a major casino near Havana. Bufalino lost a great deal of money and property, including the racetrack and the casino, when Castro booted the mob off the island. Time

I worry I’m surrounded by madmen who desire to burn the world down without thought for the consequences of their actions, without regard for all the innocent lives that will be charred by the flames.

If I were your mother, I would also warn you to beware of buildings that claim to be the houses of God. If heard it said once, jokingly, that on their days off, when they are not actively intervening in human affairs or shoring up the sweetness of the earth, the orishas get together in a little apartment in a poor section of Havana around a very big screen television and laugh themselves silly a the unceasing soap opera that is our lives, all the while puffing on good Cuban cigars and swigging cheap rum. And, darling, whether you imagine one big white distant god or many more particular brown ones who like their little pleasures, I would tell you to get off your butt and out of the house if you want to make contact. If you go to a mausoleum, you'll find dead bodies. Living gods inhabit a living world.

I want to fight, Becky. Can you understand that? I want struggle, I want danger. You know, Sally said something to me once: we were talking about happiness and what that might mean. She said she didn't want to be /happy/, that was a weak, passive sort of thing; she wanted to be alive and active. She wanted /work/. That's the spirit I like. That's what I want; and my work is a rough dirty dangerous kind of work. Oh, I want other things too. I want to write a play and see Henry Irving perform in it. I want to swank about town smoking Havanas and have supper with pretty girls in the Cafe Royal. I want to play poker on a Mississippi riverboat. I want to see Dan Goldberg get into Parliament. I want to see you go to university and get a first-class degree. Sally. . . Sally can do anything we wants, by me. There's a whole world I want, Becky.

Ja kāda nodarbe tev ir svarīga, nav būtiski, ka citi saka: tu to nevari. Varbūt tu nekad nekļūsi par labāko pasaulē. Bet, ja ieguldīsi nebeidzamas darba stundas, tu varēsi kļūt diezgan prasmīgs gandrīz jebkurā jomā.

OTOBİYOGRAFİ 1902'de doğdum doğduğum şehre dönmedim bir daha geriye dönmeyi sevmem üç yaşımda Halep'te paşa torunluğu ettim on dokuzumda Moskova'da komünist Üniversite öğrenciliği kırk dokuzumda yine Moskova'da Tseka-Parti konukluğu ve on dördümden beri şairlik ederim kimi insan otların kimi insan balıkların çeşidini bilir ben ayrılıkların kimi insan ezbere sayar yıldızların adını ben hasretlerin hapislerde de yattım büyük otellerde de açlık çektim açlık gırevi de içinde ve tatmadığım yemek yok gibidir otuzumda asılmamı istediler kırk sekizimde Barış madalyasının bana verilmesini verdiler de otuz altımda yarım yılda geçtim dört metre kare betonu elli dokuzumda on sekiz saatta uçtum Pırağ'dan Havana'ya Lenin'i görmedim nöbet tuttum tabutunun başında 924'de 961'de ziyaret ettiğim anıtkabri kitaplarıdır partimden koparmağa yeltendiler beni sökmedi yıkılan putların altında da ezilmedim 951'de bir denizde genç bir arkadaşla yürüdüm üstüne ölümün 52'de çatlak bir yürekle dört ay sırtüstü bekledim ölümü sevdiğim kadınları deli gibi kıskandım şu kadarcık haset etmedim Şarlo'ya bile aldattım kadınlarımı konuşmadım arkasından dostlarımın içtim ama akşamcı olmadım hep alnımın teriyle çıkardım ekmek paramı ne mutlu bana başkasının hesabına utandım yalan söyledim yalan söyledim başkasını üzmemek için ama durup dururken de yalan söyledim bindim tirene uçağa otomobile çoğunluk binemiyor operaya gittim çoğunluk gidemiyor adını bile duymamış operanın çoğunluğun gittiği kimi yerlere de ben gitmedim 21'den beri camiye kiliseye tapınağa havraya büyücüye ama kahve falıma baktırdığım oldu yazılarım otuz kırk dilde basılır Türkiye'mde Türkçemle yasak kansere yakalanmadım daha yakalanmam da şart değil başbakan filân olacağım yok meraklısı da değilim bu işin bir de harbe girmedim sığınaklara da inmedim gece yarıları yollara da düşmedim pike yapan uçakların altında ama sevdalandım altmışıma yakın sözün kısası yoldaşlar bugün Berlin'de kederden gebermekte olsam da insanca yaşadım diyebilirim ve daha ne kadar yaşarım başımdan neler geçer daha kim bilir.

I’m always astonished when readers suggest that I must write my novels while high on pot or (God forbid!) LSD. Apparently, there are people who confuse the powers of imagination with the effects of intoxication. Not one word of my oeuvre, not one, has been written while in an artificially altered state. Unlike many authors, I don’t even drink coffee when I write. No coffee, no cola, no cigarettes. There was a time when I smoked big Havana cigars while writing, not for the nicotine (I didn’t inhale) but as an anchor, something to hold on to, I told myself, to keep from falling over the edge of the earth. Eventually, I began to wonder what it would be like to take that fall. So one day I threw out the cigars and just let go. Falling, I must say, has been exhilarating -- though I may change my mind when I hit bottom.

Currents of cigarette fumes wafted through what passed for air. Attractive young women in bright-hued gowns glided through the streams of smoke, like tropical fish in an aquarium. Detecting the white uniforms and leathery faces, they promptly approached the Navy men. Very pretty, Ed thought, but hungry, a school of piranha. Just what the doctor ordered: fun and games with no complications. Right: no complications.

On the surface, ojalá translates to “hopefully” in English. But that’s just on paper, merely the dictionary definition. The reality is that there are some words that defy translation; their meaning contains a whole host of things simmering beneath the surface. There’s beauty contained in the word, more than the flippancy of an idle hope. It speaks to the tenor of life, the low points and the high, the sheer unpredictability of it all. And at the heart of it, the word takes everything and puts it into the hands of a higher power, acknowledging the limits of those here on earth, and the hope, the sheer hope, the kind you hitch your life to, that your deepest wish, your deepest yearning will eventually be yours.

They can print statistics and count the populations in hundreds of thousands, but to each man a city consists of no more than a few streets, a few houses, a few people. Remove those few and a city exists no longer except as a pain in the memory, like the pain of an amputated leg no longer there.

I don’t care a damn about men who are loyal to the people who pay them, to organizations… I don’t think even my country means all that much. There are many countries in our blood, aren’t there, but only one person. Would the world be in the mess it is if we were loyal to love and not to countries?

The problem with revolution, with the wave of violence it carries with it, is that it's like a flash flood - it sweeps everything away, and nothing looks the same as it once dd. And you think this is good, change was what you wanted in the first place, change was what you needed. But suddenly you have a country you must govern, people whose basic needs must be met. You must stabilize a currency... reform a constitution. Those are not the things young men dream of. They dream of dying for their country; dream of honor in battle. No one dreams about sitting at a desk and arguing over phrases.

Hassan at Arab talks can canvass all satraps and ask that Arab banks back what grand plans Hassan has (dams and canals at Panama, arks and wharfs at Havana - tasks that, as a drawback, warrant what Hassan calls 'a harsh tax plan'). Hassan lacks tact, and (alas) a rajah's blatant sarcasm sparks a flagrant backlash as rampant as a vandal's wrath. Hassan grandstands at a grandstand, as all thralls lash back, wag placards and rant a clamant rant. Arrant gangs clash and start brawls that trash rattan cabanas (what a fracas). A maharajah asks that a hangman hang all bastards and laggards that a lawman can catch.

they dance so fast, good and evil, these two polar opposites. So tightly and furiously. You can’t dance with just one of these partners. If you cut into their dance, you end up with both, as a threesome. And if you fear cutting into the dance and taking a spin with good and evil, you end up dancing with the cross-eyed, ugly chaperone. Even the deepest, most wondrous love can sometimes bring you to that dismal dance, and then every single tune is a tango. A bad tango composed by an angry, drunken Argentine just for you and your loved one. A tango that never ends. But back to those Cuban parties: no dancing there. None at all. Furious

Όταν της τον έβγαλα ήταν πασαλειμμένος με σκατά κι εκείνη αηδίασε. Εγώ όχι. Εγώ είχα πάντα σε εγρήγορση τον κυνισμό, δεν κοιμόταν ποτέ. Το θέμα είναι ότι το σεξ δεν είναι για ανθρώπους με αναστολές. Το σεξ είναι ανταλλαγή υγρών, ρευστών, σάλιου, ανάσας και δυνατών μυρωδιών, ούρων, σπέρματος, σκατών, ιδρώτα, μικροβίων, βακτηρίων. Αλλιώς δεν είναι. Εάν είναι μόνο τρυφερότητα και αιθέρια πνευματικότητα, τότε περιορίζεται σε μια στείρα παρωδία του τι θα μπορούσε να είναι. Τίποτα.

U.S. imperialism's avowed policy of sending soldiers to fight the revolutionary movement in any Latin American country, to kill workers, students, peasants, to kill Latin American men and women, has no other purpose than to maintain its monopolistic interests and the privileges of the treacherous oligarchies which support the monopolies.

The United States isn’t perfect; there’s injustice everywhere I turn. But there’s also a mechanism that protects its citizens—the right to question when something is wrong, to speak out, to protest, to be heard. It doesn’t always work, sometimes the system fails those it was designed to protect, but at least that opportunity—the hope of it—exists.

Passengers drank and smoked. Both; a lot. This was a significant source of profit for Cunard. The company laid in a supply of 150 cases of Black & White Whiskey, 50 cases of Canadian Club Whiskey, and 50 of Plymouth Gin; also, 15 cases each of an eleven-year-old French red wine, a Chambertin, and an eleven-year-old French white, a Chablis, and twelve barrels of stout and ten of ale. Cunard stockpiled thirty thousand “Three Castles” cigarettes and ten thousand Manila cigars. The ship also sold cigars from Havana and American cigarettes made by Phillip Morris. For the many passengers who brought pipes, Cunard acquired 560 pounds of loose Capstan tobacco—“navy cut”—and 200 pounds of Lord Nelson Flake, both in 4-ounce tins. Passengers also brought their own. Michael Byrne, a retired New York merchant and former deputy sheriff traveling in first class, apparently planned to spend a good deal of the voyage smoking. He packed 11 pounds of Old Rover Tobacco and three hundred cigars. During the voyage, the scent of combusted tobacco was ever present, especially after dinner.

The new home fashion will be spare. This will be the return of an old WASP style: the good, frayed carpet; dogs that look like dogs and not a hairdo in a teacup, as miniature dogs back from the canine boutique do now. A friend, noting what has and will continue to happen with car sales, said America will look like Havana—old cars and faded grandeur. It won't. It will look like 1970, only without the bell-bottoms and excessive hirsuteness. More families will have to live together. More people will drink more regularly. Secret smoking will make a comeback as part of a return to simple pleasures. People will slow down. Mainstream religion will come back. Walker Percy again: Bland affluence breeds fundamentalism. Bland affluence is over.

I told myself being a Perez meant more than being Cuban, that my responsibility to my family, to do what was expected, to be the woman my parents wanted me to be meant more than fighting for what I believed in, for speaking out against Batista's tyranny. And the whole time we were pretending our way of life was fine, the "paradise" we'd created was really a fragile deal with a mercurial devil, and the ground beneath us shifted and cracked, destroying the world as we knew it. Fidel has shown us the cost of our silence. The danger of waiting too long to speak, of another's voice being louder than ours because we were too busy living in the bubbles we'd created to realize the rest of Cuba had changed and left us behind.

The oligarchy was divided into Liberals and Conservatives, who were united in their terror of communism after the success of the Cuban Revolution, especially since many of them had had interests in the brothels and casinos of Havana; others had had interests in pharmaceutical companies that manufactured drugs to cure the diseases spread by the former, and some in supplying guns to be used by gangs struggling for control of the latter. However, the Liberals and Conservatives differed over how to combat the spread of such appalling beliefs as “equality,” “fair pay,” and “democracy.” The Conservatives believed in coming down hard on them; this involved being curt with your campesinos, keeping them illiterate, and paying them a fixed wage of 150 pesos a week. The Liberals, on the other hand, believed in being jolly with your campesinos, teaching them to read bits of paper with instructions on them, and paying them a fixed wage of 150 pesos a week. In this way they hoped that the peasants would become too contented to bother to be Communists. The whole situation became infinitely confused by the Conservatives’ habit of describing the Liberals as “Communists.

In consequence, the National General Assembly of the People of Cuba proclaims before America: the right of peasants to land; the right of the worker to the fruit of his labor; the right of children to receive education; the right of the sick to receive medical and hospital care; the right of the young to work; the right of students to receive free instruction, practical and scientific; the right of Negroes and Indians to 'a full measure of human dignity'; the right of woman to civil, social and political equality; the right of the aged to secure old age; the right of intellectuals, artists and scientists to fight through their work for a better world; the right of States to nationalize imperialist monopolies as a means of recovering national wealth and resources; the right of countries to engage freely in trade with all other countries of the world; the right of nations to full sovereignty; the right of people to convert their fortresses into schools and to arm their workers, peasants, students, intellectuals, Negroes, Indians, women, the young, the old, all the oppressed and exploited; that they may better defend, with their own hands, their rights and their future.

He went upstairs and opened the telegram; it was addressed to a department in the British Consulate, and the figures which followed had an ugly look like the lottery tickets that remained unsold on the last day of a draw. There was 2674 and then a string of five-figure numerals: 42811 79145 72312 59200 80947 62533 10605 and so on. It was his first telegram and he noticed that it was addressed from London. He was not even certain (so long ago his lesson seemed) that he could decode it, but he recognised a single group, 59200, which had an abrupt and monitory appearance as though Hawthorne that moment had come accusingly up the stairs. Gloomily he took down Lamb's 'Tales from Shakespeare' - how he had always detested Elia and the essay on Roast Pork. The first group of figures, he remembered, indicated the page, the line and the word with which the coding began. 'Dionysia, the wicked wife of Cleon,' he read, 'met with an end proportionable to her deserts'. He began to decode from 'deserts'. To his surprise something really did emerge. It was rather as though some strange inherited parrot had begun to speak.

Belli ki birisi piramitleri akılda bulundurmamızı istemiş çünkü piramit sembolü düzenli olarak ellediğimiz ya da gözlemlediğimiz şeylerde dikkat çekici bir biçimde yer alıyor. Herhangi bir gün içinde piyasada iki milyardan fazla bir dolarlık banknot dolaşır. Yüzyılın büyük bir bölümünde Amerika Birleşik Devletleri'nde içilen sigaraların yarısı Camel idi, yani yılda aşağı yukarı otuz milyar. Piramitlerin modern çağın en popüler iki nesnesini süslemesinin rastlantısal bir seçim olma ihtimali zayıf. Birisi dolaların ve sigaraların geniş çapta dolaşımda olacağını biliyordu ve piramitlerin de onlarla birlikte gezmesini sağlamıştı. Orijinal yapılardan mesafe ve zaman nedeniyle ayrı düşen bir kültüre piramitlerin, eğer almasını öğrenirsen bize verecek değerli bir şeye sahip oldukları hatırlatılacaktı. .... Gerçek hükümetler gece geç saatlerde, İran halılarının en zengin örnekleriyle döşeli penceresiz odalarda yıllanmış konyaklar ve Havana puroları içerek toplantı yapıyorlardı. .... Yirminci yüzyılın son çeyreğinin anonim barbarları gibi- .... Hakikat tınısı seslerin en güzelidir; gerçi kimi kadınlar yatakta kesinlikle onunla boy ölçüşecek gürültüler çıkarır. .... Berberiler şuna inanırdı: Mezarda bellek bulunmadığına göre defin yığınından alınan toprak insanın üzüntülerini, bilhassa mutsuz aşkın yol açtığı kalp kırıklığını unutmasına yardımcı olabilirdi. .... Esasen kitle güdülerini düzenlemek, yönlendirmek ve tatmin etmek üzere tasarlanmış bu toplumda insanın birey olarak sahip olduğu sessiz bölgelere sunulacak ne var? Din? Sanat? Doğa? Hayır, kilise, dini standart bir halk gösterisine dönüştürmüştür, müze de aynısını sanat için yapmıştır. Grand Canyon ile Niagara Şelaleleri'ne o kadar çok bakılmıştır ki, bu yerler bitkin düşmüş çok fazla sayıda aptal göz tarafından emilerek içleri boşaltılmıştır. İnsanın birey olarak sahp olduğu sessiz bölgelere sunulacak ne var? Geceyarısı kağır tabaka soğuk tavuk kemiğine ne dersiniz, emriniz doğrultusunda uzayan ya da kısalan alev rengi ruja ne dersiniz, hiç tanımadığınız bir "kuş" tarafından terk edilmiş suni köpükten bir kuş yuvasına ne dersiniz, sağanak yağmurda arabayla evinize giderken birbirini boş yere izleyen bir çift sileceğe ne dersiniz, sinemada koltuğun altından ayakkabınıza değen bir şeye ne dersiniz, körelmiş kurşunkalemlere, şirin çatallara, tombul küçük radyolara, kutular dolusu kravata ve küvet başında duran banyo köpüklerine ne dersiniz? Evet otistik görüş ile deneysel dünya arasındaki bağı kuran, bu şeylerdir, bu uçurtma ipleridir, zeytinyağı şişeleridir ve meyveli şeker ezmeleriyle dolu Sevgililer Günü kalpleridir. Bu şeyleri hakiki gizemli ışıklarında göstermektir Ay'ın amacı. .... İnsan vücudundan büyük nesneler aleni olma niteliği taşır. Ay, bir şey ne kadar aleni olabilirse o kadar alenidir. Fakat Ay, mahremiyet duygusu uyandırmakta nadiren başarısızlığa uğrar. .... Aramak, akılsız, nevrotik, deliye dönmüş bir halde ya da korkakça yapıldığında bir saklanma biçimi olabilir. .... -Sen de benim düşündüğümü mü düşünüyorsun? -Sanmam. Domates kelimesinin kökenini düşünüyordum. .... Haliyle çok yağmur yağıyordu. Meşhur Seattle yağmuru. Aşk, kalıcı olacaksa ayaklarının ıslanmasına hazırlıklı olmalıydı. .... Mutlu bir çocukluğa sahip olmak için asla geç değil.