Juan Diego Quotes

Real life is too sloppy a model for good fiction,” Juan Diego had said.

Juan Diego lived there, in the past—reliving, in his imagination, the losses that had marked him.

Many of Juan Diego's demons had been his childhood companions-he knew them so well, they were as familiar as friends.

Remember, Juan Diego—you are a reader,” Señor Eduardo said to the worried-looking boy. “There is a life in books, and in the world of your imagination; there is more than the physical world, even here.

Flor and Juan Diego and Lupe were the Iowan’s projects; Edward Bonshaw saw them through the eyes of a born reformer, but he did not love them less for looking upon them in this fashion.

And you wouldn’t want to bring her home—at least not to entertain your guests or amuse the children. No, Juan Diego thought—you would want to keep her, all for yourself.

Now and forever,” Juan Diego said, more confidently. He knew this was a promise to himself—to seize every opportunity that looked like the future, from this moment forward.

Don't ever die," Juan Diego had written to Brother Pepe from Iowa City. What Juan Diego meant was that HE would die if he lost Pepe.

There was a twofold awkwardness attached to Juan Diego’s attempts to have sex with the life-size Guadalupe doll—better said, the awkwardness of Juan Diego’s imagining he was having sex with the plastic virgin.

And Juan Diego had selected this particular book because it was in English; he’d wanted more practice reading English, though his less-than-rapt audience (Lupe and Rivera and the disagreeable dog Dirty White) might have understood him better en español.

He’d complained to his doctor. “The beta-blockers are blocking my memories!” Juan Diego cried. “They are stealing my childhood—they are robbing my dreams!” To his doctor, all this hysteria meant was that Juan Diego missed the kick his adrenaline gave him. (Beta-blockers really do a number on your adrenaline.)

Lupe’s language is just a little different,” Juan Diego was saying. “I can understand it.

Writers who have any audience have more readers than they know. Juan Diego was more famous than he thought.

Pour Juan Diego, des morts ou des fantômes auraient dû avoir une toute autre attitude, surtout dans une église. Que venaient-ils chercher ? Ne connaissaient-ils pas les réponses désormais ?

His childhood, and the people he’d encountered there—the ones who’d changed his life, or who’d been witnesses to what had happened to him at that crucial time—were what Juan Diego had instead of religion.

She grabbed her briefcase and took a step toward him. “You don’t have a last name?” “Everyone has a last name.” His hand hovered in the air, waiting. He was forcing her to cross the marble floor to meet him, and like a Luna moth drawn to a midnight moon, she drifted toward him. When she reached him, she took his hand and looked up into his face. “Is it Jones? Smith? Or Brown?” His lips twitched. “None of the above.” “And you won’t tell me?” “It’s not necessary information.” She tilted her head, studying his angular features. “You don’t look like an Adrian.” His smile broadened. “Imagine that.” “More like a Carlos, or a Juan, or a Diego.” “Those are Hispanic names.” “Aren’t you Hispanic?” “I’m anything you want me to be.

Lupe was upset that the Japanese honeymooners were wearing surgical masks over their mouths and noses; she imagined the young Japanese couples were dying of some dread disease—she thought they’d come to Of the Roses to beg Our Lady of Guadalupe to save them. “But aren’t they contagious?” Lupe asked. “How many people have they infected between here and Japan?” How much of Juan Diego’s translation and Edward Bonshaw’s explanation to Lupe was lost in the crowd noise? The proclivity of the Japanese to be “precautionary,” to wear surgical masks to protect themselves from bad air or disease—well, it was unclear if Lupe ever understood what that was about.

Wasn’t this the point Juan Diego had made repeatedly? Women readers kept fiction alive—here was another one. When Juan Diego had used Spanish in crying out the scholastic’s name, the Chinese girl knew she’d been right about who he was.

El papa Benedicto XVI había dicho que la pederastia se consideraba normal hasta fecha tan reciente como los años setenta. [...] - Benedicto dijo: "Nada es bueno o malo en sí mismo". Dijo "nada", Clark -repitió Juan Diego a su exalumno-. La pederastia no es "nada"; seguramente la pederastia sí es "mala en sí misma", Clark.

qué tanto es una vuelta más para un ventilador”.

se acuestan al sol, se emborrachan, compran baratijas de contrabando, regresan sin un peso a sus casas con el consuelo de unas fotografías como testimonio de que un día fueron felices.

I’m not a fortune-teller!” Lupe said, but Juan Diego didn’t translate this. “The woman you want is Soledad,” Vargas said to Edward Bonshaw. “What woman? I don’t want a woman!” the new missionary cried; he’d imagined that Dr. Vargas had misunderstood what a vow of celibacy entailed. “Not a woman for you, Mr. Celibacy,” Vargas said. “I mean the woman you need to talk to, on behalf of the kids. Soledad is the woman who looks after the kids at the circus—she’s the lion tamer’s wife.

On December 9, 1531, the Blessed Virgin Mary appeared to an Indian named Juan Diego. A carpet of roses blossoming in the dead of winter and a Madonna with a coffee-colored face appearing on Juan Diego’s robe were enough further evidence to convince the local bishop to erect a shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe. There are those who say Guadalupe is Tonantzin, an Aztec goddess who existed years before Juan Diego came along. The Spanish missionaries, knowing that she had quite a local following,

It infuriates him, this killing, this death. Infuriating that this is what we’re known for now, drug cartels and slaughter. This my city of Avenida 16 Septembre, the Victoria Theater, cobblestone streets, the bullring, La Central, La Fogata, more bookstores than El Paso, the university, the ballet, garapiñados, pan dulce, the mission, the plaza, the Kentucky Bar, Fred’s—now it’s known for these idiotic thugs. And my country, Mexico—the land of writers and poets—of Octavio Paz, Juan Rulfo, Carlos Fuentes, Elena Garro, Jorge Volpi, Rosario Castellanos, Luis Urrea, Elmer Mendoza, Alfonso Reyes—the land of painters and sculptors—Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, Gabriel Orozco, Pablo O’Higgins, Juan Soriano, Francisco Goitia—of dancers like Guillermina Bravo, Gloria and Nellie Campobello, Josefina Lavalle, Ana Mérida, and composers—Carlos Chávez, Silvestre Revueltas, Agustín Lara, Blas Galindo—architects—Luis Barragán, Juan O’Gorman, Tatiana Bilbao, Michel Rojkind, Pedro Vásquez—wonderful filmmakers—Fernando de Fuentes, Alejandro Iñárritu, Luis Buñuel, Alfonso Cuarón, Guillermo del Toro—actors like Dolores del Río, “La Doña” María Félix, Pedro Infante, Jorge Negrete, Salma Hayek—now the names are “famous” narcos—no more than sociopathic murderers whose sole contribution to the culture has been the narcocorridas sung by no-talent sycophants. Mexico, the land of pyramids and palaces, deserts and jungles, mountains and beaches, markets and gardens, boulevards and cobblestoned streets, broad plazas and hidden courtyards, is now known as a slaughter ground. And for what? So North Americans can get high.

The entire pre-Columbian literature of Mexico, a vast library of tens of thousands of codices, was carefully and systematically destroyed by the priests and friars who followed in the wake of the conquistadors. In November 1530, for example, Bishop Juan de Zumárraga, who had shortly before been apointed 'Protector of the Indians' by the Spanish crown, proceeded to 'protect' his flock by burning at the stake a Mexican aristocrat, the lord of the city of Texcoco, whom he accused of having worshipped the rain god. In the city's marketplace Zumárraga 'had a pyramid formed of the documents of Aztec history, knowledge and literature, their paintings, manuscripts, and hieroglyphic writings, all of which he committed to the flames while the natives cried and prayed.' More than 30 years later, the holocaust of documents was still under way. In July 1562, in the main square of Mani (just south of modern Merida in the Yucatan), Bishop Diego de Landa burned thousands of Maya codices, story paintings, and hieroglyphs inscribed on rolled-up deer skins. He boasted of destroying countless 'idols' and 'altars,' all of which he described as 'works of the devil, designed by the evil one to delude the Indians and to prevent them from accepting Christianity.' Noting that the Maya 'used certain characters or letters, which they wrote in their books about the antiquities and their sciences' he informs us: 'We found a great number of books in these letters, and since they contained nothing but superstitions and falsehoods of the devil we burned them all, which they took most grievously and which gave them great pain.

El secreto es SER para llegar a tener; no tener para llegar a SER. Aumenta tu riqueza interior, y aumentará tu riqueza exterior

I thought about everything. I thought about the Abeona Shelter and the work my parents clearly did for them. I thought about my dad’s letter to Juan, how he wanted to give me a chance at normalcy. I thought about moving back to the United States, that drive down to San Diego, the crash of the car. I thought about that ambulance driver, the one with the sandy hair and green eyes. I thought about the way the expression on his face told me that my life was over, how I knew right then and there that even he, this stranger with sandy hair and green eyes, knew my future better than I did. I

¿Cómo puede saber si usted es un commodity o si realmente es un producto que hará una diferencia? Haga por ejemplo el siguiente ejercicio: tras una conversación con alguien, reflexione: ¿usted cómo ha marcado a esa persona que es su interlocutor? ¿Cómo lo deja, qué le aportó? ¿Qué le enseñó? ¿En qué lo transformó? ¿Cree que su conversación es deseable para esa otra persona? ¿Habla de lo mismo que todos, se queja, o se sale de la manada y contagia con su energía?

Picasso (full name Pablo Diego Jose Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno Maria de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santisima Trinidad Clito Ruiz y Picasso)

Pablo Picasso entered the world howling. Seconds after he was born, one of the hospital physicians, his uncle Don Salvador, leaned down and blew a huge cloud of cigar smoke in the newborn’s face. The baby grimaced and bellowed in protest—and that’s how everyone knew he was healthy and alive. At that time, doctors were allowed to smoke in delivery rooms, but this little infant would have none of it. Even at birth, he refused to accept things as they had always been done. The baby was named Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Martyr Patricio Clito Ruíz y Picasso—whew! He was known to his friends as Pablito, a nickname meaning “little Pablo,” and he learned to draw before he could walk. His first word was piz, short for lápiz, the Spanish word for pencil. It was an instrument that would soon become his most prized possession. Pablo inherited his love of art from his father, Don José Ruiz y Blasco, a talented painter. Don José’s favorite subjects were the pigeons that flocked in the plaza outside the Picassos’ home in Málaga, a town on the southern coast of Spain. Sometimes he would allow Pablo to finish paintings for him. One of Pablo’s earliest solo artworks was a portrait of his little sister, which he painted with egg yolk. But painting was not yet his specialty. Drawing was. Pablo mostly liked to draw spirals. When people asked him why, he explained that they reminded him of churros, the fried-dough pastries sold at every streetcorner stand in Málaga. While other kids played underneath trees in the Plaza de la Merced, Pablo stood by himself scratching circles in the dirt with a stick.

speaking Nahuatl was laughable; the project of building a church on a hill where pagans worshipped the mother goddess Tonantzin, borderline heretic. Juan Diego went home dejected. But

Su éxito fue el resultado de no darse por vencido y persistir

cuando ese deseo se controla y se transmuta en acción en lugar de la expresión física, puede elevarle a uno hacia la consecución de grandes logros.

Over the years, I did business and became fast friends with Juan Gallardo, the chairman and CEO of a large Mexican sugar and beverage company. In 2008, he brought me a crazy idea. He and some other private investors from Mexico wanted to build a pedestrian bridge across the U.S.–Mexico border that would physically connect a new building in the southernmost part of San Diego directly with the Tijuana International Airport, which, by an accident of geography, sits just five hundred feet south of the States. Nothing like it existed. Turns out more than 2 million people already cross the border back and forth to fly in or out of the airport. And passengers who used the existing border crossings had to take a circuitous route through Tijuana to get there and then wait hours to cross. There was built-in demand.

Am I not here who am your mother? Are you not under my shadow and protection? Am I not your fountain of life? Are you not in the folds of my mantle, in the crossing of my arms? Is there anything else that you need?

lo mismo que las mujeres humildes. Son dulces cuando no hablan de política. Son buenas amigas. Saben que a tipos como yo nos da pánico la soledad de los domingos por la tarde.

—Despréndase de esa culpas —me djio— La vida es sencilla.

un proyecto es un paso antes de la realidad.

Tener los pies en la tierra, el estómago vacío, fuego en el corazón, hielo en la cabeza y la mirada en el cielo. ¿Cuántos no ganan algo y se caen o enloquecen o no volvemos a saber de ellos? Eso no es leyenda; una leyenda gana y sigue ganando, y, aun así, es todos los días más humilde.

El debate de 1992 no fue distinto, salvo que no se enfocó en si los niños debían conocer “la verdad”, sino en definir e interpretar “la verdad”. En palabras del historiador más destacado en este ejercicio, Héctor Aguilar Camín, la cuestión era si “alguien ha evaluado el impacto profundo que estas consagraciones de la derrota y este recelo frente a las victorias dejan en la cultura cívica de los niños cuando aprenden las extrañas cosas que la historia patria les enseña”.8 Las cosas “extrañas” que se enseñan a los alumnos incluyen fechar la Independencia en 1810, cuando en realidad tuvo lugar en 1821; insistir, como lo hace la Iglesia ahora —antes no lo hacía—, que en 1576 la Virgen de Guadalupe fue avistada por Juan Diego, que le entregó un ramo de rosas, flores no endémicas de la región; o por presentar la Revolución de 1910 como una épica por “Tierra y Libertad”, cuando en realidad los campesinos de Morelos sólo querían sustituir al vicepresidente en turno y recuperar sus tierras.

Pablo Diego Jose Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno Maria de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santisima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso.

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