Sierra Madre Quotes

Anyone who is willing to work and is serious about it will certainly find a job. Only you must not go to the man who tells you this, for he has no job to offer and doesn't know anyone who knows of a vacancy. This is exactly the reason why he gives you such generous advice, out of brotherly love, and to demonstrate how little he knows the world.

...the Sierra, a region so quiet and pristine that we have the sense of being the first human beings ever to set foot in it. We fall silent ourselves in its midst, as if conversation in a place of such primaevl solitude would be like talking in church.

...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.

It isn't the gold that changes man, it is the power which gold gives to man that changes the soul of man. This power, though, is only imaginary. If not recognized by other men, it does not exist.

I've often wondered what people mean when they talk about an experience. I'm a technologist and accustomed to seeing things as they are. I see everything they are talking about very clearly; after all, I'm not blind. I see the moon over the Tamaulipas desert--it is more distinct than at other times, perhaps, but still a calculable mass circling around our planet, an example of gravitation, interesting, but in what way an experience? I see the jagged rocks, standing out black against the moonlight; perhaps they do look like the jagged backs of prehistoric monsters, but I know they are rocks, stone, probably volcanic, one should have to examine them to be sure of this. Why should I feel afraid? There aren't any prehistoric monsters any more. Why should I imagine them? I'm sorry, but I don't see any stone angels either; nor demons; I see what I see--the usual shapes due to erosion and also my long shadow on the sand, but no ghosts. Why get womanish? I don't see any Flood either, but sand lit up by the moon and made undulating, like water, by the wind, which doesn't surprise me; I don't find it fantastic, but perfectly explicable. I don't know what the souls of the damned look like; perhaps like black agaves in the desert at night. What I see are agaves, a plant that blossoms once only and dies. Furthermore, I know (however I may look at the moment) that I am not the last or the first man on earth; and I can't be moved by the mere idea that I am the last man, because it isn't true. Why get hysterical? Mountains are mountains, even if in a certain light they may look like something else, but it is the Sierra Madre Oriental, and we are not standing in a kingdom of the dead, but in the Tamaulipas desert, Mexico, about sixty miles from the nearest road, which is unpleasant, but in what way an experience? Nor can I bring myself to hear something resembling eternity; I don't hear anything, apart from the trickle of sand at every step. Why should I experience what isn't there?

Badges? We ain't got no badges. We don't need no badges. I don't have to show you any stinking badges!

The Sierra Madre was like the sea, he thought. Both of them deathless, monotonously eternal, and so indifferent in their magnitude that either could accept the dust of all the world’s dead and not have the decency to show it in posture.

At the same time I grew increasingly dissatisfied and irritable with what we are prone to call normal life. Except for wine, music, and books, I disliked shopping. Television grated on my nerves, the commercials in particular, so I got rid of the television. I found it harder and harder to rouse any interest in sports, celebrities, electronic gadgets, the chatter of the culture, the latest this or that. Nor did I have any desire to own a house, or get rich, or start a family. I wanted to keep traveling and see the world, live an eventful, unpredictable life with as much personal freedom as possible, and have a few adventures along the way.

It is always more convenient to dream of what might be.

Student today don’t mean na’, but in a Latin America whipped into a frenzy by the Fall of Arbenz, by the Stoning of Nixon, by the Guerrillas of the Sierra Madre, by the endless cynical maneuverings of the Yankee Pig Dogs—in a Latin America already a year and half into the Decade of the Guerrilla—a student was something else altogether, an agent for change, a vibrating quantum string in the staid Newtonian universe.

The air bit into your lungs because it was filled with poisonous gas escaping from the refineries. That sting in the air which made breathing so hard and unpleasant and choked your throat constantly meant that people were making money- much money.

Badges, to god-damned hell with badges! We have no badges. In fact, we don’t need badges. I don’t have to show you any stinking badges, you god-damned cabrón and ching’ tu madre! Come out there from that shit-hole of yours. I have to speak to you.

He saw the dawn again, watched with lonely anguish from that open door, in the violet-shaded light, a slow bomb bursting over the Sierra Madre-Sonnenaufgang!-the oxen harnessed to their carts with wooden disc wheels patiently waiting outside for their drivers, in the sharp cool pure air of heaven. The Consul's longing was so great his soul was locked with the essence of the place as he stood and he was gripped by thoughts like those of the mariner who, sighting the faint beacon of Start Point after a long voyage, knows that soon he will embrace his wife.

Curiosamente defendía a su madre. No podía culparla. Se había visto empujada a hacer cuanto hizo. Quererla representaba una deuda, un pago, su propio compromiso. Y la posibilidad de facilitarle la paz interior.

Ateísmo burgués del siglo XIX, llamó Hugo Hiriart a la religiosidad en la que imagino vivir. No sé cómo apareció esta terminante descripción en el espléndido discurso en torno a la Ilíada, con el que entró a formar parte de la Academia Mexicana de la Lengua. Pero me sentí cómoda arropándome en semejante categoría. Hasta cuando me creo moderna soy anticuada. Esto de ser ateo viene del siglo XIX. Hasta del tardío XVIII. Mi bisabuelo liberal ya era obsoleto. Con todo, yo tengo mi fe. Creo en la madre naturaleza y en los seres humanos que son generosos y buenos. Ahí está el dios de esta atea. Creo en Elizabeth Bennet, en Úrsula Iguarán, en Isaac Dinesen. Creo en la Maga y en la valentía de Leonor. Creo que tiene razón Mateo cuando lo aflige que haya guerra en Ucrania, cuando dilucida que si aletea una mariposa en África, tiembla en México. Creo en Verónica cuando se niega a heredarles a nuestros hijos la mugre del río Atoyac. Creo en los trabajadores obsesivos, como Roberto, Kathya, Héctor y Catalina. Creo en los misterios del fondo del mar, en el cine, en la poesía del Siglo de Oro y en la del siglo XX. Creo en la memoria, en la escuela primaria, en el amor de los quince años y en el sexo de los cincuenta. Creo en las comedias musicales, las jacarandas y los rascacielos. Creo en el caldo de frijoles y el arroz blanco, creo en el horizonte y en que un día tendré más nietos. Creo en la música de Rosario, en las películas de Catalina, en el libro que me cuenta Mateo. Creo en las historias que Virginia trae del Metro, creo que tenemos remedio, creo en los lápices del número tres, en la punta de las plumas Mont Blanc, en la ciencia del doctor Goldberg, en la incredulidad del doctor Estañol, en los barcos con que soñaba una mujer frente a la bahía de Cozumel, en el perro volando que vió doña Emma en un ciclón, en la frente lúcida y la nariz perfecta de la antropóloga Guzmán, en la Sierra Negra cuando la recorre Daniela, en las mujeres que han llamado a su grupo “Los varitas de nardo” y son diez gordas reunidas para cambiar sus hornos de leña por unos que contaminen menos. Creo en el hipo con que mi perro anuncia que está soñando un vuelo alrededor del mundo, creo en el diccionario de la RAE y en las cartas que mandan mis amigos. Creo que aún camina bien mi camioneta vieja y que mis hermanos hicieron una empresa en donde había un sueño. Creo, ingenua yo, en que les irá mal a los malos. Creo en la luz de mi iPhone, en la cocina de mi abuela, en la esperanza de quienes, a pesar del miedo, siguen viviendo en Michoacán. Bendigo el correo electrónico, las orquídeas y los zapatos cómodos. Les rezo a las puestas de sol, a la vitamina B12, a mis rodillas y a las fotos de mis antepasados. Comulgo con quienes saben conversar, oigo misa en las sobremesas de mi casa. Soy una atea con varios dioses. Tantos y de tan buen grado que ahora, presa de la aflicción que es la desmemoria, voy a acudir al único dios de la trilogía de mi madre que me sigue pareciendo confiable: Espíritu Santo, fuente de luz: ilumíname. ¿A qué horas tiré el trébol y cómo es que olvidé tan memorable catástrofe?

International Maize and Wheat Improvement Center (IMWIC), located east of Mexico City at the foot of the Sierra Madre Oriental mountains. IMWIC began as an agricultural research program in 1943 through a collaboration of the Rockefeller Foundation and

We made our plans and we grew attached to them.

proceeds and walking

I’m okay, Mom. Really.” My father hung back for a moment, as was his way. His eyes were wet and red. I looked at his face. He knew. He hadn’t bought the story about Africa with no phone service. He had probably helped peddle it to Mom. But he knew. “You’re so skinny,” Mom said. “Didn’t they feed you anything there?” “Leave him alone,” Dad said. “He looks fine.” “He doesn’t look fine. He looks skinny. And pale. Why are you in a hospital bed?” “I told you,” Dad said. “Didn’t you hear me, Ellen? Food poisoning. He’s going to be fine, some kind of dysentery.” “Why were you in Sierra Madre anyway?” “Sierra Leone,” Dad corrected. “I thought it was Sierra Madre.” “You’re thinking of the movie.” “I remember. With Humphrey Bogart and Katharine Hep-burn.” “That was The African Queen.” “Ohhh,” Mom said, now understanding the confusion. Mom let go of me. Dad moved over, smoothed my hair off my forehead, kissed my cheek. The rough skin from his beard rubbed against me. The comforting smell of Old Spice lingered in the air. “You okay?” he asked. I nodded. He looked skeptical. They both suddenly looked so old. That was how it was, wasn’t it? When you don’t see a child for even a little while, you marvel at how much they’ve grown. When you don’t see an old person for even a little while, you marvel at how much they’ve aged. It happened every time. When did my robust parents cross that line? Mom had the shakes from Parkinson’s. It was getting bad. Her mind, always a tad eccentric, was slipping somewhere more troubling. Dad was in relatively good health, a few minor heart scares, but they both looked so damn old.

En unos días se celebraría en La Estancita la fiesta de la Candelaria, a la cual las jóvenes pensaban ir, junto con cientos de peregrinos que bajaban de las sierras, que subían desde los llanos, que llegaban de poblaciones vecinas y aun de más lejos a acompañar a Nuestra Señora. Se formarían largas procesiones, en las que los fieles llevarían encendida una candela, orando y cantando para festejar la Purificación de la Madre de Dios. Desde La Antigua, por camino de sierra —sólo a caballo podían hacerlo—, bajarían basta La Granja y después, casi en ángulo recto, seguirían hacia el Sauce y Agua de Oro, tierras de la que había sido la estancia de San Cristóbal, donde harían posada para visitar la capilla de San Vicente, levantada un siglo antes. Y muy temprano al otro día ========== 02 - El Tiempo De Laura Osorio (Cristina Bajo) - Tu nota en la página 764 | posición 11707 | Añadido el martes, 9 de junio de 2015 14:40:31 En Agua de Oro ==========

Recalls The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, the better work of Jim Thompson (The Grifters; After Dark, My Sweet) and Thomas Berger’s tales of small-town souls who succumb to murderous mayhem.

Sierra Madres

Después, durante aquel verano, los trenes de la noche del miércoles, que llegan siempre entre las cinco y media y las seis menos cuarto de la mañana de los jueves, siguieron dejando soldados de vuelta y mu-chas madres de soldados, que sabían que a los hijos los iban licenciando, se ponían desde temprano en los andenes a esperar y esperaban, y después, cuando el tren seguía viaje trepando despacito la cuesta de la sierra baja, quedaban en el andén un montón de mujeres llorando alrededor de unos pocos soldados muertos de sueño. To-das llorando: unas de emoción porque acababan de re-cibir al hijo; otras porque se habían puesto a esperar que de ese tren bajara el hijo que no le había llegado.

Monarch butterfly (with a brain the size of the head of a pin), three thousand miles from eastern North America to the Sierra Madre mountains in Mexico, even though not a single butterfly in the migration has made the trip before.

I started crossing one leg over the other and he reached out with surprising speed and slapped down my foot. “No!” he barked. “Not this!

Inadvertently I started to cross my legs again and he gave my foot another hard whack. “No red meat for two months! It releases a vitamin that gets into your shoulder and makes pain. And stop this with your legs. Don’t make me hit you again.” His eyes were fierce and charismatic and when he locked them onto mine he seemed to see right through me. “You are carrying around many sorrows,” he said.

register with plastic bags full of herbs, roots, twigs and dried flowers, a box of “rattlesnake pills” with a picture of a coiled snake on the front, a packet of “Aztec energy tea,” a packet of Celebrex arthritis pills, and three boxed syringes loaded with a cortisone steroid that had been banned in the United States and presumably dumped on the Mexican market. She wrote out all the instructions and a bill that totaled nearly a hundred American dollars. I handed over the money and said thank you.

Anyone who is willing to work and is serious about it will certainly find a job. Only you must not go to the man who tells you this, for he has no job to offer and doesn’t know anyone who knows of a vacancy. This is exactly the reason why he gives you such generous advice, out of brotherly love, and to demonstrate how little he knows the world. Dobbs

drunken

By the early summer of 1968, many of the hippies in the Sierra Madre Canyon were into Scientology. Either that, or they were into hard drugs. It was a fractured, confusing, disheartening time: in April, Martin Luther King Jr. had been assassinated, followed two months later by Robert Kennedy. Riots had erupted in Watts, and then at the Chicago Democratic Convention. The anti-war protests, bloody and embattled, now seemed futile. Increasingly, many young searchers who’d drifted to the Canyon, particularly those just back from Vietnam, were using heroin. Shady characters followed them, hanging around on the fringes, dealing drugs. The scene in the Canyon became increasingly tense. After one young man was killed in a gunfight near his house, Jeff Hawkins decided it was time to move on.