Venezuela Quotes

The only way we'll get freedom for ourselves is to identify ourselves with every oppressed people in the world. We are blood brothers to the people of Brazil, Venezuela, Haiti, Cuba -- yes Cuba too.

Nobody can claim the name of Pedro, nobody is Rosa or María, all of us are dust or sand, all of us are rain under rain. They have spoken to me of Venezuelas, of Chiles and Paraguays; I have no idea what they are saying. I know only the skin of the earth and I know it has no name.

Doctor Simons? This is Thomson... No, without a ‘P’, as in Venezuela...

We have too much technological progress, life is too hectic, and our society has only one goal: to invent still more technological marvels to make life even easier and better. The craving for every new scientific discovery breeds a hunger for greater comfort and the constant struggle to achieve it. All that kills the soul, kills compassion, understanding, nobility. It leaves no time for caring what happens to other people, least of all criminals. Even the officials in Venezuela's remote areas are better for they're also concerned with public peace. It gives them many headaches, but they seem to believe that bringing about a man's salvation is worth the effort. I find that magnificent.

It was this: the future beginning to hang thick in the air, and Henry starting a quiet, drunk conversation about whether or not Blue would like to travel to Venezuela with him. Blue replying softly that she would, she very much would, and Gansey hearing the longing in her voice like he was being undone, like his own feelings were being unbearably mirrored. I can’t come? Gansey asked. Yes, you can meet us there in a fancy plane, Henry said. Don’t be fooled by his nice hair, Blue interjected, Gansey would hike. And warmth filled the empty caverns in Gansey’s heart. He felt known.

El exilio está ensamblado sobre la base de un mito: el resto del mundo es un lugar mejor.

Out in the field, any connection with home just makes you weaker. It reminds you that you were once civilized, soft; and that can get you killed faster than a bullet through the head.

In Venezuela Chavez has made the co-ops a top political priority, giving them first refusal on government contracts and offering them economic incentives to trade with one another. By 2006, there were roughly 100,000 co-operatives in the country, employing more than 700,000 workers. Many are pieces of state infrastructure – toll booths, highway maintenance, health clinics – handed over to the communities to run. It’s a reverse of the logic of government outsourcing – rather than auctioning off pieces of the state to large corporations and losing democratic control, the people who use the resources are given the power to manage them, creating, at least in theory, both jobs and more responsive public services. Chavez’s many critics have derided these initiatives as handouts and unfair subsidies, of course. Yet in an era when Halliburton treats the U.S. government as its personal ATM for six years, withdraws upward of $20 billion in Iraq contracts alone, refuses to hire local workers either on the Gulf coast or in Iraq, then expresses its gratitude to U.S. taxpayers by moving its corporate headquarters to Dubai (with all the attendant tax and legal benefits), Chavez’s direct subsidies to regular people look significantly less radical.

We know how the people of Argentina ruined their country. We know how the people of Venezuela ruined their country. Few Americans know much about the history of Argentina or Venezuela. But if they wish to know how the people of the USA are ruining their own country, all they have to do is look around themselves, including, in most cases, looking in the mirror.

The problem is, it's just not enough to live according to the rules. Sure, you manage to live according to the rules. Sometimes it's tight, extremely tight, but on the whole you manage it. Your tax papers are up to date. Your bills paid on time. You never go out without your identity card (and the special little wallet for your Visa!). Yet you haven’t any friends. The rules are complex, multiform. There’s the shopping that needs doing out of working hours, the automatic dispensers where money has to be got (and where you so often have to wait). Above all there are the different payments you must make to the organizations that run different aspects of your life. You can fall ill into the bargain, which involves costs, and more formalities. Nevertheless, some free time remains. What’s to be done? How do you use your time? In dedicating yourself to helping people? But basically other people don’t interest you. Listening to records? That used to be a solution, but as the years go by you have to say that music moves you less and less. Taken in its widest sense, a spot of do-it-yourself can be a way out. But the fact is that nothing can halt the ever-increasing recurrence of those moments when your total isolation, the sensation of an all-consuming emptiness, the foreboding that your existence is nearing a painful and definitive end all combine to plunge you into a state of real suffering. And yet you haven’t always wanted to die. You have had a life. There have been moments when you were having a life. Of course you don't remember too much about it; but there are photographs to prove it. This was probably happening round about the time of your adolescence, or just after. How great your appetite for life was, then! Existence seemed so rich in new possibilities. You might become a pop singer, go off to Venezuela. More surprising still, you have had a childhood. Observe, now, a child of seven, playing with his little soldiers on the living room carpet. I want you to observe him closely. Since the divorce he no longer has a father. Only rarely does he see his mother, who occupies an important post in a cosmetics firm. And yet he plays with his little soldiers and the interest he takes in these representations of the world and of war seems very keen. He already lacks a bit of affection, that's for sure, but what an air he has of being interested in the world! You too, you took an interest in the world. That was long ago. I want you to cast your mind back to then. The domain of the rules was no longer enough for you; you were unable to live any longer in the domain of the rules; so you had to enter into the domain of the struggle. I ask you to go back to that precise moment. It was long ago, no? Cast your mind back: the water was cold.

I was looking at Latin America and who was the richest guy in Venezuela? A brewer (the Mendoza family that owns Polar). The richest guy in Colombia? A brewer (the Santo Domingo group, the owner of Bavaria). The richest in Argentina? A brewer (the Bembergs, owners of Quilmes). These guys can’t all be geniuses...It’s the business that must be good.

I think all artists struggle to represent the geometry of life in their own way, just like writers deal with archetypes. There are only so many stories that you can tell, but an infinite number of storytellers.

Me gusta pensar que los recuerdos no mueren con la carne, que todo aquello que hacemos, que todo a lo que atribuimos un valor se queda escrito con tinta indeleble en la memoria del mundo, que los hombres inventaron el concepto de justicia para tener presente la fragilidad del bien, la indolencia del equilibrio y para tratar de corregir los errores de Dios.

TooDamn-Funky: It's a start, ok. Been thinking bout the boyz. 'member last year my bro did that immersion thing in Venezuela? Kciker5525: Where he learned to speak Spanish??? TooDamn-Funky: Yeah! u go for 2 weeks talk nothing but Spanish u come back fluent. Kicker5535: ...???? TooDamn-Funky: Well this is like a guy immersion program! Kicker5525: So...what. I'm going 2 b fluent in GUY? TooDamn-Funky: Exactly! u will c what they talk about alone. U will c how they r with each other. U will c how they THINK!! AND WHEN IT'S DONE YOU'LL BE ABLE TO WRITE A GUY GUIDE BOOK!! Kicker5525: U r deranged.

The problem in Venezuela is not that socialism has been poorly implemented, but that socialism has been faithfully implemented. From the Soviet Union to Cuba to Venezuela, wherever true socialism or communism has been adopted, it has delivered anguish and devastation and failure. Those who preach the tenets of these discredited ideologies only contribute to the continued suffering of the people who live under these cruel systems.

Since the end of the Cold War, most democratic breakdowns have been caused not by generals and soldiers but by elected governments themselves. Like Chávez in Venezuela, elected leaders have subverted democratic institutions in Georgia, Hungary, Nicaragua, Peru, the Philippines, Poland, Russia, Sri Lanka, Turkey, and Ukraine. Democratic backsliding today begins at the ballot box.

But in Venezuela, as in America, it is quite possible for “public servants” to become very rich. In fact, it is hard to name any prominent figure on the Venezuelan left, as on the American left, who hasn’t profited handsomely from their politics. Apparently they all came to do good and stayed to do very well.

In the world outside this glass room, songbirds are feeding and resting in the trees. Some will take off tonight and not land until they reach Venezuela. Sandpipers, plovers, and broad-winged hawks have already left for Patagonia and Panama. Bats are headed for caves in Kentucky and Tennessee. Out in the Atlantic, humpback whales pass by on their way to the Caribbean. Even now, Canada geese are honking toward us from Quebec. It is a good day for the beginnings of journeys. Every time I look at you, I think, Now I cannot die.

In today’s world, you can find a power-mad city bus driver seizing power in Venezuela. A vapid man. A hollow man. A man offering handouts and promises of a better future, neither of which went to any but the few partisans closest to the president. In the blink of an eye, one man shreds every lovely piece of the fabric that held the country together for a hundred years and more. Reducing everyone to penury. Citizens dumbfounded and confounded, not understanding how this happened. The oil derricks that were symbols of prosperity sitting frozen in rust, pumping nothing. Not a wheel in the nation turning. Children, in some places, eating dirt to survive.

Perhaps one reason why people – especially neo-Marxists – are coy about the precise comparisons they are making is that the comparisons they would cite (Venezuela, Cuba, Russia) would reveal the deeper underbelly of their ideology and the true reasons for the negative accounting of the West. But most often the question ‘Compared to what?’ will elicit only the fact that the utopia with which our society is being compared has not yet come about.

...yo no soy partidario de la guerra civil como sistema, pero en el momento presente Venezuela no tiene otra salida sino echar plomo. El civilismo de los estudiantes termino en la cárcel. Los hombres dignos que han osado escribir, protestar, pensar, también están en la cárcel, o en el destierro, o en el cementerio. Se tortura, se roba, se mata, se exprime hasta la última gota de sangre del país. Esto es peor que la guerra civil. Y es también una guerra civil en la cual uno solo pega, mientras el otro, que somos casi todos los venezolanos, recibe los golpes.

Me he refugiado en el saber y así he perdido mi alma. El dios de Livia

Turns out the problem is the picture. The problem isn't the 16,000 murders each year [...]. That's not the problem. The photo is the thing.

I don’t care what Einstein said about God not playing dice; If he exists, he’s addicted to craps.

My father once told me that it’s not enough for a man to be lucky; that a guy has to know when that streak is on for him.

Why, for example, is it still acceptable to profess the philosophy of a Communist or, if not that, to at least admire the work of Marx? Why is it still acceptable to regard the Marxist doctrine as essentially accurate in its diagnosis of the hypothetical evils of the free-market, democratic West; to still consider that doctrine “progressive,” and fit for the compassionate and proper thinking person? Twenty-five million dead through internal repression in the Soviet Union. Sixty million dead in Mao’s China. The horrors of Cambodia’s Killing Fields, with their two million corpses. The barely animate body politic of Cuba, where people struggle even now to feed themselves. Venezuela, where it has now been made illegal to attribute a child’s death in hospital to starvation. No political experiment has ever been tried so widely, with so many disparate people, in so many different countries and failed so absolutely and so catastrophically. Is it mere ignorance that allows today’s Marxists to flaunt their continued allegiance – to present it as compassion and care? Or is it instead, envy of the successful, in near-infinite proportions? Or something akin to hatred for mankind itself? How much proof do we need?

There is a kind of alchemy in the transformation of base chocolate into this wise fool's-gold, a layman's magic that even my mother might have relished. As I work, I clear my mind, breathing deeply. The windows are open, and the through-draft would be cold if it were not for the heat of the stoves, the copper pans, the rising vapor from the melting couverture. The mingled scents of chocolate, vanilla, heated copper, and cinnamon are intoxicating, powerfully suggestive; the raw and earthy tang of the Americas, the hot and resinous perfume of the rain forest. This is how I travel now, as the Aztecs did in their sacred rituals: Mexico, Venezuela, Columbia. The court of Montezuma. Cortez and Columbus. The Food of the Gods, bubbling and frothing in ceremonial goblets. The bitter elixir of life.

I can see why people find him [Hugo Chávez] charming. He's very ebullient, as they say. I've heard him make a speech, though, and he has a vice that's always very well worth noticing because it's always a bad sign: he doesn't know when to sit down. He's worse than Castro was. He won't shut up. Then he told me that he didn't think the United States landed on the moon and didn't believe in the existence of Osama bin Laden. He thought all of this was all a put-up job. He's a wacko.

Y todo en ese país comenzó a llamarse Bolívar o a llevar nombres de militares decimonónicos: las orquestas sinfónicas, los programas educativos, los parques, las autopistas, las avenidas. Pensé en ese instante que Venezuela había inventado la máquina del tiempo. Su siglo XXI recordaba al XIX, pero con mucho olor a gasolina.

También se escribe historia con la utopía de mejorar los tiempos y librarse, a la vez, de muchos materiales y formas muertas que arrastra el pasado.

Det er ingen herlighet til som suset i skogen, det er som å gynge, det er som galskap; Uganda, Tananarivo, Honolulu, Atacama, Venezuela -

Le dije que en la historia de Venezuela no había una Carta Magna sino una larga sucesión de contratos de adhesión escritos por los caudillos de turno

no por ese antiyanquismo resentido que tanto se ha cultivado en Venezuela y nos ha hecho más daño que el paludismo

Rubio's sudden concern for the humanitarian situation in Venezuela smacks of hypocrisy, as he supported all US sanctions that have made life for Venezuelans miserable.

y en Venezuela los expresidentes no tienen vocación de jarrones chinos, sino que se convierten en una especie de candidatos eternos a una nueva Presidencia, una perturbación permanente

Muchos medios del continente han hecho un gran esfuerzo por convertir a los contradictores de Estados Unidos en los grandes equivocados. Lo han intentado con Cuba y más recientemente con Venezuela, hasta el punto de que sus elecciones victoriosas son elecciones siempre sospechosas. No importa que en Colombia compren votos o arreen electorados bajo promesas o amenazas: esta democracia nunca está bajo sospecha. No importa que los paramilitares produzcan en diez años doscientos mil muertos en masacres bajo todas las formas de atrocidad: la democracia colombiana sigue siendo ejemplar, porque los poderes de la plutocracia siguen al mando. Pero si alguien es enemigo, no de los Estados Unidos sino de los abusos del imperialismo, eso lo hace reo de indignidad.

Por eso la cuestión primordial, la primera y la básica de todas las cuestiones venezolanas, la que está en la raiz de todas las otras, y la que ha de ser resuelta antes si las otras han de ser resueltas algún día, es la de ir construyendo una nación a salvo de la muerte petrolera. Una nación que haya resuelto victoriosamente su crisis petrolera que es su verdadera crisis nacional

Conservatives point out the shortages, food lines, and outright famines in Venezuela, Stalin’s Russia, and Mao’s China, while American socialists stubbornly cling to the only “socialist” model left that has any claim to success—Scandinavia. Unfortunately for them, the so-called socialist success of Scandinavia is, in fact, due to good old-fashioned private property and capitalism!

En Venezuela no solo mueren los sueños, y las esperanzas a diario, también muere la justicia, la verdad, y por supuesto “los venezolanos”. Aquí muere todo, pero al parecer sobrevive la patria.

The past is like a tapeworm, constantly growing, which I carry curled up inside me, and it never loses its rings no matter how hard I try to empty my guts in every WC, English-style or Turkish, or in the slop jars of prison or the bedpans of hospitals or the latrines of camps, or simply in the bushes, taking a good look first to make sure no snake will pop out, like that time in Venezuela.

I have three copies of the first edition, which sold in double figures, speaking loosely; there was a moment when Blond's 'Lord Malquist and Mr Moon' sold 67 copies, or some such number, in Venezuela - a mystery I never solved. I have never been to Venezuela. I remember going into Foyles' bookshop in 1966 and being gratified to see a stack of Malquist-and-Moons on the New Fiction table. I counted them; there were twelve. A week or two later I went in again; there they were. I counted them again; there were thirteen! I saw at once what was happening. People were leaving my book at bookshops.

Me fui de Venezuela con la convicción de que hacía lo correcto. Tardé mucho tiempo en darme cuenta de que Caracas, como un cáncer inoperable, estaba enredada en lo más profundo de mi memopria. Mi Caracas, lo sé, es una geografía fragmentaria, incompleta, tendenciosa. Mi centro se ubica al final de la avenida Teresa de la Parra, no tiene plaza ni parlamento. Me costó entender que la tragedia del exilio la escriben las cosas invisibles, los pequeños detalles que pasan desapercibidos. No todo el mundo se da cuenta de que lo que duele, lo que se echa de menos, es la belleza espontánea de lo insignificante.

Descendants of de Clieu's original plant were also proliferating in the region, in Haiti, Cuba, Costa Rica, and Venezuela. Ultimately, Brazil became the world's dominant coffee supplier, leaving Arabia far behind.

―La democracia es una broma. ―Sí. Muy incisivo ―dijo Jackson, satisfecho―. Una buena tesis también. En teoría es posible que el cincuenta y uno por ciento de la población desplume todo lo que puede al otro cuarenta y nueve por ciento. Ese tipo de Venezuela, ¿cómo se llama? Howard Chávez, algo así. Así hace él las cosas. En serio, él sólo envía cheques a los marginados. Les das a los gorrones dinero ajeno y después te votan.

I prefer the delicate flavor profile in Criollo or Porcelana." She loved the Venezuela chocolate, which her mother had favored, too. It blended well with violet and bergamot, equally smooth flavors that created the lightest of delicacies.

Westerners do not know what is going on in Venezuela because westerners simply refuse to know what is going on in Venezuela and prefer to believe in a parallel reality. Yes, believe, that's the word, 'to believe', as the opposite of 'to know'.

Venezuela, a state that is a calamity for Venezuelans and a friend of the most shunned regimes (Pakistan, of course, along with North Korea, Iran, Russia, and others just as odious), while also being the architect of the farcical “Bolivarian alliance.

Il ne s'agit pas de sacrifier pour sauver un seul homme. D'un océan à l'autre, de Guayaquil à Caracas, de Panama à Cuzco, tout le Venezuela attend de Bolivar sa libération! Tout un monde qui souffre sous la domination la plus cruelle, la plus féroce, la plus abjecte

Some version of this story has repeated itself throughout the world over the last century. A cast of political outsiders, including Adolf Hitler, Getulio Vargas in Brazil, Alberto Fujimori in Peru, and Hugo Chavez in Venezuela, came to power on the same path: from the inside, via elections or alliances with powerful political figures. In each instance, elites believed the invitation to power would contain the outsider, leading to a restoration of control by mainstream politicians. But their plans backfired. A lethal mix of ambition, fear, and miscalculation conspired to lead them to the same fateful mistake: willingly handing over the keys of power to an autocrat-in-the-making. … If a charismatic outsider emerges on the scene, gaining popularity as he challenges the old order, it is tempting for establishment politicians who feel their control is unraveling to try to co-opt him. … And then, establishment politicians hope, the insurgent can be redirected to support their own program. This sort of devil’s bargain often mutates to the benefit of the insurgent …

while the guilty discharge of carbon dioxide from twenty return flights and snowmobile rides and sixty hot meals a day served in polar conditions would be offset by planting three thousand trees in Venezuela as soon as a site could be identified and local officials bribed.

En una de las colinas, viendo a Roma a sus pies, don Simón Rodríguez le soltó una de sus profecías altisonantes sobre el destino de las Américas. Él lo vio más claro. "Lo que hay que hacer con esos chapetones de porra es sacarlos a patadas de Venezuela" dijo. "Y le juro que lo voy a hacer.

For you cannot live in New York City very long and not be conscious of the niceties of being rich—the city is, after all, an ecstatic exercise in merchandising—and one evening of his visit to Venezuela Sutherland sat straight up when he read a line of Santayana’s: “Money is the petrol of life.

The truth is, I don’t know what will happen across the entire world in the coming decades, and neither does anyone else. Not everyone, though, shares my reticence. A Web search for the text string “the coming war” returns two million hits, with completions like “with Islam,” “with Iran,” “with China,” “with Russia,” “in Pakistan,” “between Iran and Israel,” “between India and Pakistan,” “against Saudi Arabia,” “on Venezuela,” “in America,” “within the West,” “for Earth’s resources,” “over climate,” “for water,” and “with Japan” (the last dating from 1991, which you would think would make everyone a bit more humble about this kind of thing). Books with titles like The Clash of Civilizations, World on Fire, World War IV, and (my favorite) We Are Doomed boast a similar confidence. Who knows? Maybe they’re right. My aim in the rest of this chapter is to point out that maybe they’re wrong.

Lo que está planteado en Venezuela no es meramente un cambio de gobierno y de rumbo, que se necesita, sino un examen a fondo del concepto mismo del contenido, los objetivos, los medios y el rumbo necesarios para lograr la realización más completa de la Venezuela posible. Esa Venezuela no puede ser otra que la suma de todas las posibilidades reales que sus recursos humanos y naturales y sus circunstancias geográficas e históricas le permitirían alcanzar a este país en un plazo razonable, si fuera capaz de hacer la revisión y la enmienda a fondo de los errores viejos y nuevos que han llevado al país a su presente estado.

Mi sembra di arrancare nell'oscurità,” disse Zach, l'aria abbattuta. “Non so dove andare, non so cosa fare. In Venezuela mi sono arreso, Taff. Niente cambiava mai, là, a eccezione delle stronzate che Esteban architettava giorno dopo giorno. Però era familiare, come se quello fosse tutto ciò che avrei mai conosciuto – tutto ciò che avrei mai potuto conoscere. Non osavo pensare al futuro, a cosa sarebbe accaduto dopo il momento presente. Ma qui – ora – ho ogni sorta di scelta, ogni possibilità aperta. E mi sembra di non essere adeguato per nessuna.” “Saresti capace di qualsiasi di quelle possibilità,” disse David con fierezza

The perpetually indignant elites inhabited a self-contained echo chamber of boardrooms, golf clubs, dinner parties and private media. They thought they were Venezuela. They could not see how their hysterics repelled and radicalised less-privileged compatriots. Thus they kept lunging and, in election after election, would keep losing.

In the anti-Communist atmosphere of the Cold War, U.S. support of right-wing military dictatorships -Anastasio Somoza in Nicaragua, Rafael Trujillo in the Dominican Republic, Manuel Odria in Peru, and Marcos Pérez Jiménez in Venezuela - at the expense of outspoken nationalists or left-wing regimes, was rationalized in the name of national security.

Ando como el que va por su destino oyendo un clima oscuro de relojes, de manos, de preguntas, de papeles, de ensangrentados cuervos y cordeles.

El poder es un dulce que no empalaga a quien lo ostenta, pero se derrite al calor o se descompone con el tiempo.

Caracas era todavía una población remota de la provincia colonial; fea, triste, chata, pero las tardes del Ávila era desgarradoras en la nostalgia.

No es justo que la historia se escriba con la sangre de uno o con la sangre de los demás.

Somos y seremos consecuencia de lo que hacemos o dejamos de hacer.

As a result, our big “attic” room was a Hispanic gathering place. Afternoons, it was crowded with boys from Venezuela and Cuba, jabbering away in Spanish, the world’s fastest language, seeming to all talk at once. It was like living in a cage full of parrots whose crackers had been laced with crystal meth. I found it agreeably colorful. For whatever reason, Brugál had not

Helmar took his time replying. Finally he said, “I’ll reserve my answer to that.” “I doubt if aging will help it,” Wolfe said dryly. “Now that you know that Miss Eads had not gone to Venezuela, and I assure you she had no intention of going, how do you explain her backing out from her appointment with you, her departure, her asking you not to try to find her?” “I don’t have to explain it.

It is not bad that the main beneficiaries of freedom criticize open societies, where there is much that can be criticized. It is bad if they do so by taking the side of those who seek to destroy these open societies, replacing them with authoritarian regimes, as in Venezuela or Cuba. When many artists and intellectuals betray democratic ideals, they are not betraying abstract principles, but rather the thousands and millions of flesh-and-blood people who, under dictatorships, resist and fight to gain freedom. But the saddest thing is that this betrayal of the victims does not come from principles and convictions but rather from professional opportunism and posturing, gestures and actions adapted to circumstance. Many artists and intellectuals in our times have become very cheap.

FILIPO: Cuéntanos cómo llegaste a Las Lomas. ALVARO: Llegué por este mismo sitio donde me estás entrevistando: la Universidad Central de Venezuela. La universidad era el centro del movimiento hippie. Nos reuníamos todos los días justo detrás de ti. Ahí mismo, en Tierra de Nadie, que es ese jardín de atrás, un espacio que no pertenece a ninguna facultad y, como es difícil de vigilar, es un jardín de libertades.

My civil rights will not be trampled, and I say this not for me but for my children, and all those who yearn to breathe free. Those who make your Apple products at Foxxcon, those who languish in prisons in Cuba, North Korea and Venezuela. Those homosexuals who are stoned to death in the streets of Egypt or Iran, while our so-called civil rights leaders hold coffee klatches with third graders in the White House.

During the years he spent in Venezuela he thought he had once and for all overcome the solemnity that had been an essential part of his nature from childhood, as though he was in mourning for all the world's suffering, violence and evil. Faced with so many disasters, happiness seemed to him obscene. In love with Roser in the green, warm country of Venezuela, he had vanquished the temptation to cloak himself in sadness.

Paradójicamente, por ser nosotros hijos de la contradicción, resulta que Miraflores es lo que nos corresponde, es la sede perfecta para poderosos ignorantes y confundidos que nunca han distinguido entre mandar y gobernar

No place on Earth has constant lightning, but there’s an area in Venezuela that comes close. Near the southwestern edge of Lake Maracaibo, there’s a strange phenomenon: perpetual nighttime thunderstorms. There are two spots, one over the lake and one over land to the west, where thunderstorms form almost every night. These storms can generate a flash of lightning every two seconds, making Lake Maracaibo the lightning capital of the world.

The coup that overthrew President Chavez of Venezuela in April 2002 was greeted with euphoria in Washington. The new president—a businessman—was instantly recognized and the hope expressed that stability and order would return to the country, thus creating the basis for solid future development. The New York Times editorialized in identical language. ... The coup was reversed three days later and Chavez then came back to power. The State Department soberly denied any prior knowledge about anything, saying it was all an internal matter. It was to be hoped that a peaceful, democratic, and constitutional solution to the difficulties would be arrived at, they said. The New York Times editorial followed suit, merely adding that perhaps it was not a good idea to embrace the overthrow of a democratically elected regime, however obnoxious, too readily if one of America's fundamental values was support for democracy.

La máxima prioridad para muchos es simplemente acabar con la situación existente. No solo lo quieren los radicales, que sí desean en España un régimen similar al de Venezuela o una república bajo un gobierno populista para dinamitar todo el proceso de la Unión Europea. También lo desean quienes tienen la insensata certeza de que los condicionamientos externos no permitirán que aquí se consume una catástrofe venezolana, ni una liquidación de la democracia y la libertades.

Si fuera un dios griego los condenaría a pasar el resto de sus vidas en una sala de reuniones con una vista hermosa, resolviendo un problema urgentísimo que se complica eternamente a punta de detalles insignificantes, fáciles de resolver.

Los zamuros planean sobre la autopista en un círculo ritual. Imagino que observan a un perro moribundo con su paciencia de zamuros. A veces pienso que siempre estuvieron allí, mucho antes de la invasión, y que no nos habíamos dado cuenta.

And yet you haven’t always wanted to die. You have had a life. There have been moments when you were having a life. Of course you don't remember too much about it; but there are photographs to prove it. This was probably happening round about the time of your adolescence, or just after. How great your appetite for life was, then! Existence seemed so rich in new possibilities. You might become a pop singer, go off to Venezuela. More surprising still, you have had a childhood. Observe, now, a child of seven, playing with his little soldiers on the living room carpet. I want you to observe him closely. Since the divorce he no longer has a father. Only rarely does he see his mother, who occupies an important post in a cosmetics firm. And yet he plays with his little soldiers and the interest he takes in these representations of the world and of war seems very keen. He already lacks a bit of affection, that's for sure, but what an air he has of being interested in the world!

Aclaro que tu corazón tiene en sus venas lo más cercano a mi espuma por eso acepto bañarte tantas veces vengas y a limpiarte los oídos con el algodón de estas palabras. (...) En todo caso sos un ángel y estas son mis dos heridas: el inicio de tus alas.

Pareciera ser que muchos chilenos no queremos para nosotros lo que admiramos del resto del mundo. ¿No es extraño acaso que la mayoría de los que, por las razones que sea, se ven obligados a vivir en otros países, nunca optan por Cuba o Venezuela y sin embargo en sus discursos siempre ponen a esos países como ejemplos de lo que debería ser la sociedad chilena? Es extraño, pero me queda la sensación al escuchar a estos personajes, de que muchos quieren para su país lo que no quieren para ellos mismos.

No cuesta imaginar a esta porteña diplomática de veinticinco años, enfundada en su inmenso abrigo de piel, caminando por las veredas del parque Gorki, a orillas de sus lagos, del canal del río y por los empinados senderos. No cuesta imaginar el orgullo que sintió y la emoción de lo familiar ante tanta extrañeza, la primera vez que escuchó el Himno Nacional de Venezuela en un acto público (le fascinaba contarlo), así como el agotamiento y malestar que padeció durante los nueve meses que estuvo en Moscú.

During the years he spent in Venezuela he thought he had once and for all overcome the solemnity that had been an essential part of his nature from childhood, as though he was in mourning for all the world's suffering, violence, and evil. Faced with so many disasters, happiness seemed to him obscene. In love with Roser in the green, warm country of Venezuela, he had vanquished the temptation to cloak himself in sadness As she would often tell him, this was less a mantle of dignity, more a contempt for life.

La parte que más me gusta es el piedemonte andino, entre Barinas y Trujillo. A la derecha las montañas desproporcionadas, accidentadas; a la izquierda el llano horizontal y verde claro. Los ríos son operáticos en época de lluvia, tanto que da miedo cruzar los puentes.

Nuestros autócratas, de 1830 en adelante, han sido cortados por la misma tijera, no se puede disentir de ellos, ni advertirlos, ni aconsejarlos. si alguien se atreve a hacerlo, aunque hayan seguido su sugerencia y les sea de provecho, tarde o temprano le cobran el atrevimiento

The world currently has two reasonably disturbing and disturbingly reasonable examples as to what this unraveling might look like: Zimbabwe and Venezuela. In both cases mismanagement par excellence destroyed the ability of both countries to produce their for-export goods—foodstuffs in the case of Zimbabwe, oil and oil products in the case of Venezuela—resulting in funds shortages so extreme, the ability of the countries to import largely collapsed. In Zimbabwe, the end result was more than a decade of negative economic growth, generating outcomes far worse than those of the Great Depression, with the bulk of the population reduced to subsistence farming. Venezuela wasn’t so . . . fortunate. It imported more than two-thirds of its foodstuffs before its economic collapse. Venezuelan oil production dropped so much, the country even lacks sufficient fuel to sow crops, contributing to the worst famine in the history of the Western Hemisphere. I don’t use these examples lightly. The word you are looking for to describe this outcome isn’t “deglobalize” or even “deindustrialize,” but instead “decivilize.

The media and intelligentsia were partly complicit in Trump's depiction of the world as a dystopia headed for even greater disaster. 'Charge the cockpit or you die!' cried the pro-Trump intellectual right. 'I'd rather see the empire burn to the ground under Trump, opening up at least the possibility of radical change, than cruise on autopilot under Clinton,' said the pro-Trump left. When people believe that the world is heading off a cliff, they are receptive to the perennial appeal of demagogues: 'What do you have to lose?' But if the media and intellectuals put events into statistical and historical context, rather than constantly crying 'crisis,' they would make it clearer what the answer to that question is. Revolutionary regimes from Nazi Germany and Maoist China to contemporary Venezuela show that people have a tremendous amount to lose when a charismatic leader forces a radical personal vision on a society. A modern liberal democracy is a precious achievement. Until the messiah comes, it will always have problems, but it's better to solve problems than to start a conflagration and hope for the best.

Mi querida prima de ojos azules: Hoy amanecí loca, y como todas las personas fastidiosas y tontas, he decidido obsequiarte con mi locura y mis disparates; yo sé que será una lata horrible, pero ya no se puede remediar nada porque ya empecé la carta y te la pienso mandar. Ante todo, siento ganas de hablar contigo sobre versos y poemas, pero no aquí, en la ciudad llena de bullicio, entre las calles plenas de algarabía, sino allá, en Los Teques, en el pueblo dulce y bueno con su iglesia blanca y tibia, con su plaza festiva. ¿Cómo estás? ¿Cómo tienes el pelo? ¿Muy rubio? ¿El pelo de oro y diamantes como el de las princesas encantadas y las ninfas del día? Di que lo tienes rubio porque el sol te regaló uno de sus más claros destellos y los crisantemos decidieron perfumártelo y engalanártelo con el mejor de sus perfumes. ¿Te fijas? ¡No puedo hablar sin salir a buscar frases tontas y barbaridades! Reciban besos y abrasos de la poetisa: Ida y Vuelta

Menos se explicaba cómo, después de haber tenido a esa especie de monarca, los venezolanos no contábamos aún con un mecanismo institucionalizado para designar a los presidentes. No concebía que la sociedad venezolana entrara en crisis y se pusiera al borde de una guerra civil cada vez que había que escoger al jefe del Estado

I recently had dinner with George. We did not eat fish. Instead we ate at a wonderful Vietnamese restaurant. I had lemon-grass chicken with chile, and George had stir-fried vegetables. Both meals were excellent, and both consisted of foods originating far from Spokane. Although we didn’t ask the cook where the chicken and other foodstuffs came from, it isn’t difficult to construct an entirely plausible scenario. Here it is: the chicken was raised on a factory farm in Arkansas. The factory is owned by Tyson Foods, which supplies one-quarter of this nation’s chickens and sends them as far away as Japan, The chicken was fed corn from Nebraska and grain from Kansas. One of seventeen million chickens processed by Tyson that week, this bird was frozen and put onto a truck made by PACCAR. The truck was made from plastics manufactured in Texas, steel milled in Japan from ore mined in Australia and chromium from South Africa, and aluminum processed in the United States from bauxite mined in Jamaica. The parts were assembled in Mexico. As this truck, with its cargo of frozen chickens, made its way toward Spokane, it burned fuel refined in Texas, Oklahoma, California, and Washington from oil originating beneath Saudi Arabia, Venezuela, Mexico, Texas, and Alaska. All this, and I have chickens outside my door.

In the 1980s and 1990s, Venezuela’s Petróleos de Venezuela S.A. (widely known by its acronym, PDVSA), was one of the world’s most politically independent and well-managed national oil companies. In the early 2000s, President Hugo Chávez stripped PDVSA of its independent authority and replaced its top officials with loyal followers. He then placed PDVSA in charge of administering a new set of social programs, closely tied to his political machine. By 2004, two-thirds of PDVSA’s budget went to social programs, not petroleum-related activities. As its social programs grew, PDVSA’s transparency fell. After 2003, its financial disclosures dropped sharply, and independent observers found its activities increasingly difficult to monitor.73

La división y el resentimiento se extendieron tanto como la pobreza y la inseguridad. Prácticamente en toda familia, la política revolucionaria había causado estragos: hermanos enfrentados por posiciones políticas insalvables, matrimonios deshechos, hijos que se alejaron de sus padres, la muerte misma parecía haber pactado con todas aquellas miserias del ser humano que esa nueva clase política encarnaba.

Entonces acababa de cumplir 20 años, era viudo reciente y rico, estaba deslumbrado por la coronación de Napoleón Bonaparte, se había hecho masón, recitaba de memoria en voz alta sus páginas favoritas de Emilio y La Nueva Eloísa, de Rousseau, que habían sido sus libros de cabecera durante mucho tiempo, y había viajado a pie, de la mano de su maestro y con su morral a la espalda, a través de casi toda Europa.

Shortly afterwards Addis Ababa launched a crackdown on its opponents that resulted in hundreds of deaths. If America’s president was in two minds about democracy, how was the rest of the world supposed to feel? It was on Obama’s watch that the tally of global democracies fell most sharply. The world now has twenty-five fewer democracies than it did at the turn of the century. In addition to Russia and Venezuela, Turkey, Thailand, Botswana and now Hungary are deemed to have crossed the threshold. According to Freedom House, more countries have restricted than expanded freedom every year since 2008.5 ‘There is not a single country on the African continent where democracy is firmly consolidated and secure,’ says Larry Diamond, one of the leading scholars of democracy.6 What we do not yet know is whether the world’s democratic recession will turn into a global depression.

En el aspecto social, la inclusión es el principio básico. Nuestro lema son los pobres primero y para los pobres los mejores instrumentos, los mejores maestros, las mejores infraestructuras. La cultura para los pobres no puede ser una pobre cultura. Debe ser grande, ambiciosa, refinada, avanzada, nada de sobras. Además, ellos multiplican su efecto, porque son enormemente agradecidos ante el esfuerzo. No es práctico incorporar a su vida esa faceta como si fuera un florero.

Hasta el frío y la época de lluvias habían cambiado en Agua Grande a finales del siglo XX. El frondoso pulmón vegetal que adorna el valle que es la capital, dominado por palmeras y ceibas, respiraba desconcertado intentando seguir el paso a los desarreglos que desdibujaron en el calendario el lugar del frío decembrino y las lluvias de mayo a septiembre. La anarquía se instaló en el ambiente, como presagiando la turbulencia que indefectiblemente habría de tocar a todos sus habitantes.

The only connection between Chile and the history of electricity comes from the fact that the Atacama Desert is full of copper atoms, which, just like most Chileans, were utterly unaware of the electric dreams that powered the passion of Faraday and Tesla. As the inventions that made these atoms valuable were created, Chile retained the right to hold many of these atoms hostage. Now Chile can make a living out of them. This brings us back to the narrative of exploitation we described earlier. The idea of crystallized imagination should make it clear that Chile is the one exploiting the imagination of Faraday, Tesla, and others, since it was the inventors’ imagination that endowed copper atoms with economic value. But Chile is not the only country that exploits foreign creativity this way. Oil producers like Venezuela and Russia exploit the imagination of Henry Ford, Rudolf Diesel, Gottlieb Daimler, Nicolas Carnot, James Watt, and James Joule by being involved in the commerce of a dark gelatinous goo that was virtually useless until combustion engines were invented.10

The dessert was tartufo, a dark chocolate gelato dusted with cocoa. Eighty-five percent of the world's chocolate is made from the common or garden-variety Forastero cocoa bean. About 10 percent is made from the finer, more subtle Trinitario bean. And less than 5 percent is made from the rare, aromatic Criollo bean, which is found only in the remotest regions of Colombia and Venezuela. These beans are so sought after that, pound for pound, they can command prices many times higher than the other local crop, cocaine. Having been fermented, shipped, lightly roasted and finally milled to a thickness of about fifteen microns, the beans are finally cooked into tablets, even a tiny crumb of which, placed on the tongue, explodes with flavor as it melts. A tartufo is a chocolate gelato shaped to look like a truffle, but it is an appropriate name for other reasons, too. Made from egg yolk, sugar, a little milk, and plenty of the finest Criollo chocolate, with a buried kick of chile, Bruno's tartufo was as richly sensual and overpowering as the fungus from which it took its name---and even more aphrodisiac.

El venezolano es locuaz, niega lo trascendente con su actitud de bromista crónico, jamás se compromete realmente y por eso es ondulante y disimulador de sus convicciones más profundas. Nadie sabe lo que realmente piensa, pues trata siempre de estar bien con Dios y con el diablo. Bajo una pretendida efusividad se esconde la envidia y la desvalorización hacia quienes se destacan. Tras una aparente solidaridad se transparente la indolencia, el egocentrismo y la deslealtad. Y esa extraña afición que despierta una agresividad feroz y una violencia destructiva.

The most important thing that is happening in the world right now is the emerging of the new man. Since the monkeys, man has remained the same, but a great revolution is on it's way. When monkeys became man, it created the mind. With the new man, a great revolution will bring the soul in. Man will not just be a mind, a psychological being, he will be a spiritual being. This new consciousness, this new being, is the most important thing, which is happening in the world today. But the old man will be against the emerging of the new man, the old man will be against this new consciousness. The new man is a matter of life and death, it is a question of the survival of the whole earth. It is matter of survival of consciousness, of survival of life itself. The old man has become utterly destructive. The old man is preparing for a global suicide right now. Rather than allowing the new man, the old man would rather destroy the whole earth, destroying life itself. The old destructive man is preparing right now for a third world war. The global economical and political elite and the war industrial complex in the U.S, which runs the foreign policy of the U.S, is right now promoting for a third world war. The U.S. has over thrown the democratically elected government in Ukraine in an secret operation by the CIA, the world's largest terrorist organization, and replaced it with a fascistic regime, a marionette for the U.S. The war industrial complex is now desperately trying to promote the third war by demonizing, lying and blaming Russia. We see the same aggression and lies from the U.S. that we have seen before against Iraq, Afghanistan, Libya, Syria, Venezuela and Iran. President Eisenhower warned against the war industrial complex, which he considered the largest threat to democracy. President John F. Kennedy also warned against a "secret conspiracy" against democracy. The war industrial complex consists of the international banks, oil companies, war industry, democratically elected politicians, conservative think tanks, international mainstream media and global companies, who make profits from human suffering and wars. The European governments and the mainstream media also cooperate with the war industrial complex to bring the world into disaster. But this time it will not work as the time for wars is over, and peace loving people and people who represent the new man are working against this kind of aggression.

Cuando un elector inglés desea un cambio en la política del gobierno conservador de turno, no tiene más que votar por el candidato laborista. Las diferencias entre un gobierno laborista y uno conservador no son sólo de personalidades sino de contenido, de objetivos, de programas y de filosofía política. El caso es semejante en Estados Unidos, en Francia, en España o en cualquier otra sociedad democrática. En Venezuela, en estos años, la oposición no ha ofrecido nunca una posibilidad semejante de alternativa verdadera. La diferencia entre un gobierno «adeco» y uno «copeyano», que es lo que hemos conocido hasta hoy, no pasa de matices, de rasgos de personalidad, de estilo de gobernar, de aspectos de moral pública, pero en lo esencial de los fines de la acción gubernamental, la concepción de la función del Estado, el concepto de desarrollo de la sociedad civil, es fundamentalmente el mismo. Esta situación de indefinición y de coincidencia entre las opciones partidistas de poder ha hecho mucho daño a la democracia en Venezuela y plantea hoy, con más exigencia que nunca antes, la necesidad de una más clara definición y alternativa programáticas entre los partidos y de una más inteligente y clara opción para los electores.

In 1934, strongman Fulgencio Batista forced President Grau’s resignation. Then in 1940, Grau lost his bid for the Presidency to his adversary Batista. Four years later in 1944, he did win the election and took office for a four-year term starting on October 10th. After Grau won the election and was the President elect, Batista still in office, blatantly attacked the National Treasury, leaving the cupboards bare by the time Grau was actually sworn in as President. Since Grau and Batista were staunch adversaries, it is highly unlikely that any deal could have been made in 1946 to allow “Lucky” Luciano into Cuba, especially with Luciano having been exiled to Sicily by the United States government that preceding February. Still, Lansky had enough political pull within the Cuban government to prepare for a strong Mafia presence in Havana. In October of 1946, in an attempt to keep his whereabouts a secret, “Lucky” Luciano covertly boarded a freighter taking him from Naples, Italy, to Caracas, Venezuela. Then Luciano flew south to Rio de Janeiro and returned north to Mexico City. On October 29, 1946, he arranged for a private flight from Mexico City to Camagüey, Cuba, where Meyer Lansky met him. Having the right connections, Luciano passed through Cuban customs unimpeded and was whisked by car to the splendid Grand Hotel. Luciano, having just arrived in Cuba, was looking forward to setting up operations. Cuba would actually be a better place than the United States for what he had in mind.

La historiografía venezolana ha sufrido, desde los días mismos de la independencia, de una serie de procesos sucesivos de deformación, interpretación interesada y falta de objetividad que nos han llevado a no poder comprender con aceptable veracidad lo que realmente ha ocurrido en nuestro país, qué sentido ha tenido su proceso histórico, qué lo ha caracterizado y qué ha habido finalmente de acierto y desacierto en él, desde un punto de vista menos restringido y matizado de opiniones individuales en el que hemos tenido hasta ahora. Literalmente ha sido una historia de negaciones y deformaciones. Sin excluir la etapa de la lucha por la independencia, no existe prácticamente ningún tiempo ni ninguna personalidad importante que haya podido ser apreciada y medida en su verdadera significación. Todas las etapas y los personajes han sufrido este proceso de erosión continua, que procede de la actitud retaliativa con que las facciones triunfantes han considerado las figuras de los periodos inmediatamente anteriores. Casi siempre han sido los «enemigos», en actitud vengativa, quienes han juzgado las etapas históricas que los han precedido y esta característica no se ha detenido nunca hasta nuestros días, con los más graves daños para el valor formativo que debe tener la historia en la conciencia nacional.

«Divorciarme, eso es lo que debo hacer», mascullaba para mis adentros, pero debo haberlo dicho más de una vez en voz alta, porque Willie paró la oreja ante la palabra divorcio. Había pasado por dos anteriores y estaba decidido a evitar untercero; entonces me presionó para que consultáramos a un psicólogo. Yo me había burlado sin piedad del terapeuta de Tabra, un alcohólico despelucado que le aconsejaba las mismas perogrulladas que yo podía ofrecerle gratis. En mi opinión, la terapia era una manía de los estadounidenses, gente muy consentida y sin tolerancia para las dificultades normales de la existencia. Mi abuelo me inculcó en la infancia la noción estoica de que la vida es dura y ante los problemas no cabe sino apretar los dientes y seguir adelante. La felicidad es una cursilería; al mundo se viene a sufrir y aprender. Menos mal que el hedonismo de Venezuela suavizó unpoco aquellos preceptos medievales de mi abuelo y me dio permiso para pasarlo bien sin culpa. En Chile, en tiempos de mi juventud, nadie iba a terapia, excepto los locos de atar y los turistas argentinos, así es que me resistí bastante a la propuesta de Willie, pero él insistió tanto que por fin lo acompañé. Mejor dicho, él me llevó de un ala. El psicólogo resultó tener aspecto de monje, llevaba el cráneo afeitado, bebía téverde y permanecía la mayor parte de la sesión con los ojos cerrados. En el condado de Marin se ve a cualquier hora hombres en bicicleta, trotando enpantalones cortos o saboreando su capuchino en mesitas de las veredas. «¿Esta gente no trabaja?», le pregunté una vez a Willie. «Son todos terapeutas», me contestó. Tal vez por eso sentí un gran escepticismo frente al calvo, pero pronto éste se reveló como un sabio. Su oficina era un cuarto desnudo pintado de color arveja, decorado con una tela -mandala, creo que se llama- colgada en la pared. Nos sentamos con las piernas cruzadassobre unos cojines en el suelo, mientras el monje sorbía como un pajarito su té japonés. Empezamos a hablar y pronto se desencadenó una avalancha. Willie y yo nos arrebatábamos la palabra para contarle lo que había pasado contigo, la existencia de espanto que llevaba Jennifer, la fragilidad de Sabrina, mil otros problemas, y mi deseo de mandar todo al diablo y desaparecer. El hombre nos escuchó sin interrumpir y cuando faltaban pocos minutos para que terminara la sesión, levantó sus párpados capotudos y nos miró con una expresión de genuina lástima.«¡Qué tristeza hay en sus vidas!», murmuró. ¿Tristeza? Eso no se nos habíaocurrido a ninguno de los dos. Se nos desinfló la rabia en un instante y sentimos hasta los huesos una pena vasta como el Pacífico, que no habíamos querido admitir por pura y simple soberbia. Willie me tomó la mano, me atrajo a su cojín y nos abrazamos. Por primera vez admitimos que teníamos el corazón muy adolorido. Fue el comienzo de la reconciliación.-Voy a aconsejarles que no mencionen la palabra divorcio durante una semana. ¿Pueden hacerlo? -preguntó el terapeuta. -Sí -respondimos a una sola voz.