Nada somete más a un pueblo que la ignorancia; a pocas cosas temen más los soberanos que a un pueblo pensante.
Juan Miguel ZunzuneguiTag: mexico ignorancia independencia pensante soberano
El tamaño del narcotráfico en México equivale a la magnitud de la corrupción.
Rafel Rodriguez CastanedaTag: corruption mexico narco
La verdad es que mientras más enojado estoy con este país y más lejos viajo, más mexicano me siento.
Jorge IbargüengoitiaTag: mexico extranjero
La resignación es una de nuestras virtudes populares. Más que el brillo de la victoria nos conmueve la entereza ante la adversidad.
Octavio PazTag: mexico
Hoy el pesimismo recorre al país e infecta a quienes entran en contacto con él. México vive obsesionado con el fracaso. Con la victimización. Con todo lo que pudo ser pero no fue. Con lo perdido, con lo olvidado, lo maltratado. México estrena el vocabulario del desencanto. Se siente en las sobremesas, se comenta en las calles, se escucha en los taxis, se lee en las pintas, se lamenta en las columnas periodísticas, se respira en los lugares donde aplaudimos la transición y ahora padecemos la violencia.
Denise DresserThe world of global drug production, shipping distribution, sales, and consumption is too complex, however, to be understood in any single us-and-them story.
John GiblerTag: mexico drug-war narcotrafic
En México hay tres clases de basura: orgánica, inorgánica y electoral.
Juan VilloroTag: mexico elecciones voto
The late 1920s were an age of islands, real and metaphorical. They were an age when Americans by thousands and tens of thousands were scheming to take the next boat for the South Seas or the West Indies, or better still for Paris, from which they could scatter to Majorca, Corsica, Capri or the isles of Greece. Paris itself was a modern city that seemed islanded in the past, and there were island countries, like Mexico, where Americans could feel that they had escaped from everything that oppressed them in a business civilization. Or without leaving home they could build themselves private islands of art or philosophy; or else - and this was a frequent solution - they could create social islands in the shadow of the skyscrapers, groups of close friends among whom they could live as unconstrainedly as in a Polynesian valley, live without moral scruples or modern conveniences, live in the pure moment, live gaily on gin and love and two lamb chops broiled over a coal fire in the grate. That was part of the Greenwich Village idea, and soon it was being copied in Boston, San Francisco, everywhere.
Malcolm CowleyTag: art love philosophy civilization idealism paris escape greece social-life mexico americans san-francisco boats pure islands lost-generation greenwich-village scruples 1920s oppressive isles
That’s when he’d run and run until he was nothing more than two feet and a pair of lungs, until he coughed blood and stank of sweat and forgot for an hour or two everything that he was and what he had to do and the people who’d get hurt along the way.
Carmen AmatoTag: mexico suspense-thriller
Luz leaned her head against the window. The bus was already on the outskirts of Mexico City and the endless urban landscape had never seemed so gray and or so harsh. Most of the city was nothing like the old money enclave of Lomas Virreyes where the Vegas lived or Polanco where the city’s most expensive restaurants and clubs catered to the wealthy.
The bus passed block after block of sooty concrete cut into houses and shops and shanties and parking garages and mercados and schools and more shanties where people lived surrounded by hulks of old cars and plastic things no one bothered to throw away. Sometimes there wasn’t concrete for homes, just sheets of corrugated metal and big pieces of cardboard that would last until the next rainy season. It was the detritus of millions upon millions of people who had nowhere to go and nothing to do and were angry about it.
The Reforma newspaper had reported a few weeks ago that the city’s population was in excess of 28 million--more than 25 percent of the country’s entire population--and Luz believed it. All of those people were clawing at each other in a huge fishbowl suspended 7500 feet above sea level, where there was never enough oxygen and the air was thin and dirty.
The city was hemmed in by mountains on all sides; mountains like Popocatépetl and Iztaccíhuatl that sometimes spewed smoke and ash and prevented the contaminatión from cars and factories and sewers from escaping. Luz privately thought of it as la sopa--a white soup that often blotted out the stars and prevented the night sky from getting dark.
The bus slowed in traffic. As they crept along Luz saw a car stopped on the side of the road, pulled over by a transito traffic cop. As Luz watched, the driver handed the cop a peso bill from his wallet. The transito accepted it but kept talking, gesturing at the car. The motorist handed him another bill. La mordida--the bite--of the traffic cop, right under her nose.
Los Hierros was crap.
Tag: mexico suspense-thriller romantic-thriller
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