This book, people. I’d say this book is for the República Dominicana what One Hundred Years of Solitude is for Colombia.
An ochre haze filters up from the tree-lined horizon. The sky is large here; the earth bends on the horizon and strains to accommodate it. The sparse sounds of animals, wild and tame, flow out from nearby woods. Titters, chirps, and tap-taps issue from the trees; a feral growl and a few barks come from the leafy floor. The scorched grass surrounding the trees takes on the morning shade, and remains silent. Nearby, on the slightest incline by the tire-marked dirt road, a white-washed house with warped wood and chipped paint stands still and solitary as a sentinel.
“Gormenghast, that is, the main massing of the original stone, taken by itself would have displayed a certain ponderous architectural quality were it possible to have ignored the circumfusion of those mean dwellings that swarmed like an epidemic around its outer walls.”
— Mervyn Peake, 1946
“If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.”
— Michael Ondaatje
“His flesh, immortal, is shrouded in flames,
and to him, even Death does simply nod,
him who saw the dreams and knew the names.”
— Maximilian Voloshin