I was twelve years old when a copy of 100 Years of Solitude fell into my hands. It was a copy borrowed by Ms. Burton, my piano teacher, an old English spinster with a back straight as a marble wall, who never smiled but sometimes discreetly coughed into her handkerchief, one of the last members of the colonial administration in Kenya where I grew up and borrowed this book without asking her, fascinated by its cover and than by its story, when I brought it back, discreetly hidden into piles of notes, she did not seem to notice but in the very next lesson she let me play a piece of Luis Antonio Escobar, trying to hide her smile in her enormous handkerchief. Gabriel García Marquéz would have liked her a lot.We will miss the great magician of literature badly. Here, Márquez meets Hemingway.
The art of translation as a piece of art itself, marvelously shown by Barbara Wright.
I was never a great reader of Thomas Wolfe, but I will never forget his intense and extremely detailed description of a food pantry in “ Look Homeward, Angel“. Fictitious dishes transforms literature into plates.
Una Mullaly is angry. Ireland is in need of much more constructive anger.
My sister is in an apparently good mood. This is has something to do with this good mood creating song. ( And no it is not another version of HAPPY.)