Japanese women are speaking out against “maternity harassment”

29 Jun Featured Image -- 415


I never knew this happened! It’s an interesting read, though, and I pray it can get better for both the women and the Japanese economy.

Originally posted on Quartz:

Expecting mothers in Japan face tremendous social pressure to choose between having either a child or a career, and sometimes get assigned work that’s difficult or dangerous for a pregnant women—a phenomenon known as matahara, or “maternity harassment.”

This week, a group of Japanese women spoke out against such harassment at a June 24 news conference organized by Tokyo-based non-profit MataharaNet. One of them, a worker at a daycare facility, said that after she became pregnant, her boss ignored her requests to reduce tasks involving heavy lifting. “I found the company’s treatment equivalent to encouraging miscarriage,” she said.

Another woman speaking at this week’s news conference—a clinical psychologist—told of her work conditions worsening after she returned from maternity leave. Her boss asked her to not join off-site activities—important for advancement in her field—that she’d previously performed routinely, such as attending conferences and visiting other hospitals.

When she complained, she received a note in…

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The Lost Heart of a Lamb

23 May

Silhouette, group of happy children playing on meadow, sunset, s

O Father, can you see me cry outside?
I’ve fallen deep inside a hole,
too close to a wooden door
that will never let me inside
a Paradise never known
by mortals in this life.

O Mother, can’t you hear me call for help?
I’ve fallen to my grave
and I’ve injured too much my nails
to crawl back to the grass
in where I would touch my face
and believe in my heart…

O World, can’t you listen the wolves behind?
They’ve eaten my heart,
and now I’ve become part of their pelt
and now I’ve become part of their pest
that withers the flowers by my side
and whom the trees dread
when I walk around their land…

O God, can’t you see what they’ve done to me?
I’ve lost my face inside a well.
The water would show my face back then,
but now I see a monster of shining teeth.
Yet no one seems to see,
as their eyes are no longer water to drink
nor the mirror inside a well.
They’ve become cold stones without a price,
chiseled by the sharp images in their life
and who no longer want to see
what they don’t want to see.

O myself, can’t you see your face anymore?
I no longer see people.
I no longer see life.
I have now the face of the wolf.
I have lost the eyes of the lamb.
I find myself no longer in territory of God,
but rather in a grizzly battlefield
in where I can ripe flowers once more
by tearing them apart
from the chests of the animals,
who happen to be actual lambs
who can see the life I see no more.

I am no longer a lamb of God,
but rather a lost animal.
And the only colours and flowers
I can seed and ripe
are the cardiac seeds
that I must tear apart
from the loving chest of the lambs.

Maybe… Maybe only that way…
I will recover my lost heart.



This poem was inspired on Christopher Raymundo Márquez’s murder at the hands of a deranged group of teenagers, allegedly playing the “kidnapping” game, whereas it was actually a cold blooded planned murder from the very beginning.
As one Mexican academic (golly, forgot his name…) said, we’re raising nowdays a generation of psychopaths, not only in Mexico, but around the world, by letting them enjoy fiestas bravas, violent video games like Call of Duty, watch junk TV shows without supervision…
People, we’re failing as adults, as educators, as humans as well. We’re failing, and it is showing on our children’s mindsets. We need to be more conscious and closer to our children’s inner world; who knows what will happen if this repeats again? In some years from now on, psychopathy might even become so normal it will gradually destroy the world…

In some years, the Two Thousands might as well be recognizable because of its lack of virtual humanity.

Please, people, if you’re a parent, take a moment to read Christopher’s case—all of the cases about children murderers—and think just for a moment if you’re teaching to your kid something beyond the “basics” of the individualistic bourgeois values. Something that might make them more than “successful” and “literate” people: see if you’re teaching them to be human.

Thanks for reading!

Reese, Blake, Gwyneth: The Commodification of Celebrity Blandness

9 May Featured Image -- 406


This is an interesting read of these sites. I recommend it to everybody. It finally helped me find a word to define what was behind all of these celebrity-site things.

Originally posted on Flavorwire:

There’s a certain aesthetic that I associate with decent to middling romantic comedies of the early millennium, usually starring Cameron Diaz, Drew Barrymore, or Reese Witherspoon. This aesthetic surrounds a lovelorn heroine who is a clean-cut but slightly funky blonde, a little bit frenetic but also warm. She’s pretty for the guys and aspirational for the ladies, and utterly devoid of any real personality, grit, or distinctive cultural background. She’s a blank slate, made to reflect the projections of viewers, just as the big windows and gleaming surfaces of her home reflect her pretty face.

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Have you read Tracks and Shadow Tag?

5 May

I am pretty sure that some of you might recognize the name of the following author that I’ll make review of in the incoming texts, so I don’t think it is quite necessary to introduce a huge deal of her and her work.

However, just in case, and especially for those who don’t know her (as you’re the guys I’m specifically aiming to with my book reviews, as I want to spread as much as possible the word of these authors) and if you’re feeling quite lazy of clicking on the Wikipedia link, I will make just a brief description of her and what she has written so far, so you can have an idea of what’s coming…

…And what’s NOT coming.

Louise Erdrich.


Erdrich is a living Ojibwe author of European roots, nowdays stationed in the reservation of North Dakota, the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa Indians, and one of the most significant authors of the called second wave of the Native American Renaissance, which is, as you may guess, a way to refer to the considerable literary production done by Native Americans. Erdrich has won several prestigious awards, and currently owns an independent bookstore as well, called Birchbark Books, whose online store you can find it here and actually discover some neat titles on the list. You should check it out; it’s quite cool and got lots of Native American titles.

Erdrich has written, naturally, of the Native American’s present, not just about the past as usually a Hollywood screenwriter would. She actually captures with amazing style the life of contemporary Indian reservations and pours lots of mysticism and Native style on her works. Her most known and famous one is the Native American series, which include books like Love Medicine, The Last Report on the Miracles of Little No Horse, Bingo Palace, Tracks… I recommend you reading this series; I’ve read three of these titles and they’re sure worth your time. They’re informative, they’re magical, they’re not preachy, they’re mysterious… They’re humane. And that’s something no author can easily do in these Two Thousands, which is filled with marketing, commercialism, frivolous prose… Erdrich can sure make miracles at anything she touches and you usually don’t end up disappointed.


See, I want to make a double review of two of her works, which comprise the best and the worst of her, which I had to meet in such an awful manner, to my chagrin. I would have loved to review my favourite ones—Love Medicine and The Last Report…—and transmit to you, O Reader, why I loved them. However, since it’s been quite a while ever since I read them, I will refer to the most recent readings I did of her and which are complete opposites. One’s the pleasant surprise; the other an AWFUL surprise respectively.

Tracks and Shadow Tag.

Let’s start with Tracks.



This is one of the Native American series titles, and I consider it one of the weakest titles, but still, it’s a pretty good catch.

It is about one of the most recurring characters on the series, Fleur Pillager, and the mysterious things that happen around her and the mysterious entity she actually is. We follow her from the very moment she’s rescued by one of the narrators, Nanapush, when the blizzard destroys her whole family. We see two viewpoints of this character, coming from Nanapush, who’s the only one to understand the feared and dreaded Fleur’s mysteries, and another one coming from one of the most complex characters of the series, Pauline Puyat, who’ll eventually transform in the…quite crazy Sister Leopolda, a key character in Love Medicine and The Last Report

The plot itself could sound almost boring, as it just deals with the weirdness happening around Fleur. However, it ends up becoming a great book thanks mostly to Erdrich’s poetic and mystical prose, which is one of the best points of this book. In fact, it’s the prose, the characters—very mysterious all of them and very endearing with their complex mindset—and the humane way in which the author deals with the Indian problem back in the beginning of the 20th century.

This is a fan-art-like illustration done by Chicago illustrator, Kathleen Joyce. Click on the drawing to direct to her own blog and check out her other works.

As I said, it is not preachy, so it’s quite easy to relate to the characters without feeling the demand to do it. You do get inside of their minds and their skin, and you can feel the way they deal with their world, which is slowly crumbling apart because of the gradual intervention of non-Indians and even Fleur’s almost diabolical presence.

There’s rarely a long piece of dialogue, and most of the prose focuses on the descriptions of the weird events and the “oral” tradition-like way of exposing them, to make them sound as rumours. Rumours that, of course, the reader can choose to take them as such, or even as mere hallucinations created by the slowly degrading people who bump into Fleur. Or even coincidences. Frankly, who knows? Nobody knows in the end what’s going on, and that’s the best thing of the book: the reader in the end’s the one with the final answer, and the one living through these characters the experience of seeing one’s culture tearing apart in a very harsh moment of their history.

The only flaw I see in this book is that it might not be very well appreciated if you don’t read first the other novels of the series. I appreciated it mostly because I knew of whom was the author talking about, and I actually picked it up because I wanted to dive more into Fleur and Pauline, but then, as the lecture progressed, I became aware that this book, as a standalone, might have some problems. It wouldn’t erase any of the beauty the author crafted, but I say and take it as a warning that you might love this book mostly if you read first previous works from the author, just in case, because too many names and too many references will only make sense if you do. So yeah, I don’t recommend this book if you don’t have any idea of what’s behind these characters, which is actually exposed in Love Medicine, Erdrich’s debut novel. So I recommend, for the maximum pleasure, diving just a bit into deeper water before walking to the shore.

Now, onto a harder piece…

Shadow Tag

Shadow Tag

I’ll be honest. I’ll be completely honest, O Reader. I am surprised of this book, and not in a good way. In fact, I still can’t believe it was written by Louise Erdrich. Not only is her enriching and poetic prose absent in this book: her craft in her characters is also gone in here.

The story is as follows: Irene America’s the alcoholic wife of a prominent local painter, Gil, who tends to use her as a model for his work. She’s got a red diary, and one day she discovers Gil’s been reading it secretly, and as revenge, she starts writing lies and malicious things on it so she can write a more “honest” one in a blue notebook. Naturally, she writes disturbing and shocking stuff to Gil, who slowly starts becoming quite desperate when he starts suspecting of his wife’s love. He tries to desperately win her back, but for no real reason specified, Irene keeps torturing him. You get the idea she’s trying to get her revenge, but as the novel progresses, you start wondering if she’s mentally unstable or something…which is not what the author seemed to intend on her, at least on my opinion.

So in few words, this book’s just about a spiral of (unintended) madness. So, yeah.

Unlike her previous novels, specifically those of her Native American series, this book lacks an imaginative prose. It’s dull and gray, and walks in a rather tedious pace, even though it is fast paced as it was correctly pointed out in a review on the back cover. And unlike other reviewers whose scathing reviews I also read, I didn’t find the “grim” or “malicious” vibe on the book. In fact, I felt nothing. I didn’t find it grim: I found it boring.

Boring. Boring. Boring. Because the real stuff behind all the intensity and drama…is not there. It’s all so…shallow.

Unlike what the back-cover premise said, this book doesn’t have the promised diary drama that was remarked everywhere. In fact, I feel…scammed, to say the least, because this book had a nice concept and did seem to have a good point to land in… But no. Erdrich, for some mysterious reason, didn’t play with the very strong points she got in the idea and, instead, played on silly scenes that were supposed to be intense, violent and uneasy to deal with, and which in the end were…stiff and almost inhuman. You could say it is because of its very nature as a fast-paced novel, but still it’s no excuse. The House of the Sleeping Beauties of Yasunari Kawabata is a fast-paced novel (I finished it in four hours), and yet it got all the intensity of an anvil. Really!

7 lb Cast Iron Anvil

That sensation you feel when a cartoonish anvil falls over you is the same you feel when you read Camus’ The Stranger and most of Dostoievski’s and Kawabata’s prose. So yeah, maybe all writers should begin their careers as smiths!

The diary plot was unused. I think there were only 10 entries in total, and none of them did an actual shocking moment to the plot. In fact, I think you could remove them and still the plot could have kept going, albeit even more boringly. Let’s face it: it was just some…odd fight between Irene America and Gil. We never find out why they were deteriorating as a couple in first place, and even though we do see their breaking apart, it feels…odd. Not forced, but it doesn’t have any sense, nor reason to exist. I still wonder what was wrong with Irene, and why she acted this way towards her husband, aside of that “reading my diary” excuse. Gil is perhaps the only a bit more realistic character and who acts more alike his personality. But Irene… Seriously, what’s wrong with her?

To resume it all, this book is disappointing. Or better said, the back cover, at least personally, disappointed me horribly. This is the second time the plot description has deceived me, but, unlike The Last Report of the Miracles at Little No Horse, this one really punched my gut. The characters are flat—the leads, by the way, show no reason or road to mistreat this way, so I still wonder how this book came to happen—, the best idea was unused, and… Was I the only one who disliked a lot the children? I dunno, I felt them…unreal, almost disgusting, almost parodies of the actual nature of real children. It’s not the first time I’ve read porcelain children like these ones, but it surprises me, coming from Erdrich, whom I always considered an almost almighty author…

I guess I committed the mistake of liking her a lot, huh.

So these are the reviews. The best and the worst of Erdrich. And still, I recommend her a lot. Not Shadow Tag, but do know her first through the Native American series and, maybe (haven’t read it completely, but the first 20 pages did catch my attention), The Master Butcher’s Singing Club (if you’ve read it, feel free to comment on this article your recommendation). Those do contain Erdrich’s wondrous signatures and her vivid talent.

After Shadow Tag, though, I came to a concise conclusion towards Erdrich’s novels, especially the ones that promise a lot in their book covers. And take this as a heart-to-heart advice, O Reader: read their first 50 pages before you buy them. Read them consciously and without any discrimination nor obsession. Just read, and if the story comes to you as in Love Medicine, Tracks and The Last Report..., then it is worth your time.

Because after I read 50 pages of Shadow Tag, I realized I committed a great mistake in buying it.

Thanks for reading!

Please, do comment! All other recommendations of Louise Erdrich’s books are welcome.

[All images redirect to their original sources]


21 Apr


Support for the indigenous people of Colombia!

Originally posted on Eléctrica in the Desert:

FROM   7 APRIL 2015

Indigenous Peoples of Latin America, dying because of multinationalReuters photo

Indigenous populations of Colombia are dying in silence because their mother river has been privatized for the world’s largest open pit coal mine.

The Cerrejon Mine deprives the Wayuu people of the only water source they had, using 35,000 liters of water a day, and causing many deaths among the population. Wayuu spokesman Armando Valbuena  reported to the Colombian newspaper Aporrea that around 14,000 children have died of starvation and that portal “mortality does not stop”.


Parracho moon / Reuters 

The territory occupied by the Wayuu is in the northern region of Colombia, where the state presence is weak. Thus, government aid does not reach the dying because of corruption, according to Valbuena and Javier Rojas Uriana, attorney for the Association of Traditional  Authorities.

“The measures that have been taken are insufficient and Cerrejón Mine, with the permission of the National…

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The Devil at the Top

9 Apr

I swore to myself I would never go there. I told myself I would never, ever go there. After all the things that happened… After all these years of pain… After all of these things…

43 estudiantes desaparecidos

I remember how they would walk down the hilltop and threaten our local shops, markets, pubs… They would walk around with their pistols in hand, rifles in their back, rabid dogs in tow, their pride high above the sky… They would walk around, aimlessly, just showing off the power we all lacked and never dreamt we could ever have. It was never a rare thing to see them walk inside one of our many abarrotes stores, demanding either gently or aggressively for the “fee” they had to pay to their masters—unwilling masters—who simply one day became the landlords of our little town, thanks to their long, if not almost phallic, guns and power they held with themselves.

Who would have ever thought we, non-sinners at most, would wind up becoming the vassals of some kind of king, in a modern era that disapproves monarchy and detests all that which is not democratic? Who would have thought our very own government, so boastful of their power and Western democracy ruling, would leave us alone to the kings of guns, the princes of hell, the demons of the land…?

I can’t ever forget the screams of the women, the pleas of the old men, the little girls… My goodness, the little girls… Most of their last words would be “I’ll be back in a minute”, and yet we would always find them dead, raped, bleeding in some ravine, not so far away from home… But trust me, those were the fortunate victims, as they at least traveled to a better place, towards God Himself, unlike the ones who came back alive, weeping, sobbing, apologizing for the sin they were carrying in their tiny bellies… The dead girls at least endured the suffering and were paid with Heaven, whereas the living ones were just starting with the end of their youth, the most wonderful era for a human being…

We couldn’t ever ask for help to the cops, as they were the dark knights of these men. They were the ones conducting the dirty job that the bigger cheeses didn’t want to do themselves. If they wanted a name out of the list, they would cross it from the to-do list. If they wanted a car, they would either bribe for it or just kill for it; the latter was the most common, though. If they felt insecure of their own manliness or prowess, they would easily walk towards the first moron they found, beat the shit out of him, abuse him and leave him on the street for so many days. If they thirsted for a woman… Ah, my God… I still remember how one of the girls gave birth to a boy who looked so much alike one of the cops that destroyed the strawberry stand of Doña Dolores, just around the corner of my street… I can’t forget that ugly nose, that disgusting chin, those piercing eyes…

My goodness…


How did we ever come to this? How did we ever return to the Middle Ages, if we were supposed to be in the modern era?

And most importantly, how is it that I, the one who fears them most, who loathes them most, who wishes them nothing but a most painful death with the greatest of my contempt…is now walking towards their castle, their almighty palace…? What happened that made me endure this trip to the hilltop, just to have a meeting with the head of this gang of ruthless monsters…?

The last thing I remember is that I had a son—a hardworking son—who one day, just this suddenly, he disappeared when he went to ask for justice to the capital. He told me he would be back, bleeding surely, but that he would be back in one day or two, alongside some of his friends and perhaps with his dignity intact…

But that’s the thing: he never came back.

And no matter how much we asked to the authorities—how much we pleaded to the supposed government that was also supposed to be taking care of us—: we would always wait for 3 hours, in some smelly waiting room, just to hear later that the president’s too busy to attend us for the moment, to come back later. And when we depart from the building, we catch a glimpse from the local TV store and we see the handsome face of our president smile and wave proudly at a crowd of Londoners who are welcoming him and Her Majesty at the Buckingham Palace, with family, servants and even hairdressers in tow…

I just remember my son, my helplessness, those Londoners faces… But I still can’t believe that all of those things were the ones that drove me to the top of this hill and made me look at those two grunts with something else than contempt. It was a plea.

And this is how I came to understand that I came here, to the ninth circle of Hell, just to ask for the Devil for help, as it seems that our supposed God abandoned us in this long search of my son, my dignity, my country…

Our lives.

This little piece was influenced by the recent news of the parents of the 43 missing students asking for help to the local criminal headmen so he can give a hand in the localization of their sons, as, it turns out, the government and local officers are resulting to be quite…incompetent, to put it lightly and bluntly.

I am not a parent, but I do understand the desperation of these people. It’s really unnerving to be so close and yet so far away from your own child…

All my readers, who are parents as well, what are your opinions on this event?

Thanks a bunch for reading!

All images redirect to their original site in where they were found.

BREAKING: Mumia Abu-Jamal hospitalised; family cannot contact him

31 Mar

Originally posted on Revolutionary Student Coordinating Committee, PHL:


Renowned Black revolutionary Mumia Abu-Jamal has been hospitalised, and is being held captive in intensive care at the Schuykill Medical Centre, Pottsville, Pa., since approximately 13:00 today, 30 March.

Sources from the International Concerned Family and Friends of Mumia Abu-Jamal (ICFFMAJ) report that Mumia is being held in the ICU incommunicado, and that his wife has not been allowed to contact him. He is reportedly on an insulin drip. The International Action Centre this evening reports that, as they stand “feet away from Mumia’s hospital door,” 15 supporters are confronted with a total police blockade of the room where he is being held.

Significantly, this abduction coincides with the date set for a trial, in Harrisburg, Pa., to overturn the recent law passed by the state of Pennsylvania muzzling the free speech of the state’s prisoners. Comrades and civil rights activists in Pennsylvania call the new law the “Silence Mumia Law,” because the state and…

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Our bodies are not terra nullius 

20 Mar

Originally posted on Kwe Today:

I will not be linking to any media articles for this post. There is enough out there for my readers to find the articles on their own. Be forewarned that what you will read may shock you with how the media is treating this violent death. If it doesn’t shock you, you will understand when an Indigenous woman who dies a violent death, it is “just business as usual.”

People are asking who else wrote about this, who else is talking about this besides the media. Basically, nobody. Typical. In that same breadth, pay attention who stays silent. It scares me.

I am scared. I am angry. I am sad.

Yesterday I received the news of the verdict. “You must have heard by now,” my friend sent me. I didn’t. I just got off the plane. I was on my way to an interview. I checked twitter. Practically silent. I…

View original 705 more words

50 Great Novels About Madness

18 Mar Featured Image -- 366


Happy March of Madness, everybody!

Originally posted on Flavorwire:

Not so much into March Madness? Well, perhaps you should look at it another way. March is the perfect month for reading books about madness — it is a transitional time, after all, possessed of both lion and lamb. Plus, you’ll have ample reading time, both outside and inside. The books herein, it should be noted, are those that deal with a kind of literary madness — obsession and absurdity and hallucination — not directly focusing on mental illness proper, whenever the two can be separated. So you won’t find The Bell Jar or One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest or The Yellow Wallpaper here, though those are all excellent reads.

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Have you read Los días terrenales?

17 Mar

Ever since I participated in a specific Daily Post Challenge and used one of my favourite books of them all for it, The Last Report on the Miracles at Little No Horse, I had the little urge of working more with books, as it is part of my educational formation and, obviously, I need to give some use to what I’ve learned during these years of excruciating pain, don’t you think?

And thus, I thought it would be a nice idea to present some Hispanic little gems to the English-speaking public (as I tend to read Latin American literature over other international titles), especially with this specific author that suddenly reminded me of the dark side of life.

José Revueltas.

As you may guess, José Revueltas is a rather unknown author, even in Mexico, possibly because of his status as communist (let’s remember that the only red that our actual government’s tolerating so far is that of blood) and because of the few demand of his books. I happened to meet his work by chance for a school assignment, but I reread a book of his some days ago in search for inspiration for a project I am currently working for. And this rereading made me catch several key factors that I didn’t see in the day I met this text, and thus I decided to talk about it and, hopefully, open the curiosity among my English speaking readers so they can come give a try to this magnificent piece of underrated literature.

The book I am talking about is Los días terrenales, whose literal English title is The Earthly Days.

What’s Los días terrenales about? Well, there’s not much to tell on this book. In fact, the plot it’s very, very simple: it’s the daily routine of the Mexican communists during the first half of the 20th century. That’s all. I swear to you, this is all. Or better said, it starts with a young Mexican communist, Gregorio Saldívar, helping a group of indigenous people during a fishing night, until they accidentally kill the head of a local group when they mistake him with a crocodile. This triggers some discomfort inside of his party, which will call for him in the next days to reassign him to another task for the communist agenda, which is, as you may guess, hidden and secret from the public, to conceal itself from the regime.

And…well, this is not all, but it’s the actual and straightforward plot of the book. In fact, Los días terrenales distinguishes itself from other Mexican works because of its prose and ambivalent way to connect past with present. You might be reading, for example, how Gregorio’s admiring one of the heads of the indigenous group, El Tuerto Ventura, and then suddenly the prose will jump to the day Ventura lost his eye and narrate it in a rather dark and violent way. It might sound annoying and even unnecessary, but trust me: it is done in a masterful way, almost as if it was the only way possible to give this character his background and humanity, as Revueltas is not a noob in literature. He really knows what the hell he’s doing and he achieves it with his style.

As a matter of fact, I think it is the Revueltas’ prose the pinnacle of this book.

Such simple plot is interwoven with very philosophical prose and a poetic description of the characters’ motivations and political ideas, aside of their emotional struggles with their life and themselves. For example, one of the main characters, Fidel, appears only from two to three chapters in total, and we only see him typewriting coldly and submerged into the communist agenda while the corpse of his baby daughter, Bandera, is abandoned in her cradle, with his wife, Julia, as the sole mourner of the poor child. This is the sole action of those two characters in a scene: writing and mourning. But the prose dives us into their psyche, their memories, how they met each other and how they’re reacting internally to their daughter’s premature death in her very own home.

In fact, if you’re looking for a book that includes lots of dialogue and external action, this book might not be for you. Most of the action occurs inside of the characters, in the way they contemplate and philosophize their life, and in the way the narrator presents to us the real personas behind those modern rebels which, in appearance, might seem too idealistic, cold or even naïve, as all of them have a distinct view of what Communist should be like.

Just in case you don’t believe me, allow me to translate the very first lines of the book so you can have an idea of Revueltas’ apocalyptic prose:

In the beginning, there was Chaos, yet suddenly that excruciating spell shattered into pieces and life came to be. The atrocious human life.

Contrary to what it might seem, Los días terrenales wasn’t actually a darling among the communists back then. In fact, because of its rather harsh criticism towards the ideology of that time (courtesy of Fidel’s rather cold, if not inhuman, left wing tendencies, which include treating his daughter’s death as a sacrifice in favour of the party), it was both unpopular with the right wing leaders and the left wing leaders. Revueltas was a proud red wing activist, but he was also dissatisfied with the local communist party and the way it leaded itself. Go figure how much controversy this book got!

Possibly because of that extremist left wing approach, and because of the author himself, this book is just known by very few people inside of the nation, and obviously he’s almost a ghost outside of Mexico.

However, I truly want this to change, as I think this book is a vanguard if we take into consideration its context and the power of its poetic prose, especially during the ending. In fact, the ending is the whole sum of power that Revueltas’ prose can bring into the reader. I recommend it due to its philosophical approach to the life and Communism, and even more because it is not as long as one would expect it to be.

Sadly, and as I said, I am not sure there is an English translation, so Spanish readings are the only ones available. However, if you happen to find it on English, or in any other language you read as well, trust me, it’s worth the time. It truly opens your mind and your conception of language, politics and even of Communism itself.

A recommended reading.

Thanks a lot for reading!


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