tag:theconversation.com,2011:/us/topics/latin-american-literature-32162/articlesLatin American literature – The Conversation2023-08-31T12:20:49Ztag:theconversation.com,2011:article/2062642023-08-31T12:20:49Z2023-08-31T12:20:49ZPeruvian writers tell of a future rooted in the past and contemporary societal issues<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/535111/original/file-20230701-24873-qrswzb.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&rect=10%2C10%2C3405%2C1395&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">An artist's vision of a future underwater Lima, Peru, graces the cover of the short story collection 'Llaqtamasi.'</span> <span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://www.facebook.com/pandemoniumeditorial/">Art by Juan Diego León via Pandemonium Editorial</a></span></figcaption></figure><p>The Aymara people of the Andean Highlands speak of <a href="https://ndsmcobserver.com/2023/05/the-future-is-behind-us/#:%7E:text=The%20word%20qhipa%20means%20%E2%80%9Cback,%E2%80%9D%20%E2%80%94%20denotes%20a%20future%20time.">“qhipa pacha,”</a> a phrase that refers to the future as a direction one walks to backward. They believe in looking to the past as a way to understand what may come next.</p>
<p>Last year, 13 Peruvian writers launched the <a href="https://qhipapacha2022.blogspot.com/2022/02/manifesto.html">Qhipa Pacha Collective</a>, a literary initiative which “aims to recover the <a href="https://qhipapacha2022.blogspot.com/2022/02/manifesto.html">memory of our original peoples</a> to build possible worlds.” These writers imagine futures that reflect Peruvian ideas and concerns about their past and present. </p>
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<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/534657/original/file-20230628-25-x7uxmc.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="Portraits of 13 Peruvian writers of speculative fiction appear on a promotional poster" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/534657/original/file-20230628-25-x7uxmc.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/534657/original/file-20230628-25-x7uxmc.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=345&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534657/original/file-20230628-25-x7uxmc.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=345&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534657/original/file-20230628-25-x7uxmc.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=345&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534657/original/file-20230628-25-x7uxmc.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=433&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534657/original/file-20230628-25-x7uxmc.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=433&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534657/original/file-20230628-25-x7uxmc.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=433&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
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<span class="caption">Peruvian speculative fiction writers and members of Qhipa Pacha.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Rocío Quispe Agnoli</span>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/4.0/">CC BY-ND</a></span>
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<p>My <a href="https://scholar.google.com/citations?user=fHNZ_N4AAAAJ&hl=en&oi=ao">teaching and writing</a> focuses primarily on Peruvian literary history and realism, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V8YEpvFbvRw">a style that has been predominant</a> since the 19th century. Recently, I’ve grown interested in Latin American writers who explore an imagined future through speculative fiction.</p>
<p>This approach isn’t simply science fiction written in Spanish and set in Peru. It’s a genre rooted in respect for both Peru’s ancestral memory and attention to present-day societal issues. </p>
<h2>Writing to mirror society</h2>
<p>In Spanish, the verb “especular” relates to optics, such as a reflection in a mirror. As in English, it also means to speculate – or observe the world attentively and think about it inquisitively. Both meanings inform the term “speculative fiction.” </p>
<p>Speculative fiction is a broad field that encompasses works of fantasy such as “<a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/series/LOR/the-lord-of-the-rings">The Lord of the Rings</a>”, horror like “<a href="https://www.harperacademic.com/book/9780062125897/the-exorcist/">The Exorcist</a>,” the supernatural as in “<a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt4574334/">Stranger Things</a>,” dystopia such as “<a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1392170/">The Hunger Games</a>” and science fiction like “<a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/325356/2001-a-space-odyssey-by-arthur-c-clarke/">2001: A Space Odyssey</a>.” Often, speculative genres have been considered <a href="https://overland.org.au/2016/06/what-does-everyone-have-against-speculative-fiction/">escapist or not serious</a>. Yet, when addressing social, political, economic and climate conflicts and projecting them into the future, speculative literature offers a new way to understand the consequences of the past and the concerns of the present.</p>
<p>Futurism is also a type of speculative fiction. At the center of Peruvian futurism are characters of Spanish, Indigenous and African descent. The stories feature Native technologies like <a href="https://www.si.edu/newsdesk/snapshot/quipu">quipus or “talking knots”</a>, an ancient system for recording and transmitting information, and <a href="https://www.forest-trends.org/blog/andenes-y-terrazas-ingenieria-andina-al-servicio-del-agua-y-los-suelos/">“andenes,” or agriculture terraces</a>. They highlight <a href="https://www.britannica.com/topic/Inca-religion">Inca beliefs about the natural world</a> and <a href="https://futurism.com/the-dark-constellations-of-the-incas">astronomy</a>.</p>
<p>In such works, fantasy ceases to be an evasion of reality and becomes a critical reflection of our relationship with the world and ourselves, writes <a href="https://www.luccacomicsandgames.com/it/2022/ospiti/dettaglio/santivanez-cesar/">César Santivañez</a>, the editor of <a href="http://isbn.bnp.gob.pe/catalogo.php?mode=detalle&nt=119864">a collection of Peruvian speculative fiction</a>, in the prologue of the book. </p>
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<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/534654/original/file-20230628-21915-4aexya.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="Five book covers of Peruvian speculative fiction published by Pandemonium Editorial" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/534654/original/file-20230628-21915-4aexya.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/534654/original/file-20230628-21915-4aexya.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=270&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534654/original/file-20230628-21915-4aexya.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=270&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534654/original/file-20230628-21915-4aexya.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=270&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534654/original/file-20230628-21915-4aexya.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=339&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534654/original/file-20230628-21915-4aexya.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=339&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/534654/original/file-20230628-21915-4aexya.png?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=339&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
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<span class="caption">Titles of several Peruvian speculative fiction books.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Rocío Quispe Agnoli</span></span>
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<h2>Fiction grounded in Peru’s history</h2>
<p>In 1843, Julian del Portillo published two <a href="https://www.casadelaliteratura.gob.pe/la-primera-novela-peruana-retorna-171-anos-despues/">serial novels</a> that imagined the cities of Lima and Cuzco 100 years into the future. But modern Peruvian futurism stories offer more than science fiction starring Peruvian characters or places.</p>
<p>Sarko Medina’s <a href="https://isbn.cloud/9786124783357/el-ekeko-y-los-deseos-imposibles/">“Microleyenda”</a> tells of a golden condor suspended in flight in outer space while it holds a sphere of gold in its claws. The sphere contains our universe. The condor is one of many animals floating in space, each safeguarding one sphere containing one universe – until the day thieves appear to steal and replace the spheres with replicas. </p>
<p>Medina’s story was inspired by the golden garden in <a href="https://www.cuscoperu.com/en/travel/cusco/archaeological-centers/qoricancha/">Coricancha, the Temple of the Sun</a> in Cuzco, which was looted by Spanish conquistadors in the 1530s. “Microleyenda” fiercely criticizes the boundless ambition of the conquistadors who looted the Incan empire. </p>
<p>In Daniel Salvo’s story “<a href="https://tenebrisoficial.wordpress.com/2017/07/05/el-primer-peruano-en-el-espacio-de-daniel-salvo/">El primer peruano en el espacio</a>,” a brilliant Andean engineer confronts his captain aboard a space base orbiting Earth, questioning the intentions of those he calls “whites” who, like his captain, intend to dominate his race. Salvo’s work reads as a story of class struggle and ethnic and racial discrimination that mirrors the tension between the white residents of Peru’s dominant urban centers and the Indigenous people of the countryside. This story reflects a social problem of Peruvian society that begins in the colonial era and reaches all the way to the present and on into space.</p>
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<span class="caption">Anatolio Pomahuanca, a fictional astronaut who wrestles with the truth while orbiting a troubled Earth.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Rocío Quispe-Agnoli</span>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/4.0/">CC BY-ND</a></span>
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<p>Medina’s and Salvo’s stories are part of a collection that includes <a href="http://isbn.bnp.gob.pe/catalogo.php?mode=detalle&nt=119864">other Peruvian authors</a> who write about a dystopian future in Peru. Also included are Daniel Collazos’ “Dependencia Programada,” Tanya Tynjälä’s “Miraflores,” Luis Apolín’s “Ledva,” and stories by Tania Huerta and Sophie Canal, among others.</p>
<p>These authors side-step the traditional science fiction focus on the technological progress of human society to explore the consequences of limitless dependence on digital tools. How does the human race and the natural world survive when racism and discrimination continue despite technological and scientific advances? </p>
<h2>The future arrives for everyone</h2>
<p>Peruvian futurism is rooted in <a href="https://theconversation.com/the-global-south-is-on-the-rise-but-what-exactly-is-the-global-south-207959">the Global South</a>. Much classic science fiction from the United States, in contrast, imagines a future mostly starring Caucasian heroes and Western technologies. The <a href="https://qhipapacha2022.blogspot.com/2022/11/qhipa-pacha-en-la-boskone-59-boston-usa.html">Collective</a> is committed to writing Peruvian literature that does not imitate or replicate these norms. </p>
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<a href="https://images.theconversation.com/files/535679/original/file-20230705-29-21kvjn.JPG?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=1000&fit=clip"><img alt="Dark Peruvian mountains in the background and massive Incan steps carved into the highlands carpeted with green plant material." src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/535679/original/file-20230705-29-21kvjn.JPG?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/535679/original/file-20230705-29-21kvjn.JPG?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=371&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/535679/original/file-20230705-29-21kvjn.JPG?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=371&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/535679/original/file-20230705-29-21kvjn.JPG?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=371&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/535679/original/file-20230705-29-21kvjn.JPG?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=466&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/535679/original/file-20230705-29-21kvjn.JPG?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=466&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/535679/original/file-20230705-29-21kvjn.JPG?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=466&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px"></a>
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<span class="caption">Andean terraces near Cuzco, Peru.</span>
<span class="attribution"><span class="source">Photo by Rocío Quispe Agnoli</span></span>
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<p>On the website <a href="https://www.futurefiction.org/?lang=en">Future Fiction</a>, an editorial project to explore the diversity of the future, Italian science fiction writer <a href="https://www.futurefiction.org/category/francesco-verso-stories/?lang=en">Francesco Verso</a> reminds readers that “we all tell ‘tomorrow stories’” and that the future arrives everywhere and for everyone, not only for those living in developed societies. </p>
<p>Peruvian futurism writers are putting those words into practice and helping broaden our view of what the future could be.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/206264/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Rocio Quispe Agnoli does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organization that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>In the Global South, a group of writers are rejecting the norms of science fiction and commenting on the future in a way that embraces Indigenous culture.Rocio Quispe Agnoli, William J. Beal Distinguished Professor, Michigan State UniversityLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/938382018-05-30T10:36:23Z2018-05-30T10:36:23Z5 Latino authors you should be reading now<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/217794/original/file-20180504-166900-1adqmcy.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">Many authors born in Latin America have produced some of their finest work while living in the United States.</span> <span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://goo.gl/images/kcah1k">Alvy Libros/flickr</a>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/">CC BY-SA</a></span></figcaption></figure><p><a href="https://theconversation.com/5-autores-latinos-que-merecen-ser-leidos-100935"><em>Leer en español</em></a>.</p>
<p>You likely recognize that the depiction of Latin American immigrants in politics today – as a <a href="https://foreignpolicy.com/2009/10/28/the-hispanic-challenge/">menacing mass of recalcitrant Spanish-speaking invaders</a> – is overwhelmingly negative.</p>
<p>What you may not know is that stereotypes suggesting that Latin Americans represent a threat to United States culture are not just morally repugnant – they’re also historically inaccurate. <a href="http://www.cambridge.org/us/academic/subjects/literature/american-literature/cambridge-history-latinao-american-literature?format=HB#RC7UbjocwGUQWGsP.97">Spanish-language literature</a> actually predates the Puritans’ writing in English by nearly a century. </p>
<p>As <a href="https://scholar.google.com/citations?hl=en&user=WMYk0SoAAAAJ">my research reveals</a>, many renowned Latin American writers actually produced some of their finest work while living in the United States. Latina and Latino writers have made exceptional contributions to American literary history. </p>
<p>For a fresh take on what it means to be a Latina or Latino in the U.S. today, check out these five literary luminaries. </p>
<h2>1. José Martí (Cuba, 1853-1895)</h2>
<p>For Cubans, <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/289824/selected-writings-by-jose-marti/9780142437049/">José Martí</a> is the equivalent of George Washington, Ralph Waldo Emerson and Walt Whitman combined. Born in 1853 in Havana, Cuba, Martí wrote the bulk of his 28 volumes of prose, poetry and speeches in late 19th-century New York.</p>
<p>Working as a diplomat, translator, Spanish teacher and journalist, <a href="https://www.dukeupress.edu/translating-empire">Martí interpreted</a> current events and cultural questions from his office on Front Street, in lower Manhattan’s South Street Seaport. </p>
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<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/217796/original/file-20180504-166890-sjp7ku.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/217796/original/file-20180504-166890-sjp7ku.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=806&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217796/original/file-20180504-166890-sjp7ku.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=806&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217796/original/file-20180504-166890-sjp7ku.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=806&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217796/original/file-20180504-166890-sjp7ku.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1013&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217796/original/file-20180504-166890-sjp7ku.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1013&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217796/original/file-20180504-166890-sjp7ku.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1013&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<span class="caption">José Martí and his son in New York in 1880.</span>
<span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/c/cd/Jos%C3%A9_Mart%C3%AD_retrato_junto_a_su_hijo_Jos%C3%A9_Francisco_Nueva_York_1880">Wikipedia</a></span>
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<p>He witnessed immigrants arriving by the boatload to New York – except the Chinese, who were <a href="https://www.ourdocuments.gov/doc.php?flash=true&doc=47">banned</a> in 1882. He knew about the <a href="https://www.smithsonianmag.com/smart-news/map-shows-over-a-century-of-documented-lynchings-in-united-states-180961877/">lynching</a> of black Americans and of <a href="https://indiancountrymedianetwork.com/history/events/the-truth-about-the-wounded-knee-massacre/">atrocities against Native Americans</a>. These stories found their way into Martí’s thinking about Latin America and its diaspora in the United States. </p>
<p>Martí also wrote dazzling accounts of New York, his adopted hometown, likening the cables of the brand-new Brooklyn Bridge to sated “colossal boa constrictors” resting atop towers. </p>
<p>Upon the unveiling of the Statue of Liberty in 1886, Martí <a href="http://themassreview.tumblr.com/image/123207528500">alluded</a> to the fact that his distant island home, Cuba, remained a Spanish colony: “Those who have you, O Liberty, do not know you. Those deprived of you must not merely talk about, they must win you.” </p>
<p>Martí died in 1895, fighting for Cuba’s independence. In 2018, he was inducted into the <a href="https://clrc.org/2018-inductees-into-nys-writers-hall-of-fame/">New York State Writers Hall of Fame</a>, alongside local luminaries Colson Whitehead and Alexander Hamilton.</p>
<h2>2. Julia de Burgos (Puerto Rico, 1914-1953)</h2>
<p>Puerto Rico’s greatest poet also migrated from her Caribbean home island, where she was a teacher, to the isle of Manhattan. <a href="https://www.press.uillinois.edu/books/catalog/63khp3hk9780252038969.html">Julia de Burgos</a> recounts this literary journey in one of her most famous poems, “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OACKBvi4EwA">Yo misma fui mi ruta</a>” – “I was my own route.” </p>
<p><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/julia-de-burgos">De Burgos’</a> inventive, daring poetry did indeed forge a new path for feminists, Latina and otherwise, in the early 20th century. </p>
<p>Against pressure to identify as white, the mixed-race de Burgos proclaimed her African heritage, <a href="http://www.umass.edu/umpress/title/puerto-rican-poetry">calling herself</a> “Black, of pure tint.”</p>
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<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/217804/original/file-20180504-166887-1fm9og2.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/217804/original/file-20180504-166887-1fm9og2.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=390&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217804/original/file-20180504-166887-1fm9og2.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=390&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217804/original/file-20180504-166887-1fm9og2.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=390&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217804/original/file-20180504-166887-1fm9og2.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=490&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217804/original/file-20180504-166887-1fm9og2.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=490&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217804/original/file-20180504-166887-1fm9og2.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=490&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">A postage stamp honoring de Burgos.</span>
<span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://flic.kr/p/8GN4d3">William Arthur Fine Stationery/flickr</a>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/4.0/">CC BY-ND</a></span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>In one experimental 1938 poem, de Burgos addresses the distance between her liberated identity as a writer and her constricted role as a woman. </p>
<p>“You in yourself have no say; everyone governs you; your husband, your family,” she writes in “<a href="http://www.nupress.northwestern.edu/content/song-simple-truth">To Julia de Burgos</a>.” “In me only my heart governs, only my thought; who governs in me is me.” </p>
<p>In 1953, de Burgos was found dead, without identification, in uptown Manhattan and buried anonymously in a potter’s field on Manhattan’s Hart Island. A month later, her compatriots retrieved her remains and <a href="https://across106thstreet.com/2011/04/28/love-thy-neighbor-julia-de-burgos/">reburied her in Puerto Rico</a>.</p>
<p>The New York Times featured de Burgos – a “poet who helped shape Puerto Rico’s identity” – in its <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/05/02/obituaries/overlooked-julia-de-burgos.html">overlooked women’s obituary series</a> in May.</p>
<h2>3. Gloria Anzaldúa (Texas, 1942-2004)</h2>
<p>The poet and essayist <a href="http://feministing.com/2017/09/26/five-gloria-anzaldua-quotes-to-inspire-your-resistance/.">Gloria Anzaldúa</a> came from a family of Mexican-American farm laborers. </p>
<figure class="align-right ">
<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/217797/original/file-20180504-166881-ac1xp9.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/217797/original/file-20180504-166881-ac1xp9.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=800&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217797/original/file-20180504-166881-ac1xp9.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=800&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217797/original/file-20180504-166881-ac1xp9.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=800&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217797/original/file-20180504-166881-ac1xp9.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1005&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217797/original/file-20180504-166881-ac1xp9.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1005&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217797/original/file-20180504-166881-ac1xp9.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1005&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">Anzaldúa’s work celebrated bilingualism.</span>
<span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/11/Gloria_Anzaldua.jpg">Sandstein/flickr</a>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/">CC BY</a></span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>Her ancestors had for generations lived in Texas’ Rio Grande Valley, near the border that Anzaldúa memorably <a href="https://muse.jhu.edu/article/641841/summary">defined</a> as “an open wound where the Third World grates against the first and bleeds.” </p>
<p>Anzaldúa’s work often celebrates her community’s bilingualism. She portrays it as an act of survival against the “linguistic terrorism” of <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/24/nyregion/speak-american-high-school.html">the U.S. public school system</a>, which required English-only teaching and offered <a href="https://www.utrgv.edu/mas/center-for-mexican-american-studies/nuestra-gloria-celebrando-anzaldua-utrgv/history/index.htm">“accent elimination” classes</a> in a part of the U.S. that used to be Mexico. </p>
<p>Anzaldúa found such insults to her nonstandard way of speaking excruciating. “Until I can take pride in my language,” she once wrote, “I cannot take pride in myself.”</p>
<p>Anzaldúa is increasingly recognized as one of the 20th century’s most influential <a href="http://feministing.com/2017/09/26/five-gloria-anzaldua-quotes-to-inspire-your-resistance/">feminist</a> and anti-racist essayists.</p>
<h2>4. Sandra Cisneros (Chicago, 1954-present)</h2>
<p>No list of Latino authors is complete without <a href="https://www.sandracisneros.com">Sandra Cisneros</a>, author of the beloved “<a href="https://youtu.be/0Pyf89VsNmg">The House on Mango Street</a>,” which has sold nearly <a href="http://webcache.googleusercontent.com/search?q=cache:X5ogAR9VRDIJ:www.chicagotribune.com/entertainment/ct-house-on-mango-street-mexican-art-sandra-cisneros-20150429-column.html+&cd=3&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=uk&client=firefox-b-1-ab">6 million copies and has been translated into over 20 languages</a>. </p>
<p>Why Cisneros has not received the same acclaim as Junot Díaz – a <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/04/16/the-silence-the-legacy-of-childhood-trauma">childhood sexual assault survivor</a> who was recently accused of his <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/05/04/books/junot-diaz-accusations.html">own sexual impropriety</a> – is perplexing. </p>
<figure class="align-right ">
<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/220171/original/file-20180523-88002-169budf.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/220171/original/file-20180523-88002-169budf.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=798&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/220171/original/file-20180523-88002-169budf.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=798&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/220171/original/file-20180523-88002-169budf.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=798&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/220171/original/file-20180523-88002-169budf.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1003&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/220171/original/file-20180523-88002-169budf.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1003&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/220171/original/file-20180523-88002-169budf.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1003&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">Sandra Cisneros.</span>
<span class="attribution"><a class="source" href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sandra_Cisneros_by_Gage_Skidmore.jpg">Gage Skidmore</a>, <a class="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/">CC BY-SA</a></span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>My favorite of her novels is “<a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/236075/caramelo-by-sandra-cisneros-translated-from-the-english-by-liliana-valenzuela/9780307774033/readers-guide/">Caramelo</a>.” In this transnational coming-of-age story, a Mexican-American woman digs into her family history. </p>
<p>Learning from her abuela, Soledad, she discovers hidden truths about family tensions, border crossings and why her doting migrant papá, Inocencio, is not so innocent after all. </p>
<h2>5. Cristina Henríquez (Delaware, 1971-present)</h2>
<p>Cristina Henríquez, who was born in the U.S. after her Panamanian father went there to pursue graduate studies, is the best novelist you’ve never heard of. </p>
<p>Featuring first-person perspectives of Central and South Americans and Caribbean migrants, her books dramatically expand the popular conception of the U.S. Latino, long centered on Mexican-Americans and Puerto Ricans. </p>
<figure class="align-right ">
<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/217798/original/file-20180504-166893-1alnw6m.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/217798/original/file-20180504-166893-1alnw6m.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=883&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217798/original/file-20180504-166893-1alnw6m.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=883&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217798/original/file-20180504-166893-1alnw6m.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=883&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217798/original/file-20180504-166893-1alnw6m.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1110&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217798/original/file-20180504-166893-1alnw6m.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1110&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/217798/original/file-20180504-166893-1alnw6m.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1110&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
<figcaption>
<span class="caption">The best book you haven’t read.</span>
</figcaption>
</figure>
<p>“<a href="https://www.cristinahenriquez.com/#restaurant-section">The Book of Unknown Americans</a>” tells the story of recent arrivals from Paraguay, Nicaragua, Guatemala, Panama, Puerto Rico and Mexico who live in a dingy apartment complex, enduring the back-breaking labor of harvesting mushrooms. Sometimes, after a 12-hour shift in the dark, they eat only oatmeal for dinner. </p>
<p>The teenage love story between the characters Maribel and Mayor – written in prose that The Washington Post says rises “<a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/books/the-book-of-unknown-americans-by-cristina-henriquez/2014/06/24/b26269e4-f6e8-11e3-a606-946fd632f9f1_story.html?noredirect=on&utm_term=.1375269f02fe">to the level of poetry</a>” – may help American readers appreciate the myriad reasons why Latin Americans migrate north, including dictatorships, a lack of specialized health care and violence. </p>
<p>That is, I think, Henríquez’s hope. As one Mexican character angrily states, in the U.S. he feels both invisible and vilified. </p>
<p>“I want them to see a guy who works hard, or a guy who loves his family,” he says. “I wish just one of those people, just one, would actually talk to me. … But none of them even want to try. We’re the unknown Americans.”</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/93838/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Laura Lomas has received funding from the National Endowment for the Humanities, the British Academy and the Fulbright Association. </span></em></p>Spanish-speaking writers have made exceptional contributions to American literature. Here are the best Latin American and Latino authors you probably haven’t heard of.Laura Lomas, Associate Professor of English, Rutgers University - NewarkLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/820312017-08-08T12:31:34Z2017-08-08T12:31:34ZHow Venezuelans are reading and writing to resist authoritarianism<figure><img src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/181041/original/file-20170804-4092-uc5q05.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=496&fit=clip" /><figcaption><span class="caption">'Our writers are resistance' say Editorial Lector Cómplice.</span> <span class="attribution"><span class="source">editorialectorcomplice/instagram</span></span></figcaption></figure><p>As Venezuela’s democracy careens ever faster towards authoritarianism, its citizens are rising up to resist what’s happening. The rest of the world sees it mainly through images of violent protests and crackdowns – but resistance takes many forms. </p>
<p>On July 27, days before a vote for a constituent assembly which critics fear will <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/jul/30/fear-of-violence-hangs-over-venezuela-assembly-election">lead the country into a dictatorship</a>, Les Quintero, editor of independent publisher <a href="https://www.facebook.com/editorialectorcomplice">Lector Cómplice</a>, posted a picture of recent books from the publishing house with the caption “nuestros autores cómplices son resistencia” – “our writers are resistance”. </p>
<p>In recent years, Venezuela’s independent publishers and booksellers have blossomed, providing stories that attempt to make sense of the current situation. At the same time, reading brings communities together both in person and online; as writer Roberto Echeto <a href="http://robertoecheto.blogspot.co.uk/2005/03/la-literatura-venezolana-no-va-detrs.html">argues</a>, “Venezuelans have discovered through the force of suffering what books are for”.</p>
<p>As part of my research, I’ve interviewed a range of Venezuelan authors. They agree that Venezuelans are now reading more of their own literature, not because of the reading programmes put in place by the government, but because books – especially creative non-fiction (crónicas) and historical novels – have become a way for readers to process their political, economic and social realities, as <a href="http://wmagazin.com/relatos/la-venezuela-del-siglo-xxi-a-traves-de-los-libros-el-cine-y-las-artes-plasticas/">this recent reading list</a> shows.</p>
<p>Novelist Eduardo Sánchez Rugeles recently <a href="http://sanchezrugeles.com/viewpost.php?id=19">called for</a> writers to tell stories of “artificial democracies”, in the tradition of fictional dictatorships; novels such as Federico Vegas’s <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Falke-Federico-Vargas/dp/9802933201">Falke</a>, which identifies traces of Venezuela’s present in its dictatorial past, have become bestsellers.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, many crónicas and short stories focus on everyday lives, and the critical problems that Venezuelans have to live with. The 2016 <a href="http://www.latinobarometro.org/lat.jsp">Latinobarómetro</a> survey found they’re the most likely people in Latin America to be victims of crime (48%) and nearly twice as likely as any others to report food shortages (72%). Perhaps unsurprisingly, an estimated 1.5m Venezuelans now <a href="http://www.dw.com/en/venezuelans-leave-21st-century-socialism-for-us-spain/a-18815399">live outside the country</a>.</p>
<p>While my fellow editors and I were putting together <a href="http://ragpickerpress.co.uk/books/crude-words">Crude Words</a>, an anthology of contemporary Venezuelan writing in translation, we were struck by how many of the hundreds of submissions we received were coloured by violence, fear, shortages and emigration. But as <a href="https://www.maclehosepress.com/authors/2017/8/3/alberto-barrera-tyszka">Alberto Barrera Tyszka</a> wrote in the foreword to the collection, Venezuela is “a country – above and beyond any economic or social indicator, beyond any Utopia too – that continues writing itself from the perspectives of fear, of death, but also from that of sex, or from that of love”. </p>
<h2>Rise of the independents</h2>
<p>It is an act of resistance to show people carrying on, refusing to lose their humanity. Gisela Kozak Rovero, editor of a new collection of crónicas entitled Siete Sellos, <a href="https://giselakozakrovero.wordpress.com/2017/06/18/gisela-kozak-rovero-unas-palabras-sobre-siete-sellos-en-el-balcon-cronicas-de-la-venezuela-revolucionaria-colofon-revista-literaria/">stresses</a> the importance of not forgetting what Venezuela has given to the world in terms of art, culture and innovation, nor the tastes, sounds, and people which make up the country.</p>
<p>Lector Cómplice is just one of 23 independent publishers offering an alternative to the state-run publishing system, which is highly subsidised through oil revenue. Others include <a href="http://www.culturaurbana.org/">Fundación para la Cultura Urbana</a> (Foundation for Urban Culture), <a href="https://edicionespuntocero.wordpress.com/">Puntocero</a>, <a href="http://www.editorialmaderafina.com/">Madera Fina</a> and <a href="http://librosdelfuego.com/">Libros de Fuego</a> (Books of Fire), whose name remembers all the books through history which have been burned or otherwise censored. These independent publishing houses survive on the initiative and determination of the individuals who run them and support from loyal readers – but it’s far from easy. </p>
<p>Venezuelan newspaper El Universal <a href="http://www.eluniversal.com/arte-y-entretenimiento/130523/editoriales-no-consiguen-papel">reported in 2013</a> that unlike state publisher Monte Ávila, independent publishers face a huge rise in costs and paper shortages, limiting what they can print. In 2010, the state tried to shut down Cultura Urbana, locking the offices and seizing all the books. This led to public outcry, with 905 people signing a petition to save the foundation. This reaction was not only due to respect for the foundation itself, but a sign of growing frustration about the government’s power over culture.</p>
<p>The survival of these publishers has coincided with the development of social media and literary websites such as <a href="http://ficcionbreve.org/">Ficción Breve</a>, where a sense of community is based on a shared appreciation of literature. On <a href="http://prodavinci.com/">Prodavinci</a>, extracts from novels and short stories sit side by side with opinion pieces about contemporary politics by writers, encouraging debate about how art can help in the current situation.</p>
<p>Independent bookshops such as Caracas’s Lugar Común and El Buscón and Mérida’s Ballena Blanca are helping to turn reading into a social practice, online and off. They frequently host Skype calls with authors abroad, keeping the community together virtually; Lugar Común’s Rebeca Pérez Gerónimo <a href="http://elestimulo.com/climax/lugar-comun-una-balsa-para-la-literatura-venezolana-2/">called her shop</a> “a meeting place, a mini cultural centre”. Perhaps the best example of social reading is the annual festival in Chacao, Caracas, with its slogan “LeerJuntos” (read together). </p>
<p>Last year, I witnessed how the festival provided a safe space for people to gather in the city centre, at a time when it was unusual to see people on the streets. And even though this year’s festival was postponed due to the increasingly violent protests, reading together is still a vital way to resist.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/82031/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Katie Brown does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>As their country’s politics and economy collapse, Venezuelan writers, publishers and booksellers are taking a stand.Katie Brown, Teaching Fellow in Hispanic Studies, University of BristolLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.tag:theconversation.com,2011:article/668402016-10-14T06:19:29Z2016-10-14T06:19:29ZAmong Colombian Nobel winners and peace seekers, Gabriel García Márquez still looms largest<p><em>“Gabo, the great absent presence on this day, who was the shadow architect of many peace efforts and processes, could not make it to live this moment, in his beloved Cartagena, where his ashes rest. But he must be happy watching his yellow butterflies fly above the Colombia of his dreams, our Colombia, finally reaching, as he said, ‘a second chance on earth’.”</em></p>
<p>So proclaimed Colombian president Juan Manuel Santos in honour of <a href="http://www.eltiempo.com/politica/proceso-de-paz/discurso-del-presidente-santos-en-la-firma-del-acuerdo-final-de-paz/16712180">author Gabriel García Márquez</a> at the September 26 signing of the Colombian peace accords with the FARC – an agreement that just days later would be voted down by the Colombian people.</p>
<p>FARC guerrilla leader Timochenko also cited Gabo, as García Márquez is affectionately known in Colombia, ending his speech by welcoming this “second chance on earth”.</p>
<p>It is not by chance that the author of this Latin American literary movement – and my country’s first Nobel laureate – was quoted by both leaders at the signing of the doomed accords. </p>
<p>The October 2 plebiscite may have been seen outside of Colombia as an example of Colombian magical realism, but as a literature professor I have to wonder what Gabo would have made of the No vote, knowing so well, as he did, the soul of the Colombian people.</p>
<p>Colombians are well aware that peace is good for the country. But still they didn’t vote for it. Many blame the outcome on the polarisation caused by the negotiations in Havana, but Colombia <a href="https://theconversation.com/santos-has-won-his-nobel-prize-but-peace-eludes-the-colombian-people-66666">has always been a society divided into opposite groups</a>: religious and nonreligious; liberals and conservatives; rich and poor; guerrillas and non-guerrillas; warmongers and peacemakers. </p>
<figure class="align-left ">
<img alt="" src="https://images.theconversation.com/files/141295/original/image-20161011-15623-f17gqt.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=237&fit=clip" srcset="https://images.theconversation.com/files/141295/original/image-20161011-15623-f17gqt.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=600&h=997&fit=crop&dpr=1 600w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/141295/original/image-20161011-15623-f17gqt.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=600&h=997&fit=crop&dpr=2 1200w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/141295/original/image-20161011-15623-f17gqt.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=600&h=997&fit=crop&dpr=3 1800w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/141295/original/image-20161011-15623-f17gqt.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=45&auto=format&w=754&h=1253&fit=crop&dpr=1 754w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/141295/original/image-20161011-15623-f17gqt.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=30&auto=format&w=754&h=1253&fit=crop&dpr=2 1508w, https://images.theconversation.com/files/141295/original/image-20161011-15623-f17gqt.jpg?ixlib=rb-1.1.0&q=15&auto=format&w=754&h=1253&fit=crop&dpr=3 2262w" sizes="(min-width: 1466px) 754px, (max-width: 599px) 100vw, (min-width: 600px) 600px, 237px">
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<p>Gabo, I suspect, would not be surprised by what happened on October 2. He knew Colombia to be a place of extremes. In One Hundred Year of Solitude, he scrutinises the many aspects of Colombia’s fratricidal conflict in the political field. Colonel Aureliano Buendía, he writes, “promoted 32 armed uprisings and he lost all of them”. At the end, he recognised that pride, or “something that means nothing to anyone,” is the only reason for fighting. </p>
<p>Another Colombian writer, Héctor Abad Faciolince, <a href="http://elpais.com/elpais/2016/10/03/opinion/1475515757_441155.html">has said</a> that Santos and Uribe “covet the same thing: to be themselves, each of them, the protagonists of the agreement, and to prevent their political adversary from being it. It is a human matter, too human, pure vanity. Peace, yes; but only if I am the one who signs it.”</p>
<p>This rivalry is, alas, only exacerbated by Santos winning the 2016 Nobel Peace Prize. </p>
<p>Gabo also recognised that Colombian hearts are usually unwilling to forgive and to make real change. After Colonel Aureliano Buendia signs the armistice in One Hundred Years of Solitude, the regular army slaughters those involved in the party coronation of Remedios la Bella, just because someone shouted “Viva!” for the Liberal Party and the old Colonel. </p>
<p>This fact is epitomised by one of the most popular plays in Colombian history. Guadalupe, Years Without Count is a collective creation of <a href="http://hidvl.nyu.edu/video/000512389.html">Teatro la Candelaria</a>. The plot centres on the head of the liberal guerrillas in the country’s Llanos region. His rebellion emerged in response to the 1948 assassination of popular leader Jorge Eliécer Gaitán who, along with his troops, surrendered weapons in 1953, <a href="http://centromemoria.gov.co/guadalupe-salcedo-unda-sin-olvido/">only to be killed three years later</a> by the secret police. </p>
<p>Colombians’ inability to forgive was also evident more recently, in the 1990s, as the armed groups that demobilised then suffered continuous hostility, as well as a lack of support for reintegration into society. Between 1984-1997, the Patriotic Union was subjected to a <a href="http://www.scielo.org.co/scielo.php?script=sci_arttext&pid=S0120-39162012000100017">political genocide</a>. </p>
<p>So a historical, as well as literary, analysis shows that Colombian society is often not ready to forgive and to reintegrate those who have attacked it. </p>
<p>We have to admire García Márquez for his great capacity to capture Colombia’s reality; indeed, what he wrote in yesteryear is still apt today, and perhaps remains a prophetic voice for what will come tomorrow. </p>
<p>The emotional rollercoaster caused by news of recent days and weeks almost seems to have been anticipated by his prose:</p>
<blockquote>
<p>It was as if God had decided to test their sense of wonder, and was keeping the inhabitants of Macondo in a permanent sway between joy and disappointment, doubt and revelation, to the point that nobody could know with certainty where the limits of reality were. (One Hundred Years of Solitude)</p>
</blockquote>
<p>This is exactly what Colombians have experienced in recent days: the exultation of signing the Havana Agreement on September 26; the disenchantment of witnessing those opposed to the peace agreement claim victory in the referendum of October 2; and now the enthusiasm for the awarding of the <a href="https://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/peace/laureates/2016/">2016 Nobel Peace Prize to president Juan Manuel Santos</a>, whom the newspaper El Tiempo describes as “<a href="http://www.eltiempo.com/politica/proceso-de-paz/datos-del-presidente-santos-por-premio-nobel-de-paz/16721703">a warrior who has always sought peace</a>”. </p>
<p>Gabo’s magical realism could only have emerged in just such a country, a place of fierce contradictions, surprise endings, pain, grief, and exuberance. As one commentator <a href="https://twitter.com/DeLasAguasLaura/status/784398579905552384">wrote on Twitter</a>: “Such are life’s ironies; we now have two Nobel laureates in Colombia: one of literature, in a country that does not read, and one of peace, in a country that does not forgive.”</p>
<p><div data-react-class="Tweet" data-react-props="{"tweetId":"784398579905552384"}"></div></p>
<p>(The average number of books read per person in Colombia every year is very low. According to the National Department of Statistics, 13 millions of Colombians read <a href="http://www.mineducacion.gov.co/1621/article-122248.html">just one book per year</a>.)</p>
<p>A rereading of García Márquez vividly reveals his views of war (“it was easier to start a war than to end”, he wrote in One Hundred Years of Solitude), and on the most important issues in the Havana negotiations (“LAND, INFLUENCE OF CLERGY, FAMILY”). </p>
<p>As a nation, we welcome the Nobel Peace award to Colombia if it means the advent of reconciliation. But I have no doubt that Gabo remains the country’s favourite winner, because he illuminates the path for unity and happiness for Colombians.</p><img src="https://counter.theconversation.com/content/66840/count.gif" alt="The Conversation" width="1" height="1" />
<p class="fine-print"><em><span>Diógenes Fajardo Valenzuela does not work for, consult, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has disclosed no relevant affiliations beyond their academic appointment.</span></em></p>From the yellow butterflies of his ‘Hundred Years of Solitude’ to his Nobel acceptance speech, author Gabriel García Márquez remains ever present in his country’s peace process.Diógenes Fajardo Valenzuela, Professor of Latin American Literature, Universidad Nacional de ColombiaLicensed as Creative Commons – attribution, no derivatives.