Daniel Alarcón

There was a problem: No one cared about human rights anymore, not at home or abroad. They cared about growth--hoped for and celebrated in all the newspapers, invoked by zealous bureaucrats in every self-serving television interview. On this matter, the filmmaker was agnostic--he came from money, and couldn't see the urgency. Like many of his ilk, he sometimes confused poverty (which must be eradicated!) with folklore (which must be preserved!), but it was a genuine confusion, without a hint of ill intention, which only made it more infuriating.

Luz's manner of speaking made it clear that she had no idea what she might say next. It wasn't that she made things up, strictly speaking--only that facts were merely a point of departure for her.

You don't sound like a scientist; you sound like a poet." Rey smiled. "Can I be both?" "But you'd rather be a poet.""Who wouldn't?" he said.

Nepotism is the lowest and least imaginative form of corruption.

And what does he feel?""He feels uneasy. A little afaid. Angry. Oddly, a hint of pride.""Good," Henry said. "ANd where are you?""Backstage."Henry shook his head gravely. "THere's no such thing as backstage. The play begins, and there's only the world it dramatizes. Now, where are you?""With my father, the president. In his chambers.""Right. With me. Your father. And now--this is important--do you love me?"Nelson considered this; or rather, Nelson, as Alejo, considered this."Yes," he said after a moment. "I do.""Good. Remember that. In every scene--even when you hate me, you also love me. That's why it hurts. Got it?"Nelson said that he did."Are you sure?""Yes.""Good. Because it does hurt," Henry said. "DOn't forget that. It's supposed to. Always.

That morning, he was afraid of becoming old, and it was a very specific kind of old age he feared, one which had nothing to do with the number of years since your birth. He feared the premature old age of missed opportunities.

The phone collapsed distances, just as the radio did, and, like the radio, it relied on the miracle of imagination: one had to concentrate deeply, plunge headlong into it.

The city was lovely. There could be no place in the world to which he belonged so completely.That was why he'd always dreamed of leaving, and why he'd always been so afraid to go.