down a lonely street Himenia was going, celibate of not a few calendars. He was met by a young assailant and I bet he threatened her with a snarl as he told her. “Give me your bag.” Fearfully, Hymenia handed it over. “Now,” the offender asked, “give me her cell phone.” She answered, no longer afraid: “It’s 003-957432. I’m always at home in the afternoons.”
However: what is a belduke? It is a double-edged knife with a pointed blade. Uncle Laureano, a popular character from northern Coahuila, boasted to a friend from his town that he had gone to a wedding in San Antonio, Texas, attended by 20,000 guests. “Ah, bastard,” the friend was surprised. “Well, the cake must have been very big.”
The uncle looked back at the kiosk of the square, as to establish a comparison. Her lady saw that and warned him: “Try yourself, Laureano. Then you won’t have a belduque to break it.”
I celebrated the admission of Mario Vargas Llosa to the French Academy. This is the greatest honor, except for the Nobel Prize, that a writer can receive. His entrance speech had the elegant wisdom of the one who delivered it. If anything one can disagree with his statement – elegant too, due to the courtesy that the occasion forced him to do – in the sense that French literature is the best.
Certainly Molière and Victor Hugo are exalted, but it is impossible to set aside, even for the sake of civility, the greatness of other literatures: English with Shakespeare and Dickens; the Russian with Dostoevsky and Tolstoy; the Spanish with Cervantes and San Juan de la Cruz; the Italian with Dante and. with Dante. It will be better to remember the sentence of the author of Les miserables: “Art is the region of equals, and the masterpiece is equal to the masterpiece.”
Like the great Peruvian, I too -all proportions kept- love French culture. I lived in Paris not when Paris was still Paris-Paris is always Paris-but when I was still me. I keep memories of being young, memories that have not aged, of that city that is La Ciudad, the city from which the world has learned the most. I received my first lessons in the Racine language, at the Ateneo Fuente Glorioso high school, in my city, Saltillo, from the lips of a beautiful and young teacher who lengthened them when pronouncing the French ü.
We also extended ours to receive an imaginary kiss from the beautiful teacher. I then enrolled in the Alliance Française, and thus was able to read Madame Bovary, by Flaubert, Lettres de mon mouilin and Le petit chose, by Daudet, and Maupassant’s stories. I did not dare with the profusions of Balzac or Proust. Later, as a law student, he would read in class, continuously, the abstruse texts by Planiol and Josserand. I am therefore indebted to France and its culture. There is no one in the civilized world who is not. I admire Vargas Llosa for his lyrics and for his passionate life.
On a certain occasion I attended a dinner that Nina Zambrano, a kind and talented lady, gave him in Monterrey, and I was impressed by the kindness and kindness of the great Peruvian. At the end of the meeting he told me as we said goodbye: “I really enjoyed his conversation.” For me those words were worth almost as much -almost- as the dream kiss from my beautiful French teacher. A guy passed by a pile of cement and got scared when he heard a voice coming out of it. “Don’t be scared,” he heard her say, “I’m a man like you.
I found an oddly shaped lamp and rubbed it. A genius from the East came out of it and offered to grant me a wish. I’ve always liked women, so I asked her to turn me into a stud. The unfortunate genius was wrong in spelling.” END.
LOOKOUT
By Armando SOURCES AGUIRRE.
At this time of year, after-dinner conversation continues after dinner in the kitchen of the Potrero. Last night Don Abbondio told the story of that man who was very cold. He was always cold, the wretch, even if it was hot. He spent his time in his bed, wrapped in the covers, or sitting in an armchair covered with a thick quilt. Still he kept shivering.
He finally died, and went to Heaven, because because of the cold that he felt continuously, he had never committed any sin. But in the heavenly abode he continued to tremble. He complained to San Pedro: the temperature of the place, he told him that it was freezing. He had to send it to another place where it was not cold. The heavenly gatekeeper told him:
-The only one where it is always hot is hell.
And he sent it there.
After a few days, San Pedro was curious to know how the cold was doing in hell. He knocked on the door and Lucifer opened it. From inside a trembling voice was heard:
– Close that door!
We all laugh. At that moment someone arrives at the house. And all of us, amused, say in unison:
– Close that door!
See you tomorrow!…
We recommend you read:
- The wealth of Sinaloa
- The Culiacán we want..
- Historical failure of lopezobradorism. Why march on Sunday February 26?
- The serious consequences of the Chum effect at Semarnat
- judicial independence
MANGANITAS
By AFA.
“. Once again AMLO makes the president of the Supreme Court go to the shore.”.
In that action there is malice.
Out of place.
to the one who wants to shore
López is to Justice.
#Politics #worse