Saturday, May 7, 2011

Gigantomastia Planetsuzy

Josefina Garcia-Marruz Badía (Fina García Marruz) (Havana, April 28, 1923) Biography and bibliography of





SILENT CINEMA


Not that it lacks sound
, is that it has

silence.





***** THE AWAKENING


Waking

you become that which it was

the name by which we are called, on waking

one becomes
insurance
lossless
to self
the
one
recalling what they forget the tiger


dove into her sweet awakening.



*****

LOVES CASTA SURFACE AND SAD







know who you are. Pindar

surface Ama caste and sad.
The depth is what is says. Lilac
Beach, the dress that the poor and happy holiday
than now exists.

know who you are, that is to be the one you were,
to yesterday, not tomorrow, insists time,
know anything knowing that when you're
has to be what you wanted.

God does not look you know you're
-light is an illusion, madness,
but also the image of you that prefer

what you love becomes valid, and since
so, only seeks
your mask is true.



*****

AND I KNOW YOU ARE BUT DARKNESS


And yet I know they are dark
house lights that I hold, I grabbed
a screen, a deep iron
and yet I know they are darkness.

Because I've seen a beach that is not forgotten,
the hand of my mother, inside a car,
understand the meanings of the night,
because I've seen a beach will not forget.

When suddenly the world goes that accent
different foreign intimacy becomes surprised, not omitting
is hidden, let alone reveal,

understand that is the heart of those days
extinct spotted tremor coming
the reason of my time on earth.



*****

AY, CUBA, CUBA ...




Ay Cuba, Cuba, that little music now, from the heart, I know a secret that was mine and not yours, you who you are because you do not 've ever met, listen, do not leave behind those strange as a provincial actor excited by a step that dazzles with costumes worn in theater, remember the blue cover hilly back away, remember the "rocked" like a cradle on the leaf, and "go and see" in and out like a sea the smell of jasmine at night, remember your neat dress "evening": do not go after those strange, when you open your eyes and you have dried the soul and haggard face I loved. Upright, modest, brave, alas, will not be our only daughter's mother never, Cuba, Cuba, crazy me, gentle madness? Alas, I could protect your own sounds cantándote knowledge "color of arcane", could protect your own slow speed your sling! I could tell you: do not upload to that high mountain that has to foot all the goods of the earth glittered unlucky, you have nothing knew, secretly and alone as high palm desert flower. Sounds that could protect me and now I hear rocked as if it lacked a little longer for you to go to die. Escape, escape, ball fish, hummingbirds, fly away, all possessions, all certainties, all denials to all doubts, escapes, cefirillo, the deep blue black cloud. Blue is your poise and your secret blue. Escapes, inmate like look, air and space yours! 0 jumps, crazy, taunt, "My goodness," are soft, get lost, rush, bee, honey, mockingbird, Jilguerillas, to Savannah mottled crimson, the "verdeclaro." Not touch you, glorious body home. Because you were always "Eden" of the first looks I saw you, "Eden" of the trova humble beginning and end, paradise: nothing but grabbed it, nothing but this understanding, distance, nothing but that this was not just another something you could not understand well. Dreaming modest, do not touch. I know you leave and come back, swing! MECES you and me MECES, cadence! You go "away, but not very far", here in there. I know that your palms are not paid homage to the Son, but its Escape! So I ask now: recognizes ! Returns, Ave, with the Salutation!

*****

VISITORS


1


When Time is gone, one returns
as the childhood home, some
days, faces, events that were able to tour the
path of our heart. Let us return
weary steps
ever simpler and slower,
the same day, the same friend, same old sun
. And we have the wonder
blind to the other, our eyes clear, wherein the memory
stopped
as a painter, a hand gesture,
a smile, a short way of greeting. Then slowly
the world becomes impenetrable,
eyes do not understand, the hand and does not touch the food
unnameable, the real.



2


One goes up the stairs of his house lost
(
are no longer any place), someone called in a voice
dear, familiar .
But you do not need to answer.
The single voice calling, enough
as if nothing could harm you in the hallway
immense.
rain can not get wet, never tires
surround a favorite day.
One knocks on the door of the house that was
might hold in our hands
mortals, like a shy comfort.



3


who used to visit, which was
most beloved of all, soft
the room becomes simple, everyday
more real and more mild and smoke.
When knocked on the door?
can not remember. I was there it was!
and will never go away or you can go.
No memory brings
words of farewell.
can only become the door of a noise, a call that world
delete, ignore and defeat.



4


What
whimsical and exquisite hand-plotted, chose this gesture enduring
him out of nothing, like a god to shine forever
other joy? Do you participate
give you the eternal
you left hand full
humble treasure? In its neglect
happy teenager "spilled the oil? What mystery was
yours, pure instant, silent
chosen day?
For they are becoming blurred
and you stay as a fixed star with higher power
eternity.



5


And when the weather becomes unclean face,
a life we \u200b\u200blove in their time
some to give, for ever more real than your present truth
, we will see
when that fire around him,
when the weather was just a fragment of a body
more splendid, invisible.
Every man is the guardian of something lost.
Something that only he has only seen. And that buried
world, that mystery
of our youth, we defend
as a great hope.



6


And reality is what has not been! All

appearance is a mysterious apparition. In the autumn branch
not just the result but in the evening
promise as long as its intact form
offered a moment to our happiness. For every full
is the promise
splendid death, and visitation of the angel
in the face of the youngest
we all knew it would go before
smile I chose the night.



7


In that vague delirium
room and brought the blue portal
people from your childhood, your silence you opened
a distant mysterious dinner.
fell the thick veil of
eyes and waited all night to open.
broke bread with a blanket of snow.
With the shoulders of the pastor ran away, turning his face
when it was night, everything had changed
yet
in quiet sleep sheep farm.



8


Were not burning
your heart when he told us the Scriptures?

(The pilgrims Enmaús)

word mysterious guest was me. Guest
is coming from far away,
some people will never be seen. Guest
the next night,
touches the latch of the door and the threshold
all sparkles like snow. Guest
is someone sitting at our table
only for one night, and no hits
but already heard what his mouth said. Guest
is that rejoices in his face and shining
our bread with your hands, and fail to remember
his name. Guest
is to be based at dawn.



9


There is a wind rose Where the WAS.
Walter de la Mere

Oh ye lamps fall
more fragrant than all the summers! Why
has to be that we become
over time, more real, less ephemeral than the one who went
your lights pale? Why
desert dust, the agony with weapons
beautiful, there are only
the glow of victory? Far
is all due. In another case
space beyond the face that sunk
dying glory and blinded
with the wind carrying the flags
splendid fleeing. Fiera is any victory.



10


Friend, I most loved,
come to light of dawn.

How has the fixed time that a smart look

strange tenderness, like a sun, blurred!
music as possible around your face,
time as a thief took only the plunder, our faithful tenderness
met you in
as the fire burned, not the livid
ash finishes. And where others see
wrinkle of scorn, I played
teen costume, child
snow almost at hand, it was only
our privilege to watch you
with the face of your resurrection.



11


Since I Have walk'd with you-through shady lanes ...
Keats

Who does not know that path in shadow,
that continuous talk
interrupting each other friend, in the joyful
dialogue to the door of the house ,
and dinner served? Who has not heard the night
footprints in the sidewalk
become more opaque as they cross the grass
brings us to the friend, the good yet? Who
, late, does not cost much and whispers goodbye
generous desires, inexplicable
such, under the cold stars?



12


... laetificat Juventutem meam qui ...

Only you, beasts, clear trees,
can follow! But man is eternal. Wild
privilege of death, our only inheritance
while the sun pours its light
survivor on that face
proud to be fleeting, with canned cycles, and that green
, eternal! It was going
the glory of the most beloved faces,
and tornadoes, as blind wave, while Incorruptible body

waited and we could not hold, crying in the loss
light, voices,
believed and what I find is heading. Oh
real, the world
mystery of our youth, that awaits us!
We have been promised joy.
We are promised to return.
returns are what you, oh always knew.
But not like now, my friend.



*****

A FACE, A RUMOR, A TRUE MOMENT ...


A face, a rumor
instantly deafen a faithful suddenly what looked
and then live
first time that has already been distant.

is like a slow and lazy lover who is always late
time, my
and soft golden rain or loathing
sum dazzling purple night.

And I return a quiet house,
sweetest couples dancing, artisans fingers
abyss.

And blind me rapt gaze at the magical light

question of a sound that is different and that is the same.



*****


IF MY POEMS


If my poems were lost
all the small truth that shines
they stay the same in a gray stone on the water
or on a green grass.

If all were lost poems
naming would fire endless
clean of all dross, and the eternal poetry
roaring back again, with the dawns.



*****


NO, NO, MEMORY ...


No, no,
memory of the last day you come on this sun and sod saint.
not I come to rely on both
refuge of what grows well in dismissal.

But I remained your weather and my stubbornness
fall, returning again to rise up, not worn braids

my dust and boosting your light breaks.

sick of me I'm not that much
glut does not support my little light up. More
me yesterday was your day: find no sorrow.

Back to the past is my prayer ...
But what about the smell of life?
Hold your promise, not the fire.



*****


THE HEROES OF THE RESISTANCE


( In the plain, in cities:
to all who were martyred.)

God, you'll will not to those who suffered terribly
for justice, the buried alive
those who gouged eyes or testicles were ripped
, the
threatened in the most vulnerable, women or children, do not you'll
the ephemeral glory of a name is repeated
vaguely patriotic commemorations,
a day that served to go to beaches or the student
meet with his girlfriend,
you do not put his portrait on the door of the workshop or
you shall call his name to a school, you do not
these awards will give them beautiful, but certainly
definitely insufficient,
a glorious banner that moves crowds
new heroics necessary
as this, to be both, it is still so little
to the irrepressible demand of the heart,
and still would be indebted to them for justice
of love must be another,
the you want the wife to the husband,
the friend for friend,
brother for sister,
mother to child, you'll
you all able to satisfy the highest requirement
and nothing less than this,
When will the infinite sweetness unrequited love
disappointed a thousand times, you'd expect
vaguely in the face of every teenager,
the time of burning love, time
which he said the poet of war amputees
they will return home healthy, comfort
be profound, revealing surprising
how comforted we had not been before,
the time to fill the void of content and emptiness of unfulfilled
, when the said
always waited for the heart,
because at the time of the agony
could not be comforted enough to know that would not be in vain, and all these phrases
example that does not die
and that the hero is not dead,
because the hero dies and dies
always alone because he had to have a moment of utter loneliness, agony
agony of body and spirit, which
a moment had nothing to offer
history or parties, the sacro instant
why have you forsaken me,
but that moment, my God, you will not forget, Love not
forget the love, the Beloved
the beloved, one to one
you saved your steps, do not hide your face, you will do
lay next to your chest the day of return,
death of heroes you do not
the commemoration with a day of mourning
but eternity of joy, I'll
not bliss that offers pure
and they would see God in its purity,
or the peaceful
who promised they would possess the land,
or the weeping of those who said they would be comforted
,
but the highest bliss, the last
the promise, but blessed
those who suffered for justice
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.








Tuesday, May 3, 2011

My Hasband Rape My Sister

One does not forget us

As I commented in a previous post, the Megustaloquehaces we have grown.
We extended family, and now we are 3 characters.

Here you have a small presentation for you to know something more about us.

- Manu - Our computer and passionate about new technologies.
- Miquel - Our photographer and kitchenettes.
- and I, Asun, the girl in the group, which writes, reads, learns, and collects information, which opened one day, this your home for you, for us to enjoy your learning do.

all know that when a family grows, represents a series of changes, improvements, restructure, sort, clean ... and many more finish-AR.
All these changes need: desire, time, effort, investment, good friends, love ...
But we also believe that unity is strength and good times. So let's have fun.

We admire, displaying, and advertising all you can your work, but we had to celebrate our 1 st anniversary with you all, making experiments handmade-(mother responsibility of mine) wanted to do things and realize what happen to us, and do, what is said to do, we are in the stage slowly and hope that you like.
We have everything needed: ideas, enthusiasm, material, some knowledge of computers and photography, eat well and get enough rest, and have many friends in social networks.

to our growth, the month of April has been chaotic, with almost no posts and accumulating things to tell, but has helped us realize why nosgustaloquehacéis.
always have time for us.

Here you have an example of our adventures as craftsmen, we have drawn, cut and paste, thread has cost us, we stuck with needles (still difficult to use the thimble), we have discovered the fun of felt and we bought our first patterned fabrics.

In short, the gifts and the draw. Let us not forget
;).

Saturday, April 30, 2011

Community Service For Court Sample

Josefina García-Marruz Badía (Fina García Marruz)




BIBOGRAFÍA:

Marruz García, Fina (1923 -). Poet, essayist and literary critic Cuban born in Havana in 1923. Author of a splendid production printed on the same brilliance that shine with its amazing capacity for creative writing and analytical acumen and penetration, is considered one of the leading voices of Cuban intellectuals in the second half of the century XX. It was one of the members of the famous group of poets "Origins", gathered around the early sixties and established, among others, by Eliseo Diego, Angel Gaztelu and Cintio Vitier (husband of the poet habanera).

Leaning from his early youth to the knowledge of the humanities and the cultivation of literary creation, it soon became known as a poet through compositions that deserve the praise of future Nobel laureate Juan Ramón Jiménez English. Fina García Marruz itself had the model of his early poems the author of Platero and I, as left evident in the poems which opened its literature, published in the early forties under the generic title of Poems (Havana: Ucar Garcia, 1942). The astonishing precocity of the writer (who, at the time of giving the press is his debut, had not yet reached twenty years of age) was even more striking when, in the course of that year, 1942, Fina Garcia joined the Editorial Board of the journal Clavileño first regular broadcasting body launched by the poets of the group "Origins", which was maintained during his brief lifetime (1942-1943). Since then, almost all their creative and essay should be related to another publication, the journal Origins.

Five years after publishing his first poetry collection, Fina García Marruz returned to the shelves of bookstores with a poetic sequel entitled Transfiguration of Jesus on the Mount (Havana: Origins, 1947 ), a work consisting of a single large composition in which the concerns were religious poetic formulation of the author, also present, for those same dates, in his text essay entitled "The exterior of poetry," which was released between the pages of the flagship journal of literary group to which he belonged. At the same time, the writer-in Havana continued to disseminate that and other cultural publications like-new poems, in the early fifties, gave rise to the first major collection of his poetic task, printed in book form under the title From the looks lost 1944-1950 (Havana: Ucar Garcia, 1951).

Fina García's poetry covers the three coordinates Marruz issues that broadly govern the poetic creation of other authors of the group "Origins": the religious concerns, the use of memory as a source of poetic material and the search for national identity-through-lyrical creation can be analyzed as a "poetry of the Cuban." These three thematic (and very pointed, the last of them) are also present in the following the author's Havana collection of poems, published when they were about to spend twenty years since the release of his latest collection of poems. Visitation is (Havana: National Union of Writers and Artists of Cuba, 1970), work in which not only provided his new compositions, but also a comprehensive collection of previous lyrical production.

Thereafter, Fina García Marruz poetic creation continued to alternate with the exercise of literary criticism. Some of his new compositions, along with other poems from his previous books, seen the light in the mid-eighties in the pages of Selected Poems (La Habana: Letras Cubanas, 1984), selected work, and prefaced by Jorge Yglesias. Three years later, in collaboration with her husband Cintio Vitier, the poet of Havana published a volume entitled Trip to Nicaragua (ID ID, 1987), which were printed some of his new compositions poetic, and, after three years, returned to the shelves of bookstores with an interesting sample of his latest poetry of maturity, published under the title credits Charlot (Matanzas: Ediciones Vigia Writer's House, 1990 .) Overall, at all stages that make up the fruitful career Fina García Marruz poetic interest can be seen the reflection of the everyday things, your choice of an intimate tone, their deep religious yearnings, his concern for the passage of time and in relation to this temporal transience, his conviction that all reality is composed of elements immediately precarious and transient.

In his role as essayist, Fina García Marruz has also actively collaborated with her husband, with whom he has published several volumes as needed for the study of English American Literature and Critical Studies (1964) Themes and Marti (Havana: Cuban Collection Department, National Library José Martí, 1969). Considered one of the world's leading experts in literature of the nineteenth century Cuba (and, especially, in the figure and work of the great Cuban patriot José Martí), has also studied with analytical clarity dazzling works of other Cuban authors (as José Lezama Lima) and some of the greats of American literature of all time, such as Francisco de Quevedo, Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, Gustavo Adolfo Becquer, Ramón Gómez de la Serna and the aforementioned clubs Moguer poet, Juan Ramón Jiménez .

*****


BIBLIOGRAPHY:


Poetry :

Poems, 1942.
Transfiguration of Jesus on the Mount, 1947.
The lost looks, 1951.
Visitations, 1970.
Travel to Nicaragua with Cintio Vitier, 1987. Selected Poems
, 1984.
credits Charlot, 1990 (Critics Award 1991).
The Rembrandt de l'Hermitage, 1992.
Old tunes, Caracas, 1993.
basic notions and some elegies, Caracas, 1994.
downtown Havana, 1997.
poetry anthology, 1997.
Poetry
chosen, with Cintio Vitier; Editorial Norma SA, Bogotá, 1999.

Essay:

Critical Studies, with Cintio Vitier, 1964.
Poems of Juana Borrero, 1967, 1977.
Martí's verses, 1968 .
Topics Marti, with Cintio Vitier, 1969.
Bécquer or light mist, 1971.
Hidden Flower Cuban poetry, with Cintio Vitier, 1978.
Speaking of poetry, 1986 (Critics Award 1987). Topics
Marti, second series, 1982.
literature Newsprint in Havana, with Cintio Vitier and Roberto Friol, 1991.
Marti Topics (third series), 1993.
Family Origins, 1997.


Other critical issues:

Poems and letters, with Cintio Vitier, 1977.

Anti-imperialist texts José Martí, 1990.

Where Can I Find South Park In Japanese

Achilles Nazo (Caracas, May 17, 1920, between Caracas and Valencia, 25 April 1976) Biography and bibliography




THE STORY OF A HORSE THAT WAS PRETTY GOOD

I met a horse that is fed gardens. We were all very happy with the custom of horse riding and also because they eat garden, when one looked at her eyes things looked in all the colors in the horse's eyes. The horse also liked to look at you with eyes of colors, and best of the matter is, that in the eyes of the horse that ate gardens, were all things that the horse looked, but of course more beautiful, because they looked like if they had seven years. I sometimes hope that the horse was looking for where my school. He understood things and saw that, and then my sister Elba and I went to school through the eyes of the horse.

What so nice horse

to us when more we enjoyed seeing were those Sunday morning they were playing the tattoo and that horse came around colored carpet dressing was happening everywhere.

I think this horse was very affectionate. That horse had a face that would have liked him for a walk in one, but who was going to ride in that town on a horse like that, because the people there he was sorry, there was no apparent clothing.

How nice would that horse with that horse was Miranda who rose against the government because was inspired by the tricolor of his lips and the blonde from her eyes.

That horse did look nice, they were playing there that tattoo and the President of the Society of Gardeners who brought him to breakfast with the public square.

What horse so considerate. That horse could be very hungry, but when brought to gardeners ate the square, he knew that the people had a lot of people in need of everything that was served there, and did not eat but to the musicians. And the musicians, delighted. As the horse was filled with flowers inside, there they were inspired and played the music went inside the horse.

Well, as the horse was fed gardens and had all the colors of the flowers they ate, people passing by and saw him waiting for his food gardeners cast , said, look at me that horse is so beautiful butterflies there being frightened out of the corner.

and the horse knew that said all that, and stayed there very still without moving to also say that the horse was too good to live in a village so ugly, and some doctors who spent what they said is that what seemed the horse is that it was painted in the village.

was so beautiful that horse!

Everyone was very kind to the horse so beautiful, and more ladies and girls of the village, they were very happy with the horse that fed gardens. Do not see that as a result of that power so that the horse threw after the ass were pink?.

So when the ladies wanted to decorate your home or a marriage, had nothing but leave the middle of the street and pick up some of the beautiful roses that the horse returned to the village gardens.

Once in the town was declared World War and a general watching the beautiful gardens ate horse, mounted him and took him to the world war was there, telling : looking horse, forget those gardens and seafood and get the service of such and such, I am going to defend the principles and such, and institutions and so on, and legacy I do not know who, and good horses, all those enemas that you know what you defend.

just got there a world war, another general who also defended the heritage and other things and threw a shot into the general who was on this side of the checkpoint (*), and who killed the horse was fed by gardens, which fell to the ground throwing a lot of birds in the wound because the general had struck to the heart.

The war had finally come to an end because if it had not been to sell to the battlefield.

After the war ended, at that point that the horse fell dead eating gardens, the land was covered with flowers. After coming back around for a village that had no name and was very lonely and had gone to travel the world looking girlfriend because she was quite sad, do not you see even the dog was killed with that of defending the principles and such?, and had found a girlfriend she was very poor and had no grace.

Seeing this mess flower that was there in the field where the horse had died eating gardens, the man took one that was to his liking and put it in the chest.

When he came to town he found his way to a girl who saw him with his flower on the chest, said to herself: how young so delicate that is placed on the chest so that flower nice. There are things that are pretty sad too, as the flower which stood in the chest that young man who comes there. That should be a very decent person and maybe a poet.

What she was saying in it on this matter, the man did not listen with the ear, but as I heard it was with the flower on his chest.

That's not grace anyone can hear things through a flower that has been placed on the chest. The point is that one is a good man and recognize that there are no major differences between a flower placed on the chest of a man and the wounding of innocent dying in the field a poor horse.

should he do, he gave a pretty girl that the only thing he had in his life, gave him the flower the girl she used one to hear things: who with a gift as well not immediately falls for a girl?.

The day we were married, as her father was a man very rich because he had a shave for sale, gave him about 25 old boards, two-wheeled cart and a gold coin .

With twenty-five tables of the flower man was made a cart and he painted a horse cart and the gold coin bought a basket of flowers and gave them to eat the horse painted on the wagon and that was the source of a story that I think I have ever had and began: "I met a horse that fed gardens."

(*) Excise: police checkpoint.

*****

THE CHILD I WAS

My childhood was poor, but was never sad was rather calm and thoughtful in many ways was in reality as beautiful as I relive the memory. To populate the fantasy I had the dear friend of my grandmother in Castilian of colorful island of El Hierro, so extraordinary could tell stories like his journey from Tenerife to La Guaira in a sailboat lashed by furious winds of the Atlantic.

She lived with my two uncles who were bakers and had to sleep during the day because they worked at night, so the house was always plunged into a silence of siesta, suitable for My grandmother told in low voice their long histories and also hear old songs from other lands, that she had while stripping his parents, his voice almost whispered. With it I also had my father, who was a simple and poetic temperament, cyclist who loved the Sunday excursions to the countryside to which I always accompanied him.

Some Sundays we would walk to Avila and evening were returning laden with flowers, berries, peaches or plants of anise and rosemary. Sometimes the rides were in the city.

In the morning we would walk to the Plaza Bolivar or to the Mercado de San Jacinto, drank ice cream in "La France''and if we bored the tattoo morning, we climbed the tram Central or Paradise, or we were going to Sabana Grande, which was my favorite ride because the route from Central Station made a fantastic double-decker tram. In the days when I was six years had many English in Caracas, the birthday of King Alfonso XIII was mine, the English put their big red and yellow flags in the windows. My father then took me to walk and told me that the houses were feathering because it was my birthday. By the time I entered the school of Misia Rosa where I learned to read. When I was bigger, I went to school Mr. Paul Meza, who was next to a candy store when they leave school to seek cuts we got into that sweet pastry generously gave us. In that school I made friends with Hector Poleo inseparable and his brother Manuel Antonio. With them and other boys sometimes we retired to the Guaire, in whose waters it was still possible to swim, and whose banks were planted with vegetables by Chinese gardeners who we stole the most spicy radishes or lettuce as those fluffy. At that time I learned the secret life of Caracas, in daring excursions along the creeks and Catuche Caroata, under whose bridges, tunnels and vaulted nearly stabbed entire city, discovering the most mysterious meanderings of privacy. Other evenings after leaving school, I went to the Bakery Solís, where my uncles worked bakers many years where I became a "pet" of the bakers. There I spent hours watching them work on the lathe and the trough, or out of the oven the big strokes "hot bread" falling in a basket, filling the atmosphere of the most noble of all odors. I helped in small ways and browsing in the pastry department, I learned many secrets of the office, and I also often indigestible.

Since the time, when my grandmother and my aunt and uncle lived in a large apartment building inhabited by almost all Arabs, Martinicans and Trinitarians, I attracted foreign languages. I soon made friends with a black candy popular Trinidadian origin who put his basket of candy every day in the 1st corner of partners, and with it in my house without knowing it, I learned my first lessons in English, also rescued by a seller toast he had his car with wings steps of El Calvario, (Dad was stunned with surprise to find an afternoon in the mail talking to some American tourists who had taken me as cicerone. Would I then twelve years.). Still I have some beautiful memories. I remember for example the hazy afternoon when Lindbergh flew over Caracas and how I ventured to come alone to Paradise to see the airplane, it was said, had landed at the Hippodrome.

that was also one of the most bitter evenings of my life, because a police officer following the most long-standing tradition of the Caracas police of all time, climbing to surprise one of the gates Hippodrome to see the airplane, I was arrested and almost dragged me to the Chief of San Juan, where with seven children locked in a room full of junk, I was crying until night, when after lashing the civil own boss with a foetid, let us all. I also remember the events of 1928. I lived then in front of the train station on a street parallel to rails, but at a higher level than the trains could see the top. I have a sister, Justina, who was then a girl flapper fashion in 1928, when the low-waisted, short skirts, and cut hair to Garçonne. That was my sister and also a great dancer in charleston at dances enlivened with player piano or gramophone.

That was the year of the great student uprising. The students were arrested en masse, and for livestock wagons, carriages of those who are homeless, they were sent in bulk to Valencia to then refer them to the castle of Puerto Cabello. When students train stopped at the station in Palo Grande, while the machine is changed, all the girls in our neighborhood would gather on the street where we lived, for from that height entertain students crammed into their cars. I remember my sister Justina throwing candy and flowers, and dedicating them from below the loudest blowing kisses. When the train was leaving, they put a mourn and boys choir singing goodbye to them.

Another attraction of my house at that time was the emergence of radio in Caracas. My father became a fierce radiófilo and was one of the first Caracas to hear American Schenectady station (the first was established in the world) using a crystal set of his own making. The radio passion and generosity of my father that everyone who taught him to ask the simple technique for making a receiver, attracted to our house to many people young and interesting, full of new ideas and knowledge, with I discovered the world of books.