“A story is not like a road to follow … it’s more like a house. You go inside and stay there for a while, wandering back and forth and settling where you like and discovering how the room and corridors relate to each other, how the world outside is altered by being viewed from these windows. And you, the visitor, the reader, are altered as well by being in this enclosed space, whether it is ample and easy or full of crooked turns, or sparsely or opulently furnished. You can go back again and again, and the house, the story, always contains more than you saw the last time. It also has a sturdy sense of itself of being built out of its own necessity, not just to shelter or beguile you.”
She is no longer; some gold bracelets, a broken pitcher, and the profile of my son remain. But isn’t memory the presence of the heart? She lives on. I have my strange name, which is hers.and the memories, unwithering, ours. In the old house in La Vibora, or under the huge porch in Santa Fe, I learn her word and her silence. And the best part of me.
from the preface to “La Noche” by Excilia Saldaña
“Music is not limited to the world of sound. There exists a music of the visual world”
“Yo cruzo en patines de ida y regreso. Ese cruzar en patines me interesa. Con Texas hice un cruce en patines literario. Festiva, cruel, violenta, amorosa: no es de un tinte o de otro. También es verdad que no cruzo nunca. Estoy siempre ahí.”
Carmen Buollosa en ‘buensalvaje’
Soy un alma desnuda en estos versos,
alma desnuda que angustiada y sola
va dejando sus pétalos dispersos.