Zuberino

“He had a heart attack here in Montevideo, barely lived to tell the tale. There is something like a Bermuda Triangle here, it’s not to be underestimated. It’s kind of the B-side of the River Plate, the side that’ll eat you right up. If you can’t handle it, it’ll kill you. You have to be careful with Uruguay, especially if you come thinking it’s like the countryside in Argentina only everybody’s good, there’s no corruption, no Peronism, you can smoke pot on the street, the cute little country where everyone is a good person and friendly and all that bullshit. If you’re not paying attention, Uruguay will fuck you in the ass.”

“Enzo!” said Clara”
― Pedro Mairal, La uruguaya

“Sarjomdih, which for about sixty years was another nondescript dot on a map. That part of the Chhotanagpur area which is now formally known as the Purbi Singbhum district. Sarjomdih, where most of the population is Santhal and the rest are Munda; all of them are followers of Sarna, the aboriginal faith of the Chhotanagpur area. Saijomdih, which stands atop the mineral-rich core of the Indian subcontinent. Sarjomdih, outside whose southern frontiers a mine and a copper factory were established, where the Copper Town sprang up, and which was now gradually threatening to swallow all of Sarjomdih. Sarjomdih, which bore the repercussions of development, the nationalization of the mine and the factory, the opening up of two more quarries, and the confiscation of the villagers' properties so roads and living quarters could be built. Sarjomdih, whose men were given jobs as unskilled laborers in the mines and the factory in return for their fecund land. Sarjomdih, which is a standing testimony to the collapse of an agrarian Adivasi society and the dilution of Adivasi culture, the twin gifts of industrialization and progress. Sarjomdih, which within sixty years acquired all the signs of urbanity, just like the Copper Town: concrete houses; cable television; two-wheelers; a hand-pump; a narrow, winding tarmac that everyone called the 'main road'; and a primary school...”
― Hansda Sowvendra Shekhar, The Adivasi Will Not Dance

“To translate is never simple. To translate is to betray at the borders, it’s to cheat, it’s to trade one sentence for another. To translate is one of the only human activities in which one is required to lie about the details to convey the truth at large. To translate is to risk understanding better than others that the truth about a word is not single, but double, even triple, quadruple, or quintuple. To translate is to distance oneself from God’s truth, which, as everyone knows or believes, is single.”
― David Diop, At Night All Blood is Black

“Walls that had been attentively decorated with whatever was at hand; a home lined with plaster and a molding painted blue and red; little ornaments that hung on the walls, testifying to a loving care whose foundations had now been eradicated; traces of female-wisdom-hath-builded-her-house, paying close attention to myriad details whose time now had passed; an order intelligible to someone and a disorder in which somebody at his convenience had found his way; remnants of pots and pans that had been collected in a haphazard fashion, as need arose, touched by very private joys and woes that a stranger could not understand; tatters that made sense to someone who was used to them—a way of life whose meaning was lost, diligence that had reached its negation, and a great, very deep muteness had settled upon the love, the bustle, the bother, the hopes, and the good and less-good times, so many unburied corpses.

But we were already tired of seeing things like this, we had no more interest in such things.”
― S. Yizhar