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Forest of Noise: ...
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by Mosab Abu Toha (Goodreads Author)
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Roberto Bolaño
“Even on the poorest streets people could be heard laughing. Some of these streets were completely dark, like black holes, and the laughter that came from who knows where was the only sign, the only beacon that kept residents and strangers from getting lost.”
Roberto Bolaño, 2666

Tatyana Tolstaya
“You, Book! You are the only one who won't deceive, won't attack, won't insult, won't abandon! You're quiet - but you laugh, shout, and sing: you're obedient - but you amaze, tease, and entice; you're small, but you contain countless peoples. Nothing but a handful of letters, that's all, but if you feel like it, you can turn heads, confuse, spin, cloud, make tears spring to the eyes, take away the breath, the entire soul will stir in the wind like a canvas, will rise in waves and flap its wings!”
Tatyana Tolstaya, The Slynx

Pola Oloixarac
“All war is based in deception (cfr. Sun Tzu, “The Art of War”).

Definition of deception: “The practice of deliberately making somebody believe things that are not true. An act, a trick or device entended to deceive somebody”.

Thus, all war is based in metaphor.

All war necessarily perfects itself in poetry.

Poetry (since indefinable) is the sense of seduction.

Therefore, all war is the storytelling of seduction, and seduction is the nature of war.”
Pola Oloixarac, Las teorías salvajes

Juan Rulfo
“There you'll find the place I love most in the world. The place where I grew thin from dreaming. My village, rising from the plain. Shaded with trees and leaves like a piggy bank filled with memories. You'll see why a person would want to live there forever. Dawn, morning, mid-day, night: all the same, except for the changes in the air. The air changes the color of things there. And life whirs by as quiet as a murmur...the pure murmuring of life.”
Juan Rulfo, Pedro Páramo

Tatyana Tolstaya
“Golbuchiks? Golbuchiks are ashes, entrails, dung, stove smoke, clay, and they’ll all return to clay. They’re full of dirt, candle oil, droppings, dust.
You, O Book, my pure, shining precious, my golden singing promise, my dream, a distant call—
O tender specter, happy chance,
Again I heed the ancient lore,
Again with beauty rare in stance,
You beckon from the distant shore!”
Tatyana Tolstaya, The Slynx

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