Hijos de puta
This will begin a series of snippets from the dozens of books piled up next to my bed which I am trying to read, seemingly all at once … an exercise in tasting, and perhaps eventually collage.
You hijos de puta! I’m pregnant! Do you understand! Pregnant! She spun to where the crone had held court, but she had inexplicably vanished.
This girl’s under arrest, one grunt said sullenly.
No she’s not. José tore Beli out of their arms.
You alone her! yelled Juan, a machete in each hand.
Listen, chino, you don’t know what you’re doing.
This chino knows exactly what he’s doing. José cocked the pistol, a noise most dreadful, like a rib breaking. His face was a dead rictus and in it shone everything he had lost. Run, Beli, he said.
And she ran, tears popping out of her eyes, but not before taking one last kick at the grunts.
Mis chinos, she told her daughter, saved my life.
And she ran, tears popping out of her eyes, but not before taking one last kick at the grunts.
Mis chinos, she told her daughter, saved my life.
— from The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, by Junot Diaz
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