It was a sultry night in Cartagena de Indias. The prostitutes were lazing on benches and pretending to talk on their cell phones in the shadow of the Puerta del Reloj, where the three wide arches of the main gateway, like the loose women, welcomed visitors to the pleasures of the walled city… It was early still and Don Fernando Mendez Borrero, who was on his honeymoon, had just finished dinner, with his bride, at the 17th century Sofitel Santa Clara, which used to be a convent and which the great writer Gabriel García Márquez chose as the setting for his novel Of Love and Other Demons. Don Fernando Mendez Borrero and his bride had walked to the Plaza de los Coches from the restaurant in San Diego and the walking made Don Fernando hot and the heat reminded him of the donkey who caught on fire.
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"It always amuses me that the biggest praise for my work comes for the imagination, while the truth is that there’s not a single line in all my work that does not have a basis in reality. The problem is that Caribbean reality resembles the wildest imagination."
—Gabriel García Márquez
Read On the Road: Cartagena
I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says “Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.”
Through the Looking-Glass
The shortest war stories.
Source: CBS News
Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of grey vapours about their summits, which, in the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of glory.
Rip Van Winkle