Iras y no volveras / You will go and not come back (Spanish Edition)

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José Emilio Pacheco

Contact us here! Shared Printable version. It is the top literary award of Spanish-speaking world. Pacheco, a Mexico City native, is widely regarded as one of his country's foremost poets and short narrative writers, and a leading literary representative of the second half of the 20th century.

The year-old Pacheco is relatively unknown in the United States, but in Mexico his books are considered as classics, required reading for many high school students. Pacheco's first book of poetry, Los elementos de la noche The Elements of Night , published in , was acclaimed among critics. Then he was barely twenty. This was followed by a novel, El viento distante Pacheco is a well-known translator of works by Samuel Beckett, Yevgeny Yevtuschenko, and Albert Einstein, among others. Pacheco is considered the most important Mexican poet of the generation following Octavio Paz and Alfonso Reyes.

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The message shouldn't land too close to the jail, so George began looking for a weighted object. In five minutes, he decided on a spring from the bunk mattress; it took him seventeen minutes more to pry it loose. After the missile was hurled out toe window-probably, George knew, to be found by somebody who would immediately turn it over to Sheriff Jim Cartwright-he began thinking of alternate plans. He found, however, that instead of devising schemes for escape or deliverance, his mind insisted on going off in an entirely different direction. The face of the monk from his dream pursued him. He had seen that face somewhere before, he knew; but where?

  1. The Sons of Herakles.
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  4. Ice (Peter Owen Modern Classic);

Somehow, the question was important. He began trying in earnest to re-create the face and identify it-James Joyce, H. Lovecraft, and a monk in a painting by Fra Angelico all came to mind. It was none of them, but it looked somehow a little like each of them. Suddenly tired and discouraged, George slouched back on the bunk and let his hand lightly clutch his penis through his trousers. Heroes of fiction don't jack off when the going gets rough, he reminded himself. Well, hell, he wasn't a hero and this wasn't fiction. Besides, I wasn't going to jack-off after all, They might be watching through a peephole, ready to use this natural jailhouse weakness to humiliate me further and break my ego.


No, I definitely wasn't going to jack-off: I was just going to hold it, lightly, through my trousers, until I felt some life-force surging back into my body and displacing fear, exhaustion and despair. Meanwhile, I thought about Pat back in New York. She was wearing nothing but her cute black lace bra and panties, and her nipples are standing up pointy and hard. Make it Sophia Loren, and take the bra off so I can see the nipples directly. Ah, yes, and now try it the other way: she Sophia, no make it Pat again is wearing the bra but the panties are off showing the pubic bush.

Let her play with it, get her fingers in there, and the other hand on a nipple, ah, yes, and now she Pat-no, Sophia is kneeling to unzipper my fly. My penis grew harder and her mouth opened in expectation. I reached down and cupped her breast with one hand, taking the nipple she had been caressing, feeling it harden more.

No puedo renunciar a tí

Did James Bond ever do this in Doctor No's dungeon? Sophia's tongue not my hand, not my hand is busy and hot, sending pulsations through my entire body. Take it, you cunt. Take it, O God, a flash of the Passaic and the gun at my forehead, and you can't call them cunts nowadays, ah, you cunt, you cunt, take it, and it is Pat, it's that night at her pad when we were both zonked on hashish and I never never never had a blow-job like that.

The second blast lifted me again and threw me with a crunch against the wall. Jesus H. Particular Christ on a crutch, I thought frantically, whatever it is that's happening they're going to find me with come on the front of my trousers. The machine gun suddenly stopped stuttering and I thought I heard a voice cry "Earwicker, Bloom and Craft.

Can't Give You Up

Then the third explosion came, and I covered my head as parts of the ceiling began falling on me. A key suddenly clanked against his cell door. Looking up, I saw a young woman in a trench coat, carrying a tommy gun, and desperately trying one key after another in the lock.

The woman grinned tensely at the sound. I limped after her down the hall. Suddenly she stopped, studied the wall a moment, and pressed against a brick. The wall slid smoothly aside and we entered what appeared to be a chapel of some sort. For the chapel was not anything that a sane man would expect to find in Mad Dog County Jail. A black Cadillac awaited us. He was an old man, more than sixty, but hard and shrewd-looking. I was pushed into the back seat-which was already full of grim-looking men and grimmer-looking munitions of various sorts-and the car started at once.

A taste of their own medicine. What makes you think Sheriff. Meanwhile, wipe the come off your pants. Cowboy the son of a bitch. In an ordinary hit, you can be precise, even artistic, because after all the only thing that matters is that the person so honored should be definitely dead afterwards. Cowboying, in the language of the profession, leaves no room for personal taste or delicacy: the important thing is that there should be a lot of lead in the air and the victim should leave a spectacularly gory corpse for the tabloids, as notification that the Brotherhood is both edgy and short-tempered and everybody better watch his.

Although it wasn't obligatory, it was considered a sign of true enthusiasm on a cowboy job if the guest of honor took along a few innocent bystanders, so everybody would understand exactly how edgy the Brotherhood was feeling. The Dutchman took two such bystanders. And in a different. Further back, back further: February 7, , Vincent "Mad Dog" Coll looks through the phone-booth door and sees a familiar face crossing the drugstore and a.

But tilt the picture another way and-this emerges: On November 10, , the "World's Greatest Newspaper," the Chicago Tribune announced the election to the Presidency of the United States of America of Thomas Dewey, a man who not only was not elected but would not even have been alive if Banana Nose Maldonado had not given such specific instructions concerning the Dutchman to Charlie the Bug, Mendy Weiss and Jimmy the Shrew.

Who shot you? Mother is the best bet, Oh mama mama mama. I want harmony. The Dutchman still replies: Oh mama mama mama. French Canadian bean soup. We drove till dawn. The car stopped on a road by a beach of white sand. Tall, skinny palm trees stood black against a turquoise sky. This must be the Gulf of Mexico, I thought. They could now load me with chains and drop me in the gulf, hundreds of miles from Mad Dog, without involving.

Sheriff Jim.

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  • No, they had raided Sheriff Jim's jail. Or was that a hallucination? I was going to have to keep more of an eye on reality.