sábado, 15 de agosto de 2009

War Dance by Sherman Alexie



"My father, an alcoholic, diabetic Indian with terminally damaged kidneys, had just endured an incredibly expensive surgery for what? So that he could ride his motorized wheelchair to the bar and win bets by showing off his disfigured foot?"

"With the blanket in hand, I walked back to my father. It was a thin blanket, laundered and sterilized a hundred times. In fact, it was too thin. It wasn’t really a blanket. It was more like a large beach towel. Hell, it wasn’t even good enough for that. It was more like the world’s biggest coffee filter"

"This guy was talking out of his ass. I liked him immediately."

"When the movie was over, I called my wife, nine hours ahead in Italy.
“I should come home,” she said.
“No, I’m O.K.,” I said. “Come on, you’re in Rome. What are you seeing today?”
“The Vatican.”
“You can’t leave now. You have to go and steal something. It will be revenge for every Indian. Or maybe you can plant an eagle feather and claim that you just discovered Italy.”


"We buried my father in the tiny Catholic cemetery on our reservation. Since I am named after him, I had to stare at a tombstone with my name on it."

"I wanted to throw my phone into a wall, but I said goodbye instead and glared at the tumorless people and their pretty tumorless heads."

"It was a scary and yet strangely positive description. No one ever wants to read the word “malignant” unless you’re reading a Charles Dickens novel about an evil landlord, but “benign” and “majority” are two words that go well together. "

"This random shopping made me feel better for a few minutes, but then I stopped and walked to the toy aisle. My boys needed gifts, Lego cars or something, for a lift, a shot of capitalist joy"


http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2009/08/10/090810fi_fiction_alexie

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