Mario Vargas Llosa, born in Peru in 1936, is the author of some of the most significant writing to come out of South America in the past fifty years. His novels include The Green House, about a brothel in a Peruvian town that brings together the innocent and the corrupt; The Feast of the Goat, a vivid re-creation of the Dominican Republic during the final days of General Rafael Trujillo’s insidious regime; and Aunt Julia and the Scriptwriter, a comedic semi-autobiographical account of an aspiring writer named Marito Varguitas, who falls in love with Julia, the divorced sister-in-law of his Uncle Lucho.
He is also a widely read and respected essayist, writing everything from newspaper opinion pieces to critical works on other writers, including The Perpetual Orgy on Flaubert.
Vargas Llosa is also active outside the literary arena, and was a serious contender for the presidency of Peru in 1990 (eventually losing to the now disgraced Alberto Fujimori), an experience he documented in his memoir, A Fish in the Water.
On the controversial nature of some of his work he said, “The writer’s job is to write with rigor, with commitment, to defend what they believe with all the talent they have. I think that’s part of the moral obligation of a writer, which cannot be only purely artistic. I think a writer has some kind of responsibility at least to participate in the civic debate. I think literature is impoverished, if it becomes cut from the main agenda of people, of society, of life.”
He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature for the year 2010, "for his cartography of structures of power & his trenchant images of the individual's resistance, revolt, and defeat".
http://us.macmillan.com/author/mariov...
“Ni en la guerra debe haber muertos inutiles. Usted me entiende, vaya al colegio y trate en el futuro de que la muerte del cadete Arana sirve para algo.”
“I convinced her that her first loyalty isn't to other people, but to her own feelings.”
“The secret to happiness, at least to peace of mind, is knowing how to separate sex from love. And, if possible, eliminating romantic love from your life, which is the love that makes you suffer. That way, I assure you, you live with greater tranquility and enjoy things more.”
“Secretul fericirii, sau cel puțin al liniștii, e să știi să desparți sexul de iubire. Și, dacă e posibil, să elimini iubirea romantică din viața ta, căci ea te face să suferi.”
“...escribir lo que no se había vivido, lo que sólo se había querido vivir, era también una manera —cobarde y tímida— de vivirlo...”
“«En lo que se refiere a Dios hay que creer, no razonar», decía Herbert. «Si razonas, Dios se esfuma como una bocanada de humo.»”
“Eso era la historia, una rama de la fabulación que pretendía ser ciencia.”
“En Cierto modo, tenía derecho; todos en el colegio respetaban la venganza.”
“Desde allí vio en un lento remolino, a su madre que saltaba de la cama y vio a su padre detenerla a medio camino y empujarla fácilmente hasta el lecho, y luego lo vio dar media vuelta y venir hacia él, vociferando, y se sintió en el aire, y, de pronto, estaba en su cuarto, a oscuras, y el hombre cuyo cuerpo resaltaba en la negrura le volvió a pegar e la cara,y todavía alcanzó a ver que el hombre se interponía entre él y su madre que cruzaba la puerta, la cogía de un brazo y la arrastraba como si fuera de trapo, y luego la puerta se cerró y él se hundió en una vertiginosa pesadilla”
“¿Sería así toda la Historia? ¿La que se aprendía en el colegio? ¿La escrita por los historiadores? Una fabricación más o menos idílica, racional y coherente de lo que en la realidad cruda y dura había sido una caótica y arbitraria mezcla de planes, azares, intrigas, hechos fortuitos, coincidencias, intereses múltiples, que habían ido provocando cambios, trastornos, avances y retrocesos, siempre inesperados y sorprendentes respecto a lo que fue anticipado o vivido por los protagonistas.”
“Suspiró, abrumado por los niveles de imbecilidad que padecía el mundo.”
“El ex-marino lo tranquilizó: «Lo entiendo perfectamente, Roger. Dios tiene sus procedimientos. Desasosiega, inquieta, nos empuja a buscar. Hasta que un día todo se ilumina y ahí está Él. Le ocurrirá, ya verá.»”
“Cuando las cosas no tenían marcha atrás, no valía la pena perder el tiempo preguntándose si hubiera sido preferible que no ocurrieran. Mejor tratar de enrumbarlas por el buen camino. Siempre era posible enderezar lo que andaba torcido. ¿No era está la mejor enseñanza de Cristo?”
“Éramos más que enamorados, Gee. Hermanos, cómplices. Las dos caras de una moneda. Así de unidos. Tú fuiste muchas cosas para mí. La madre que perdí a los nueve años. Los amigos que nunca tuve. Contigo me sentí siempre mejor que con mis propios hermanos. Me dabas confianza, seguridad en la vida, alegría.”
“Allá, en el Congo, conviviendo con la injusticia y la violencia, había descubierto la gran mentira que era el colonialismo y había empezado a sentirse un 'irlandés', es decir, ciudadano de un país ocupado y explotado por un Imperio que había desngrado y desalmado a Irlanda”
“Era un refugio huir allí: la vida espléndida de la ficción daba fuerzas para soportar la vida verdadera. Pero la riqueza de la literatura hacía también que la realidad real se empobreciera.”
“Soñaba toda la semana con la salida, pero apenas entraba a su casa se sentía irritado: la abrumadora obsequiosidad de su madre era tan mortificante como el encierro.”
“Revolution will free society of its afflictions, while science will free the individual of his.”
“writing fiction is the best thing there is because absolutely everything is possible!”
“su manera de coordinar las ideas hacía pensar en tumores, en afasia, en hombres mono”
“Un estómago cargado, (...) avaricioso, engendra malos pensamientos, avinagra el carácter, fomenta complejos y apetitos sexuales chuecos y crea vocación de delito, una necesidad de castigar en los otros el tormento excrementicio”
“Un estómago que evacua puntual y totalmente es gemelo de una mente clara y de un alma bien pensada”
“La literatura quizá hace a los seres humanos más aptos para la infelicidad, porque despierta unos apetitos y deseos que no pueden cumplirse, pero enriquece la sensibilidad de las personas y las da una comprensión mayor del mundo. Los hace…sentir mucho más aptos para la libertad.”
“At times I wondered whether writing was not a solipsistic luxury in countries like mine, where there were scant readers, so many people who were poor and illiterate, so much injustice, and where culture was a privilege of the few. These doubts, however, never stifled my calling, and I always kept writing even during those periods when earning a living absorbed most of my time. I believe I did the right thing, since if, for literature to flourish, it was first necessary for a society to achieve high culture, freedom, prosperity, and justice, it never would have existed. But thanks to literature, to the consciousness it shapes, the desires and longings it inspires, and our disenchantment with reality when we return from the journey to a beautiful fantasy, civilization is now less cruel than when storytellers began to humanize life with their fables. We would be worse than we are without the good books we have read, more conformist, not as restless, more submissive, and the critical spirit, the engine of progress, would not even exist. Like writing, reading is a protest against the insufficiencies of life. When we look in fiction for what is missing in life, we are saying, with no need to say it or even to know it, that life as it is does not satisfy our thirst for the absolute – the foundation of the human condition – and should be better. We invent fictions in order to live somehow the many lives we would like to lead when we barely have one at our disposal.”
“No lo entiendes, Urania. Hay muchas cosas de la Era que has llegado a entender; algunas, al principio, te parecían inextricables, pero, a fuerza de leer, escuchar, cotejar y pensar, has llegado a comprender que tantos millones de personas, machacadas por la propaganda, por la falta de información, embrutecidas por el adoctrinamiento, el aislamiento, despojadas de libre albedrío, de voluntad y hasta de curiosidad por el miedo y la práctica del servilismo y la obsecuencia, llegaran a divinizar a Trujillo. No solo a temerlo, sino a quererlo, como llegan a querer los hijos a los padres autoritarios, a convencerse de que azotes y castigos son por su bien.”
“Scrivere un romanzo è una cerimonia che somiglia allo streap-tease. Come la ragazza che, sotto impudichi riflettori, si libera dei propri indumenti e mostra, a uno a uno, i suoi incanti segreti, così anche il romanziere mette a nudo la propria intimità in pubblico attraverso i suoi romanzi.”
“You cannot teach creativity—how to become a good writer. But you can help a young writer discover within himself what kind of writer he would like to be.” Mario Vargas Llosa”
“I learned to read at the age of five, in Brother Justiniano’s class at the De la Salle Academy in Cochabamba, Bolivia. It is the most important thing that has ever happened to me. Almost seventy years later I remember clearly how the magic of translating the words in books into images enriched my life, breaking the barriers of time and space...”
“En eso, estalló la balacera a sus espaldas. Una gritería ensordecedora se levantó alrededor; la gente corría entre los autos, los carros se trepaban a las veredas. Antonio oyó voces histéricas: «¡Ríndanse, carajo!». «¡Están rodeados, pendejos!» Al ver que Juan Tomás, exhausto, se paraba, se paró también a su lado y comenzó a disparar. Lo hacía a ciegas, porque caliés y guardias se escudaban detrás de los Volkswagen, atravesados como parapetos en la pista, interrumpiendo el tráfico. Vio caer a Juan Tomás de rodillas, y lo vio llevarse la pistola a la boca, pero no alcanzó a dispararse porque varios impactos lo tumbaron. A él le habían caído muchas balas ya, pero no estaba muerto. «No estoy muerto, coño, no estoy.» Había disparado todos los tiros de su cargador y, en el suelo, trataba de deslizar la mano al bolsillo para tragarse la estricnina. La maldita mano pendeja no le obedeció. No hacía falta, Antonio. Veía las estrellas brillantes de la noche que empezaba, veía la risueña cara de Tavito y se sentía joven otra vez.”
“إن ما يفسّر البطولة خير تفسير ليست الدوافع السامية دائماً. هناك التحامل ، ضيق العقل و أشد ما يمكن تصوره من الأفكار غباءً.”
“Reading good literature is an experience of pleasure...but it is also an experience of learning what and how we are, in our human integrity and our human imperfection, with our actions, our dreams, and our ghosts, alone and in relationships that link us to others, in our public image and in the secret recesses of our consciousness.”
“La sua cecità intellettuale non gli permetteva di capire che questi fratelli, con istinto sicuro, hanno orientato la loro rivolta verso il nemico primo della libertà: il potere. E qual è il potere che li opprime, che nega loro il diritto alla terra, alla cultura, all'uguaglianza? Non è forse la Repubblica? E se sono armati per combatterla ciò significa che hanno indovinato anche il metodo, l'unico che posseggono gli sfruttati per spezzare le loro catene: la forza.”
“Sentía una inmensa ternura por ella. Estaba seguro de que la querría siempre, para mi dicha y también mi desdicha.”
“Death isn't enough. It doesn't remove the stain. But a slap, a whiplash, square on the face, does. Because a man's face is as sacred as his mother or his wife.”
“Its easy to know what you want to say, but not to say it”
“Lo injusta que es a veces la suerte con los artistas que sueñan con encontrar el Paraíso en este terrenal valle de lágrimas.”
“Pueden ustedes reírse de mí, cuando les dé la espalda.”
“L’ispirazione non esiste. È forse qualcosa che guida le mani di scultori e pittori e detta immagini e note all’udito di poeti e musicisti, ma che non va mai a trovare il romanziere: quest’ultimo è del tutto trascurato dalle muse ed è condannato a sostituire quella collaborazione negatagli con la testardaggine, la fatica e la pazienza”
“In my case, literature is a kind of revenge. It's something that gives me what real life can't give me - all the adventures, all the suffering. All the experiences I can only live in the imagination, literature completes.”
“I always write a draft version of the novel in which I try to develop, not the story, not the plot, but the possibilities of the plot. I write without thinking much, trying to overcome all kinds of self-criticism, without stopping, without giving any consideration to the style or structure of the novel, only putting down on paper everything that can be used as raw material, very crude material for later development in the story.”
“That is one thing I am sure of amid my many uncertainties regarding the literary vocation: deep inside, a writer feels that writing is the best thing that ever happened to him, or could ever happen to him, because as far as he is concerned, writing is the best possible way of life, never mind the social, political, or financial rewards of what he might achieve through it.”
“But what do I have? The things I'm told and the things I tell, that's all. And as far as I know, that never yet made anyone fly.”
“Cuando creí que iba a perder la razón ante tanto sufrimiento. Así descubrí que un ser humano no puede vivir sin creer.”
“Ni siquiera tenía ánimos para concentrarse en la lectura.”
“... el primer día que pudo ponerse de pie a los pocos pasos se desplomó al suelo, exhausto, en un estado de debilidad que no recordaba haber sentido antes.”
“It is rare and almost impossible for a novel to have only one narrator.”
“Las mentiras machacadas día y noche se vuelven verdades.”
“Es más fácil imaginar la muerte de una persona que la de cien o mil...Multiplicado, el sufrimiento se vuelve abstracto. No es fácil conmoverse por cosas abstractas.”
“Why would anyone who is deeply satisfied with reality, with real life as it is lived, dedicate himself to something as insubstantial and fanciful as the creation of fictional realities? Naturally, those who rebel against lie as it is, using their ability to invent different lives and different people, may do so for any number of reasons, honorable or dishonorable, generous or selfish, complex or banal. The nature of this basic questioning of reality, which to my mind lies at the heart of every literary calling, doesn't matter at all. What matters is that the rejection be strong enough to fuel the enthusiasm for a task as quixotic as tilting at windmills – the slight-of-hand replacement of the concrete, objective world of life as it is lived with the subtle and ephemeral world of fiction.”
“From the cave to the skyscraper, from the club to weapons of mass destruction, from the tautological life of the tribe to the era of globalization, the fictions of literature have multiplied human experiences, preventing us from succumbing to lethargy, self-absorption, resignation. Nothing has sown so much disquiet, so disturbed our imagination and our desires as the life of lies we add, thanks to literature, to the one we have, so we can be protagonists in the great adventures, the great passions real life will never give us. The lies of literature become truths through us, the readers transformed, infected with longings and, through the fault of fiction, permanently questioning a mediocre reality. Sorcery, when literature offers us the hope of having what we do not have, being what we are not, acceding to that impossible existence where like pagan gods we feel mortal and eternal at the same time, that introduces into our spirits non-conformity and rebellion, which are behind all the heroic deeds that have contributed to the reduction of violence in human relationships. Reducing violence, not ending it. Because ours will always be, fortunately, an unfinished story. That is why we have to continue dreaming, reading, and writing, the most effective way we have found to alleviate our mortal condition, to defeat the corrosion of time, and to transform the impossible into possibility.”