English

Atreyu’s dragon

Quetzil. Alebreije by David Ventura Fernández
Quetzil. Ale­brei­je by David Ven­tu­ra Fer­nán­dez

I found Atreyu’s dra­gon beneath the Tree of the Sad Night (now Vic­to­rious night). He said his name was Quetzil. When I asked him about his feat­hers he slit­he­red, trying to lea­ve.

Blue and golden relay

My fat­her used to take my brot­her and me to the CU sta­dium when we were kids. I never felt a strong attach­ment for the Pumas and that was long befo­re I stu­died in the Uni­ver­sity, but going to the sta­dium was an inti­ma­te adven­tu­re bet­ween the three of us, sha­ring the foot­ball lan­gua­ge and rituals. From tho­se days I remem­ber the ama­zing goals of Luis Gar­cía, Jor­ge Cam­pos, and the cle­ver phra­ses from the Pumas sup­por­ters that sud­denly bro­ke the crowd’s hustle after a silen­ce that hoo­ve­red any other noi­se. …

Why I Write. George Orwell

Sour­ce: Poli­ti­cal Wri­tings of Geor­ge Orwell

From a very early age, per­haps the age of five or six, I knew that when I grew up I should be a wri­ter. Bet­ween the ages of about seven­teen and twenty-four I tried to aban­don this idea, but I did so with the cons­cious­ness that I was outra­ging my true natu­re and that soo­ner or later I should have to settle down and wri­te books.

I was the midd­le child of three, but the­re was a gap of five years on eit­her side, and I barely saw my fat­her befo­re I was eight. For this and other reasons I was somew­hat lonely, and I soon deve­lo­ped disa­greea­ble man­ne­risms which made me unpo­pu­lar throug­hout my school­days. I had the lonely child’s habit of making up sto­ries and hol­ding con­ver­sa­tions with ima­gi­nary per­sons, and I think from the very start my lite­rary ambi­tions were mixed up with the fee­ling of being iso­la­ted and under­va­lued. I knew that I had a faci­lity with words and a power of facing unplea­sant facts, and I felt that this crea­ted a sort of pri­va­te world in which I could get my own back for my fai­lu­re in every­day life. Nevert­he­less the volu­me of serious — i.e. seriously inten­ded — wri­ting which I pro­du­ced all through my child­hood and boy­hood would not amount to half a dozen pages. I wro­te my first poem at the age of four or five, my mot­her taking it down to dic­ta­tion. I can­not remem­ber anyt­hing about it except that it was about a tiger and the tiger had “chair-like teeth” — a good enough phra­se, but I fancy the poem was a pla­gia­rism of Blake’s “Tiger, Tiger.” At ele­ven, when the war or 1914–18 bro­ke out, I wro­te a patrio­tic poem which was prin­ted in the local news­pa­per, as was anot­her, two years later, on the death of Kit­che­ner. From time to time, when I was a bit older, I wro­te bad and usually unfi­nis­hed “natu­re poems” in the Geor­gian sty­le. I also attem­pted a short story which was a ghastly fai­lu­re. That was the total of the would-be serious work that I actually set down on paper during all tho­se years. …