My tongue shall serve those miseries which have no tongue, my voice the liberty of those who founder in the dungeons of despair . . . And I should say to myself: And most of all beware, even in thought, of assuming the sterile attitude of the spectator, for life is not a spectacle, a sea of griefs is not a proscenium, a man who wails is not a dancing bear.
Today is a writing day, so I'll keep this brief. I’m now involved in the final chapters of Fiesta of Smoke, in which the tragedy that is Mexico today and yesterday must be knit into the love story that has unfolded, thus far, for 700-plus pages. In narrative form I hope to make the point that, in the rush of our respective governments to make trade agreements and anti-drug alliances, what is being ignored is a neo-colonial attitude that divvies up resources, and that treats anything unlike its own policies and aims as primitive. Forgotten or ignored is what Zapata and Villa knew in the marrow of their bones: a large part of the citizenry of Mexico is comprised of dozens for different indigenous groups, each very different from the other, each needing special consideration for their independent needs and wants.