A bit late linking my post here from over at Mo'olelo.
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Today the world lost a literary giant in Carlos Fuentes, the man who once said (many times, I'm sure) that he loved eating critics for breakfast, eating them like chicken then throwing the bones away. I used to show my high school creative writing class a documentary (VHS) about Carlos Fuentes where he used the chicken bone expression above, and oh how they got a kick out of it. I often wondered if I subsequently became the chicken bones at the feet of their desks as the semester proceeded. Needless to say, Fuentes was obviously a controversial figure during his lifetime, and I imagine he will continue to be so now that he has passed. Whether you liked his work or not, or if you're one of those who estimates the writer based on his public dramas, the shelves will remain filled with his works, and they will continue to engage readers for years to come. The image I loved to watch arrived at the end of the documentary mentioned above: Carlos Fuentes, sitting at his typer, surrounded by a lush garden in his patio, first begins to peck with his right hand's index finger, as if re-aquainting himself with the machine. This movement, this mechanism, then, quickly becomes a one-fingered staccato that rattles off words at amazing speeds, credits rolling, music cued, as a high school teacher and his students sit at their desks with mouths open and hearts racing in disbelief.