Of course, there are many to choose from. Perhaps the best known writers of fiction are Jorge Luis Borges, also an acclaimed poet; Gabriel García Márquez, winner of the 1982 Nobel Prize for Literature; Mario Vargas Llosa, a leading Peruvian novelist; and Isabel Allende, the most prominent contemporary female novelist. Latin American poets who have won the Nobel Prize, and whose poetry translated into English, has proven to be very popular in the US are Pablo Neruda (1971) and Octavio Paz (1990, from Mexico, not SA).
Borges was a prolific Argentinian short-story writer. My favorite among his many short stories is "The Gospel According to Mark." Llosa has been a politician in Peru as well as a well-known novelist; my favorite among his works, however, is his autobiography. Márquez, Colombian, is probably the best known SA novelist; not be be missed among his works are One Hundred Years of Solitude and Love in a Time of Cholera. Isabel Allende, a Chilean-American writer, is the youngest of this group; she is still writing and publishing today; perhaps her best known work is House of Spirits. Borges, Márquez, and Allende all represent what is often called magical realism, that is the use of fantastical elements in realistic novels, not presented in an alternative world (as in fantasy or science fiction) but accepted without question in our real world.
My favorite of all the SA writers, however, is still the poet Pablo Neruda, a prominent Chilean statesman and poet. The movie Il Postino, about one stage in his life, was very popular a few years ago and brought his poetry to public attention once again. There are many English translations of his poetry.
Here's one example:
POETRY
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
Pablo Neruda
Poesia
Y fue a esa edad... Llegó la poesía
a buscarme. No sé, no sé de dónde
salió, de invierno o río.
No sé cómo ni cuándo,
no, no eran voces, no eran
palabras, ni silencio,
pero desde una calle me llamaba,
desde las ramas de la noche,
de pronto entre los otros,
entre fuegos violentos
o regresando solo,
allí estaba sin rostro
y me tocaba.
Yo no sabía qué decir, mi boca
no sabía
nombrar,
mis ojos eran ciegos,
y algo golpeaba en mi alma,
fiebre o alas perdidas,
y me fui haciendo solo,
descifrando
aquella quemadura,
y escribí la primera línea vaga,
vaga, sin cuerpo, pura
tontería,
pura sabiduría
del que no sabe nada,
y vi de pronto
el cielo
desgranado
y abierto,
planetas,
plantaciones palpitantes,
la sombra perforada,
acribillada
por flechas, fuego y flores,
la noche arrolladora, el universo.
Y yo, mínimo ser,
ebrio del gran vacío
constelado,
a semejanza, a imagen
del misterio,
me sentí parte pura
del abismo,
rodé con las estrellas,
mi corazón se desató en el viento.
- Pablo Neruda
2006-09-02 19:18:12
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answer #1
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answered by bfrank 5
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