He used to drink with us every day. He always had One Hundred Years under his arm. Alejandro and Álvaro used to say, “Here comes that moocher to talk about literature.” He was always with us at Japi, but he drank very little. He used to hear our stories and then write them down later. I haven’t read One Hundred Years since it was published, but I’ve read it a million times—because every day he used to read the chapter he’d written the night before. If he’d slept with the two-bit whore, he’d write a chapter about it.
Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me:
I lift my lamp beside the golden door.
you get back what you put forth. and if you don’t, move the fuck on.