Tag Archives: Mexican literature

Hilario Peña – Págale al Diablo (Pay the Devil)

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zzz Págale al Diablo

I’ve been enjoying Hilario Peña’s novels for several years now. A great fan of such writers as Raymond Chandler and Jim Thompson, he has published a series of highly enjoyable “novelas negras” that bring a distinctive Mexican perspective, and a liberal dose of black humor, to the classic noir genre. My personal favorites are La Mujer de los Hermanos Reyna and Juan Tres Dieciséis.

So many great noir novels have been made into films – films noir – that when I read one, I find the characters, locations and settings easy to visualize. I picture dark streets, heavy shadows, low camera angles, claustrophobic spaces and stressed characters. Peña’s novels are no exception. They tend to be filled with gangsters, crooked politicians, treacherous women, bad cops, tough-talking detectives and clueless victims. But they have always been novels.

When the clerk at Libros Gandhi in Mexico City handed me the slim volume, I thought there was a mistake. But when I saw the graphics, and the artwork inside the book, I realized I was in for a new and fun experience.

The story is pure noir… and pure Peña. It focuses on Telma, a classic femme fatale, and Silverio, the poor schnook who falls under her spell. The plan is that Silverio will kill Telma’s husband, and they’ll use the insurance proceeds to go together to Long Beach. Not the most glamorous plan, but a clear call to action for Silverio. Things go well at first, with Siverio even finding a component of revenge to soothe his largely untroubled conscience. But the complications begin when he hears disturbing things about Telma, and obstacles are thrown in the way of their plan, including blackmail, infidelity and betrayal, gangsters with guns and a boxing match we know is rigged. We just don’t know which way it’s rigged.

As I whistled through the book, I realized I wasn’t getting the sort of descriptive passages or back stories that I’ve come to expect in a novel. Still, I was getting beautiful pictures of the people and action in my head. And of course, the dialog was as hard-boiled as you could hope for. There wasn’t enough art work to consider it a graphic novel, though, and it’s too long to be a short story. Perhaps it’s a novella, but it felt kind of like a screenplay.

He may disagree, but I believe Hilario Peña has written a film noir… and I had a lot of fun with it.

Martín Solares – No Manden Flores (Don’t Send Flowers)

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What do you do when you’re rich, your daughter has been kidnapped, and you live in a city on the gulf coast of Mexico? You can’t go to the police or the army, because they may actually be the kidnappers. Anyway, they’ll milk you for cash, regardless of whether they lift a finger to help. You can’t ask any of the 3 gangs that control the region, because if you ask the wrong one, you’ve just made yourself a target to them. And you can’t trust your personal security staff, because they may have facilitated the kidnapping by selling their inside knowledge of your activities.

Martín Solares’ excellent novel, No Manden Flores, takes place in an unnamed city in Southern Tamaulipas that has been devastated by gang wars and corruption. It’s a place where you can’t go out for dinner, because the restaurants close in the evenings due to the gang violence. It’s a place where you can’t get medical assistance after a beating because the medical staff deserts the clinic in fear that the gangsters will come to finish the job. And if you take the wrong bus, you might find yourself hijacked and pressed into slave labor in a criminal compound guarded by a virtual army of thugs.

The answer to the kidnapping question is that you hire a smart, street-wise detective, a former cop who solved a high-profile murder case a few years ago. And you hope to heck he doesn’t cross paths with the city’s police chief who framed a suspect to collect the reward for that murder case – and has been trying to kill your detective ever since.

The focus of the book is divided equally between the detective and the chief of police, and the irrational, apocalyptic challenges they both face in accomplishing their radically opposite goals and intentions. The author treats us to an abrupt surprise with the structure of the book, which led one reviewer to describe it as 2 books. I’m not convinced. Despite the richly drawn characters and tight plotting, it seems to me that the book is not about the detective and the police chief, or about the kidnapping, as much as it is about the time and place in which the story is set.

The book’s title happens to be the same title as a famous article by author Jorge Ibargüengoitia, written as a bittersweet remembrance of his mother at the time of her passing. I read the book as a commentary on the direction of the gulf Coast, and Mexico itself. Don’t Send Flowers is a stern warning… and a great book.

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No manden flores cuenta la historia de Carlos Treviño, un ex policía que se ve obligado a volver al Golfo de México a fin de investigar la desaparición de una rica heredera.

Partiendo del sur de Tamaulipas, cerca de Paracuán, y viajando hasta el centro de la violencia en la frontera norte, Treviño deberá seguir el rastro de la mujer, e indagar entre los grupos criminales que se disputan el control de ciudades y carreteras. En la misma medida, evade la persecución del tenebroso Comandante Margarito, jefe de policía de La Eternidad, que lo busca para matarlo. La rivalidad entre estos dos personajes con perfil de tiburones elevará la tensión durante siete días a niveles nada recomendables.

La crítica ha opinado:

“Una radiografía seca, aguda, del horror en el que vive el Golfo, la red de complicidades, los alcances de la tragedia. Una novela ruda, directa, emocionante, que será de lectura obligada para quien quiera asomarse al infierno en que se ha convertido el Golfo (y México a la vez)” -Antonio Ortuño-

Luis Spota – Paraíso 25

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Luis Spota had a remarkable career, first as a journalist, then a highly prolific novelist and screenwriter. I’ve probably read 10 of his novels, largely because I was captured by the extraordinary series in which he cynically portrayed the inner workings of Mexican power, politics and wealth in the 1960s and 70s. That series devoted several novels to the gradual corruption of an idealistic young cabinet minister as he jockeys for position, runs for, then is elected president, only to lose focus on what is really important. The series also included books devoted to some of the key players in the fictional power structure, and it stands as one of the most impressive bodies of work that I’ve read.

Several years ago, early in my explorations of Mexican literature, I read Spota’s Casi el Paraíso, which translates as Almost Paradise. Written in 1955, it was the story of a young man who grew up in the slums of Naples, but passed himself off to the highest levels of Mexican society as an Italian prince. The desire of the Mexican “aristocracy” to cut ties to their rough and tumble revolutionary roots, and to be recognized on an international level caused them to open their doors and their hearts to the young prince, without even the most basic due diligence. The book was highly entertaining, and focused on the foolishness of the most powerful members of society. Spota had a strict moral code, though, in which everyone seems to need a good comeuppance, Prince Ugo Conti notwithstanding.

25 years after his abrupt deportation from Mexico, 1980 by now, the young prince has become the middle aged Count Sandro Grimaldi. Surprisingly, the title is legitimate, as he managed to marry a Spanish countess, but was left out in the cold financially when she passed away. The Count becomes involved with one of Mexico’s “Juniors,” one of the young men determined to make his fortune by leveraging the wealth and influence of their families. In this case, the junior is the nephew of the incoming president of the country, and he knows he has exactly 6 years to make his fortune before his influence disappears with the next election.

Luis Spota passed away in 1985, so he won’t be offended if I say I had some trouble getting through this book. The characters are well drawn, and the Count’s back story is fascinating, but there really isn’t much plot to hang on to. The rich kid assumes the European aristocrat has access to huge amounts of capital, so he invites him to Mexico and gives him a whirlwind tour of the stunning magnitude of corruption that goes along with political influence in Mexico. It becomes a series of meetings with other rich or influential people, and descriptions of the outrageous schemes that they are planning. Lots of those meetings, and lots of schemes. After some 350 pages, the Count finally goes home, but with plans to return… That’s the plot.

The Count is never identified as the disgraced prince of 25 years ago, and there is no evidence that the president is party to the corrupt schemes, and there isn’t even any romantic interest to keep our attention. The book felt like a lengthy essay disguised as fiction. My hopes for a follow-up to the witty observational satire of the first book were not fulfilled….

But hey, it’s just one out of many great books by Luis Spota.

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Reseña prestada de Librería Gandhi:

Los personajes que nos indignaron en casi el paraíso vuelven renovados y con menos escrúpulos. El príncipe Ugo Conti, con otra identidad, regresa a México veinticinco años después para emprender una especie de revancha, al insertarse nuevamente en el mundo de espejismos y mentiras en el que viven los poderosos: pocos negocios tan rentables como lograr su cercanía. Sin pudor y sin límites, la -juniorcracia – se apoderó del país y toma las riendas de un juego en el que dinero y poder forman una urdimbre invencible. Paraíso 25 es un duro (y desgraciadamente vigente) retrato de la opulencia y la corrupción desmedida con la que se maneja la clase política mexicana.

José Augustín – Arma Blanca

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Dionisio is a talented chef who runs a popular restaurant named after the woman who left him at the altar, and broke his heart 6 years previously. She had withheld a rather important detail from their relationship. She was a member of a radical communist group, and had to leave the country when a political assassination went wrong on the eve of the wedding.

The book takes place in Mexico City in 1968. That year was hugely important in Mexico, and its impact on the country still has repercussions today. 1968 was the year in which the student movement gained traction, and commanded newspaper headlines for months. Their proposed social reforms were gathering more and more popular support at the same time the government was intent on quelling any possible social unrest before the Summer Olympics drew world-wide attention. The culmination was a massacre at a huge demonstration, in which hundreds of demonstrators and innocent bystanders were allegedly shot by government forces, and the event was covered up for years. The architect of the massacre was allegedly a man who later became president of the country.

Dionisio has mostly recovered from the abrupt end of his relationship with Carmen, but naming his restaurant after her is a pretty good sign that there are some lingering feelings. He has no strong political convictions, but like many intelligent people, he is willing to listen to reasonable arguments for social change. When he learns that Carmen is now married to one of the ideological architects of the student movement, a writer who made a huge impression on Dionisio in his college days, he is flooded with conflicting emotions. The emotions are heightened when he learns that Carmen and her husband have returned to Mexico City, but that government forces are hunting for them.

The emotions are further heightened when Carmen and her fugitive husband appear on Dionisio’s doorstep, asking him for refuge.

The book features a fascinating cast of thoroughly-drawn characters, including “El Trancas,” Dionisio’s best friend and senior member of the federal police force, and Lucrecia, a young woman with an uncanny ability to tap into the emotions of the times, and to translate them into her own personal experience. The book captures the excitement of 1968, and the growing hope for much-needed social change. The chapters are named after song titles from the time. As the hope and optimism of the nation builds, so does the hope and optimism of the main characters.

But just as the hopes of the nation are brought to a sudden, violent end in October, 1968, so are the hopes of Dionisio and the people who are closest to him.

I was fortunate to read this book early in my discovery of Mexican literature, and it had a huge impact on me. Several years later, its impact is just as strong as before.

Alejandro Paéz Varela – Musica Para Perros

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Musica Para Perros – Music For Dogs – portrays the bleakest imaginable landscape, and the hopelessness of its inhabitants in an incongruously vivid and poetic style. It is a perfect third part of Alejandro Paéz Varela’s trilogy that he unofficially calls “los libros del desencanto” – books of disenchantment. It fits loosely with Corazón de Kaláshnikov and El Reino de las Moscas by virtue of geography and themes of hardship, alienation and desperation.

The story is a sort of rural La Ronde, in which the 3 main characters are interconnected in surprising ways, and the relationships come full circle in an unexpected but inevitable manner. We have original characters in original situations, great dialog, routine murder, love and betrayal, and the wonderful metaphor of a rag-tag zoo in the middle of nowhere.

As I read about Muchacho, who appeared on the ranch as a feral child, and was raised by the elderly cook, and about Flor a young prostitute whose dream is to go to Ciudad Juárez, I realized at some point that very little was happening, but I was still entranced. I’ve tried to take photographs of the nothingness of vast areas like the Chihuahua where the book takes place, but what typically comes out is nothing. The author, though, is able to paint the despair, the mundane routine and the constant sense of danger that make up the daily lives of these very ordinary people, and make us care about them. Descriptions of the most unremarkable events were both riveting and critical to the story. It felt like poetry at times.

It’s a highly successful novel, and is a strong finish to a beautifully conceived trilogy. I’m very glad to have read them all.

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Música para perros inicia con la historia de Muchacho, un joven sicario que con su flauta engatuza tanto a los perros como a las víctimas de su patrón, Liborio Labrada. ¿En qué momento y bajo qué circunstancias su destino se cruzará con el de Flor y Graciano? Tres historias se entrelazan en Música para perros de Alejandro Páez Varela, que a su vez se entrecruza con sus anteriores novelas, Corazón de Kaláshnikov y El reino de las moscas.

Tres destinos unidos por un mismo lazo, el de la miseria. Flor, Graciano y Muchacho son parte de un zoológico a cielo abierto donde los animales también muerden el polvo de la inmundicia, en el que se dan cita narcotraficantes y burdeles de poca monta. Música para perros también se desarrolla en pueblos perdidos en el vasto territorio de Chihuahua, siendo Ciudad Juárez “una gran ciudad, con oportunidades para todos” y el eje en torno del cual gira esta historia de amor y redención, de personajes que viven al límite de sus fuerzas; que harán todo por sobrevivir, aunque en ello les vaya la vida.

El trabajo de periodista de Alejandro Páez Varela lo ha hecho estar en permanente contacto con todo tipo de gente; de ellos rescata el habla de la calle, el humor y la tragedia para construir sus historias y personajes, tan vivos como las últimas noticias de la nota roja. En Música para perros podemos sentir la asfixia del calor, la desesperanza del olvido y podemos estar seguros que el dinero tampoco compra la tranquilo del sueño.

Hilario Peña – Chinola Kid

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My rating: 4 1/2 Stars

Rodrigo is trigger man for a big-time Tijuana gangster, but he’s going through a career crisis. When he realizes his boss has manipulated him into one last job in a backwater town in his native Sinaloa, Rodrigo’s career crisis blossoms into a full-blown identity crisis. After displaying his prodigious criminal talents while reclaiming his hijacked SUV from the young prince of a local crime family, Rodrigo is ready to ride off into the sunset. But the town makes him an unexpected offer… to become the local sheriff.

That’s the call to action in Hilario Peña’s “narco-western,” Chinola Kid. It’s a wonderfully observed tribute to the traditional western novel, and classic Hollywood westerns such as High Noon.

Devastated by the ongoing turf battle between the families that hold the local heroin and marijuana franchises, Rodrigo sees an opportunity to embrace his inner good-guy, and clean up the town. Deadly earnest, he posts the new rules, starting with a 100 peso fine for spitting in the street, another for using bad language in the presence of women, and so on through an escalating list of offenses. His is a zero tolerance system of enforcement.

As we explore Rodrigo’s successes and challenges as the local law man, Peña gives us a cast of vivid characters, and makes them real through extensive use of colorful dialog.

Enforcing black and white rules in a gray world is not destined to last forever, despite Rodrigo’s refusal to be discouraged by betrayal, or to grasp opportunities for corruption. The climactic showdown becomes inevitable, but Peña uses it as an opportunity to ponder the very nature of power. I came away with the observation that nobody is ever really the boss, because every boss in turn has his own boss.

A well-constructed fun read, filled with memorable characters.

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“¡Vaqueros vs. narcos!”

Los habitantes del Tecolote apenas pueden creer el cambio que ha sufrido su pueblo en los últimos meses, el cual pasó de ser la población con más asesinatos por metro cuadrado en el mundo, a convertirse en un verdadero ejemplo de bonanza económica para el país. Uno de los factores que contribuyeron a este nuevo estado de las cosas podría ser la determinación de un comisario elegido democráticamente por sus gobernados para hacer cumplir su ley, que no admite transgresiones de ningún tipo.

Rodrigo Barajas es su nombre y la primera impresión que uno se lleva al mirarlo es la de encontrarse frente a uno de esos alguaciles del Viejo Oeste, de pocas palabras y mucha acción, con su bigote a lo Wyatt Earp, su sombrero Stetson, y esa mirada serena, reflexiva y sabia que pertenece a una especie de hombre en peligro de extinción.

Apreciable lector, en sus manos sostiene un auténtico narcowestern, una “vieja historia del Nuevo Oeste” en deuda con las películas de Kurosawa, Howard Hawks y el libro vaquero; construida sobre valores perdidos como el honor, la valentía y la decencia, ideales para combatir el cinismo de los días que corren.

Antonio Ortuño – La Fila India (Indian File)

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My rating:  5 Stars

Every Central American immigrant to the United States has to pass through the entire length of Mexico to get there. On the way, they are routinely subjected to abuse, first by their own countrymen, and then by Mexicans. They are often robbed, extorted, raped, beaten and murdered. The process is highly organized, probably protected by corrupt officials, and decent Mexican citizens apparently turn their heads and look away. We hear about the most egregious cases, like the mass graves found in Tamaulipas a few years ago, but it is a daily occurrence, and the victims are human beings.

This is the subject of Antonio Ortuño’s novel La Fila India (Indian File).

The story focuses on Irma, a government social worker sent to help quietly clean up the political embarrassment of a massacre involving Central American immigrants who were supposedly under the care of an aid organization. Irma arrives in the fictitious southern town of Santa Rosa with her young daughter, prepared to march in “indian file” behind her superiors, following the party line… until the situation gets complicated.

Irma’s job is to expedite compensation of the families of the victims, and repatriation of the survivors. In the course of her work, however, she gets to know a young woman who narrowly escaped the massacre, and begins to wonder why there is no effort to find those responsible for the murders. This concern grows as she develops sympathy for the investigative reporter she is supposed to be discouraging. Dragged along in the whirlwind of the young victim’s desire for revenge, and the reporter’s passion for justice, Irma finds herself at the center of a situation far larger and more dangerous than she could ever have dreamed.

The main characters are vividly imagined, and richly developed. Irma is distracted by caring for her daughter, and carrying on a telephone battle with an angry ex-husband, but finds time for a flirtation with a handsome young man at the office. The husband and the young man develop into complex characters who move the plot and the underlying theme in unexpected ways. Supporting characters include another Central American woman who is subjected to a different kind of abuse, the oddly controlling café owner, the head of the government delegation, and characters from the local underworld. And, of course, the investigative reporter, who has a surprising lack of people skills.

The themes of the book are very powerful. It is largely a story of racism, opportunism and corruption, but it goes much deeper, making us look at our own complexity, and the darkness that lies somewhere in all of us. The desire for truth is balanced with the urge to turn and look away. Finding justice competes with the urge for revenge. The instinct to help the helpless conflicts with a deep-seated inclination to take advantage of them.

Ortuño is a journalist by background, and has turned to fiction more recently. This is a hugely successful merging of journalistic coverage of an important subject into the form of a very entertaining and compelling thriller. The book has received a lot of attention, and has been on everyone’s top ten list for 2013. Absolutely justified, in my opinion.

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A fin de repatriar a las víctimas de una masacre, una joven funcionaria es enviada a un pueblo perdido en el sureste de México. Primer error: mudarse allí con su hija de siete años. Segundo: abrirle las puertas de su casa a una sobreviviente. Tercero: averiguar que un grupo criminal se ensaña contra los migrantes centroamericanos. Y cuarto: tratar de resolver una sencilla pregunta: ¿por qué a nadie parece importarle? Compuesta como un caleidoscopio que registra todos los tonos del sarcasmo, La fila india es la novela de madurez de Antonio Ortuño. Una historia apasionante, a medio paso de la novela negra, que nos ofrece un grupo de personajes inolvidables, una prosa difícil de igualar y la mirada de un autor que registra cómo se descomponen las relaciones entre un individuo cualquiera y el país en que vive.

Liliana V. Blum – No Me Pases de Largo (Don’t Pass Me By)

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Short stories are not usually my favorite format. In my experience, either they lack depth, or they’re so abstract that they leave me saying Whaaaaat? Either way, I tend to find them unsatisfying. On the other hand, I’ve loved many of Paul Theroux’s novels, even though they are really short stories addressing specific themes. That’s what Liliana Blum has done in her collection No Me Pases de Largo… and I was very satisfied.

I was curious that the stories are named after Beatles songs, and the cover art features the Fab Four, even though I didn’t see an obvious connection. Later, I was embarrassed to learn that the collection is very appropriately named after the song from Sergeant Pepper “Don’t Pass Me By.” Meanwhile, I found myself singing “All you need is love…” and that made a light bulb turn on in my head. The stories are about love – finding love, losing love, looking for love, running away from love – but these are most definitely not love stories.

The common characters in each of the stories are friends Noelia and Moira. Taking turns at front and center or in the background, we see a complex relationship developed over many years between two very complex 30-something women. This is what really connects the stories, and we see the various ways they support each other and protect themselves through a confrontation with a lover’s wife, the realization that an early love affair was a sham, the loss of “Mister Right” due to a foolish indiscretion, and dealing with the long-term effects of an earlier love affair.

I haven’t read all of Liliana Blum’s work, but this is by far my favorite of her story collections. The good news is that it is in both Spanish and English. I read a couple of the English versions, and found Michael Parker-Stainback’s translation to be fluid and accurate.

Guillermo Arriaga – Un dulce olor a muerte (A Sweet Scent of Death)

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Several years ago, I saw the film version of Un dulce olor a muerte at the Los Angeles Latino Film Festival. Starring a young Diego Luna (Y tu mamá también), it was oddly cast with actors from a wide variety of countries, and an equally odd conglomeration of accents. While it was incongruous to have such an international cast in a rural Mexican locale, the story was compelling and wonderfully executed, from a screenplay adapted by Arriaga from his novel.

We know Guillermo Arriaga from his writing of such films as Amores Perros, 21 Grams and Babel, but he has written a series of powerful novels, and wrote and directed the tragically overlooked film “The Burning Plain” starring Charlize Theron and (yes) Jennifer Lawrence. Un dulce amor a muerte is Arriaga’s first novel.

A young man is overcome with a variety of emotions when finds the naked body of a pretty girl in a field outside the village. Although he has only seen her a few times before, the villagers jump to the conclusion that she was his girlfriend, and Ramón is too distraught to correct them. Compounding the confusion, the girl’s family gives him her diaries, and he comes to believe that he is the secret lover she wrote about.

Meanwhile, the villagers and the police focus on who to blame for the murder. There is a surprising lack of interest in actually solving the crime, so it doesn’t take too many self-serving lies and exaggerations to settle on a guilty suspect. Nor does it take long to agree on the justice to be exacted, and that Ramón should be the instrument of that justice.

The tension mounts throughout the entire novel, as a headlong collision between an innocent man and a naive village becomes increasingly inevitable. Only a handful of people are in a position to change the course of events, but each has his or her reasons to stay silent. It comes down to the very last page to see the final outcome.

A tightly written, suspenseful story filled with well-realized characters.

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Una mañana muy temprano, Ramón descubre el cadáver de Adela en unos campos de avena cerca de Loma Grande. Ramón apenas había visto a Adela en un par de ocasiones, pero en el mismo instante en el que el muchacho cubre con su camisa el cuerpo desnudo de la muerta, comienza a difundirse el rumor de que Adela era su novia. A partir de ese momento, los hechos se irán desencadenando irremediablemente y Ramón se verá obligado a vengar la muerte de la joven. Su corazón es quien le obliga actuar, su corazón y un pueblo entero que se convierte en el protagonista de la novela, en el creador de una ofensa y de una venganza inevitable. Un dulce olor a muerte es una novela fascinante en que la pasión y el orgullo dictan cada una de las decisiones de los personajes, la venganza se convierte en destino y la verdad se muestra en su faceta más ambigua y demoledora.

Juan Villoro – Arrecife

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My rating: 4 1/2 stars

La Pirámide is the only successful hotel in a resort area that failed disastrously when all the others gave up fighting the engineering catastrophe that required constant import of sand from Cuba to replace the entire beach that washed away on a weekly basis.

The key to the resort’s unique success is “extreme tourism” in which visitors can engage in daredevil sports activities, but can also find themselves kidnapped and beaten by guerillas, or risk encounters with deadly snakes. The genius behind the concept is Mario Muller, but he has to be careful, because the hotel could easily be worth more to the owners as a money-laundering vehicle.

When Mario reaches out to his lifelong friend, ex-rocker Tony Góngora, and brings him to this fantasy land, Tony thinks he has found a safe refuge from reality, much safer than the drugged half-life he had been living for many years. Tony is holding on in the midst of the ruins of his life, much as the hotel is holding on in the midst of the ruined resort area. Even in this unreal environment, he still remains isolated, refusing to become involved, until an act of violence strikes rather close to home. And it turns out Mario has a much grander plan to up the ante, and force Tony into the bright glare of reality and personal engagement.

This is literary writing at its finest, as we have come to expect from Juan Villoro. It is a difficult task to make a story of a failed life in a failing environment interesting, even if the possibility of redemption lies at the end, but Villoro is more than capable of pulling it off. I first discovered him when a reviewer called his novel El Testigo “the great Mexican novel.” I’ve read many Mexican novels since then, and I know I’m not alone in placing Villoro at the very top of his profession.

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Hubo un tiempo en que las playas eran un sitio de descanso. En la época del turismo extremo los viajeros necesitan otras emociones. El ex rockero Mario Müller descubre una visionaria posibilidad en el Caribe: los placeres del miedo. Y a orillas de un inmenso arrecife de coral edifica La Pirámide, resort que ofrece peligros controlados hasta que un buzo muere fuera del agua. Reflexión sobre los daños que elegimos para intensificar la vida, esta apasionante novela describe una nueva ecología: el cambio climático vacía los hoteles y el lavado de dinero los regenera como emporios fantasma. Pero Arrecife también es una historia de amistad, amor y redención. Villoro, uno de los mejores escritores latinoamericanos, otorga realidad a una utopía: los problemas de ese paraíso son las virtudes de una novela excepcional.

«Esas atmósferas ominosas que tanto nos recuerdan por momentos a las ficciones apocalípticas o fantasmagóricas de Ballard. Los diálogos tienen esa sequedad irónica de las mejores respuestas y observaciones psicológicas de un Chandler. Arrecife es una novela perfecta a la hora de sincronizar el desdén por la vida que se inflige el narrador y el esfuerzo casi titánico, agónico, de un moribundo Mario, el amigo capital, por indicarle la ruta de su salvación definitiva. En esta magnífica novela de Juan Villoro no hay tiempos muertos» (J. Ernesto Ayala-Dip, El País).

«Lúcida y poderosa lectura del pasado y presente, donde el terror, el sacrificio de los dioses y el mito se confunden» (J.A. Masoliver Ródenas, La Vanguardia).

«La prueba irrefutable de que uno está ante un escritor de fuste reside en esa envidiable capacidad para cambiar de temas y registros cuando todo parecía dirigido a volver sobre lo mismo» (Ricardo Baixeras, El Periódico).

«Villoro se ha basado, para su libro, en ese fenómeno sadomasoquista de nuestra civilización que lleva a ciertos turistas del mundo desarrollado a disfrutar de un fin de semana en un campo de concentración o en una mazmorra de la Inquisición. Lo que él ha hecho es darle a su ficción unos tintes étnico-mítico-telúricos que la hacen totalmente verosímil… Una magnífica novela» (Iñaki Ezquerra, El Correo Español).