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Carlos Fuentes

Born: 1928-11-11 - Died: 2012-05-15
Cause of Death:
Massive Hemorrhage

Death Summary: Fuentes died in a private hospital in Mexico City from a massive hemorrhage. His death was announced by the head of the National Council for Culture and Arts. Fuentes was 83.

Who was Carlos Fuentes : Fuentes was a Mexican writer who was considered one of top essayists and novelists in the Spanish-speaking world. Some of his notable works include: Aura, The Death of Artemio Cruz, The Old Gringo, and Christopher Unborn.
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4 Signatures in Carlos Fuentes's guestbook

  1. mario boulet Says:

    One of the great writers EVER coming from Mexico, and from Latinamerica as well, along with Llosa. I did a grade paper on La muerte de Artemio Cruz, which for me, it was the perfect social mirror of the Mexican Revolution. The criollo letters have lost one of its grand writers. I firmly believe that Mexican Arts, as well as Latinamerican prose will always treasure this man’s novels. Gracias, Don Carlos, for your life and for your great plume.

  2. Señor Wences Says:

    I was unaware that Mexicanos could use the written word. The longer I live the more I learn about the world and it’s people. Next they will be saying that there is no chupacabra killing the cattle. I guess that face of Jesus in a window in Texas that they hoarde to and pray to isn’t real either. Well I will have to look at one of these books before I make my final analysis on the subject. Mexicanos and Jesus make a great time for the hijinks and monkeyshines. Yes they do, yes they do.

  3. dustin zurney Says:

    senor fuente is a cool writeria

  4. Prajak Says:

    There is the kind of silence you hear when the kids leave the house, the hubansd is gone, and the pets are asleep. It’s the kind of silence you can feel rather than just hear. It feels like open space, a summer sky, a warm breeze that is too gentle to rustle any leaves but just lightly bends the long arcs of ripe grass. It feels like an exhale that doesn’t end. It feels like the grief that comes when the tide goes out and all those rocks become exposed. There is the kind of silence that is loud, screaming, painful, wrought with guilt and shame and pity and aching. The silence after I speak my truth to my mother and she is biting her tongue. Or, more often, the silence that stretches after she hasn’t bit her tongue and then I am not saying anymore. That is bitter silence, swallowed, that leaves a stain in my mouth and is hard to remove from my tongue. It’s the silence that hurts in my belly, a clench, something hard and tight that I’ve allowed myself to believe is not real or doesn’t matter.There is the kind of silence that is soft. A clicking clock somewhere back there, the warm sun ray slowly moving across the bed, a heap of sheets and blankets and comforters cocooning our warmth, a soft snore from you, the dog stretching before he circles again to nestle down. Some other neighbor dog far away barks, but not loud enough to break our silence, a moment suspended, another Saturday morning blessed with no schedule and kids actually playing quietly and no rush for anything. There is the kind of silence that is waiting. A doctor’s office, the beeping of machines somewhere else, the turning of magazine pages by the only other stranger there who we don’t speak to. This is not the usual well-child check waiting room; there is no small talk, no bustle of appointments being called and healthy people leaving with a smile. This is the silence of the waiting room while your mother is upstairs having her skull cut into with a saw to remove a tumor that would otherwise kill her within the year. This is the silence between uneaten bites of the tuna sandwich, between the playing cards we fake gin rummy with—my sister, dad, and me at the smooth table in a semi-circle. This is the silence of five hours with no control, no value to worry, no room for hope. This is the silence of our mortality. There is the kind of silence of the keyboard when the brain has nothing to offer. When inspiration dries up as bare as the basin of Death Valley and no sentence, word, keystroke can be mustered. The silent computer clock bumps its numbers in a mocking gesture—Why waste your time? What are you doing this for anyway? See, you can’t even write a single letter! There is the kind of silence when the mind is so tired and so blank it can’t string together any meaning, any story, any line. There is the silence of writer’s block, so profound it’s as if a steel door has slammed shut, cutting off any vision of direction or potential for words. Expressionless. Empty. A blank page with no beginning.

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