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Luis Alberto Urrea

Luis Alberto Urrea Biography

Poet

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“When you died, you died in small doses. You had trouble speaking. You forgot who was beside you. You were suddenly furious and in a panic of outrage. You wished you could be saintly. You wished you weren't so weak. You suddenly felt better and fooled yourself into believing that a miracle was about to happen. Well, wasn't that all a dirty rotten thing to pull on somebody.”

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Book:The House of Broken Angels
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“Cuquis can read. She pores over a Bible the missionaries have given her. "Listen to this," she says. "'Let the rich man glory in his humiliation, because like flowering grass he will pass away. For the sun rises with a scorching wind and withers the grass. And its flower falls off. And the beauty of its appearance is destroyed. So too the rich man in his pursuits will fade away.'" Several of the women mutter, "Amen." "Good old Jesus Christ," Cuca says. "He'll kick the shit out of those rich bastards.”

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Book:Six Kinds of Sky: A Collection of Short Fiction
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“El Yauco is the mountain that stands across the Baluarte from Rosario. The top of it looks like the profile of John F. Kennedy in repose. The only flaw in this geographic wonder is that the nose is upside-down. Once, when Jaime and I had painfully struggled to the summit to investigate the nose, we found this message: MOTHER NATURE HAS NO RESPECT FOR YANQUI PRESIDENTS EITHER!”

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Book:Six Kinds of Sky: A Collection of Short Fiction
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“And afterward, I stopped at Red Cloud's grave to pay my respects to the old chief. Some Oglalas had left him tobacco ties, little sacred bundles in all the colors of the four directions. I asked him to take care of my woman out there, where she was new and maybe lost. I asked him to take her into his lodge and protect her until I could come for her. That's all I remember.”

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Book:Six Kinds of Sky: A Collection of Short Fiction
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“I was not only invited to read: I was expected to read. Reading was my responsibility, in English and Spanish. Like many poor kids before me, I was given the best gift anyone could hope for--a library card. On Saturdays, my mother and I would take the #11 bus downtown. I'd haul my stack of the week's books inside and come back out with a new armload. I was a millionaire.”

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Book:Six Kinds of Sky: A Collection of Short Fiction
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“Florida was his destination. He didn't care about Miami, Disneyworld, the Keys. He was feeling primordial, reptilian in his rage. He was a wild car thief. He belonged in a swamp. He aimed himself at the Okefenokee like a pistol. Pogo territory. Spiders as big as your hand, cottonmouths, malaria. Crazy dark continent dreams, a vanishing act.”

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Book:Six Kinds of Sky: A Collection of Short Fiction
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“Of course, the illegals have always been called names other than human--wetback, taco-bender. (A Mexican worker said: "If I am a wetback because I crossed a river to get here, what are you, who crossed an entire ocean?') In politically correct times, "illegal alien" was deemed gauche, so "undocumented worker" came into favor. Now, however, the term preferred by the Arizona press is "undocumented entrant." As if the United States were a militarized beauty pageant. Maye it is.”

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Book:The Devil's Highway: A True Story
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“If the North American continent was broad ("high, wide, and lonesome"), then Mexico was tall. High, narrow, and lonesome. Europeans conquering North America hustled west, where the open land lay. And the Europeans settling Mexico hustled north. Where the open land was. Immigration, the drive northward, is a white phenomenon. White Europeans conceived of and launched El Norte mania, just as white Europeans inhabiting the United States today bemoan it.”

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Book:The Devil's Highway: A True Story
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“Getting bodies,” in Border Patrol lingo, didn’t necessarily mean collecting corpses. Bodies were living people. “Bodies” was one of the many names for them. Illegal aliens, dying of thirst more often than not, are called “wets” by agents. “Five wets” might have slipped out. “Wets” are also called “tonks,” but the Border Patrol tries hard to keep that bon mot from civilians. It’s a nasty habit in the ranks. Only a fellow border cop could appreciate the humor of calling people a name based on the stark sound of a flashlight breaking over a human head.”

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Book:The Devil's Highway: A True Story
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“Every winter he'd be out here plowing with the big red blade mounted on the Ford, and when he was done opening up his drive, he'd by God get cracking on the neighbors' spreads down the road. Arnie and Ina, good Vikings from Minnesota. The Rays over to the east--they had a kid. Couldn't be trapped out here in snow. That's how America worked. Used to work. That was what made things function. It was all obvious come winter. Some folks wouldn't pitch in with a snow shovel if they saw a naked one-hundred-year-old lady out there struggling with a drift.”

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Book:The Water Museum
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“The border remains a fluid, mutating, stubbornly troubling, enthusiastically lethal region. Perhaps it’s not a region at all. Maybe it’s just an idea nobody can agree on. A conversation that never ends, even when it becomes an argument and all participants kick over the table and spill their drinks and stomp out of the room. I was born there.”

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Book:The Devil's Highway: A True Story
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“It seems jolly on the page. But imagine poverty, violence, natural disasters, or political fear driving you away from everything you know. Imagine how bad things get to make you leave behind your family, your friends, your lovers; your home, as humble as it might be; your church, say. Let's take it further - you've said good-bye to the graveyard, the dog, the goat, the mountains where you hunted, your grade school, your state, your favorite spot on the river where you fished and took time to think.”

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Book:Across the Wire: Life and Hard Times on the Mexican Border
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“Men stumbled away toward illusions in the brutal light. Men thought they were home, walking into their front doors, hugging their wives, making love. Still they walked. Men were swimming. Men were killing Mendez. Men were on the beach, collecting shells and watching their children splash. Their women stood naked before them, soft bellies, hands on ribs, breasts. Men hid their faces from a furious God. And they walked. A voice was heard in the light-shatter, saying “He’s going to die. Lay him down here and let him die. Keep walking.” The desert, out of focus and suddenly terribly sharp, burst white and yellow in their eyes. It tilted. Elongated. It was at an impossible angle! It tipped up towards the sun, and if they didn’t crawl, they would slide right off it and fall forever. It made noise: there were engines beneath the desert. It made evil grinding noises, mechanical humming. No, it was insectile, the screech of hunger and derision. The devils were under the rocks, spitting insults. The black head laughed. I believe in God the father, creator of heaven and earth. No, it did not fucking laugh—- it was silent as a graveyard out there. Just the crunch and slide, crunch and slide, of endless hopeless footsteps. Hundreds of footsteps.”

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Book:The Devil's Highway: A True Story
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“The border remains a fluid, mutating, stubbornly troubling, enthusiastically lethal region. Perhaps it's not a region at all. Maybe it's just an idea nobody can agree on. A conversation that never ends, even when it becomes an argument and all participants kick over the table and spill their drinks and stomp out of the room.”

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Book:The Devil's Highway: A True Story
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“I once made the mistake of writing a story with David Corbett. The man smoked me. He can delineate the character and personality of an accordion in three strokes. I didn't even know accordions had character. This act of generosity and wisdom from a very good writer will help anyone who is staring at a blank page, any day, any time. Highly recommended.”

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Author:Luis Alberto Urrea
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