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Review One of New York Times' critic Jennifer Szalai's 10 Best Books of 2019A New York Times Notable BookOne of Electric Literature's 15 Best Nonfiction Books of 2019�One recovered incident, person, landscape, and image at a time, the narrative advances, accruing tremendous authority and emotional power. It amounts to almost a shamanistic transmitting of Forch�s experience into our own�. What Leonel G�mez was really offering when he lured her down to El Salvador was the chance to become Carolyn Forch�. Anyone who reads this magnificent memoir will partake of that luminous transformation.���The New York Times Book Review��Astonishing, powerful, so important at this time.���Margaret Atwood, via Twitter�Extraordinary . . . What You Have Heard Is True�challenges us as Americans to see the people arriving at our border not only with empathy but also with the knowledge that their arrival is a manifestation of a shared history�of our shared fate.� �Suzy Hansen, The Nation�Forch� vividly evokes her complex relationship with her mentor and with organizers, laborers, and religious leaders whose courage in the face of atrocity taught her that �resistance to oppression begins when people realize deeply within themselves that something better is possible.�� �The New Yorker�Once Forch�s story gathers momentum, it�s hard to let the narrative go�Riveting�intricate and surprising.� ��The New York Times � �Poets write the best memoirs, and Carolyn Forch�s�What You Have Heard is True�is no exception.�A lyrical and pristinely disturbing recounting . . . no less stunning than her poetry�sharp, unsparing, and never looking away.� �Vox�Indispensable...unflinching...Forch� offers up a vast human landscape of terror, desperation and perseverance that stretches far beyond mere borders. It�s more documentary than self-portrait, more camera than mirror. Reading it will change you, perhaps forever.� �San Francisco Chronicle �Gripping . . . �I could just as well write my poetry from the quiet of my own study,� Forch� writes, �but I had known since childhood that human suffering demanded a response, everywhere and always.� A portrait of the artist as political and poetic ingenue, What You Have Heard Is True is just such a response, a riveting account of how she made good on that conviction. It bears eloquent witness to injustice and atrocity and to how observing them shaped a fearless poet.� �The Washington Post�Extraordinary . . . Written with a thriller writer�s knack for narrative tension and a poet�s gorgeous sentences and empathy . . . Though it took Forch� half a lifetime to fully share what she saw � this time is also more cryptically recalled in her second book of poems,�The Country Between Us(1982) � now is precisely when we need to see it.� �NPR ��Her memoir traces her journey from political innocence to experience, and, in doing so, offers a model to others who might take the same journey . . . She remembers as much as possible, and the resulting memoir, once read, is difficult to forget.� � The Atlantic 'In [Forche's] poetry, and in her extraordinary memoir of the period that would shape it, she demands an ethics of engagement with the self, the state, language and its aesthetics. She searches for humanity in each little grain of truth with complete�conviction and remarkable courage.' � The New Statesman��Carolyn Forch� proves she�s just as talented a memoirist as she is a poet in this enthralling read demonstrating the visceral power of empathy.� � Paste 'A lyrical, potent book . . . Remarkable.'��Los Angeles Times�Why would a na�ve 27-year-old American poet, who speaks Spanish brokenly and knows nothing about the isthmus of the Americas, accept the invitation of a near-stranger to join him in El Salvador, on the brink of war? And why would this rumored lone wolf/communist/CIA operative/world-class marksman/small-time coffee farmer invite her? Those questions animate Forch�s dramatic memoir about her transformation into an activist for peace, justice, and human rights. Forch� vividly recounts how she became enmeshed with the mysterious, politically charged man and with clergy and farmworkers as violence ensued, in a fierce narrative punctuated with short prose poem vignettes that she notes are �written in pencil.� �The National Book Review �In this galvanizing memoir, [Forch�] recounts her political awakening under fire with a poet�s lyrical acuity and a storyteller�s drama�. Forch� recounts her frightening and transformative encounters with scorching specificity and portrays her brilliant and courageous mentor and other resistance fighters with wonder and gratitude. This clarion work of remembrance, this indelible testimony to a horrific battle in the unending struggle for human rights, justice, and peace, stands with the dispatches of Isabel Allende, Eduardo Galeano, Pablo Neruda, and Elena Poniatowska.� � Booklist, starred review�In this searing, vital memoir, Carolyn Forch� at last reveals the dark stories behind her famous early poems: she brings alive the brutality, complexity and idealism of El Salvador in the late 1970s, a time of revolution that echoes all too painfully in the present. What You Have Heard Is True, a riveting and essential account of a young woman�s political and human awakening, is as beautiful as it is painful to read.� �Claire Messud, author of The Burning Girl�Carolyn Forch� asks us not only to hear, but to see, the scale of human and moral devastation in El Salvador. For those of us who are citizens and residents of the United States, Forch�s powerful, moving, and disturbing memoir also demands that we recognize our country�s responsibility for the atrocities committed by the El Salvadoran military. As is the case with her poetry, Forch�s nonfiction asserts the need for truth�in our politics, in our writing, in our witnessing.���Viet Thanh Nguyen, author of The Sympathizer�What You Have Heard Is True�is as much an enthralling account of a life marked by an encounter as it is a document of a time and place. Carolyn Forche�s urgent and compelling memoir narrates her role as witness in an especially explosive and precarious period in El Salvador�s history. This incredible book shapes chaos into accountability. It marries the attentive sensibility of a master poet with the unflinching eyes of a human rights activist.� �Claudia Rankine, author of�Citizen�Carolyn Forch�s beautifully rendered story of the intimate and often harrowing encounters that shaped her life is a testament to her singular gifts as a poet of extraordinary courage and grace. Forch� does more than just bear witness to a world corrupted by politics and violence; she listens and acts, and in doing so she has created a work of art forged by her faith in language and justice, a story that is haunting and indelible, urgent and timeless.� �Dinaw Mengestu, author of All Our Names�This luminous book stands beside the memoirs of Pablo Neruda and Czeslaw Milosz in its account of a poet�s education, the struggle of a great artist to be worthy of her gifts. Carolyn Forch�s prose is shamanic: it sees both the surface of things and their inner workings, it animates the inanimate world.� �Garth Greenwell, author of What Belongs to You��Carolyn Forch� is a legendary poet, a great American voice of conscience who has given courage to many of us for the past several decades. Here, she shares with us what few writers ever share: a story of how, by trial of fire at the beginning of the horrific war in El Salvador, she found her voice. Both an account of the education of a great contemporary writer, and a spell-binding story of a journey and friendship, this book is first and foremost a call to action. It asks us to pay attention in a time of our own turmoil. It shows us just how to do what we as a nation so desperately need to do: to remove the blindfold and open our eyes.� �Ilya Kaminsky, author of Deaf Republic � �Carolyn Forch�, a poet renowned for her exposure of the barbarisms in our time, has now given us the motivation for her life-work. The book is right on time, though it took decades to write. Now while we are creating a festering, wounded border in America, and a pit of crime and cruelty, this book shows us how such a thing happened, not from the US point of view, but through the eyes of the oppressed.�Forch� has revived the role of a poet in the modern world.� �Fanny Howe, author of Second Childhood'Episode by episode, dodging death squads, Forch� builds a story filled with violence and intrigue worthy of Graham Greene around which a river of blood flows�doing so, unstanched, with the avid support of America's leaders.'��Kirkus Reviews Read more About the Author Carolyn Forch� is an American poet, editor, translator, and activist. Her books of poetry are Blue Hour, The Angel of History, The Country Between Us, and Gathering the Tribes. In 2013, Forch� received the Academy of American Poets Fellowship given for distinguished poetic achievement. In 2017, she became one of the first two poets to receive the Windham-Campbell Prize. She is a University Professor at Georgetown University.�Forch�lives in Maryland with her husband, the photographer Harry Mattison. Read more Excerpt. � Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. It is near the end now. We are walking in the rippling heat of a sorghum field: cicadas whirring to an empty sky. A man uncorks a water gourd, another man leans against a spade. There is a woman here too, wearing an aproned skirt over her trousers. Hard light and the dry rattle of sorghum seed heads. I'm holding a spray of seeds. One of the men takes Leonel aside and tells him something-a secret, like everything else. We get into the jeep and without explanation drive to another place, not far from this field. The campesinos, rural peasants, would have walked, measuring distance not in kilometers but in hours or days.'What are we looking for?' I ask, and as always, he doesn't answer, swearing under his breath through the haze of smoke that hangs in the air where the corn had been growing. We stop near a cluster of champas, shacks made of mud and wattle. One of them has collapsed and smoke rises from it.'Wait here,' he tells me, but I don't wait. I had stopped waiting for him months before this, but he can't seem to break this habit of telling me to wait. Smoke is rolling like a shore cloud along the fields just above the blackened stubble. We walk, and when he stops, I stop, and when he continues, I continue. He palms the air to say 'Slow down' or 'Be quiet.' I slow down and am quiet. When we reach the champas, no one is in them. No one is home. A large plastic bowl used for making the slurry that becomes tortilla dough is overturned on the ground. There is a child's T-shirt in the tortilla slurry. Behind one of the champas it appears that several hens have been held by their feet and whacked against a stone. They are lying on the ground, one of them still opening and closing its beak.A hundred or so meters more, and we hear the whine of flies, the hissing and belching of turkey vultures, a flapping of wings like applause in the maize stalks as the fattened birds try to lift themselves. A flatbed truck follows at a distance behind us, with three campesinos standing in the back. They are calling out to us or to the driver of the truck but I don�t understand what they say.I don't know what I had expected to see, but not the swollen torso of a man with one arm attached to him, a black pool of tar over his crotch. I didn't expect that his head would be by itself some distance away, without eyes or lips. The stench in the air is familiar: a rotting, sweet, sickening smell. Human death. I bend down when I see the head, but I hear Leonel saying, 'Don't touch it. Let the others do it.'At first, I thought they were going to find the rest of the man and place his remains in the truck but instead they gather the arms and hands, the legs with their feet attached, and bring them to the torso where it lies on the ground. They set the head on the neck where it once had been, then the three men take off their straw hats and stand in a circle around the man they have reassembled. They stand and one crosses himself lightly. The parts are not quite touching, there is soil between them, especially the head and the rest. No eyes, no lips or tongue, birds nearby hoping we will go away and leave them to this meal. The air hums, we walk. Why doesn't anyone do something? I think I asked.On this day, I will learn that the human head weighs about two and a half kilos.�Over the years, I have asked myself what would have happened if I hadn't answered the door that morning, if I'd hidden until the stranger was gone. Knowing him as I came to know him, he would have sensed my presence and continued ringing the bell. On that day, I had been at my typewriter, a heavy IBM Selectric that a friend would later complain sounded like a machine gun. There were stacks of papers everywhere: human rights reports, students' essays and poems, unfinished manuscripts, unanswered correspondence. A sea wind passed through the screens, lifting some of these papers into the air and sailing them to the floor. The finches were singing atop their bamboo cage, as its door was usually open, leaving them to fly about the house, perching on ceiling fixtures and open doors. In those days, I could type faster than I could think-my father saw to that when I told him I wanted to be a poet. I would need to be able to 'fall back' on something, he'd said. Fall from where? I had wondered to myself at the time. The typewriter was set on the kitchen table, and most days I worked there, the ocean almost audible, the air scented by the fields of nearby flower farms. As it was late morning, the harvesters of Encinitas had already left for lunch, having begun their work at dawn. At first, I might not have noticed the sound of the van pulling into the driveway, but its engine remained idling, so it wasn't simply turning around. Then the engine died and the doors were opening.�It was not my habit to answer the door when I was alone. My mother had been strict about this with her seven children. She couldn't watch all of us at once, she would say, so there were rules. Not opening the door to strangers was one of them.�We had moved to this town house hurriedly, my housemate and I, from an apartment we had also shared, after receiving mail from a town to the north of us, an envelope that contained lewd photographs of a man, with a note telling us that he was 'coming to visit' and we were 'not to contact the police.' The police had said that there was nothing they could do until 'something actually happened,' and therefore it might be best for us to move somewhere else. So here we were, in a new, unfurnished town-house rental nearer the ocean, as far from the city as we could reasonably live and still commute to the university where I taught and Barbara studied. Twenty-eight miles-far enough.�The vehicle that was not turning around was a white Toyota Hiace. From the window, I could see a man get out and sling a tote bag over his shoulder, with papers escaping from the top. Then the back panel door slid open, and two very young girls climbed down and stood beside him. I remember reassuring myself that an ax murderer probably wouldn't travel with two young girls. When the man looked up at my window, as if he knew I was there, I moved away and cowered against the wall. The dust-covered Hiace had El Salvador license plates.�What I knew of El Salvador, I knew from my Spanish professor in college, himself a Salvadoran, and from stories told during the previous summer when I lived on the island of Mallorca in Spain. I had traveled there with my friend Maya to translate the work of her mother, the expatriated Central American poet Claribel Alegr�a. The Salvadoran Spanish professor occasionally showed slides to the class, most especially of his family's houses and gardens. Everything I knew about the isthmus of the Americas at that time I knew from Claribel's poetry and the professor's luminous images projected onto a blank wall.��The doorbell rang, then rang again.�On the other side of the door, the girls' voices rose in delight, possibly at their first glimpse of the rabbits: does and their young kits leaping in the stubble of garden. The hutch door had been left open. I studied the stranger through the peephole: a tussle of dark wavy hair, a short black beard, heavy eyeglasses. The girls hid behind him, but because they were here too, I opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow.�The man standing on the porch seemed amused by this.�'You are Carolyn Forch�,' he said through the opening, 'and I am Leonel G�mez Vides. These are my daughters, Teresa and Margarita.'�'I'm sorry,' I said, 'just a moment.' I closed the door and leaned against it. I had heard this name last summer in Dei�. This was Claribel Alegr�a's cousin. Her mother was the sister of his mother. That summer, Claribel sometimes spoke of this Leonel with great affection, but at other times she seemed not to want to say very much. I sensed admiration, caution, and also a little fear, but I couldn't work out whether it was fear of him or for him.�The name Leonel G�mez was usually mentioned when Claribel and her family were talking about El Salvador, where Claribel had spent her childhood. These conversations concerned people who had been killed there, or who had disappeared, among them their friend the poet Roque Dalton, murdered just two years earlier-the handsome revolutionary who had once escaped from prison, according to the legend, when an earthquake shook his cell walls to the ground just before he was to be executed. In stories like this they often also brought up Leonel but when this happened Claribel quickly changed the subject, especially if I seemed at all curious. When I asked Maya about this secrecy, she waved away my concerns with Mami's just tired, or Mami's still grieving over Roque. There came to be an unspoken rule: Don't bring up Roque or Leonel around Mami.�Now this mysterious Leonel was standing on my porch in Southern California with his daughters. How was that possible? Wanting to be sure of who he was, I went upstairs for the envelope of snapshots I'd taken in Dei�. This seems odd to me now-that I should have required some proof from him, as he did in fact resemble the handsome youth straddling a motorcycle in the photograph that Claribel kept in her study.�When I opened the still-chained door again, I passed the pictures to him, asking that he identify the people turning toward the camera: the wiry, silver-haired man with the cigarette, the woman in a cocktail dress, raising a glass, and the young one, a former ballerina, sitting tall in her chair-my good friend Maya, the poet's daughter. There were others too, a few of the regulars who gathered on the terrace of the poet's house in the afternoons to drink and talk and watch the sun slip behind the peak of the Teix, but I wouldn't have expected him to know who they were.�'This is Claribel,' he said, tapping her face with his fingertip. 'And there is the husband, Bud. And this?' His voice softened. 'This must be Maya. It is Maya, isn't it?'�'Come in, please come in, I'm sorry to keep you waiting, and I'm sorry to have . . .'�'No, it's okay. I like that you checked me out. You were being careful.'�The girls were looking around a bit apprehensively. How strange that house must have seemed, so bare walled and empty. Our kitchen table also served as our desk. We used a soup bowl for an ashtray. Our finches flew about the house as they wanted, but mostly they remained on their perches near the cups of millet. There was a small vegetable and herb garden planted on the side of the house. My friend and housemate, Barbara, had taken care of it all summer while I was in Spain. The rabbits were the offspring of Easter bunnies given to us by my students: two females and a male, as it turned out. What were we supposed to have done with them? On this morning, twenty-three rabbits were living in the hutch and garden.�The only furniture was the kitchen table with its four ladder-back chairs, two mattresses on the floors of our upstairs bedrooms, and a single daybed in the living room that we used as a couch. In one corner of the living room, a papier-m�ch� calliope horse painted red, about four feet high, reared on its hind legs. There were flowers on its rump. Leonel stopped when he saw it, seeming taken aback.�'How long have you had this?' he asked, laughing, shaking his head.�'I don't know. A friend found it in a bin on the street. Why?'�'No, just asking. But it's yours, right? It's your horse?'�We had drifted into the kitchen, which must also have seemed odd, with nothing on the countertops, and no sign that food had ever been prepared there. The girls kept close to their father, pinching his shirt to their faces, but slowly they began to steal glimpses of me.�'Do you like rabbits?' I asked, remembering the Spanish word, conejos. 'They're in the hutch in the garden-do you want to see? There are two mothers, and the babies are a month old. Go ahead, you can play with them.'�Leonel bent down for them to whisper in his ear, and he nodded that it was okay for them to go outside.�'Do you have any coffee? I've been driving for three days. I'm dead. And can you clear this stuff off the table? There are some things I need to show you. We have work to do.'�Work? I remember thinking then, What work? But he was already pushing my papers aside and unpacking his woolen bag, woven with symbols and animals, among them an openmouthed wildcat about to pounce.��\�He began covering the cleared table with white butcher paper cut from a roll he had brought, taping it down, and in the center, he placed what few objects he could find in our cupboards: salt and pepper shakers, a shot glass of toothpicks, a paring knife, matchbooks, and to these he added things taken out of a second, smaller bag: a miniature metal replica of a World War II battleship, a Swiss Army knife, wooden matches and a pouch of Balkan tobacco. Then he set a pack of my cigarettes among these things.�'These cigarettes are now a military garrison. Sit down.' And then, 'How much do you know about military dictatorship?'�No small talk, no How is Claribel? Just How much do you know? I didn't know what to make of him.�Leaning over the paper, he began drawing a map of his country, almost without looking, moving the pen in a continuous bleed of ink, traveling in memory from the Guatemalan border south to the Bay of Fonseca, then east toward Honduras, suggesting the volcanic peaks and mountain ranges of El Salvador with a string of chevrons.�'Nothing,' I answered. 'I know nothing about military dictatorship.'�His elbows were on the map, his folded hands pressed against his mouth. I saw myself in his glasses, two of me, and the girls' laughter was sieved through the kitchen screens. Read more
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