Lizardi Saucedo

by Ramón López Velarde In these days when people have been talking about Cervantes , Altisidora has come to my mind. I have smelled her enervating hair that poisons the darkness of the moonlit fullnight. And I have let myself be carried away by listening to the mezmerizing of her ukulele. Perhaps the pages that I like the most in Quixote, have been those that describe the Hidalgo's stay between the dukes; between the duke Maleante and the Propicia duqueza. You can hardly smell the garlic that hurt the nose, and the action glides along neatly and gleefully like a game of chess played in a large room overlooking to a garden. We lived in their house, mischief, cordiality and health. Let's not think about politics nor money. We are -as they say- at our ease. The aforementioned Altisidora pretends to be in love with Don Quixote. Courtship of glances glimpses, rancorous mudslinging, sweet-songs, complaints and agonies... All this against the knight. And a cat arrives in a fit of rapt...

by  J. J. Arreola In a solitary place whose name does not really isn't care to bring to my memory, there was a man who spent his life eluding the concrete woman. He preferred the manual enjoyment of reading, and he effectively congratulated himself every time a knight-errant thoroughly charged one of those sweet female phantoms, made of virtues and overlapping skirts, that await the hero after four hundred pages of exploits, tricks and nonsense. On the threshold of old age, a woman of flesh and blood gave the anchorite a place in her cave. On any pretext she would enter the room and invade it with a strong scent of sweat and wool, of a young peasant girl overheated by the sun. The knight lost his head, but far from catching the one in front of him, he went after, through pages and pages, a pompous product of fantasy. He walked many leagues, speared lambs and windmills, upset some oak trees, and stomped three or four times in the air. When he returned from his fruitless quest, death...