Upon reading Alejandro Chacoff’s review of Jorge Barón Biza’s “The Desert and Its Seed” in the NEw Yorker Edition of August 6 and 13, 2018

I sometimes t

hink about it, you

know. I’m a

man, a product of

love between two different

people, and here

am I, living

under God’s mercy, unable to

grasp God’s mercy but

accepting

that it exists, just like

me (and you, and

we) e

xist, a lawyer that

enjoys reading

too much, for his

own sake. I

particularly like to

read novels. They

take us to places that we don’t

really understand, but k

now, or

maybe it’s the

opposite: that we k

now, but

don’t really (maybe, just maybe)

understand. If I were a

character in a

novel – and there were m

any times in my life that I

wished I was a character i

n a novel –

I would like to b

e a character from a

Latin-American

novel. They

seem so

fleshy, so

cool, so

violent, so

desperate, so

powerful, so

crazy, so

weak, so

amazingly, magically, realistically, hu

man and

poetic. I

sometimes think a

bout it, you

know. Like

this.