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496 pages, Hardcover
First published November 28, 2011
”The Saint opened her eyes and watched the land unfurling, flopping, rising and falling like a flag or a sheet drying on a clothesline being tossed by the wind. In her mind she was out there, not in the dark squeaking car, and she was in the air, speeding, her hair unfurling behind her for a mile, her arms wide in an embrace of the wind, flying like she had once seen Huila do in her dream a upon the llanos many years ago, Huila, drifting in the air as she came back from her journeys, coming down the breeze as if gingerly stepping down a stairway to the empty earth below.”
“He drew back the curtain for her to see. Skyrockets flew from the rascuache camp and from the hills behind. Glittering sky bombs rained down from the Franklin Mountains on the city below. Teresita laughed and clapped her hands. They leaned on the window ledge and watched their first Fourth of July.”

In America, you needed different dreams. And she did not yet know their language.
—Prologue, p.5
She knew that when her work was done, her work was not done.
—p.41
Huila had often told her that people sought God on mountaintops, but mountaintops were too small for anybody to stand on. If you really wanted to find God, you would have to stand in the mud like everybody else. All this noise. How could anyone hear anything?
—p.50
"Revolution is God's work."
"Healing is God's work," she demurred. "Childbirth. Making honey. Not shooting people."
—Don Lauro Aguirre and Teresita, p.144
There was no room for most of their things, so Tomás rented a storage shed around the corner. The stench of Tomás's cheese immediately attracted mice, which began tunneling through their belongings. They dug comfortable tunnels in the Parmesan and ate themselves to sleep.
—p.162
"May God guide us," Manuel said.
"Let us," added Benigno, rising and dusting off his pants, "kill them all."
—p.166
He was struck mute with the silence of every father of every daughter, that moment when the words cannot come, and what wanted to be said would forever remain silent.
—p.240
"I have failed."
"Failed at what?"
"Failed at my calling. My work."
"Really? One mistake is failure? Damn. It's a good thing I didn't know that."
—p.267
In spite of the landslide victory of his candidate, doom seemed to dog his steps. He hated the news every day; the American population had swelled to seventy-six million. Soon there wouldn't be a place for a man to stand. And worse, immigrants poured in by the millions. Why, just that morning, an editorial stated that nine million foreigners would enter the country by 1901. He wrote letters demanding that the borders be closed, that the European trash be stopped from sullying the Americas any further. Germans, Italians, Irish, Chinese, the Hebrews—all taking over his country. It was getting so that a man could not hear good old Spanish anymore.
—p.290
God did not deliver grace any quicker to a peon in mud than He did to a millionaire in a penthouse—it was simply that the millionaire, though greatly more in need than the peon, did not notice grace when it came. Why would he? Cigars, whiskey, grand beds, and gold wallpaper were all more visible than God. You could put your arms around a bawdy woman, but you had to intuit the Holy Spirit. No. It was all mud. Some mud was more glittery, that was all.
—p.317
"You can stack two thousand Bibles on an ass's back," she said. "And he would still be an ass."
—Teresita, p.364
As the sky burned pink at its bottom hem, she rose and attended to her belongings one last time.
—p.375
Since the first book came out, I have met more than a half dozen reincarnated Teresitas, and ten or twelve channelers who channel her from Heaven. I am led to believe that in the afterlife, one can go condo and inhabit all sorts of interesting new bodies at once. And, being spirit rather than flesh, one can also be in Heaven and Texas at the same time. I often wonder what Tomás Urrea would have made of all this.
—Luis Alberto Urrea, p.489