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There is an art to this, you see. An art to appearing as though everything is effortless, that your world is a gilded one, when the reality is that your knees beneath your silk gown buckle from the weight of it all.
To be in exile is to have the things you love most in the world—the air you breathe, the earth you walk upon—taken from you. They exist on the other side of a wall—there and not—unaltered by time and circumstance, preserved in a perfect memory in a land of dreams.
Life is too short to be unhappy, Marisol. To play it safe. To do what is expected of you rather than follow your heart.
Havana is like a woman who was grand once and has fallen on hard times,
That’s the thing with grief—you never know when it will sneak up on you.
“La Bayamesa.”
Loyalty is a complicated thing—where does family fit on the hierarchy? Above or below country? Above or below the natural order of things? Or are we above all else loyal to ourselves, to our hearts, our convictions, the internal voice that guides us?
The Americans preach liberty, and freedom, and democracy at home, and practice tyranny throughout the rest of the world.
“Terrible things rarely happen all at once,” she answers.
people don’t realize how bad things have gotten until it’s too late.
Hope is all you have to cling to when the world around you evokes every other emotion.
That’s the thing about death—even when you think someone is gone, glimpses of them remain in those they loved and left behind.
He has made fools of all of us,