The more freedom is extended to business, the more prisons have to be built for those who suffer from that business.
I’m attracted to soccer’s capacity for beauty. When well played, the game is a dance with a ball.
Memory. My poison, my food.
The human rainbow had been mutilated by machismo, racism, militarism and a lot of other isms, who have been terribly killing our greatness, our possible greatness, our possible beauty.
I am quite prehistoric, absolutely prehistoric.
A pretty move, for the love of God.
I am not a historian. I am a writer obsessed with remembering, with remembering the past.
Soccer, metaphor for war, at times turns into real war.
No history is mute. No matter how much they own it, break it, and lie about it, human history refuses to shut its mouth. Despite deafness and ignorance, the time that was continues to tick inside the time that is.
If the world is upside down the way it is now, wouldn’t we have to turn it over to get it to stand up straight?
Soccer is a feast for the eyes that watch it and a joy for the body that plays it.
The division of labor among nations is that some specialize in winning and others in losing.
Development develops inequality.
The human murder by poverty in Latin America is secret: every year, without making a sound, three Hiroshima bombs explode over communities that have become accustomed to suffering with clenched teeth.
I go about the world, hand outstretched, and in the stadiums I plead: ‘A pretty move, for the love of God.’ And when good soccer happens, I give thanks for the miracle and I don’t give a damn which team or country performs it.
The ball laughs, radiant, in the air. He brings her down, puts her to sleep, showers her with compliments, dances with her, and seeing such things never before seen his admirers pity their unborn grandchildren who will never see them.
Most of wars or military coups or invasions are done in the name of democracy against democracy.
There are those who believe destiny rests at the feet of the gods, but the truth is that it confronts the conscious of man with a burning challenge.
In this world of ours, a world of powerful centers and subjugated outposts, there is no wealth that must not be held in some suspicion.
If the past has nothing to say to the present, history may go on sleeping undisturbed in the closet where the system keeps its old disguises.