I am addicted to poetry, but the truth is I cannot pass up a good hard-boiled mystery. — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
“I can't believe how many students don't read. They want to be writers, but they haven't read anything at all. They have… — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
Poetry is how I feed the soul, and it's how I fire the furnace of writing. — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
I believe God is a poet; every religion in our history was made of poems and songs, and not a few of… — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
“Aztlán (“The Place of the Reeds”) was the traditional home of the Aztecs, a possibly mythical motherland from which the tribe ventured forth on a one-hundred-year walk. It was a land to the north of Mexico City. Chicanos recognize Aztlán as being in the American southwest, and it came to represent the stomping ground of “La Chicanada,” or the entirety… — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share
With a name like Luis Alberto Urrea, it's political no matter what I do. — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
During grade school, we moved to a white, working-class suburb in San Diego, and there were no Mexicans. — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
I've been told not to tour down in Mexico. I am too well-known now. The kidnappers may think that my publisher will pay a… — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
“Braulio rises and extends his hands, making peace. " No hay pedo ," he says, the absurd lower-class slang for "There's no trouble here,"… — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
“This is how Heaven works. They're practical. We are always looking for rays of light. For lightning bolts or burning bushes. But God is… — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
We want to ascribe a kind of tragic grimness to people, but people are funny. — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
I came to believe the green fuse that drives spring and summer through the world is essentially a literary energy. That the world was… — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
“He couldn't believe she was real. She was like some dream, some story old men told youngsters. She made a fool out of him with the slightest grin or pout. She slept in his bed, not beside him, but around him, her aromatic legs and arms wrapped around him, her mouth against his throat, her beautiful thundercloud hair over his… — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share
The world was more than a place. Life was more than an event. It was all one thing, and that thing was: story. — Luis Alberto Urrea Copy Share Image
