So I do not consider myself a chronicler of my fatherland or even a chronicler of Havana.

I think that I've tried many times to get Cuba in my writings, especially Havana, which was once a great and fascinating city.

If you look closely, there is no book more visual than Three Trapped Tigers, in that it is filled with blank pages, dark pages, it has stars made of words, the famous magical cube made of numbers, and there is even a page which is a mirror.

Puns are a form of humor with words.

My mother had been educated at a convent, and she had been converted to communism by my father during Stalin's most rampant period, at the beginning of the 1930s. So she had two gods, God in heaven and god on earth.

If the sleep of reason produces monsters, what does the sleep of unreason produce?