Eduardo Galeano
Eduardo Galeano
Eduardo Hughes Galeanowas an Uruguayan journalist, writer and novelist considered, among other things, "global soccer's pre-eminent man of letters" and "a literary giant of the Latin American left"...
NationalityUruguayan
ProfessionMemoirist
Date of Birth3 September 1940
CityMontevideo, Uruguay
CountryUruguay
soccer country team
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.
heart joy torture
This work is a torture on the rump but a joy to the heart.
latin known
We Latins are known for jabbering on.
winning division-of-labor losing
The division of labor among nations is that some specialize in winning and others in losing.
way world upside-down
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?
prehistoric
I am quite prehistoric, absolutely prehistoric.
soccer real war
Soccer, metaphor for war, at times turns into real war.
past scrapbooking remember
I am not a historian. I am a writer obsessed with remembering, with remembering the past
soccer eye play
Soccer is a feast for the eyes that watch it and a joy for the body that plays it
soccer football feet
His legs have a mind of their own, his foot shoots by itself... Roberto Baggio is a big horsetail that flicks away opponents as he flows forward in an elegant wave.
suffering prison built
The more freedom is extended to business, the more prisons have to be built for those who suffer from that business.
views growth criminals
From the point of view of the economy, the sale of weapons is indistinguishable from the sale of food. When a building collapses or a plane crashes, it?s rather inconvenient from the point of view of those inside, but it?s altogether convenient for the growth of the gross national product, which sometimes ought to be called the "gross criminal product."
memories food poison
Memory. My poison, my food.
mean warrior reality
Poets and beggars, musicians and prophets, warriors and scoundrels, all creatures of that unbridled reality, we have had to ask but little of our imagination, for our crucial problem has been a lack of conventional means to render our lives believable. This, my friends, is the crux of our solitude.