By Paulo Lins
Cidade de Deus, the town of God ... welcome to at least one of Rio's such a lot infamous slums. a spot the place the streets are awash with medicinal drugs, the place violence can erupt at any second, over medications, funds ... and love... but additionally the place the samba beat rocks til sunrise, the place the ladies are the main appealing in the world, and the place one younger guy desires to break out his history and turn into a photographer.
Paulo Lins was once born in Rio de Janeiro and at age seven moved to the 'City of God' housing venture. He escaped the cycle of violence there to turn into an across the world celebrated author, and nonetheless lives in Rio. This novel is the results of prolonged learn within the housing venture the place Lins was once raised. He spent 8 years interviewing humans and gaining knowledge of the drug trafficking and gang struggle that marked the historical past of the neighbourhood within the Seventies and 80s.
Based on a real tale, this can be a sprawling, magnificently instructed epic in regards to the heritage of gang lifestyles in Rio's favelas. the unique novel of the highly acclaimed movie.
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Extra info for City of God: A Novel
I gathered up the pages and handed them to him, not daring to meet his gaze. Don Basilio sat down at the next table and turned on the lamp. His eyes skimmed the text, betraying no emotion. Then he rested his cigar on the end of the table for a moment, glared at me, and read out the first line: Night falls on the city and the streets carry the scent of gunpowder like the breath of a curse. Don Basilio looked at me out of the corner of his eye and I hid behind a smile that didn’t leave a single tooth uncovered.
He then hugged me until there was no strength left in his arms and lay down, stretched out on the floor with the hypodermic needle still stuck in his skin. I pulled out the needle and covered him with a blanket. After that, he began to lock himself in. We lived in a small attic suspended over the building site of the new auditorium, the Palau de la Música. It was a cold, narrow place in which wind and humidity seemed to mock the walls. I used to sit on the tiny balcony with my legs dangling out, watching people pass by and gazing at the battlement of weird sculptures and columns that was growing on the other side of the street.
And you’ll be right to do so, because you’re not a journalist and you never will be. But you’re not a crime novelist yet, even if you think you are. ” At that moment, my guard down, I was so overwhelmed by gratitude that I wanted to hug that great bulk of a man. Don Basilio, his fierce mask back in place, gave me a steely look and pointed toward the door. “No scenes, please. Close the door. ” … The following Monday, when I arrived at the editorial room ready to sit at my own desk for the very first time, I found a coarse gray envelope with a ribbon and my name on it in the same recognizable type that I had been typing out for years.