Julián Herbert

Canción de tumba

Virtuosic stories by one of “the more interesting and ambitious prose stylists of our time” (Los Angeles Times) In this madcap, insatiably inventive, bravura story collection, Julián Herbert brings to vivid life people who struggle to retain a measure of sanity in an insane world. Here we become acquainted with a vengeful “personal memories coach” who tries to get even with his delinquent clients; a former journalist with a cocaine habit who travels through northern Mexico impersonating a famous author of Westerns; the ghost of Juan Rulfo; a man who discovers music in his teeth; and, in the deliriously pulpy title story, a drug lord who looks just like Quentin Tarantino, who kidnaps a mopey film critic to discuss Tarantino’s films while he sends his goons to find and kill the doppelgänger that has colonized his consciousness. Herbert’s astute observations about human nature in extremis feel like the reader’s own revelations. The antic and often dire stories in Bring Me the Head of Quentin Tarantino depict the violence and corruption that plague Mexico today, but they are also deeply ruminative and layered explorations of the narrative impulse and the ethics of art making. Herbert asks: Where are the lines between fiction, memory, and reality? What is the relationship between power, corruption, and survival? How much violence can a person (and a country) take? The stories in this explosive collection showcase the fevered imagination of a significant contemporary writer.

Stories

Bring Me the Head of Quentin Tarantino

A brilliant work of historical excavation with profound echoes in an age redolent with violence and xenophobia Early in the twentieth century, amid the myths of progress and modernity that underpinned Mexico’s ruling party, some three hundred Chinese immigrants—close to half of the Cantonese residents of the newly founded city of Torreón—were massacred over the course of three days. It is considered the largest slaughter of Chinese people in the history of the Americas, but more than a century later, the facts continue to be elusive, mistaken, and repressed. “And what do you know about the Chinese people who were killed here?” Julián Herbert asks anyone who will listen. An exorcism of persistent and discomfiting ghosts, The House of the Pain of Others attempts a reckoning with the 1911 massacre. Looping, digressive, and cinematic, Herbert blends reportage, personal reflection, essay, and academic research to portray the historical context as well as the lives of the perpetrators and victims of the “small genocide.” This brilliant historical excavation echoes profoundly in an age redolent with violence and xenophobia.

Chronicle of a Small Genocide

The House of the Pain of Others

Ballata per mia madre

An incandescent new voice from Mexico, for readers of Ben Lerner and Rachel Cusk Sitting at the bedside of his mother as she is dying from leukemia in a hospital in northern Mexico, the narrator of Tomb Song is immersed in memories of his unstable boyhood and youth. His mother, Guadalupe, was a prostitute, and Julián spent his childhood with his half brothers and sisters, each from a different father, moving from city to city and from one tough neighborhood to the next. Swinging from the present to the past and back again, Tomb Song is not only an affecting coming-of-age story but also a searching and sometimes frenetic portrait of the artist. As he wanders the hospital, from its buzzing upper floors to the haunted depths of the morgue, Julián tells fevered stories of his life as a writer, from a trip with his pregnant wife to a poetry festival in Berlin to a drug-fueled and possibly completely imagined trip to another festival in Cuba. Throughout, he portrays the margins of Mexican society as well as the attitudes, prejudices, contradictions, and occasionally absurd history of a country ravaged by corruption, violence, and dysfunction. Inhabiting the fertile ground between fiction, memoir, and essay, Tomb Song is an electric prose performance, a kaleidoscopic, tender, and often darkly funny exploration of sex, love, and death. Julián Herbert’s English-language debut establishes him as one of the most audacious voices in contemporary letters.

A Novel

Tomb Song

Por el autor de Canción de tumba (Debolsillo, 2014) ganadora del Premio Jaén de Novela 2011 y el Premio de Novela Elena Poniatowska 2012. La historia perdida de los 303 chinos masacrados en Torreón durante la Revolución. Julián Herbert narra con gran maestría este hecho olvidado. A principios del siglo XX, con el mito de modernidad y progreso en el centro del discurso porfirista, un hecho cimbró la historia de México: entre el 13 y el 15 de mayo de 1911, alrededor de 300 chinos -cerca de la mitad de la colonia cantonesa de La Laguna- fueron masacrados por tropas revolucionarias y ciudadanos de Torreón. Se trata de la más grande matanza de chinos en América, un exterminio cargado de falso remordimiento y sinofobia ejemplar. Más de un siglo después, sigue siendo equívoco y escaso el reconocimiento de los hechos en los anales de la historia nacional y regional. Con ánimo de desahogo e intentar ver los hechos a contraluz de la violencia contemporánea, Julián Herbert ofrece al lector un potente relato que supera la sola descripción de la calamidad. A través de un ojo literario, charlas con taxistas e historiadores, los viajes del autor al escenario del suceso y a los archivos que resguardan testimonios al respecto, La casa del dolor ajeno es una obra audaz que ahonda en una de las principales preocupaciones estéticas de Herbert: poner en entredicho las fronteras entre los géneros literarios. Obra mestiza que bebe lo mismo de la narrativa que del reportaje, la crónica gonzo, el ensayo y la academia, esta versión del "pequeño genocidio" es, más que una búsqueda de la verdad histórica, un intento por restituir dignidad a un grupo de migrantes.

Julián Herbert

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