by Noga Sklar A legal immigrant from Brazil tells her daily experiences in the United States, as her homeland plunges into an unprecedented political and economic crisis, which culminates in the impeachment of the president. Meanwhile, she struggles to settle down in the U.S., working in both countries at the same time — through the internet — and building a house in South Carolina. In the background, history writes itself between terrorist attacks and Donald Trump’s political trajectory toward the presidency. With a sharp wit and a strong ironic tone, Noga Sklar is a popular writer in Brazil, where she is well-know as a “cronista”.
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by Noga Sklar In Welcome to America, Noga Sklar chronicles her first year as a legal immigrant in the US, including the adventure of receiving a Green Card and a South Carolina drivers license. Divided between her working day in Brazil, where she still runs a company through the Internet, and the building of a new foundation in a new country, Noga shares her deep feelings and ironic views on Brazilian and international politics, the American way of life, love and conflict, daily routine, the small things that turn each life into a meaningful, unique experience. Noga has been chronicling her life throughout her marriage with Alan Sklar in 2005, having already published more than 3,000 pages in her native Portuguese. Welcome to America is her first book published in English.
by Noga Sklar With her firm control over the act of writing, Noga Sklar produced in No Degrees of Separation something that is not an epistolary novel, nor poetic prose, nor fiction, nor a diary — albeit it contains elements of all those — while, at the same time, shamelessly exhibiting the autobiographical source that feeds it. It might be the case to affirm that, with No Degrees of Separation, Noga has written the post-post-modern version of Solomon’s Song of Songs. As in that ancient text, one of the very first in erotic literature, Noga follows the delicate thread that unites the written word to eroticism. By alternating the voices of the two passionate lovers (Noga and Alan) in a dialogue that draws them near and intertwines them, but without ever confusing them (they never cease to mingle with each other, while successfully remaining themselves, a man and a woman, Noga and Alan, incessantly hungry for each other) she shows us how eroticism and the written word fertilize each other and are made consubstantial.
(A quick look) by Noga Sklar Can you see the handsome young man sitting by my side, driving through the forest behind the wheel of his decrepit truck? Yes. I would trust him with my life. Sip of vodka. We left Alan behind at home, sleeping. Have any of you ever “driven through the forest” along narrow, temporary roads, barely visible, fated to be swallowed eventually by the “temperate rain forest”? Excessive quotation marks in a strange, unfriendly world. I wonder if my stepson collects guns, but I’ve never asked. I wasn’t ready to discuss the answer. Plus, I’m too ignorant of firearms or calibers to engage in a conversation. He seems ready to face anything, ranging from a bear emerging from the woods to the Chinese invading the United States. That’s how Alan explains to me the impressive number of water bottles under the sink in Erik’s prefab home. Attack. Invasion. I found out it is just a routine emergency measure, in case the water freezes inside the pipes in the morning cold. What a great kid (sip of vodka). What a great soldier (there’s good proof of that). What a great lover (I can only imagine). He is 25, and this is the first significant amount of time we’ve spent together. When I first met him five years ago, we were total strangers, but now, for some reason, we are mother and son. I’m his “madre,” half-Mexican perhaps (shot of vodka). I cook for him; we venture together into the forest; he gives me a kiss on the cheek when he leaves for work. It’s great. Suddenly, I share a deep love with my American son, stepson. Neither of us seems to care that he did not grow inside my womb. Exaggeration. Poetic license. The next moment I...