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In the early days there had been no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny to decorate the sacrilege, piety, or greedy whimsy of Milagro’s various religious seasons. In their stead, the Abuelo, a shady and gnarled old man—more closely related in spirit to the bogeyman than to old Saint Nick—scrambled around in the winter or spring shadows, trying to lay his icy fingers on irreligious little kids who strayed from the straight and narrow. When he latched onto a victim, the hairy old Abuelo, who dressed in rags and occasionally smoked a cigar, made the kid kneel on the ground, whipped him heartily with a cat-o’-nine-tails, and then ordered the child to say his prayers. If the youngster didn’t know his prayers the Abuelo was liable to kick him around in the snow until his body became a white ball, or else he would burn off the tip of the kid’s frosty nose with his cigar. For dozens of decades the Abuelo had hung around at one festive time of year or another, beating up kids or shining flashlight beams into burros’ eyes until they went crazy, and in general causing a great deal of malicious mischief. But as the modern age intruded upon Milagro, bringing with it the Cinemascope and Technicolor versions of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and cutesy Day-Glo Halloween skeleton suits, the ferocious Abuelo began to fade from the sanitized scene like the image in an old tintype.

— The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols (New Mexico Trilogy, #1)

Billy Ray Gusdorf, known simply as Ray these days, was a lean, quiet man who, in a lean and quiet way, believed in God.

— The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols (New Mexico Trilogy, #1)

José Mondragón, he’s another kind of fish. He’s got such a hot head you’d think he was plucked off a chili plant instead of born natural like the rest of us. He’s one of those little guys likes to beat the shit out of big guys.

— The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols (New Mexico Trilogy, #1)

Nobody, including Onofre himself, knew how he learned to read and write—certainly he had never attended school. But all at once, when still a child, Onofre had awakened able to read. His sudden skill was a miracle of sorts, on a par with the unexplained underground barking of Cleofes Apodaca’s lost sheepdog Pendejo or the bell whose ringing caused Padre Sinkovich to undermine the foundations of his very own church. Onofre Martínez could no longer write, however, because he had lost his literate arm, and he had no more been able to transfer literacy to his left arm than Bernabé Montoya had been able to wheedle a fine out of Onofre for all those parking meter violations.

— The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols (New Mexico Trilogy, #1)

Betita, who had never been sick a day in her life, died in 1963, on November 22, on the same day as President Kennedy, but not from a bullet in the head.

— The Milagro Beanfield War by John Nichols (New Mexico Trilogy, #1)

«Matias», seier eg, utan at han ser opp. «Matias, her har det levd dinosaurar, altså!»

Det står ingenting om det på skiltet, men sidan desse berga faktisk er frå urtida, burde det i prinsippet kunne inkludere dinosaurar. Matias si interesse for dinosaurar var uansett ein kortvarig og overflatisk affære. Eg hadde med misunning og håp sett korleis dei andre i barnehagen, utan noko utprega lovande intellekt så vidt eg kunne bedømme, hadde fordjupa seg i denne evig tiltrekkande materien frå krit- og juratida. Memorert ei uendeleg rekke lange, avanserte spesifikasjonar, vengespenn og toppfart. Korleis dei med eit halvt auge kunne skilje mellom ein diplodocus og ein brachiosaurus, og eg hadde tenkt at sidan Matias er slikt eit inneslutta, forsiktig barn, så burde han nettopp vere typen til å dykke ned på den slags djupner av spesialisert kunnskap. Eg hadde kjøpt tjukke, rikt illustrerte bøker til han, kostbare figurar i tysk kvalitetsplast, men det hadde ikkje resultert i noko.

— Doggerland by Agnes Ravatn