“To the modern Mexican, death doesn’t have meaning. It ceases to be the transition, the access to the other life which is more authentic than this one. But the unimportance of death has not taken it away from us and eliminated it from our daily lives. To the inhabitants of New York, Paris, or London death is a word that is never uttered because it burns the lips. The Mexican on the other hand frequents it, mocks it, caresses it, sleeps with it, and entertains it; it is his favorite plaything and his most enduring love. It’s true that in his attitude there is perhaps the same fear that others have, but at least he does not hide this fear nor does he hide death; he contemplates her face to face with impatience with contempt, with irony: “if they’re going to kill me tomorrow, let them kill me for once and for all.”