{"id":44750,"date":"2026-03-08T14:00:32","date_gmt":"2026-03-08T20:00:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/2026\/03\/theres-no-point-in-dying-translated-by-bruna-dantas-lobato\/"},"modified":"2026-03-18T00:52:58","modified_gmt":"2026-03-18T06:52:58","slug":"theres-no-point-in-dying-translated-by-bruna-dantas-lobato","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/2026\/03\/theres-no-point-in-dying-translated-by-bruna-dantas-lobato\/","title":{"rendered":"There\u2019s No Point in Dying, translated by Bruna Dantas Lobato"},"content":{"rendered":"

In this kaleidoscopic novel set in a favela of Rio de Janeiro\u2014\u201cin the city of stray bullets, in the land of lost opportunities\u201d\u2014a gang member runs wildly through the streets not knowing he has only seven minutes left to live. Barflies, prostitutes, immigrants, a gay couple, a taxi driver, cops, a mobster, and more populate Francisco Maciel\u2019s first book to appear in English. Leaping back and forth across time and spiraling into the surreal, the novel coalesces around a brutal massacre. Maciel\u2019s multiracial characters write poetry and discourse on soccer, insects, samba, and climate change. Gritty, unpredictable, and percussive, <\/span><\/i>There\u2019s No Point in Dying<\/span> is translated by National Book Award winner Bruna Dantas Lobato.<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

***<\/span><\/p>\n

A Horse at the Door<\/b><\/p>\n

Daf\u00e9 is running down Maia de Lacerda, it\u2019s 2:15 in the afternoon, and at 2:22 he\u2019s going to die. Tall, green eyes, coiled hair bleached bright yellow, he could\u2019ve been whatever he wanted in life. Soccer player. Security guard. Gigolo. Star. He was meant to shine, he\u2019d always thought. He was different, he was better. Then he made the wrong choices. Now he\u2019s running down Maia. Just a pipe dream.<\/span><\/p>\n

He feels like he\u2019s soaring, but he isn\u2019t. He spent the last two days fucking and nuzzling. No sleep, not enough food, too much to drink. He\u2019s running on the sidewalk, on the left side of the street, past the parked cars, the trees, the lampposts. He\u2019s trying to get to S\u00e3o Roberto. He\u2019ll be safe then, he thinks. That\u2019s where the woman he\u2019s been banging lives, and though he told her they\u2019re done, that\u2019s where he\u2019s headed, sex is no help in a situation like this, only gets in the way. But that\u2019s where he\u2019s going. His mother Mirtes\u2019s would be safer, but he doesn\u2019t think of that.<\/span><\/p>\n

It\u2019d be faster if he went through the Bezerra de Menezes Spiritist Center, jumped over the back wall to S\u00e3o Carlos and ran down the steps to get to S\u00e3o Roberto. But he keeps running down the street.<\/span><\/p>\n

Everyone here\u2019s a lame horse. That\u2019s what Guile Xang\u00f4 says, and Guile Xang\u00f4 is a nice guy, weird and smart, he\u2019s got a job, an address, identity documents. All the others are screw-ups, starving, one foot in jail. At least that part is true:\u00a0 it\u2019s hard to find someone here who\u2019s never done time. People pretend they haven\u2019t. But when they\u2019re hammered and high on blow they brag about it. They\u2019re out and got nothing to show for it. No job, respect, dignity. They get wasted in seedy bars and snort white lines off black tables, the thin threads of their stupid lives going between their teeth. Life was better on the inside, they say. Then why not just stay there? Out here they got no rights, no respect. They\u2019re nobody. They\u2019re sick. They walked through the cell door right into a solid wall. They don\u2019t exist. They don\u2019t even know how much they don\u2019t exist. Everyone here\u2019s a lame horse, Guile Xang\u00f4 says, and you know what you do to a lame horse? You put a bullet in it, kill it.<\/span><\/p>\n

Daf\u00e9 is still running down Maia, still feeling like he\u2019s soaring. If he ran into the Halley Hotel, ran up the stairs, locked himself up in a room, Pernambuco would help him, he wouldn\u2019t stand for cowardice, he\u2019d be on his side. Daf\u00e9 could stand a chance.<\/span><\/p>\n

No one here has IDs. They work underground. They have marks on their skin instead. And he, Daf\u00e9, doesn\u2019t have any of those either. He\u2019s never liked tattoos. He\u2019s proud of his own skin, clear, unblemished. He\u2019s never fallen off his bike or his motorcycle. He\u2019s never fallen.<\/span><\/p>\n

The truth is that everyone\u2019s gotten their marks right here in the present world. Guile Xang\u00f4 has a historical explanation for this stuff. He says that all marks are inherited, like astral maps handed down from a past life. You believe this shit? It doesn\u2019t make sense. Guile Xang\u00f4 loves to talk about how slaves got punished. Like at the whipping post. Everyone\u2019s feet swollen, all of today\u2019s twists and turns from the thrashings at that same post in their past lives. All the slaves back then were marked like cattle. They were cattle. The body parts that would get marked: thighs, arms, stomach, shoulders, chest, faces. The marks could be a cross, a bell, flowers, letters (BP, FC, N&B). That\u2019s what Guile Xang\u00f4 keeps saying. Everyone here gets to be a slave again.<\/span><\/p>\n

If you think about it (and you always think about it after talking to Guile Xang\u00f4) a lot of girls have these burn marks. Usually from boiling water. Mothers throwing hot water at their babies when they wouldn\u2019t stop crying. A child reaching for the stove and pulling down the kettle, a waterfall on her face. Another kid throwing water at a girl walking home up the hill after school, so she\u2019d learn her lesson and never look at another woman\u2019s man. The ones with chemical burns from jealous cuckolded boyfriends like to show it off the most. They still wear tiny shorts, no matter that there\u2019s only a scar left and the faint idea that at some time they were desired.<\/span><\/p>\n

Leo smashed Monstrinho\u2019s face with a bat. A trampled bloody chunk over his left eye and bare flesh under his right eye all the way down his chin. A beautiful scar. And the two of them go way back, served time together with Dentinho, Paula da Ol\u00edvia, Par\u00e1 da Lana. So many stab wounds between them. The bullet scars are more impressive: Monstrinho has at least twelve, entry and exit wounds. And two from bullets that didn\u2019t exit: a scar on his leg and another on his scalp. Everyone here has those marks too: from stabbings, gunshots, bats, hot water, acid. And marks from diseases, arms and legs broken in places that don\u2019t mend easy. Arms and legs maimed or crippled in car accidents, fingers lost to factories or lumber mills or machete fights, ears severed in some brawl.<\/span><\/p>\n

And he\u2019s still running at a gallop. The best part is when Guile Xang\u00f4 talks about the iron muzzle, the one Escrava Anast\u00e1cia wears in the history books, made of zinc or tin sheets. It covers her whole face and has tiny air holes. Slaves had to wear it as punishment when they drank or stole food or ate earth or clay. Cacha\u00e7a was the vice of choice for city slaves. Clay was more popular in rural areas. Men and women relished eating right out of anthills, with shards of clay pots, broken bits from perfume bottles. When they had the muzzle on, they tried to inhale particles off the ground as best they could. Like people nowadays snorting white powder, desperate to get their fix. (Imagine all these addicts dying to get something in their bodies with their mouths gagged.) Every drunk and junkie in the world, every single one of them is a child of Anast\u00e1cia, Guile Xang\u00f4 says. Can you believe it?<\/span><\/p>\n

Daf\u00e9 keeps running. If he crossed the street and turned on Professor Quintino, he\u2019d see two cops standing outside Luiz\u2019s bar on Sampaio Ferraz, talking to the gambling mobster, they\u2019re nice guys. He knows one of the cops, Sargento Salgueir\u00e3o, he\u2019s a friend, once he even gave Daf\u00e9 some advice he ignored. Daf\u00e9 remembers the cop lost his son in an accident, some five years ago, with his own gun in his own home. Soon this same cop will deliver Lana\u2019s baby inside that very police car, he\u2019ll win a medal and go crazy, lose his mind, a total lunatic. Daf\u00e9 would be safe there.<\/span><\/p>\n

And if he ran into Luiz\u2019s bar, he\u2019d see the woman he loves (and pretends he doesn\u2019t) talking to Guile Xang\u00f4. At that very moment, she says to Guile Xang\u00f4, \u201cI need a bump.\u201d She walks toward the bathroom, followed by an attentive collective gaze. On her way back, she walks through a fog of desire, a disdainful smirk in the corner of her lips, red like a matador\u2019s cape. She puts a coin in the jukebox and dances by herself. The men are like dogs watching a bitch in heat. Calves, thighs, ass, and the dogs on all fours, slobbering. She sways her arms, calves, hips, shakes her ass, rubbing it in. Then she sits back down, her naughty face shining with sweat, she reaches for Guile Xang\u00f4, touches his cheek with her hand and purrs, \u201cYou\u2019re so, so, I don\u2019t know, so\u2026 sweet!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cIf you call me sweet one more time, I\u2019ll beat you to a pulp!\u201d Guile Xang\u00f4\u2019s eyes look cold, but then they warm up and he smiles. She bursts out laughing, her hand cupping her mouth, her whole body shaking, two fat tears puddling on her fingers.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cYou always make me laugh. You know you\u2019re the only one who makes me laugh like this?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

Daf\u00e9 would be jealous, but Guile Xang\u00f4 would take one look at him and Daf\u00e9 would see it\u2019s fine, the three of them would drink and drink until the sun came down.<\/span><\/p>\n

He\u2019s running at a gallop down Maia de Lacerda. His lungs are burning, his legs getting heavy. The guys on the motorcycle have their helmets on. The one on the back carries a gun in his left hand. Daf\u00e9 is on his left side too, making it easier for him to finish the job.<\/span><\/p>\n

Guile Xang\u00f4 gets it. Vov\u00f4 do Crime, on the other hand, looks down on everybody. Even on Daf\u00e9. He was another weirdo. Daf\u00e9 had seen what it was like to walk up the hill with him at least three times. The two of them side by side and voices shouting \u201cAsshole\u201d from the houses, shacks, bars, and stores. The Asshole must be on his way up the hill right about now and Daf\u00e9 wishes he could be there with him again. But he\u2019s not. Up there, the Asshole will smoke and snort and talk to the kids in the Movement. They\u2019re his armed guards, his dragons of independence: the tougher ones call the Asshole Dr. Freud, and the younger ones call him Vov\u00f4 do Crime, their Criminal Papa. They talk about philosophy, the streets, and they come up with plans for the day the favela comes to an end, they\u2019ll take over the city, burn shit to the ground, use the guts of the last priest in town to hang the last rich man. The Asshole will talk until he\u2019s exhausted. The troop shakes when he says God doesn\u2019t exist, and he doesn\u2019t laugh at any of their Jesus jokes. (Did you know Jesus was Brazilian? Because he was always performing miracles, he was poor, and was killed by his government.) The kids hold on to their guns when they hear him mention the devil. Daf\u00e9 wishes he was up there with the Asshole. He\u2019d be safe.<\/span><\/p>\n

Daf\u00e9 needs more air, he\u2019s sucking in air, his feet are hitting the ground and sending pain up his chest and then up to his head, still burning. He\u2019s burning up. If he ran toward the metro, through the vacant lot across the street from the station, if he did that, Daf\u00e9 would also be safe. And he\u2019d see the group of Angolans. Though he wouldn\u2019t know what was going on. Or maybe he\u2019d know deep down, without fully knowing.<\/span><\/p>\n

The Angolans stand around the phone booth outside the Est\u00e1cio station. Someone found a way to call any number for free, some glitch, and they wait for their turn. More than twenty of them. Men, women, teenagers, children. They stand there from morning to night to morning again. But now they leave early. The military police warned them, a bunch of Black people huddled on a corner in the middle of the night can\u2019t be anything good. Now they stay there from morning to ten in the evening, eleven, midnight. They came to Brazil to try to escape their civil war and the colonial misery they\u2019d inherited, but they were never slaves, they were never trafficked in slave ships. They don\u2019t have that mark. They haven\u2019t been pulled up by the roots.<\/span><\/p>\n

Daf\u00e9 is out of breath. He drags himself down that street like a lame horse. He can\u2019t think straight. He\u2019s starting to feel foreign to himself. He\u2019s ready to cross the street, continue his trip. His entire body hurts. But where is this heat on his back coming from, this hot sting on his back, and now this jabbing on his shoulder, and why is the sidewalk rushing up against him like this, turning into a wall?<\/span><\/p>\n

He doesn\u2019t know, but somewhere he\u2019s still soaring, untethered, airborne, free, running, he\u2019ll make it, he will, at a gallop. He\u2019s turning on S\u00e3o Roberto, he\u2019s there, but S\u00e3o Roberto is now a dark well, the houses have disappeared, the steps have disappeared, and he wants to freeze time, even Daf\u00e9 himself is disappearing, going faint, collapsing forever, goodbye.<\/span><\/p>\n

Translated by Bruna Dantas Lobato<\/span><\/h5>\n
Published with the permission of New Vessel Press.<\/span><\/em><\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

There\u2019s No Point in Dying<\/i><\/b> is available now from New Vessel Press.<\/b><\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

Buy books by the authors and translators featured in this issue on our Bookshop page!<\/b><\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In this kaleidoscopic novel set in a favela of Rio de Janeiro\u2014\u201cin the city of stray bullets, in the land of lost opportunities\u201d\u2014a gang member runs wildly through the streets not knowing he has only seven minutes left to live. Barflies, prostitutes, immigrants, a gay couple, a taxi driver, cops, a mobster, and more populate […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":5,"featured_media":44748,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2886],"tags":[5629],"genre":[],"pretext":[],"section":[],"translator":[2737],"lal_author":[5605],"class_list":["post-44750","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-literatura-brasilena","tag-numero-37","translator-bruna-dantas-lobato-es-2","lal_author-francisco-maciel"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/44750","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/5"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=44750"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/44750\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":44968,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/44750\/revisions\/44968"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/44748"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=44750"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=44750"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=44750"},{"taxonomy":"genre","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/genre?post=44750"},{"taxonomy":"pretext","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pretext?post=44750"},{"taxonomy":"section","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/section?post=44750"},{"taxonomy":"translator","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/translator?post=44750"},{"taxonomy":"lal_author","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/latinamericanliteraturetoday.org\/es\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/lal_author?post=44750"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}