Excerpt from Autobiography of Cotton by Cristina Rivera Garza, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Behind him, to the south, is the municipality of Lampazos and gradually, on his focused gallop forward, scattered shacks and lanes, adobe houses, and domestic animals begin to appear. A creek. To the east lies that same bald plain with the occasional white-tailed deer and rabbit. On the other side is the municipality of Juárez, pitted with the pools and sinkholes of coal mining. The Barroterán mines. Rosita. Palaú. Cloete. Las Esperanzas. All those pitheads, the mouths of which swallow men whole every morning. And farther off, toward the mountains, the Cimarronaje—the settlements of the Black Seminoles and Mascogos who, on escaping slavery, became colonists of a territory that asked for their protection in exchange for ownership. But now, not east, west, or south. It only makes sense to continue north, farther north, until he merges into the border.

He could stop for a while, but desire is a cruel master. He could slow down, pay more attention to the people walking or chatting in languages he half hears and half understands. But he knows that if he catches sight of the railroad bridge that means he's just passed Estación Rodríguez, and he needs to cross the Río Salado, now such a meager trickle, it could be taken for a creek. He could also stop here to drink or wet the handkerchief someone had advised him to tie around the back of his neck, but he's very close now. He could at least pause to stretch his legs and see if that did anything to relieve the pain in his thighs, rising to numb his butt, and up to his hips, but he keeps going. Skin burning. Bone-breaking. He could at least allow the horse carrying him across the scrubland to drink water, but better to dig in the stirrups to spur it on. Something is urging him on. He's been told that after Estación Rodriguéz, on the other side of the river, is the settlement of Anáhuac. And there he'll find the banks, the suppliers, the government offices, the theaters, and cantinas. But better just to continue along the wide streets around the circular plaza, a kilometer in diameter. Better just to glimpse, out of the corner of his eye, the obelisk with its modernist air rising up in the center of the plaza and only get a fleeting, distant view of the wind rose at its base. The four cardinal points of space; the three stations of time.

When the streets and the plaza and the concrete benches are behind him, when the theaters, the cantinas, and streetlights have passed, he knows he's nearly there. Desire, which has been his guide during the hours of riding on horseback across the plains, leaves him no peace. Desire fires him, cuts him to pieces, lambastes him. Desire opens up his imagination and closes down his fear. But the desire that has opened his eyes and kept him alert hasn't prepared him for this. When he reaches the cotton fields on either side of the road, he rubs those eyes. So, this is the white gold, he says to himself. He hasn't even realized that he has come to a dead halt. The horse, not sensing any guidance on its ribcage, begins to move skittishly in tight, concentric circles. José? They have to repeat his name a couple of times before he finally tears his gaze from the cotton plantation and can answer. José, Pepe? The smile says yes, it's him. His nod says yes, it's him. The leap from his mount onto the whitish ground says yes, it is him.

[An unreal, bounded, secret atmosphere]

What José Revueltas saw that afternoon of March 16, 1934, when he finally arrived at Estación Camarón, were the cotton fields of Irrigation System No. 4. The parcels of land stretching to the horizon. If you looked into the distance, you could see the order that cotton had imposed on the plains. Close up, you could observe the growing plants: the thickness of the stems and the leaves divided into three or five lobes. If you turned around quickly, you could feel the eyes of the cotton on your back. Nothing escaped the burgeoning intelligence of its gaze. The government had promised to transform the desert into farmland and there, before his incredulous eyes, rigorously organized into parcels subdivided by straight furrows, was growing one of the best cotton harvests. Gossypium hirsutum, the Mexican cotton plant. Order: Malvales; Family: Malvaceae. This pale-green shrub had taken on drought and excess salinity, incredulity, the traditional latifundiary estates, and had won. The desert had been forced to give in. Like the horse he had been separated from only a few moments earlier, the man they called Pepe moved closer to and away from the crop, in ever more ungainly circles. Who had thought up this crazy idea? Confronting the desert, fanning it out a little farther north, relocating it. It needed arrogance to think of such a thing. Arrogance, and resources, and undoubtedly a touch of eccentricity. Or better: a touch of frenzy, of delirium. The viento loco, that wild north wind, passed among the brittle stalks in the field, then rose up to ruffle his hair, dusty from the road. Sweat was still clinging to his shirt, to the strong fabric of his pants. Clots of dry earth in the gaps between his back teeth. He wanted to touch everything. He wanted to know everything. How had they managed to organize a strike in this place? When had it broken out? How firm was the support of the sharecroppers, the field-workers, the laborers? Who had achieved this feat? My name is Arnulfo Godoy, said the thin man who, after offering his hand and giving him a couple of slaps on the back, walked beside him with an arm still around his shoulder. A fleck of dull straight hair covered his left eye, but, in contrast, a row of small white teeth appeared between his lips when he smiled. You need to rest a little first, he said. At least drink some water. Pepe allowed himself to be led for a few moments, still under the effects of stupefaction. Arnulfo ... What did you say your surname was? Then he came to a sudden halt. He turned to look back. In the distance, the green became gray or violet. Not a single cloud in an outrageously blue sky. Are the tractors on strike too? he exclaimed in wonder. The Fordsons were there, parked on the bridges connecting the parcels of land, above the irrigation ditches and canals. Without their constant din it could have been a half-finished costumbrista painting. Extraordinary, he said, and began to laugh. Or better still: he let out a loud guffaw. Everything around here is extraordinary.

[The strike: five thousand silent men, hardened by faith]

They've sent a kid, is all he says when he sees her in front of their shack, leaning over a fire. A kid? echoes the woman as she introduces a spoon, so tiny it could be a toy, into an equally tiny jug. Without raising her eyes, with measured movements, she lowers the spoon into the hot liquid only to then remove it and watch the steam ascend to her face. She repeats the action again and again as if the heat were hidden somewhere inside the brew and her task was to poke about in the water and then poke some more until she got it all out of there. Yes, a kid, barely out of short pants. He can't even be twenty. And so what? Well, the strikers were expecting a lot from those visitors from the capital. The woman lifts her head, and he sees that her eyes are wide open. Her straight, black hair is tied in a bun at the nape of her neck. A dark skirt covers her legs. The arms stretching out to offer him the earthen vessel were slender yet had clearly visible muscles on the forearm. Try this, she interrupts. Another of your concoctions, Petra, he says before taking a sip. And just what is this? he asks as he spits out the liquid. Wormwood. It's good for your stomach. It tastes like hell, woman. If we don't die of hunger with the strike, you'll kill me with your brews. Go on, take another mouthful. Her voice, soft but resolute, as though hidden even from herself, had the virtue of calming him. His mood departs for somewhere else. Then he sits on a wooden chair mended with cord, still holding the small dish. Lost in thought. On a downward spiral. What's a kid from the capital going to know about what we do or don't do around here?

Excerpted from Autobiography of Cotton by Cristina Rivera Garza. Copyright © 2026 by Cristina Rivera Garza. Excerpted by permission of Graywolf Press. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.