This Particular J.C. We Know Existed; He Sang, Played Jazz, & Left a Paper Trail

"'Eat your flan,' ordered Clara, still looking at Andrés out of the corner of her eye. His eyes he'd closed. He seemed to be awaiting either an electric shock or a miracle." Julio Cortázar, Final Exam.

The sentence has such power. We all, today, seem to be either impatiently awaiting either an electrokinetic jolt or a miracle or a universe-delivered sign storming in on a cloud of good tidings from one of the few thousand gods, none of which show any signs of coming or ever existing in the first place. 

In other related news, Cortázar, who's one of those deeply-missed authors whom I will recommend almost always, also evidently presaged the whole globular-insectile-frame-sunglasses craze we know see going on crazily today:
He, however, does it with a handsome flair and wise éclat that's hard to find these days amongst the notable notables, even just mugging for the photogs. Methinks it's the beard and that thick, wild hair. All that said, read Hopscotch. Go to the library and get something, anything by Cortázar and drink that elixir down.