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The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis

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The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis [O Ano da Morte de Ricardo Reis] (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1991)
by José Saramago [translated from the Portuguese by Giovanni Pontiero]
Portugal, 1984

"Wise is the man who contents himself with the spectacle of the world" is one of three epigraphs appended to this phenomenal novel--part "political fiction" in the manner of Antonio Tabucchi's Pereira Declares, part star-crossed love story, part literary travelogue set in an increasingly ominous 1935-1936 Lisbon just as the storm clouds of fascism were beginning to blanket all of Europe--a tremendous irony since much of what passes for plot in Saramago's soulful metaphysical character study has to do with what happens when a man of culture seeks to live apart from the world for and through his art but finds that a far more difficult task than he'd anticipated.  Far, far more difficult.  That man of culture is of course none other than the 48-year old bachelor Ricardo Reis, a doctor by trade but a poet by calling, who has returned to his native Portugal from Brazil after learning that his good friend Fernando Pessoa has just died--a curious friendship, is it not, given that the history books all tell us that Reis himself was only a product of Pessoa's imagination?  (The imagination: "that mistress of great power and generosity"! [3089/5585])  Although it's a measure of Saramago's storytelling brio that his title character seems to spend an awful lot of time not examining Herbert Quain's work The God of the Labyrinth, the parts of the novel that really got to me had less to do with the Borgesian (meta)ficciones and more to do with the Dante/Virgil-like conversations that Reis carries on with the shade of Pessoa, who has been allowed approximately nine months after his death to spend time with the living.  Does the novel at all propose that being a man of action is more important than being a man of words at a time when scores are being settled by the thousands inside the Plaza de Toros following the Battle of Badajoz?  In a manner of speaking.  But beyond that, it's also an affecting memento mori in which the fragility of life, words, remembrance, everything suggests that the love of a chambermaid maybe ought not be taken for granted in the book of disquiet of one's inner life.  Time, as opposed to loneliness or solitude, is the sleepwalking dreamer's real enemy:

Ricardo Reis crossed the Bairro Alto, descending by the Rua do Norte, and when he reached the Rua de Camoes he felt as if he were trapped in a labyrinth that always led him back to the same spot, to this bronze statue ennobled and armed with a sword, another D'Artagnan.  Decorated with a crown of laurels for having rescued the queen's diamonds at the eleventh hour from the machinations of the cardinal, whom, however, with a change of times and politics he will end up serving, this musketeer standing here, who is dead and cannot reenlist, ought to be told that he is used, in turn or or at random, by heads of state and even by cardinals, when it serves their interests.  The hours have passed quickly during these explorations on foot, and it is time for lunch. This man appears to have nothing else to do, he sleeps, eats, strolls, and composes poetry line by line with much effort, agonizing over rhyme and meter.  It is nothing compared to the endless dueling of the musketeer D'Artagnan, and the Lusiads run to more than eight thousand lines, and yet Ricardo Reis too is a poet, not that he boasts of that on the hotel register, but one day people will remember him not as a doctor, just as they do not think of Alvaro de Campos as a naval engineer, or of Fernando Pessoa as a foreign correspondent.  Our profession may earn us our living but not fame, which is more likely to come from having once written Nel mezzo del cammin de nostra vita or Menina e moga me levaram da casa de metis pais or En un lugar de la Mancha, of which I do not wish to remember the name, so as not to fall once again into the temptation of saying, however appropriately, As armas e os barões assinalados, may we be forgiven those borrowings, Arma virumque cano.  Man must always make an effort, so that he may deserve to be called man, but he is much less master of his own person and destiny than he imagines.  Time, not his time, will make him prosper or decline, sometimes for different merits, or because they are judged differently.  What will you be when you discover it is night and you find yourself at the end of the road (865/5585).

José Saramago (1922-2010)

Other The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis Readers (Past and Present)
Miguel, St. Orberose

Richard, Shea's Zibaldone

Tom, Wuthering Expectations
History is indifferent to the fine points of literary composition - Saramago's The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis

Note: I read this wonderful novel, my first by Saramago, in a poorly-formatted and typo-ridden Kindle version that will likely keep me from buying other such works from the publisher (I prefer real books anyway).

The Golden Age: Poems of the Spanish Renaissance Group Read

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April's Caravana de recuerdos Ibero-American Readalong group read selection is the Edith Grossman-curated The Golden Age: Poems of the Spanish Renaissance, published by W.W. Norton & Company in 2007 with a facing page English translation of poems also appearing in their original Castilian, which presents an all-star lineup of Spain and New Spain verse talent from about the middle of the 15th century to the end of the 17th century: Jorge Manrique, Garcilaso de la Vega, Fray Luis de León, San Juan de la Cruz, Luis de Góngora, Lope de Vega, Francisco de Quevedo, and Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz.  Household names all, dig?  But if those names alone aren't enough to whet your poetic appetite to the point where you're practically salivating to join me for the group read, here's a juicy six year old post from our friend Tom of Wuthering Expectations in which he notes that "this is really an admirable book" and "my only actual complaint is that the book is much too short."  What he said!  Anyway, thanks to Tom for the push to add this collection to the syllabus for this year since it includes some of the most famous and the most dazzling Spanish poetry of the Siglo de Oro era, it's still in print and it's available for less than a $15 cover price in the U.S.  N.B. Those who'd like to read along with me should plan on coming back for the discussions somewhere around April 28th thru 30th; those who'd just like to see me fall on my face wrestling with a rare poetry offering in public can come back around the same time.  No harm either way.

Other Readers

La Misa de Amor

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LA MISA DE AMOR

Mañanita de San Juan,
mañanita de primor,
cuando damas y galanes
van a oír misa mayor.
Allá va la mi señora,
entre todas la mejor;
viste saya sobre saya,
mantellín de tornasol,
camisa con oro y perlas
bordada en el cabezón.
En la su boca muy linda
lleva un poco de dulzor;
en la su cara tan blanca,
un poquito de arrebol,
y en los sus ojuelos garzos
lleva un poco de alcohol;
así entraba por la iglesia
relumbrando como sol.
Las damas mueren de envidia,
y los galanes de amor.
El que cantaba en el coro,
en el credo se perdió;
el abad que dice misa,
ha trocado la lición;
monacillos que le ayudan,
no aciertan responder, non,
por decir amén, amén,
decían amor, amor.

[THE MASS OF LOVE

Early in the morning on San Juan's,
early in the morning of beauty,
when young ladies and gentlemen
go to hear High Mass.
There goes my lady,
the best among them all,
wearing a two-piece skirt,
a mantilla with an iridescent sheen,
a blouse with gold and pearls
embroidered on the collar.
On her very beautiful mouth
she wears a little lipstick;
on her face so white,
a touch of rouge,
and about her big blue eyes,
a little eyeliner;
she entered the church like that,
dazzling like the sun.
The ladies are dying with envy,
the young gentlemen from love.
The singer in the choir
lost himself in the creed;
the abbot giving mass
got all mixed up during his sermon;
the altar boys who are there to help him don't manage to reply correctly, no,
for instead of saying "amen, amen,"
they were saying "amor, amor."]

Since Edith Grossman will be treating our April The Golden Age: Poems of the Spanish Renaissance group readers to a number of high end pro translations of some of the signature "learned" poetry from the Siglo de Oro era later in the month, I thought it might be worthwhile to offer up an amateur translation or two of some of the more popular romancero or songbook poetry being collected and published at the same time to balance things out somewhat.  A bad idea, I'm afraid--at the very least, I was quickly reminded of how insanely easy it is to wreak aesthetic destruction on even a simple poem just by attempting to provide a more or less literal translation of it without regard to rhyme or meter.  Ugh.  In any event, the anonymous romance"La Misa de Amor" ["The Mass of Love"] above--often presented as "La bella en misa" ["The Beauty at Mass"]--is one of the more frequently anthologized examples of romancero poetry that I've seen with lovely little variations available in Catalan, French, and Occitan as well as other ones in Spanish.  It's also supposedly a staple among the Sephardi Jewish community although I've yet to come across any translations of those variants that I can remember.  In this version, borrowed from Ramón Menéndez Pidal's Flor nueva de romances viejos, there's the usual playful interplay between the beauty of mass on a famous feast day such as San Juan's--the poem's "mañanita de primor" ["early in the morning of beauty"] in line 2--and the beauty at mass who disrupts the service by virtue of her show-stopping physical appearance.  Menéndez Pidal points out a further irony worth sharing here: the poem's composer gets so wrapped up in the "inocente irreverencia" ["innocent irreverence"] of the matter and in particular the detailed description of the beautiful lady's dress and make-up that "las gracias naturales de la hermosura" ["the natural graces of her beauty"] are almost completely forgotten (207)!  Note: the Spanish words I translated as "lipstick" and "eyeliner" could just as well have meant something more like "lip gloss" or "eye shadow" or whatever those 15th and 16th century Iberian Peninsula equivalents were.  It'd be nice if somebody from Elle or Ella España could step in and help a brother out with this.

Sources
"La Misa de Amor" appears on pp. 206-207 of Ramón Menéndez Pidal's Flor nueva de romances viejos (Madrid: Espasa, 2001) sans my primitive prose translation.  Menéndez Pidal defines the romance genre as "poemas épico-líricos breves que se cantan al son de un instrumento" ["brief epic/lyrical poems that are sung to the sound of an instrument"] (9), a convenient enough description for our purposes here and one which explains the obvious musicality of this poem when it's read in the original Spanish.  The image of the two juglares (French: jongleurs) is from an artist/work as yet unknown to me.

The Golden Age: Poems of the Spanish Renaissance #1: Jorge Manrique

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The Golden Age: Poems of the Spanish Renaissance (W.W. Norton & Company, 2006)
Selected and translated from the Spanish by Edith Grossman
Spain and New Spain, a long time ago...

Jorge Manrique's affecting "Coplas que fizo por la muerte de su padre" [here translated as "Verses Written on the Death of His Father"] (Spain, 1476) doesn't seem like it should be as powerful as it actually is given its metrical simplicity and its apparent lack of verbal pyrotechnics, but it's a poem that did a number on me the first time I read it and a poem that continues to do the same whenever I have the occasion to revisit it.  Of course, the ubi sunt thing can always get to you if you're in a susceptible state of mind.  And Manrique does have at least one good trick up his sleeve for an elegy.  Anyway, to give you an idea of the tenor of the piece and of how Grossman translates the Spanish verse (Grossman: "The meter, called pie quebrado, or broken foot, consists of a fixed alternation of eight- and four-syllable lines in a twelve-line stanza, with a regular rhyme scheme" [1-2]), here's the opening stanza:

Recuerde el alma dormida,
avive el seso y despierte,
contemplando
cómo se passa la vida,
cómo se viene la muerte
tan callando;
cuán presto se va el plazer,
cómo después de acordado
da dolor,
cómo a nuestro parescer,
qualquiera tiempo passado
fué mejor.

 Let the dozing soul remember,
let the mind awake and revive
by contemplating
how our life goes by so swiftly
and how our death comes near
so silently;
how quickly pleasure fades,
and how when it is recalled
it gives us pain,
how we always seem to think
that times past must have been better
than today.

As I hopemore than just poetry geeks can tell, Grossman's translation flows admirably in modern English even while mimicking Manrique's repetitions.  However, one example of the riches that can be lost in translation is that the sixth line that the translator renders as "so silently" is, to my mind, much more powerful in the 15th century Castilian: death is tan callando, or "so silencing," a present participle-aided statement of effect that might not translate as smoothly as "so silently" but which is probably more faithful to the vale of tears sorrow that the poet is seeking to evoke.

Elsewhere, Grossman does a marvelous and maybe even an uncanny job capturing Manrique's mood in English: "Our lives are the rivers/that empty into the sea/that is our dying," from the beginning of the third stanza, is a lovely translation of "Nuestras vidas son los ríos/que van a dar en el mar/que es el morir:" with its tricky third line [literally: "which is dying"], and her close to the ninth stanza's "The agility and speed,/the bodily strength and vigor/of one's youth,/they all turn heavy and dense/when entering the sullen precincts/of old age" is a clear winner even without Manrique's rhyming of "joventud" and "senectud" in the original's "Las mañas y ligereza/y la fuerça corporal/de joventud,/todo se torna graveza/quando llega al arrabal de senectud." As for that trick up Manrique's sleeve that I mentioned at the outset?  After using the ubi sunt theme as a prelude to a summary of his father's successes in life (being a friend to friends, an enemy to enemies, and--this being Reconquista Spain--naturally a slayer of Moors), Manrique has Death come knocking at his father's door just long enough to enjoin the caballero to seek eternal life through God rather than the life of this earth, which is fleeting.  The last stanza is the one that slays me, but it's a measure of the escalating power of the poem that this stanza, the third from the end, isn't so bad either.  The voice belong to Manrique's father:

--"No gastemos tiempo ya
en esta vida mezquina
por tal modo,
que mi voluntad está
conforme con la divina
para todo;
y consiento en mi morir
con voluntad plazentera
clara y pura,
que querer ombre vivir
quando Dios quiere que muera
es locura.

"Now let us spend no more time
on this miserable, this worthless
mortal life,
for in everything my will
conforms with the divine will,
the will of God;
and I consent to my dying
and submit to a desire
bright and pure;
it is madness for a man
to wish to live when God wishes
him to die."

Jorge Manrique (1440-1479)

I hope to write at least two more posts about this collection at some point.  In the meantime, please check out the posts below for more on the title.  The Manrique poem appears on pp. 1-37.

Amanda, Simpler Pastimes

Scott, seraillon

Yo el Supremo [I the Supreme] Group Read

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With the # of my own postponed or otherwise incomplete 2014 Caravana de recuerdos Ibero-American readalong selections piling up almost as quickly as I can schedule them these days (hey, I'm nothing if not consistent!), it's time to announce May's candidate for a short attention span-induced disaster in the form of Paraguayan Augusto Roa Bastos' 1974 Yo el Supremo [I the Supreme in the translation put out by the Dalkey Archive Press].  So why might you want to consider joining us for this famously thorny title centered on the figure of José Gaspar de Francia, the "Supreme Dictator" of Paraguay from 1816-1840?  1) Cuban novelist Alejo Carpentier lauded it as an "obra maestra" or masterpiece.  2) Reviewer Paul West, writing for the Washington Post Book World, called it "more Joycean than Cortázar's Hopscotch, every bit as volcanic and visionary as Lezama Lima's Paradiso or Osman Lins'Avolavara."  3) And for those of you who haven't yet been turned off by this cavalcade of names you hardly ever hear about in the twee, Ivy Compton-Burnett reading parts of the book blogosphere, noted critic Ignacio Echevarría included the novel on his list of the essential books in Spanish-language literature since the 1950s, claiming that Yo el Supremo was "una auténtica cumbre literaria" ["a true literary high water mark"] and an "obra maestra insuperada" ["unsurpassed masterpiece"] of the Latin American dictator novel for what fellow critic Ángel Rama described as its heady mixture of "historia, novela, confesión, ensayo sociológico, filosofía moral, biografía novelada, panfleto revolucionario, poema en prosa, debate sobre los límites de la literatura y cuestionamiento del sistema verbal" ["history, novel, confession, sociological essay, moral philosophy, revolutionary pamphlet, poem in prose, debate on the limits of literature and questioning of the verbal system"] (68 in Ignacio Echevarría's book).  4) "Questioning of the verbal system"?  Whatever!  Still,  Stu of Winstonsdad's Blog confirms that Roa Bastos' work is complex and "is told in many forms of literary devices...creating almost a collage effect" and Sarah of what we have here is a failure to communicate  adds that it's "a bizarrely great piece of writing."  OK, nuff said.  Discussion of Yo el Supremo and/or I the Supreme will take place at participating blogs somewhere around May 29th thru 31st--and probably a day or two later here in Caravanalandia.

Other Alleged Supremos

Spanish Lit Month 2014

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After a year off spent stockpiling new acquisitions and such, Stu of Winstonsdad's Blog and I have decided to host another edition of Spanish Language Literature Month in July 2014 under the catchy yet no nonsense moniker of Spanish Lit Month 2014.  Hope that you'll decide to join us.  For those new to the event, the basic idea is that those participating will read one or more works originally published in Spanish and contribute a review or reviews of what you've read so that other event participants can visit your site and leave comments, mash notes, etc.  Naturally, you may read the work(s) in Spanish or in translation depending on your language skills and interests.  Stu and I will do at least one monthly link round-up to facilitate discussions, but there will prob. be more frequent ones than that if the turnout is anywhere near as numerous and enthusiastic as it was in 2012.  Want to participate in the event but not sure what to read for it?  Check out Spanish critic Ignacio Echevarría's list of his idea of the essential books in Spanish-language literature since the 1950s here.  Or check out Semana.com's list of the 100 best Spanish-language novels of the last 25 years here.  Way too recent recommendations for someone of your snooty archival bent?  "Good literature needs to breathe a little after it's decanted" and all that?  Then how about 100+ More Reading Recommendations for Spanish Lit Month 2012, which provides three top U.S. universities' reading lists for the canonical works dating back to the medieval era in Spain and the colonial era in Latin America?  For those wanting a simpler choice, you can also choose one or both of our group read selections set to be discussed during the last week in July: Gabriel García Márquez's 1996 News of a Kidnapping [original title: Noticia de un secuestro] (Stu's pick)* or Guillermo Cabrera Infante's 1967 Tres tristes tigres [translated title: Three Trapped Tigers] (my pick).**  For my part, I'm also considering Mexican Elena Garro's 1980 Andamos huyendo Lola, whose "novel" in the form of 11 linked tales about two characters on the run is said to bear some similarities to Roberto Bolaño's Los detectives salvajes [The Savage Detectives], and--well, let's keep the other choices secret for now, eh?  You'll find out or not find out soon enough anyway.

*Stu plans a Gabriel García Márquez theme week for the last week in July as part of a  tribute to the late Colombian Nobel winner.  Details forthcoming.
**I'm happy to note that the Guillermo Cabrera Infante novel is being read in conjunction with Richard of Shea's Zibaldone, who is hosting aJavier Marías-inspired Kingdom of Redonda Readalong this year.


Probable Spanish Lit Month 2014 Lineup

A People's Tragedy: The Russian Revolution, 1891-1924

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A People's Tragedy: The Russian Revolution, 1891-1924 (Penguin Books, 1997)
by Orlando Figes
England, 1996

These days we call so many things a 'revolution' - a change in the government's policies on sport, a technological innovation, or even a new trend in marketing - that it may be hard for the reader of this book to take on board the vast scale of its subject at the start.  The Russian Revolution was, at least in terms of its effects, one of the biggest events in the history of the world.  Within a generation of the establishment of Soviet power, one-third of humanity was living under regimes modelled upon it.  The revolution of 1917 has defined the shape of the contemporary world, and we are only now emerging from its shadow.  It was not so much a single revolution - the compact eruption of 1917 so often depicted in the history books - as a whole complex of different revolutions which exploded in the middleof the First World War and set off a chain reaction of more revolutions, civil, ethic and national wars.  By the time that it was over, it had blown apart - and then put back together -an empire covering one-sixth of the surface of the globe.  At the risk of appearing callous, the easiest way to convey the revolution's scope is to list the ways in which it wasted human life: tens of thousands were killed by the bombs and bullets of the revolutionaries, and at least an equal number by the repressions of the tsarist regime, before 1917; thousands died in the street fighting of that year; hundreds of thousands from the Terror of the Reds - and an equal number from the Terror of the Whites, if one counts the victims of their pogroms against Jews - during the years that followed; more than a million perished in the fighting of the civil war, including civilians in the rear; and yet more people died from hunger, cold and disease than from all these put together.
(A People's Tragedy: The Russian Revolution, 1891-1924, xv)

To the unsuspecting reader confronted with then Cambridge lecturer and now University of London professor Orlando Figes' unexpected but somewhat blandly worded "apology for the vast size of this book," at 800-pages plus what Figes calls "the first attempt at a comprehensive history of the entire revolutionary period in a single volume" (xv), it will be understandable if the scope of the work rather than its narrative immediacy is what grabs your attention first.  It is indeed a heavy book in more than one way.   However, it didn't take long before I was in the grip of Figes' writing, his style in this terrific political and social history of his.  Chapter 1, "The Dynasty," offers up several quotable moments that give the lie to the notion that nonfiction writing is by nature more impersonal and/or drab than fiction writing.  On the anecdotal level alone, for example, you have your choice of highlights: a sneering Tsar Alexander III is quoted as saying that he "despised the bureaucracy and drank champagne to its obliteration" at one moment, and on the very same page Bertrand Russell is cited explaining "Bolshevik despotism" as somehow "the right sort of government for Russia" in these footnoted words to one Lady Ottoline Morrell: "If you ask yourself how Dostoevsky's characters should be governed, you will understand" (7).  Impeccable logic!  A passage on Tsarevich Alexis, the haemophiliac, occasions the comment that "haemophilia was so common in the royal houses of Europe that it had become something of an occupational hazard" (27), and another one on Rasputin, the Romanov spiritual adviser often accused of being a charlatan or a degenerate, inspires the remark that "his disgusting physical appearance merely added piquancy to his moral charms" (29). The liveliness of the writing aside, though, Figes is at his best doing the sort of subtle, sophisticated causal analysis that professional historians often don't get enough popular credit for:

The Romanov dynasty presented to the world a brilliant image of monarchical power and opulence during its tercentenary.  This was no simple propaganda exerciseThe rituals of homage to the dynasty and the glorification of its history were, to be sure, meant to inspire reverence and popular support for the principle of autocracy.  But their aim was also to reinvent the past, to recount the epic of the 'popular Tsar', so as to invest the monarchy with a mythical historical legitimacy and an image of enduring permanence at this anxious time when its right to rule was being challenged by Russia's emerging democracy.  The Romanovs were retreating to the past, hoping it would save them from the future (6).

"Retreating to the past, hoping it would save them from the future" is a great line not least because of the way the Romanovs' dynastic "tragedy" serves as a point of departure for the larger Russian tragedy or tragedies covered by Figes in this book.  On the beginning of the end for the dynasty and its supporters, he explains: "Instead of embracing reform they adhered obstinately to their own archaic vision of autocracy.  It was their tragedy that just as Russia was entering the twentieth century they were trying to return it to the seventeenth" (14).  A good stopping point?  Good enough for now.  In any event, more on Part One of A People's Tragedy, "Russia Under the Old Regime," before too long.

Orlando Figes

A People's Tragedy Part One: Russia Under the Old Regime

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A People's Tragedy: The Russian Revolution, 1891-1924 (Penguin Books, 1997)
by Orlando Figes
England, 1996

It's a measure of how satisfying A People's Tragedy is that my biggest complaint about this meaty read is actually rather insubstantial and petty: over the course of its 824 pages of text, Figes refers to Russia as a "backwards peasant" country often enough for me to have taken note of its repetitiveness as political shorthand.  That being said, it's not like I can take issue with the historian's use of the term because so much of Part One, "Russia Under the Old Regime," draws attention to the disconnect between the urban and the rural ways of life and to the extreme economic divide between the haves and the have-nots in the major cities and out in the provinces in the years leading up to the revolution.  A description of the income gap in the "typical provincial city" of Kishinev, for example, leads Figes to conclude that "these were the two faces of every Russian city: the one of imperial power and European civilization, the other of poverty and squalor of Asiatic proportions" (43).  An unduly harsh critique?  Maybe but only in the wording because in addition to the economic disparities, Figes also touches on the cultural polarities in the two Russias evident in terms of "how the intelligentsia - steeped in the culture of Western Europe - saw (with some disgust) the backward life of the Russian provinces" (43-44).  He draws from Chekhov's Three Sisters for a choice literary example of this mindset.  Later, he adds this too much information style nugget about Russia's equivalent of the culture wars:

It was still a common practice in some parts of Russia for a peasant bride to be deflowered before the whole village; and if the groom proved impotent, his place could be taken by an older man, or by the finger of the matchmaker.  Modesty had very little place in the peasant world.  Toilets were in the open air.  Peasant women were constantly baring their breasts, either to inspect and fondle them or to nurse their babies, while peasant men were quite unselfconscious about playing with their genitals.  Urban doctors were shocked by the peasant customs of spitting into a person's eye to get rid of sties, of feeding children mouth to mouth, and of calming baby boys by sucking on their penis (95).

Since it might be a bit of an anthropological tease to share a passage about peasant sex without a bookend one about peasant violence, it's fortunate that in the ensuing pages Figes has two long paragraphs about the particularly bloodthirsty nature of peasant violence in the Russian countryside: "Adulterous wives and horse-thieves suffered the most brutal punishments," he writes.  The latter, for example, "could be castrated, beaten, branded with hot irons, or hacked to death with sickles.  Other transgressors were known to have had their eyes pulled out, nails hammered into their body, legs and arms cut off, or stakes driven down their throat.  A favourite punishment was to raise the victim on a pulley with his feet and hands tied together and to drop him so that the vertebrae in his back were broken; this was repeated several times until he was reduced to a spineless sack" (96).  I'll stop there since I assume you get the sadistic picture, but what's the point of all this?  For Figes, at least a part of his examination is an attempt to understand whether a preexisting culture of violence or the revolution was to blame for the violence that went haywire once the revolution started:

It is difficult to say where this barbarism came from - whether it was the culture of the Russian peasants, or the harsh environment in which they lived.  During the revolution and civil war the peasantry developed even more gruesome forms of killing and torture.  They mutilated the bodies of their victims, cut off their heads and disgorged their internal organs.  Revolution and civil war are extreme situations, and there is no guarantee that anyone else, regardless of their nationality, would not act in a similar fashion given the same circumstances.  But it is surely right to ask, as Gorky did in his famous essay 'On the Russian Peasantry' (1922), whether in fact the revolution had not merely brought out, as he put it, 'the exceptional cruelty of the Russian people'?

The quote above is from page 96 and ends with the opinions that "this was a cruelty made by history": "the violence and cruelty which the old regime inflicted on the peasant was transformed into a peasant violence which not only disfigured daily village life, but which also rebounded against the regime in the terrible violence of the revolution."  Later on in A People's Tragedy, Figeswill talk about both urban manifestations of violence--i.e. the exceptional cruelties in the city centers perpetrated by revolutionaries and reactionaries alike--and about how, once they'd made their grasp for power, the Bolsheviks needed peasant support to maintain the revolution but never really trusted the peasants as true ideological partners due to their urban biases.  But what's the rush, comrade?  On to the urban violence in the next post and, with any luck, a push to get to Part Two, "The Crisis of Authority (1891-1917)," before I lose my Russian Revolution edge.

A People's Tragedy Part One: Russia Under the Old Regime #2

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A People's Tragedy: The Russian Revolution, 1891-1924 (Penguin Books)
by Orlando Figes
England, 1996

If Orlando Figes were a novelist instead of a historian, then Maxim Gorky (né Alexei Peshkov, 1868-1936) would probably be one of his most well-rounded recurring charactersIf A People's Tragedy were a novel instead of a history, then I could probably expect that the movie tie-in might draw a little more traffic to these posts about the book.  But back to reality, eh?  Gorky, last seen pondering "the exceptional cruelty of the Russian people" in his essay "On the Russian Peasantry" from 1922, is one of several figures--most of them famous, a couple of them not--"interwoven through the narrative" to "emphasize the human aspects of [the] great events" depicted in the telling of the revolution story (xvii).  As luck would have it, Figes gives the writer Gorky a fine novelist's introduction:

In hisfirst eight years Gorky had experienced more human suffering than the literary Count [Tolstoy] would see in the whole of his eight decades.  His grandfather's household in Nizhnyi Novgorod where he had been brought up after the death of his father, was, as he described it in My Childhood, a microcosm of provincial Russia - a place of poverty, cruelty and cholera, where the men took to the bottle in a big way and the women found solace in God.  By the age of nine, Gorky had already been put out to work, scavenging for rags, bones and nails, and occasionally thieving timber from the banks of the Volga.  Then his mother had died and his grandfather had sent him out into the world to fend for himself.  Like countless other abandoned orphans, Gorky had roamed around the booming industrial towns of the Volga, a shoeless street urchin dressed in rags.  He had worked as a dish washeron a steamboat, as a stevedore, a watchman, a cobbler's assistant, an apprentice draughtsman, an icon painter, and finally as a baker in Kazan, where [the peasant organizer Mikhail] Romas had found him and taken pity on the lad after he had tried to kill himself by shooting himself in the chest (84).

Memorable, no?  In any event, Gorky's and other writers' disappointment with village life leads Figes to posit that "the enigma of the peasant stood at the heart of the problem of Russia's national self-identity.  The 'Peasant Question' was the starting point of all those interminable debates (they fill the largely unread pages of nineteenth-century Russian novels) about the future of Russia itself" (88).  Beyond this, a more important (and less acerbically worded) historical irony in terms of the backdrop to the revolution was that "the vendors on the city streets were mostly peasants by origin, as were the cabmen, doormen, hauliers, builders, gardeners, dustmen, draymen, hawkers, beggars, thieves and prostitutes.  Russia's towns and cities all remained 'peasant' in their social composition and character" (88).  And so what?  Figes argues that, "despite living so close to the peasants, the educated classes of the cities knew next to nothing about their world.  It was as exotic and alien to them as the natives of Africa were to their distant colonial rulers.  And in this mutual incomprehension, in the cultural gulf between the 'Two Russias', lay the roots of the social revolution and its tragic destiny" (88-89).

Given the considerable amount of "anti-peasant" material mentioned in these last two posts, I should probably stress that Figes' conception of a "cultural gulf" in what he elsewhere brands a "backwards peasant" Russia isn't without nuance.  In fact, two of the things I most appreciate about his approach as a writer are his sense of balance and his willingness to give credit to or take issue with fellow historians by name without mincing words.  Here, for example, he underscores another aspect of the peasant question while challenging Harvard professor Richard Pipes on a point of contention:

It is mistaken to suppose, as so many historians do, that the Russian peasantry had no moral order or ideology at all to substitute for the tsarist state.  Richard Pipes, for example, in his recent history of the revolution, portrays the peasants as primitive and ignorant people who could only play a destructive role in the revolution and who were therefore ripe for manipulation by the Bolsheviks.  Yet, as we shall see, during 1917-1918 the peasants proved themselves quite capable of restructuring the whole of rural society, from the system of land relations and local trade to education and justice, and in so doing they often revealed a remarkable political sophistication, which did not well up from a moral vacuum.  The ideals of the peasant revolution had their roots in a long tradition of peasant dreaming and utopian philosophy.  Through peasant proverbs, myths, tales, songs and customary law, a distinctive ideology emerges which expressed itself in the peasants' actions throughout the revolutionary years from 1902 to 1921.  That ideology had been shaped by centuries of opposition to the tsarist state (98).

All well and good, you say, but what about that post on the topic of urban violence during the old regime that I promised to you on Thursday?  Hmm, I don't seem to have written the piece that I was thinking about after all.  Fortunately for all concerned, I have sufficient time and space left for exactly three anti-historical fiction soundbites.  On the tsarist police state, symbolized by the Fortress of Peter and Paul in Saint Petersburg where Maxim Gorky figured among a long line of distinguished guests, Figes writes: "This constant battle with the police state engendered a special kind of mentality among its opponents.  One can draw a straight line from the penal rigours of the tsarist regime to the terrorism of the revolutionaries and indeed to the police state of the Bolsheviks.  As Flaubert put it, 'inside every revolutionary there is a policeman'" (124).  On the tolerance for violence among some parts of the public who had the most to lose, he adds: "Justifying violence in the name of revolution was not exclusive to the revolutionaries.  Among the educated élite there was a general cult of revolutionism.  The Russian 'intelligentsia' (a Russian word by derivation) was less a class than a state of mind: it meant by definition a stance of radical and uncompromising opposition to the tsarist regime, and a willingness to take part in the struggle for its overthrow" (125).  And finally, on the effects of the revolutionary terror writ large, Figes has this, ahem, slightly longer soundbite to offer:

It has been estimated that over 17,000 people were killed or wounded by terrorists during the last twenty years of the tsarist regime - more than five times the number of people killed in Northern Ireland during the twenty-five years of 'the troubles'.  Some of the terror was little more than criminal violence for personal gain.  All the revolutionary parties financed themselves at least partly by robberies (which they euphemistically termed 'expropriations'), mainly of banks and trains, and there was little to stop those who did the stealing from pocketing the proceeds.  This was bad enough for the moral climate of the revolutionary parties.  But it was not nearly as damaging as the cumulative effect of years of killing, which resulted in a cynicism, an indifference and callousness, to the victims of their cause (124-125).

Orlando Figes

A People's Tragedy Part Two: The Crisis of Authority (1891-1917)

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A People's Tragedy: The Russian Revolution, 1891-1924 (Penguin Books, 1997)
by Orlando Figes
England, 1996

Figes begins his coverage of the revolutionary era in 1891 and ends it with the death of Lenin in 1924.  If the latter is a logical or at least an understandable choice for an end date, the former might seem fuzzier for a start date.  Why 1891?  As it turns out, 1891 was the year of a great famine that eventually "spread to seventeen provinces, from the Ural mountains to the Black Sea, an area double the size of France with a population of thirty-six million people" (157).  A cholera and typhus epidemic struck next, taking the lives of a half a million people over the course of the next year.  Although individuals like Dr. Chekhov and Count Tolstoy stepped in to lend medical aid and food relief to their suffering countrymen, the government response was underwhelming to say the least; measures such as prohibiting newspapers from mentioning the famine and delaying a ban on the exportation of wheat while millions went starving naturally had the effect of politicizing and radicalizing large swaths of the populace.  Unfortunately, Russian religious leaders also made grave missteps of their own for, as it's explained in a footnote, "the Orthodox Church, which had recently excommunicated Tolstoy, forbade the starving peasants to accept food from his relief campaign" (160).  So much for God and country. The upshot of all this trauma?  According to Figes, "The conflict between the population and the regime had been set in motion - and there was now no turning back.  In the words of Lydia Dan, the famine had been a vital landmark in the history of the revolution because it had shown to the youth of her generation 'that the Russian system was completely bankrupt.  It felt as though Russia was on the brink of something'" (162).

Whether you were a Menshevik like Dan or somebody of a different political persuasion altogether hoping Russia was on the brink of something big along the lines of some much needed change, it's of course a long way from 1891 to 1917, which begs the question: what other sorts of crises to authority occurred during this time?  Or perhaps a better question: what crises to authority didn't occur during this time?  Although I won't take the time to try to summarize A People's Tragedy's 150-page response to these questions in any sort of depth, suffice it to say that a misguided war with Japan in 1904-05, ongoing labor strikes and protests, the so-called Revolution of 1905--itself brought about in part by the massacre of unarmed demonstrators by Tsar Nicholas II's soldiers, and a traumatic experience throughout the early years of World War I headed a roll call of reasons for Russians to lose faith in the regime's ability to conduct any essential business beyond champagne parties and mismanagement of the country's affairs.  Reform?  According to Figes, "If there is a single, repetitive theme in the history of Russia during the last twenty years of the old regime, it is that of the need for reform and the failure of successive governments to achieve it in the face of the Tsar's opposition" (171).  And: "The whole period of Russian political history between the two revolutions of 1905 and February 1917 could be characterized as a battle between the royalist and parliamentary forces.  To begin with, when the country was still emerging from the revolutionary crisis, the court was forced to concede ground to the Duma.  But as the memory of 1905 passed, it tried to roll back its powers and restore the old autocracy" (214).  In hindsight, Gorky, writing to his wife after the events of Bloody Sunday in 1905, might have been the most prescient in terms of putting his finger on the mood of the country: "Only blood can change the colour of history" (179).

On that note, I'd like to conclude with two style points for anybody considering reading this book at some point.  While Figes will likely make you laugh at the occasional Tacitean digs he takes at his historical cast of characters--Alexander Kerensky, a future rival of Lenin's, for example, here receives the double indignity of being mocked by references to his early theatrical interests ("Kerensky never made it into the theatre, although as an actor on the revolutionary stage he was to prove as self-dramatizing as any provincial thespian") and even for switching his university major from history and philology to law ("This too set the pattern for the future: changing from history to law is, obviously, the move of a careerist") all within the space of three sentences! (166)--his analysis skills are Tacitean level as well.  The following passage from pages 188-189, for example, is an absolutely top notch meditation on the nature of crowd violence in the revolution, and so I'll include the paragraph in its entirety so you can have an unmediated version of Figes for a change:

Because of the preoccupation of many historians with the organized labour movement - and their seduction by the Soviet myth of the armed workers on the barricades - the role of this everyday criminal violence in the revolutionary crowd has been either ignored or, even more misleadingly, confused with the violence of industrial war.  Yet the closer one looks at the crowds on the streets, the harder it becomes to distinguish clearly betweenorganized forms of protest - the marching workers with banners and songs - and criminal acts of looting and violence.  The one could easily - and often did - break down into the other.  It was not just a question of 'hooligans' or criminals joining in labour protests or taking advantage of the chaos they created to vandalize, assault and loot.  Such acts seem to have been an integral element of labour militancy, a means of asserting the power of the plebeian crowd and of despoiling and destroying symbols of wealth and privilege.  What the frightened middle classes termed 'hooliganism' - mob attacks on the well-to-do and on figures of authority, looting and vandalism, drunken brawling and rioting - could just as easily be categorized as 'revolutionary acts'.  And in part that is what they were: the revolutionary violence of 1905-17 was expressed in just these sorts of act.  It was driven by the same feelings of hatred for the rich and all figures of authority, by the same desire of the poor and the powerless to assert themselves and claim the streets as their own.  From the perspective of the propertied there was very little to distinguish between the 'rough' and 'rude' behaviour of the 'hooligans' - their cocky way of dressing, their drunkenness and vulgar language, their 'insolence' and 'licence' - and the behaviour of the revolutionary crowd.  Even the most organized labour protests could, on the slightest provocation, break down into violence and looting.  It was to become a major problem for all the revolutionary parties, the Bolsheviks in particular, who tried to use the violence of the crowd for their own political ends.  Such violence was a double-edged sword and could lead to anarchy rather than controlled revolutionary force.  This was the lesson the Bolsheviks would learn during the July and October Days in 1917 - outbursts of violence which were far removed from the Soviet image of heroic proletarian power.

Yo el Supremo

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Yo el Supremo (Cátedra, 2005)
by Augusto Roa Bastos
Argentina, 1974

The Paraguayan Augusto Roa Bastos'Yo el Supremo [I the Supreme], part Latin American dictator novel/part Bernhardesque insult-laden monologal rant/part totally unhinged attack on the intersection between language and power, was just what I needed this month.  One day I might even be able to explain why.  Until then, let's start with a bare bones outline of Roa Bastos' intertextual expanding universe.  The Supremo/Supreme of the title is a fictionalized version of the flesh and blood strongman José Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia (1766-1840), the Karaí-Guasú or "supreme dictator" of Paraguay as he was referred to in the local Guarani language, who's introduced to the reader right after he learns that a pasquinade mimicking his own authoritarian tyrant speak has been nailed to the Asunción Cathedral's door: "Yo el Supremo Dictador de la República ordeno que al acaecer mi muerte mi cadáver sea decapitado; la cabeza puesta en una pica por tres días en la Plaza de la República donde le convocará al pueblo al son de las campanas echadas a vuelo" ["I the Supreme Dictator of the Republic order that on the occasion of my death my corpse be decapitated; my head placed on a pike for three days in the Plaza de la República, to which the people are to be summoned by the sounding of a full peal of bells"].  Continuing, the edict reads: "Todos mis servidores civiles y militares sufrirán pena de horca.  Sus cadáveres serán enterrados en potreros de extramuros sin cruz ni marca que memore sus nombres" ["All my civil and military servants are to be hanged.  Their corpses are to be buried in pastures outside the walls with neither cross nor mark to commemorate their names"].  And concludes: "Al término del dicho plazo, mando que mis restos sean quemados y las cenizas arrojadas al río..." ["At the end of the aforementioned period, I order that my remains be burned and my ashes thrown into the river..."] (93 in the original Spanish, 3 in Helen Lane's translation for the Dalkey Archive Press*).  This challenge to the Supreme's power--and perhaps more importantly, this challenge to the root of his power via the usurpation of his violent state propagandist-like language--naturally infuriates the character, who spends the remainder of the work inveighing against his enemies, insulting his amanuensis at every turn, revealing his erudition with a non-stop barrage of intellectual and scatological puns in Spanish, Latin, and Guarani, and writing a self-justifying history of the foundation of the Paraguayan "republic," all while carrying on conversations with the dead and even while dead himself (what it must be like to wield Supreme power!) prior to eventually entombing himself in a mausoleum of words several hundred pages in the making--just like this sentence.  To what end?  A great question to save/savor/save for later.  For now, though, rest assured that Yo el Supremo has no shortage of aesthetic surprises in store for you.  Structurally, for example, the novel is a Cortázarian active reader's delight for how it challenges genre conventions using a mosaic of monologue and dialogue, notes from the Supreme's so-called "cuaderno privado" or "private notebook," and texts from the Supreme's "circular perpetua" ("perpetual circular," the despot's letters dictated to or about state functionaries) in addition to interpolated historical accounts about the Supreme and the footnotes from an unnamed modern day "compilador" or "compiler."  As Milagros Ezquerro writes in her introduction to the Cátedra edition of the work, Yo el Supremo is "un texto que indudablemente cuestiona el género novelesco porque no encaja sin problemas dentro de las normas habituales del mismo" ["a text which unquestionably challenges the novel format because problems are the only things that it encases within the usual fictional norms"] (27).  In terms of the novel's fluid, elastic conception of time and as evidence of Roa Bastos' intertextual derring-do, two examples out of a galaxy of possibilities will have to suffice at present: 1) the moment when the Supreme, who died in 1840, brags about introducing the punishment of perpetual rowing into the country as an exotic death penalty-like innovation (but one which will leave him without actual blood on his hands) and then mentions the fact (so to speak) that "un autor de nuestros días ha tejido una leyenda sobre esta condena del destinado que va bogando sin término y encuentra al fin la tercera orilla del río" ["an author of our day has woven a legend about a man so condemned, who goes on rowing endlessly and finally finds the third shore of the river" (235 in the Spanish, 120 in the translation).  The unnamed "author of our day"?  None other than Grande Sertão: Veredas storyteller João Guimarães Rosa (1908-1967), who penned "The Third Bank of the River" well after the Supreme had shuffled off this mortal coil; 2) the scene just a few pages later where an exchange between el Supremo and his dog Sultán having to do with events including a siege of Montevideo leads the dictator to pun on the future author Lautréamont's similarly not yet published 1868-1869 Les Chants de Maldoror: "Ojalá, ciudadano Sultán, no te pesque el mal-de-horror" ["I hope, citizen Sultan, that you don't catch the mal-de-horror"] (241 in the Spanish, 125 in the translation).  Sultán/Sultan, not to be outdone in this scene, gets an unusually juicy descriptive bone thrown in his direction when he's hailed as "una especie de sans-culotte jacobino de largos cabellos y genio muy corto" ["a sort of Jacobin sans-culotte with long hair and a short temper"] (Ibid.).  On rereading that attention-grabbing description of the talking dog, I now realize that I haven't really done revolutionary justice to the insult-laden humor, the target practice on language, or the historical/political background of Yo el Supremo, written in Argentina while Roa Bastos was in exile from Stroessner's Paraguay and just a couple of years before he had to relocate to France to avoid yet another Stroessner/el Supremo style military dictatorship in his adopted home country (the novel was banned in Argentina after the junta's takeover), in this longwinded but strangely guillotined tribute to the novel's "cake."  I fear another post may be in order before you're free to leave or des(s)ert.

Augusto Roa Bastos (1917-2005)

Yo el Supremo was May's 2014 Caravana de recuerdos Ibero-American Readalong selection. Séamus of Vapour Trails should have a post of his own up about it before too long.
*The quotes in translation above all come from Helen Lane's rendering of I the Supreme (Champaign: Dalkey Archive Press, 2000) first done for Knopf in 1986.

"Yo el Supremo": Historical Fictions I

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Yo el Supremo (Cátedra, 2005)
by Augusto Roa Bastos
Argentina, 1974

"You, a Jesuit in Paraguay?  I must confess this is a strange world that we live in."
(Voltaire, Candide)

Ahora debo dictar/escribir; anotarlo en alguna parte.  Es el único modo que tengo de comprobar que existo aún.  Aunque estar enterrado en las letras ¿no es acaso la más completa manera de morir?  ¿No?  ¿Sí?  ¿Y entonces?

[Now I must dictate/write; note it down somewhere.  That is the only way I have of proving that I still exist.  But isn't being buried in writing perhaps the most complete way of dying?  No?  Yes?  Well then?]
(Yo el Supremo, 143; I the Supreme, 45)

Having already admitted on Friday that I'd failed you in at least three key respects re: my initial description of Yo el Supremo, I'd like to subject you to two follow-up posts to at least touch on the novel's humor, its war on language, and its curious approach to history (note: those who can recognize the Supremo style captatio benevolentiae in the words "subject you" should feel free to skip ahead to the next post).  Hell, maybe we can even finally find a little time to discuss what the novel is "about."  On that note, I'd like to draw your attention to some of the incredibly rich, unusually complex historical fictions at play in the work.  About three-quarters of the way into the novel, for example, the Supremo/Supreme, in a rare meditative mood, suddenly confesses that "tengo pocos amigos" ["I have few friends"] (400 in the original, 253 in Helen Lane's translation).  No real big revelation from a tyrant, of course, except for the fact that this confession appears to take place from somewhere within the historical echo chamber of his resting place--the Supreme is dead.  One of the friends who comes to visit him on occasion in the afterlife, though, is General Manuel Belgrano (1770-1820, i.e. another dead man), the Argentinean independence leader who had a complicated relationship with the Paraguayan supreme dictator during his lifetime due to the usual invasions, wars, and failed alliances that made the two men regional antagonists.  However, death is nothing if not the great equalizer and the Paraguayan host tells his Argentinean guest--whom he refers to as "la nebulosa-persona" ["the nebula-person"]--that "sumergidos en esta obscuridad, no nos distinguimos el uno del otro.  Entre los no-vivos reina igualdad absoluta" ["submerged in this darkness, we are indistinguishable.  Among the non-living absolute equality reigns"] (Ibid.).  A brief but psychologically penetrating/convincing for phantasms passage follows in which the dead Belgrano tries to console the dead and despondent Supreme by quoting Horace to which the Supreme in turn recounts Belgrano's satisfying end where, despite suffering the horrible effects of the dropsy, the general managed to stave off death long enough to return to Buenos Aires to die as a state hero with a funeral and other fanfare fit to mark his passing.  "Lo mío sucede al revés" ["My fate has turned out to be precisely the opposite"], the Supreme tells Belgrano on pp. 402-403/255:

No he tenido sino que revolearme en mi agujero de albañal.  Traicionado por los que más me temen y son los más abyectos y desleales.  A mí me hacen las exiquias, primero.  Luego me entierran.  Vuelven a desenterrarme.  Arrojan mis cenizas al río, murmiran algunos; otros, que uno de mís cráneos guarda en su casa un triunviro traidor; lo llevan después a Buenos Aires.  Mi segundo cráneo queda en Asunción, alegan los que se creen más avisados.  Todo esto muchos años después.

[All I have had to do to occupy my time is flop about in my sewer-hole.  Betrayed by those who fear me most and are the most abject and disloyal.  In my case they offer me funeral rites first.  Then they bury me.  After that they dig me up again.  They throw my ashes into the river, some people claim; others, that one of my craniums is kept in his house by a traitorous triumvir, and then later brought to Buenos Aires.  My second cranium remains in Asunción, according to those who think they know all the answers.  All this many years later.]

For those weaned on the Kristin Lavransdatter school of historical fiction in which the tired and sleep-inducing raison d'être would seem to be to deliver a dopey "medieval" costume drama-cum-soap opera and jazz it up with a period detail like the bubonic plague, the hallucinatory qualities and the surrealistic telescoping of time evident in this excerpt from Yo el Supremo must seem like quite an envelope-pushing departure from the rules of the game.  However, as Milagros Ezquerro points out in her introduction to the work, Roa Bastos declared in a 1974 interview that his novel "no es una narración histórica, ni menos una biografía novelada" ["is not a historical narrative, nor even less a novelized biography"] (70).  So what is it?

At the possible risk of disagreeing with Roa Bastos himself, I think that one of the most ambitious things that Yo el Supremo does is to attempt to novelize Paraguay itself.  The polyphonic text, as others have pointed out before me, isn't limited to a blow-by-blow of events occurring in the dictator's reign, and the presence of so much guaraní alongside the expected español is probably less a stylistic tic than an effort to pay homage to Paraguay's bilingual culture.  Another thing that Yo el Supremo does with its mosaic presentation of texts literally offset by other texts is to raise an objection to the idea of objective reality by dismantling the barriers between novel and commentary and between history and literature.  And yet another thing--well, more on that later.  In any event, fictionalizing the real life José Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia--who, as Milagros Ezquerro notes, is never mentioned by name in the novel (71)--is just the starting point and not the end game.  How does Roa Bastos go about all this?  To start with an example in somewhat dubious Suetonian taste, let's take a look at the Supreme's Neronian firing squad humor as applied to a slave who had displeased him.  The set-up?  The sight of a black kid frolicking in the Kará-kará river leads the Supreme to reminisce about the slave servant named José María Pilar who had once betrayed him: "Tuve que hacerle curar sus llagas ladronicidas bajo el naranjo.  La pólvora es siempre buen remedio para los enfermos sin remedio" ["I was obliged to send him to the orange tree to cure him of his ladronicidal ills.  Gunpowder is always a good remedy for those whose ills are irremediable" (201 in the original, 91 in the translation; the character's pun on "buen remedio/sin remedio" loses a little something in translation, but I'm pleased to note that our translator's neologism for "ladronicidal" will yield quite vanity-producing results for me if you try punching it into Google).  Not so funny a remark from the Supreme?  That's OK, there's no accounting for taste.  However, the real reason I wanted to include the quip is for its ensuing illustration of the strange ways that humor and history go hand in hand in the novel.  As it turns out, the "traidor ayuda de cámara" ["traitorous valet de chambre"] José María Pilar had a son named Macario who became the Supreme's godchild and was eventually freed only to disappear.  In the following paragraph, we hear about his fate (201-202 in the original, 92 in the translation):

Macario niño desapareció.  Se esfumó.  Más enteramente que si lo hubiese tragado la tierra.  Desapareció como ser vivo, como ser real.  Tiempos después reapareció en una es esas innobles noveletas que publican en el extranjero los escribas migrantes.  Raptaron a Macario de la realidad, lo despojaron de su buen natural para convertirlo en la irrealidad de lo escrito en un nuevo traidor.

[Macario disappeared as a child.  Vanished.  More completely than if the earth had swallowed him up.  He disappeared in one of those ignoble cheap novels that migrant scribes publish abroad.  Macario was abducted from reality, stripped of his good nature so as turn him into another traitor in the unreality of the written word.]

As a trope, the reality or, here, the unreality of the written word is a rich vein of gold in this novel.  On the one hand, in this scene it serves as an introduction to the Supreme's recognition that written words themselves are a poor substitution for the true reality that can only be found in oral culture or in nature.  "Madrasta-naturaleza, más hábil que los más hábiles pasquinistas" ["Stepmother-nature, more cunning than the most cunning pasquinaders"], he intones.  "Tu imaginación no necesita del instinto de la imitación; hasta cuando imitas creas algo nuevo.  Encerrado en este agujero, yo no puedo sino copiarte" ["Your imagination does not need the instinct of imitation.  Even when you imitate you create something new. Shut up in this hole, I can but copy you"], he laments after seeing the sun go down (202 in the original, 92 in the translation).  And on the other hand?  This is where we return to what I was getting at about novelizing Paraguay.  As befits a work in which Candide's visit to Paraguay is treated as an actual historical event as real as the longtime presence of Jesuits in the country, I chuckled with OULIPO-like delight when I discovered Milagros Ezquerro's footnote explaining that Macario Francia, the son of the executed slave who went missing as a child, isn't just any character but is a character straight out of Roa Bastos' 1960 novel Hijo de hombre.  In other words, that earlier novel, which deals with the aftermath of the Paraguayan/Bolivian Chaco War of the 1930s, has been stealthily inserted into the very fabric of this novel by the "migrant scribe"--Roa Bastos during an earlier exile from Paraguay--in an act that in effect adds his story to the history of his country.  When you consider the Supreme's allegation that our exiled novelist had "abducted" the Macario character from reality "so as to turn him into another traitor in the unreality of the written word" all for the sake of "one of those ignoble cheap novels," the Cervantean parallels become almost impossible to ignore.  In other words, it's a strange world that we live in indeed, Candide!

"Yo el Supremo": Historical Fictions II

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Yo el Supremo (Cátedra, 2005)
by Augusto Roa Bastos
Argentina, 1974

So what else is Yo el Supremo [a/k/a I the Supreme] if it "no es una narración histórica, ni menos una biografía novelada" ["is not a historical narrative, nor even less a novelized biography"] according to its author?  If you can pardon the unfortunate analogy, I'd argue that it's in effect a mirror of/on Paraguayan history--part and parcel of what I've claimed is Augusto Roa Bastos' mission to "novelize" his home country--written in such a way that it appears that the writer has taken a hammer to the glass before lending you said mirror.  Why would anybody, much less the rather serious-looking man in that totally uncool fucking turtleneck sweater below (far, far below--Compiler's Note.), want to do such a thing beyond Duchampian large glass shits and giggles!?!  One answer, a sort of political one if you will, is that highlighting the fragmentary nature of a people's history collectivizes it in such a way that it exposes the lie behind the idea that there is a sort of monolithic state history "owned" by the fictionalized Supremo/Supreme in the novel or by the many 20th century military dictatorships in Roa Bastos' lifetime.  Another answer, more literary in nature but also political in at least one important sense, is that many novelists over the centuries have derived subversive value and/or just provided amusement from undermining the "authority" of their own texts.  Roa Bastos wouldn't be alone in that regard.  In any case, in an old interview with the Spanish TV arts and entertainment host Joaquín Soler Serrano, the Paraguayan seemed to privilege the first of these two explanations regarding the guiding principles of his authorial intent by revealing that, "para mí el Paraguay es como un gran espejo muy luminoso que se ha roto en muchos fragmentos.  He tratado en mis libros de reunir estos fragmentos" ["for me Paraguay is like a large, very luminous mirror which has shattered into many pieces.  I've tried in my books to put these pieces back together"].*  A very illuminating comment--marred only by the fact that Roa Bastos never once mentions taking a hammer to that large, very luminous mirror.

The seriousness of this artistic endeavor aside, Roa Bastos is of course quite nuts in the way he goes about achieving it here--as is perhaps most evident in the six- or seven-page frame tale near the midway point of the novel where the French avant-gardist Raymond Roussel (1877-1933) of Impressions d'Afrique and Locus Solus fame worms his way into the Yo el Supremo universe almost César Aira style.  Historical fictions?  Check this shit out!  The intertextual fun and games begin with the Supreme having a typical political heart to heart with himself in his private notebook: "Yo soy el árbitro.  Puedo decidir la cosa.  Fraguar los hechos.  Inventar los acontecimientos" ["I am the final judge.  I can decide how things will go.  Contrive the facts.  Invent the events"] (329 in the original, 196 in the translation).  More mutterings of that nature.  And then: "El tiempo está lleno de grietas.  Hace agua por todas partes" ["Time is full of cracks.  It leaks everywhere"], the mere thought of which leads the Supreme to reflect upon the "pluma con el lente-recuerdo incrustado en el pomo" ["pen with the memory-lens imbedded in the pommel"] that he's using to record his vaguely Nixonian ramblings (329 in the original, 197 in the translation).  What the hell kind of pen is that?  Funny you should ask because it's at precisely this point that the compiler hijacks the text to leave a "note" several pages in length.  For our purposes, it's enough to know that the apparatus isn't a Bic or a Mont Blanc or even a Pilot Precise Rolling Ball, one of the pens of choice favored here in Caravanalandia, but "una pluma cilíndrica" ["a cylindrical pen"] in which "engastado en el hueco del tubo cilíndrico, apenas más extenso que un punto brillante, está el lente-recuerdo que lo convierte en un insólito utensilio con dos diferentes aunque coordinadas funciones: Escribir al mismo tiempo que visualizar las formas de otro lenguaje compuesto exclusivamente con imágenes, por decirlo así, de metáforas ópticas" ["mounted in the hollow of the cylindrical tube, scarcely larger than a very bright point, is the memory-lens that turns it into a most unusual instrument with two different yet coordinated functions: writing while at the same time visualizing the forms of another language composed exclusively of images, of optical metaphors, so to speak"] (329-330 in the original, 197 in the translation).

Whether the detailed description of the magical optical metaphorical lens pen that follows appeals to you or not, the more salient matter is that the "pluma-recuerdo" ["souvenir pen"] or "pluma memoria" ["memory pen"] ends up in the hands of the compiler "por obra del azar" ["through the workings of chance"].  Chance, that deus ex machina of real life of all things!  The compiler tells us, in fact, that "me la dio Raimundo, apodado Loco-Solo, chozno de uno de los amanuenses de ElSupremo" ["it was given to me by Raimundo, nicknamed Loco-Solo, great-great-great-grandson of one of El Supremo's amanuenses" (331 in the original, 198 in the translation).  Since most of what little I know about Raymond Roussel's work can be found in the two great posts that Scott from seraillon penned about Impressions of Africaand Locus Solus in recent months, I hope it won't be impertinent for me to turn to Milagros Ezquerro for some more assistance regarding this "brandy and narcotic herb"-ingesting Raimundo fellow (198 in the translation); she helpfully explains, for example, that Locus Solus was "expresión latina que significa 'lugar solitario' que Roa Bastos transforma en 'Loco-Solo'" ["a Latin expression that signifies 'solitary place' and which Roa Bastos transforms into 'Loco-Solo'"].  She also adds that Roussel was "un autor predilecto de Roa, en particular a causa de su afición por los juegos de palabras que tienen mucho que ver con los de Yo el Supremo" ["a favorite author of Roa's, in particular because of his love of the puns that have so much to do with those found in I the Supreme"].  Roussel, unsurprisingly given what occurs to his fictional counterpart in Roa Bastos' novel, didn't have a pretty end: "murió alcohólico y drogado" ["he died an alcoholic and of a drug overdose"] (331).

But back to our story.  In what follows, the compiler relates that he and Raimundo met as classmates at the República de Francia Primary School in 1932.  A pun on José Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia or a tip of the beret to Raymond Roussel's native country?  Who can say?  In any event, 1932 was the first year of the Chaco War waged between Paraguay and Bolivia when "comenzó la movilización que se llevó al frente hasta a los enanos" ["the mobilization that took even dwarfs to the front began"].  However, Roussel--I mean, Raimundo--had other plans: "Pero a mí no me van a llevar al Chaco, ni aunque vengan a pedirme a rodillas!  ¡Voy a irme a África!  ¿Por qué al África, Loco-Solo?  Porque quiero impresiones fuertes, no esta mierda de guerrita con los bolís.  ¡Qué se jodan!" ["But they're not going to ship me off to the Chaco, even though they come begging me on their knees.  I'm going to take off for Africa!  Why Africa, Loco-Solo?  Because I want strong impressions, not that shitty little war with the Bolis.  Balls on that!"] (332 in the original, 199 in the translation; by the way, "balls on that!" is a much tamer translation than what appears in the Spanish).  One truly Rabelaisian school examination pun later--"Rendí por él los orales, los anales.  Todo" ["I took the orals, the anals for him.  The whole works"]--the compiler shifts gears, saying that "en vísperas del Éxodo que comenzó en marzo de 1947, fui a visitar por penúltima vez a Raimundo" ["on the eve of the Exodus that began in March of 1947, I went to visit Raimundo for the penultimate time"] (Ibid.).  What exodus of 1947 could this be referring to?  Ezquerro, one more time: 1947 was the year of the "salida hacia el exilio de muchos paraguayos como consecuencia de acontecimientos insurrecionales.  Entonces fue cuando salió Roa Bastos hacia Buenos Aires" ["departure into exile of many Paraguyans as a consequence of insurrection-related events.  That was when Roa Bastos left for Buenos Aires"] (333).

As if to punctuate this x marks the spot intersection between Roa Bastos' reading tastes (Roussel), his fiction (Yo el Supremo), his personal history, and his future home in Argentina, in the discussion  that follows Raimundo addresses the compiler as Carpincho--one of Roa Bastos' nicknames--and starts speaking a form of Spanish that's clearly from the Río de la Plata region rather than from Paraguay (this linguistic in-joke is one of many flourishes that get lost in translation).   Raimundo, who is described as possessing "ojos de degollado que parpadeaban sanguinolentos en las bolsas de los párpados" ["the bloodshot eyes of a man with his throat slit, blinking in the swollen pockets of his eyelids"], then tells the compiler that he knows that "lo único que querés es la pluma de El Supremo...  Se te derrite el seso y tus manos tiemblan más que mis manos de borracho, de epiléptico, de bebedor de polvos de güembé y de cocaína que me dan las enfermeras, que me traés vos mismo" ["the only thing you want is the Pen of El Supremo...  It melts your brain and your hands tremble more than my hands of a drunkard, of an epileptic, of a taker of güembé powders and the cocaine that the nurses give me, that you yourself bring me" (334 in the original, 200 in the translation).  Raimundo then adds: "Te esperan muy malos tiempos, Carpincho.  Te vas a convertir en migrante, en traidor, en desertor.  Te van a declarar infame traidor a la patria" ["Very bad times await you, Carpincho.  You're going to become a migrant, a traitor, a deserter.  They're going to declare you an infamous traitor to the country"].  Pausing to spit up blood, he continues: "Va a llover por lo menos otro siglo dfe mala suerte sobre este país.  Eso ya se huele luego.  Va a morir mucha gente.  Mucha gente se va a ir para no volver más, lo que es peor que morirse.  Lo que no importa tanta porque las gentes como las plantas vuelven a crecer en esta tierra donde vos pegás una patada y por uno que falta salen quienientos" ["At least another century of bad luck is going to rain down on this country.  You can smell it in the air already.  Many people are going to die.  Many people are going to go away and never come back, which is worse than dying.  Though it doesn't matter all that much because people are like plants in this country.  You kick the dust and for every one that isn't there any more five hundred others spring up in the same spot" (Ibid.).  In a sort of coda, the compiler explains why Raimundo gave him the memory-pen prior to passing away and how Raimundo was said to have been buried either in the Military Hospital cemetery or had his corpse thrown into the river a la the story about the Supreme.  The whole thing is a fun, inspired piece of writing if rather startling in the way it transitions from the loony to the morbid on a dime.

*The interview quote comes from Joaquín Soler Serrano's Escritores a fondo (Barcelona: Editorial Planeta, 1986, 241).

Augusto Roa Bastos (1917-2005)

"Yo el Supremo" vs. "Yo el Supremo"

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Yo el Supremo (Cátedra, 2005)
by Augusto Roa Bastos
Argentina, 1974

If you'll pardon the effrontery of me shamelessly quoting from my own intro post on Yo el Supremo, I'd like to reformulate a question that I'd thought at the time might be best for us to save/savor/save for later: what's the point of spending several hundred pages with Yo el Supremo just to witness the title character eventually entombing himself in a mausoleum of words?  To start with, the novelty or the entertainment value of Roa Bastos' storytelling should be clear enough from the fact that I haven't even had time to talk about things like either a) the blanket--"más blanda que la seda, el terciopelo, el tafetán o la holanda era" ["softer than silk, velvet, taffeta or fine Dutch linen"]--that Don Mateo Fleitas, an early Supremo/Supreme scribe discusses with Policarpo Patiño (?-1840), the current Supremo/Supreme scribe according to the main timeline in the novel, and which he says he fashioned out of the skin of innumerable long-eared bats: "Va a ser una manta única en el mundo.  Suave, ya la ha tocado usté mismo.  La más liviana.  Si la tiro al aire en este momento, usté y yo podemos envejecer esperando que vuelva a caer.  La más abrigada" ["There will never be a blanket like it.  Soft, you've already touched it yourself.  Couldn't be lighter.  If I toss it in the air at this moment, you and I will become old and gray as we wait for it to fall back down.  Couldn't be better insulation"] (121 in the original, 27 in Helen Lane's translation) or b) the Supreme's occasional anthropological disquisitions on Guaraní culture like the one where he claims that in Paraguay, "donde el demonio es hembra para los nativos, algunos tribus rinden culto a este súcubo" ["where the devil is a woman for the natives, certain tribes worship the succubus"] in the form of "la vulva-con-dientes" ["the vulva-with-teeth"]: "¿No caen esos dientes, Excelencia, a la vejez de la hembra?  No, mi estimado don Juan.  Se vuelven cada vez más filosos y duros.  ¿Teme algo?  ¿Le ha sucedido algo desagradable?" ["Don't those teeth fall out, Excellency, when the woman grows older?  No, my dear Don Juan.  They become harder, even sharper.  Is there something you're afraid of?  Has something unpleasant happened to you?"] (258 in the original, 138 in the translation).  A less racy comment by the Supreme suggesting that the natives' hermaphroditic conception of male/female types is responsible for having "anularon la distinción de los sexos, tan cara e indispensable al pensamiento occidental, que únicamente sabe manejarse por pares" [canceled out "the differences between the sexes, so dear and so indispensable to western thought, which can operate only by pairs"] induces the Compiler to namedrop Jorge Luis Borges'Historia de la eternidad [History ofEternity] in a footnote, which in turn leads to a mention of Leopoldo Lugones'El Imperio Jesuítico [The Jesuit Empire] and etc. and etc. and on to infinity(249-250 in the original, 132 in the translation).  Roa Bastos, who claimed that Borges and Juan Rulfo were two of his favorite writers in an interview I came across recently but can't find at the moment, finds another way to riff on the Borgesian dimensions of time here: the Compilerclaims thatel Supremo solved a riddle about Nietzsche posed by Borges in another work of his!

Structurally and thematically, Yo el Supremo rewards time spent with it for the way it invites the reader's active participation, debate and even dissent.  On the first point, note that even though the subjectivity of the protean, fictional force of nature who is the title character often seems to dominate the proceedings via his spluttering insults and the claustrophobic interior monologues about his political legacy and the power of words ("Se escribe cuando ya no se puede obrar" ["One writes when one can no longer act"], he says at one point, inadvertently insulting bloggers everywhere [143 in the original, 45 in the translation]), in reality--if you'll pardon the expression--his domineering first-person POV is constantly challenged by a metaphorical verbal dictatorship of the proletariat represented by the compiler character as well as the various historians and literary figures whose own voices of anti-authoritarian authority hold a mirror up to el Supremo's distorted version of "reality" as if in protest.  Yo el Supremo vs. Yo el Supremo, dig?  To give you an idea of just how intricate and juicy this can be from an unreliable narrator standpoint, I need only point to the sequence where the Supreme mentions sending his envoy Amadís Cantero to a meeting with a Brazilian diplomat named Correia da Cámara over a proposed Brazilian/Paraguayan alliance against Argentina.  Keep in mind that at least the Supreme and Correia da Cámara (1783-1848) are historical figures.  The Supreme: "Correia da Cámara lo denigrará más tarde en sus informes y memoriales.  Será la única vez que diga la verdad" ["Correia da Cámara will later denigrate [Cantero] in his reports and memoranda.  It will be the first and only time he tells the truth"] (509 in the original, 347 in the translation).  A fragment of a report allegedly lifted from Correa de Cámara's Anais follows in the form of a footnote, but it's not at all clear whether the change in spelling from Correia to Correa is a result of the hispanicization of the name, a switch from archaic spelling to modern spelling, or a hint that this author's Anais is an imaginary set of "annals" written by a pseudo-Correia.  Whatever the case may be, Amadís Cantero, probably at the expense of his über chivalric first name, is indeed denigrated as a "lector de novelas de caballería" ["reader of novels of chivalry"], a "escritor él mismo de bodrios insportables" ["writer himself of unbearable tripe"], and "el más vil sabandija que he conocido en todos los años de mi vida.  Su fuerte es la historia, pero muchas veces hace actuar a Zoroastro en China, a Tamerlán en Suecia, a Hermes Trimigestro en Francia" ["the vilest vermin I have ever known in all the years of my life.  His forte is history, but many times he has Zoroaster acting in China, Tamerlane in Sweden, Hermes Trimigestus in France"].  The metafictional insults get more incestuous as the commentary continues.  Correa da Cámara: "Noche a noche, me ha estado leyendo algo vagamente parecido a una biografía novelada del Supremo del Paraguay.  Abyecto epinicio en el que pone al atrabiliaro Dictador por los cuernos de la luna...  ¡Es el tormento, la humillación más atroz, que se me han infligido jamás" ["Night after night he has been reading me something vaguely resembling a novelized biography of El Supremo.  An abject dithryamb in which he sets the misanthropic dictator on the horns of the moon...  It is torture, the worst humiliation to which I have ever been subjected!" (Ibid., ellipses added).  The icing on the storytelling cake?  A page or two later, Correa da Cámara mentions a senhor Roa in the course of a diatribe against the Paraguayans' diplomatic tactics.  At this point, the unnamed compiler steps in with a footnote of his own regarding the identification of this 19th century "senhor Roa": "El Compilador desea aclarar que el lapsus y la mención no le corresponden; el informe confidencial de Correa menciona textualmente este apellido, según puede consultarse en el tomo IV de Anais, pág. 60" ["The compiler wishes to point out that this lapsus and mention are not attributable to him: Correa's confidential report mentions this name textually, as can be verified in Anais, Volume IV, p. 60"] (511 in the original, 348 in the translation).

Given the multiplicity of perspectives on display in Yo el Supremo, it shouldn't be surprising to hear that the end of the novel is equally open-ended in terms of the closure--or the lack thereof--that readers can expect to encounter within its final pages.  With this in mind, let's take a look how Roa Bastos deals with the legacy of his protagonist.  There are, first of all, a succession of endings to the novel rather than just one.*  In the first, a particularly gruesome one, the deceased tyrant holds forth on the various types of  "cadaverófilas" ["cadaverophile"] insects which will feast on his rotting corpse (592 in the original, 421 in the translation).  The manuscript trails off, and we are told that the following ten folios are unable to be read.  Milagros Ezquerro, in a footnote to this passage in the Cátedra edition of the novel, points out that "con esta descripción de las fases de la putrefacción del cadáver se extingue el discurso de El Supremo.  Otra voz narradora cierra el espacio textual dirigiéndose a El Supremo y pronunciando su condenación eterna" ["with this description of the stages of putrefaction of the cadaver, El Supremo's discourse is extinguished.  Another narrative voice seals the narrative space by addressing El Supremo and pronouncing his eternal condemnation"] (493).  The second ending, as we have already noted, is a three page denunciation of the Supreme by an unknown writer who starts by telling the Supreme that "te alucinaste y alucinaste a los demás fabulando que tu poder era absoluto.  ¡Perdiste tu aceite, viejo ex teólogo metido a repúblico!" ["you fooled yourself and fooled others by pretending that your power was absolute.  You lost your oil, you old ex theologian passing yourself off as a statesman"].  Later, the Supreme-like chastisingcontinues with my favorite impertinences being the ones where he/she tells the deceased, "No, pequeña momia; la verdadera Revolución no devora a sus hijos" ["No, little mummy; true Revolution does not devour its children"] (594-595 in the original, 423 in the translation) and, working in a bald joke, "las larvas seguirán pastando en tus despojos tranquilmente.  Con sus largos pelos tejerán una peluca a tu calvicie, de modo que tu mondo cráneo no sufra mucho frío" ["the larvae will go on peacefully feeding on your remains.  They will weave a wig from its long hairs to cover your baldness, so that your bare skull will not suffer too much from the cold" (596 in the original, 424 in the translation).  One subtlety that's unfortunately lost in the English translation of the passage is that the Supreme is addressed throughout with the informal rather than the formal form of the Spanish term for "you" as an additional measure of disrespect.  For those keeping score, the beginning of this folio is burned and the ending is illegible and otherwise unable to be found.

Before moving on to the third and the fourth endings to the novel, I think it might be useful for anybody who's only experienced the novel secondhand to know that one of the recurring motifs in Yo el Supremo is the allegation that either the dictator's skull or a skull believed to belong to the dictator was dug up and decapitated after his death as an act of desecration by his enemies.  In one variant of the story, in fact, the skull is said to be stored in a noodle box by a virulent non-fan of the Supreme.  Although the Supreme himself makes reference to the story in this post about his post-mortem friendship with the Argentinean general Belgrano, I decided not to write about the continuation of the scene until now.  The Supreme is already dead, of course (403-404 in the original, 256 in the translation):

En cuanto a mí veo ya el pasado confundido con el futuro.  La falsa mitad de mi cráneo guardado por mis enemigos durante veinte años en una caja de fideos, entre los desechos de un desván.

Cómo se verá en el Apéndice, también esta predicción de El Supremo se cumplió en todo sus alcances.  (N. del Compilador.)

Los restos del cráneo, id est, no serán míos.  Más, qué cráneo despedazado a martillazos por los enemigos de la patria; qué partícula de ppensamiento; qué resto de gente viva o muerta quedará en el país, que no lleve en adelante mi marca.  La marca al rojo de YO-ÉL.  Enteros.  Inextinguibles.  Postergados en la nada diferida de la raza a quien el destino ha brindado el sufrimiento como diversión, la vida no-vivida como vida, la irrealidad como realidad.  Nuestra marca quedará en ella.

As for me, I see the past now confused with the future.  The false half of my skull kept by my enemies for thirty years in a box of noodles, amid the junk piled in an attic.

As will be seen in the Appendix, this prediction of El Supremo's was also fulfilled down to the last detail.  (Compiler's Note.)

The remains of the cranium, id est, will not be mine.  But then, what skull hammered to pieces by the enemies of the fatherland; what particle of thought, what people, living or dead, will there be left in the country who do not henceforward bear my mark?  The red-hot brand of I-HE.  Entire.  Inextinguishable.  Left behind in the protracted nothingness of the race to whom destiny has offered suffering as a diversion, non-lived life as life, unreality as reality.  Our mark will remain on it.

Still with me?  The Appendix referred to above constitutes the third of four endings in Roa Bastos' novel and is the main one encouraging debate concerning the Supreme's legacy (an earlier fragment, in which schoolchildren answer the question of "cómo ven ellos la imagen sacrosanta de nuestro Supremo Gobierno Nacional" ["how they see the sacrosanct image of our Supreme National Government"] also addresses the question in an often humorous fashion) (570 in the original, 403 in the translation).  In the Appendix, though, a number of historians and other interested parties weigh in on the specific topics of 1) Los restos de El Supremo [The Remains of EL SUPREMO] and 2) Migración de los restos de El Supremo [Migration of the Remains ofEL SUPREMO].  The introduction by an unknown person (the compiler?  Roa Bastos? Roa Bastos as the compiler?) states that "el 31 de enero de 1961, una circular oficial convocó a los historiadores nacionales a un cónclave con el fin de 'iniciar las gestiones tendientes a recuperar los restos mortales del Supremo Dictador y restituir al patrimonio nacional esas sagradas reliquias'" ["on January 31, 1961, an official circular invited historians of the nation to a conclave, in order to 'initiate steps leading to the recovery of the mortal remains of the Supreme Dictator and the restoration of these sacred relics to the natural patrimony'"] (597 in the original, 425 in the translation).  In a mocking tone, the unnamed writer goes on to note that "las opiniones se dividen; los historiadores se contradicen, discuten, disputan ardorosa, vocingleramente.  Es que --como cumpliéndose otra de las predicciones de El Supremo-- esta iniciativa de unión natural se convierte en terreno donde apunta el brote de una diminuta guerra civil, afortunadamente incruenta, puesto que se trata sólo de un enfrentamiento 'papelario'" ["opinion is divided; the historians contradict each other, engage in heated exchanges, argue vociferously.  As if in fulfillment of El Supremo's predictions, this epic national undertaking turns into a small-scale civil war, fortunately a bloodless one, since the confrontation takes place 'only on paper'" (Ibid.).  Since Milagros Ezquerro reassures us that "los textos citados en el Apéndice son auténticos y no han sido modificados.  Se notará que muchos de los hechos aquí evocados han sido aludidos han sido en el discurso de El Supremo" ["the texts cited in the Appendix are authentic and have not been altered.  It will be noted that many of the events evoked here have been alluded to in El Supremo's discourse"] (597), I'll take the liberty of mentioning a lone nugget from Julio César Chaves' comment on the mood in Paraguay the year after the controversial Karaí-Guasú's death: "Es conveniente recordar que poco tiempo después apareció una mañana en la puerta del templo un cartel que se decía enviado por él, desde el infierno, suplicando se lo removiese de aquel lugar santo para alivio de sus pecados" ["We may here remind the reader that a short time later a placard appeared on the door of the church, stating that it had been sent by him from hell and begging that he be removed from that sacred place in order to lessen his burden of sin"] (601 in the original, 428 in the translation).

Whatever censure or praise the real life José Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia deserves for the perpetual dictatorship role he played on the stage of 19th century Paraguayan history--he has been hailed as both the Robespierre of America and a terrible despot made crueler by mental illness--his polemical fictionalization by Roa Bastos is so artistically successful and entertaining that the recent real life historians' debate about the father of the Paraguayan revolution seems like just another chapter in our exiled novelist's master plan to novelize his country of birth.  It is to be lamented that Roa Bastos' planned follow-up to Yo el Supremo, a "contrapunto picaresco" ["picaresque counterpoint"] to this work in the words of Milagros Ezquerro with the title Mi reino, elterror [Terror: My Kingdom], was eventually abandoned (16).  On the other hand, Yo el Supremo is so thoroughly satisfying in its exploration of the intersections between history and literature that it feels a little wrong to complain about never being able to hold that unwritten book with the tantalizing title in my hands.  On that note, I guess it's finally time to mention the ultimate ending of Yo el Supremo, a "Nota final del Compilador" [Final Compiler's note] in which we are told that "esta compilación ha sido entresacada" ["this compilation has been culled"] from a staggering number of other written sources, oral interviews and etc. (608 in the original, 435 in the translation).  In a twist, we then read that "ya habrá advertido el lector que, al revés de los textos usuales, éste ha sido leído primero y escrito después.  En lugar de decir y escribir cosa nueva, no ha hecho más que copiar fielmente lo ya dicho y compuesto por otros" ["the reader will already have noted that, unlike ordinary texts, this one was read first and written later.  Instead of saying and writing something new, it merely faithfully copies what has already been said and composed by others"] (Ibid.).  In other words, once again we are confronted with the notion of a collective as opposed to an individual authorship although expounded in such an ironic way that it undermines the authority of its own words.  And in the final paragraph of the final ending to Yo el Supremo, the compiler gets one last chance to aggressively blur the boundaries between fiction and nonfiction and manages to make the most of it with an unexpected but perfectly fitting reference to another expanding universe of a novel, Robert Musil's The Man Without Qualities.  I hope you enjoy it because this is the last I'll have to say about Yo el Supremo for a while (609 in the original, 435 in the translation):

Así, imitando una vez más al Dictador (los dictadores cumplen precisamente esta función: reemplazar a los escritores, historiadores, artistas, pensadores, etc.), el a-copiador declara, con palabras de un autor contemporáneo, que la historia encerrada en estos Apuntes se reduce al hecho de que la historia que en ella debió ser narrada no ha sido narrada.  En consecuencia, los personajes y hechos que figuran en ellos, han ganado, por fatalidad del lenguaje escrito, el derecho a una existencia ficticia y autónoma al servicio de no menos ficticio y autónomo lector.

Hence,imitating the Dictator once again (dictators fulfill precisely this function: replacing writers, historians, artists, thinkers, etc.), the re-scriptor declares, in the words of a contemporary author, that the history contained in these Notes is reduced to the fact that the story that should have been told in them has not been told.  As a consequence, the characters and facts that figure in them have earned, through the fatality of the written language, the right to a fictitious and anonymous existence in the service of the no less fictitous and autonomous reader.

Bravo, senhor/señor Roa, bravo.
  
*In hindsight,a fairly clear anticipation of these endings and another approach to the dictator's legacy can be found in the extended passages where the Supreme's dog Sultán/Sultan abuses his former master: "¡Bah, Supremo!  ¡No sabes aún qué alegría, qué alivio sentirás bajo tierra!  La alucinación en que yaces te hace tragar los últimos sorbos de ese amargo elixir que llamas vida, mientras vas cavando tu propia fosa en el cementerio de la letra escrita" ["Bah, Supreme!  You don't know yet what happiness, what relief you'll feel below earth!  The delusion in whose toils you lie is making you swallow the dregs of that bitter elixir you call life, as you finish digging your own grave in the cemetery of the written word"] (542 in the original, 376 in the translation).

José Gaspar Rodríguez de Francia posing with a bombilla de mate and a mullet.

Thanks very much to Séamus of Vapour Trails for reading Augusto Roa Bastos' fantasticnovel with me.  Séamus' great post on I the Supreme/Yo el Supremo can be found here.

El burlador de Sevilla [The Trickster of Seville] Group Read

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El burlador de Sevilla [The Trickster of Seville], a c. 1630 play usually attributed to Tirso de Molina, is June's 2014 Caravana de recuerdos Ibero-American Readalong selection coming to you direct from thelands of LA FURIA ROJA.  I'd apologize for announcing this group read selection so late, but the work's barely 100 pages long and shouldn't be too hard to get a hold of for those interested in reading along with "us" during the last few days of the month (note: since this is currently an, ahem, "one-man group read," I'd be happy to read the play with you during the first few days of the Spanish Lit Month festivities in July if that sounds more appealing to you--first of you to commit gets to decide the late June or early July thing).  So why El burlador de Sevilla?  Seduction.  Swordplay.  Revenge from beyond the grave.  Its status as one of the first (if not the first) works to introduce Don Juan, the infamous seducer of women and "el personaje más universal del teatro español" ["the most universal character in Spanish theater"] according to the copy on the back of my edition, and one of the undisputed highlights of Spanish literature from the time of Cervantes means relatively little to me.  Just like in real life, I'm all about the seduction and the swordplay and the revenge.  How about you?

Bosque quemado

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Bosque quemado (Random House Mondadori, 2008)
por Roberto Brodsky
Chile, 2007

Bosque quemado, al parecer una obra de carácter fuertemente autobiográfico, se trata de la relación padre-hijo tensa entre un cardiólogo comunista chileno y su hijo adolescente después del golpe de Estado de 1973 que provocó sus huidas al exilio.  Dado que el narrador sin nombre y su padre Moisés están obligados a dejar la Argentina después de dejar de Chile ("Para entonces ya sonaba la alerta roja en la comunidad de los exiliados.  En las semanas precedentes, los cuerpos quemados y sin vida de chilenos, uruguayos y argentinos reconocidamente izquierdistas habían sido encontrados en los alrededores del aeropuerto de Ezeiza" [54]), también se trata de las peripecias involucradas en mantener una identidad cultural y/o nacional como parte de una diáspora porque casi todos los vínculos con el pasado de los dos hombres se han sido cortados.  Una ironía histórica terrible en el caso del padre, un hombre de ascendencia judía y él mismo el hijo de inmigrantes europeos.  O como el narrador lo explica al llegar a Venezuela, su padre "había salvado el pellejo huyendo de Buenos Aires a Caracas como antes lo hiciera  la corajuda Ana desde el progromo ucranio, y con eso bastaba.  En cuanto a mí, no había mayor novedad: mi padre era mi país, mi patria portátil.  Yo sería del lugar donde estuviese él" (70).  Un buen plan lo de quedarse con el padre, tal vez, pero desgraciadamente para el personaje un plan que no esté destinado a durar a lo largo de un exilio que eventualmente durará una década y que verá el "doctor Chile" en Venezuela y el narrador en España aguantando la desilusión y las noticias de las desaparencias y las muertes de sus amigos y familiares.  A pesar de unos momentos poco interesantes relacionados con una aventura amorosa del narrador después de su regreso a Chile, Bosque quemado a mí me pareció ser una muy buena novela, impactante y sutil, en su totalidad.  Hay una muy bien escrita escena hacia el final, por ejemplo, en que el narrador dice a su mujer que él está escribiendo algo que es "una mezcla" en términos del género de la obra: "ni puramenta novela ni tampoco biografía, en sentido estricto.  Es ficción, en el fondo" (197).  ¿Está el personaje describiendo la novela de Brodsky?  Quizá, pero lo interesante de la descripción no es su aspecto de metaficción dentro de un libro que es empapado en un realismo duro sino la reflexión introspectiva que la precede en el texto: "una obra literaria no es un ajuste de cuentas", escribe el narrador, "no había revancha que tomar" (196).  El éxito de Brodsky, me parece, proviene de justo esta paradoja argumental: en un libro cargado de un indecible tristeza  --y en un libro en que el propio título viene de una descripción de la enfermedad de Alzheimer, la aflicción que arrasará los "recuerdos, referencias, memoria, todo" (124) del cardiológo Moisés como otro robo de su identidad después de su regreso a su país natal-- el novelista ha escrito algo que produce honda emoción y que es fiel a la idea que el exilio está lleno de una "tristeza chejoviana" (130) al mismo tiempo que ha escrito algo que no se parece a un ajuste de cuentas.  Un logro eso, ¿no?  En todo caso, Ignacio Echevarría, en su comentario sobre Bosque quemado en la página 132 de Los libros esenciales de la literatura en español: narrativa de 1950 a nuestros días, elogia la obra con aun más entusiasmo: "Ninguna otra novela, hasta el momento, ha acertado a ilustrar mejor el drama de quienes, empujados al exilio por las feroces dictaduras que asolaron Latinoamérica en los años setenta, permanecieron fieles a una memoria y a unos idearios que los dueños y usuarios de las restauradas democracias obviaron, en un ejercicio de amnesia colectiva que hizo de ciertos ideales también un bosque quemado".

Roberto Brodsky

¡Bienvenidos a Spanish Lit Month 2014!

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Bienvenidos a/Welcome to Spanish Lit Month 2014, a month-long celebration of Spanish language literature read in the original español or in translation in the language of your choice.  Thanks to Stu of Winstonsdad's Blog for coming up with the idea for the event in the first place and for asking me to co-host it with him back in 2012 and now again in 2014.  Thanks as well to all of you who have agreed to read and review a work for the festivities this year.  By the way, the link above should include the names of almost everybody who's said they'll be participating; however, there's always room for more if anybody else would like to join us during the course of the month.  Feel free to leave a comment here if I've missed you or if you'd like to make sure I know about any of your Spanish Lit Month posts.  For now, I'm planning on running weekly links round-ups on Sundays throughout July.  As far as what I'll be reading for the event, your guess is as good as mine!  However, the closest things to a certainty at the moment are a) Guillermo Cabrera Infante's Tres tristes tigres [Three Trapped Tigers], one of our two group read choices for the end of the month alongside Gabriel García Márquez's Noticia de un secuestro [News of a Kidnapping], and b) a new César Aira book that was brought back from Chile for me just yesterday thanks to a very kind coworker.  Anyway, hope to see you around during the event.  ¡Saludos!/Cheers!

Continuación de ideas diversas

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Continuación de ideas diversas (Ediciones Universidad Diego Portales, 2014)
by César Aira
Argentina, 2014

Two questions.  1) What might an ars poetica from César Aira look like?  2) How does Aira's nonfiction differ from his fiction?  Aira, last seen in these parts in connection with his fantastic 1990 novella Los Fantasmas, inadvertently answers both of these questions during the course of this amusing, playful, occasionally reader-baiting Continuación de ideas diversas [Continuation of Various Ideas]--an 86-page long free association of ideas on reading, writing, art and etc. in which Borges, Kafka and Raymond Roussel get lots of love and in which both the conventional novel and Julio Cortázar get trashed on multiple occasions.  A few examples.  "El modo más común de describir o recomendar novelas consiste en decir 'es sobre...', y a continuación poner el tema o ambiente o personajes: 'una familia disfuncional', 'los refugiados de la guerra en Sudán', 'dos jóvenes que buscan su vocación'..." ["The most common way of describing or recommending novels consists in saying 'it's about...,' and in what follows referring to the theme or the setting or the characters: 'a dysfunctional family,''refugees from the war in Sudan,''two youths in search of their vocation'..."], Aira writes.  "Las críticas o reseñas hechas por profesionales no son muy distintas" ["The criticism or reviews done by professionals aren't very different"], he adds.  "Si la recomendación es muy enfática, el relato de la temática se extiende y detalla, y eso es todo" ["If it's a very strong recommendation, the discussion of the subject matter gets drawn out and more detailed, that's all"].  The problem with this approach? "Pero la literatura es forma.  Esas descripciones o recomendaciones no dicen nada sobre el mérito o demérito literario de la novela" ["But literature is form.  Those descriptions or recommendations don't say anything about the literary merit or lack of merit of the novel"].  The next part is the best in terms of Aira's insight as a critic of critics--let's just hope I don't muck up the translation too much for you to appreciate the subtle irony: "El hecho de que sea casi imposible hablar de una novela sin decir en algún momento 'es sobre...' debería significar algo sobre el género novela o la 'forma novela'.  Ese algo puede ser o bien que la forma de la novela sea su materia, o bien que indique el triunfo de la materia sobre la forma, vale decir una derrota de la literatura en su formato más exitoso" ["The fact that it's almost impossible to talk about a novel without at one point saying 'it's about...' ought to signify something about the novel genre or about the 'novel form.'  That something might be either that the form of the novel is its subject matter or that it indicates the triumph of subject matter over form--which is to say a defeat of literature in its most successful format"] (23).  Elsewhere, Aira takes a more lightheartedly self-critical look at matters of reading tastes and the craft of writing when he admits that when "leyendo novelas policiales, buenas, apasionantes... me pregunto por qué yo no escribo así.  ¿Qué razón hay para escribir estos vanguardismos que escribo yo?" ["reading detective novels, good ones, thrilling ones... I ask myself why I don't write like that.  What reason is there to write these little avant-gardisms that I write?"].  Although he answers this question with what for me was a disarmingly simple proposition--the notion that reading and writing are "dos actividades radicalmente distintas" ["two radically different activities"] with corresponding "distintos objetivos" ["different objectives"] to match (54)--a much more colorful explanation comes in the form of an earlier passage in which he says that the Superman comics of the '50s and '60s were "la principal influencia" ["the main influence"] in his writing life.  "Ahí estaba todo lo que yo después quise hacer escribiendo, y en cierta medida, hasta donde pude, hice" ["There was to be found everything which I later wanted to do in writing, and in a way, to the extent that was possible for me, I did"].  What was it about these comics that was so appealing?  For one thing, "los argumentos tenían muy poca psicología, en su lugar tenían siempre un sutil juego intelectual" ["the plots had very little psychology; in lieu of that, they always had a subtle intellectual game instead"].  Along with that, the artwork.  "Y los colores, sobre todos los colores, claros, hermosos como un amanecer o como el pensamiento cuando se enfrenta a la aventura de la inteligencia" ["And the colors, above all the colors, bright, beautiful like a dawn or like the mind when confronted with the adventure of intelligence"].  According to Aira, Borges and "las revelaciones posteriores (Lautréamont, Marianne Moore, por nombrar dos)" ["later revelations (Lautréamont, Marianne Moore, to name two)"] were the beneficiaries of how his comic book fandom prepared him for "el goce y el ejercicio pleno de la literatura" ["the enjoyment and the full exercise of literature"] as a result of the "el hechizo persistente de los dibujos, los colores, la visibilidad intensiva de las reglas de juego de la ficción de Superman" ["the enduring spell cast by the drawings, the colors, the intense visibility of the rules of the game of Superman's fiction"] (46-47).  Having spent more time on this post than I'd intended without even once touching upon how the slippery Aira, self-described as "un lector muy precozmente intelectual, muy highbrow y no poco snob, muy literario" ["a precociously intellectual reader, very highbrow and more than a little snobbish, very literary"] who at the age of 14 already "quería ser un gran escritor, un genio, como Kafka o Proust" ["wanted to be a great writer, a genius, like Kafka or Proust"] but was troubled by how those writers "estaban cargados con la inmensa responsibilidad de mantener la calidad, de construir su Obra-Vida, de no apearse del monumental camello de lo Sublime" ["were charged with the immense responsibility of maintaining a high quality, of constructing their Life's Work, and of not falling off the monumental camel of the sublime"] (37-38) in contrast to the writers of the cowboy novels that his dad was a fan of who could write whatever they wanted and who had nothing to fear from the critics, differs in his nonfiction voice from his fictional voice, let me brief at last: not much.  Here, for example, is just one fragment out of many sporting the same sort of trace of a conceptual slap in the face that you can also find in his novellas (85):

Uno de los varios motivos por los que me opongo a la promoción de la lectura es el más evidente de todos, y por ello el menos visible: los libros están llenos de vulgaridad, prejuicios, estereotipos, falsedades.  Su frecuentación no puede sino embotar el pensamiento y la sensibilidad, distorsionar las ideas, falsificar la experiencia.
Se dirá que los buenos libros no son así, y que producen los efectos contrarios a éstos.  De acuerdo, pero los únicos que leen buenos libros son los que leen desde siempre y no necesitan campañas de promoción de la lectura.  Los que no han leído, y se deciden a hacerlo por una de estas campañas, necesariamente van a leer libros malos.

[One of the various reasons I'm opposed to the promotion of reading is the most evident of all and, because of that, the least visible: books are full of banality, prejudices, stereotypes, falsehoods.  Frequenting them can only dull one's sensibility and thinking, distort ideas, falsify experience.
It will be said that good books aren't like that and that they produce effects contrary to these.  Agreed, but the only people who read good books are the ones who have been reading them for forever and they don't need any publicity campaigns for reading.  Those who don't read, but who decide to do it because of one of these publicity campaigns, are necessarily going to read bad books.]

César Aira

I hope to share another Aira post or two with you later in the month.  In the meantime, here's one more snippet from Continuación de ideas diversas (page 55) since who knows when or if it will ever make its way into English:

Lo difícil es escribir, no escribir bien.  En los talleres literarios se puede aprender a escribir bien, pero no a escribir.  Para escribir bien hay recetas, consejos útiles, un aprendizaje.  Escribir, en cambio, es una decisión de vida, que se realiza con todos los actos de la vida.

[The difficult thing is writing, not writing well.  In writing workshops, one can learn to write well but not to write.  To write well, there are instruction manuals, useful advice, an apprenticeship.  Writing, on the other hand, is a life decision which is realized with all the actions in one's life.]

Crónicas de Bustos Domecq

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Crónicas de Bustos Domecq (Losada, 1998)
by Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares
Argentina, 1967

In his commentary on Crónicas de Bustos Domecq [Chronicles of Bustos Domecq] for Los libros esenciales de la literatura en español: narrativa de 1950 a nuestros días, the critic Ignacio Echevarría claims that "quién acerca este libro a su oído puede todavía escuchar los ecos de las carcajadas con que fue escrito a cuatro manos" ["whoever holds this book up close to his ears will still be able to hear the echoes of the peals of laughter with which it was written by the four hands who penned it"] (Barcelona: Lunwerg Editores, 2011, 57).  In his commentary on the work for the great blog Obooki's Obloquy, the critic and title character and Spanish Lit Month 2014 participant Obooki claims that "one imagines [Borges and Bioy Casares] laughing a lot writing it."  Who the hell am I to argue with these second four hands?  In other words, Crónicas de Bustos Domecq is a delightful and laugh out loud funny book not to mention a particularly lively specimen of the fake essay genre.  "Homenaje a César Paladión" ["Homage to César Paladión"], sort of a four-page takeoff on Borges' classic short story "Pierre Menard, autor del Quijote" ["Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote"], is an excellent introduction to the fun and games here: a defense of a serial plagiarist, one César Paladión, whose life's work revolves around publishing exact repros of texts as diverse as Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's The Hound of the Baskervilles, Goethe's Egmont, and Virgil's Georgics--all under his own name.  Bustos Domecq, a would be avant-garde art critic given to flights of grandiloquence and prone to peppering his Spanish with copious amounts of show-off French and Latin, takes great pains to extol Paladión, celebrating the "writer"'s excesses because "ya había ido más lejos" ["he had already  gone further"] than his contemporaries in matters of style; where Ezra Pound had merely led off one of his Cantos by including a "copioso fragmento" ["copious fragment"] ofHomer's Odyssey, for example, Paladión clearly surpassed him because "anexó, por decirlo así, un opus completo, Los parques abandonados, de Herrera y Reissig" ["he annexed, so to speak, a complete opus, Herrera y Reissig's Los parques abandonados"] (25).  Paladión, we are told, "le otorgó su nombre y lo pasó a la imprenta, sin quitar ni agregar una sola coma, norma a la que siempre fiel" ["claimed authorship of the work and passed it on to the printer without adding or removing a single comma, a standard to which he was always faithful"]--a great achievement when compared to "el libro homónimo de Herrera" ["Herrera's homonymous book"] because the original Los parquesabandonados"no repetía un libro anterior" ["didn't repeat an earlier book"] (Ibid.).  Late in in life, Paladión, with no knowledge of "las lenguas muertas" ["dead languages"] according to his chronicler (26), ambitiously set his sights on the classics of antiquity.  His The Gospel According to Luke, "obra de corte bíblico" ["a work biblical in nature"] as it's devilishly described (24), is unfortunately interrupted by the wordsmith's death; however, not to fear because Paladión still had time to grace us with The Georgics "según la versión española de Ochoa" ["in Ochoa's Spanish translation"] and, a year later, "ya consciente de su magnitud espiritual, dio a la imprenta el De divinatione en latín" ["now conscious of his spiritual magnitude, he submitted the De divinatione in Latin to the printer"].  Bustos Domecq, a true believer as an aesthete, can barely restrain himself, and neither could I when I read the irrepressible outburst that follows: "¡Y qué latín!  "El de Cicerón" ["And what Latin!  Ciceronian Latin!"] (26).  In her prologue to this winning Borges and Bioy collaboration, Julià Guillamon notes that "la vulgaridad barroca" ["baroque vulgarity"] of Bustos Domecq and the fact that the character's writing offers something far removed from that which you'd expect from a "crítico coherente" ["coherent critic"] (13-14), make him "encarna los valores a los que se opusieron toda su vida.  Es católico, nacionalista, pronazi, peronista, mercantil e interesado" ["incarnate all the values which (Borges and Bioy Casares) opposed throughout their lives.  He's Catholic, a nationalist, pro-Nazi, a Perón supporter, money-grubbing, and self-promoting"] (Ibid.).  In other words, a great character!  Some of these flaws produce some truly inspired comedy.  In "El ojo selectivo" ["The Selective Eye"], an essay on a sculptor who's a practitioner of what BD refers to as "la escultura cóncava" ["concave sculpture"] (96) or what in reality is the open spaces or plain old air to be found in between the charlatan's generic busts and casts, Bustos Domecq interrupts his reminiscence about a fancy cultural night dedicated to agape and the muses to lash out at a waiter whom he describes as "ese Tántalo de gallego con frac" ["that Spanish Tantalus in tails"] (95).  The reason for this obscure mythological insult?  The waiter had forgotten to bring dessert to the critic's side of the table.  Quelle horreur!  Later in the same piece, Bustos Domecq confesses to having been the "boletero" or ticket seller at one of the concave sculptor's expositions on an evening that saw an incensed public take to physically abusing the artist.  Bustos Domecq escapes to a nearby hotel, where he says he gathered information for a "estudio detectivesco" ["detective study"] of his by the name of La víctima de Tadeo Limardo ["Tadeo Limardo's Victim"] (97).  What does this really have to do with the sculptor?  Using the royal "we," Bustos Domecq is all too happy to explain via a footnote at the bottom of the same page: "Dato importante: Aprovechamos la ocasión para remitir a los compradores a la adquisición inmediata de Seis problemas para don Isidro Parodi, de H. Bustos Domecq.  (Nota de H.B.D)" ["Important fact: We take advantage of the occasion to suggest customers make an immediate purchase of Six Problems for DonIsidro Parodi by H. Bustos Domecq.  (Note by H.B.D.)"].  For non-Borges and -Bioy Casares fans, suffice it to say that the footnote joke gets better once you understand that the Isidro Parodi book was a detective parody pseudonymously attributed to H. Bustos Domecq way back in 1942.  For confirmed Borges and Bioy Casares fans, suffice it to say that the footnote joke gets a lot of play here including one footnote attributed to the proofreader (70, pedantic genius!) and, in a fitting encore, another H.B.D. clarification in which readers are encouraged to consult a study by the name of Una tarde con Ramón Bonavena ["An Evening with Ramón Bonavena"].  Where can one get a hold of this study?  Don't be silly.  Naturally, it's to be found "inserto en el indispensable vademecum Crónicas de Bustos Domecq (Buenos Aires, 1966)" ["inserted in the indispensable vade mecumChronicles of Bustos Domecq (Buenos Aires, 1966)"] (110) which is on sale now!

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986) & Adolfo Bioy Casares (1914-1999)

Spanish Lit Month 2014: 7/1-7/5 Links

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 Jorge Luis Borges & Adolfo Bioy Casares

As promised, here's the first week's collection of links for Spanish Lit Month 2014 being hosted by Stu of Winstonsdad's Blog and me.  Thanks to all of you who have contributed a post or two so far or who are planning to do so later in the month.  Feel free to let me know if I missed any submissions, and in the meantime rest assured that any SLM posts published between 7/6 and 7/12 will be rounded up here next Sunday.  Haven't committed to participating yet but are thinking about it?  Please join us!  You can satisfy our exacting admission requirements by contributing as little as one measly post dedicated to any work of Spanish-language literature (novel, poem, short story, etc.)* that strikes your fancy.  Happy reading!  *Works of Catalan-language literature may be substituted by any/all interested in doing so.  Also, some of the links below originally appeared in June because a couple of bloggers were apparently just too excited to wait until July to get started!

Bellezza, Dolce Bellezza
The Sound of Things Falling by Juan Gabriel Vásquez

Caroline, Beauty Is a Sleeping Cat

Grant, 1streading's Blog
Outlaws by Javier Cercas

Karen, BookerTalk
The Infinite Plan by Isabel Allende

Miguel, St. Orberose
Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes

Richard, Caravana de recuerdos
¡Bienvenidos a Spanish Lit Month 2014!
Continuación de ideas diversas by César Aira
Crónicas de Bustos Domecq by Jorge Luis Borges and Adolfo Bioy Casares

Rise, in lieu of a field guide
Ang Kuwento ng Haring Tulala by Gonzalo Torrente Ballester
The Tenant and The Motiveby Javier Cercas
Shadow Without a Name by Ignacio Padilla

Scott, seraillon
Things Look Different in the Light by Medardo Fraile

Stu, Winstonsdad's Blog
Liveforever by Andrés Caicedo
The Family of Pascual Duarte by Camilo José Cela

Tony Messenger, Messengers Booker (and more)
Firefly by Severo Sarduy


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