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Sunday, December 13th, 2009

🦋 Visceral realism

I checked The Savage Detectives out from the library yesterday and started reading it. (This may have been a foolish decision: it looks as of 20 pages in, as if this book is going to devour my consciousness utterly, and for a long time; when I had been planning to spend the next two weeks working on an essay about Pamuk.) What joy! Every page is just delightful. But here's the thing: on nearly every page, Bolaño is telling me about source material that I ought to read if I want to really understand where he is coming from.

For example, on November 8, Madero writes: "I've discovered an amazing poem. They never said anything about its author, Efrén Rebolledo, in any of our literature classes," and goes on to quote El vampiro -- he says it haunts him in the same way as his reading of Pierre Louÿs -- and then on November 10, at the end of a truly breathtaking scene, he mentions 9 books that the 3 visceral realists he has met are carrying:

• Manifeste électrique aux paupiers de jupes -- an edition of poetry by "Michel Bulteau, Matthieu Messagier, Jean-Jacques Faussot, Jean-Jacques Nguyen That, and Gyl Bert-Ram-Soutrenom F.M., and other poets of the Electric Movement, our French counterparts (I think)."
• Sang de satin, by Michel Bulteau
• Nord d'éte naître opaque, by Mattieu Messagier
• Le parfait criminel, by Alain Jouffroy
• Le pays où tout est permis, by Sophie Podolski
• Cent mille milliards de poèmes, by Raymond Queneau
• Little Johnny's Confession, by Brian Patten
• Tonight at Noon, by Adrian Henri
• The Lost Fire Brigatde, by Spike Hawkins

A few more authors, from November 14: Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz is one of the earliest Mexican poets (unrelatedly, I am entranced by Madero's line from November 7, "I finished Aphrodite, the book by Louÿs, and now I'm reading the dead Mexican poets, my future colleagues.") -- Rodríguez wanted to name the visceral realists' magazine after her; and Laura Damián is (according to Rodríguez) "a poetess who died before she turned twenty, in 1972, and her parents established a prize in her memory."

posted morning of December 13th, 2009: 3 responses
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Saturday, December 12th, 2009

🦋 Imperfect

...another chapter in the annals of me learning Spanish comes with Juan Goytisolo's story "Los amigos" (from Para vivir aquí) -- two things about this story are, a very high proportion of the clauses have "we" as their subject -- so I'm getting used to another set of conjugations that I have not seen as much of so far -- and, it seems like a lot more of the verbs are in imperfect past tense than I'm used to. So that adds a new wrinkle, trying to figure out how to read that tense. The Spanish language courses say, imperfect indicative X == "was X'ing" -- this seems to generally work, although it would get extremely tedious to translate everything this way.

Until now I have recognized imperfect by the "-aba" ending -- verbs which end in -ar, which is most verbs, form their imperfect this way. But I come to find out, verbs which end in -ir and -er do not exhibit this behavior; their imperfect looks roughly like a preterite with -a tacked on to the end. I think I have been reading this, until now, as if it were a preterite -- this may account for why this story seems to have so much more imperfect in it. (Also: I had not realized that first person plural preterite construction is almost exactly the same as first person plural indicative -- when I started reading this story I thought it was being told in the present tense.)

I love the way Goytisolo opens stories. Look at this:

For the past six days I had not been getting a moment's rest. The rhythm of life in the city had changed quickly; in the faces of the men and women who covered the sidewalks was written a firm resolution, full of hope. We had discovered that we were not alone, and after so many years of shame the discovery was astonishing. Our gazes would intersect and they were gazes of complicity. The most insignificant gestures of daily life -- the simple act of walking -- took on a miraculous aura. People followed their ordinary paths silently, and this silence, from hundreds and thousands of people, was more eloquent than any word.

posted afternoon of December 12th, 2009: Respond
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Thursday, December 10th, 2009

🦋 Tumultous poetry

El País today publishes the first chapter of Antonio Muñoz Molina's new novel, La noche de los tiempos, along with a glowing review. Looks like a fine book -- I'm drawn in by the first few pages, by the specificity of location and date -- October 1936, Pennsylvania Station (New York) -- and by the levels of imagery -- "Each man and woman a figure very similar to the others and yet bestowed an identity as indubitably unique as the distinct trajectory each one follows aiming for a precise destination..."

posted evening of December 10th, 2009: Respond

Sunday, December 6th, 2009

🦋 Saramago addresses Italy

Saramago addresses a new post to the Italians who marched in protest of Berlusconi's regime yesterday.

Si Cicerón todavía viviera entre vosotros, italianos, no diría "¿Hasta cuando, Catilina, abusarás de nuestra paciencia?" y sí: "¿Hasta cuando, Berlusconi, atentarás contra nuestra democracia?". De eso se trata. Con su peculiar idea sobre la razón de ser y el significado de la institución democrática, Berlusconi ha transformado en pocos años a Italia en una sombra grotesca de país y a una gran parte de los italianos en una multitud de títeres que lo siguen aborregadamente sin darse cuenta de que caminan hacia el abismo de la dimisión cívica definitiva, hacia el descrédito internacional, hacia el ridículo absoluto.

Con su historia, con su cultura, con su innegable grandeza, Italia no merece el destino que Berlusconi le ha trazado con frialdad canalla y sin el menor vestigio de pudor político, sin el más elemental sentimiento de vergüenza. Quiero pensar que la gigantesca manifestación contra la "cosa" Berlusconi, donde serán leídas estas palabras, se convertirá en el primer paso para la libertad y la regeneración de Italia. Para eso no son necesarias armas, bastan los votos. En vosotros deposito mi confianza.

If Cicero still lived among you, O Italians, he would not say, "How long, O Catiline, will you abuse our patience?" but rather: "How long, Berlusconi, will you transgress against our democracy?" This is how it is. With his unusual ideas about the basis and significance of the democratic institution, Berlusconi has in a few years transformed Italy into a grotesque shadow of a country; a great part of the Italian people, into a mob of puppets who go on, ovine, without understanding that they're marching toward the abyss of definitive civic resignation, towards international discredit, towards absolute ridicule.

With her history, with her culture, with her undeniable grandeur, Italy does not deserve the destiny which Berlusconi has mapped out, with brutal coldness and without the least vestige of political modesty, without the most elemental sentiment of shame. I want to believe that the massive demonstration against the Berlusconi "thing", where these words will be read, will become the first step for liberty and for the regeneration of Italy. For this arms are not necessary; votes will suffice. In you I place my confidence.

posted evening of December 6th, 2009: Respond
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🦋 La Ronda

Some nice imagery from the opening of Juan Goytisolo's story "Making the Rounds" from Para Vivir Aquí (I am really enjoying these stories about traveling in the south -- Goytisolo is from Barcelona and I think he was still living there when he wrote these stories):

Viniendo por la nacional 332, más allá de la base hidronaval de Los Alcázares, se atraviesa una tierra llana, de arbolado escaso, jalonada, a trechos, por las siluetas aspadas de numerosos molinos de viento. Uno se cree arrebatado de los aguafuertes de una edición del Quixote o a una postal gris, y algo marchita, de Holanda. La brisa sople día y noche en aquella zona y las velas de los molinos giran con un crujido sordo. Se diría las helices de un ventilador, las alas de un gigantesco insecto. Cuando pasamos atardecía y el cielo estaba teñido de rojo.

Coming down N-332, past the hydro-naval base at Los Alcázares, you cross a flat landscape, with little forestation, marked at intervals by the cruciform outlines of windmills. One believes oneself transfixed in the etchings of an edition of the Quixote or in an old gray postcard from Holland, a bit faded. The breeze blows day and night in this region, and the windmills' sails turn with a muffled creaking. They bespeak the blades of a fan, the wings of a giant insect. When we passed through there it was getting late; the sky was stained with red.

This is kind of cool: Google Maps has streetview for Murcia. Here is a view along N-332 heading south, midway between Los Alcázares and Cartagena:

posted morning of December 6th, 2009: Respond
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Saturday, December 5th, 2009

🦋 Antipoetry

(Every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me.)

Gives me a nice opening to mention that I read the opening pages of The Savage Detectives in a book shop this morning, and it moved several spots up on my priority list of what to read next -- just a hilarious book.

posted evening of December 5th, 2009: Respond
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Saturday, November 28th, 2009

🦋 Frost

We saw this video of Robert Frost reading his most famous (? -- I think) poem last night -- I had never heard Frost reading before and was really struck by the hypnotic, incantatory quality of his voice. Also he reads a little faster than I would have pictured.

posted evening of November 28th, 2009: 1 response
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Wednesday, November 18th, 2009

🦋 That/ soon is such a vague word.

Ellen sent me a link to this beautiful poem, written by her old teacher Raymond Federman at the very end of his life, in the spring time:

A Matter of Enthusiasm

I am rereading Malone Dies
just to mock death a little
and boost my cancerous spirit.

I shall soon be quite dead at last
Malone tells us at the beginning
of his story.

What a superb opening
what a fabulous sentence.

With such a sentence
Malone announces his death
and at the same time delays it.

In fact all of Malone's story
is but an adjournment.

Malone even manages
to defer his death
until the end of eternity.

That
soon is such a vague word.

How much time is soon?
How does one measure soon?

Normal people say
I'll be dead in ten years
or I'll be dead before I'm eighty
or I'll be dead by the end of this week
Quite dead at last
Malone specifies.

Unlike Malone prone in bed
scribbling the story of his death
with his little pencil stub
normal standing people
like to be precise
concerning their death.

Oh how they would love
to know in advance
the exact date and time
of their death.

How relieved they would be
to know exactly when
they would depart from
the great cunt of existence
in Malone's own words
to plunge into the great lie
of the afterlife.

How happy they would be
if when they emerge into life
the good doctor
or the one responsible
for having expelled them
into existence
would tell them you will die at 15:30
on December 22, 1989.

Could Sam have written
I shall soon be quite dead at last
had he known in advance
when he would change tense?

Certainly not
because as Malone tells us
a bit further in his story

I shall die tepid
without enthusiasm.

Does that mean on the contrary
of those idiots on this bitch of an earth
who explode themselves with fervor
to reach the illusion of paradise
while taking with them other mortals
that Malone's lack of enthusiasm
towards his own death is a clever way
of delaying the act of dying?

A lack of enthusiasm for something
is always a way of postponing
the terms of that something.

The soon of Malone mocks
the permanence of death
and his lack of enthusiasm
ridicules the expression at last.

And so before he reaches the end
of the first page of his story
Malone has already succeeded
in postponing his death to
Saint John the Baptist's Day
and even the Fourteenth of July.
Malone even believes he might be able
to resist until the
Transfiguration
not to speak of the Assumption
which certainly throws some doubt
as to what really happened
on that mythical day
or what will happen to Malone
if he manages to hang on until then.

In fact Malone defies his own death
by giving himself
birth into death
as he explains at the end of his story.

All is ready. Except me. I am being
given, if I may venture the expression,
birth to into death, such is my impression.
The feet are clear already,
of the great cunt of existence.
Favorable presentation I trust.
My head will be the last to die.
Haul in your hands. I can't.
The render rents, My story ended
I'll be living yet. Promising lag.
That is the end of me. I shall say I no more.

Nothing more to add this evening.
Malone said it all for me.
I can go to sleep calmly now.
Good night everybody.

posted evening of November 18th, 2009: Respond
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Sunday, November 15th, 2009

🦋 Cliffhanger

It is getting much easier in the last fifth of Museum of Innocence to relate to Kemal as a human being rather than a monster... Enough so that I get a little sympathetic thrill of suspense at the end of chapter 78, when he says

So I got back into bed, and happily imagining that she would soon return, I fell asleep.

All through the chapter I have been thinking Wait, why is this not the "happiest moment" of his life?...

I was speculating that possibly Kemal's repeated efforts to define "happiness" and to see how he can make it apply to his life, are a marker for the westernized nature of his worldview and of the circles he moves in -- with reference to Fazıl's statement in Snow that he must be an atheist -- i.e. westernized -- because "I don't care about anything except love and happiness."

posted evening of November 15th, 2009: Respond
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🦋 Margaritas before swine

I'm a little over a quarter of the way through my rough draft translation of El viaje -- whether I end up revising it into something actually readable or no, it is a very useful exercise from the standpoint of helping me read the story -- it brings the imagery really sharply into focus, this process of reading the passage, sort-of understanding, setting out to render it in my own language, looking up unfamiliar terms, reading again...

Goytisolo's punctuation of dialog (which seems to be shared pretty generally in the Spanish stories I've been reading) is to set quoted text off with em dashes -- I've been using this in the translation although it's possible that quotation marks would read more naturally. Not sure about that yet. Here is a passage of dialog I liked a lot, at the end of a drunken rant in which a circus impressario is assuring some of his performers (who have been stuck in this Andalusían town for several months without any money to pay for carriage) that he's got feelers out, he's going to get them passage to Lisbon, he's going to pay everybody...

The man took the bottle by its neck and guzzled another slug. His face was soaked in sweat and he was drumming his fingers on the top of his boot.

--People today, only interested in the vulgar --he said, looking at us--. The movies, every day at the movies... The work of an artist counts for nothing...

His tongue was giving him trouble with speaking and he looked around him, his gaze full of irritation.

--I had offers from Algeciras, from Tangiers, from Morocco, and I preferred to come here... They told me that in this town people appreciate art and now look... A sacrifice in vain... Like mixing margaritas for swine...

He was too drunk to go on and he hid his head between his hands. The waiter went and came back with the bottles and, passing by us, gave a wink.

--Don't pay him any attention... Every day it's like this.

Just then, the clock on the town hall struck nine.

It was time to go back; we got up.

The very brief paragraphs and heavy use of ellipses are characteristic of the story.

I read a quote from Goytisolo somewhere that he considered Marks of Identity (1966, so half a decade after this) his "first real novel" -- maybe I should put that on my list.

posted evening of November 15th, 2009: Respond

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