Miedo y violencia en Historia de Mayta

Fear is a powerful force in Historia de Mayta. In the very first paragraph, we are told that “el miedo asfixia de rejas, muros, sirenas y reflectores” (essentially that fear, in the shape of gates, walls, sirens and spotlights is suffocating the atmosphere in question). Vargas Llosa’s ability to manipulate words in such a poetic fashion in order to create such striking imagery is quite impressive. It baffles me that someone can create something so beautiful (the poetic nature of his descriptions) and simultaneously so hideous (the images called forth by the descriptions of the garbage and filth). Similar to my experience while reading García Márquez’ La Hojarasca, I swore I could smell the mountains of garbage he was describing and could barely keep from swatting at imaginary insects while reading about the disintegration of the slums in Peru.

There are many hideous things described in Historia de Mayta, but above all, the all-pervading atmosphere of fear struck me to the core. As fortunate as we are to live in a privileged country with economic and political stability, there are some material luxuries I feel that I could survive without if I had to. What I can not understand, however, is how some people manage to live day to day with the psychological trauma of living in perpetual fear. Fear is the primary motivating factor for the majority of people the narrator encounters on his long journey through the past of Alejandro Mayta. Fear is what keeps people from rebelling and joining forces with the revolutionaries, although in theory the civilians are likely just as disenchanted with the governing forces as are the revolutionaries. Fear warps people’s stories, whether causing them to lie to protect themselves or to substitute less painful memories for their true past, suppressing emotionally distressing truths. Fear causes people to discriminate against people of different ethnicities or sexual orientations, hoping to deflect attention and potential persecution away from themselves. Fear breeds ignorance in all shapes and sizes in the narrator’s Peru and the devastating consequences of such an atmosphere take shape in an environment of unending cruelty and senseless violence. As Vargas Llosa has described it:

Un ingrediente esencial, invariable, de la historia de este país, desde sus tiempos mas remotos: la violencia. La moral y la física, la nacida del fanatismo y la intransigencia, de la ideología, de la corrupción y de la estupidez que han acompañado siempre al poder entre nosotros, y esa violencia sucia, menuda, canalla, vengativa, interesada, parasita de la otra. (Vargas Llosa 52)

No one is safe from it. The violence simply breeds more violence and meanwhile the impoverished civilians of Mayta’s Peru are left paralyzed by fear of the imminent threat of death, torture or disappearance. What have they done to deserve such a cruel fate? How can they hope to escape it?

La perspectiva narrativa en Historia de Mayta

Mario Vargas Llosa is an ingenious writer. The extent to which he is able to manipulate the reader’s perceptions of the Peruvian atmosphere through the structure of his writing alone is truly impressive. Vargas Llosa spends the entirety of Historia de Mayta telling us about the corruption, the disintegration, the physical and moral decay of Peru, but his assertions about the hostility of the nation’s atmosphere are brilliantly and subtly compounded by the narrative structure he employs. The fragmented manner in which the story jumps back and forth between past and present with no warning, sometimes mid-sentence, contributes greatly to the atmosphere of confusion, disorientation, and the seemingly random nature of events in the story. The narrative structure in Historia de Mayta is slightly reminiscent of that of García Márquez in La Hojarasca both for the air of chaos and confusion it contributes to the story’s atmosphere as well as the fact that it’s random, disorganized sequence of events hints towards the non-linearity of time.

Vargas Llosa’s narrator is a very perplexing character. Not only does he devote a year of his life to the investigation of a seemingly insignificant man in the overall socialist struggle in Peru, but he actually ventures out on perilous journeys, speaks to rather obnoxious people, wades through the repulsive, filthy slums, has his possessions robbed and vandalized, while constantly being frisked and searched by policemen and guards. We never, however, seem to hear him complain. His level of dedication is astounding and often quite puzzling. The narrator’s obsession with retracing the steps of the revolutionary Alejandro Mayta becomes more and more interesting as the story progresses. In fact, in the sixth chapter, as we get closer and closer to the Jauja climax, the narrator begins to transition away from his third person narrative description of Mayta’s life and begins to speak as if he were taking on the persona of Mayta, in the first person. There follows some fluctuation back and forth between a first and third person Mayta, which appears to indicate some confusion on the part of the narrator. The narrator has apparently retraced the steps of Mayta so completely that he appears to be subconsciously taking on his identity and losing pieces of his own. These fluctuations are extremely subtle and strategically placed so that there is usually a much more interesting incident taking place to overshadow the structural minutiae. An attentive reader can, however, most certainly conceive of the narrator as a three dimensional character in the story, although he is nameless and his personal life and qualities are rarely discussed. I find myself contemplating and theorizing about this narrator. What has caused his obsession with Mayta? Why is he so hell bent on finding out the truth so he can know what he is doing when he lies? For me, the narrator is without a doubt the most interesting character in Mario Vargas Llosa’s Historia de Mayta.

Tiempo en el laberinto de la soledad

The posited non-linearity of time is a concept that keeps cropping up in the literature of Latin American Nobel Prize winners. We saw this in La Hojarasca, both directly through assertions that time didn’t progress in the stagnant room of the dead man until the little boy moved and indirectly through García Márquez’ unconventional, non-linear narrative structure that jumped around from narrator to narrator and between past and present. We see a similar narrative style in Mario Vargas Llosa’s Historia de Mayta, as the narrative jumps around between past and present, sometimes mid-sentence, occasionally transitioning between first and third person narration. In El Laberinto de la Soledad, Octavio Paz explicitly remarks on this very phenomenon:

Hubo un tiempo en el que el tiempo no era sucesión y tránsito, si no manar continuo de un presente fijo, en el que estaban contenidos todos los tiempos, el pasado y el futuro. El hombre, desprendido de esa eternidad en la que todos los tiempos son uno, ha caído en el tiempo cronométrico y se ha convertido en prisionero del reloj, del calendario y de la sucesión. Pues apenas el tiempo se divide en ayer, hoy y mañana, en horas, minutos y segundos, el hombre cesa de ser uno con el tiempo, cesa de coincidir con el fluir de la realidad. Cuando digo "en este instante", ya pasó el instante. La medición espacial del tiempo separa al hombre de la realidad, que es un continuo presente, y hace fantasmas a todas las presencias en que la realidad se manifiesta. (Paz 88)

Paz tells us that there was once a time when time was non-linear, but we gave away that truthful, pure existence when we became prisoners of the clock and calendar and lapsed into chronometric time. He believes that we are now living in chronometric time, in which we divide, record, schedule every miniscule moment into quantifiable segments until we are far removed from reality and constantly living for the future. As he says, by the time one has uttered “in this moment,” the moment has already passed and thus due to our insatiable need to control, cluster, allot ourselves time we are instead robbing ourselves of time and essentially losing out on the present. I really liked the distinctions that Paz drew between chronometric time and the eternal present by saying that chronometric time “no es una aprehensión inmediata del fluir de la realidad, sino una racionalización del transcurrir” (89). I particularly enjoyed this comment, because I felt like it pointedly demonstrated the fundamentally human need to control or at least rationalize things beyond our realm of influence. Because we are unable to control neither the passing of nor our perception of reality, we must rationalize and quantify its passing. What a refreshing and insightful point of view! I could not agree more, although I wish that with this revelation there came any indication of how to escape from the prison of the clock and calendar… Paz’ solution for throwing off the shackles of chronometric time is the fiesta, in which he insists that chronometric time is destroyed, because for a brief moment the fiesta is reproducing, rather than merely celebrating an event. The result is that “por espacio de unas breves horas inconmensurables, el presente eterno se reinstate” (88). As wonderful as this sounds, I am doubtful about its real life applications!! Perhaps I’ll have to venture down to Mexico and see if I can escape the clock by attending a fiesta…

La modernidad del Pachuco

I have genuinely loved the work of every Nobel Prize winner we have studied so far in the class, but at this precise moment in time Octavio Paz is blowing everyone else out of the water! I feel a strong kinship with Paz, perhaps because I feel as though he and I view the world and our countrymen through a similar lens. I myself am extremely analytical and hyper-observant of social tendencies, norms, patterns of behaviour, etc.. I find myself constantly questioning the very same aspects of my society that Paz questions about Mexican society and so I find his essays to be fantastically interesting, thought-provoking and culturally intuitive.

I was shocked to find Paz’ observations about the Mexican persona to be devastatingly accurate over sixty years after the fact. I got halfway through the first essay before it occurred to me to check the publication date, because although the actual book I was reading looked like it had seen better days, Paz’ observations were either quite modern or timeless. Descriptions of the Pachuco sounded a great deal like many of the troubled youths that join gangs in the United States and Mexico. These young men can be seen sporting bright, flashy colours, rhinestone studded clothing, gaudy jewelry or “bling,” all the while oblivious to just how insecure and threatened this spectacle makes them look. Like a peacock fanning its feathers to appear powerful and intimidating, many of these youths likely choose to rebel in this format out of a mixture of fear and a lack of belonging. Just like the Pachuco, however, they ultimately lose out on the entirety of their cultural inheritance by refusing to partake, while paying homage to the thwarted society with their clothing, thus failing to ever fully reject society.

It is fascinating to contemplate the troublesome relationship between the United States and Mexico, plain old ignorance and racism aside, in light of the many starkly contrasting fundamental beliefs Paz has reported. For instance, Paz claims that in Mexico defensiveness is emphasized over aggression in matters of manliness. Paz also sides with José Gorostiza in the opinion that the USA is essentially lost in a wilderness of mirrors, having created their world in their own mirror image, but no longer able to recognize themselves in it. In contrast, Paz posits that Mexicans feel as though they did not create their own circumstances, but rather were torn from the centre of creation and suspended between hostile forces. Paz insists that Mexicans feel any divulgence of confidence or display of weakness is an abdication, while Americans are, for the most part, more open and trusting in their relationships. The impression I am getting so far from “El Laberinto de la Soledad” is that the Mexican people have been irreparably damaged from their totalitarian governments and the resulting atmospheres of fear and repression. The atmosphere of fear and suspicion described by Paz in “Máscaras Mexicanas” is palpable. I could actually feel myself tensing up as I read this essay. The feeling that, for the Mexican, “life is combat” indicates to me that their governments have really done a number on them! I found this essay to be both sad and brilliantly informative. I wonder how much of his observations still apply today…

GGM: La subjetividad de la percepción temporal

As always, García Márquez’s descriptive language paints a picture so vivid that you swear you can actually see it before your eyes, you can actually feel the stagnant atmosphere of death of decay on your skin and smell the pungent odor of the rotting corpse and twenty years of dust and neglect in your nostrils. Vocabulary consisting of such poignant words as “sofocante,” “zumbido,” “estancado,” “cadáver,” “olor de secreción a flor de piel,” and “rabiosa” strike the reader by surprise within the first few paragraphs of the story, instantly setting the tone of “La Hojarasca” and creating an image of disintegration that will last throughout the entirety of the story.

One of the most poignant metaphors in “La Hojarasca” exists in the parallels drawn between the evolution of the doctor and the evolution of the town of Macondo. The doctor is essentially an hojarasca in the lives of the Colonel and his family, mirroring the precise impact the banana company had on Macondo. He appears out of nowhere, comes into the lives of the family unbidden, changes everything, sets up shop in their house with no indication that he will ever leave, accelerates the atmosphere of chaos, elevates tensions within the Colonel’s home and then suddenly moves to the house on the corner without warning, where he allows himself to disintegrate, crumple, dwindle and blow away into emaciated nothingness, leaving behind him only an environment of decay and a dilapidated house that indicates to the outsider that it once served a purpose, but is now nothing more than the shell and ruins of a distant, forgotten past. Although it is said from the beginning that the hojarasca is a metaphor for the banana company’s impact on the town, not much is said of the banana company while the entirety of the plot focuses around the doctor and his strange presence in the lives of the Colonel and his family. It appears after careful analysis that the doctor is in fact the true hojarasca in García Márquez’ story.

I particularly liked García Márquez’ unconventional treatment of time in “La Hojarasca.” Many subtle references can be found that hint towards its non-linearity, while his fragmented narrative technique jumps around between past and present with no apparent structure, creating an atmosphere of chaos and compounding the perceived non-linearity of time. Interesting comments about the passage of time hint towards its relativity according to perspective. This depressing, revolting Wednesday, focused around the burial preparations of a corpse, appears to last an eternity, while time generally flies by when it is being enjoyed. The fifth chapter opens with the statement,

“Hay un minuto en que se agota la siesta. Hasta la secreta, recóndita, minúscula actividad de los insectos cesa en ese instante preciso; el curso de la naturaleza se detiene; la creación tambalea al borde del caos y las mujeres se incorporan, babeando, con la flor de almohado bordada en la mejilla, sofocadas por la temperatura y el rancor; y piensan: “Todavía es Miércoles en Macondo” (V).

In the fifth chapter, Isabela is remarking that time appears to be standing completely still as they all sit motionless in the presence of the corpse until she notices her son move and makes some rather insightful comments on one’s perceived passage of time:

“Entonces el niño vuelve a moverse y hay una nueva transformación en el tiempo. Mientras se mueva algo, puede saberse que el tiempo ha transcurrido. Antes no. Antes de que algo se mueva es el tiempo eterno, el sudor, la camisa babeando sobre el pellejo y el muerto insobornable y helado detrás de su lengua mordida. Por eso no transcurre el tiempo para el ahorcado: porque aunque la mano del niño se mueva, él no lo sabe. […] Pero el nuevo movimiento se frustra, mi padre entrá a la habitación y los dos tiempos se reconcilian; las dos mitades ajustan, se consolidan, y el reloj de la señora Rebeca cae en la cuenta de que ha estado confundido entre la parsimonia del niño y la impaciencia de la viuda, y entonces bosteza, ofuscado, se zambulle en la prodigiosa quietud del momento, y sale después chorreante de tiempo líquido, de tiempo exacto y rectificado, y se inclina hacia adelante y dice con ceremoniosa dignidad: `Son las dos y cuarenta y siete minutos, exactamente.´ (V).

Time is described as a malleable, manipulable, precarious phenomenon, ever elusive and at times even liquid. García Márquez’ personification of Señora Rebeca’s clock is both brilliantly poetic and strikingly relatable, as we have all experienced the tendency of time to slow to an almost complete stop at the most inopportune of moments. The problematic clash of perceptions is described with tremendous finesse and the incongruity of these viewpoints is glossed over and reconciled almost instantaneously by García Márquez’ silvery language. It is this masterful command of the Castilian language that sets Gabriel García Márquez on an entirely different level from his peers.

La Hojarasca: Una Narrativa Fragmentada

I came away from “La Hojarasca” as I always do from a García Márquez work: thoroughly impressed, considerably confused, left wondering about the many loose ends he refuses to tie up and obscurities he chooses to leave unexplained, and still trying to figure out the significance of the many seemingly trivial details he intersperses throughout yet another strange and morbid tale. What is García Márquez driving at by incessantly comparing the doctor to a barnyard animal and/ or El Cachorro (The Pup)? What is the significance of Martín? Of Abraham? Why is the Colonel Aureliano Buendía indebted to the doctor? What has become of Meme and what happened to her baby? Some readers may be frustrated by the lack of closure found at the end of most García Márquez works, but I find it to be an ingenious technique for drawing in the reader. One is unlikely to become bored or lose focus while struggling to comprehend the numerous strange parallels drawn between the doctor and a mule. His head is reportedly shaped like the skull of a donkey, he snubs fancy meals for bowls of ordinary, boiled grass (IV), he is said to have brought as much love and warmth to Meme’s bed as might a mule (I), and his voice and mannerisms are repeatedly described with the words “parsimonioso” and “rumiante” (IV), vocabulary reminiscent of a stubborn donkey chewing grass. A reader of García Márquez must be actively engaged to grasp the complexities of the plot and the intricacies of his characters. It is these very intricacies, these minute and seemingly irrelevant details, that make García Márquez’ characters so genuinely believable. The side story of Isabela’s experience with her con-artist husband, Martín, the child’s somewhat homoerotic feelings toward his friend, Abraham, and the barber’s daughter’s alleged encounters with ‘spirits’ are all side stories that give García Márquez’ stream-of-consciousness style its legitimacy. The manner in which the narrative perspective shifts seamlessly from one character’s point of view to the next, with the slight repetition of notable dialogue or events indicating continuity amidst the fragmented narrative, adds to the atmosphere of confusion and strangeness. The technique of neglecting to disclose the names of certain characters, such as the child and the doctor, also adds to the atmosphere of mystery and obscurity. These characters are very well-rounded, often appearing selfish, distracted, or disturbed by the fulfillment of the deceased doctor’s dying wish. There are no heroes, no stock good or evil characters. There are only real people, explaining every thought that crosses their mind as they wade through the bizarre and risky task of burying a man the town of Macondo would rather see rot away in the dilapidated house on the corner for all eternity. The combined impact of García Márquez’ unconventional literary techniques is an unmistakably unique and signature style and an intensely bizarre, yet fascinating read.

Gabriela Mistral y Pablo Neruda: Dos gran poetas del siglo XX

Tanto Gabriela Mistral como Pablo Neruda son figuras literarias increíblemente prominente de América latina. Ambos son poetas Chilenos y hay muchas similares entre las temas y los estilos de sus obras, pero Mistral y Neruda escribían de perspectivas ideológicas muy diferentes. Sin embargo, ambos han logrado éxito grande y han captado la conciencia de su nación exuberante y vibrante con sus palabras emotivos.

La poesía de Mistral y Neruda revela una reverencia profunda para la naturaleza que reflecte su amor compartido para su nación. Ambos poetas usan apostrofes a los elementos y al paisaje frecuentemente, invocando la tierra rica, la lluvia fresca, la luz del sol dorado, el viento poderoso, los flores coloridos y los árboles y las plantas verdeantes para expresar sus intenciones literarios. A menudo usan la personificación de un aspecto de la naturaleza para simbolizar aspectos del cuerpo, para enfatizar la belleza de la conexión entre el mundo natural y los seres humanos.

Ambos aparecen abrumados con emociones complicados y mezclados a varias veces en su poesía; transmiten pasión, tristeza, amor, enojo, desilusión y desesperación y casi siempre enfocan en temas conectado con sus inmensos dolores personales. Producen imágenes muy emotivos, hermosos, trágicos y coloridos, porque su pasión es tan genuino. Mistral y Neruda describen relaciones imperfectos y deteriorados entre amantes infelices, ausentes y descontentos. Es claro al lector observante que ambos tienen una tendencia a idealizar y presionar las personas y situaciones en sus vidas y el resulto es siempre desilusión, frustración, y lentes mas hastiados con la que ver el mundo.

Ambos escritores apoyan y abogan para causas y ideales grandes en sus obras, pero Mistral viene de una perspectiva muy religiosa, espiritual, y maternal, mientras Neruda viene de una perspectiva muy política, patriarcal y eróticamente enamorada. Mistral es un madre poderosa (si biológicamente o no), una educadora, una figura instintivamente maternal y protectiva. Neruda es un hombre muy patriarcal y su tratamiento de las figuras femeninas y las cualidades femeninas que el narrador aprecie en sus obras puede ser insultante y machista a algunos.

Hay un ausencia crudo de mujeres con agencia en la atmósfera patriarcal de Neruda. Cada poema de “amor” revela una alta nivel de alabanza para el mujer, pero usualmente no es para una mujer singular, pero para el sexo entierro; también no es para sus mentes e ideas, pero para sus cuerpos sensualizados ( “cuerpo de mujer, blancos colinas, muslos blancos” y “ah los vases del pecho, a su voz lenta y triste”). No me gusta la manera en que el cuerpo de mujer está deshumanizado en la poesía de Neruda. No obstante, no pienso que Neruda es necesariamente una machista, pero que estaba simplemente un hombre joven, frustrado y hormonal, cuando escribió Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada al edad de solamente veinte años. Sus heridas son muy personal y salvaje y tiene gran coraje a contar al mundo los pensamientos mas hondos de la alma.

En el otro lado, la poesía de Mistral es igualmente afligado, sin las problemas de género. Mistral es mas preocupado con la muerte y amor de la alma que con el amor erótico. Neruda quiere cumplimiento sexual mientras Mistral quiere cumplimiento espiritual. Mientras Neruda enfoca en su frustración sexual, desdeñado y rechazado por una mujer ausente y fría, Mistral habla de la pérdida de amor causada por la muerte de su amante. Neruda estaba un pródigo joven, publicado al edad de trece, mientras Mistral solamente asistí a escuela al edad de doce y comenzó escribiendo mas tarde en su vida. La poesía de Mistral aparece a mí de todo más madura de la de Neruda, y eso es posiblemente un simple diferencia de la sabiduría que viene con edad.