Letters to the Romance World

    Reaching the end of this course, I am filled with an appreciation for the Romance World. Beginning with “Combray” and spanning eleven other great works, I was exposed to authors I would normally glance over on the shelves of libraries or bookstores in my native country; through the guidance of lectures and my peers, my understanding flourished alongside my newly-aligned perspective on what this world entails. As I learned about the stories which may be considered obscure, the esoteric—or in the case of Lispector’s cockroach, outright bizarre—concurrently I found myself stepping out of the bubble of classic literary convention to find a treasure trove of new techniques with which to form my own writing. Leaving this course and moving onwards, I can only think I have taken a valuable step in my journey as an English major. Outside of this course, I cannot see these texts being encountered again. 

     The structure of the course, at first disorienting, was soon revealed as a great idea. In most courses, one is not able to see the work of their classmates, and is instead left like many artists, in a prison of their own making, slaving away at a work which has the potential to either enhance their lot in life or leave everyone confused if not hostile to them. Oh, the lonely lot of the artist! — but in all seriousness, as much as I enjoy the romantic image of clacking away at a typewriter over candlelight, a half-finished bottle of spirits by my side, the collaborative nature of the course was a welcome change. Especially in the form of the lively discussions, I never found myself zoning out of any of the readings. 

    This was owing to a fact that was surely not coincidence: whether through a breaking of convention, or toying with memory and unreliable narration, or a shared genre of bildungsroman as the development of the artist, all of our texts were linked in some way or another despite their vastly different settings. Among them, my favourite readings were Louis Aragon’s Paris Peasant and Alberto Moravia’s Agostino. The former work, although a difficult read at the surface, was technically a very impressive piece of writing and a strong venture into surrealism; the latter was riveting to me due to its subversive, incestuous nature, as I was unsure how explicit the story would get, or the direction in which it was headed. 

    At the conclusion of this course, I am for the first time—on my last blog post, fortunately for me—at a loss for words. There is much to proverbially chew on. Although I may not remember every one of these blog posts I have written or every second of our turbulent discussions ranging from philosophy to politics to artistic temperament, I have a feeling the memories of this course and what I have learned from studying the authors will, indeed, remain by my side and stand the test of time. 

    Thank you to the Professor, Patricio and Jennifer for making this course so engaging. Bon voyage—and to a great summer ahead!

    For my penultimate blog post, I found myself reading Agualusa’s text closely to find overlap on the various themes found across the course readings. Memory is something which we looked closely at in all the readings—the certainty of events, and the unreliable narration which so often leads to the label of fiction for the stories. Can events inspired from the author’s experience indeed be called fiction, or instead embellished reality? “The Society of Reluctant Dreamers,” through use of false memory and dreams which can be interpreted and picked-apart by the most aspiring Freudian, serves as a fitting bookend to this central question. 

    Memory is a tricky thing. While it may be a chronicling of events, if one is of the belief that one’s own reality shapes their perception, there is no way to avoid a skewed perspective. This reaches its climax when political matters are at hand. Angolan independence is what the plot of the book revolves around, yet the main character Daniel Benchimol is not involved in these events, left to dream of revolutionary rapture instead of spearheading tangible change. When he finds a camera on the beach filled with photos of a woman he does not know, he quickly falls in love—he struggles with the concept of what is real and what is a mere illusion of happiness. 

    A defiance of convention is the best way to view this phenomenon. Memory in the book is best viewed as a past story within the present story, serving as a break from convention. Through these flashbacks, the author shows how narratives of the romance world are affected by outside influence, and indeed toys with the very label itself. What is the Romance World other than an umbrella term to describe a set of common motifs found across the texts, memory among them? 

    As the professor notes in the final lecture, it is simplistic to identify the authors of the Romance World as all working together to form a mosaic of culture. It is better to view the label as a shining of the spotlight on literature less-known outside their borders—the “cult classics,” as Western readers might say. Agualusa’s “The Society of Reluctant Dreamers,” our last read for the semester, fits into this focused category. By sharing the central theme of memory and unreliable narration as other readings, it is both made unique in its setting and plot while also conforming to the standards of what we refer to as the Romance World. 

My final question is: Is the Romance World a catch-all term, or a tangible force in literature?

    Javier Cercas’s “Soldiers of Salamis” is a story which examines the human condition in wartime. From his own experience, he places the study in the context of the Spanish Civil War. A sparring match between fascist and socialist sides, it was a battle which was ultimately viewed as a precursor to World War II. Yet through unreliable narration and an unclear answer on the identities of several real world historical characters, he paints the portrait of the war as one involving, predominantly, the nameless soldier, often unsure of why or for what reason for which he is fighting. Through highlighting this struggle of purpose, the human condition is distilled as little more than a vessel of duty in wartime. In its purest essence, there is no room for morality—although it may sometimes shine through.

    Miralles, like the other characters, is a soldier in the Spanish Civil War. Unlike some authors, who seek to create a character through which to espouse their philosophy and life experiences, Miralles seems to lead a life completely opposite from the author Javier Cercas who narrates the book. At age forty, he is divorced, has no children and still grieving his father’s passing: At age fifty, Cercas has attained all that Miralles wishes he could have. Tragically, it is only war which halts his progress and holds him back from bettering himself. 

    There is some debate as to whether or not Miralles—and other characters like an apparent mirroring of the Chilean novelist Roberto Bolano—are real life depictions marred by embellishment, or simply coincidence. One thing we know is that, early on in the story, the narrator clearly states, “I am lying” (pg. 13). It is a statement which seems to  leave fewer answers than the leaders who spout the purpose of the Spanish Civil War in its entirety.

    There is a strange conflict in the structure of the book as being part lying, part truth-telling. One might view following the latter veracity as a dutiful act, where the former conjures up images of deceit and corruption in the ranks. Through refusing to conform to one extreme or the other, the reader can only leave with the impression that Cercas seeks to present wartime as perverting even the most intrinsic of human emotions—in their wake, pure survival is all that is left for the many. 

    Later on in the novel, when one character Mazas is found by an enemy soldier (suspected to be Miralles), the man does not give his position away and instead chooses to save his life: for what reason, it is unknown. In this instance, “[t]he soldier’s look doesn’t express compassion or hatred, or even disdain, but a kind of secret or unfathomable joy,” evidencing some greater morality behind the veneer of service (pg. 118). Of course, the reasons could also be practical: perhaps he simply does not wish to get his hands dirty, or refuses to taint his conscience further by killing an unarmed man. Time and time again, however, readers are left with the distinct impression that morality and war can, and often do, manifest themselves in a state of coexistence. 

    My question follows along this line: Is morality possible in wartime, as Cercas suggests? 

    Roberto Bolano’s “Amulet” is a unique tale which, in its focus on character development in a time of political violence, makes a more potent statement about human perseverance. The perspective is the student Lacouture hiding in the bathroom of UNAM from the army coming to crush the student protest movement. On the surface, it appears to be the most common tale of Latin America: one involving injustice and suppression of the masses. Yet in the creative choice to tell the tale almost completely through memory, one can draw a parallel between many of the other texts covered in this course. 

    A scene which struck me was, curiously, one set in the present. While in the bathroom stall, a soldier enters and Lacouture is forced to raise her legs. She compares the instinctive act to “as if [she] was about to give birth,” before adding, “in a sense, in effect, I was preparing to deliver something and to be delivered myself” (pg. 29). The deliverance she speaks of can only be viewed as being the sole witness to military occupation. In this way, she sees her survival as giving birth to an even more meaningful movement than the one being crushed. Furthermore, her description of being delivered can either be viewed as a live figurehead, or dead martyr.

    This political undertone felt under duress encompasses most of the book. Equally prevalent is the usage of hallucination–wherein poetic metaphors often describe a growing movement— to escape harsh reality. One example is when Lacouture believes she is being wheeled into a hospital. When asking in a frantic tone if she is pregnant, the doctor responds, “No, ma’am, we’re just taking you to attend the birth of History” (pg. 152).

    By placing an emphasis on memory as a spearhead for revolution, “Amulet” shares its structure with other texts from the Romance World. Although many are not overtly political, there is something to be said for what the defiance of literary convention and structure—whether through a use of memory or a discarding of plot altogether—truly captures. Perhaps some authors seek to make progress by shocking readers with a flagrant decrying of social norms where others are simply trying something new in their medium. Like all great art, I find the interpretation of message is often up to the spectator. 

   Overall, I enjoyed reading “Amulet.” I was left pondering: does simply surviving a traumatic event start a collective movement? Or does one need to become a sole figurehead, or a martyr if necessary, to rally the masses?

    “W, or The Memory of Childhood” by Georges Perec is a unique tale, for it really presents two intertwined. Half autobiography, half boyhood fantasy, the author utilizes this interesting dynamic as a kind of symbiotic storytelling—as without one, the other cannot exist. In this he reveals the importance of imagination for the development of the artist; and in a sense, the story is a bildungsroman, or coming-of-age story for the artist. By romanticizing his life, the author shows how the artist survives through the mundane and conflicts alike. Although the autobiographical events read intriguing for their truthfulness, the contradictions spice up the dry writing by adding an element of ambiguity. Unclear are the order of events, or the truthfulness of its narrator; what is focused on, above all, is entertaining the reader. It is in this way the role of the artist in society is outlined. 

    On page 13, this inherent urge to exaggerate is confessed by the author. “My two earliest memories are not entirely implausible,” he states, “even though, obviously, the many variations and imaginary details I have added […] have altered them greatly, if not completely distorted them.” There is no attempt to hide his blatant untruthfulness. This reveals more about the author than any recorded experience might capture. That, through insecurity, he buries his truth, hides behind the spectacle of fictitious embellishment. In a sense, this is the first stage of artistic development: the instinct to emulate one’s heroes, to see what works, instead of becoming one’s own, and thereby discarding those real experiences which sell for their thoughtfulness. 

    Just as the attributes of the artist are highlighted, so too is childhood used as a means to channel them. “W” is a story written by the protagonist as a child. Owing to a vague memory, the story is just as much a story about childhood as it is a reflection of his own. On page 6, the narrator shares this phenomenon: “I suddenly remembered that this story was called W and that it was, in a way, if not the story of my childhood, then at least a story of my childhood.” A blurring of the lines between story and experience runs in tandem with the structure of the novel. There is a postmodern element to offering an analysis of a story within the story; and even here, one cannot be sure that the former is truth or fiction. 

    By its conclusion, the work left me pondering the question of whether the stories we tell reflect our lives, or if lived experiences reflect the stories. 

    Introspection, dread and existentialism: these were the primary themes which came to mind while reading Lispector’s “The Passion According to G.H.” The story itself is a strange piece of fiction. It reads more as a frenzied confession from a madwoman—or if not mad, recently informed of life’s secrets through some traumatic event and left unable to come to terms with its answers. Because of its odd content, it forgoes the traditional plot structure containing a beginning, middle and end. Instead, the story opts for a dizzying downward spiral into a questioning of religion, ethics and one’s place in the world. 

   The existentialist nature of the piece struck me as a natural progression from the surrealism of Louis Aragon’s “Paris Peasant.” While reading Aragon, I was left confused and with only a vague sense of plot to string me along through unlikely images and parallels: the tone at many times often took priority over any discernible message. Lispector, by contrast, almost makes this style of writing seem lucid. Questioning everything in the house, G.H. expands surrealism not only to shine the spotlight on the absurdity of the world, but inwards, into the soul itself. 

    In my view, this is the crucial differentiation between surrealism and existentialism. From my past readings of Camus and Sartre, I saw surrealism evolve from focusing on setting reflecting self into existentialism, wherein setting and self increasingly merges into one to encompass being. “Every moment of finding is the losing of oneself,” writes Lispector on this discovery (pg. 8). Introspection is not always a good thing, and often leads to dread. Sometimes knowledge–like forbidden fruit, to borrow the biblical imagery utilized in the text—only kills our primitive joy in the world. Conversely, perhaps it is better to know than to live in ignorance. “Truth doesn’t make sense, the hugeness of the world makes me shrink” (pg. 10). Are these the words of someone who has attained enlightenment and is sad to see their solitary form go, or is delighted in the fact they have entered an immaterial form and lives on, as is later said, among winds and rust? Both extremes, happiness and despair, are oscillated between in this philosophy. 

    Overall, I was struck by the continuity one can see from previously studied works in this class. Although dense and unrewarding at times, I did appreciate what the author set out to capture in trauma leading to revelation. Similarly intriguing were the allusions to biblical imagery, those which almost underscored the story as being a new kind of existentialist, godless scripture where the present and connection between all living things–-even humans and cockroaches—are prioritized for happiness. 

    One final question: Is introspection worth pursuing if dread is all that comes from it?

    In the context of French history, Black Shack Alley is a remarkable time piece. With the unique perspective of the French-Caribbean, Zobel analyzes the effects of revolts: the aftermath of the French Revolution which changed the world in regards to viewing dynasties and absolutism as negatives; the subsequent slave revolts in Haiti which struck pointedly at the colonialism which sustained them. There is a void left in the place of monarchies and the rule of the few. It is therefore through the eyes of the oppressed one can see a distinct return to the unfulfilled revolutionary promises of the 18th century. 

    Unrivalled by all (except perhaps Albert Camus and the contemporary struggle for Arab liberation in Algeria), one can see a novel approach in the way colonization and circumstance drives the plot. Haiti, a liberated colony, serves as the backdrop for a story concerning suppressed voices throughout history. It is set in a period of decolonization which took place in the 20th century, and this mirrors the bildungsroman—a term describing the growth of the artist—of the protagonist José. This is shown in his love of reading, used to escape “the destiny of one born in Black Shack Alley” (pg. 181). Literacy among Blacks was very low at the time. By revealing oneself as educated, it is not only seen as a betterment of one’s low lot in life—to use a phrase from George Orwell, it is a revolutionary act. 

    Dislocation of the slave trade lends itself to the disillusionment of not just José and his kin, but the individual as an artist. His family is originally from Africa, and so retains a certain affinity for banners neither French nor so-called liberated Caribbean; the roots of slavery, as it turns out, run deeper than any nationale. 

     When speaking of their true home, it is described as “another country even further away, even deeper than France [. . .] that of his father: Guinea” (pg. 36). Later on, the tradition of oratory is evidenced in the Creole population despite a lack of literacy. This institutional blockade evidences a conscious attempt on the part of the collective to silence voices, believing their stories hold less value than traditional European tales.  

    Nonetheless, with the oppressed servant in one ear and the inspired artist in the other, one finds a confluence; their voices are soon heard. “Assionis would be relating stories and would play his drum with a soul full of compassion and with frenzied inspiration” (pg. 219). Although not a direct decrying of borders and states, there is misplacement felt on the part of the marginalised. And when placed alongside the role of the artist in society, the intention of Zobel cannot be viewed as a call to tear down corrupt societies, but rather rebuild them with the freedom of all individuals in mind. 

    While reading “Agostino,” I was struck by a distinct tone of the Freudian; the ways in which maturing from the child to the teenager–and various ventures into adulthood in-between–are contrasted with a love, innocent or otherwise, of a maternal figure central to one’s life. Although one may be tempted to refer to the relationship between Agostino and his mother as toxic in the ways they feed off of and manipulate the other’s emotions (and this claim would not be incorrect), I believe the bigger theme at play here is a story of “leaving of the nest.” 

    On both the part of the mother and the child, there is an exploration of the strangers once observed in life, never spoken or interacted with. As they grow less reliant on each other for happiness, there is both a clinging desperation and a cruelty shown which is unmatched by anyone hated–instead, it is the loved one which receives the most vitriol. It is through the mother and child the author highlights the pains of growing up: the struggles and misunderstandings which often accompany familial severance. 

    There is a sense of tragedy when Agostino loses his mother to the young man. “It had been his fate to fall from the summit of an illusion and crash to the ground, aching and bruised,” the author states, and when considering the fall of Icarus—pride of having the mother, his metaphorical sun, before losing her—one can see an allusion to the Greek lesson, that which occurs when flying too close: a founding text for romance literature (pg. 8).

    Yet highlighted here is a masochistic element to his loss as well. According to the omniscience of the narrator, “[t]he humiliation and repulsion of the daily outings had almost become his reason for living” (pg. 14). One of these many confessions lend themselves to a sexual interpretation of the relationship. Yet I do not believe such descriptions are intended to be directly incestuous; they are simply a desperate plea for love. 

    After finding himself in the company of villainous boys, acquaintances rather than friends, the narrator makes peace with his mother’s escapades. This is in part due to him no longer being dependent on her for happiness. “It was right that his mother should behave in such a way with the young man,” he states (pg. 39). And coupled with his newfound view of her as just another “woman,” not his mother by blood, there is an ambiguity on whether it is for buried hatred or a mere indifference which causes his pain. 

    By the conclusion of this reading, I am left with the question of how far ambiguity contributes to a narrative. One quote in particular stuck with me: “Descending suddenly from respect and reverence to the opposite sentiments, he almost hoped that before his eyes her clumsiness would turn to vulgarity, her nudity to provocation, her innocence to naked guilt” (pg. 44). Whether or not this is a buried desire to love his mother in the fashion of the young man, or simply a desire to feel loved in the innocent way of boyhood, remains a mystery to me. In either case, I enjoyed the exploration of love as a need by the author—once more, sexual or otherwise. 

    “The Shrouded Woman,” for all its experiments in structure and style, is perhaps most notable for its show of just how far perspective can go by providing the most unorthodox viewpoint: that of a body in a coffin, briefly suspended between life and death. The piece is comprised of social commentary, including but not limited to the woman’s role in the home, effects of social ostracism and living as the “other” in society. By its finale, in showing death as the great equalizer through the protagonist, mirrored is the breaking down of literary convention–and in this same fell swoop, unequal power structures—found in Bombal’s idiosyncratic writing. 

    Starting off with the reanimation of a dead woman, there is a grim element to the tale which extends far past the grisly nature of the scene. Flashbacks provide clues as to her pitiful lot in old age, including a myriad of “anxieties” and “sorrows” (pg. 157). In death, she is finally at peace from these demons; in this brief limbo, she appears to welcome the admiration of onlookers.

    The funeral home has made her presentable. As a result, the people have not decided to attend to Ana María in the final days of failing health and sickly physique, where they might be needed, but for ogling when she is made beautiful again. The cruel irony of the situation is that this sudden uptick in popularity is only made possible in death. With the benefit of fiction, Bombal shows how the societal view of women is not so different—that all the value is placed on the appearance, and little for the soul within.

    Similar is the focus on friends and past loves in the context of the “end.” There is a meditation which transcends not just the situation Ana María has been placed in by odd fortune, but life as a whole when viewed as an ethereal spectator. When we live from day to day, we are creatures of the present; we rarely think forwards, but are almost always considering lessons of the past to inform our each and every decision. It takes until inaction—in this case, coming in the ultimate form of lifelessness itself—to think on what every choice means for the grand scheme of life.

    At one point, Ana María asks herself, “[m]ust we die in order to know certain things?” (pg. 176). The answer is surely meant to be rhetorical in the context of the story. For when considering the effects of social rejection and living as an outsider, Bombal proves that its effects are felt after death, old wounds ostensibly healed after the individual has passed. Literary convention is not spared from this fate, and in the writing of Bombal appears to undergo the same treatment—a modernist enlightenment, therefore, is only realized when rules are metaphorically dead and buried.

    Louis Aragon’s Paris Peasant, at first glance, presents a deceiving title. On the surface it rings true: the main character is a middle class Parisian, a wanderer who is afforded the luxury to observe social institutions, characters and machinations, rarely without comment. Yet when peeling back the many layered onion that is the surrealist novel, I am left with the question of why the title is not in the plural form, “Paris Peasants,” for upon closer observation I see the work as not so much an expression of the plight of the individual against mass society, but rather the shared struggle of Parisians who all experience, paradoxically, that which can be described as a collectivised struggle brought on by economic and social boundaries.  

    To begin, we must examine surrealism. As a movement it began in the early 1920s, focusing on an awakening of the unconscious through unlikely images. (In this sense, their effect is not unlike the metaphysical conceits of the Romantic poets). Its effects bled into art and literature, creating a genre divorced from any known convention. This explains the main character’s observations—as well as his general connection and telepathy—towards each character of Paris. With every visit, an aura of haunting pervades his patronage of every locale. At times, the descriptions veer into stream of consciousness, before drifting off into nothingness. Evidenced by this unique approach is a focus on constructing the setting through characters in a collective, rather than the individual man or woman present forging their own path. Also revealed through the paradox—that being a lack of plot despite such dense prose—is a tale which appears to cover everything from mythology to philosophy, nonsensical or otherwise.

    The latter messaging comes in the hidden messages readers can discern. Beginning on page 25 and continuing for some time, a series of posters describes the financial hardships faced by characters across Paris; on page 48, pessimism is described as the “[s]ense of the useless” by the narrator. These two events appear to connect as an appeal to all Parisians to question their surroundings and to rise up against the normalcy which binds them. There is an anarchistic zeal to rival 1789, only it is not political in this century; whether in reaction to economic or social norms, there is a creative renaissance which is employed through surrealism, spearheaded by the common citizen. It is just as well the revolutions do not see their fruition. They are simply a plea, a suggestion on the part of the peasant, for in the eyes of the surrealists, even the lowest in the society of Paris have a say in governance.