Monthly Archives: March 2023

Distant Star

The task of unraveling the intricate web of themes in Roberto Bolaño’s Distant Star proved to be quite challenging for me initially. Without the historical context in which the story is set, it was hard to fathom the significance of the novel’s central themes. However, my perplexity cleared up after watching the lecture that expounded on the story’s background, and I came to appreciate how Bolaño ingeniously interwove the themes of art and violence, as well as memory and trauma, to offer a fresh perspective on the relationship between art, politics, and culture.

Bolaño’s portrayal of Carlos Wieder’s transformation from an aspiring poet to a serial killer highlights the potential for art to inspire violence. Wieder’s gruesome acts were portrayed as an expression of his artistic vision, and Bolaño deftly showcased the powerful influence art can have on an individual’s actions. The military junta was also portrayed as a group of artists who use violence as their medium, censoring and repressing those who do not conform to their ideology. In doing so, Bolaño showed how closely intertwined the artistic and political spheres can be, and how art can be used to justify violence.

Memory is another theme explored in Distant Star, particularly through the lens of photography. Wieder’s obsession with the “process of killings” and his desire to capture their beauty through his photography is a central theme in the novel. Photography, like memory, is a way of preserving moments in time for the future. However, Bolaño also showcased how memory and photography can be distorted and manipulated. I believe the purpose of Wieder’s photographs was to serve as a form of propaganda, perpetuating the myth of the dictatorship’s success. In this way, Bolaño highlighted the power of memory and the dangers of allowing it to be controlled and manipulated.

Throughout the novella, Bolaño seamlessly blended the themes of art and politics, demonstrating how they can be both mutually reinforcing and destructive. His portrayal of the military junta as artists who use violence as their medium highlighted the potential for art to justify and propagate violence. Moreover, his exploration of memory through photography underscores the importance of preserving the truth and the danger of allowing history to be distorted and manipulated.

Question: In what ways does Bolaño’s exploration of memory through photography highlight the power of memory and the dangers of allowing it to be controlled and manipulated? How does this relate to our current societal context, where the manipulation of information and images has become increasingly prevalent?

I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala

This week’s reading on I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala, left me captivated by its unique categorization under the communal testimonio rather than autobiography or memoir, as I initially anticipated. What struck me most about this work was its focus on giving voice to the indigenous people in Guatemala who have been silenced, highlighting their struggles and injustices, and inspiring action. In contrast to autobiographies, which are typically concerned with telling a personal story for its own sake, the communal testimonio seeks to raise awareness about social and political issues and provoke change.

The book’s effectiveness in achieving its purpose with the use of distortions and exaggerations of events had a lasting impact on me as a reader, especially in provoking a sense of urgency to act. I also found that the use of extravagant components was incredibly effective in capturing the reader’s attention as well as creating a memorable reading experience, despite the content being repetitive and dry at times. Though unsettling, the dramatic and grotesque events depicted in the book were the main reason that kept me flipping through the pages.

Another intriguing aspect of the book was the repetitiveness of the language. I noticed that several events and rituals were repeated in later chapters, which, for me, created an additional layer of childlike narrative to the testimonio. The monologue-style narrative combined with the repetitiveness and simplicity of the language made it feel as though I was reading a child’s diary. This style has definitely made me keep the questions of the stories’ authenticity behind my mind.

Throughout the book, Menchú reminded the reader that she was holding back secrets. I believe this tactic was employed deliberately to create a connection with the readers on a selective part of her identity while withholding other parts. Unlike most literature, which seeks to bridge the gap between the author and the readers, I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala, intentionally keep this gap open, creating a distance between the readers and Menchú. This distance attested to the statement from the lecture: “Her struggle is not ours, and never will be”, which emphasizes that while we can advocate for her activism and learn about her struggles, we will never fully be her community and people.

Question: Does the revelation that some of the stories in the book were fabricated leave you feeling “betrayed” or does it make the reading experience more captivating? How do the distortions and exaggerations of events impact your reading experience?

Captain Pantoja and the Special Service

This week’s journey through Mario Vargas Llosa’s Captain Pantoja and the Special Service was a somewhat entertaining read. The tale conveyed a sense of exoticism, as the lascivious themes were played out against a backdrop of formality, which was entirely new to me. As emphasized in the lecture, the book cleverly mocks seriousness through seriousness. I was particularly impressed by the use of military dispatches as a narrative tool, which highlighted the extreme formality of the work. One of the dispatches sent by Captain Pantoja to his superior even went so far as to report his amorous encounters under his experimentation with porpoise oil, a natural aphrodisiac, in meticulous details: “He consequently found himself with the need to solicit from his wife and obtain from her, during the week in question, intimate relations on an average of twice daily…, since the undersigned was in the habit of having relations of an intimate matrimonial nature at a rate of once every ten days before coming to Iquitos and once every three days after arriving…” (66). One of Vargas Llosa’s techniques that particularly tickled my funny bone was his penchant for exaggeration, particularly in the details of mundane matters. This is made apparent in Pocha’s letter to her sister, wherein she vividly described the hookers’ behaviour: “They walk a straight line and look them in the eyes so fresh it stirs up some of the men to grab them by their boobs.” (54)

Captain Pantoja and the Special Service is undoubtedly a masterful work of satire that employs humour and irony to expose the absurdities of power, bureaucracy, and society. One aspect that particularly captivated me was the perpetual appearance of the Brothers of the Ark, a cult-like religious group founded and led by Brother Francisco, throughout the novel. I believe that the Brothers of the Ark represented a grassroots, alternative form of spirituality that serves as a counterforce to the powerful and established Catholic Church in 20th-century Peruvian society. Though the religion’s rituals and practices were peculiar and amusing (as in the tone in which Pocha used to describe the ritual in her letter, not the crucifixions of course), as illustrated by Pocha’s reaction to the crucifixion of animals, “This religion has a mania for crucifying animals and I don’t like that because every morning I find cockroaches, butterflies, spiders nailed to her little crosses and even a mouse the other day” (54), it still serves its purpose in highlighting the differences between organized religion and more unconventional forms of spiritual expression.

I believe that the Brothers of Ark also serves as a warning about the perilous nature of fanaticism. The followers of Brother Francisco were depicted as blindly devoted to him, “The people listened to him hypnotized, the women were crying and got down on their knees.” (53) As the story progresses, this unbridled loyalty transforms into dangerous fanaticism, with attempts at human crucifixion escalating towards the end of the book. This narrative arc also hints at the protagonist, Captain Pantoja’s, own fanaticism in his pursuit of perfecting the Special Service, which ultimately unleashes an uncontrollable sexual appetite in Iquitos.

Question: Personally, I have found that exaggeration serves as an effective literary tool that contributes to the humorous atmosphere of the novel, occasionally eliciting laughter. Do you share my perspective on the impact of exaggeration in the book? Why and why not?

One Hundred Years of Solitude II

As I reached the end of One Hundred Years of Solitude, I was struck by the uncanny resemblance between the novel and Borges’ labyrinthine short stories. The themes of repetition and cyclicity that permeate both texts were whimsically portrayed through the seemingly never-ending, similar fates of Aurelianos and José Arcadios, as well as the inevitable doom of the town of Macondo, where everything ultimately ended up back where it started, as depicted in the novel’s conclusion. It was as though the story of the Buendía family had been stretched out with gradually increasing force on a spring, in terms of spatiality and proliferation, until García Márquez had expended all his energy, at which point he released the spring, returning it abruptly to its original position, bringing the novel to a close. This prophetic end of the story reminded me of Borges’ short stories, particularly The Circular Ruins and The Library of Babel, where the cyclic nature of fate was depicted in a similarly haunting manner, as well as the resemblance of Melquíades’ manuscript to the nearly-indecipherable books in the library.

However, it was not just the cyclical nature of time that fascinated me; García Márquez’s portrayal of historicity through the massacre at the train station of Macondo also struck a chord. The only survivor of the massacre, José Arcadio Segundo, told a version of events that was deemed absurd by the inhabitants of Macondo, who accepted the government’s official version of history, where “there were no dead, the satisfied workers had gone back to their families” (309). This could be seen as a metaphorical event, reflecting the often silenced voice of the “loser” in history, a theme we had discussed in class during the week of Cartucho by Nellie Campobello.

As the novel drew to a close, I found myself pondering upon the fundamental question of whether the fate of the Buendía family was predetermined. Throughout the book, the Buendía family operates according to traditions passed down for generations, and impulsive decisions or acts that confront these traditions often lead the characters back to the same point, creating a sense of futility in breaking out of their predetermined fates, as evident in the experience of Colonel Aureliano Buendía who had fought for years only to return to his laboratory later and spent the rest of his life there as he did in his young age. It is as though the Buendía family is trapped in a cycle of love and loss, unable to escape their destiny.

Ultimately, the novel left me with a sense of futility and inevitability, as the Buendía family is trapped in a cycle of love and loss from which they cannot escape, as hinted at a few times in the second half of the book.

Question: Do you believe that the cyclical nature of time and predetermined fate portrayed in One Hundred Years of Solitude reflects the reality of human existence? Do our innate desires for never-ending advancement (e.g. AI) foretell our predetermined destiny, one that may ultimately lead us towards catastrophe, or do we have the agency to break free from the cycle?