Wednesday, March 23, 2016

2666 at the Goodman: Vulgar, Misogynist and Anti-Mexican. Review by Febrónio Zatarain, tr. Dave O'Meara and Dan Hanrahan (in Eng. & Sp)

Of the well-known writers who wrote in Spanish near the end of the last century,  Roberto Bolaño is unique in that he put the pursuit of writing above everything else; it is one reason why The Savage Detectives is the last great novel written in Spanish in the 20th Century.

A life filled to excess with cigarettes and alcohol brought Bolaño within sight of an early death; he knew he hadn't been good father and he wanted to make up for this failing by assuring his children a future, paid for by his writing. There lies the great flaw in the foundations of 2666: he put his children above literature, when a great artist puts his art above everything, even his own life. Bolaño understood this clearly, and even in this failed work we find echoes of this commitment in a minor character, a painter who gives own hand to be part of a painting.  I'm certain that if Bolaño had been alive when his family and the Anagrama publishing house  decided to go ahead with the release of 2666, he would not have permitted it.

The other great failing of this novel proceeds from the Bolaño's ignorance of the way people live in the Mexican cities along the northern border, and his ignorance as well of life in the United States, especially among African-Americans: his character Quincy Williams, constructed out of stereotypes, fails to convince. The scene that rings most false comes on the day of the death of the Quincy's mother. He has to make a journey of several hours to arrive at his mother's house, in which he finds a 15-year-old girl sitting by the corpse, which a neighbor has already dressed and made up to look nice. Anyone who lives here knows that just wouldn't happen in the United States. It is not overstating the case to say that Bolaño knew nothing of life in an African-American community. The reader doesn't even notice that Quincy is Black until the narrator mentions it. Such blatant weaknesses make it inexplicable that 2666 won the National Book Critics Circle Award in 2008.

Nonetheless, this prize created such a stir that the Goodman Theater felt the need to put the novel on stage. Well, sometimes a bad novel can be made into an excellent movie; perhaps the same thing could happen in the theatre, I thought.
The stage play (in English, of course) manages, in its first part, a frivolous humor, which didn't surprise me because I myself felt in this part of the novel that I was reading a work translated into Spanish! Some readers may give Bolaño a pass here, given that the four main characters are literary critics of different nationalities. I won't do so because I have read stories by Jorge Luis Borges where the hero is American, German or Irish and it never felt that I was reading a translation; I felt and still feel that I was reading Borges. (One excellent example: El atroz redentor Lazarus Morell (The Cruel Redeemer Lazarus Morell).

The second part of the the stage play starts off with what seems like an homage to Gregory Nava (Mi Familia, Selena), due to the cuteness that fills the theatre like perfume when Amalfitano appears with his daughter or his wife; the play then morphs into an homage to Robert Rodriguez (El mariachi, Desperado) in the scenes that take place in the dive bars of Santa Teresa. In these locales the play devolves into vulgarity,  the sensational and into anti-Mexican sentiments. There's a character who argues that the Mexican race has been improved by mixing with the European, and before long there's been a reference to how great President Fox was - a serious chronological inconsistency, considering that his presidency began in the current millennium, and the last events of the novel take place in 1999.

In the section of the play that treats the crimes and the femicides in the fictional town of Santa Teresa (based upon the actual Ciudad Juarez), two more lamentable characteristics are added to the mix: obscenity and misogyny, thanks to an infinity of jokes in bad taste… Add to that the endless list describing  the deaths of hundreds of murdered women. One feels the same tedium in the novel; you must have a lot of faith in Bolaño to keep reading.

From here it's a short step to the conclusion that all Mexican men are rapists who are only looking for a opportunity to get involved in crime. I couldn't help but suspect that every Anglo-American carries a Donald Trump inside and I felt something like fear when I witnessed the audience rise for a standing ovation.
The final part of the play, like the book, revolves around the life of the central character: the mysterious German writer Benno von Achimboldi. This is the best part of both the novel and the stage play, but it never rises above mediocrity: it never manages to become art.

This anti-Mexican attitude is rooted deeply in the collective unconscious of United States, in both liberals and conservatives, and manifests in surprising ways in daily life.  The stage play 2666 at the Goodman is a striking example of this.

2666 en el Goodman: vulgar, misógina y anti-mexicana
Febronio Zatarain

Roberto Bolaño  es, de los narradores conocidos de habla hispana de fines del siglo XX, el único  que puso su actividad literaria por encima de todo. Por eso no hay duda de que Los detectives salvajes es la última gran novela escrita en español en el siglo pasado.

El exceso del cigarrillo y del alcohol llevaron a Bolaño a ver la cercanía de la muerte; sabía que no había sido un padre ejemplar, y quiso compensar esa carencia asegurándoles a sus hijos un futuro, valiéndose de la escritura. He ahí la gran falla en los cimientos de 2666: puso a sus hijos por encima de la literatura, cuando todo gran artista pone su arte por encima de todo, hasta de su propia vida. Eso lo tenía claro Bolaño, e incluso en este trabajo fallido encontramos ecos de esta convicción en el pintor que se cercena una mano para volverla parte de uno de sus cuadros. Estoy seguro que si Bolaño hubiese estado vivo cuando su familia y la editorial Anagrama decidieron su publicación, no la hubiese permitido.

Otra de las grandes fallas de la novela es la ignorancia que tenía Bolaño sobre la vida en las ciudades fronterizas mexicanas así como de las culturas estadounidenses, en particular la afroamericana; por eso el personaje Quincy Williams, armado más que todo a partir de estereotipos, no convence. La escena más inverosímil sucede el día de la muerte de la madre de Quincy; él tiene que hacer un viaje de varias horas para llegar a la casa de su madre, en ésta se encuentra a una jovencita de quince años acompañando al cadáver ya vestido y arreglado por una vecina. Cualquier estadounidense sabe que un hecho así es imposible que se dé en los Estados Unidos.
No está demás señalar que para nada se siente la atmósfera de un barrio afroamericano. El lector no nota que Quincy es de raza negra hasta que el narrador lo dice.  Por eso es inexplicable el Premio del Círculo de Críticos Nacional del Libro de Estados Unidos otorgado en 2008 a 2666.

Este premio ha causado tanto revuelo que llevó al Teatro Goodman a ponerla en escena. A veces de una mala novela, pensé, se ha hecho una excelente película; tal vez lo mismo suceda en el teatro.

La obra, en su primera parte, se maneja en un humor frívolo; aspecto que no me sorprendió porque yo mismo al leer este apartado de la novela sentí que leía una obra traducida al español; muchos pueden hacer una salvedad porque los cuatro personajes son críticos literarios de  diferentes nacionalidades e idiomas; yo no la hago porque he leído cuentos de Jorge Luis Borges donde el protagonista es estadounidense, alemán o irlandés y jamás sentí que estuviese leyendo una traducción, sentía y siento que leo a Borges. Un excelente ejemplo: El atroz redentor Lazarus Morell.

En la segunda parte de la obra de teatro, pareciera en primer lugar un homenaje a Gregory Nava (Mi Familia, Selena) por esa cursilería que la obra emana cuando aparece Amalfitano con su hija o con su esposa; y en segundo lugar a Robert Rodríguez (El mariachi, Desperado) en las escenas que suceden en los antros de Santa Teresa. Es en estos antros donde la obra cae en lo vulgar, en lo sexista, en lo sensacionalista y en lo anti-mexicano. Hay un personaje que discursa sobre cómo se ha ido mejorando la raza mexicana mezclándose con la blanca, y antes ya se había hecho referencia a lo alto que era el presidente Fox; esta referencia es una grave inconsistencia cronológica porque su periodo presidencial inicia con el actual milenio, y el último suceso de la novela se da en 1999.

En la parte de los crímenes, de los feminicidios, se agregan dos características más: la obscenidad y la misoginia; esto gracias a una infinidad de chistes de mal gusto, Además hay que agregar un enlistado descriptivo muy tedioso de un centenar de asesinadas. Este tedio también se siente en la novela; hay que tenerle mucha fe a Bolaño para seguir leyéndola.

Hasta aquí uno llega a la conclusión de que todos los hombres mexicanos son violadores, que sólo están buscando la oportunidad para involucrarse en el crimen. Inevitablemente sospeché que cada estadounidense trae un Donald Trump adentro, y sentí algo de temor cuando presencié la ovación de pie del público.

La última parte de la obra como del libro giran en torno a la vida del personaje central de esta obra: el escritor misterioso alemán Benno von Archimboldi. Este apartado es el mejorcito tanto en la novela como en la obra de teatro, pero no rebasan la mediocridad: no llegan a ser arte.

Esta actitud contra lo mexicano está muy arraigada en el inconsciente colectivo estadounidense, y se manifiesta lo mismo en conservadores y liberales de manera sorpresiva en la vida diaria. La obra de teatro 2666 en el Goodman es una prueba fehaciente de esta afirmación.





Wednesday, March 9, 2016

Foreword to "At the Edge of America," two-novel set by Allen Frost

The following essay serves as the Foreword to a 2016 pair of novels by Allen Frost, published by Good Deed Rain Books. The book link follows the essay.

“balloonless with the buffaloes,” “what people missed, they dreamed,” “the savior and his eden” – the chapter titles read as miniature poems. They evoke miniature worlds. Welcome to the vast and constantly shifting imaginary of Allen Frost. I had heard about Allen Frost before I met him, way back in 1986. My friend Neal told me that this friend of his had written a novel while in high school, called Blue Anthem Wailing… Blue Anthem Wailing, that title haunted me: its rhythm, which seems to build until the penultimate syllable, WAI-ling; its intrigue, which is generated by the synesthesia of the phrase - the anthem has a color;  the energy of the phrase, three words that each spark individually, but that generate a flame when strung together. I then began to hear about the content of the book. One of the characters was a man named “Danny” who ran the hot dog stand in the center of a small town and seemed to be a big gaseous, benevolent guy but actually wore a KKK robe beneath his hot dog vendor garb.

An America that hides its mendacity behind the face of a gladhanding fool; language and word clusters that intoxicate and even threaten to distract the reader from the narrative, but that are actually crucial incantations that cannot be separated from the multi-layered and constantly morphing worlds of the story --  as a teenager, Allen Frost was already forging key elements of his voice and vision. This voice and vision  are in full flower in the two novels contained in At the Edge of America. A hot air balloon travels across North American geography and North American history; a man inhabits the consciousness of a dodo as this creature witnesses invasion and pillage; and we learn what could possibly be meant by the phrase, “Houdini’s Arsonist Childhood.” Allen Frost territory is one where the dark riddles of the “old, weird America,” described by Greil Marcus in his book about Bob Dylan’s The Basement Tapes, are allowed to roam free and where characters must find love in these haunted landscapes if they are to survive.

: https://www.amazon.com/At-Edge-America-Allen-Frost/dp/1945176601/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1466003141&sr=1-1&keywords=at+the+edge+of+america+allen+frost















Tuesday, January 19, 2016

“My kingdom for a horse” - On Our Species' Isolation

Our loneliness and our anguish is the result of our species' isolation. To a great degree, we have removed ourselves from the web of life and this distance from our fellow earth inhabitants and communities brings with it suffering and ennui. We think of King Richard III wailing on the moors and pleading, "A horse, a horse. My kingdom for a horse." The pain of King Richard is our pain. We have gained everything to be left with nothing. We stand reeling upon the barren landscape, howling into the twilight with regret.


"Nossa solidão e nossa angústia é o resultado do isolamento de nossa espécie. Em grande medida, nós nos removemos da Teia da Vida, e essa distância de nossxs companheirxs habitantes e comunidades da terra traz consigo sofrimento e tédio. Pensamos em Rei Richard III lamentando-se nos pântanos e suplicando: "Um cavalo, um cavalo. Meu reino por um cavalo." A dor do Rei Richard é a nossa dor. Ganhamos tudo para ficar com nada. Nós estamos cambaleando sobre a paisagem árida, uivando no crepúsculo com pesar." (tradução por Janos Marques Biro Leite, contrafatual)

Thursday, December 31, 2015

The Life Force and a Sense of the Elegiac

I am 48 years old. I am in good health. I wonder if my life will be cut short by climate catastrophe and its consequences. In recent years, I have written angrily about what is occurring in the Earth system as the result of the highly elevated levels of carbon and other toxins that humans have introduced into the atmosphere, the ground and the waters. As we lurch into 2016, I think that such a tone is no longer necessary. My anger has grown out of a feeling of indignation that a species would pursue such a blatantly horrific and destructive course for itself and its fellow Earth creatures. I thought that by expressing this - often incandescent - rage I could provoke ripples on down the line of causality that might alter the course of the plodding, stupid beast that is global industrial consumer society.

A feeling of rage toward the operatic stupidity of civilized human behavior is very natural; indeed, I consider it a sign of the life force radiating within one. However, directing a prolonged scream toward The Madness in an effort to draw attention to The Madness is no longer needed. The ravages of climate change and the strange, at times almost whimsical movements of the weather and the rubble and the refugees left in its wake are now a constant presence. Bizarre swings in the weather act now like a high, circling bird who swoops down at odd times to crash through the windows of our dwellings before exiting once again toward the heavens and the renewal of its high hunter’s arc.

I don’t believe I have the mental or the emotional profile to engage in acts of sabotage that might make a dent in the death machine and its gloomy, dumb march. I can and do participate in local movements against extraction industries and on the myriad other issues of social and animal and environmental justice that our present lifeways force. I am focused on a massive personal shift in consciousness and living that is based on the principle of entering into relationships with other people, other biota and other places as fellow subjects to be listened to and not objects to be exploited.

But the question returns: How to express the bewilderment, the frustration, the rage and the despair that all arise within one upon witnessing the galloping ruin and the obtuse and wretched mentality that is driving it? Not expressing our feelings in the face of such loss causes soul sickness. I believe we will only know how to voice these feelings by voicing them. Expressing the truth is like pulling back the curtains to reveal the sun shining outside: the contours of perception and the world are changed as we speak and relate. We learn how to speak by speaking. As for myself, I feel I can now voice my range of emotions on this topic without focusing on angry yelling and gesticulating toward the destruction. The destruction has become very evident and becomes more so with each passing day. A sense of the elegiac is important now and it may even help to drive changes on the level of Deep Culture (to use Gary Gripp’s term) that are the only thing that may slow the burning of the world. 


Tuesday, November 17, 2015

The Fundamental Strangeness: Mental Health and American Culture

The fundamental strangeness of being born into a culture whose central and guiding principle - pursue your own personal greed in order to accumulate more green paper survival coupons than your fellow humans - I reject. I not only reject it, I am repelled by it and find it anathema to my essence and to the essence of most of the people I know and love.

I have lived with this sensation of profound estrangement for forty-eight years and have now – thanks to much reading and dialogue and life experience – begun to receive some perspective on it and to reflect upon it. I believe that being born into a culture whose founding tenet I reject forced a traumatic rupture or disassociation in me. In my teens, I began to obsessively think morbid and painful and ego-dystonic thoughts. (An ego-dystonic thought is one that directly runs counter one’s actual self and values). This tendency has waxed and waned over the decades, cresting a handful of times into near psychotic breaks. I was diagnosed with OCD and have taken medication in order to control it for 10 years.

What I am now coming to grasp is that my obsessive-compulsive disorder, in many ways, has served as a form of adaptation to the world I was born into. Certainly, I was born with an “atypical” neurological profile and my DNA contains the potential for episodes of OCD. However, I am also beginning to sense that the intensity, the frequency, the duration and the very nature of my OCD episodes have been shaped by and has been a response to my fundamental estrangement from the founding principles of this culture.

Ours is a culture that, above all, has pursued the profane. Nature is to be feared, despised, and attacked. The person guided by pursuits – such as art, poetry and working for peace - that fall outside of the commodity-world is also to be feared, despised and attacked. These facts strike me as fundamentally violent and have caused me, on occasion, to seek refuge in self-destructive thought loops. But what if even those people who appear to cherish and profess to love this culture were also – on a much more deeply unconscious level – repelled by it, unbeknownst to them?

Much has been said about the pathetic and circus-like nature of the 2015 Republican debates. Perhaps what has not been noted is how deeply strange and eerie and profoundly sad the candidates appear. Whether it is the blustering bigotry of Donald Trump or the calmly pronounced nonsense of Ben Carson or the bullying bleats of Chris Christie, it all has the shimmering tinge of great desperation – not only desperation, but despair. I believe that the despair huddling behind the bellows and burps of the presidential candidates is founded upon their own inability to feel well in a culture that goes against our biology as social beings interdependent upon nature. When they speak, when TV commentators speak, when the titans of business speak, when actors in commercials speak, all I can hear is people trying with tremendous desperation to convince themselves that the insane tenets of our culture are not insane: That the atmosphere is not warming, that the ocean is not acidifying and that we humans are not splitting violently in two on the inside, unable to reconcile our true selves as sacred and loving beings with the cultural tenets we have been told to follow.