The Eruption of Insular Identities:

A Comparative Study of Contemporary Azorean and Cape Verdean Prose

By

Brianna Medeiros

B.A., Brown University, 2011.

A.M., Brown University, 2015.

A Dissertation Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy in the Department of Portuguese and Brazilian Studies at Brown

University.

Providence, Rhode Island

May, 2017

© Copyright 2017 by Brianna Medeiros This dissertation by Brianna Medeiros is accepted in its present form by the Department

of Portuguese and Brazilian Studies as satisfying the dissertation requirement for the

degree of Doctor of Philosophy

Date ______Onésimo T. Almeida, Advisor

Recommended to the Graduate Council

Date ______Leonor Simas-Almeida, Reader

Date ______Nelson H. Vieira, Reader

Approved by the Graduate Council

Date ______Andrew G. Campbell, Dean of the Graduate School

! iii! Curriculum Vitae

Brianna Medeiros was born in Brockton, Massachusetts, where she was raised.

She graduated in 2011 from Brown University, where she double concentrated in

Portuguese and Brazilian Studies and International Relations. While she was an undergraduate at Brown, she spent a semester in Lisbon, Portugal, studying at the

Universidade Nova de Lisboa, in 2010. In 2011 and 2012, she received funding from

FLAD to travel to the Azores, with the Antero de Quental Mobilidade fund, and begin her research on Azorean literature. In September 2011, she began her graduate career in

Portuguese and Brazilian Studies at Brown University. During her time at Brown, in addition to the support received from FLAD, she also received a Belda Research

Fellowship to travel to Santa Catarina and Rio Grande do Sul, Brazil, to conduct research on the Azorean presence and legacy in these two states, in 2014. In addition, she organized a trip to the Azores for the graduate student seminar on Azorean Literature in

2013, for which she planned cultural activities and meetings with Azorean writers and intellectuals, with the help of Prof. Onésimo Teotónio Almeida and funding from FLAD.

She has articles published in Gávea-Brown and on the MIT Visualizing Portugal online project. She also has a memorialistic piece entitled “Na lembrança da Vavó” published in the Azores, as well as other pieces published in the Mundo Açoriano online journal.

During her time at Brown, she has also been dedicated to her teaching practices, and over her four years teaching, she taught all levels of Portuguese-language acquisition classes.

! iv! Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all of those who have helped form my experience at Brown University, in the Department of Portuguese and Brazilian Studies, for the last ten years. This department has been a space of immense growth for me, both professionally and personally, for which I will be forever grateful.

I would like to thank the members of my committee. Thank you to Prof. Onésimo Teotónio Almeida, for his unwavering support since my freshman year. For introducing me to Azorean literature and connecting me to my Portuguese heritage, a part of me that was always incredibly present, but never complete. His dedication to my academic development, and to the writing process of this dissertation, questioning me and pushing me to explore further, have been invaluable. For believing in me, for pushing me, for teaching me so many lessons, both academically and personally, I am utterly thankful. His influence in my life is beyond description, and no words will suffice to express my gratitude. My thank you to Prof. Leonor Simas-Almeida, for, since day one, being a constant source of warmth, of encouragement, of intellectual engagement, and for the constant detailed, careful considerations of my work. I cherish your emotional support and friendship. I am so grateful to both for celebrating with me my victories, and being there in some of the hardest moments to help me get back on my feet.

I must also sincerely thank my second reader, Prof. Nelson H. Vieira, for his enthusiasm and his support, both throughout the writing of this dissertation and my years in the graduate program.

To the remaining faculty of the Portuguese and Brazilian Studies department, for the intellectual and professional stimulation, the academic guidance as well as for their friendship throughout my years at Brown—Prof. Luíz Fernando Valente, Prof. Patrícia Sobral, Prof. Maria Pacheco, Prof. Naomi Parker, and Prof. James Greene, as well as visiting faculty—I express my extreme gratitude.

I must also thank scholars from other institutions who have played a key role throughout my academic journey. Thank you to Urbano Bettencourt, literary scholar of Azorean literature, for his guidance, the enriching conversation, and for being the one to inspire me to follow my interest in comparing Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures. To Vamberto Freitas, for the time taken to discuss Azorean literatures with me and his willingness to help with any question that arose. To Lélia Nunes, for introducing me to yet another, also “Azorean,” insular reality: that of Santa Catarina, Brazil. To Adelaide Freitas, for her beautiful novel Sorisso por Dentro da Noite, and for her visit to Brown University during my freshman year, which was, not merely coincidentally, the weekend that I became certain of my desire to pursue my doctorate in Portuguese and Brazilian Studies. And to the late and greatly missed Prof. Fátima Sequeira Dias, for the joyful laughter and the example of perseverance and strength that made even the most stressful moments seem more manageable.

! v! My sincerest gratitude to FLAD, for the financial support to take two trips to the Azores to explore Azorean literature, in the summers of 2011 and 2012. Also, for the support for a class-trip to the Azores in the summer of 2013, in which my classmates and I met with a variety of writers and scholars, and which I had the pleasure of organizing.

To the many colleagues with whom I have crossed paths over the past ten years, who have been sources of inspiration, support, and endless laughs. In particular, I would like to thank Ana Letícia Fauri, Benjamin Legg, David Mittelman, Marcos Cerdeira, and Helena Rezende Ramires. Their friendships have made this journey all the more worthwhile.

To Kate Beall, for her support to the department as a whole, and to me as a friend. Thank you (also for Google-ing everything for me).

I could not write this section without acknowledging the important role the Portuguese community has played in my life over the past ten years, making Providence my home. I am so grateful to so many members of this community, for introducing me to so much of our culture, for providing me with extraordinary opportunities, for assisting me, both professionally and personally, and, above all, for the support, friendship, and for being my family away from home. My special thanks to Manuela Duarte, Graça Lambertson, Lourdes and José Francisco Costa, Maria Alice de Aguiar (and David White), Luísa Baptista, João Pacheco, Márcia Sousa, Daniel da Ponte, Matilde Relvas, Ana Almeida, Ermelinda Zito, and Sílvia Oliveira.

Thank you Ana Catarina Teixeira, first my Portuguese teacher and now my best friend, who has never ceased to push me further, all the while providing unwavering support. I am so grateful for her guidance, her input, for providing a model of perseverance and determination and, above all, for her friendship.

My deepest thank you to Armanda Silva, as well as her family. Words are insufficient to express the ways in which she has pushed me to be better, taught me, consoled me, and cheered for me. I treasure our friendship so very much, and want to thank her for the fundamental role she has played in both my professional and personal lives over the last ten years.

Last, but certainly not least, I would much express my profound love and appreciation for my family, who has been by side, who inspires me, who celebrates with me, and who is there to catch me. I would not be who I am today without the love and support of my parents, Carlos and Lisa, who have made all sacrifices necessary to see their children succeed. Finally, and above all, obrigada to my paternal grandparents, João and Aida, who made the difficult decision to emigrate from São Miguel more than forty years ago so that their children and grandchildren could have greater opportunities. It is in their honor and out of my love for them that I have made the return to their homeland, further cultivating my roots in a country and, especially, an island that has become my second home.

! vi! Table of Contents

Introduction …………………………………………………………………………… 1 Claridade and the writers of the Azores: The Cape Verdean Influence in Azorean Literature ……………………………. 5 Açorianidade and Caboverdianidade ………………………………………….. 11 Regional versus National Identity ……………………………………………... 17 Aim of Project and Organization of Chapters …………………………………. 22

Chapter 1: Race and Politics: Similar Trajectories, Contrasting Results ………… 30 Race in Cape Verdean Literature: 1930s – 1980s ………………………………34 Political Rhetoric in Cape Verdean and Azorean Literature: 1930s – 1970s …. 54 Transition to Modernity in Azorean and Cape Verdean Literature: 1980s – present 72 Conclusion ……………………………………………………………………... 94

Chapter 2: Expressing açorianidade and caboverdianidade: The uses and functions of local speech …………………………………………….....98 Vitorino Nemésio and Baltazar Lopes: Pioneers in representing local speech...105 More on the use of creole and orality in Cape Verdean literature: the cases of Manuel Ferreira, Onésimo Silveira, and Orlanda Amarílis ……... 120 Further reflections on phonetic representation, archaisms, and other localisms in Azorean literature: The cases of Dias de Melo and Daniel de Sá ……………. 127 Outside perspectives of non-standard speech: A Lisboeta in São Miguel in “Algo como um regresso a casa”……………………………………………………. 131 Oral histories of place and local speech: Cristóvão de Aguiar’s Raíz Comovida and Germano Almeida’s Ilha Fantástica …………………………………… 133 Concluding Reflections ……………………………………………………… 143

Chapter 3: The land, the sea, and the climate: The role of geography and the man’s affective attachment to the land ……….. 146 The role of geography in Cape Verdean prose ……………………………... 159 The role of geography in Azorean prose ………………………………….... 169 The Land as a Namesake: Pedras Negras and Ilhéu dos Pássaros ………... 185

Chapter 4: To Stay or to Depart?: The Dilemma of Emigration ………………. 198 The Tendency to Stay: Partir/Ficar in the trajectory of Cape Verdean literature …………………... 203 The Tendency to Leave: Partir/Ficar in the trajectory of Azorean literature ………………………….227 Chuva Braba and Ilha Grande Fechada: Two Novels Focusing on the Tensions Between Staying and Leaving …….. 244

Conclusion …………………………………………………………………………. 264

Works Cited ……………………………………………………………………….. 274

! vii! Introduction

“The Eruption of Insular Identities: A Comparative Study of Azorean and Cape

Verdean Prose” explores an area of the Lusophone world that is rarely studied but, as I would argue, a space of great importance: the archipelagoes of the Azores and Cape

Verde. These two archipelagoes, small in space but vast in their cultural, especially literary, production, are geographically positioned in the center of the Lusophone world, and were important points in connecting the Lusophone triangle that we so often speak of.

The writers of these two archipelagoes, beginning in the 1930s, sought to express the regional, island identities through the literature. With the exception of Brazil, whose modernist writers, especially those of the Northeast, particularly influenced the literary circles of Cape Verde, these two archipelagoes present to us examples of what I would argue are the earliest, most cohesive manifestations of a strong, regional (and later national) identity within the Lusophone space, as a means of differentiation from the metropolis. They sought to create a literature which manifested the sense of açorianidade and cabo-verdianidade decades before other spaces in the Lusophone world would embark on the same endeavor. While in other colonies, such as Angola and Mozambique, writers will eventually take on an important role in the creation of a national identity, this happens much later, especially after independence in 1975. Further, it represents a process of construction, of developing a national narrative in a space with large cultural divides among the members of different tribes in these spaces. In Cape Verde and the

Azores, there is more of a sense of a pre-existing reality that is manifested through the literature—not in attempts of creating a regional identity, but, instead, asserting and

! 1! affirming the one that already does exist. While we can, of course, think of other example of this, even in mainland Portugal, such as Miguel Torga’s work centered in Trás-os-

Montes, or Aquilino Ribeiro’s literature exploring the realities of the Beiras, there is no other space (with, of course, the exception of Brazil, as already referred) with such a developed and extensive corpus firmly planted within the regional space of the writers.

Still, Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures are seldomly studied within our field; even less have there been comparative studies of the two corpi, as the literatures of two peripheral archipelagoes within the Portuguese empire, that begin to form new ways of expressing their respective regional identities in the same time period, at the beginning of the twentieth century. Indeed, the geographic and socio-political conditions of the two island societies allow for the emergence of various similar thematics. Through the expression of açorianidade and caboverdianidade, the writers of the twentieth century, especially, but also the twenty-first, ultimately emphasize many of the same questions and leitmotifs, both in the now-autonomous region of the Azores and the independent nation of Cape Verde. These themes include, but are not limited to: local speech, the force of geographic and climatic conditions, religiosity, attachment to the homeland, and emigration. Even in political terms, where we see the greatest divergence, the discourses and rhetoric of the writers follow similar trajectories in the two canons.

The study of Azorean literature is vast, written mostly in Portuguese. Scholars such as Onésimo Teotónio Almeida, Vamberto Freitas, António Machado Pires, Adelaide

Freitas, and Urbano Bettencourt, among others, have dedicated extensive work to the study of Azorean literature and the concept of açorianidade, a concept coined by

Vitorino Nemésio in 1932. Typically, Azorean literature is studied independently—the

! 2! most common debate has been centered on the question of the actual existence of an

Azorean literature. Further, many scholars have dedicated their studies to specific authors—António Machado Pires and Heraldo G. Silva, for example, have especially focused on the work of Vitorino Nemésio. In 2014, Irene de Amaral published her study on women in Azorean literature entitled A emergência da mulher: re-visões literárias sobre a açorianidade. Little has been published in English in regards to Azorean literature, however. Carmen M. Ramos Villar’s book The Metaphorical “Tenth Island” in Azorean Literature: The Theme of Emigration in the Azorean Imagination, published in 2006, is a pioneer in this respect, and will be discussed primarily in chapter four of this dissertation. 1

Cape Verdean literature, on the other hand, has received more attention from

English-language academics than the Azorean. In 1966, Norman Araujo published his master’s thesis entitled A Study of Cape Verdean Literature, which is a thorough analysis of many of the Claridosos and the writers of the generation immediately following. Since then, many other scholars have dedicated themselves to the study of the archipelago nation’s literature, increasingly in a post-colonial context, and often in dialogue with other Lusophone African nations, such as Angola and Mozambique. Russell G. Hamilton has dedicated multiple studies to Cape Verdean literature, most known perhaps being the chapter on Cape Verde in his book Voices of an Empire (1975). David Brookshaw has also paid attention to Cape Verdean literature, namely in his chapter in Patrick Chabal’s

The Post-Colonial Literature of Lusophone Africa (1996). In 2003, the Center for

Portuguese Studies and Culture at UMass Dartmouth published a special edition of their !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 1 For a complete list of works related to the Azores, see Miguel Moniz’s annotated bibliography Azores. Moniz, Miguel, comp. Azores. Oxford, England; Santa Barbara, CA: Clio Press,1999.

! 3! journal Portuguese Literary and Cultural Studies to Cape Verde, entitled Cape Verde:

Language, Literature, and Music. Organized by Ana Mafalda Leite, this bilingual volume considers various elements of Cape Verdean literature and culture, once again especially in the realm of the post-colonial. Much has also been published about Cape Verdean literature in Portuguese, as well. For example, in 1998, the writer and scholar Manuel

Veiga published the volume Cabo Verde Insularidade e Literatura. In 1995, Marie-

Christine Hantas published a study of the work of Manuel Lopes entitled Manuel Lopes –

Um Percurso Iniciático. Other notable contemporary scholars of Cape Verdean literature include Manuel Brito-Semedo. Further, many of the writers themselves also reflected on questions of Cape Verdean production in general, such as Gabriel Mariano and Germano

Almeida.

While collections such as Luís Assis Brasil and Jane Tutikian’s Mar Horizonte and Laura Areias’s Ilhas Riqueza, Ilhas Miséria aim to look at the literatures of

Portuguese-speaking archipelagoes, these volumes tend to include separate studies about each respective archipelago, without a more explicit comparison between the island societies. Urbano Bettencourt, Marie-Christine Hantas, and Hans-Peter Heilmair have begun to reflect more specifically on the relationship between Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures. Bettencourt has published both “De Cabo Verde aos Açores – à luz da

‘Claridade’” (1998) and "Entre Cabo Verde e os Açores – a Literatura em viagem”

(2007), exploring interactions between the Claridosos and the Azorean writers of the A

Ilha group of the 1940s, and the influence of the former on the literature of the latter.

Hantas has also looked at the connection between Cape Verdean and Azorean writers of the 1940s and 1950s, particularly in her article “A literatura caboverdiana vista dos

! 4! Açores” (1986). Heilmair has dedicated studies to more general comparisons between the two regions and their literatures, particularly in regards to the assertion of local, independent identities, in his articles “Estratégias de delimitação das áreas nacionalista e regionalista: os exemplos de Cabo Verde e dos Açores” (1994) and “Jardins de Letras no

Meio do Mar Plantados” (1993). In the 1994 article, Heilmair affirms: “Não obstante um grande número de temas e motivos diferentes, poder-se-á chegar à conclusão de se tratar, nos Açores e em Cabo Verde, de literaturas de tipo semelhante no que diz respeito

à maior incidência no vincar das características regionais específicas” (227). Such similarities have yet to be explored in an academic work—an extensive comparative study between Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures has not yet been published.

Claridade and the writers of the Azores: The Cape Verdean Influence in Azorean Literature

Influenced primarily by the modernists of the Brazilian northeast, as well as the

Portuguese writers of Presença, a group of young, Cape Verdean writers initiated the journal Claridade in 1936. Among its founding members were Manuel Lopes, Baltazar

Lopes da Silva, Manuel Velosa, Jaime de Figueiredo, and João Lopes. The poets Pedro

Corsino Azevedo and Jorge Barbosa also began contributing to the journal in its very first number. The goal of this publication, later turned into a cultural movement, was to reflect on the Cape Verdean reality, to understand cabo-verdianidade, and to create a literature that dialogued with it, replacing the previous romantic and exotifying literary traditions.

Their slogan was to “fincar os pés na terra,” and, as Bettencourt writes, their objective was to “servir-se de uma determinada expressão para modelizar literariamente uma experiência humana e cultural como a cabo-verdiana e a sua identidade, isto é, a sua

! 5! diferença” (1999, 99-100). While, in terms of fiction, the review mostly contained poetry in its beginning numbers, Baltazar Lopes and Manuel Lopes also contributed with short stories and pieces that would eventually be published as novels. Indeed, a few chapters of

Chiquinho, by Baltazar Lopes, the first Cape Verdean novel published in its full in 1947, had previously been published in Claridade.

In the Azores, Vitorino Nemésio served as pioneer in Azorean literature, and was the first to define açorianidade in 1932. Nemésio paid great attention to the manifestation of the Azorean in his literature, similarly aiming to localize his works, while still discussing universal topics. Besides his poetry, he published the short story collections O

Paço do Milhafre (1924) and Varanda de Pilatos (1926) which began to explore this question; his novel Mau Tempo no Canal (1944), the first Azorean novel, is a masterpiece in, through the expression of açorianidade, addressing the universal human condition. Unlike the case of Cape Verde, however, Nemésio was a sort of anomaly in his generation. There was not a big move toward the conception of an Azorean literature until the 1940s, when poet Pedro da Silveira and others of the group that published in the newspaper A Ilha (including Diogo Ivens, who will be considered in this dissertation), began to assert themselves. Similarly influenced by the Presença movement in the mainland, the group of Azorean writers had as their strongest, most relatable model none other than the writers of Claridade.

Indeed, as Bettencourt shows us, the earliest writers of what we consider the

Azorean and Cape Verdean canons were in communication. Manuel Lopes, one of the principal Claridosos, for example, lived for an extended period of time, from 1944 to

1955, in the Azores, in Horta, Faial, where he participated in cultural and literary circles.

! 6! In fact, Lopes delivered his famous talk “Os Meios Pequenos e a Cultura,” often cited in the study of Cape Verdean literature, at the Sporting Club of Horta in 1950. Lopes also wrote about Azorean literature and his Azorean contemporaries, as well as on the importance that the writers of his “adopted” archipelago look into their immediate surrounding for literary inspiration. For example, he wrote a book review of Pedro

Silveira’s A Ilha e o Mundo, in which, as Bettencourt writers, Lopes “punha exactamente em relevo o esforço de transformação literária desenvolvido pelo grupo de intelectuais açorianos… e fazia-o mais ou menos nos termos que, noutras circunstâncias, utilizava para se pronunciar sobre a literatura cabo-verdiana surgida em torno de Claridade”

(2007, 38), recognizing in writers such as Pedro da Silveira, Eduíno Jesus, and Fernando de Lima, among others, a similar intention to place the literature firmly within the islands. As Bettencourt concludes: “Por tudo isso, acabou Manuel Lopes por tornar-se participante directo na dinâmica literária açoriana dos anos 40 e 50 do século

XX, constituindo uma voz mais no conjunto das que tentavam pôr os Açores em dia com o modernismo” (2007, 38). Lopes’s participation contributed to a greater sense of the need to firmly ground the literature within the Azores, just as he and his contemporaries were doing in Cape Verde, ultimately providing an example for the Azoreans. Lopes also benefited from his time in Faial. It was in Horta that he finished his novel Chuva Braba and wrote his collection of short stories Galo cantou na baía, and even published Poemas de quem ficou with the help of Pedro da Silveira (Bettencourt 2006, 121).

Despite Manuel Lopes’s closer contact with Azorean writers, he was not the first

Cape Verdean figure to influence Azorean writers. In fact, Pedro da Silveira, the Azorean poet who was a sort of leading figure in the A Ilha group, had already read Claridade,

! 7! and was particularly impressed by the work of Jorge Barbosa—a poet who, as one of the members of the Claridade movement since its inception, focused particularly on the struggle of the Cape Verdeans population. David Brookshaw refers to Barbosa as “the2 poetic voice of the Claridade movement.” Indeed, in an interview with Álamo Oliveira,

Silveira cites Barbosa as his greatest influence in his understanding of açorianidade, and not the Azorean Nemésio—Silveira affirms “O meu primeiro mestre de modernidade e, vá lá, de açorianidade também, foi Jorge Barbosa” (40). He continues that, if Nemésio provided the theory of açorianidade, Barbosa provided the model example to follow in incorporating this regional being within, in this case, poetry.

Indeed, Silveira worked to promote the work of the Claridosos among the

Azorean intellectuals, in order for the Cape Verdean case to serve as a “lesson” to the

Azoreans, in how to become more connected with the land—in the undertaking of a

“compromisso individual do escritor com o destino histórico do seu povo” (35). As

Bettencourt writes,

Esta particular ênfase na fidelidade à terra e às suas gentes justificará a forte valorização de uma escrita vinculada a determinados temas e situações e funcionando como veículo expressivo das circunstâncias históricas e sociais do tempo e do espaço em que o escritor se inscreve; e implicará também a construção de uma voz plural em que o “eu” individual ceda o lugar a um “nós” colectivo, acabando por tornar-se a voz concreta daqueles que, efectivamente, não a têm (36).

Later on, Bettencourt cites Silveira himself in regards to what the Azoreans could learn from the Claridosos:

o que vamos buscar aos cabo-verdianos, ilhéus como nós e também súbditos de Portugal, é uma como que lição de atitude, uma indicação do caminho a tomar. Apoiados no exemplo dos escritores “claridosos” (e também no de Vitorino Nemésio, no dos escritores das nações das ex-colónias da América, etc.), !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 2 Italics mine.

! 8! lançámo-nos também à tarefa de descobrir3 o nosso arquipélago. Iniciámos a descida do mundo das nuvens à terra das ilhas, direi (39).

As is evident in this citation, Silveira was quite aware of the affinities, both social and historical, between the two archipelagoes, as Bettencourt also noted. These affinities would allow for the emergence of common themes and aesthetics between the two literatures.

As Pedro da Silveira himself writes in his article “Aqueles anos 1940 e tal,” published in Onésimo Teotónio Almeida’s Da Literatura Açoriana: subsídios para um balanço (1986), the relation between the Cape Verdean and Azorean writers of the 1940s expanded after this first contact:

Quanto às relações com os outros da Claridade, vieram depois: aí por 1945, na sequência de eu conhecer, já em Ponta Delgada, um irmão de Baltasar Lopes e seu editor do Chiquinho (1947), o oficial da marinha mercante, na altura comandante do veleiro “Nossa Senhora dos Anjos”, João de Deus Lopes da Silva, através de quem alguns cabo-verdianos passaram a colaborar n’A Ilha, entre eles o ainda muito novo Amílcar Cabral, que suponho estreado como poeta no semanário de Jorge Barbosa (34).

These early relations between Cape Verdean and Azorean writers allowed their respective intellectual groups to identify many of the same preoccupations resultant of their similar conditions, which would serve as the foundation (along with the work of

Nemésio, in the case of the Azores) of the literatures of the archipelagoes, in turn influencing the generations of writers who would come after them.4

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 3 Silveira’s emphasis.

4 Cape Verdean literary scholar Luís Romano writes, in regards to the Claridosos: “Cabe-nos repetir que processou-se uma maravilhosa temporada de revelações – 1935/1980 – que durou quase meio século e projectou as luzes na actualização em que agora vivemos, literariamente falando” (8). The same could be said for the imprint that the early Azorean writers discussed here left for future generations, as we will see in the texts analyzed throughout this dissertation.

! 9! Of course, the two movements are not fully mutually influencing—as we have seen above, it is mostly a unidirectional influence, with the Cape Verdean writers serving as an example to the Azoreans (much like the modernists of the Brazilian northeast had been a model for the Cape Verdeans). Still, it allowed for a great approximation between the two literary traditions.

It should be emphasized that writers in both archipelagoes recognized the need to address universalism through their regionalism, avoiding a simple picturesque caricature of the islanders. That is, they sought to reflect on the human condition as a whole, within the very specific space of the island. Eduíno Borges Garcia summarizes this relationship in “Por uma autêntica literatura açoriana” (1983); he writes that novels like Mau Tempo no Canal “são romances regionais, dissemos – homem e meio são bem determinados; são um homem e um meio típicos. Mas essas obras que se passam num determindo lugar da terra e que nos dão um homem particular (o homem que vive nesse lugar), são entendidas e sentidas por todos os homens” (52). Both Vitorino Nemésio and Manuel

Lopes expressed the need for this communion, which they achieved in novels such as the already referred Mau Tempo no Canal (1944) and Lopes’s tragic Os Flagelados do Vento

Leste.

Perhaps there is something to be said of the insular condition in itself and its relation to universalism. In his article “Insularidade e Saudade,” A. Ambrósio Pina writes that:

A Insularidade apreende-se então conjuntamente com a própria pequenez e contingência. Ao mesmo tempo, o homem refugia-se no seu mundo interior para resistir de alguma forma à mutabilidade dos seres que o cercam, sugerida pelas ondas. Adere à própria imanência, e nesta descobre em síntese os elementos de vastidão do Ser e dos seres determináveis. Partindo deste centro de consciência,

! 10! sugerido pela insularidade, o ser pensante desenvolve-se em todas as direcções e propõe o problema da relação do “eu” aos seres que o cercam (1).

The isolation imposed by geography can be related to a certain psycological introversion of the islander, which ultimately leads to his or her connection with others—with humanity—through the understanding of one’s own being and how it relates to the rest of the world. The literatures of the Azores and Cape Verde serve this exact purpose—an understanding of the regional being, of açorianidade and caboverdianidade to, in turn, comprehend the place of these islanders within national and global contexts.5

Açorianidade and Caboverdianidade

The concepts of açorianidade and caboverdianidade were both born in the

1930s—while Vitorino Nemésio first presented the idea in 1932, the Claridosos made affirming their regional identity their central objective when the journal Claridade first emerged in 1936. These terms were used in an attempt to understand what it means to be

Azorean and Cape Verdean, respectively; how do the geographic and socio-political conditions shape the collective experience of the population, and what cultural elements set the islanders apart from the implied “Other,” in this case, the Portuguese metropolis.

In his talk given in Coimbra in July of 1932, Nemésio seeks to define, for the first time, his concept of açorianidade. As he writes,

Quisera poder enfeixar nesta página emotiva o essencial da minha consciência de ilhéu. Em primeiro lugar o apego à terra, este amor elementar que não

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 5 In Routes and Roots, Elizabeth M. DeLoughrey writes of a need Caribbean writers feel to root themselves within the island, in order to “reterritorialize the Caribbean landscape in ways that offer a less colonial and, by extension, a more “natural” dialectic between people and soil” (66). If we consider Azorean and Cape Verdean literary production in this light, it is possible to see how these literatures serve to connect the populations directly to the islands, weakening or, eventually, in the case of Cape Verde, breaking the ties to mainland Portugal.

! 11! conhece razões, mas impulsos; – e logo o sentimento de uma herança étnica que se relaciona intimamente com a grandeza do mar.

Um espírito nada tradicionalista, mas humaníssimo nas suas contradições com um temperamento e uma forma literária cépticos, – o basco espanhol Baroja, – escreveu um livro chamado Juventud, Egolatria: «O ter nascido junto do mar agrada-me, parece-me como um augúrio de liberdade e de câmbio». Escreveu a verdade. E muito mais quando se nasce mais do que junto ao mar, no próprio seio e infinitude do mar, como as medusas e os peixes. Era este orgulho feito de singularidade e solidão que levava Antero a chamar aos portugueses da metrópole os seus «quási patrícios».

Uma espécie de embriaguez do isolamento impregna a alma e os actos de todo o ilhéu, estrutura-lhe o espírito e procura uma fórmula quase religiosa de convívio com quem não teve a fortuna de nascer, como o logos, na água. Daqui partiria o fio das reflexões que me agradaria desenvolver.

That is, elements such as the apego à terra, the profound relationship with the sea, and the very isolation of the place contribute to this sense of being Azorean—one that leads many to identify with the mainlanders as “quási patrícios,” as the great Antero de

Quental, quoted by Nemésio, called them.

Similarly, caboverdianidade expresses many of the same sentiments. The slogan and objective of the Claridosos was to, in their manifestation of caboverdianidade,

“fincar os pés na terra.” This, in itself, conveys the understanding that the land and the

Cape Verdean being are intrinsically connected. Other elements commonly attributed to caboverdianidade include the cultural components of morna and morabeza, the creole language and culture, the need to emigration or the dilemma between staying and departing, and other specific socio-political realties.

This is not to say that previous generations didn’t contribute to the concepts of açorianidade and caboverdianidade as we know them today. Several writers previous to the thinkers of the 1930s also contributed to a sense of regional identity, especially

! 12! through poetry, but also in the form of short stories. Simply put, however, it was in the

1930s that the terms to designate these identities were conceived, even if writers had begun to reflect on them, whether consciously or unconsciously, in the preceding decades.

Indeed, Nemésio himself, in his definition of açorianidade, points to the poet

Roberto de Mesquita6 as a precursor to this concept, as a poet who simultaneously expressed sentiments of regionalism and universalism—his poetry was filled with feelings of solitude and the psychological experience of the islander.7 Many would also include the short story writers Nunes da Rosa8 and Florêncio Terra9 in this category, as writers who began to explore the peculiarities of the Azorean experience. Their works explore themes that would come to help form the understanding of açorianidade—both in psychological elements, like Mesquita, including solitude and isolation, mixed with the sadness of the landscape, and also in cultural and social aspects of the lived experience, with great attention paid to the religiosity of the population, namely through the cult of the Espírito Santo, and the far-reaching influence of emigration.

In the case of Cape Verde, the Claridosos themselves cited poets Pedro Cardoso10 and Eugénio Tavares11 as precursors to their movement, as the first writers to shift from

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 6 Santa Cruz das Flores, Azores, Portugal 19 June 1871 – Santa Cruz das Flores, 31 December, 1923.

7 See “Mesquita e o isolamento” in Sob os Signos de Agora. Nemésio, Vitorino. Sob os signos de agora: temas portugueses e brasileiros. Coimbra: Imprensa da Universidade, 1932.

8 Rio Vista, California, 22 March 1871 – Bandeiras, Azores, Portugal, 13 September 1946.

9 Horta, Azores, Portugal, 18 May 1858 – Horta, 25 November 1941.

10 Fogo, Cape Verde, 1890 – Praia, Santiago, Cape Verde 1942

! 13! the romantic, exotifying aesthetic present in poetry about Cape Verde even among their own contemporaries, such as José Lopes da Silva and Januário Leite. These poets had already begun to pay more attention to the actual Cape Verdean reality. For example, both wrote some poetry in Cape Verdean Creole—Tavares is known as one of the great writers of mornas, which were related to his poems in the native language of Cape

Verdeans. They both also contributed to the study of the popular culture of the islands:

Tavares organized Morna in 1932 and Cardoso published Folclore caboverdiano in 1933.

In order to understand the realities of açorianidade and caboverdianidade and to place the assertion of a regional, insular identity in the two literatures discussed here in a more theoretical framework, it is beneficial to consider Édouard Glissant’s “Poetics of

Relation.”12 Indeed, and especially in the initial phases, the affirmation of Azorean and

Cape Verdean identities arises from a comparison to “the Other,” in this case, the

Portuguese metropolis. Glissant bases his theoretical proposition on Gilles Deleuze and

Felix Guattari’s conception of rootedness: critical of the idea of one root, “they propose the rhizome, an enmeshed root system, a network spreading either in the ground or in the air, with no predatory rootstock taking over permanently. The notion of the rhizome maintains, therefore, the idea of rootedness but challenges that of a totalitarian root”

(1997, 11). Glissant continues: “Rhizomatic thought is the principle behind what I call the Poetics of Relation, in which each and every identity is extended through a relationship with the other” (111). The Martinican thinker contrasts more traditional thought on root identity with the more contemporary concept of relation identity in

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 11 Brava, Cape Verde 18 October 1867 – Vila Nova Sinta, Brava 1 June 1930.

12 Glissant, Édouard. Poetics of Relation. Trans. Betsy Wing. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan, 1997.

! 14! displaced societies. While the root identity is that which links one to the place of origin, relation identity—which he sees as the truest form of identity—is formed as relative to

“the other” (1997, 144). This concept seems particularly useful in understanding Azorean and Cape Verdean identities. While the root identity is, to varying degrees, of course, at least partially Portuguese in both cases13, cultural evolution in both archipelagos, and creolization in Cape Verde over time, created great contrasts with the Portuguese metropolis. In this case, in terms of relation identity, mainland Portugal becomes the

“other” with which neither the Azorean nor the Cape Verdean any longer fully identifies, thus cementing their own regional (and eventually, in Cape Verde, national) identities.

This is because the island identities began to form not only in relation to the Portuguese, but to other external influences, other branches of their relational identity—in the case of

Cape Verde, obviously the strongest force is that of the African heritage, while in the

Azores, there is a certain, comparatively smaller influence from other European settlers, namely the Flemish and the French. In both cases, however, the widespread phenomenon of emigration, by which almost every family is touched, has led to a strong American14 influence on these two cultures, as well.15

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 13 In the case of Cape Verde, the African cultures of the slaves brought to populate the archipelago are also a strong component of the root identity, even if this is ignored by the colonial discourse.

14 Cape Verdeans also emigrated to Europe in large numbers, reinforcing, in a way, this element of their identity.

15 In “Literatura e Identidade: Uma Abordagem Sociocultural,” Cape Verdean literary scholar Dulce Almada Duarte asserts, in regards to the political force of the affirmation of a distinct, regional identity, that “Essa afirmação de uma identidade distinta da metrópole integra-se na corrente nativista que serviu de estandarte nas antigas colónias portuguesas às reivindições feitas pelos intelectuais de fim do século XIX e princípios do actual. Tais reivindicações, que adquiriram por vezes uma certa coloração autonomista, são do mesmo teor das que serviram de detonador nas antigas colónias europeais da América às lutas de libertação que levariam ao poder a burguesia crioula de cada uma dessas colónias” (10)

! 15! We should also consider the relation between these concepts of açorianidade and caboverdianidade and insularity. Indeed, these regional identities serve as a means of overcoming the isolation of any one island. In Caribbean Discourse, Édouard Glissant writes of insularity in the context of the archipelago in the Caribbean Sea:

In this context, insularity takes on another meaning—ordinarily, insularity is treated as a form of isolation, a neurotic reaction to place. However, in the Caribbean each island embodies openness. The dialectic between inside and outside is reflected in the relationship of land and sea. It is only those who are tied to the European continent who see insularity as confining. A Caribbean imagination liberates us from being smothered” (139).

There is a significant differentiation to be made here: while Glissant suggests that, in the

Caribbean context, the “neurotic reaction to place” is absent, it is not so in the Azorean and Cape Verdean realities. That is, the literatures contain extensive reflections on the unequal relationship with the metropolis, and the isolation that so aggravates it. Still, I believe that this quote allows us to see another function of Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures: while, yes, the “neurotic reaction to place” serves as a catalyst to the need to create regional literatures, and is often expressed within the writings, these regional works serve to articulate Azorean and Cape Verdean imaginários—açorianidade and caboverdianidade—in order to surpass the insularity of any one island. Matthew Boyd

Goldie similarly writes of what he calls the continuum of insularity: “At one end of such a spatial continuum one might perceive isolation, while at the other end are archipelagoes, regions, peninsulas, and other forms of connection among land-forms”

(28). Perhaps we can consider the act of writing, then, and the assertion of a regional identity, as a way of moving on the continuum of insularity and overcoming, to some degree, the isolation of one island. This formation of a strong, regional identity can be seen as a sort of “untying,” as Glissant puts it, from the European continent reducing the

! 16! levels of identification and, therefore, the resentment of the imposed geographic conditions that separate them. The regional here serves also for the self, as a means of not being “smothered,” to use Glissant’s term, by the isolation imposed by the sea. If a picoense16 can identify with a mariense17, or an inhabitant of Brava with another from

Boa Vista, their communities become significantly widened, without being so dependent on the metropolis, at least in terms of personal identification.

Regional versus National Identity

The contemporary socio-political situations of the Azores and Cape Verde present us with two different forms of cultural identity: regional and national. It is important to remember, however, that, in the initial decades of Cape Verdean literature, the identity affirmed by literary authors was, in fact, a regional one.18 As Hans-Peter Heilmair writes in “Estratégias de delimitação das áreas nacionalista e regionalista: os exemplos de Cabo

Verde e dos Açores:”

A presença do conceito de “regionalismo” na literatura cabo-verdiana, face à consumação da indepedência nacional, só pode ser admitida quando alargado pelo do “nacionalismo.” No entanto, é importante que o regionalismo seja referido neste contexto primeiro porque se partiu de uma coincidência, se bem que parcial, das literaturas cabo-verdiana e açoriana, e também pela ponte existente, na literatura cabo-verdiana, entre regionalismo e nacionalismo.

While Heilmair is speaking of an already national identity at the point of his study, he reminds us that we must also consider the regionalism, which was the earlier stage of the sentiment that evolved into the affirmation of a national identity. Shortly after this quote, !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 16 From the island of Pico

17 From the island of Santa Maria

18 The transition to another stage will be discussed in chapter one.

! 17! he cites Baltazar Lopes, a quote in which he speaks of the Cape Verdean cultural identity and the role of literature in contributing “para que se mostrasse que Cabo Verde tinha uma personalidade regional e autónoma” (2). As thinkers such as Germano Almeida and

Gabriel Mariano, analyzed in chapter one of this dissertation, also expressed, the earliest writers in Cape Verde indeed saw themselves as striving for a regional status similar to that of the Azores and Madeira.

In the first chapter of his book National Identity (1991), Anthony D. Smith outlines the various forms of collective identities in order to understand the formation and role of the national identity. He defines these identities in terms of gender, ethnicity, social class, religion, and, most pertinent to this dissertation, region. For Smith, local and regional identities are more cohesive than, for example, gender ones, in which the members of the collective are geographically separated. However, Smith notes,

…the appearance often proves to be deceptive. Regions easily fragment into localities, and localities may easily disintegrate into separate settlements […] In most other cases ‘regionalism’ is unable to sustain the mobilization of its populations with their separate grievances and unique problems. Besides, regions are geographically difficult to define; their centres are often multiple and their boundaries ragged (4).

I would argue, however, that the geographic condition of the Azores and Cape Verde, in function with the socio-political conditions of the two archipelagoes as peripheral spaces in the Portuguese empire and, in the case of the Azores, eventually an autonomous region, allow for a strong sense of regional identity in the two literatures.19 That is, there

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 19 In José Martins Garcia’s A Fome, when an Azorean goes to study in Lisbon, he is told “Açoriano é branco de segunda… mesmo quando se é louro e de olhos azuis” (70). Here, we can see that even in the mainland, Azoreans were often not perceived as equals, even if they were considered Portuguese. Still, being “branco de segunda,” they are, indeed, white—the same cannot be applied to Cape Verde, even with the high levels of miscegenation. It is clear, then, that while both spaces are seen as inferior to the metropole, the Azorean population still maintains an “elevated status” over the Cape Verdeans.

! 18! is significant enough cultural, geographic, and social elements to create an identity of difference from the Portuguese mainland. While, of course, these identities can always be sub-divided by difference between islands, parishes, and individuals, what emerges from the manifestation of açorianidade and caboverdianidade in the respective literatures are those elements that encompass the Azorean and Cape Verdean experiences, respectively, throughout all of the islands. As Onésimo Teotónio Almeida writes, “A questão é, aqui também como em outros sectores das ciências naturais e sociais, uma de género e espécie. O facto de a “espécie açoriana” poder ser tomada como um género e subdividida em espécies não pode ser argumento contra o considerar-se ela uma espécie distinta do género (português) em que se filia” (1983, 191).

In his discussion of national identity, Smith summarizes the concept as being made up of the following “fundamental features:”

1. a historic territory, or homeland 2. common myths and historical memories 3. a common, mass public culture 4. common legal rights and duties for all members 5. a common economy with territorial mobility for members (14)

The Cape Verdean identity, then, passes from a regional one to a national one after the nation’s independence in 1975, when a Cape Verdean political state is established, with the creation of new laws, duties, and an economy.

Still, Smith speaks of the importance of a social bond within a collective identity, encouraged through “shared values, symbols and traditions.” He further explains the relevance of symbols: “flags, coinage, anthems, uniforms, monuments and ceremonies – members are reminded of their common heritage and cultural kinship and feel strengthened and exalted by their sense of common identity and belonging” (16-17). It

! 19! should be underlined that, while Smith applies these elements to a national identity, many of them also apply to the Azorean identity—the autonomous region has its own flag, anthem, monuments, and ceremonies (such as those of the Dia dos Açores). While one cannot, then, speak of a national identity in the Azores, since it is not a political state, and there remains the more overarching identification with the Portuguese nation, these elements further contribute to the strengthening of a regional identity.

Smith concludes: “Finally, a sense of national identity provides a powerful means of defining and locating individual selves in the world, through the prism of the collective personality and its distinctive culture. It is through a shared, unique culture that we are enabled to know “who we are” in the contemporary world” (17). This is precisely what the Azorean and, even more so, the Cape Verdean writers seek to explore in their works.

The force of insularity leads to a unique worldview and sense of place within the world, as Ambrósio’s quote showed us at the beginning of this introduction. I say that the Cape

Verdeans embark on this search more than the Azoreans for the fact that Cape Verde is an independent nation in a globalized world, and writers today still grapple with the archipelago’s place on the world stage; in the Azores, on the other hand, as we will see in chapter one, globalization and advanced communication technologies have led to the

Azorean being increasingly integrated into the Portuguese national identity.

Onésimo Teotónio Almeida writes that identity consists of two questions: “1) a do modo de estar de um povo… detectável ao longo do seu percurso histórico; e b), o modo como um povo se organiza colectivamente em relação àquilo que pretende realizar no futuro” (“Identidade Cultural,” 59). In another text, Almeida argues that one should not speak of “national character,” but, instead, of “cultural characteristics,” “since traits are in

! 20! fact not nationally bound” (“On Distinguishing Cultural Identity,” 1). In this line of thought, we can look at both Azorean and Cape Verdean identities, açorianidade and caboverdianidade, as cultural identities; the affirmation of these identities is the assertion of difference, of a divergence from the accepted “standard” identity of the Portuguese metropolis.20

In the case of the Azores, it is important to underline the modifier cultural.

Indeed, that is what is at the core of açorianidade and the literary identity—that is, the affirmation of an Azorean identity is not political, in that it independence is never an objective of the writers. As Adelaide Monteiro Batista21 argues,

Todas as referências explícitas ou implícitas a literature ou identidade açoriana devem ser entendidas como referentes meramente culturais, que nunca políticas, numa perspectiva de “experiência partilhada”. Separação, distância, sismos, vulcões e emigração-de-esporádico-retorno concorrem no seu conjunto para uma história comum, que diz respeito particularmente aos Açores, daí resultando uma linguagem própria e uma visão e atitudes particulares. E ainda bem. Porque se é verdade que o momento politico de 25 de Abril veio libertar as ilhas do marasmo, trazendo-lhes melhor qualidade de vida, o facto é que, esforçando-se o Açoriano por se dar a conhecer no continente, através de uma voz com mais de um século de actividade literária, vai assim conseguindo o que ninguém por ele poderia fazer; isto é, vai esbatendo distâncias e aproximando a ilha do continente, num esforço que o País começa a reconhecer (12).

Still, it is important to assert this shared identity for a sense of solidarity, of recognition, and also for other socio-political motives, such as improved conditions and increased support from Lisbon.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 20 Many Azorean scholars have reflected on the question of what distinguishes the Azorean identity from the Portuguese one. The themes explored in this dissertation aim to prove its existence, as seen in literary expression. Onésimo Teotónio Almeida summarizes well this difference in his conclusion to his book A Questão da Literatura Açoriania: Recolha de Intervenções e Revisitação (1983). The question was first visited by Vitorino Nemésio in his texts Açorianidade and O Açoriano e os Açores—even if this differentiation is rather more implicit than defined in these texts.

21 Adelaide Monteiro Batista will later publish with her married name, Adelaide Freitas. Her novel Sorriso por Dentro da Noite will be referenced with latter surname.

! 21! Aim of Project and Organization of Chapters

The aim of this project, then, is to analyze the common themes employed in these two literatures in order to assert a regional, insular identity. Indeed, as we will see, açorianidade and caboverdianidade came to be manifested and affirmed in many of the same terms: through the use of local speech, a reflection on the force of geographic and climatic conditions and their influence over the population, and the dilemma between the attachment to the homeland and the need and/or desire to emigrate—these themes will serve as the topics of my second, third, and fourth chapters. Of course, other questions arise in the discussion of these themes, such as the fervent religiosity and resignation of the populations, and the deep emotional attachment of the man to the land. In these chapters, I will look at how the writers of the two archipelagoes treat these questions— while thematically similar, the differences in lived experiences within the two archipelagoes, as well as the missions of the literary movements, result often in varying details and divergent rhetoric characterizing the Azorean and Cape Verdean cases.

Thematic similarities persist, nonetheless, in the face of the most obvious contrast between the realities of the two archipelagoes, that of the racial and political situations.

This will be an important part of my discussion, as the socio-political discourses, especially in the post-25th of April period, are the strongest point of divergence between the two literatures. What I aim to demonstrate in my dissertation, however, is the importance that the island and isolation, and all of their inextricable consequences, maintain in these literatures and in their formation of a regional self. For me, it is indeed the elements drawn from the insular realities of the spaces present in these two literatures that make them viable for comparison. Further, the similar peripheral status of the two

! 22! archipelagoes in the pre-revolution period allowed for a similar development in political discourse over the course of time. Still, the differences in the racial and political realities are fundamental to understanding the various distinctions between Azorean and Cape

Verdean discourse on any given theme—that is, while the themes are mostly common, they are often treated differently in the two literatures. How the political and racial realities may be linked to these differences is a central question of this dissertation.

In his article, “Jardins de letras no meio do mar plantados” (1993), Hans-Peter

Heilmair elaborates on the questions of race and culture in the two archipelagoes, reflecting on the original groups to populate the islands:

...Ao contrário das gentes oriundas da Flandres e de outra regiões da Europa presentes, além dos portugueses, no povoamento dos Açores, os africanos que, compulsivamente, eram levados para Cabo Verde onde se tornariam, desde logo, numericamente maioritários, não assimilavam os padrões da cultura portuguesa. Nos Açores, a manutenção de traços culturais originais por parte dos elementos de origem não-portuguesa no processo da colonização, revelava-se secundária à medida que estes se encontravam empenhados na mesma empresa que os portugueses... Em Cabo Verde, os africanos para ali transferidos encontravam-se em situação inversa devido ao seu estatuto de escravos. A sua cultura ancestral, em vez de ser absorvida pela cultura portuguesa, veio a desempenhar um papel determinante na formação de uma nova cultura, a cabo-verdiana, produto da síntese luso-africana operada através do processo de uma miscigenação profunda (468).

That is, while the in the Azores, the dominant culture was always the Portuguese, despite the formation of a specific, local identity, in Cape Verde, slavery and miscegination led to the creation of a new, Creole culture, distinct from the Portuguese one.22 Clearly, this would lead to a discrepancy in the level of identification between the islanders and the

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 22 As Édouard Glissant writes: “There is a difference between the transplanting (by exile or dispersion) of a people who continue to survive elsewhere and the transfer (by slave trade) of a population to another place where they change into something different, into a new set of possibilities” (14-15). He continues by stating that the latter case leads to the transformation of a new people and culture—the Creole one. For Glissant, a Creole identity is “organically linked to relation” – it is defined by its relation to other cultures which have influenced its formation.

! 23! compatriots of the Portuguese mainland, allowing for a greater identification on the part of the Azoreans, while the Cape Verdean case would result often (but not always, as we will see) in a sentiment of non-belonging.

Perhaps it is also important to note, however, that, at the point in which these movements towards açorianidade and caboverdianidade were originated, both archipelagos were still officially a part of the Portuguese empire and were, thus, in the same position of a regional, not national, affirmation, as was referred in the previous section.

As previously stated, the four chapters of this dissertation are defined thematically. Each chapter considers a theme commonly fundamental to both Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures, comparing the discourses in each cannon, in order to understand the points of convergence and divergence. It is important to note that, since the aim of this project is to achieve a comprehensive understanding of the convergences and divergences between Azorean and Cape Verdean literary productions since the theorizing of açorianidade and caboverdianidade, and how the same thematic discussions pervade the literatures from the 1930s to today, this dissertation works as a sort of survey of the writers from the past century, without focusing on the work of any one writer in particular. At the end of each chapter, I will include a comparative study of one Azorean and one Cape Verdean novel that are particularly emblematic of the discussion of the theme at hand. These works will be considered in greater detail within the chapter. However, I also strive to provide variety in these more focused comparisons—no one author will be considered in this fashion in two or more chapters.

That is, these comparative discussions of two works at the conclusion of the chapters will

! 24! always introduce a new work and writer, not previously included in this final reflection in any other chapter.

The first chapter, “Race and Politics: Similar Trajectories, Contrasting Results,” addresses the glaring difference between the two societies and, thus, their literary production: the question of race and politics. First, I address the question of race in the case of Cape Verdean literature. Through the analysis of works ranging from the writings of the Claridosos to more contemporary publications, this section shows the complexities of the question of race within the Creole society, and the evolution of the racial discourse.

While the writers of Claridade tended to distance themselves from Africa and to emphasize the European components of the Cape Verdean heritage, the turbulent political situation of the 1960s will bring a sort of racial awakening to Cape Verdean literature, and writers like Onésimo Silveira, Orlanda Amarílis, Fátima Bettencourt, and, more recently, Germano Almeida, will aim to explore the African heritage of the islands. In order to better understand the intricacies of the Cape Verdean racial identity, I consider

Fanon’s racial theory of Black Skin, White Masks, particularly pertinent to Creole cultures.

The second part of this chapter compares the trajectories of political discourse in the two literatures. While, as it is known, the Carnation Revolution led to contrasting political realities in the two archipelagoes—the Azores becoming an autonomous region of the Portuguese Republic and Cape Verde gaining its national independence—I argue that the political rhetoric in the literatures of the two archipelagoes follow similar evolutionary paths. While in the early phases of the two literatures, writers such as

Nemésio or the Claridosos did not express strong political opinions, it is in the 1960s that

! 25! criticism of Lisbon’s central government will begin to permeate the pages of the works of both archipelagoes. After 1974, and especially in the 1980s and 1990s, writers of both archipelagoes, such as Álamo Oliveira and Arménio Vieira, will express a sort of disillusionment with the new governments.

The most recent generations have shown the greatest divergence in times of globalization, as I will show at the end of this chapter in the analysis of works by Joel

Neto, in the case of the Azores, and Germano Almeida, for Cape Verde. In the Azores, we see a greater approximation with mainland Portugal, as well as increased contact with the outside world. Perhaps not merely coincidentally, there has also been a decline in production of a typically “Azorean” literature, and an increased presence of outside spaces in the literature. Cape Verde, on the other hand, presents us with the case of a young nation with a literature that still seeks to affirm the local identity—this time, as a national identity and in the greater context of the world stage, instead of a regional identity within the Portuguese empire.

In chapter two, entitled “Expressing açorianidade and caboverdianidade: The uses and functions of local speech,” I explore the inclusion of regional speech within literary production, both in dialogue and narration. I open this chapter with a discussion of the importance of language in the assertion of an identity, considering theories by

Édouard Glissant, Benedict Anderson, and Bill Ashcroft et. al., in order to understand how the literary reproduction of local speech is vital in demonstrating difference from the center and, thus, a divergent identity. After this initial discussion, I consider how two pioneers, Vitorino Nemésio and Baltazar Lopes, experiment with the inclusion of local accents, foreignisms, archaisms and, in the case of Cape Verde, the Creole language,

! 26! using Nemésio’s short story “Terra dos Bravos” and Lopes’s novel Chiquinho as my central sources. I will then move on to consider works from the following generations, considering namely the writings of Manuel Ferreira and Orlanda Amarílis, in the case of

Cape Verde, and Dias de Melo and Daniel de Sá, in the case of the Azores. Finally, the conclusion of this chapter will be yet another comparison, this time of more contemporary novels—Raíz Comovida, by Cristóvão de Aguiar, and Ilha Fantástica by

Germano Almeida. Both works employ first-person narration, allowing for the emergence of the local voices, which permeate the pages of the two novels—perhaps, these two texts can be considered those which most seek to include the local speech of the Azores and

Cape Verde, respectively.

“The land, the sea, and the climate: The role of geography and the man’s affective attachment to the land,” the third chapter of this dissertation, considers of central importance the physical space of the archipelago on the human psyche, emotions, and the collective culture. Thinkers such as Vitorino Nemésio, Manuel Lopes, and Édouard

Glissant have all reflected on the importance of the land in the formation of the islanders’ identities. Throughout this chapter, then, I will show geography’s function in the literatures of the two archipelagoes, and how its great force influences the populations— in terms of a strong emotional attachment born of the co-dependency between the inhabitant and the land, as well as its impact on the local culture, manifested primarily through the strong religiosity often seen in both populations. For this discussion, I consider works by Vitorino Nemésio, Joel Neto, Daniel de Sá, and João de Melo, in the case of the Azores, and Manuel Lopes, Baltazar Lopes, Teixeira de Sousa, and Manuel

Ferreira, in the case of Cape Verde. This chapter then concludes with a comparison of

! 27! Dias de Melo’s Pedras Negras and Orlanda Amarílis’s Ilhéu dos Pássaros—two works that borrow their names from the physical space of the respective islands, and in which the land is treated as a character throughout, often given precedence over the people themselves.

After considering geography’s force and the resultant emotional attachment the inhabitant feels for the land, chapter four, entitled “To Stay or to Depart?: The Dilemma of Emigration,” addresses the conflict that arises when this established relationship is juxtaposed with the need and/or desire to emigrate, resultant both of the very isolation of the islands and the historically miserable conditions in the two archipelagoes, in which the population recognized the need to depart from the island in order to survive. If we consider emigration a central theme in both Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures, the dilemma between the attachment to the homeland and the need to emigrate is a lens commonly used to focus on this phenomenon. This chapter will begin with a theoretical look at the sentiments of wanderlust often possessed by islanders, oftentimes alongside a deep love for the homeland, focusing especially on considerations made by Édouard

Glissant. Then, I examine the two contrasting tendencies that differentiate the Azorean and the Cape Verdean discourse on this dilemma—while the Azorean tends to choose to depart, often with little hesitation, only to feel the manifestation of the apego à terra through saudade once emigrated, the protagonists of Cape Verdean novels almost always opt to stay on the island. As I will argue, this difference seems to have much more to do with the agendas of the writers from the two archipelagoes and much less with the actual lived experience on the islands—both the Azores and Cape Verde were deeply affected by the process of emigration, as they saw great percentages of their populations depart.

! 28! As we know, the Claridosos sought, however, to valorize the homeland, to insist on the importance of Cape Verde and its viability for a successful future—in order to do this, then, it only makes sense that the protagonists choose to remain on the islands, instead of abandoning the homeland. The final part of this chapter will be a comparison of Daniel de Sá’s Ilha Grande Fechada and Manuel Lopes’s Chuva Braba. Despite the fifty year gap between publication dates, these two narratives deal precisely with the same problem: the constant wavering between the male protagonist’s love for his island and his desire to depart to the Americas. The conclusions of both novels will fall in line with the trends of the respective literatures: while João, the protagonist of Ilha Grande Fechada ultimately departs from São Miguel, Mané Quim, Chuva Braba’s protagonist, decides to remain on his island of São Nicolau.

! 29! Chapter 1: Race and Politics: Similar Trajectories, Contrasting Results

When comparing Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures and realities, there are two striking, fundamental differences that must be addressed and discussed: the questions of race and of socio-political status. That is, while the Azores have a predominantly white population and a basically Portuguese culture, Cape Verde is an independent African nation, albeit also with strong Portuguese roots. As such, the two experiences may seem, at first glance, incomparable at any significant level.

This project aims to compare how the literatures of the two archipelagoes work to affirm the local identities, first in the colonial space then in the post-colonial. Obviously, this will cause a great demarcation between the identities of both archipelagoes: this question is highly influenced by race in Cape Verde, on the first hand. Further, Cape

Verde’s position as an actual colony of Portugal, in contrast to the Azorean condition of a peripheral space within Portugal, also gives these two archipelagoes very different socio- political statuses. Even after the Carnation Revolution of 1974, Cape Verde becomes an independent nation and the Azores remain an autonomous region within Portugal. One may wonder, then, how can the comparison between the two literatures be made, with such dissimilar racial and political realities?

I argue, however, that the archipelagic quality of the two regions has lent itself to the literatures of each one, greatly influencing both the lived experiences and, thus, the literature. Both archipelagoes respectively manifest their açorianidade and caboverdianidade through very similar lenses, and, as such, many similar themes are addressed. In fact, even in the socio-political realm, we can draw many parallels between

! 30! the two literatures, despite the fact that they do not share the same political reality up to and following the Carnation Revolution of 1974.

Both archipelagoes are extremely isolated and distant from the mainland. As such, they both constituted the periphery during the colonial period, even if the Azores may have had privilege for racial questions. These racial questions, however, are not static.

The discourse on race in Cape Verdean literature greatly evolves throughout the 20th and

21st centuries—the Claridosos, for example, paid little attention to this question, as they valued primarily their European ancestry. Throughout the decades, the discourse has shifted, as the African element becomes increasingly central in the works of Cape

Verdean writers.

Perhaps it is also important to note that, at the point in which these movements were originated, both archipelagos were still officially a part of the Portuguese empire and were, thus, in the same position of a regional, not national, affirmation. In fact, as

Germano Almeida writes, the Claridade movement “surge essencialmente como forma de afirmação dentro do espaço português23....Politicamente todos eles [os Claridosos] defendiam para Cabo Verde o privilégio de ter o estatuto de ilhas adjacentes tal qual a

Madeira e os Açores...” (2010). The Claridosos, then, also understood their work as regional, and not yet national: they wrote “within the Portuguese space” and they still not did manifest concerns for the independence of the nation.

Just like their peripheral status is comparable leading up to 1974, I argue in this chapter that, similarly, the political rhetoric in Azorean and Cape Verdean literature follow congruent trajectories, especially in the literature written before the Carnation

Revolution. In the initial decades analyzed in this dissertation, writers paid little attention !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 23 Italics mine.

! 31! to denouncing the central government. The Claridosos saw Cape Verde as a region of

Portugal, therefore political independence was not on their agenda. They were far more interested, as was Vitorino Nemésio in the case of the Azores, in creating a literature specific to their region, where cabo-verdianidade or, in the case of Nemésio, açorianidade would be manifested through the pages of text. As we move into the

1960’s, a turbulent period in the history of the Portuguese empire, however, literary prose becomes much more politicized in both archipelagoes. In the Azores, writers like Dias de

Melo turn to neo-realism to expose the ills of an unequal society, led by Salazar’s dictatorship. In Cape Verde, Onésimo Silveira will denounce the lack of political determination in the Claridosos’ writing, and those of his generation, including Gabriel

Mariano, will pay more attention to the racial inequalities and the need for independence.

A key difference that persists and should be underscored, however, is that a call for independence never appears in Azorean literature, even implicitly, while the Cape

Verdean writers of the 1960s and 1970s began to proclaim their right to auto- determination.

Despite the fact that the political outcomes were different for Cape Verde and the

Azores, the former becoming an independent nation and the latter an autonomous region of Portugal, I aim to show that even the political elements of these two literatures are correlative and worthy of a comparative analysis. Leading up to the revolution, the political discourses in the two bodies of work followed similar trajectories, both transitioning to new phases around the same periods.

Of course, it is after the 25th of April that, due to the contrasting paths taken, the discourses of the two literatures will also begin to diverge from their similarities. In

! 32! Azorean literature, there will continue to exist heavy criticism, demonstrating, still, sentiments of being forgotten by the capital and that, perhaps, the benefits of the revolution did not even reach the islands. The new autonomous government is also criticized for perpetuating many of the inequalities that existed before, this time in regards to the relationship between São Miguel and the other islands, and for the lack of true social and economic progress.

As we move in to more contemporary times, one witnesses the decline in the number of Azorean writers focusing on questions of açorianidade. This seems to be a result of the greater proximity between the Azores and the mainland, with more people constantly transitioning between the two spaces, as well as increased contact with the globalized world. Even in the works of the young writer who most focuses on açorianidade—Joel Neto—we can see the diminishment of the isolation once lived on these islands.

In Cape Verde, questions of cabo-verdianidade remain central to the literature to this day—after 1974, no longer as a region affirming itself within the Portuguese space, but as an independent nation asserting its identity and space on the world stage. Still, there is also a period of dystopia—Arménio Vieira’s 1991 novel O Eleito do Sol, for instance, is a fundamental example of criticism of the lack of progress in the islands as a result of an overly divided political system.

Perhaps recalling Glissant’s theory of “Poetics of Relation,” as explored in the introduction, will help to solidify the comparison between these two literatures, despite the obviously divisive racial factor. As was previously stated, while the Portuguese is at the root of both identities, though to differing degrees, over time the cultures evolved due

! 33! to other relations, as well as their isolation, distancing themselves from the mainland

Portugal. Of these relations, the African root of the Cape Verdean culture is incredibly fundamental, resulting in the nation’s creole identity.

Race in Cape Verdean Literature: 1930s – 1980s

The question of race is a fundamental one when considering the comparison between Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures and experiences. That is, it represents a striking difference that is both a product and a cause of contrasting socio-political realities. It is, indeed, the main dividing factor between these two archipelagoes. In fact, as Gabriel Mariano, the Cape Verdean intellectual and writer, affirms, “Não fosse o negro… e o homem caboverdiano em nada se distinguiria do madeirense ou do açoriano” (70). The presence of African heritage, however, clearly demarcates the two groups analyzed here. While, in the Azores, the question of race never appears, as the archipelago is predominantly homogenous in racial terms, it is a question that is addressed, whether implicitly or explicitly, throughout all of Cape Verdean literature. The discourse of race is quite complex, as we will see in the following examples—for generations, and especially among the Claridosos, writers aimed to approximate themselves with the European elements of their identity, thus distancing themselves from the African.

The African cultures that, along with the Portuguese, serve as the base of the creole culture, then, are what differentiate Cape Verde from the other white archipelagoes of the Portuguese empire. Had miscegenation not occurred, the Cape Verdean culture would simply be yet another insular, Portuguese one. The role of the black and the

! 34! mulato are fundamental in this creole society: as Mariano writes, “foram os negros e os mulatos os responsáveis directos na estruturação da sua sociedade” (44). That is, the

Cape Verdean society as we know it today was developed by the blacks and especially the mulatos: the basic social structures were indeed created by the crioulo, who can be seen at every rung of the social ladder.24 For Mariano, this is directly connected with the appearance and dominance of the crioulo language.

While the importance of the mulato in Cape Verdean culture is evident and undeniable, the racial discourse in Cape Verdean literature since the Claridosos is anything but a straightforward valorization of this miscegenation, even though the question of race is virtually absent in the Claridosos’ writing. Given that their aim was not political independence, as they indeed saw themselves as Portuguese, it is not surprising that they paid little attention to the question of race and racial hierarchies, as well as to their own African roots, privileging always the European elements of the Cape

Verdean culture over those of African origin. In his Study of Cape Verdean Literature,

Norman Araujo shows two examples of how the Claridosos sought to approximate their

Creole culture as much as possible to the European, minimizing the African elements: this is the case of Baltazar Lopes’s study of the Creole language, which I will consider in chapter two, and Félix Monteiro’s discussion of Cape Verdean popular culture (91-92).25

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 24 Russell G. Hamilton cites that, in contemporary Cape Verdean society, “70 percent [of the population] is mestiço, 20 percent is black, and 10 percent is white” (235). He adds that, in American terms, the nation is overwhelmingly black, but reminds that this is not the case in Cape Verde, where the mestiço holds its own position and identity in Cape Verdean society.

25 In the introduction to Routes of Passage, Ruth Simms Hamilton points to a similar phenomenon in Latin American countries, where “a premium is placed on the European aspect of cultural heritage and identity. The guiding principle is that of blanqueamento—that is, lightening or whitening to improve the race, as whiteness stands as the aesthetic marker of moral and social worth. Mestizaje, the symbolic explanation of racial mixing, becomes the nationalistic ideology

! 35! In fact, Pedro de Sousa Lobo, in the ninth publication of Claridade, writes “A originalidade humana de Cabo Verde.” The text, dripping with Lusotropicalist tones, speaks of the “originality” of the Cape Verdean population and the “amicable” nature of miscegenation that resulted in Cape Verde’s “well-deserved” title of “Portugal Crioulo”

(64). At the end of this text, he clearly separates Cape Verde from Africa, minimizing the

African contribution to the Cape Verdean culture:

Cultural e sociologicamente, Cabo Verde já não é África, embora étnicamente não seja Europa. Dizendo isto, não estamos afirmando que seja uma área geo-humana descaracterizada regionalisticamente. Dizer que Cabo Verde é Africa porque em quase todas as ilhas o número de negros é superior ao de brancos e à excepção de Santiago proporção de mistos é muito superior à de brancos e negros; que Cabo Verde é África porque no interior da sua maior ilha ainda há reminiscências (ténues reminiscências da África Negra, no folclore poético, numa que outro sobrevivência de proto- religiões importadas com os contingentes de escravos) é roçar apenas pela superfície das coisas, sem penetrar no seu íntimo, é deixar-se influenciar pelo episódico, pelo anedótico e pelo exótico, voltar as costas à realidade (67).

While openly recognizing the African influences in the Cape Verde culture, Lobo minimizes their importance, referring to them as simply being “ténues reminiscências.”

For him, however, the difference from the rest of Africa is the most defining quality—he expresses sentiments of exceptionalism of the Cape Verdean population. While he recognizes that the Creole population cannot identify as white, his attempt to create distance from Africa is, in fact, a move to increase the approximation to Portugal.

Richard A. Lobban, Jr. explores the complexities of the question of race in Cape

Verde—racial divisions are not so straight-forward as in the United States, for example.

He also points to the relation between race and class in a relatively homogenous Creole !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! of racial culture.” She then concludes that “The named identity people carry, such as chombo, Moreno, mestizo, negro, trigueno, and mulatto, has an effect on their consciousness, how they see themselves, how they are seen by others, and what they believe others think of them” (25). This is quite similar to what we will see in the literature of the Claridosos.

! 36! society. As Lobban writes, “Once the majority population of Crioulos or mestiços was established, other factors were added to the equation. Higher levels of wealth, power, educational status, and class position began to ‘lighten’ a person’s ‘racial’ classification, while poverty, uncourth behavior, and illiteracy ‘darkened’ it” (57). In this context, the designation “branco” does not necessarily refer to the color of skin; in fact, in Cape

Verde, it will mostly likely refer to a mestiço, but, notably, one of higher socio-economic status.26

When considering the lack of African-ness present in the Claridosos work, it seems crucial to discuss Franz Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks. This theoretical study outlines precisely this identification of the black man with his white oppressor, and the resultant negation of the black identity. That is, the black man himself begins to interiorize the rhetoric of the “bad” black man constantly propagated by the whites.

Seeing white culture as representative of what is good, they begin to imitate these elements. This concept is particularly interesting in the case of Cape Verde, where the mestiço population does, in fact, also have white heritage and where many elements of the Portuguese culture were, and indeed continue to be, a stronghold in society. The hyper valorization of the European elements of the Cape Verdean culture, as well as the absence of signs of the African heritage, seems to be a symptom of what Fanon discusses—and can help us understand the Claridosos’ perception of Cape Verde as a

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 26 Further, as Russell G. Hamilton demonstrates, even Mariano’s celebration of the mestiço tends to downplay the African suffering and express a sense of Cape Verdean exceptionalism in regards to the other African colonies, in his claim that Cape Verde saw the Africanization of the European, and that it is only in Cape Verde that the races together formed a cultural space in which all feel that they belong, in contrast to other Portuguese ex-colonies such as São Tomé and Príncipe, Brazil, and Angola. As Hamilton points out, this expresses the viewpoint that the base of the culture is European—who was then Africanized—and not vice-versa (241-2). Again, even while celebrating the mestiço, Mariano is privileging the European heritage.

! 37! region of Portugal, and their lack of fight for independence from the colonizer. Here, we could also consider the fact that the movement was entirely based in Mindelo, including writers from the Barlavento island group: the writers were from the Mindelo elite, highly influenced by European culture, and the Barlavento islands, where the African culture is less dominant than in the Sotavento group.27

Fanon also considers the position of those from the Antilles in comparison with those from Africa—there is a parallel to be drawn between this relationship and that between Cape Verdeans and Angolans, Mozambicans, and Guineans. As Fanon argues,

Antillians do not see themselves as Africans, precisely due to their creole heritage. They, therefore, perceive themselves to be superior to Africans from the French colonies on the continent—Fanon gives the example of the differentiation made between Antillians and the Senegalese. We can see this same dynamic between Cape Verdeans and those from the other Portuguese colonies on continental Africa—due to their partly white heritage, they also differentiated themselves from other Africans.28 It was not only them who made this distinction, however; the Portuguese government also used these racial dynamics to their advantage, placing Cape Verdeans in mostly burocratic positions of relative power on the continent, where they essentially became representative of the white man.

Dulce Almada Duarte makes another argument, however, in “Literatura e

Identidade: Uma Abordagem Sociocultural.” In order to understand the racial discourse !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 27 The island of Santiago is considered the most African of the Cape Verdean islands.

28 An example of this attitude can be found in Ilhéu de Contenda. When Eusébio’s brother from Lisbon compares Cape Verde to Angola, the former replies: “Angola é Angola, Cabo Verde é Cabo Verde. Não queiras comparar a gente daqui com os selvagens de Angola. O povo daqui come de tudo quanto tu comes, e se às vezes não come é porque não tem posses para isso. Ao passo que em Angola o preto se satisfaz apenas com a fuba. Além disso, enquanto lá vocês os obrigam a trabalhar debaixo do chicote, aqui experimenta só ameaçar alguém com chicote” (163).

! 38! in the Claridosos’ writing, Duarte compares the literary and socio-political realities of

Cape Verde in the 1930s with that of Angola and São Tomé e Príncipe. She argues that, given the extensive miscegenation and the fact that the Crioulo had “triumphed” in Cape

Verdean culture, the identity of Cape Verde as a homogeneous nation was formed long before independence. In the other African colonies, the fact that nation does not correspond directly to state, and that various tribes were arbitrarily joined together in one

Nation-State, meant that the nations and the writers had to search for an identity with which to combat the colonial forces, and often turned to négritude. Since Cape Verde had a cohesive collective identity, writers could simply assert this specific identity. As Duarte writes, “sem complexos, os claridosos se afirmaram como cabo-verdianos e não como africanos” (13). While this is a valid and convincing argument, it does not account for the attempts at distanciation from Africa made by the Claridosos, which is a gap that

Dulce Almada Duarte does indeed recognize. Still, this argument may help us understand yet another one of the intricacies of the Cape Verdean discussion of race.

Interestingly, it is the Portuguese Manuel Ferreira who will begin to discuss these questions in his short stories published in the 1950s. “D. Ester, chá das cinco” and

“Amarito” both focus on questions of miscegenation and racial hierarchies as they apply to the Cape Verdean experience. These two stories have Portuguese characters that are central to the plot and to these discussions, since they serve as the definition of “pure” whiteness to which the Cape Verdeans will be compared. The privileged position of the

Portuguese in Cape Verde—where they are much better off than they were in Portugal— is also highlighted.

! 39! The protagonist of “D. Ester, chá das cinco,” D. Ester, came from a humble

Portuguese background, to live a facilitated life of tédio in Cape Verde. She dedicates herself to her social life—in her free time, she enjoys reading novels and learning

English. In Cape Verde,

esperava-a um novo ciclo da sua vida, boa casa, criadas as necessárias e uma mensalidade que ela jamais sonhara, livre de preocupações e trabalhos, a pouco e pouco se adaptando, uma visita hoje, um baile entretanto, festa de anos, reunião no Grémio, encontro na igreja ou na praia da Matiota e ei-la avançando na sociedade do Mindelo feliz da convivência e das facilidades de toda a ordem… (100-101).

This is a status granted automatically to D. Ester due to her racial background. As a result, she constantly expresses a clear sense of superiority, and sentiments of disdain for miscegenation and for blacks. In her afternoon visits with friends, they discuss these ideas, and their sense that there should be a distinct separation between whites and blacks.

When D. Ester expresses disdain for the mixture of races and a sense of white superiority, her young daughter Mirita becomes confused, not understanding how such a definitive delineation can be made between black and white, especially in a place like

Cape Verde, where miscegenation is precisely what gave birth to this creole culture. She ponders about the differences, and when she questions her mother, D. Ester is unable to give her a satisfactory explanation, uninterested in and irritated by her daughter’s conversation: “Oh, filha, os pretos porque são pretos? Olha, porque não são brancos.

Porque havia de ser? Deus quis assim” (108). Mirita further questions her mother, who continues to be incapable of supplying a satisfactory response. When Mirita asks if black people are like whites, the elder responds that “são e não são. É como quem diz. Eles são

! 40! pretos e nós somos brancos. São raças diferentes. Uma não se compara a outra” (108).

In this moment, D. Ester indubitably separates the two racial groups—they are so different, they cannot even be compared.

D. Ester eventually loses her patience and tells her young daughter to go play as she opens her novel to ignore Mirita. Instead, the young girl decides to ask Andresa, the mestiça housekeeper, what is race and what separates black from white. When the young girl recounts her mother’s explanation to the housekeeper, she notices that the only difference between Dona Ester and her maid, for example, is their skin and hair color: the maid’s eyes are even blue, Mirita observes. Thus, the child, still not conditioned by society’s definitions of race, comes to the conclusion that skin color does not and should not separate two groups.

Further, the young girl will challenge her mother’s hypocrisy in going to a mulata tutor to learn English. When she realizes the irony in the situation, she decides that pointing it out to her mother will be the ultimate comeback the next time they are in an argument: eventually the day will come when she will, in fact, confront her mother on her hypocrisy when she is irritated.

Manuel Ferreira’s “Amarito” similarly reflects on the question of miscegenation; this time, however, the protagonist is the white, Portuguese father of a black son. As the two return to Lisbon, Amaro, the Portuguese father, is overwhelmed with anxiety, as he will have to face the racial prejudices towards his son upon arrival. He is especially apprehensive about the reactions of his family—specifically, he fears his father’s potential rejection.

! 41! As Amaro observes his sleeping son and his physical traits indicating his African heritage, he realizes why he was not happy for his so long desired return: “Aconteceu então uma coisa. Uma cicatriz dava sinal de si. Vinha lá de trás. Da ilha. Onde o facto o tinha preocupado. Pouco. Mas preocupara. Era isto: na metrópole o miúdo podia tornar-se motivo de inquietação” (116). He realizes that in Lisbon, away from the islands of Cape Verde where mulatos are the majority of the population, many may not accept his child, nor the fact that Amaro was romantically involved with a black woman. If it was commonplace in Mindelo and, therefore, easily forgotten, it is something that becomes increasingly visible on the voyage to Portugal: “à medida que os contactos se prolongavam com as horas de derrota ia-se pondo à sua consciência o prestígio da pele branca—e mais escuro o filho lhe parecia” (116). He recalls the letter from his father who writes to tell him to refrain from becoming involved with an African woman, reminding the son of the “desgosto” a black grandson would bring to the family.

While these prejudiced feelings bring anguish to Amaro, he does not have the courage to confront them, nor to assert and defend his son. As a result, he does not plan for his family to come receive him at the port, relinquishing that moment of joy out of the knowledge that, in his case, it will not be a warm reception. He decides that he will bring the boy to the house to introduce him to the family—but he loses the courage and, on the way to Almirante Reis, asks the taxi driver to stop the car, then stands hopeless in the

Praça do Comércio. It is here that he will run into an old friend who will condescendingly smile as he asks Amaro: “Eh, pàzinho, isto é teu?” (122). Amaro, once again, cowers away from the opportunity to assert himself and his son—unable to ask his friend to stop, he gives a half-hearted smile that shows his lack of comfort with the situation, his own

! 42! lack of confidence in his relationship to the young mulato boy. He feels a sense of suffocation, which worsens when Amarito asks when he will go to meet his Portuguese grandfather—“Os olhos de Amaro continuavam suspensos, alarmados” (123).

With that, the story ends. We do not find out if Amaro takes his son to his family’s house—this is not the most important question. The issue at hand is, instead, the heavy, suffocating presence of racial prejudice. The three generations of males act and respond to this constant presence in varying ways—Amarito’s father, representative of the Portuguese of the metropolis, shows a disdain for blacks and for the idea of a

Portuguese fathering a mulato son, while Amaro is stuck in an ambiguous position, moved both by his love for his son and his awareness of society’s reaction, and young

Amarito is innocent in the face of all of this, still unaware of racial tensions and simply wanting to go meet his Portuguese grandfather.

These two stories begin the dialogue with the complicated racial heritage of the

Cape Verdean population through the use of child characters. These children appear in these stories in order to challenge accepted racial attitudes—whether or not the challenge is assumed. In “D. Ester, Chá das Cinco”, it is the young Mirita herself who questions the basis of racial divide and insists on what is similar between blacks and whites, instead of what distinguishes them from each other. In “Amarito,” the innocent, young boy is

Amaro’s chance to fight racial prejudices, to assume and assert his child as a young mulato boy. In this case, however, Amaro is unable to do so—like the other adults, he is too conditioned by society’s racist thought. Yet, the vague conclusion of the story does leave it open to interpretation—the possible thought that Amaro will derive enough strength to fight received and unjust ideas from his love for his son is not eliminated.

! 43! Teixeira de Sousa’s Ilhéu de Contenda is perhaps the first Cape Verdean work to deal explicitly and in-depth with the question of race. The novel, published in 1978 (but written prior to this date, and set in 1964), takes place on the island of Fogo and deals with the transition of power between the old, white Portuguese families, namely the

Medina and Veiga families, who traditionally dominated the island, and the rising class of creoles who are taking on more prominent positions in society. The reader gains access to the perspective of the white, Portuguese family in social and political decline after the loss of the matriarch—as such, blatant racist attitudes are exposed in regards to the rise of the mulatos in society. As José Luís Hopffer Cordeiro Almada writes,

… o racismo actualiza-se como reacção de desespero das classes brancas dominantes face à sua queda social irreversível, ilustrável… No entanto, várias são as nuances que tornam a problemática do racismo mais interessante, pelos vários factores humanos que se revelam no relacionamento entre os indivíduos e as classes sociais e a natureza irreversível da mestiçagem em Cabo Verde (230).

It is these nuances in the racial discourse that I will explore in this section.

These racist attitudes are, of course, juxtaposed with the discourse that racism does not exist in Cape Verde. When Felisberto, a particularly resentful member of the Medina da Veiga family, is speaking to an administrator visiting from Portugal, this question comes to the forefront. Felisberto begins by reminding the visitor of the superiority of the

Portuguese, lamenting their diminishing presence on the island: “O senhor Inspector sabe, as melhores famílias do Fogo têm cem por cento de sangue português. O que é que a maioria dos brancos já se foram embora de cá” (120). The inspector replies, noting ingenuously that there does not seem to be racism on the island: “Vi pretos e brancos distribuídos pela sala sem qualquer discriminação. Sim, em Cabo Verde os pretos e os brancos têm iguais oportunidades na vida. Tanto faz por exemplo que o cargo de

! 44! presidente da Câmara seja exercido por um branco ou por um preto. É uma sociedade curiosa” (120-21). Felisberto’s response reveals the type of disguised racism that exists in the society:

Sim, isso é verdade. Mas há uns mulatos revoltados que não se conformam com a sua condição. Chegam mesmo a ser antipatriotas. E quando ocupam lugares de destaque, tornam-se inclusivamente perigosos para os outros, pois podem pegar- lhes a revolta (121).

Felisberto is contradicting precisely what the inspector is claiming, while agreeing that there is, for the most part, racial harmony on the island. For Felisberto, however, this racial harmony is subject to those of color knowing their place and “accepting their condition.” Any mulato or black person that aspires, and is able to, reach a position of prestige is seen, by Felisberto, as a threat to the nation. That is, they are a threat to the status quo, to the social and political dominance of the Portuguese. This especially when they are in positions of prominence, for they have the power to reach others and influence their way of thinking against the Portuguese.

The rest of the novel is laden with racist remarks, especially from Felisberto, who is especially angry because he is convinced that the mulato Dr. Vicente is courting his daughter. Still, others are also concerned with maintaining the position of the whites on the island, namely Eusébio, the protagonist of the story, who aims to inherit and own the

Ilhéu de Contenda after his mother’s death. Part of this desire is the wish to maintain the prestige of the whites on the island:

Os brancos formavam uma elite que não podia desaparecer. Não podiam desistir da sua posição e das responsabilidades sociais e morais para com o povo humilde. O contrário seria traição, inclusivamente. Manuel Feitor e tantos mais que sempre lhe dedicaram fidelidade canina não podiam ser traídos. A ilha foi grande quando precisamente ninguém duvidava de que os Medinas, os Veigas, os Fonsecas, os Vieiras, tinham competência para conduzir o destino do Fogo. A

! 45! partir do dia em que se começou a aceitar as misturas na sociedade, gente de sobrado de braço dado com gente de funco, tudo começou a andar mal (72).

Eusébio supports a divided society, stratified by race. He sees it as his obligation, then, to maintain the honor of the white Portuguese by maintaining his position on the island—he understands this as an “obligation” to the “povo humilde,” expressing a reactionary worldview in response to the social ascension of blacks and mulatos. According to him, the island was at its highest glory when the power of the wealthy white families was unquestioned—now that blacks and mulatos are occupying spaces that were once limited to the whites, the island has entered into decline, “tudo começou a andar mal.” While he may defend Dr. Vicente or other mulato characters to his cousin Felisberto throughout the novel, then, we see that he also has a sense of white superiority instilled within him, a status that he feels the need to uphold and protect.

Enlightenment and criticism of this hardly veiled racism are offered by these exact mulato characters of prestige, namely Dr. Vicente, and the youth, for example the

Portuguese cousin Esmeralda who visits from Lisbon. Dr. Vicente is highly critical of the mentality of the Portuguese— he is, after all, the target of many of the racist attitudes. In a conversation with his friend and fellow intellectual Ovídio, Dr. Vicente first criticizes the Portuguese government: “Alguns não são destituídos, mas pertencem todos à mesma escola de S na fivela. São todos fascistas, elitistas, racistas camuflados, paternalistas, demagogos. E não têm sobretudo competência para governar” (117). Not only does Dr.

Vicente denounce the racist attitude of the Portuguese government and colonists, but also their lack of ability to properly govern the islands. In this and many other conversations,

Dr. Vicente proves to be the most articulate speaker of the novel, reflecting his profound thought and understanding of the current situation, in contrast to the members of the

! 46! Medina de Veiga family, who cannot and will not understand the complexities of the

Cape Verdean society, nor the ills of the colonial government, nor do they formulate such profound reflection.

Dr. Vicente points to racism again in a conversation with his elder Dr. Rafael, a white man who is more accepting of the rising mulato class. It is a dialogue that considers social, geographic, economic and political questions to understand the racial reality in

Cape Verde and, as such, a fundamental exchange in understanding these questions as treated in the novel as a whole. Dr. Vicente asks Dr. Rafael for his opinion of the degradation of the white families on the island, and the elder attributes the degeneration to consanguinity. The young doctor retorts that this is a sign of racism: “... não seria isso também por motivo de uma boa dose de racismo entre as famílias brancas? Sim, saindo fora do círculo relativamente reduzido das famílias brancas, cairiam no seio das camadas negra e mulata” (265). Dr. Rafael denies this possibility, claiming that the fact that the great majority of the population of Cape Verde is mestiço, therefore “... o português não é racista” (265), to which his protegé retorts: “Mas olhe que a maioria mestiça a que o senhor se referiu não surgiu pelo casamento” (265). He rightfully points out the fact that these sexual encounters, from which the mulato class results, are not publically assumed nor legitimized through marriage, due precisely to the racist idea that whites and blacks should not marry. An example of this is our very protagonist Eusébio, whose son Chiquinho is mestiço, and who, despite their biological ties being public knowledge, refuses to admit that he is indeed the father of the young man— a case that will be discussed later on. While the elder argues that the racism is still not comparable to that of other African colonies, such as South Africa, Dr. Vicente retorts that this is due to

! 47! a lack of resources on the island for the whites to be able to establish a true economic dominance. Referring to the historic system of the latifundários, the young man reasons that as each generation passed, the whites became progressively poorer, as there was less fertile land that would provide a harvest. The emergence of a middle class, after the abolishment of slavery and the beginning of the waves of emigration to North America, only further contributed to their demise. Dr. Vicente concludes:

Senhor Doutor, todas essas deteriorações morais e físicas, como lhes chama, são epifenómenos dum processo basicamente económico. O carácter escravocrata e latifundiarista dessa sociedade, desde o seu início até o século passado, imprimiu a esta gente branca uma mentalidade racista que corresponde exactamente ao espírito de classe das sociedades unirraciais mas de economia capitalista (267).

He later summarizes: “são todos efeitos da estrutura económica, do meio geográfico, da administração pública…” (267). Dr. Vicente’s reflections, as well as his concessions to certain points from Dr. Rafael, demonstrate a profound understanding of the complexities of the Cape Verdean society, exposing the racist reality that exists and his own reasoning to find its root. In sum, he comes to the conclusion that the racism in Cape Verde is intrinsically linked to the question of economic class and status quo— since the

Portuguese were once the “owners” of much of the island, they see themselves as essentially superior, and seek to maintain their dominance.

Esmeralda, Eusébio’s niece from Lisbon, also demonstrates a much more liberal worldview, accepting Chiquinho as a part of the family and even finding herself attracted to him during her stay in Cape Verde. Chiquinho is highly conscious of his racial reality, longing for his father to publicly accept him as his son: “Era a coisa que mais ambicionava neste mundo, assinar-se Francisco Medina da Veiga, descendente declarado dos antigo donos do morgardio de Ilhéu de Contenda” (55). His racial

! 48! background causes him much turmoil as he strives to find ways to differentiate himself from other black characters— “Ah, mas ele não era tão escuro como os do doutor

Vicente. Era filho de pai branco e mãe mestiça” (55)— an obvious result of the lack of acceptance of his family, with the exception of his grandmother and, as we will come to see, his cousin Esmeralda. As Teixeira de Sousa demonstrates in his text “A estrutura social da Ilha do Fogo em 1940,” this is a common trait of the mestiço, in a constant attempt to be recognized as white and to assert superiority over the mulato and the black man.29 For this reason, when Teixeira de Sousa speaks of the independence and important of the mulato class, he does not include the mestiço in this group, since he sees them as sharing the ideals of the white man.

In fact, Esmeralda is the character who will serve as a catalyst to Chiquinho’s personal growth and greater self-confidence. Still at the beginning of her trip, the importance of this relationship is underlined: “Ela puxava bastante por ele, levando-o a confiar cada vez mais em si e a acreditar que acabaria por ser integrado verdadeiramente na família… Enfim, a rapariga aceitava-o plenamente sem lhe dar a perceber qualquer diferença de origem ou condição” (136). Later, she will encourage him to strive for other goals in life— not to receive his father’s name, but to assert his own name, for he himself has the strength to achieve great successes. She doesn’t see

Chiquinho as a sum of his racial and cultural differences, nor does she in any way find him inferior to her— instead, she encourages him to achieve for himself all that he hopes the name of his white father will give him, guaranteeing him that he himself possesses all of the traits necessary to do so. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 29 Teixeira de Sousa places the mestiço and the mulato in different categories. The mestiço is the offspring of a white father and black mother, while a mulato is the offspring of two mestiço parents. Many other authors tend to use the terms interchangeably.

! 49! Teixeira de Sousa’s Ilhéu de Contenda is a vital work to consider when discussing race in Cape Verdean literature— being the first to explore in such detail the question of racial conflict, revealing and unmasking the realities of inequality, in order to critique it, and to attempt to understand it.

It is important to note that, as Almada affirms, this novel is one of few that portrays Cape Verde on the eve of independence and, thus, “os sintomas da próxima eclosão da liberdade encontram-se expressos, de forma variada” (230). The symptoms named by Almada include referring to the metropole as Portugal (therefore demonstrating difference, a sense that it is a separate nation), in the open denunciation economic situation and a lack of development at the hands of the colonial powers, the criticism of the forced emigration to São Tomé, and the oppression incarnated by the state police,

PIDE (230). Considering this in conjunction with the racial discourse, it is clear that

Teixeira de Sousa’s work clearly demarcates a turning point in the socio-political discourses of Cape Verdean writers.

Ilhéu dos Pássaros, a collection of short stories by Orlanda Amarílis published in

1984, will also touch on the question of race. Although most of the stories deal with the question in a more subtle manner, like the comment in “Thonon-les-Bains” about the weak moral character of the whites of São Vicente, who consider themselves superior, or the uncle in “Canal Gelado” that pays his niece to not speak creole, in order to assimilate more into white culture, it is in the story “Xanda” that Amarílis pays most attention to racial matters.

The protagonist of the story, Xanda, is a white Cape Verdean adolescent with blonde hair. Her sister, Faninha, with whom she shares both parents, has darker skin and

! 50! more African traits. This serves as a topic of contention between the sisters—Xanda constantly exhibits a condescending attitude in regards to her sister. Their relationship, in fact, is quite an unstable one—the opening scene shows the two girls laughing and enjoying each other’s company, before Xanda suddenly changes her attitude. When

Faninha asks why Xanda is laughing, the latter snaps back that she does not have to explain her reason, to the bewilderment of Faninha: “Faninha nunca chega a perceber quando a irmã se desquilibra e se desvia das normas. Tão depressa passa de uma situação de convívio para um nível provocador sem explicação. Para confirmar, Xanda lançou um rol de agressividades. ‘Bruta, estúpida, quadrúpeda. Sai do meu quarto sua fuinha. Cabelo bedjo!” (104). Faninha responds to the racist remark about her hair by asking her sister what the importance is in the fact that Xanda is white with blonde hair.

Xanda responds: “Quer dizer eu sou branca e tu és uma pretinha de cabelo cuscus. Sou mais bonita do que tu” (104). These aggressions are coming from within the most intimate of spaces, a space that is convoluted by the rarity of the sisters being of different skin colors, despite sharing the same parents, as the mother will later point out. The person with whom Faninha should most identify is, instead, the one who constantly belittles her.

Xanda’s swift change in disposition—going from laughing with her sister to abruptly telling her to leave her room—is also important to consider, as it is yet another sign of what she perceives as her superiority. When arguments between the sisters, like this one, occur, the mother reminds Xanda that they are sisters, from the same parents— she is not superior to Faninha. Perhaps we can look at the two sisters and their complex relationship as representative of the relationship between the white and the black in Cape

! 51! Verde: a seemingly amicable relationship that has the capacity to turn volatile at any moment, when the whites decide to exert or exhibit a sense of power. The mother’s reminder that the two are sisters and are therefore no different, then, may serve as a reminder of the need for equality between the races.

The reality of the lack of equality, however, is only further underlined throughout the rest of the story. In the beginning, we learn from Faninha that Xanda has a habit of provoking PIDE officers as the girls walk home from school. When Xanda and her mother are called in to the administrative office, the elder is sure that her daughter will be in trouble. Instead, the officers request that Xanda return the next day, this time without her mother. While we do not have access to the conversation on the following day, we soon learn that Xanda has become involved with one of the officers, and shortly after departs for Lisbon, where she serves as an undercover spy for the regime within the Cape

Verdean community of Campo de Ourique. Her privilege based on her skin color is clear here—instead of being punished for her provocation, as her mother had learned to fear as the only possible result, she is “rewarded” for her audacity by the colonial system.

Fátima Bettencourt, another short story writer, published Semear em Pó in 1994.

This collection consists of, as the writer herself writes in the preface, “recordações e informações de infância.” In her narratives of a still colonial Cape Verde, we can see various moments in which the characters experience a conscience awakening to the existence of racism in the islands. In the story, “Vôvô (Uma história de amor e morte)”, for example, the narrator remembers the white people who were friendly with her and her family in the countryside, and ignored them in the city. For the narrator, this was the indication that there was something that differentiated whites and blacks: “Foi assim que

! 52! descobri que gente branca era mesmo diferente. Pela vida fora confirmei a minha convicção. No Liceu algumas colegas dessa espécie me conheciam e falavam muito bem mas ao encontrá-las no cinema, elas nos camarotes, eu na bancada, o seu olhar me atravessava como se eu fosse uma simples vidraça” (11). The racism, then, is a subtle one, in these cases a passive one, in which the whites refused to be associated with blacks for fear of the potential social repercussions, and therefore simply ignored their presence, in a dehumanizing attempt to distance themselves.

The story “Boa Raça,” which recalls the experience of “prima Antónia” on the plantations of São Tomé, also expresses ideas of racial difference. Indeed, the story opens with the declaration: “Prima Antónia era branca de lisos cabelos pretos” (29).

Immediately, her racial identity takes precedence in the story. When she goes to São

Tomé, hopeful to find a new, prosperous life, she is disappointed. When an official examines and evaluates her, he exclaims “Você é de boa raça!!!”, to which Antónia, offended by such disregard for her European heritage, responds: “Com devida atenção e respeito, raça é raça de cabra. Eu sou de boa família. Minha avó era uma branca da

Europa, mais branca do que o senhor” (30). This affirmation does not win her good graces with the colonist, who sends her to the hardest duties of the plantation for her rebuttal. While she expresses superiority because of her white grandmother, the white colonist considers her inferior for her African heritage. If before Antónia was of “a good race,” this changed when she, a contract worker from Cape Verde, attempted to assert herself—a clear sign of the racial injustices and social prejudices that predominated, and the spectrum of racial identities both in Cape Verde and in the Portuguese empire in general.

! 53! Political Rhetoric in Cape Verdean and Azorean Literature: 1930s – 1970s

The work of the Claridosos lacks forceful political rhetoric. In fact, there is little to no denunciation of the colonial power in the writings of this generation. While the

Cape Verdean suffering is constantly highlighted in their works, the writers do little to pinpoint where to place the blame, and instead underline the strength and pain of the people, ascribing it mostly to powers beyond human reach, such as the geographic and climatic ones.

It is in Manuel Lopes’s Os Flagelados do Vento Leste that we see one of the very few moments in which the colonial situation is brought to question and blamed for the expansive misery that is wreaking havoc on the island of Santo Antão, albeit still in a very subdued manner. In fact, although it is implied, the political situation is not specified. At the end of the novel, José da Cruz is wandering down the street, miserable, skinny, exhibiting the effects of his stubbornness in refusing to leave his land, even when his land gave him nothing in return. He comes across nhô Lourencinho, an older man seen by some as a philosopher, and by others, as a crazy man. The wise old man attempts to make José da Cruz see that he should no longer fight against the will of the land—that giving up will not make him undignified or dishonorable. He then reflects on the situation at hand:

Tu que caíste desta maneira é porque estás errado. Ou os outros é que estão errados. Não sei, e não me importa. Algo não está direito no meio disto tudo… Algo está errado. Algo está errado no meio disto tudo (205).

This is the one moment in which it is hinted that there is something intrinsically wrong with the situation—something that has nothing to do with the land, but that has human agency behind it. There is something wrong, and it is someone’s fault. While

! 54! Lourencinho initially suggests that the fault may be that of José da Cruz himself, he immediately recognizes that it may be in the hands of “the others.” The others, those not suffering: the government, particularly central powers in Lisbon, who provide no aide in these dire situations. The government is indeed absent—both during these crises and in the narrative of the novel. In this one instance in which it is implicitly referred to, the author still opts not to name them.

Perhaps this is an intentional move precisely to denounce this absence. In any case, we can undoubtedly conclude that Manuel Lopes, like the other Claridosos, was in no way militant in his denunciation of the colonial powers. Instead, he exposes the harsh truths of their reality. He spares no detail in this process, nor does he in any way glorify the situation or even the attachment to the land. Still, however, he rarely points a finger— it seems less important to him to place the blame, and it is more pressing to first expose the misery.

In Galo Cantou na Baía, there is a similar fleeting moment of denunciation, of recognition of the injustices suffered by Cape Verdeans at the hands of the colonial government. It appears in the final story of the collection, “Ao Desamparinho (Do

Caderno de Apontamentos de Eduardinho).” Eduardinho is confronted by his colleague

Tuca, a new member of the group, who condemns the intellectuals for their lack of denunciation: “Lá vens tu! Prefiro que me fales da nossa realidade, da vida que vivemos, da luta que lutas para sobrevivermos, e deixes Confúcio para lá…. O vosso papel não é decerto solucionar, mas denunciar… Se as coisas não estão correndo bem, sugiram qualquer saída, interroguem, colaborem, com inquéritos, com ideias, com as armas de que vocês dispõem” (169). Eduardinho defends himself in the face of confrontation:

! 55! “Que estás pr’aí a dizer?! Julgas que somos políticos? Nunca sonhámos ser deputados.

Nem temos a ilusão de endireitar nada. Íamos direitinhos ao Tarrafal” (170). This quote takes on a double significance, especially considering that the group to which Eduardinho belongs bears striking similarities with the Claridosos. In the first place, it points to the censorship and oppression, the recognition of the fact that one cannot speak out against the regime without being imprisoned, and therefore the fear to voice dissident opinions.

In a second look, however, we can see another meaning: perhaps an attempt to convey an explanation for the lack of outright condemnation of the political system. That is, if

Eduardinho and his group serve as a representation of the Claridosos, we can understand the lack of strong political rhetoric as being due to, at least in part, the knowledge that any forceful criticism will result in silencing and imprisonment. When keeping this in consideration, perhaps we can better understand the emphasis placed on the valorization of the Cape Verdean islands, culture, and people, and the persistence in underlining the suffering, but not so much in the indictment of the social and political causes of these hardships. Still, just as in Os Flagelados de Vento Leste, this example does not completely lack some form of condemnation: despite Eduardinho’s denial of the ability to do so, Tuca underlines the importance of denunciation, of more than just exposure of the misery. Similar to what happens in the previously discussed novel, Lopes points to the fact that there are indeed ills to be discussed in this society, without taking an outright political stance and denouncing the imperialistic Portuguese government.

The Azorean case shows a similar phenomenon: just as the Claridosos were more concerned with a literature that manifested cabo-verdianidade, the earliest writers of

Azorean prose dedicated their literature to expressing the Azorean reality, doing little to

! 56! speak about the political situation or their position within the empire.

Vitorino Nemésio is, undoubtedly, the fundamental example for this time period: his short stories, as well as his novel Mau Tempo no Canal, in fact, serve as one of the foundations for how we, today, understand açorianidade. The pages of his writing are colorful, incarnating the reality of his island of Terceira, and filled with linguistic regionalisms, references to the land, and a contemplation of the islander’s reality, simultaneously individualized and universal. There is, however, no stance against the

Salazar regime and the peripheral status of the Azorean islands.

In Mau Tempo no Canal, however, we can see a certain socio-political commentary in reference to the elite of Faial and their relationship with the proletariat of the neighboring island, Pico. Still, while the narrator is certainly sympathetic to the

Picoenses, portraying them as an honest, hardworking people, they are, by no means, the greatest victim of the Faialense aristocracy: the protagonist, Margarida Clark Dulmo, is the character that we see suffer the most at the hands of insularity and her own elevated position in society.

This is not to say that Nemésio glorifies the Azorean condition—quite to the contrary, he reflects constantly on the human suffering on the islands. The short story

“Misericórdia,” for example, focuses on the solidarity of a family as an earthquake shakes the island, while “Mar Bravo” tells the story of Manuel Velhinho, who dies at sea.

Many other stories focus on the emigration to the Americas, as a result of the lack of means for basic survival that permeated the islands. The resignation of the Azorean people is also a leitmotif in his short stories: we constantly see characters succumbing to their destiny and to the will of God and, even, of others. The short story “Alma de Deus”

! 57! illustrates this through with its protagonist José Vieira, whose nickname gave title to this piece and conveys an image of innocence and servitude. In fact, the narrator uses the word “servório” (79) to describe him, and the narrator explains that his wife is the one who makes the decisions for him. The reader notices an undeniable sense of resignation portrayed in José Vieira, who accepts his life and duties as they come, keeping his faith in

God. We can look at José Vieira as a metonym of the Azorean society at the time— resigned to the dominance of others (the central government), and turning to religion for hope for the future.

It is interesting to note that Manuel Ferreira, born in raised in Portugal, but resident of Cape Verde and a member of Certeza, the literary movement immediately following Claridade, would more openly criticize the socio-political situation of Cape

Verde in his works Hora di Bai, Morna, and Morabeza— the latter two being short story collections that would later be published as a whole under the title Terra Trazida.30

Ferreira also highlights the departure of many Cape Verdeans to São Tomé, where they work in slave-like conditions.

In his story “A raiva de nhô João,” it is precisely in regards to this reality that the political denunciation arises. The story takes place during the festa de São João, which would normally be a time of rejoicing and celebration, and a means of escaping from the suffering that lasts all year. This year, however, the city administrator prohibited dancing from taking place during the feast: “O administrador proibiu a dança de coladeira, como se fosse comida bebida coisa sagrada da vida. O povo gosta e sente a falta. O povo agora vai sentindo falta de muita coisa que lhe vão tirando, sim, senhor” (214). The !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 30 As Cape Verdean literary scholar Luís Romano writes, the writers of Certeza took a more defined political stance than their predecessors of Claridade. This, however, was short-lived, since the journal only published two numbers.

! 58! concept of the government taking from the people is clear here. In this case, the authorities are taking those brief moments of joy that the dance offers and which are anticipated throughout the year. Nhô João hints, however, that the dance is not the only thing taken from the people—many things are taken, and are missed, indeed. The fact that he earlier likens the dance to food and drink—as they are all sacred parts of life— implies that these goods are also held from the people by the government.

The gloomy, despaired tone is undeniable throughout this short story. Still, nhô

João maintains some hope—though it is not in those people who run the country. When he is asked if “Cabo Verde vai acabar em nada?” (214), nhô João insists that it will. He points to social ills, to the hunger wreaking havoc on the islands, to the forced emigration to São Tomé e Príncipe. There is no vapor. There is no food. There is no work. While he affirms the bleak future foreseen for his land, he is not ready to give up, though. Soon after, they hear thunder begin to roll. Although the others are convinced that there will be no rain—rather, perhaps, there will be an earthquake—nhô João continues to hope for the former. His hope is not enough, however, and despair prevails at the end of this story.

The story closes with people being chased and caught to be brought forcefully to São

Tomé. Nhô João himself feels powerless—as desperation washes over him, he feels that he cannot revolt.

The denunciations present in this story are clear, even if not completely overt.

Nhô João maintains resilience throughout much of the story—his hope, however, lies within the force of nature, of his own land, and God’s mercy, and not vis-à-vis the administration of the archipelago nor the colonial government. In fact, it is precisely the socio-political reality exposed at the end—the enslavement of Cape Verdeans on the

! 59! plantations of São Tomé—that finally defeats him, and we see him overcome with despondency for the first time. The protagonist’s sense of impotency in the face of this situation only further highlights a feeling of defeat and dejection—the recognition of an

(at least so perceived) inability to revolt signifies a resignation to the current situation, its acceptance as the reality. By ending the story on this note, the writer underlines the bleak socio-political situation in Cape Verde, revealing the suffering experienced at the hands of the colonial administration.

In 1963, Onésimo Silveira will write a scathing critique of the Claridosos, entitled

“Consciencialização na literatura cabo-verdiana.” At a time of transition in political discourses across the Portuguese empire, and seven years after the creation of the African

Party for the Independence of Guinea and Cape Verde (PAIGC), he makes several charges against the writers of the preceding generation, denouncing them for their lack of political rhetoric, of considerations about race and ethnicity, and their escapist stance towards the emigration phenomenon. At the beginning of the text, he states his goal:

Demonstraremos, ao longo deste trabalho, que a literatura caboverdiana, estando profundamente ferida de inautenticidade, não traduz nem produziu uma mentalidade consciencializada e daí se ter tornado, como não é difícil verificar, em título de prestígio da elite que a vem encabeçando e não em força ao serviço de Cabo Verde e suas gentes (8).

He goes on to argue that the Claridosos’ erudite style only distanced them from the masses, “embora se servindo dest[as] para as suas criações literárias de fundo pretensamente telúrico” (9). For him, the “ascensão do mestiço,” which was an objective of the Claridosos, was a mere means for gaining individual success instead of being a socio-political tool that would result in any change for these population: “por isso é que o enraízamento tentado pelos componentes do grupo resultou numa atitude literarária

! 60! inoperante” (9).

Further, Silveira points out the clear bias towards the Barlavento islands on the part of the Claridosos, and the lack of any literary considerations of the Sotavento group; that is, the group with a more dominant African influence. Silveira writes:

A omissão do homem do grupo de ilhas geogràficamente denominado de “Sotavento”, que não sendo propositada será de qualquer modo significativa, denuncia só por si a inexistência de identificação que o Movimento pretendeu realizar com a terra caboverdiana. Atendendo a que as ilhas desses grupo são as menos ocidentalizadas, cremos haver razão lógica bastante para atribuir aquela falta de representação ao que se poderia chamar, com toda propriedade, o “barvalentismo” da literatura claridosa, isto é, a atenção quase exclusiva aos aspectos da realidade caboverdiana que, por haverem sofrido uma maior lusitanização, permitiam uma imediata coincidência entre a mentalidade saturadamente europeia dos claridosos e a matéria de observação e anotação literária (16).

Later on, he will refer to a text by Baltazar Lopes in which this Claridoso claims that there are only insignificant traces of “negroid” influence in Cape Verde, thus privileging the European and claiming it as the true foundation of the creole culture. Those of

Silveira’s generation were beginning to valorize the African components of their culture, leading to “auto-aceitação integral”, which is important, as Silveira says, to the construction of “uma imagem do homem universalmente válida” and the elaboration of

“um humanismo consequente e autêntico” (23). In order to write a truly Cape Verdean literature, of which the Cape Verdean man and his condition are the principal concerns, it is important to accept the culture as a whole, instead of validating one element of the culture over the other. The latter will result simply in a self-negation that will do little to bring progress to society.

Silveira himself had written works of fiction that reflect more profoundly on these questions. While he focuses primarily on poetry and essays, in 1960 Silveira published

! 61! the novella Toda a gente fala: Sim, senhor!, which is a story that discusses, more in depth than authors before him had, the question of forced emigration of Cape Verdeans to the islands of São Tomé and Príncipe, where they would work on coffee plantations in slave- like conditions. The novella exposes a lack of valorization of Cape Verdean lives, who are seen merely as hands to serve the Portuguese plantation owners. In the story, Cape

Verdean Tigusto hopes to bring his family to São Tomé with him. Initially, he is anguished as he attempts to find the best way to ask his boss to allow them to come work on the plantation—so much so that he is unable to play a morna, saying that he cannot play music while longing so much for his family. His request is denied—while he first attempts to go to the city and find work there with a boss that will allow for his family to come, he eventually gives up and returns to his original workplace. As the story comes to a close, we see him playing the guitar as a woman accompanies him in singing a morna: he has despaired, and has given in to his destiny, accepting that he will continue in São

Tomé alone. In the face of dehumanization—he is told that Cape Verdean women are not allowed on this plantation since all they do is get pregnant—he turns to morna, a symbol of his Cape Verdean identity, to maintain his dignity and sense of being. This time, the person responsible for this suffering is known from the beginning of the story: nhô

Loureiro, the Portuguese plantation owner. Tigusto’s eventual despair is a clear result of the Portuguese man’s attitude and belittlement of the Cape Verdean—representative of the general attitude of the other Portuguese in the city.

Also in the 1960’s, Amílcar Cabral spoke about the importance of culture in the fight for independence. In fact, he sees the maintenance of the native culture’s values as an essential need for success in the struggle: “O principal problema do movimento de

! 62! libertação — o da identificação de uma parte da pequena burguesia nativa com as massas populares— pressupõe uma condição essencial: que, contra a acção destrutiva do domínio imperialista, as massas populares preservem a sua identidade, diferente e distinta da da potência colonial” (218)31. This will be important not only for the popular masses in the maintenance of their own identity, but in a sort of persuasion of the upper class. As

Cabral will go on to explain, while the upper classes tend to identify with and mimic the dominant, European culture, many will come to realize that they are not indeed accepted as equals, and that their habits are not truly the same, and will retreat to their native culture in the search for an identity. If the masses maintain the force of this culture, it will better attract those of the pequena burguesia, thus strengthening their cause with the support of those natives with a bit more influential power. He recognizes, however, that, unfortunately, many of those belonging to this class do not fulfill this hope:

No entanto, como sucede nos casos de necessidade de uma identificação cultural, a reafirmação de uma identidade distinta da da potência cultural não é um facto generalizado no seio da pequena burguesia. Só uma minoria reafirma essa diferença, enquanto que outra minoria afirma, quantas vezes de forma espalhafatosa, a sua identificação com a classe estrangeira dominante, e a maioria, silenciosa, se debate na indecisão (224).

This lack of mobilization among the “pequena burguesia” and the upper class of natives is something that poses an obstacle to the liberation movement.

Cabral elaborates on how that minority of the middle class that is, indeed, mobilized, reaffirms their cultural identity in ways different from the mass population. Instead of upholding customs rooted in tradition, these individuals tend to borrow elements of

European culture to express their native identity. He makes another important distinction:

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 31 In: Rabaka, Reiland. Concepts of Cabralism Amilcar Cabral and Africana Critical Theory. Lanham, Md: Lexington, 2014. Print.

! 63! they express “mais a descoberta da sua identidade do que as aspirações e os sofrimentos das massas populares” (224). He also points to the question of language and the fact that the majority of the population would be incapable of reading literary works, thus limiting their reach. Still, he concludes:

Esse facto, todavia, não diminui o valor da contribução dessa minoria pequeno- burguesa no processo de desenvolvimento da luta, pois consegue influenciar, com a sua reafirmação de identidade, tanto parte dos indecisos e retardatários da sua própria categoria social como um importante sector da opinião pública da metrópole colonial, principalmente intelectuais (225).

This is precisely what the writers considered here do, starting with the Claridade movement. It should be noted, however, the adaptation of the European model to an

African tradition, which becomes increasingly notable throughout the 20th century. These marks of African-ness and, more specifically, Cape Verdean-ness are highlighted throughout this dissertation. The question of language is an important one: the inclusion of Cape Verdean creole in the literary works from the archipelago is a significant way in which the writers move away from the European model. Of course, this does not remedy the situation of the mass population’s inability to read the texts, since the fact remains that they are still, in their majority, written in Portuguese. It does, however, demonstrate an inclusion of an important element that helps to define the Cape Verdean culture vis-à- vis the colonial one. In the same vein, the orality of these texts, which becomes significantly more pronounced as we enter the 1960s and 1970s, also bring an African element to the European format: the tradition of story-telling, demonstrated both through the marks of oral expression such as vocabulary and phonetic writing, as well as a lack of linearity in the stories, gains great prominence in Cape Verdean writing. A Ilha

Fantástica, by Germano Almeida, is a great example of this form of expression.

! 64! Amílcar Cabral concludes: “As manifestações culturais adquirem um novo conteúdo e novas formas de expressão, tornando-se assim um poderoso instrumento de informação e formação política, não apenas na luta pela independência como também na primordial batalha do progresso” (236). To fulfill this important role, however, the cultural manifestation must be authentic. He argues

A apreciação correcta do papel da cultura no movimento de libertação exige que… se evite qualquer confusão entre o que é expressão de uma realidade histórica e material e o que parece ser uma criação de espírito, separada dessa realidade, ou o resultado de uma natureza específica, que não seja estabelecida uma conexão absurda entre as criações artísticas, válidas ou não, e pretensas características psíquicas e somátiacs de uma “raça” (235).

Perhaps we can relate this to Silveira’s argument against the Claridosos, and the shift in discourse in the 1960s. That is, the work of the Claridosos was not rooted substantially in the historic or material history of Cape Verde— the question of race and political injustice, as well as many African elements of Cape Verdean culture, are absent. This will change in the 1960s— the literary manifestations of cabo-verdianidade not only begin to more openly denounce the ills of the empire and questions of racial inequality, but they will also demonstrate a greater appreciation of the African legacy in Cape

Verdean culture.32

The 1960s will also bring a change in political rhetoric in Azorean literature. Race will not, for obvious reasons, be a theme here, but the class struggle will be a significant issue. At this time, the writers of what is considered the “geração Glacial,” were becoming more politicized in their production, as Álamo Oliveira attests to in his essay

“O cenário da “Geração Glacial”.” This generation is defined by their contribution to the !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 32 In retrospective, Lobban makes the same claim for the importance of cultural identity in the fight for independence. As he writes, “Cape Verdean cultural identity is shown to have been transformed into a source of political power. ‘Cape Verdeanity’ was counterposed to Portuguese culture as a means of asserting self-determination and achieving national liberation (146).

! 65! literary supplement “Glacial,” which was initiated in 1967. That is, the supplement arose in a time in which a war with which most Portuguese did not identify had been being fought for seven years, loss and mourning has become the norm among families in

Portugal, and Salazar is still in power—in this context, it makes sense that the writers of this generation were more vocal in their denunciation of the government. As Oliveira writes:

Glacial transmitiu um discurso comprometido com a necessidade de mudanças sociais e políticas, afrontando e confrontando o poder instituído, denunciando- lhe as mazelas, os dislates e as prepotencies, transformando-se, nos Açores, em voz única, porque aglutinador de todas as vozes que, utilizando gramáticas estéticas diferentes, assinaram o mesmo discurso (56).

Among the members of this group, which included Álamo Oliveira, Marcolino Candeias,

Urbano Bettencourt, Carlos Faria, and João de Melo, was the, slightly older, Dias de

Melo.

Dias de Melo’s Mar pela Proa, written in the mid-1960s but only published in

1976, is one of the first examples in prose in which we see a clear denunciation of the injustices experienced in the islands (thought not comparable to what took place in Cape

Verde), with implicit references to the central government in Lisbon. In direct opposition to these forces is the group of whalers who begin their own company after being exploited by the owner of the whaling fleet. This group, known as the Companhia Nova, but with the official name of Armação dos Baleeiros Sempre Unidos (49), was formed with Marxist ideals— each whaler had an equal share in the company, so as to not give unequal power to any one person. As such, the very structure of the company attempts to eliminate the effects of corruption previously experienced by the whalers, and which mirrors the tyrannical characteristics of the Salazar regime.

! 66! This new sense of freedom and self-determination is highlighted from early on in the novel when João Terra Negra sings a chamarrita on board. While the first verse refers to the notion that the boats belong to the men themselves, the second underscores the fact that they will no longer answer to others: “Estes são os nossos botes,/ Acabou-se a escravidão!/ Mais ninguém nos põe os pés/ Em riba do coração” (28). This is one of the first instances of an allusion to the previous unfair treatment of the whalers, the story of which is told in flashbacks throughout the novel. It is a moment of self-affirmation: Terra

Negra sings that the men will no longer answer to others, who only humiliate them and crush their spirits. He refers to the previous relationship between the whalers and the bosses as one of slavery— this comparison clearly denounces the inequalities between classes, and the injustices faced by those who depend on the powerful in order to survive, in a way that was before rarely seen in Azorean literature. As the chapter comes to a conclusion, so does the chamarrita:

Patrão Chico, patrão Chico, Dinheiro que nos tiraste! O suor que nos bebeste! O sangue que nos chupaste!

E também o roedor, O roedor do manhosão, Barriga de porco sujo De grande ladro ladrão! (...)

Os trabalhos desta vida Que trabalhos que nos dão! E quanta luta perdida! E quanta boca sem pão! (34-5).

Soon after, we learn more about the incident that served as the catalyst to the new company: the boss, Chico Gaudêncio, had promised the men três contos e duzentos

! 67! before they began the job. After its completion, he paid them a mere dois contos e cinco centavos (40). The men revolted, infuriated by the exploitation and, further, by the betrayal of those other whalers that substituted them on the boats. They marched into town to speak to the men in power, including Gaudêncio and Joaquim Marracho. Their fate is perhaps not a surprise: “Os baleeiros— nem os deixaram cruzar a porta. Presos.

Todos presos” (41). Later on, we will learn that João Laró, who was considered the head of the revolt, was sent to Lisbon: “Para lhe servir de emenda… Para deixar de se meter aonde não é chamado… Para saber que podemos cortar a língua a quem fala demais”

(48). Imprisoned for months, he is tortured as he is repeatedly questioned. “Quem te meteu essas ideias na cabeça, velho malandro?” (48) is a phrase constantly repeated, interspersed only with acts of violence. He is made to stand for hours on end, he is hit, he is kicked, he is starved. He doesn’t answer their questions, he stands strong and endures the torture. This scene is a clear reference to PIDE, the secret police that served under

Salazar’s authoritarian regime, though the author does not name the men who question

Laró. In this scene, Dias de Melo does not limit himself to simply denouncing inequalities on the island, which cause the poor to suffer at the hands of the rich. More than this, he exposes the national, institutional injustices that support and promote such local dynamics. The bosses are protected by the law— as seen initially by the fact that the whalers are arrested for revolting—and such a fact is later further substantiated when even PIDE becomes involved in the case.

This is not the only instance of corruption that we see in Mar pela Proa. When

António Marroco is lost at sea, he is flooded with memories. Among them is the time when his father was questioned for his tax receipts, one afternoon, when the officials

! 68! were going house to house requesting documents. The old man, submissive and nervous, brings his papers, in reaction to which one of the officials says that two years are missing.

After searching endlessly, Marroco’s father guarantees that he paid, and asks the men to check their own official records— a request that goes ignored. “Quanto é que há-de pagar?” Felisberto da Costa asks his colleagues, “Tens vinho… Se tivesses vinho…

Assim, pagas seiscentos escudos” interjects Siva Cascudo. Da Costa concludes “Fica em quinhentos e cinquenta” (99). Besides the fact that the men refuse to check their official records, in which they would find that the man had paid his taxes, the fine is put entirely at their discretion— there is no set fee, and instead, the men can decide in any moment what other will have to pay, influenced by what they themselves can receive in benefit.

When Marroco’s father says he cannot pay, they begin searching his house, “como se ali os donos fossem eles” (99), stripping the man of his rights to privacy and dignity. When they hear a pig in the backyard, they see the problem as solved:

— Bonito bicho! — Vou matá-lo por estes dias. É pra dar que comer à fome destas crianças. - E o pai apontava António e a irmã. — E pra pagar o relaxe, não? — Pra pagar aquilo que já paguei?! Os senhores que tenham dó de mim! …. Os homens levaram o porco (100).

There is a complete disregard for the well-being and humanity of the poor. The officials cannot be bothered by the fact that the pig is the only way the family can be fed— they abuse their power, and take away the family’s food source without just cause.

Still, the greatest quality we can see in these whalers is resilience. Determination.

A will to fight in order to survive the struggle. We see this when they begin their own company, and are ready for their former bosses to see their success: “Gaudêncio que venha, que venha o Marracho; que venham, que hoje hão-de ver os botes dos baleeiros

! 69! que mandaram prender só pelo crime de reclamarem o que tinham ganho honradamente com o sangue do seu corpo e o suor do seu rosto!” (61). It is evident when they become entangled in a storm while at sea, and have to make difficult decisions to survive. It is undeniable when Marroco spends days isolated, stranded at sea before washing ashore in

Terceira. His spirit remains strong as he maintains hope while lost in the “mar de esperanças e de sonhos” (126). When the tow boat passes him by without spotting him, he yells with furor: “Mas hei-de morrer lutando! Lutando até ao último alento! Lutando até ao último sopro de vida! Lutando! E se eu conseguir vencer… Ai que se eu conseguir vencer!... Não há-de ser um mar de esperanças e sonhos naufragados a nossa companhia baleeira!” (126). Perseverance and determination are defining characteristics for António

Marroco, as they also are for the other whalers.

The surviving men reunite at António Marroco’s home after he is rescued. They speak of the tribulations they faced, and the loss of several men and a boat. Berimbela conveys a sense of defeat: “E agora, tudo se acabou!...” (152). Marroco does not accept this, however. He insists that they will continue on with their endeavor for as long as they are breathing: “O homem, que é homem, não há nada neste mundo que o possa vencer, senão a morte! E nós estamos vivos!” (152). He reignites a sense of hope within his colleagues and friends, who agree that they will continue to fight. With that, the novel closes, but not without an added glimmer of hope, a sense of rebirth and renewal: “O sol, na cozinha, e para lá da janela, e para lá da porta da rua, o sol, o deslumbramento do sol, recobrindo o mar, os campos, a Terra inteira, de estrelas, milhares e milhares de estrelas, transbordantes de Primavera…” (153).

! 70! Mar pela Proa is one of the first Azorean works to denounce the injustices suffered at the hands of society and of the government. Through this novel, Dias de Melo unabashedly points his finger at the state, condemning its disregard for its citizens, as well as its corruption and prevalent abuse of power. It is, for this reason, an important moment on the timeline of political rhetoric in Azorean literature. Also important to note, however, is how the protagonists of this novel are not defeated by such injustices: despite their continued suffering, they, time and time again, commit themselves to fighting for the cause they believe in, to fighting for their own survival and dignity. This sense of hope is a vital component of this discourse— Dias de Melo does not limit himself to exposing the ills of Azorean and, on a larger scale, Portuguese society and the imperialistic government. In addition to this, he insists on the tenacity of the Azorean, conveying the message that the struggle will continue to be fought until justice for all is achieved.

José Martins Garcia’s works also dialogue with socio-political questions and are highly critical of the government, both pre- and post-revolution. His 1979 collection of short stories, Morrer Devagar, highlights questions of corruption and inequality in the islands—and even in the inter-island relationships—both historically and contemporaneously.

His story “Morrer Devagar”, for example, reflects on the historically exploitative relationship between the islands of Faial and Pico. Set at the time of World War II, the story underlines the close, but unequal relationship between the two islands, with the rich of Faial exploiting the poor of Pico. We see this dominance through the character of the doctor, who is unnamed, but who exerts great power in Faial. At the beginning of the

! 71! story, he prohibits the export of corn from Faial to Pico, despite knowing of the hunger that pervades the island. Still, the picoenses maintain a sense of hope that, one day, the doctor will show mercy on them: “Ela ia trazendo a pinga de água e falando no Doutor, de quem vozes esperançadas diziam que havia de ter misericórdia e visitar aquela triste gente. Mas não” (15). A particularly pungent image comes soon after, and serves to give even greater impact to these images of poverty: the story ends with young boys searching for food in the trash “de gatas” (15). People are likened to animals as a result of the crude reality with which they are faced, and before the indifference of the neighboring island, home to many of their bosses. The isolation of Pico is a heightened one—in this case, it not only stands “alone” as an Azorean island in relation to the distant mainland, but it is, indeed, alone, despite the constant visible presence of Faial, just across the canal.

Transition to Modernity in Azorean and Cape Verdean Literature: 1980s - present

Álamo Oliveira’s 1982 novel Burra Preta com uma Lágrima provides us with a satirical look to the time leading up to and immediately following the Carnation

Revolution, which resulted in the autonomy of the Azores. Throughout the novel, the reader gets the sense that nothing of true importance changes after this shift in the political reality of the islands—it is a mere superficial change and, at most, a shift of power from the few national elite to the few local elite.

Our protagonist is precisely this “burra preta,” who lives through the days of the

Carnation Revolution and sees the trajectory followed in the Azores. At the beginning of the novel, the donkey is characterized as the “último símbolo da resistência insular” (23).

Shortly after, however, we see that the donkey is “hereditariamente resignada” (25). In

! 72! this way, we can see the animal as being representative of the population of the Azores— the working class, the poor, that is, those not in a position of power. The donkey, therefore, continues in line with the characterization that has been made of the Azorean people throughout much of the literature—resigned to their fate, accepting their poor conditions, with little rebellion. This likening to the Azorean is repeated shortly later, as the narrator continues to characterize the protagonist: “Às vezes, era uma ‘burra’ alegre; outras uma ‘burra’ triste. Era mesmo açoriana de gema: temperamental e esquisita”

(33).

Still, she does represent some sort of resistance, as our narrator describes— perhaps the donkey was chosen for her stubbornness—which we can see throughout the novel in her minor aggressions against the rich and powerful, and reflections on and critiques of the political transformations—or lack thereof—after the Revolution of the

25th of April.

As mainland Portugal rejoices in the wake of the Carnation Revolution, the perspective from the Azores is much more bleak. That is, it seems as though the spring and the smell of the carnations did not travel across the sea to the Azores: “Lá fora, um aparelho de rádio fazia ouvir Zeca Afonso em ‘Grândola Vila Morena’. Era abril e os cravos estavam vermelhos. No céu, surgira um luar pasmado e absolutamente inútil”

(65). In a moment of light and hope in the rest of the country, the only light in the Azores is from a moon that is “pasmado” and “inútil”—immobile and useless. This transmits a sense of hopelessness—despite there being, indeed, some ray of hope signified by the moon, it is a hope in something that is unlikely to come to fruition. There remains a sense of stagnation, a sense that no true advancement will occur.

! 73! In the time following the revolution we see that, in fact, no true change has come about. Partly, this is attributed to the distance from the mainland—once again, the isolation of the islands plays a negative role, preventing the tides of revolution from arriving. The donkey observes that everything remains the same in the Azores, making it hard to believe that the Carnation Revolution had truly occurred. The signs of the political transition are there, but they are purely superficial: while there is autonomy, and its symbols are noticeable, it has brought no true progress. For example, there may be a new flag of the autonomous region of the Azores, but there is no change in the living conditions. The character José das Lapas observes “no ‘pedaço de pano não avisto’ pão, trabalho, escolas, estradas, habitação, transportes, e melhor serviço de saúde” (92).

Despite the many administrative responsibilities being passed to the local government, there has been no improvement in the way of life of the Azoreans. In fact, there continues to be a lack of everything that was missing before the revolution. The shift in power, then, is meaningless in terms of the actual betterment of conditions. This sentiment of dystopia permeates the rest of the novel, and is now aimed at the autonomous government. At one point, the donkey refers to the governmental palace as the “palácio do desencantamento” (92), only further pointing to this sense of disappointment in the newly appointed officials.

The donkey’s final act of resistance—perhaps that to which the narrator was referring at the beginning of the novel—comes at its very end, and leads to her life being sacrificed. As she and her owner go for a walk on a Sunday afternoon, they pass by an educated, respected man spewing hate speech outside the church to a crowd that has gathered around him. As he invokes religion and the will of God, he curses “os

! 74! vermelhos” (150), or the communists. When the man looks to his audience for support, the donkey reacts, charging the speaker in an attack that results in his going to the hospital. Scandal erupts as onlookers try to understand the event, and the donkey’s reasoning for the attack—some suspect that her owner, Tio Joaquim, deemed a

“simpatizante dos vermelhos e cúmplice de feitiçarias” (151) may have put her up to it, while others think she was scared by a sudden movement, or that she was possessed by the devil. Tio Joaquim fears the further repercussions, worried that journalists will get hold of the story and that it will spread across the island. His solution is to make a promise that, if a greater scandal does not come about, he will hold a dominga for the

Festa do Espírito Santo and give to the poor—with this, he sacrifices the life of his beloved donkey.

After the animal’s life has been taken, Tio Joaquim’s nephew and our narrator runs to console his uncle. Unexpectedly, the boy professes an impromptu eulogy: “Sabes, minha amiga, se este teu sacrifício não trouxer a salvação à ilha, bem podemos dependurar no alpendre do tempo a pouca esperança que nos resta… A paz podre que nos deram não vai frutificar no futuro” (159). The despair in a moment in which the rest of the nation is experiencing great change and a moment of hope is undeniable. If we can look at the donkey as a symbol for the Azorean people, her sacrifice becomes those which the population has made throughout history, more often than not forcibly. It is the narrator’s last hope that this sacrifice will result in some salvation. Still, that hope is rapidly dwindling. The expression “paz podre” is also particularly striking here. Once again, it suggests that the “change” brought about in the Azores was empty and futile, and that it will not lead to any true progress.

! 75! The next day, Tio Joaquim and his nephew are attentive to what the people may say about their situation. To their surprise, no one speaks of the incident: there are other topics of conversation, more relevant to the day-to-day lives of the islanders. The narrator recounts:

Na camioneta, os passageiros falavam do custo de vida, da Tap e da Base das Lajes com seus despedimentos de trabalhadores, da ganância da Ilha Grande, do novo e inútil porto da Praia – projecto eleiçoeiro de gregos e troianos em todas as campanhas políticas—, do estado do tempo, de doenças e da Caixa de Previdência com seus maus serviços, de cartas da América e do Canadá, de vacas e de pastagens, de rendas de pastos, dos preços do leite e da carne, dos governos de Lisboa e dos Açores pelo seu desgoverno, tudo exposto sobre um mapa de descontentamentos e desilusões, de enfartes e desencantos… Sobre o tal senhor doutor e Burra Preta nem um arranhão de conversa (160).

Among other, more non-political topics of conversation—the weather, cows and pastures, letters from America and Canada, and illnesses—there is an ample amount of conversation about the continually unfavorable situations in the Azores: loss of jobs, greed, unproductive projects, poor services, prices of food, and, finally, the lack of true government in the Azores. The disillusionment with the new government shows that it is simply a continuation of the past—those few projects that are undertaken to demonstrate some progress have little to no impact on the lives of the islanders. Further, particularly interesting in the question of inequality between islands—the “ganância da Ilha Grande” is referred to, suggesting a sentiment that, since much of the government is located in São

Miguel, it is this island that is receiving most funds. For the remaining eight islands, then, there is a perpetuated position of periphery, strikingly similar to that faced before autonomy—this time, it is not all the Azores forgotten by Lisbon, but it is the remaining islands forgotten by São Miguel, namely Ponta Delgada, where the regional government’s most important offices are.

! 76! This disenchantment, which comes at the end of the novel, serves as a strong critique of the Azorean government in the years immediately following the revolution and the newfound autonomy, as being years marked by little progress.

At the close of the novel, Tio Joaquim suggests that a statue be erected in honor of Burra Preta: “É que muitos o tiveram e por muito menos!” (163), he argues. Once again, this seems to be a valorization of the sacrifices of the people, underlining that they are indeed much more admirable than the actions of those political figures for whom the right to a statue is often reserved. As such, while the novel ends with a great sense of despair, this sentiment of saturation and frustration with the political system is accompanied by the glorification of the Burra Preta and, by extension, the Azorean people.

In Cape Verde, the most recent generations have paid great attention to Cape

Verde as an independent nation, and how it will grow on the world stage. O Eleito do Sol, by Arménio Vieira, is perhaps one of the novels that best conveys a sense of dystopia soon after the Carnation Revolution and the independence of Cape Verde. Published in

1990, this novel explores the realities of a newly independent Cape Verde in quite an interesting way. Vieira employs allegory to achieve this, placing the story in ancient

Egypt, and creating conflict between a young scribe and the Pharaoh. Corruption, inefficiency, and inequality run rampant in this critique of the new government which, as

Russell G. Hamilton writes, “is an audacious allegorical satire of certain acts associated with Cape Verde’s revolutionary postcolonial power struggle” (32).33 Hopffer Almada

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 33 For a more complete look at the economic and social development of Cape Verde post- independence, see Elisa Silva Andrade’s chapter (“Cape Verde”) in Patrick Chabal’s A History of Postcolonial Lusophone Africa.

! 77! underlines the importance of the placement of this novel in ancient Egypt, as a clear break with the traditions of Cape Verdean literature. As Almada writes,

O Eleito do Sol representa uma profunda cesura com o modo como até então se escreveu ficção em Cabo Verde, já porque rompe com o telurismo atávico dominante, já porque fugindo dos cânones tradicionais significa a transplantação da realidade profunda do Cabo Verde contemporâneo, ou melhor, de qualquer sociedade submetida a poderes autoritários e/ou totalitários … para uma realidade aparentemente longínqua (231).

David Brookshaw also writes about Vieira’s break with Cape Verdean literarary traditions, and how the structure of the novel reflects the political decentralization of the early 1990s. According to Brookshaw, “Political decentralisation brought with it post- modern influences, in so far as truth was also decentralist,” and that, from this novel, “a relevant message concerning modern Africa may be extrapolated” (188). As we can see, many critics have underlined the importance of political discourse in O Eleito do Sol, in which Vieira’s criticizes governamental powers and the course of the Cape Verdean political reality since independence.

An interesting conversation about which reflect on the construction of a young nation’s economy and culture takes place between the scribe and the governor in regards to cultural imports and national values. The scribe, as an intellectual, often cites “figurões estrangeiros,” as Ramósis, the governor, observes. Ramósis does not understand why he does this, given that there existed within the nation men of great merit, on par with those foreign. Even more, the emperor insists on the promotion of national values—whether it is the local wheat, or the local heroes. He concludes that, as an artist and a patriot, the scribe should avoid “as coisas importadas,” that are not to the liking of the Pharaoh nor the Gods. The scribe reacts: “Estou-me nas tintas para o que agrada ou desagrada a um imperador zanaga e com verruga no nariz! Que sabe Ramósis das coisas que os deuses

! 78! amam ou detestam? Brrr… valores nacionais? Como se os deuses, à moda de certos homens, passassem o tempo a olhar para o umbigo” (64). In a young nation like Cape

Verde, the national identity, and therefore, the national production, often takes priority.

While the Claridosos had already initiated this valorization, using literature as their vehicle in the 1930s, it gained a new importance post-independence.34 The scribe, however, is not so convinced of its importance, which he sees as a useless self-obsession.

“As if the gods stared at their own belly buttons,” he reacts, in a critical tone. The constant look inwards, and the devaluing of anything foreign, then, is seen as negative.

What seems to be the comment here is that, as important as it may be to begin to promote national products and figures, it cannot be done by completely ignoring all that goes on outside of the nation, for the success of any given nation also depends on its foreign relations.

The lack of common objectives and the chaos that results from it is addressed when the scribe recounts his experience in a meeting of national scribes, during which he is suspended from his position. While the purpose of this meeting was to discuss the orthographic agreement and standardization of spelling throughout the country, the conversation is quickly turned away from the objective, much to the dismay of our protagonist. He observes that the discussions, all mediocre, are innumerous, and range from the infallibility of the Pharaoh and the High Priest and the corruption of the

Athenian democracy, to the blind and grave robbers as the number one public enemies,

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 34 Especially important given the poor conditions of the Cape Verdean economy in 1975, as Silva Andrade shows. There had been little investment in agriculture and unemployment ranged from 60 to 75 percent (266-7). In the period post-independence, however, the economy experience growth: from 1975-1980, the economy growth was 11% it was during this time that the internal market and service sector were most privileged. It continued to grow 6 percent in 1982-5, and 2.5 percent from 1986-90 (274).

! 79! the military draft for the handicapped and for children of both sexes, and ending with discussions on the blue grasshopper as the embodiment of the rural gods and the equality between Apis and Anubis, the protector of the nose. In other words, everything but the issue at hand, whether it is the blind adoration of those in power, religious questions, or other questions of perhaps lesser importance. However pertinent these other discussions may be, however, they detract from target conversation, therefore preventing the arrival at any conclusion. When we think about the moment in the context of a newly independent Cape Verde, the critique being made here is clear: that the plethora of diverging interests result in the lack of any real progress. It is not so much that real objectives don’t exist: the purpose of the meeting was, after all, to discuss the proposal set forth by the Ministry for Education. The problem is, however, that once these objectives are defined, they do not receive the attention that they deserve in order to carry them out and achieve the goals outlined.

It is when our protagonist speaks out against the other scribes and their lack of direction that he is suspended—exposing a certain intolerance towards differing opinions.

When he finishes speaking, he looks around the room and finds the others full of fear—as if the dissonance were theirs and not his own, he observes. The Minister’s decision to suspend him is based on his transgression of rules that aren’t entirely clear; he announces:

O escriba fulano de tal, filho de beltrano qualquer coisa, por ter prevaricado, transgredindo o que vem determinado na Sagrada Constituição e infringindo, outrossim, alguns artigos, alíneas e parágrafos do Estato Único que rege o ofício dos trabalhadores públicos, é suspenso das suas actividades profissionais, sendo- lhe cassada a carta, até à próxima enchente do Grande Rio; é-lhe congelado o salário referente a este mês, ou seja, a milésima quinta lua de seca no Egipto, mais os subsídios, emolumentos e demais regalias pecunárias não mencionadas; por último, fica proibido de revelar o seu nome de registo e de religião perante seja quem for salvo, como é óbvio…

! 80! It is stated that the scribe—unnamed and therefore, of little importance—violated some rules, some articles, some paragraphs—but the actual content of the constitution and the nature of his violation are never specified. It is unnecessary, however; the true cause for his punishment is quite clear: he verbalized a dissonant opinion. Lack of democracy and abuse of powers do not allow for him to speak out against the accepted opinion: the scribes do, after all, express disdain for the political structure in Athens. Even more than this, the punishment in itself is quite extreme: not only does he lose his salary and all other benefits for a month, but he is subject to the loss of his very identity, prohibited from revealing his name.

Questions of inequality are also addressed throughout the novel 35 —from references to very marked separation of living quarters, to the fact that, when the country enters into war, it is to the complete ignorance of the lower classes. While the working classes live in small houses that line streets where, at certain hours, stray animals and trash cans are more likely seen than people, “as vivendas grã-finas (estilo Império) situavam-se em bairros selectos, fora do alcance visual da plebe ignara e descalça”

(12). Later on, we see the scribe observe the population’s ignorance in regards to the current political situation, and its impending repercussions: while passing through the central square, he notices that life continued as normal, a sign of the lack of awareness of the war at hand. Our scribe is tempted to make an ironic comment, to which he is able to resist: ““saibamos conter o riso, que as circunstâncias não são para brincadeira”, murmurou ele, estoirando uma gargalhada” (128). While our protagonist seems to recognize the gravity of this situation—“the circumstances are not a joke,” as he

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 35 For a better perspective of these inequalities, in terms of education and social welfare, see Silva Andrade’s previously referred chapter.

! 81! remarks—his attitude upon realizing it seems a bit condescending towards those who are left in the dark. Besides, then, being a comment of the social situation at hand, this moment also serves an important role in the characterization of our protagonist: he is by no means a glorified character, exalted for his virtues in contrast with the pharaoh. He himself has flaws, and many. His disdain for the lower classes, not only for their ignorance, but also their necessity to continue life as normal, points to his own conceptions of self-importance and thirst for power that are pointed to constantly throughout the novel.

These questions so far discussed contribute to the illustration of a nation that is in theory democratic, but whose democracy is one in which goals are not clearly defined, and therefore not met, corruption and inequality thus maintaining a strong presence. These seem to be the principal images that the author intends to draw of the situation in Cape Verde: in a now independent nation, on the road to democracy, political and social progress is sought, but not without falling into the old habits of corruption. The novel was published before a multi-party system was established in Cape Verde— notwithstanding at a very transitional moment. In the year 1990, when O Eleito do Sol was published, the Movimento para a Democracia was formed. This party would be the first contender against the PAICV (the only party in power since Cape Verde had gained independence in 1975) and would come to win the first multi-party elections in 1991. In fact, the party won the majority of the seats in the Assembleia Nacional. This points to the need felt on the part of the people for a true democracy, which was lacking throughout the 1980s under the uni-party system of the PAICV, critiqued here by

Arménio Vieira.

! 82! In fact, other more explicit parallels are drawn with Cape Verde throughout the novel. Most specifically, this comes in the form of references to drought and hunger.

These two themes are recurrent leitmotifs in Cape Verdean prose since it’s the

Claridosos. This is a tradition that has been continued, and continuously referred to, until the current day, for it speaks to a very harsh, and very true, reality faced by the Cape

Verdeans. As such, we may consider that Vieira uses these themes as a tool to also place his novel very firmly in Cape Verde, all the while using ancient Egypt as his allegorical backdrop.

It is important to note that, when referring to the conditions leading to hunger in

Egypt, the narrator also refers to the waste and carelessness of the rich: “[o] trigo custava agora três vírgula catorze gramas de oiro o grão, de sorte que os ricos da cidade tinham perdido o hábito de ir à praça a fim de passear os seus cães de raça e dar de comer às pombas” (12). As such, while still highlighting, of course, the plight of the Cape Verdean people, he also underlines the role that the elite plays in the starvation of the remainder of the population: if the land itself is not generous in the sustenance that it offers, the carelessness and selfishness of the elite makes the situation even more grave.

In the end, after his quest to find his origins and a series of battles, the scribe becomes pharaoh. It is in this moment that we see, perhaps, a bit of change, and hope for progress. When Hatshepsut, the ex-wife of Ramósis and now the scribe’s lover, remains standing while the new pharaoh sits, obeying the old laws in regards to women’s rights, the recently ascended ruler comments: “Bem sabes, querida Hat, que revoguei todas as leis retrógradas dos antigos déspotas do Egipto. Há duas horas que estou a pedir que te sentes, mas tu, aferrada aos usos e costumes que te inculcaram na infância, continuas aí

! 83! plantada com se eu fosse um faraó com teias de aranha no cérebro” (140). The scribe prides himself on his progressive laws. While he does not specify exactly what kind of laws he eliminated, and what his new policies are, the reader understands the contrast, that he himself emphasizes, with the ways of the past pharaohs, with cobwebs in their brains, as the scribe says.

It is important to note Hatshepshut’s reaction: she eventually sits down, and immediately asks the new pharaoh if she can rest her feet on the arm of his throne, which he allows. Through the use of satire, Vieira seems to be commenting on the population’s reaction to the new laws, always wanting to achieve new levels of freedom. The fact that

Hatshepshut wants to place her feet on the very throne of the ruler, however, seems to indicate some sort of abuse of the new freedoms. That is, it suggests a certain level of discontent with any progress, for there always exists the desire to achieve even more freedoms, even if they are, perhaps, not the most viable. Hatshepshut’s desire to place her feet in the pharaoh’s “space” seems to indicate a certain self-centeredness, where one is only concerned with his or her own freedoms and interests, and not with that of others and, therefore, society in general.

This novel, published in 1990, carries an undeniable tone of dystopia in regards to post-independent Cape Verde, especially of the 1980s. Lack of direction, divergence of interests, and corruption permeate the pages of O Eleito do Sol. While, as referred at the end of the novel, there seems to be certain rays of hope for the future with the ascension of the scribe—representative of the intellectual— to power and the drastic change in the backwards laws shows signs of progress, Hatshepshut’s apparent abuse of the new rights granted to her still display a certain hesitation in the proclamation of a democratic society

! 84! to come. Furthermore, it must be emphasized that the scribe is, in no way, a idealized or completely virtuous character: we can see this in the example given here of his reaction to the ignorance of the lower classes, demonstrating a certain disdain towards the population and not towards the system that created the situation.

Germano Almeida is, without a doubt, the most acclaimed contemporary Cape

Verdean writer. His work is fundamental to understanding this young, independent nation. Works such as O Testamento do Senhor Napumoceno de Araújo, Ilha Fantástica, and Do Monte Cara Vê-Se o Mundo contemplate important questions, such as the transition to democracy, reconciliation with the colonial past, and the importance of the

African heritage on the Cape Verdean islands. As David Brookshaw writes, Almeida’s work is representative of the post-modern tradition:

They reflect a reaction against the oppression of one monolithic truth, a desire to interpret rather than merely describe island reality, and above all to analyse the new society which has emerged in 1975. The upshot of this new literary spirit has been to try to throw off the superficial aspects of local colour, which may make the islands unique, but nevertheless hedge them in, in order to universalize the Cape Verdean experience (189).

In Almeida’s writing, we will indeed see this search, this attempt to understand the Cape

Verdean identity, through an analysis of the local culture in attempt to understand Cape

Verde’s place in the globalized world.

Published in 1991, O Testamento do Senhor Napumoceno de Araújo shows us what is not viable in a new, independent Cape Verde: the fascination with all things

European and a strong dependence on Portugal. This is achieved through the protagonist—a businessman in Mindelo whose identity is based strongly upon all things from the outside, namely European and American influences. He is patriotic and loyal to the Portuguese government. After the 25th of April, he enters into a vegetable state—a

! 85! sign that this dependence on the outside is no longer viable in an independent Cape

Verde. This case will be further discussed in chapter four.

In Ilha Fantástica, published in 1994, a heightened sense of African-ness emerges. With the inclusion of more African elements—the orality of the narrative style, for example, as well as the inclusion of superstitious folk beliefs—Almeida claims, assumes, and asserts the African identity, much in contrast with the traditions of the

Claridosos. For example, there is an abundance of stories of witches and other monsters that roamed the street at night committing atrocities, such as eating babies—in clear contrast to the Catholic beliefs of the Portuguese. Questions of gender in folk traditions also appear—for example, the custom of hanging the sheets of the newlywed couple for everyone to see on the day following their first night as a married couple, in order to ascertain the virginity of the bride. These traditions and beliefs are presented quite matter-of-factly, as the narrator recounts his childhood and the stories he heard while growing up.

Almeida’s latest novel, De Monte Cara vê-se o mundo, grants the reader access to the daily lives of various residents of Mindelo, as well as their memories. Mindelo is

“uma cidade de infindas estórias” (168)– Almeida captures this through stories of loves and loves lost, sexual escapades, family ties, tragedy and loss, and the trials and tribulations of emigration. Within these stories, there lives a constant sense of cabo- verdianidade, a constant reflection of many of the themes discussed in this dissertation, a never-ending consciousness of the at times suffocating, small dimensions of the island, comings and goings within the archipelago, and an awareness of the world beyond the ten islands. When the elders tell their stories, we catch a glimpse into various periods of Cape

! 86! Verdean history, how life on the islands has evolved, how it has improved, and where it lost some previous fortunes.

Pepe, our narrator’s elder companion throughout much of the narrative, is particularly nostalgic. He remembers—or at least claims to remember—the days in which

Mindelo was a prosperous city, with constant contact with the rest of the world. There was abundance, as he affirms to our narrator:

Sim, diz como que continuando um pensamento, tu não chegaste a ver este lago atafulhado de navios! De todas as nacionalidades, vindos de todas as partes do mundo, trazendo riqueza e fartura para esta cidade: bacalhau da Noruega, carnes fresca e salpresadas da Argentina, chocolate inglês… A vida aqui era mesmo folgada, continua, em casa de qualquer família, por modesta que fosse, havia sempre um bocado de comida para dar a um próximo que chegasse com necessidade (170).

The narrator is not sure if he is to believe Pepe’s claims: “…eu pensando se esses tempos extraordinários de que tanto se fala não existiram senão na fantasia dos seus cultores, que persistem em viver da sua nostalgia” (171). Perhaps, as the narrator suggests, glorifying the past is a mechanism to cope with the present, in which resources are scarce and there is no grandeur. By believing that there was once a time in which every family in the city had plenty to eat and to give to others, Pepe is allowing himself to believe that the current situation is temporary, that it is circumstantial, and that it is possible to return to the way of life during the city’s “glory days.”

In fact, shortly after he will more explicitly express the sentiment that the suffering and lack of resources is not a condition imposed by the geographic reality but, instead, by political circumstances. As he looks over the sea, he says to our narrator:

“Este mar ainda é rico, diz, mesmo aqui ao pé da terra se vê peixe a nadar, não sabemos

é explorar as riquezas que temos, que não são assim tão poucas como se diz, temos sido

! 87! é mal governados, isso vem desde o tempo colonial” (180). The glorious days were before the decline of the coal industry and of the port of Mindelo— colonialism and its exploitation were the catalysts to the eventual downfall of São Vicente. As Pepe affirms, however, independence did not bring good governance: the government is still unable to effectively take advantage of the archipelago’s natural resources. We can see here, then, how some of the same political critiques that Arménio Vieira made in 1990 are reiterated in 2014: the transition of power did little for actual progress, since many old habits from the colonial regime continue to be practiced by the independent Cape Verdean government.

The question of nationalism also arises several times throughout the novel, oftentimes seemingly criticized as being superficial, unfounded, or half-hearted. For example, the vocal Pepe will express a certain sense of disapproval in regards to the change in the city’s toponyms: names that once honored people linked to the Portuguese empire are replaced with African names. While he, of course, agrees with change in the name of the Avenida Salazar to Rua Angola, as the colonial dictator should not be honored in the now independent African nation, other substitutions were in his opinion either senseless or disrespectful to those who, even if Portuguese or linked to the

Portuguese government, were also important figures in Cape Verdean history and the development of the archipelago society. First, he cites the change from Rua Dona

Angélica to rua Argélia: “que temos nós a ver com a Argélia,” he asks. When the narrator jokingly responds that Argélia buys large amounts of tuna from Cape Verde, in order to provoke the older man, Pepe concedes that there may be a connection. But he continues:

“...mas quem é Kwame N’Kruma para ter roubado o nome da rua ao senador Vera Cruz,

! 88! um homem que fez tanto por esta ilha, ao ponto de ter dado a sua casa para funcionar como liceu!” (238). Augusto Vera Cruz was himself Cape Verdean— the only one to have had the title of “senator”, and who served under the First Republic. The name, then, was changed to honor a Ghanaian independence leader, instead of the Cape Verdean national who contributed greatly to the island’s society, merely for the latter’s connection to the Portuguese government. What we see here, on the part of the government that changed the name of the street, is a shift from the valorization of the European heritage in

Cape Verde to that of the African heritage, a celebration of pan-Africanism and the roots that were, for so long, deemed as inferior. Pepe, however, seems to be criticizing this complete shift to the other extreme of the spectrum: instead of recognizing that Cape

Verdean culture and history has both Portuguese and African influences, the independent government has, at least in this name change, erased the Portuguese presence on the islands, just as the earlier generations had erased the African. Just as many of the

European ideals had little influence on Cape Verdean society in earlier generations,

Kwame N’Kruma was certainly less involved in the development of the islands than senator Vera Cruz.

A similar critique of Cape Verdean nationalism as being superficial, or only practiced when convenient, arises in a memory of Júlia’s date with the older man, Sérgio.

He takes her to a secluded restaurant by the sea, and orders wine from the island of Fogo to accompany their dinner. He remarks: “Mesmo que não seja exactamente o melhor, ficamos ao menos com a fama de nacionalistas, o que é bom nos tempos que correm”

(317). Moments later, however, he will affirm that they will have to opt for a Portuguese- brand ice cream for dessert, despite their being local options available: “Para sobremesa

! 89! vamos ter infelizmente que nos contentarmos com simples gelado olá, que eu saiba nada mais presta por aqui” (317). This seems to be a double-edged critique: both to the nation as well as to the attitude of some citizens. On the one hand, it shows an eagerness to trade that which is Cape Verdean for that which is foreign— while perhaps to a lesser degree than before the independence, it has persisted into contemporary days. The wine from

Fogo is barely deemed good enough to drink— the desserts, however, are still subpar in comparison to that which comes from the outside. On the other hand, we can see this as a comment on Cape Verde’s progress and capabilities for self-sustainment. While the Fogo wine represents the progress that has been made, the national production for national consumption, the lack of dessert options and therefore, the preferred choice of Portuguese

Olá ice cream, shows the continued dependence on the outside. It points to the fact that

Cape Verde is still not a completely self-sustainable country. This comment is not necessarily negative, however— especially considering that it is a memory, and therefore there is a shorter time span between independence and this dinner, it does acknowledge the progress that has been made.

Still, Almeida seems at times to be criticizing a certain sense of fanatical Cape

Verdean nationalism. When the narrator sees Dona Aurora, an unsympathetic character disliked by most throughout the novel, riding a stationary bicycle on the beach for exercise, he decides to provoke her, telling her that such equipment can lead to heart illnesses. The woman becomes very nervous— unknowingly to the narrator, she has anxiety over such issues, especially after her father passed away unexpectedly from a heart condition. Overcome with guilt, the next time he sees her, and is pleasantly surprised that she greets him, he tries to relieve her anguish. Still, when he notices that

! 90! she is no longer using the bicycle, he remarks: “...fez muito bem em ter deixado a bicicleta, a gente nunca sabe os danos que esses aparelhos estrangeiros podem causar no físico de um nacional cabo-verdiano” (283). He will later go on to try to explain the rationale behind the belief that the bicycle could cause harm, based on a German study, before telling D. Aurora that she has nothing to worry about. His comment about the bicycle’s potential effects on a Cape Verdean, especially in this context, takes on an ironic undertone. The idea that a foreign machine could cause harm to a Cape Verdean national is based on the assumption that the Cape Verdean body is essentially different than that of other nationalities; what is safe for the rest of the world’s citizens, may not be safe for a Cape Verdean. This extreme manifestation of the belief in a purely Cape

Verdean essence, a sort of exception from the rest of the world, becomes ridiculous, especially because the narrator will later sum up to Dona Aurora that she has nothing to worry about; as a result, extreme Cape Verdean nationalism is, in turn, ridiculized. It seems important to note that this is a rare example of the narrator/implied-author speaking on such issues, seemingly giving extra importance to this instance.

Do Monte Cara vê-se o mundo is a collection of oral histories, various reflections on Cape Verde’s past and present conditions. It is primarily the story of a city— Mindelo, on São Vicente— but the archipelago is not absent, as we see characters coming and going between islands, namely the Barlavento group. As such, it is the story of a young nation, and a reflection on the various high and lows throughout history. In every story, there is still a pervading sense of cabo-verdianidade manifested on every page.

The latest generation of Azorean writers have demonstrated the narrowing of the gap between the island and the mainland societies, to the point of its near absence.

! 91! That is, there is a much greater approximation between the Azores and continental

Portugal, with increased identification and mobility between the two spaces.

Furthermore, globalization has led to much more significant contact between the islands and the rest of the world. This minimization of the isolation of the Azores seems to have led to a similar reduction in the need or interest to emphasize the regional reality in literature. At the moment, young writers are focusing on increasingly universal topics, paying little attention to the regional.

The exception is Joel Neto, author of the novels Os Sítios Sem Resposta (2010) and Arquipélago (2015), as well as a collection of short stories, O Citroën que Escrevia

Novelas Mexicanas (2002). Still, in his works, the proximity between the Azores and the mainland, in this case Terceira and Lisbon, is constantly highlighted. The islands are no longer so isolated: the protagonists of both of the writer’s novels are constantly moving between spaces, with constant trips between the island and the capital.

There is a greater connection to the globalized world, as well. An example of this comes in the 2010 novel Os Sítios sem Resposta, which pays extensive attention to the question of football clubs: namely Benfica or Sporting, which comes to represent a question of identity for the protagonist who grew up Sportinguista but became

Benfiquista upon moving to Lisbon. Upon arriving to Terceira, however, the protagonist finds that Portuguese clubs are no longer the only options for those on his small island: he is surprised to find that his nephew is a fan of Real Madrid. Gone are the days when the only options for a team were Benfica, Sporting, and Porto—islanders now have access to games of and information about clubs from other countries in a day in which the entire globe is connected through the internet. This seemingly small detail carries great weight,

! 92! especially in a novel so focused on soccer clubs. While the protagonist struggles between his allegiances—Benfica representing Lisbon, and Sporting, Terceira—the young

Azorean boy is able to form his own preference for a team from much further away, from a place that he has never visited. It demonstrates a universality capable of being obtained in these once secluded islands. More than this, there is a shift from the time in which being from the Azores often resulted in an identity strongly and almost exclusively tied to the island and the local, to a more national Portuguese identity (as portrayed by the protagonist), to, finally, the identity of a more “global citizen,” which is the case of the young boy. It is interesting to note that the representatives of each of these stances come from different generations, illustrating the chronological aspect of this shift—with the passage of time, the Azores have become increasingly integrated with first the rest of the country, and then the rest of the world.

This is not something that the narrator sees in a particularly positive light, however—on his trip back to Terceira, he places a great value on his specific local identity. When his nephew tells him that he is, above all, a fan of Real Madrid and

Cristiano Ronaldo, then, the narrator is strongly disappointed:

Fiquei a olhar para ele, desconcertado. Até ali, numa pequena ilha que se escapara oceano fora, era hoje possível reclamarmo-nos adeptos do Real Madrid, apesar de nenhuma história nos ligar a ele, apesar de nenhuma memória nos unir a outros adeptos com quem tivéssemos celebrado os seus triunfos ou chorado os seus fracassos. Tanto quanto eu podia imaginar, o futebol que eu amara morria comigo, com a minha geração (153).

This is reminiscent of his reflection that appears only a few pages prior to this episode, in which he considers the concept of being a “citizen of the world”: “Porque ser de todo o lado, percebi-o eu assim que extravasei os limites da terra-mãe, não podia significar outra coisa senão que não se era de lado nenhum—e não ser de lado nenhum, não ter um

! 93! lugar, um canto de mundo a que regressar, parecera-me sempre a mais triste de todas as condições” (140). For Joel Neto, then, the assertion of the Azorean identity becomes a way to preserve that identity, an attempt to keep the concept of açorianidade from being erased in the era of globalization. If earlier generations wrote to assert their difference from mainland Portugal in the face of the fascist, colonial government, globalization is what now challenges this identity and its survival in the face of international influences.

As a result, Neto pays great attention to the regional—that which makes the

Azores unique. If he begins to do this in Os Sítios sem Resposta, placing great value on the Azorean identity when he, at the end, choses to return to Sporting, it is in Arquipélago that the writer truly strives to explore the Azorean—specifically Terceirense—reality. He does this through language, food, customs, and, especially, through an invocation of history and the man’s relationship with the land, and how it has influenced all of the aforementioned elements. He often refers to the 1981 earthquake in Terceira as an event that has left an indelible mark on the island’s inhabitants—and something that has strongly influenced their character and culture. For example, the earthquake is constantly linked to religiosity and a sense of resignation. In this way, Neto’s novel is reminiscent of

Nemésio’s short story “Misericórdia,” which recounts the day of the same earthquake, and which will be discussed in chapter three.

Conclusion

When considering the works discussed in this chapter, then, one can outline a comparable pattern in the literatures of Cape Verde and the Azores. Despite the contrasts in the racial and socio-political realities, the discourses on the latter follow similar

! 94! trajectories that allow us to consider the two literatures together in a comparative study.

Further, the archipelagic realities greatly influence the two literatures, resulting in many other thematic parallels that will be discussed in the following chapters.

Some key topics must be reiterated and underlined for their significance in the differentiation of the Azorean and Cape Verdean societies. First and foremost is the fact that the question of race does not exist in the Azores, due to its overwhelmingly homogenous racial make-up. This is an issue only in Cape Verdean literature, and is an important difference between the two societies and, thus, their position within the

Portuguese empire—if both are peripheral spaces, the Azores still hold a more privileged position within the imperial space, being a white, ethnically Portuguese population.

In Cape Verde, as I aimed to show in the first part of this chapter, the question of race is also not a straightforward one. Indeed, in the years preceding the revolution, and especially during the period of Claridade, the question of race tends to be “conveniently” forgotten, as the authors want to portray themselves and be seen as white. This discourse, of course, will begin to change in the 1960s, when writers like Onésimo da Silveira and

Gabriel Mariano look at the role of the African in the Cape Verdean culture.

To this day, the question of race is complicated in Cape Verde, and this same sense of “exceptionalism” among Africans persists. This exceptionalism comes, in great part, from the very structure of the Portuguese empire. As Joana Gorjão Henriques demonstrates in her Racismo em português: O lado esquecido do colonialismo, this sense of Cape Verdean superiority can be traced to the fact that all Cape Verdeans were granted

Portuguese citizenship in 1947, distinct from the designation of “indigenato” that was applied to most continental Africans, with Portuguese citizenship only being granted to

! 95! those who fulfilled certain cultural prerequisites. This is granted to Cape Verdeans due to a “maior mestiçagem e proximidade de Portugal” than other African colonies. Henriques cites António Tomás, who wrote a biography of Amílcar Cabral, who affirms that this granted a special status to Cape Verde within the empire, occupying thusly a space between the status of the colonies and that of the adjacent regions of the Azores and

Madeira.

Henrique’s chapter about Cape Verde, fittingly named “Ser africano em Cabo

Verde é um tabu,” provides a series of interviews with Cape Verdeans of various public positions, through which Henriques explores the racial paradox in contemporary Cape

Verde—the contradiction between the official discourse of valuing the African heritage, and the nuances of a society that still prioritizes the Portuguese. Lúcia Cardoso, the direct of the National Orchestra of Cape Verde, argues:

Há essa coisa de rejeitar: não somos europeus, queremos voltar às nossas raízes – é o que se diz da boca para fora. É por isso que lhe chamo “a reacção consciente”. Mas inconscientemente quer-se é ter o cabelo liso, ter as feições o mais finas possível, e o que é considerado bonito – o padrão de beleza e de bem- estar – é o tipicamente occidental europeu (131).

The racial discourse in Cape Verde is one that is constantly evolving, and one in which the valorization of the European, as we saw in the works of the Claridosos, still weighs heavy. The literature of most recent years, however, aims to underline the value of the

African heritage, and adhere to a stronger black identity.

Another important difference to underline is the fact that Cape Verde is an independent nation. Despite the fact that the two literatures followed similar trajectories in terms of political discourse in literature, as I aimed to show in this chapter, there remains one key distinction: in the 1960s, the hints of calls for independence begin to

! 96! appear in Cape Verdean literature, while in the Azores, the same never occurred. That is,

Azoreans writers never wrote in favor of an Azorean independence from Portugal. While this movement existed – the Frente de Libertação dos Açores – it arose in the months following the Revolution, and only gained traction in March of 1975 (that is, there was no claim for Azorean independence before the revolution), and was incredibly short- lived. It must be noted, however, that the members of Azorean literary circles never came to write in favor of the fight for independence, as FLA was a conservative movement to which they did not adhere. In his essay “Açores entre Portugal e os EUA. Equívocos de um período quente (1975-76), Onésimo Teotónio Almeida explores in detail the intricacies of this period, as well as the involvement of the United States in this movement’s call for independence. At the same time that this is occurring in the Azores, ultimately culminating in the remainder of the Azores in the Portuguese Republic, Cape

Verde begins its path towards independence, officially declared in July of 1975.

These important differences will help us to understand further divergences in discourse and treatment of the common themes that will be discussed in the chapters to follow.

! 97! Chapter 2: Expressing açorianidade and caboverdianidade: The uses and functions of local speech

Édouard Glissant considers extensively the relationship between the written and the oral, which results in a variety of tensions. This is particularly relevant in peripheral, most often post-colonial, regions, in which the written language is a European one, while the oral language of the population is some other, whether a Creole, a pidgeon, or a language native to the colonized land. As it is known, this is the case of Cape Verde.

Still, Glissant outlines that it can also occur in a monolingual society where the spoken language diverges from the “standard,” as is the case in the Azores: “This is the case for monolingual countries with ‘internal’ problems, in which these two usages—oral and written—introduce ruptures (through social discrimination, which deploys the rules of language usage)” (Poetics of Relation, 106). About the consequences of language diversity, Glissant writes: “linguistic relations have become marked by creations springing from the friction between languages, by the give-and-take of sudden innovation” (Poetics of Relation, 104). In a way, we can see the literature to be analyzed in this chapter as examples of these creations that result from this friction, generating the inclusion of the local, oral speech within the written narrative.

Prestige is almost exclusively given to the written language—the European— which is the one taught in schools and used in official settings. This is dangerous, particularly in countries where more than one language exists, as is the case in Cape

Verde, as this domination can lead “sometimes to the point of extinction” (Poetics of

Relation, 106) of the local language. Production in this language, then, becomes all the

! 98! more important—it is an assertion of the language and, thus, the culture’s existence, and the intention to remain relevant in a world that prioritizes these dominant languages.

Even still, Glissant concludes that any time a people speak their own language, it is a form of assertion on the world stage: “The fact remains, nonetheless, that, when a people speaks their language or languages, it is above all free to produce through them at every level—free, that is, to make its relationship to the world concrete and visible for itself and for others” (Poetics of Relation, 108). It is a form of differentiation, of creating an independent identity. This is applicable both in the case of Cape Verde, where there is indeed a second language spoken by the population, which happens to be the native language of most speakers; and in the Azores, where regional vocabulary, archaisms, foreignisms, accents, and grammar usage allow writers to characterize a sort of local

Portuguese. Comparable to a dialect (though not officially categorized as such), it diverges enough from the Portuguese spoken in the mainland to be noticeable to any

Portuguese reader, who will be able to hear the Azorean voice in the text. By using these clearly demarcated regional speeches, writers are establishing their difference from the

Portuguese metropolis, asserting their identity both at the national and universal levels.

For Glissant, literature has two functions: to “dismantle the internal mechanism of a given system, to expose inner workings, to demystify” and, simultaneously to “[reunite] the community around its myths, its beliefs, its imagination or its ideology” (100). He speaks of the challenge writers face to both mystify and demystify—accentuated given the competition the written sphere now faces with the oral one, more conducive to the conciliation between the two objectives. For writing to not become obsolete, then,

Glissant affirms that writers should “nourish it with the oral” (101)—if not, it runs the

! 99! risk of disappearance. By enriching texts with the oral, though, literature will be able to continuously fulfill both of its functions:

A national literature poses all these questions. It must signal the self-assertion of new peoples, which one calls their rootedness, and which is today their struggle. That is its hallowing function, epic or tragic. It must express—and if this is not done (only if it is not done) it remains regionalist, that is moribund and folkloric—the relationship of one culture to another in the spirit of Diversity, and its contribution to the totalizing process (101).

Benedict Anderson similarly reflects on the role of language in the formation of an identity, this time in regards to a collective, community identity. In Imagined

Communities, he writes that language is an important tool in creating an imagined community—it is not a representation of the nation-ness, such as flags or traditional costumes, but it is instead fundamental in the actual creation of a shared identity and imagined community. Anderson writes: “Much the most important thing about language is its capacity for generating imagined community, building in effect particular solidarities” (133).

In the case of the Azores and Cape Verde, although the literary language is

Portuguese36, the writers remold the language to the local, emphasizing those specificities that distinguish the speech in the islands from that in mainland Portugal. In this way, writers are asserting the identity of a new community, separate from that of the

Portuguese metropolis—by drawing on differences from standard Portuguese, they use local speech to form a sort of new language (not necessarily completely intelligible to a reader from the outside of these insular spaces) in order to affirm the existence of a separate community and, as a result, distinguish a regional or national identity. Even more than this, there is the function of building kinship; they build solidarity insomuch as !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 36 With the exception of Manuel Veiga’s Oju D’Agu, as well at a limited amount of poetry, in Cape Verde.

! 100! Azoreans and Cape Verdeans will often see themselves in the speech represented, recognizing the proximity to the way they speak and the common distance from the standard Portuguese, thus resulting in a greater perceived sense of açorianidade and caboverdianidade

In The Empire Writes Back, Ashcroft et. al. focus the second chapter precisely on this question—how do writers within the empire appropriate the language as a strategy of affirmation in post-colonial literature. As we will see throughout this chapter of this dissertation, however, it is not merely a strategy adopted after independence—indeed, in the Azores and Cape Verde, linguistic strategies were being employed since the earlier writers of what we consider Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures.

At this point, it seems important to underline the diverging linguistic situations in the two archipelagoes: while the regional speech of the Azores represents a dialect, and thus intelligible to the speaker of Portuguese, Cape Verdean Creole is indeed its own language, and not immediately comprehensible. The Claridoso Baltazar Lopes will call

Cape Verdean Creole a dialect, likening it to the Portuguese spoken in Brazil or the

English spoken by African-Americans. The literary historian Russell G. Hamilton is quick to correct this misunderstanding, reminding the reader of the difference between a dialect and a creole:

The former is a regional variant readily understood by those who use other dialects of the same language, while the latter may be completely incomprehensible in its spoken form to those who know the ‘mother tongue.’ And no speaker of any dialect of Portuguese, be it peninsular or Brazilian, can follow a conversation in Cape Verdean creole without some intensive initiation into the peculiarities of the language (246).

! 101! Such, of course, is not the case in the Azores—the Portuguese spoken in the archipelago is largely the standard Portuguese, distinct only in terms of regional accents and vocabulary.37

Ashcroft et. al outline three categories of linguistic groups into which post- colonial societies fall: monoglossic, diglossic, and polyglossic. Only the first two are relevant for the discussion of Azorean and Cape Verdean realities; that is, while the

Azores are an example of a monoglossic society, Cape Verde represents a diglossic one:

Monoglossic groups are those single-language societies using english as a native tongue, which correspond generally to settled colonies, although, despite the term, they are by no means uniform or standard in speech. Monoglossic groups may show linguistic peculiarities as significant as those in more complex linguistic communities. Diglossic societies are those in which bilingualism has become an enduring societal arrangement, for example, in India, Africa, the South Pacific, for the Indigenous populations of settled colonies, and in Canada, where Québecois culture has created an officially bilingual society. In diglossic societies english has generally been adopted as the language of government and commerce, and the literary use of english demonstrates some of the more pronounced forms of language variance (39).

It is important to note that, as the authors have underlined, monoglossic societies can also present significant linguistic peculiarities, despite the fact that the only language spoken is the same as that of the metropolis. This is, of course, the case of the Azores, where, in fact, each island demonstrates its own forms of pronunciation and, at times, varying vocabulary. This linguistic difference can in itself be related to the insularity and resultant phenomena that affect life on the islands—while the isolation from the mainland allowed

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 37 Americanisms adopted as a result of the wide-reaching phenomenon of emigration to the United States and Canada also appear. Most of the time, these terms from English are designations for realities previously unknown to the Azorean; as Luís Ribeiro writes in “Americanismos na Linguagem Popular dos Açores:” “Dos anglicismos generalizados, muitos correspondem a objectos introduzidos no arquipélago por via Americana, que o povo desconhece vindos de outra parte e que não têm designação portuguesa equivalente ou, se a têm, o povo ignora” (250).

! 102! the Portuguese language in the islands to preserve some archaisms that fell into disuse in continental Portugal38, the wide-reaching effects of emigration also introduced various

English terms into the local vocabulary.

Cape Verde, on the other hand, is a clear case of a diglossic society, with both

Portuguese and Cape Verdean Creole being spoken by the wide majority of the population.39 In this case, we can apply what Ashcroft et. al have written, replacing

English with Portuguese as the language of government and commerce. Literature written in Portuguese, then, also experiences some variance, as the writers either include the creole language, or reformulate the standard Portuguese language to be more applicable and appropriate to the local cultures.

Literature, then, is a space in which writers can employ language in order to create certain tensions and affirmations about the local identity, by including representations of local speech and tying these linguistic differences firmly to the space.

As Ashcroft et. al write:

This literature is therefore always written out of the tension between the abrogation of the received English which speaks from the centre, and the act of appropriation which brings it under the influence of a vernacular tongue, the complex of speech habits which characterize the local language, or even the evolving and distinguishing local english of a monolingual society trying to establish its link with place (39).

This is precisely what we will see in the works of many Azorean and Cape Verdean writers, whether it is in terms of phonetic representation through spelling, flexible use of !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 38 As José Martins Garcia writes, “O léxico dos colonizadores (e os colonizadores estrangeiros ‘converteram-se’ à língua portuguesa, como aliás Nemésio refere em Mau Tempo no Canal, no tocante aos Flamengos) fixou-se na insularidade, na permanência característica das regiões onde não existem transporte regulares. Essa ‘conversão’ à língua portuguesa uniformizou o léxico e consequentemente estabilizou uma semântica própria: a mundividência inerente a um habitat” (1988?, 159).

39 While there is variation in the Creole spoken from island to island, all are mutually intelligible.

! 103! grammar, repetition for emphasis, or vocabulary specific to the space, whether it is an archaism, a term adopted from a foreign language (most commonly English), or the use of creole in the case of Cape Verde.

In her essay “Representações da oralidade em textos literarários africanos: heterlinguismo e hibridismo de géneros,” Ana Mafalda Leite summarizes well the role of language in the assertion of an identity, both through the abrogation and appropriation of the standard. As Leite writes, “As literaturas pós-coloniais emergiram de uma experiência de colonização, em que um dos principais fatores da opressão imperial foi o controle da língua. O sistema educativo estabeleceu um padrão da língua metropolitana como norma, e as ‘variantes’ eram consideradas marginais” (2010, 157)—post-colonial literatures, then, are often characterized by the appropriation of the standard language, adapting it to the local space. Indeed, language is a tool to express our perspectives of the world. Still quoting Leite, “se a língua interpreta o mundo, torna-se uma ferramenta, adaptável e negociada, em que um ‘mundo’ pode ser textualmente construído através da diferença, separação e ausência, de uma norma metropolitana” (158).

In the case of Cape Verde, there are a variety of methods to approaching the question of regional speech. As Russell G. Hamilton points out, the inclusion of Creole has been debated among Cape Verdean intellectuals. Nuno Miranda, for example, criticizes the mixture of Portuguese and Cape Verdean Creole and what he calls “esoteric stylizations.” Hamilton concludes:

This assertion has been borne out by the fact that most noteworthy Cape Verdean poetry and prose fiction has been written in a more or less standard Portuguese. Virtually all Cape Verdeans speak and write Portuguese, and those writers who always know creole can and do translate that regional expressiveness into a stylistic vitality through the medium of the standard tongue. As for so-called

! 104! “esoteric stylizations,” they can contribute to the aesthetic value of a work if the usage does not deteriorate into picturesqueness and exoticism (248)

Among Cape Verdean writers, we will see a spectrum of both the use of Creole and the subversion of the standard Portuguese language to make it express the regional voice— many authors, however, will employ both techniques.

Vitorino Nemésio and Baltazar Lopes: Pioneers in representing local speech

The pioneer and theorizer of açorianidade, Vitorino Nemésio, paid great attention to orality and language in his texts. In fact, as Irene Maria F. Blayer writes, Nemésio’s specificity in this sense is not only in an Azorean context, but a national one—“Among noted twentieth-century Portuguese writers, Vitorino Nemésio stands out for his use of the literary representation of non-standard language to render a ‘regional voice’ with distinctive speech patterns” (178). Often including local speech in dialogue, the author strives to truly represent the Azorean voices by recreating the pronunciation and employing regional dialect, bringing conversations to life and allowing us to better know the characters of the text. Orality in Nemésio’s work is a question that has been reflected on by scholars of Azorean literature, especially in relation to Mau Tempo no Canal.

Francisco Cota Fagundes has written multiple articles about the embedded narratives and questions of oral performance. This is not, however, the only example of oral representation, as Fagundes clarifies:

À representação da modalidade oral pertencem também os provérbios… géneros lúdicos como as adivinhas, representações… jogos, apodos, lendas e crenças, nomes de lugares, superstições… as modas populares como a chamarrita, o pèzinho e a charamba, as cantigas ao desafio e os numerosos diálogos, em vários registos, incluindo representações dos falares açorianos (particularmente os das classes populares, como o dos lavradores, o dos pescadores/baleeiros e os das

! 105! mulheres do povo, através de todo este romance intensamente dialógico (204-5, 2005)

. While, in this chapter, I will focus on the last example given—the representation of

Azorean speech—it should be noted that all of these aforementioned forms of oral representation contribute to the affirmation of Azorean identities. The oral often gives way to what is specific about a culture—it allows for this uniqueness to manifest and assert itself, whether through popular proverbs or the regional music with which the masses identify.

In fact, Francisco Cota Fagundes identifies oral tradition as a key tool in the representation of the Azorean people—and, thus, I would add, in the affirmation of their identity, their difference from Portuguese from the mainland. As Fagundes writes:

A tradição oral — incluindo o folclore – foi uma das maneiras mais literariamente viáveis de representar as classes populares – na sua arte de narrar, na sua psicologia, na sua maneira característica de falar, na sua ludicidade, na sua vivacidade, na sua ingenuidade, na sua terrível e saudável maneira de, em momentos oportunos em que pode escapar ao servilismo aprendido durante séculos de vergar a espinha aos poderosos, ir directamente ao âmago das coisas… (225, 2005).

The last characteristic cited by Fagundes—the ability of the Azorean to get directly to the core of a problem, seen in moments in which he or she escapes from the weight of good manners and subservience to those with a socially elevated status—is particularly interesting. According to Fagundes, Nemésio is able to capture this element of açorianidade precisely through the use of orality throughout this and other texts. Could we consider, then, his use of orality, his decision to give way to the people’s voice, a method to give the Azorean a stage from which to speak, a means of breaking through the social barriers and speaking to issues openly, while in the process asserting one’s own value in society? I would argue that this is the case.

! 106! In an interview with Rebelo de Bettencourt, cited by Blayer, Vitorino Nemésio speaks about the importance of regional speech in the creation of an Azorean literature:

Não temos uma literatura propriamente açoreana porque os nossos poetas e escritores estão fóra da alma açoreana. A língua com que trabalham a prosa e o verso é uma língua cujos vocábulos vêm nos dicionários mas que não trazem a comoção do nosso povo. O nosso povo tem uma sintaxe e expressões próprias. Ora os poetas e escritores açoreanos não escrevem com o sentido regional do vocábulo, com a sintaxe e a expressão populares. Dentro de um livro de versos de qualquer poeta pode haver poesia, mas o povo, o nosso povo, não está dentro dele (174).

It is precisely this regional voice that Nemésio seeks in much of his writing, so that the population may indeed be present and represented in the narrative.

Since the question of orality in Mau Tempo no Canal has been discussed widely— in Fagundes’s articles about oral performance, “Dos Vários Registos da

Oralidade em Mau Tempo no Canal: Estórias de Mulheres” (2007) and “A

Representação da Oralidade em Mau Tempo no Canal: A estória embutida de Rosinha da

Glória e suas implicações para uma (re)avaliação da ideologia do romance” (2005), as well as in studies by Irene Maria F. Blayer, Martins Garcia, Heraldo da Silva, and

Machado Pires—I have chosen to focus my discussion of Nemésio’s case on his short stories, particularly “Terra dos Bravos.”

Interestingly, the story “Terra dos Bravos” from the collection Paço do Milhafre is one of the stories that pays most attention to oral representation—since the story refers to Terceira as the “terra dos bravos”, which already points to questions of oral history and folklore of legends of courageous ancestors and folk music, he must create a credible representation of these “bravos”, that is, the terceirenses.

The local speech appears in several forms throughout this text. Perhaps the first particularity that the reader will notice is Nemésio’s decision to reproduce the

! 107! pronunciation of the characters, often cutting letters out of the word or presenting a shift in vowels. In fact, the first quotes that appear in the story are those of the screams of the wives and mothers of fishermen, worried about their loved ones after a storm: “ - Ai, o mê rico home! – Ai, o mê rico filho! Boca da minha alma!” (53). In this case, Nemésio immediately presents the reader with a very typical Azorean exclamation (“meu rico homem!”) written phonetically, closing the vowel diphthong in “meu” and cutting the

“m” from the end of “homem.” Other examples of the representation of phonetic speech include: “co’a” for “com a”, “r’paz” for “rapaz”, the dropping of the “o” in “não,” as well as “tão,” increasing the nasality in the words, or the shift in vowel sound from

“pequeno” to “piqueno.”

Nemésio also includes other common regional peculiarities, such as that addition of the prothetic “a.” While it appears in dialogue, this pattern is accentuated in yet another example of a Nemesian embedded narrative, when Ti Lavora takes control of narration. In the space of four pages, we see five examples of this: “alembranças” and the related “alembrou” (60), “por í a-fora” (it is interesting to note the elimination of the

“a” in “aí” in this case), “alevantando” (61), and, finally, “assucedem” (63). This addition of “a” not only serves as a regional identifier, but also a socio-cultural one, showing us that the speaker does not have much (or any) formal education. Indeed, as

Blayer demonstrates in her study of local speech in Mau Tempo no Canal, part of

Nemésio’s goal is to show a variety of regional voices40, which are, of course, also influenced by socio-economic position.

It is important to note, however, that Nemésio does not distinguish this regional speech from standard language. That is, he does not place these words or patterns in !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 40 Although he never represents the speech from São Miguel.

! 108! italics—they are written just as the rest of the text. This is because, though not standard, it is the Portuguese spoken by these characters. This speech, however, is only replicated in moments of dialogue, or when there is a clear shift in speaker from the principal narrator. In this way, the main narration never adopts the regional speech, as we will see in later examples from other Azorean writers—instead, it is limited to dialogue.

What he does italicize, however, are cultural terms which appear in the narration—proper nouns designating cultural productions from the Azores, namely dances and folksongs. For example, during the storm, one of the fishermen believes he sees “as feiticeiras, lá para onde era San Miguel, baila[ndo] todas em fiada uma espécie de Sapateia, com rasgados e piparotes no tampo da caixa da viola” (57). Later, Ti

Lavora comes singing the Charamba before they request that he sings O Brabo (59). The inclusion of these terms and cultural references is clearly motivated by a desire to further place this story in an Azorean context, by using popular music and dance that originated in the islands, placing once again the emphasis on the local. While Nemésio italicizes these terms within the text, he does not define them nor provide any explanation for an unfamiliarized reader—while the context allows one to understand that these are musical references, he does not go any further than that. The italics, then, serve to accentuate their local specificity, allowing an interested reader to look further into their significance, without explicitly marking their difference or “foreignness” (for a reader from the mainland) by defining them.

One last interesting example that appears in the narration—but by borrowing a saying from one of the characters—is used to describe how Ti Lavora becomes when the sea is rough: “Quando o mar não estava de lapas – como dizia a mulher – o Lavora

! 109! tornava-se impertinente, pegando por via de tudo…” (59). This saying, borrowed from popular culture, once again firmly plants the story in the context of the islands by using lapas as the point of reference—if the sea is not good to go catch lapas, a shellfish that sticks to the rocks of shallow water—it means that the conditions are not suitable to go to sea, for the water will be rough. Like in many other instances, Nemésio borrowed this expression from colloquial speech—hence the attribution to Ti Lavora’s wife, even when used in the main narration.

Interestingly enough, what is considered the first Cape Verdean novel, Chiquinho, by Baltazar Lopes, also places great stock in the importance of orality and local speech, often including Crioulo within the text. A bildungsroman, the novel is separated into three parts, which focus on different periods of Chiquinho’s life and cultural formation.

While the second part, “S. Vicente”, focuses on his formal schooling on the neighbor island to his home of São Nicolau, the first and the last, “Infância” and “As-Águas”

(itself a crioulo term for “rainy season”), respectively, place emphasis on the role of popular culture, which reaches Chiquinho through oral stories told by his elders. This focus on oral culture, which Alberto Carvalho explores so well in “O “abysmo” da

(oralidade e da) escrita em Chiquinho de Baltazar Lopes”, leads necessarily to the inclusion of local speech. Through the insertion of crioulo into the text “se abre a significações culturais que esboçam a tese do realismo necessário à representação genuína do crioulo” (72). Later in the essay, Carvalho will write about the need to include the oral in the writing of this novel:

Recobrindo a leitura que fizemos a propósito de Chiquinho em processo de revelação autorial, o ideologema desenvolve-se agora no limite em que a linguagem procura organizar-se como discurso do texto. E a sua figura única é constituída pelo aprisionamento da oralidade na escrita, não para a destruir, mas

! 110! para a resgatar e incluir no processo cultural, exactamente do mesmo modo que ele, sujeito-Autor de escrita, possui uma alma de menino feita de oralidade (84).

In a similar vein, Manuel Ferreira speaks of Baltazar Lopes’s “capacidade para criar uma nova linguagem literária, onde é revelado, de vez, e de modo em que a performance

é evidente, o cruzamento de dois discursos: o crioulo e o português” (Claridade, LXVII).

That is, for Ferreira, Lopes is successful in placing the regional speech within the written text; this is, of course, through the use of one person narration and the emphasis given to orality that Carvalho emphasizes, resulting in the surgence of a new discourse, a

“cruzamento” between the Portuguese and the Creole.

Further, Carvalho notes Lopes’s use of Portuguese itself, besides the inclusion of crioulo—the Portuguese is “Cape Verdeanized,” in order to better express the local spirit.

As Carvalho writes, “No essencial, o fenómeno consiste em “adoptar” a língua portuguesa, mas “adaptada” de modo a poder configurar os diferentes registos que compoem a personalidade do universo cabo-verdiano representado” (85). That is, the writer uses the colonial language as a method of subversion, by reformulating it to better- fit Cape Verdean expression and vocabulary.

Indeed, Chiquinho is filled with Creole and “Creole-isms,” both at the level of dialogue and narration—the first person narration permits a greater use of oral markers in this novel than we see, for example, in Nemésio’s work. Creole and “Creolized

Portuguese” is used sporadically throughout the text, most often appearing in the form of just one word at a time and surrounded by Portuguese. One pattern that can be noticed is the use of the diminutive: “tamanhinho” (38), the diminutive of the “tamanho”, meaning either “size” or “great,” to signify small; “naquela agorinha” (42), placing the adverb

! 111! “agora” (by definition an invariable word meaning “now”) in the diminutive, to turn it more specific, “that very moment.” Other examples of this hybrid of Portuguese and

Creole include “meninência” (33), “consolança” (36), and “boniteza” (49). In “Nome de casa e nome de igreja,” Gabriel Mariano refers to the plasticity of the Cape Verdean

Creole language that allows for such formulations, while citing the “redutos essenciais” that Lopes himself referred to. As Mariano concludes: “… o crioulo possui a plasticidade necessária para receber o que lhe fornece o português a par da imprescindível personalidade para não ser destruída ou absorvida por uma língua de maior prestígio, como é a portuguesa” (85).

There are also moments in which Lopes uses more common Cape Verdean vocabulary, once again interjected into the Portuguese. “Morabeza” and “crecheu” are frequently used, the first referring to the laidback Cape Verdean way of being, and the second meaning sweetheart or darling—the Creole “querido” or “amado,” or, sometimes, simply, romantic passion. In Chiquinho’s time in São Vicente, we also see many references to “mocratas,” or young prostitutes. For example, when the narrator overhears whispers between a young man and woman, the former declaring that the latter is too young, she replies “Adá! Eu sou mocrata, moço…” (113). “Nhanida,” meaning “full”, also appears on several occasions; for example, the Cape Verdean life, “Vida nhanida de pobreza” (175), is referred to. When used in the narration, the Creole vocabulary tends to refer to Cape Verde, whether it be its people, the land, or the lived experience on the islands. In dialogue, Crioulo tends to be used as an interjection—for example, “calê” is used frequently, such as when Chiquinho overhears one old man yelling “Calê, criatura!” (88) to another. These uses of Crioulo seem to create a pattern for how it will

! 112! be seen in Cape Verdean literature in the future: the native language of the population tends to be invoked in relation to questions of identity or interpersonal relationships.

Richard A. Lobban, Jr. reflects on the relationship between the Creole language and Cape

Verdean identity in his book Cape Verde: Crioulo Colony to Independent Nation. The historian writes:

[Creole] is considered most suitable for sharing intimacy and feelings and for expressing the saudade of the archipelago. Varying from one island to another, Crioulo is the vehicle of everyday communication in Cape Verde for individuals at all levels of society. It is also a defining linguistic feature of the Cape Verdean cultural identity that has been transmitted to the United States and other parts of the world. In this way, the term Crioulo is used not only for the Creolized language but also for identifying the distinctive and dynamic culture… (70-71).

This function of the Creole language is something that we will see both in Chiquinho and in the Cape Verdean prose of following generations.

Just as Nemésio does with the local speech included in his writing, Lopes does not italicize words in Cape Verdean Creole, nor his “Cape-Verdeanized” Portuguese— nor does he provide a glossary. Again, this subtle formatting decision seems to serve as an affirmation of the local speech, just as legitimate for literary production as the standard Portuguese spoken on the mainland. The language used throughout this novel is, after all, the language that truly represents the Cape Verdean reality41, with all of the various cultural influences.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 41 Without, of course, writing a novel completely in Cape Verdean Creole, limiting readership to those who speak the language. Manuel Veiga is the only Cape Verdean author to write a novel completely in Creole: Oju d’agu, published in 1987. As Russell G. Hamilton points out, however, this linguistic choice was detrimental to the dissemination of the work—“Written in creole, this landmark novel may also be one of the least-read Cape Verdean works of the decade, for the simple reason that even many of those who normally read creole with no difficulty find the language of the text nearly unreadable due to the effort required to decipher the spelling of individual words” (1993, 272). Before this, Donaldo Pereira Macedo had published a play in Creole in 1979. Descarado was published by Atlantis Publishers in Boston, Massachusetts.

! 113! Full sentences or thoughts expressed in Cape Verdean Creole are much less frequent, however. While Lopes tends to include crioulo terms within the mainly

Portuguese discourse, he does not provide extensive examples of the language in dialogue or in narration, which is something that we will see in later writers, such as

Manuel Ferreira and Orlanda Amarílis. In fact, the only occasions in which full sentences in Cape Verdean Creole appear are in reference to cultural production. Once Chiquinho arrives to São Vicente, he becomes part of a literary movement called the Grémio, which represents the beginnings of Claridade movement itself. As such, the young male scholars dedicate themselves to the understanding of Cape Verde and to the creation of a literature that expresses caboverdianidade—the same goal shared by Lopes and his contemporaries. Consequently, it is in the section entitled “S. Vicente”, that is, the second section, which is about his time studying on the neighboring island, that Lopes will begin to include examples of artistic production—namely mornas and poems—that are written in the Cape Verdean language.

In the majority, the representations of Crioulo are lyrics from mornas—logical, since the music is a defining aspect of Cape Verdean culture, and a leitmotif throughout much of the literature. The first example is the morna of Chiquinho’s friend Nonó:

Amor ê suma passadinha azul Sentado na rama di jamboêro… Olhá-l, dixá-l cantâ, dirá-l boâ… Si bô pegá-l êl tâ chorâ, Si bô dixá-l êl tâ cantâ e di note êl tâ ninábo bô sono… (106)

The narrator then gives a brief synopsis of the morna in Portuguese—it is not a direct attempt at translation, however, it’s rather a paraphrase turned into reflection on how he himself identifies with the lyrics, in regards to his feelings for Nuninha: “Não, eu não

! 114! queria espantar o passarinho azul que povoava as minhas horas. Como na morna de

Nonó, receava que ele chorasse, magoado da minha brutalidade, e fugisse para nunca mais” (106). Lopes is in this way able to communicate the meaning of the song without stripping it of its authenticity and emotional charge, instead of providing a side-by-side translation or a footnote.

There are other examples of mornas throughout the last two sections—as it happens, for example, when the youth are at a nightclub and Chiquinho dances with

Nuninha, or when the seamen sing these popular songs. The last example of Cape

Verdean Creole, and the only one that appears in dialogue, is when Nuninha quotes a morna to Chiquinho before he departs for America: “A morna é sentida de verdade, principalmente naquela parte em que diz ca bô disquecê di bô pombinha morena, e outras recomendações tristes” (206). Again, the emotions of the morna are transferred to

Nuninha and Chiquinho—the former is afraid of what will happen when her love emigrates to America, afraid that he will forget her, a destiny not uncommon for Cape

Verdean women. It is only by quoting this morna, the ultimate expression of caboverdianidade, that Nuninha can truly express what she is feeling in that moment

(which is, in itself, quite representative of the Cape Verdean reality)—her true worries and sadness.

The only remaining example of extensive use of Creole in Chiquinho is a quote from a poem/morna by Eugénio Tavares, the Cape Verdean poet regarded as the precursor to the Claridosos. Nuninha is a fan of Tavares’s poems; Chiquinho reads her those written in crioulo (127). This moment of intertextuality is important—it is simultaneously a nod towards a writer who served as inspiration to Lopes and his

! 115! colleagues, and a form of valorizing local artistic production, instead of resorting always to reading European poets. Finally, the fact that Chiquinho reads to Nuninha the poems written in Creole and not those written in Portuguese is a strong affirmation of Creole’s place in literature and in society, fundamental to the Cape Verdean identity since it prioritizes the local language.

Both Nemésio and Lopes are examples of writers who used regional speech often without providing translations, demanding greater engagement from the reader. As Ana

Mafalda Leite points out,

A utilização de palavras não-traduzidas obriga, por outro lado, o leitor a confrontar-se com uma outra cultura, onde tais palavras têm significado… manifesta-se uma particular função de interpretação, porque se desenvolvem formas específicas e intencionais de construir distância cultural, distância essa criada pela língua. A gradual rejeição de glossários nos textos, e a escolha em deixar algumas palavras não traduzidas, é também um ato politico de afirmação da diferença (158).

Both Nemésio and Lopes, then, demand that the reader consider context in order to understand vocabulary representative of a culture divergent from the standard.

In terms of representation of the local pronunciation, however, Baltazar Lopes is much more reserved than his Azorean contemporary. There are rare occasions in which the Cape Verdean author writes terms phonetically in order to convey the local accent— in fact, it happens less than a handful of times throughout the entire novel, and the examples are quite inconsequential. For example, the author trades “vacas” for “bacas”

(165), representing the pronunciation of the standard “v” as a “b”, something we see in many other Cape Verdean texts, namely in the example “bocê.”

Terms borrowed from English are also quite frequent throughout this novel— much more so than we will see in later Cape Verdean texts, and more comparable with

! 116! the frequency seen in Azorean literature. This vocabulary is almost always related to the experience at sea and Cape Verdean experience in America—a reality particularly close to Chiquinho, whose father and grandfather both emigrated, and who will follow in their footsteps at the end of the novel. Examples include “kaki” (165), “camas de spring”

(207), “cocktail” (192), “shipchandler,” “jobs,” and “whisky” (115). These terms are all related to the life at sea—the khaki refers to the uniform—or to the promises of life in

America, such as the reference to beds with springs. Other English terms also appear, and can be traced to the English presence on the island of São Vicente: for example, “foot- ball” and “cricket” (179) are both referred to.42 These terms carry great significance in the local culture—their presence is indicative of wide-reaching phenomena on the islands, and of Cape Verde’s relationship, namely, with America, but also with England.

These terms are not translated in the text, nor is there a glossary—it is assumed that the reader will understand the vocabulary, since it is relevant to the Cape Verdean reality.

When Chiquinho leaves São Nicolau to study in São Vicente, there is a telling moment in his conversation with tia Alzira, a distant family member also from São

Nicolau, which allows the reader to see the power that a more localized speech can have over compatriots or, in this case, people of the same small island. In his first days in the new house, when the older women mistake his concentration on the young Nuninha, and thus indifference towards everything else, for shyness, they encourage him to be comfortable and eat what he would like. Tia Alzira comments: “Chiquinho é muito fidalgo no comer.” The term “fidalgo,” a commonly used adjective in São Nicolau, speaks to Chiquinho’s emotions as a young boy away from home for the first time:

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 42 Norman Araujo refers to the presence of the British East India Company on the island of São Vicente, established in 1839 (5).

! 117! “Fidalgo. Este velho adjectivo de S. Nicolau agradava-me. Ele afuselava as minhas linhas físicas e morais” (105). While, of course, the term in itself is flattering to

Chiquinho, the fact that it is an “old adjective” from his homeland, and thus for which he identifies the complimentary significance, is not insignificant. It provides for a heightened level of identification between Tia Alzira and Chiquinho—Tia Alzira’s use of the word provides a moment of connection between the two in their shared identity as people belonging to São Nicolau. This effect only further underlines the purpose of using local speech and Creole throughout the text, now expanded to the case of Cape Verde as a whole: the use of Cape Verdean speech in the literary form allows for the reader to identify with the narrative, understanding the intended meanings of the authors and realizing that the text is truly rooted within the islands, which was, after all, the goal of the Claridosos.

Besides employing Crioulo in his works of fiction—both prose and poetry—

Baltazar Lopes, who had a degree in philology, was the Claridoso to most reflect on the

Cape Verdean Creole language, publishing multiple articles in the journal Claridade about the evolution of the language, including “Notas para o estudo da linguagem das ilhas.” He would later publish the book O Dialecto Crioulo de Cabo Verde (1957). Lopes traces the history of the Crioulo language, and notes two separate phenomena: one of conservation and one of innovation. While, in terms of conservation, he aims to show that insularity has allowed archaisms to continue in use in the islands, much like we see in the case of the Azores, he also speaks of innovation—this in terms with the Creole language gradually approximating standard Portuguese. Indeed, Lopes insists that Creole is fundamentally a Romance language, especially in regards to morphology. For Lopes, the

! 118! influence of African languages is minimal—it can be summarized in the simplification of grammar and a very limited contribution in terms of vocabulary—especially in islands of the Barlavento group.

Still, Lopes strives to underline the fact that Creole is, in itself, an independent, viable language—the approximation to Portuguese he speaks of is just that, a growth in similarities, but not a substitution. Indeed, he speaks of the fact that literature is often discussed among the Cape Verdean population in the native language. This, of course, legitimizes the language as one capable of expressing literary and academic concepts:

Elucidativa a conversa de certas senhoras idosas, da época, parece que infelizmente passada, em que, nas reuniões de amigos, se contavam em crioulo os romances e folhetins que cada qual tinha lido—crioulo especial, repleto de fenómenos linguísticos reinóis. E também a fala crioula das raparigas de hoje, que fizeram o seu liceu, que lêem o seu Stephan Zweig, conversam com bacharéis e sorvem imagens do mundo “em jornais e revistas atrasadas” (17).

Lopes concludes that “este facto denuncia uma espécie de bilinguismo” (17); beyond this, though, it shows that Creole has the same potential of functionality as Portuguese.

As Norman Araujo observes, “Lopes da Silva termininates his argumentation with the observation—more political than linguistic—that the substance of Crioulo attests the depth of Portuguese colonization on the islands, for there have been Crioulos in the

Portuguese Indies, but these have disappeared because of the rather superficial character of the Lusitanian sentiment” (92). This affirmation on Lopes’s part is yet another example of the Claridosos’ attempt to approximate Cape Verde and its culture to Europe while distancing it from Africa. Indeed, as it has been reflected by scholars such as

Russell G. Hamilton and Richard A. Lobban, Jr., Lopes pays little attention and gives minimal credit to the influence of African languages on the development of crioulo, instead aiming to prove that Creole is largely a preservation of the Portuguese spoken

! 119! during the period of discoveries, enabled by the isolation of the space. This, again, as

Araujo says, seems “more political than linguistic” – Lopes’s background is in the philology of Romance Languages, with no training in the area of African languages, and it is seemingly for that reason that he pays little attention to the African influence on his native language. Russell Hamilton reminds us that “while stressing the obvious Romance aspects of Cape Verdean creole, [Lopes] admits a lack of precise information on the

African linguistic influence, and he calls for an analysis of the ‘dialect’” (245). As

Richard A. Lobban, Jr. notes, while the Creole language is indeed heavily based on

Portuguese, the African contribution is more than the mere simplification that Lopes refers to: the language is “enriched with an African phonetic system and with loan words from both stocks” (70).

Still, the endeavor to publish a study on the formation of the, at the time, regional language is an important step towards the valorization and legitimization of the language.

Baltazar Lopes was the first to pay attention to this aspect of Cape Verdean culture in analytical terms (others before him had written poetry in the Creole language), making him, as Lobban writes, the figure who “spearheaded the movement to legitimize Crioulo as a viable and autonomous language” (79).

More on the use of creole and orality in Cape Verdean literature: the cases of Manuel Ferreira, Onésimo Silveira, and Orlanda Amarílis

Manuel Ferreira will follow in the footsteps of Baltazar Lopes, perhaps paying even more attention to orality and the representation of the Cape Verdean Creole language in his writings. In fact, he chooses to employ Creole in the very title of his

! 120! novel Hora di Bai (1962)—the hour of departure from the island, Hora di Bai—which is arguably the text in which he focuses most on the question of language.

The emotional connection that the Cape Verdean people have with the Cape

Verdean language is also explored in this novel. The most notable example comes at the end of the novel, when the poet Jacinto attempts to convince nha Venância, an important figure on the island, not to immigrate to Lisbon. He implores to her to maintain hope, and to not desert the islands because of the temporary situation at hand. While he always insists on speaking in Cape Verdean creole to her, as he does this day, she stubbornly responds in Portuguese. When she finally changes her mind and decides to stay, however, she shifts to crioulo:

Sem querer, nha Venância começou a falar crioulo. Prova de intimidade, de uma total aproximação do patrício com quem ela tinha apenas conversas de tempos a tempo. E talvez mais para o contentar do que propriamente para exprimir um claro propósito, disse-lhe: “Sim, ‘m tâ bâ pensâ um bocadinho.” E o facto de continuar a exprimir-se na sua língua deu-lhe a sensação, naquele momento, de que todo o mundo profundo e acolhedor a penetrava tão intimamente que logo a percorreu o apelo das pequenas e grandes coisas do viver cabo-verdiano, desse seu mundo que ela ia deixar, e lhe estava diluído na alma (190).

Cape Verdean Creole is the language of intimacy among the population. As such, it is only this language that can reach the soul of the Cape Verdean people in such an effective manner. The code-switch from Portuguese to Cape Verdean Creole allows nha Venância to see this, and reminds her of her deep connection with the islands. She promises she will reconsider her decision—and ultimately decides to stay.

Beyond the use of creole throughout the text, Manuel Ferreira also “Cape

Verdianizes” the Portuguese language itself, reformulating the standard language in order to make it “more Cape Verdean.” One way of doing this is a representation of

! 121! pronunciation, a technique that we see in many other texts, both from Cape Verdean and

Azorean authors. This is the case when, for example, the author chooses to write “dondê quelas” (9), instead of “onde estão aquelas?” In fact, besides just representing the local pronunciation, there is a break in tradition grammar rules, as the verb is omitted from the sentence.

Later on, we will see another interesting example of the author’s play with the

Portuguese language, giving the standard, written language a more oral character. In regards to the widespread suffering on the island, namely the starvation leading to death, the narrator refers to those lives lost: “Tanta gente de morte morrida” (35). Here, the construction “morte morrida,” considered redundant in standard written language, serves not only to emphasize the reaches of the tragedy, but also to underline the suffering before death. Many people “dying of death;” that is, they are already figuratively deceased before the physical death comes, due to the starvation or widespread misery and lack of resources to sustain a healthy life.

Toda a gente fala: sim, senhor! (1960), by Onésimo Silveira, employs Crioulo in a different fashion than the other texts discussed here, resulting in, perhaps, a stronger, more militant affirmation of identity. While the narration itself is almost exclusively in standard Portuguese, with some terms in quotation marks to indicate their popular origin43, the dialogue between Cape Verdean characters is exclusively written in Crioulo.

That is, with the exception of few exchanges between Tigusto, our Cape Verdean protagonist, and Senhor Loureiro, the Portuguese owner of the land on which Tigusto works in São Tomé, no dialogue is written in Portuguese. This seems to be an especially !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 43 These words are not always in Crioulo—more often, they are Portuguese words that take on a specific meaning in the given context. For example, Silveira repeatedly refers to the “obrigação” on Sunday, which is, of course, a reference to Mass.

! 122! significant choice in the attempt to affirm a regional identity—there is a refusal to artificially place Portuguese in the speech between Cape Verdeans, since this is not the language used to communicate. While other writers tend to translate most dialogue, writing it in Portuguese with the inclusion of some Creole terms, Silveira instead opts to limit expression to Creole in an affirmation of the legitimacy of the language and its vitality in communication between Cape Verdeans. While he does not provide direct

Portuguese translations of the text in Creole, the context often allows the reader to understand the conversation. Perhaps the fact that this text is a novella, consisting of less than thirty pages, is what permits this use of Creole—the limited size of the narration allows for the inclusion of crioulo at a level that would perhaps not be sustainable throughout an entire novel.

Orlanda Amarílis’s44 short stories similarly pay special attention to the use of creole and local speech patterns. Indeed, many of her short stories are highly oral in esthetic terms—the attention she pays to local speech is not limited to dialogue. To the contrary, there are frequent instances in which Cape Verdean Creole or other representations of the Portuguese spoken in Cape Verde throughout the narration itself.

Interestingly, though, and in contrast to other examples in which we see high indices of orality in the narration, her stories are not narrated in the first-person; the third-person, omniscient, narrator also employs the local language in order to tell the stories of the day- to-day lives of the Cape Verdean population.

Similar to what Manuel Ferreira does, Orlanda Amarílis also employs repetition in order to achieve emphasis. This happens very early on in the first story, “Thonnon-les-

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 44 David Brookshaw refers to Amarílis as “the inheritor of this [linguistic] mantle” (from writers like Baltazar Lopes) in the post-independence era (217).

! 123! Bains,” when nha Ana receives a letter from her emigrant daughter living in France and is overcome with emotion: her heart becomes “doido doido” (11). In the same story, nha

Ana’s friend also employs repetition for emphasis, this time in regards to her pontche:

“faço um pontche sabe, sabe” (14). This use of repetition not only serves to mark orality, but also to turn the Portuguese more local. This is especially true in the second case, when the friend uses the Cape Verdean Creole term “sabe” in place of “bom” or

“delicioso”. “Sabe” is a term that is recurrent throughout much of Amarílis’s writing, as well as that of many other Cape Verdean writers—it is often interjected into a Portuguese phrase, a sort of anchor for the text to remain in the Cape Verdean sphere.

Amarílis also represents the Portuguese spoken in the islands, in its variation from the written standard. This representation, however, is not limited to the dialogue. For example, in “Prima Bibinha,” the third-person narration also includes characteristics of orality. In regards to the maids who are sitting and talking, the narrator describes: “Nunca falavam da falta de chuva. Pâ quê? Nove ano sem chuva, pâ quê falar mais em chuva?”

(83). First, we see the common shortening of “para” to “pâ,” one of the many variants seen often in Portuguese-language literature. Further, however, the narrator refers to

“nove ano” without rain, choosing not to pluralize the noun “ano,” which, although grammatically incorrect, is possible to be heard in spoken language. In “Thonons-les-

Bains,” we see something similar in the references to “Merca” (América [America]) and the “mercanos” (Americanos [Americans]) (12), representing the elimination of vowels.

Cape Verdean Creole also appears throughout these short stories. Oftentimes, when Cape Verdean vocabulary appears in the text it is in contexts of interpersonal relationships or of one’s identity—once again, it speaks to the most intimate forum. For

! 124! example, in the story “Luísa filha de Nica,” characters will often refer to each other in crioulo: “nha fidje” (32) is how Nica refers to Luísa when attempting to get the latter to stop with her nonsensical talk, and when Tatóia appears at the end of the story, she refers to Nica as “nha irmom” (41), while the rest of their conversations are in Portuguese. This choice implies that, while it is possible to translate much conversation to Portuguese, designations for interpersonal relationships should not or cannot be translated, since they refer to the most inner circles of each human’s life.

In Thonon-les-Bains, we also see crioulo employed to speak of a certain position in society—the fortuneteller is referred to as the “ptideira” instead of using the

Portuguese variant “cartomante” (17). The word “ptideira” simply fits better since it is used in reference to this woman’s role within her community, how she serves others, and ultimately, her own chosen identity.

“Canal Gelado,” a story that exposes the drastic inequalities between classes, allows us another perspective on the question of language: that of socio-economic position. That is, those of the upper class place a greater value on speaking Portuguese instead of Crioulo, as it serves as a symbol of elite. Mandinha, the protagonist of the story, from a well-to-do family but who has a fascination with observing the lives of those in the Canal Gelado, who live in precarious conditions, earns money from her uncle by speaking Portuguese: “Tinha uma moedinha ganha no último fim-de-semana, dada pelo tio, sob a promessa de só falar português e poucas vezes o crioulo. Todas as semanas repetia-se o mesmo ritual. Ganhava uma moedinha e prometia falar sempre português até ao fim do contrato” (76). That is, there is a great value placed on speaking

Portuguese over crioulo in order to demonstrate social status—one that even allows for

! 125! monetary compensation. This, of course, only further underlines the socio-economic undertones of this “ritual”—the fact that the uncle wants his niece to speak Portuguese and his ability to pay her in return are not unrelated, and work together to serve as a marker of their high class, which greatly contrast with the miserable conditions of poverty, illness, and uncleanliness that the inhabitants of the Canal Gelado endure.

Gabriel Mariano speaks precisely about the function of the Portuguese language in the aristocratization of the Cape Verdean people. For Mariano, the problem is not the desire to know the Portuguese culture, but that, in doing so, there is often a resultant severance with the Cape Verdean. As he writes,

Estranho ao caso não deve ser o papel aristrocratizante da língua portuguesa e uma visível preocupação de fugir às origens, de feitos contra-aculturativos. Julgo que o que está aqui é um mau uso da cultura portuguesa. Mau uso, claro, provocado pelo desigual prestígio dos elementos que entraram na nossa formação e facilitado pelas nossas instituições de ensino. O instrumento de fuga, neste caso, é a língua lusa. Entendamo-nos: o que parece errado não é essa aproximação, essa procura da cultura portuguesa, mas a preocupação de cortar raízes profundas que ligam o homem caboverdeano ao seu meio natural (91).

The desire expressed by Mandinha’s uncle that his niece speak only Portuguese and to consciously avoid speaking Cape Verdean Creole is representative of what Mariano describes. In search of prestige, he ultimately depreciates the local language and culture.

Accomplice in the elevation in prestige of the Lusitanian language over the Creole is, of course, the schools, as Mariano points out. We can, then, think of the intentional use of Crioulo in literature, which we have seen employed throughout the last century, as a sort of response to this—a legitimization of Creole as deserving a space within literary and, thus, academic discourse, ultimately increasing the prestige with which the local language is looked upon.

! 126! Further reflections on phonetic representation, archaisms, and other localisms in Azorean literature: The cases of Dias de Melo and Daniel de Sá

Dias de Melo also explores representation of local speech in his works, perhaps most particularly in Reviver: na Festa da Vida a Festa da Morte. The novel, which is a memorialistic look at the occurrences during the annual killing of the pig, is narrated in the first person, allowing for a great attention to orality.

Reviver: na Festa da Vida a Festa da Morte has an accompanying glossary—this glossary is placed before the text, and not following it, as we will see later is the case with Cristóvão de Aguiar’s Raíz Comovida. There is an introductory note to the glossary, outlining the nature of the terms included: “Palavras portuguesas, arcaísmos ou não registados em poucos ou em nenhum dicionário ou de uso corrente e constantes de qualquer dicionário, mas tendo no local em que o contado neste livro decorre pronúncia ou significado diferente…” (11). He also includes terms borrowed from English and brought to the islands by emigrants. What is interesting to note is Dias de Melo’s decision to employ terms with an alternative meaning in the Azores—in other cases, we also see archaisms and foreign words, yet the choice to define vocabulary that exists in the mainland, but signifies something else in the Azores, is particular to de Melo.

Ana Mafalda Leite reflects on the function of glossaries of local terms. For Leite, glossaries represent the difference through which a regional or national identity is expressed. Like in the case of terms not translated, this technique demands reflection from the reader, though, in this case, to a lesser degree: “A questão que se coloca com os glossários num texto transcultural é que ele poderá obrigar o leitor a ir à nota explicativa, mas o seu principal papel é demonstrar diferença” (158). The presence of a glossary, then, is in and of itself a marker of difference. Dias de Melo’s option to place

! 127! the glossary before his text, then, could also be considered an important political move, a means of establishing diversity from the standard as immediately as possible.

While the first-person narration allows for an oral approach, it should be noted that, within the narration itself, the author does not tend to explore representation of the local accent, as we have seen in other cases. Indeed, the narrator uses terms specific to the regional reality and, even more specifically, to the reality on the island of Pico—but there are no words phonetically written to convey a variation of pronunciation from the norm. These reproductions do occur—they are, however, limited to moments in which the narrator is recalling past dialogues and quoting other members of the community.

When quoting others, however, the narrator does imitate the popular pronunciation on the island. In these cases, what appears in Dias de Melo’s novel is very similar to what we see in other Azorean novels—the phonetic spelling of words, often with either the dropping of a vowel, or a shift in vowels, most notably from “o” to “e” in the case of the picoense accent. That is, an example used frequently, and which appears in the glossary, is the enunciation “semos” instead of “somos.” Other common examples include “home” for “homem,” just as we saw in the case of Nemésio, and “pràmanhã”, cutting several vowels from “para amanhã,” and “munto” to represent the exaggerated nasalization of “muito.”

The narrative format, however, also allows for another interesting technique—the narrator, at times, “translates” terms from the Azorean variant to their mainland equivalent. While we only have one narrator, the novel is formatted in the form of a conversation—we only have access, however, to what the narrator says, with the interlocutor’s responses being represented by ellipses. While it is never explicitly stated,

! 128! it is implied on various occasions that the interlocutor is from the mainland.45 One example of this act of “translation” occurs when the narrator refers to “serões das descascas do milho”— he quickly adds “(no Continente chamam-lhe desfolhadas)” (33).

“Descascas do milho” does not appear in the glossary that precedes the text. For this reason, it becomes necessary to give the equivalent used in the mainland—both for the reader and the implied interlocutor. As we saw in Chiquinho, the text itself may serve as a space for differentiation, while simultaneously one in which a common understanding is achieved.

While, in Sobre a verdade das coisas, Daniel de Sá pays great attention to regional vocabulary and diverging definitions from the Portuguese spoken in the mainland, there are few examples of phonetic representation throughout the text. Indeed, the only two occasions in which the author portrays the pronunciation of the speaker is to somehow differentiate that speaker from the majority of characters in the text. Being an oral history of the parish of Maia, in São Miguel, he does this when a character from another village, Rabo de Peixe appears, and later in reference to how previous generations spoke. In both examples, there is a sort of distancing, whether it be spatial or temporal.

When these phonetic representations do appear, the writer places the words within quotation marks, so as to accentuate that they are the words of the speaker. When the fishermen from Maia go to harvest their lobsters, they are met with a “rabão”, a man from Rabo de Peixe. As the narrator points out, “dificilmente se entendiam” the !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 45 For example, when the narrator is explaining how the pigs are hung after being killed, a parenthesis is opened: “(ilhas há nos Açores – não sei se também no Continente e em outras freguesias do Pico – em que os porcos se dependuram pelos pés e de cabeça para baixo)” (bold mine, 208). This reference to the mainland seems to serve as a point of reference for the audience—as if the narrator is rhetorically asking them if this is the case.

! 129! populations of the two parishes. As such, when the two groups begin accusing each other of theft, the rabopeixinho exclaims “Eh! ‘mardite’, eu sou um homem sério, excomungado. Comprei uma casa por cinquenta contos e tenho um relógio de ‘pursos’”

(37). Here, the use of “r” in place of “l” in “maldito” and “pulso” is used to differentiate the pronunciation of Rabo de Peixe from that of Maia, in order to distinguish the two groups and their own separate identities. This case serves almost as a metonym for the case of the Azores and the mainland at large, since it demonstrates how local linguistic peculiarities have the power to both unite smaller communities and distance them from others, a sort of reflection of language’s role in questions of relation.

Daniel de Sá also employs a technique similar to that of Dias de Melo, which is to explain terms and provide synonyms within the text. He does this on two occasions—the first, to differentiate terminology used in the mainland from the Azorean, and the latter, to define vocabulary specific to a certain occupation that is part of daily life in the village.

In “Os ‘Buns’ Anos”46, the narrator reflects on ti Manuel “Pataca”’s nickname:

“De onde lhe veio a alcunha (‘apelido’ como aqui se diz), não sei” (77). Within the text, and despite using the continental variant first, the narrator clarifies that the term for such designation is not the same in the Azores, underlining difference, however small the detail may seem.

In “Moleiros”, de Sá does something similar when speaking about the experience of the millers: “onde a água sobe a ganhar força para voltear o ‘penado’ e a

‘corredoura’ – rodízio e mó na linguagem de quem os cuida” (86-7). In this case, the

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 46 Notably, the second example of the use of phonetic representation, this time with ‘buns’ representing the pronunciation of older generations.

! 130! narrator provides us first with the micaelense variation of the term. Quickly, however, he

“standardizes” the vocabulary, making it comprehensible to readers unfamiliar with the local terminology.

All of the aforementioned examples have shown the author placing the regional speech within quotation marks in order to denote difference. Interestingly, however, he does not do this in all cases. For example, words that do exist and hold the same meaning in the mainland, but may have fallen into disuse with time, are not placed in quotation marks, therefore blending in with the rest of the text. Examples of these vocabulary words, which are frequently used and even, in many ways, characterize micaelense speech include: “nica de” (35) meaning a bit of, emphasizing smallness, “tola” (48) and

“tolices” (51), for stupid or stupidities, “pequenos” (57) for children, or “consolar” (56), used to express when something is pleasurable. While, of course, these words may be used in some part of the mainland, they are terms that are used with much greater frequency in the islands, and which, as I previously stated, are characteristic of micaelense speech.

Outside perspectives of non-standard speech: A Lisboeta in São Miguel in “Algo como um regresso a casa”

João de Melo does not pay great attention to questions of local speech in his writing, especially at the level of representation. In his story “Algo como um regresso a casa,” however, he does provide a reflection on the accent from São Miguel. The story is that of Manuel, a micaelense in a sort of self-exile in Lisbon, who returns to the island for the first time with his wife, Benvinda—a blind woman. Being unable to see, she absorbs the island through other senses. While the sense of smell is the first she uses upon

! 131! landing—she reflects on how the smell of salt is naturally predominant on an island—she is soon inundated with sounds. First is the voice of the stewardess thanking the passengers, then the coughs of smokers, followed by babies screams and, finally, the voices of the locals:

Finalmente, as vozes açorianas expandiram-se por toda a cabina, tão estranhas aos ouvidos da cega como uma desarmonia há muito perdida da língua portuguesa. Mas depressa ela captou os sons: sentiu-os como que em rotação dentro do ouvido. Percebeu que havia uma nova e progressiva claridade no interior da sua cabeça, a qual era já a medida do seu entendimento acerca do modo de falar daquela gente. Ainda assim, estranhou a aspereza convulsa e algo sacudida da linguagem. — Aqui nos Açores – disse ela ao ouvido de Manuel – fala-se uma mistura de francês moderno com prosa portuguesa do século XVI… (56).

The difference in the sound of the Portuguese from São Miguel to that of Lisbon, to which Benvinda is accustomed, is jarring to her. The sounds are simultaneously strange and harsh, foreign and archaic, to her ears. This is her first experience of the island, which carries an even more significant weight since she cannot see, and it is one that immediately distinguishes the space she is now in from the one where she is from.

It is interesting that it is only through the presence of a blind character that de

Melo pays greater attention to the sounds and voices of the island. Indeed, this short story collection entitled As Coisas da Alma, as well as most of João de Melo’s other work, while very sensorial, tends to focus on other senses and sentiments. The most commonly explored sense is the visual, as the characters observe the, oftentimes, also jarring drama of the Micaelense landscape. By creating a blind character, however, de Melo is able to create a bit of a shift in his sensorial descriptions, and, in a rare moment, pay special attention to the auditory aspect of the island—just as significant in the description of the

! 132! space—in order to convey a sense of a unique universe within the Portuguese national space.

Oral histories of place and local speech: Cristóvão de Aguiar’s Raíz Comovida and Germano Almeida’s Ilha Fantástica

Cristóvão de Aguiar’s trilogy Raíz Comovida is nearly 400 pages of rich, oral accounts, providing a profound sense of the spoken language in São Miguel. Narrated almost entirely in free indirect speech, with the word passing frequently between the narrator and his elders, the text is laden with regionalisms, archaisms, words borrowed from English and made part of a local Portuguese vocabulary by emigrants, as well as phonetically spelled words to convey the micaelense pronunciation, and errors in grammar. In fact, the Azorean author and Aguiar’s contemporary, João de Melo, considers this trilogy “Uma experiência linguística sem precedentes” (Aguiar, 2003).

The 2003 edition, which joins the three parts of the trilogy, includes a glossary, defining the words that appear in italic throughout the narrative. As an introductory note to the glossary, de Aguiar writes “Dão-se a seguir os significados de alguns açorianismos, arcaísmos e americanismos usados ao longo do texto, além de outros termos que, embora pouco usados no continente, eram de uso corrente nos Açores, particularmente na Ilha de São Miguel” (369). All of these words are given equal treatment—there is no differentiation between categories. This suggests that all of the terms are of equal relevance in regards to the speech in São Miguel—both the archaisms that continue in use, in great part due to isolation from the mainland resulting in a separate evolution in speech, and the Americanisms, English words pronounced with a

Portuguese accent, introduced on the island as a result of the emigration phenomenon, are

! 133! examples of Azorean, and in this case, Micaelense speech, and consequences of the lived experiences discussed in this dissertation. Examples that appear frequently throughout the narrative include “intances,” “moleste,” “estoa” (from the English “store”), and

“Batefete” (New Bedford). When the term has a foreign origin, such as in the case of the latter two examples, or “charabã,” coming from the French “char-à-banc”, the original word is included in parenthesis in the source language.

However, de Aguiar does the same for Portuguese words written phonetically in the text—“pitafe” for example, which de Aguiar relates to “epitáfio”. There are various other examples of this non-standard Portuguese throughout the text—whether in relation to pronunciation or incorrect grammar usage. For example, one of the most frequently used terms throughout the narrative is “inté,” a phonetic spelling of “até.” Other examples include “senhara” (senhora), “prigatório” (purgatório), “subença” (“sua benção”), “istora” (história), “semos” (somos), and “charrinhos” (“chicharrinhos”). All of these terms convey the micaelense accent, placing the narrative firmly within that space—the storytellers can only be from São Miguel, therefore their memories are also unmistakably grounded in the island.

It is not only phonetically that the Portuguese portrayed in this text strays from standardized Portuguese—there are also moments in which non-standard grammar is used to characterize the speech. For example, when Ti José Pascoal is telling stories of the rival bands, he uses “havera” in the place of “haveria,” incorrectly conjugating the verb “haver” in its pluperfect form. In this case, the word is italicized, and consequently appears in the glossary with the correct form. This seems to be a method of the author to demonstrate that the use of the incorrect verb tense is intentional, and not simply an error

! 134! in editing. Further, it demonstrates the fact that the error is common, thus constituting part of the local spoken language.

Later on, when the narrator is quoting (using indirect free speech) senhor

Albaninho, his former boss, he uses the construction “mais grande” instead of “maior,” a common error of native speakers not only in the Azores, but also in the mainland, and which often is related to a lack of formal education. It is interesting to note that, in this case, the expression is not italicized. Perhaps this is because it is assumed that the reader will understand that this use was intentional on the part of the author, as it is a widely- known mistake. In fact, the use of this expression seems aimed at shedding light on the socio-political position of the speaker, and not so much his or her regional identity.

Indeed, there are other moments in which the author opts to use regional vocabulary without italicizing the word and, therefore, without including it in the glossary. The two most frequently seen examples of this is “corisco” and “ala bote”

(from the English “all aboard”): “Parece que levou sumiço o corisco do rapaz” (26) and

“eu fazia de conta e ala bote” (14). It is important to question why the author chose not to define these words at the end of the novel. One possible answer seems to be the difficulty in translating these specifically micaelense terms to a more standard Portuguese, without losing all of the cultural nuances that lie behind the words. Indeed, these terms—the first having another meaning in standard Portuguese, meaning a strike of lightening, but used to refer to people from São Miguel in a variety of contexts, always by fellow

Micaelenses, and the second being related to the emigration phenomenon—are intrinsically intertwined with the micaelense reality, making it difficult to translate to another cultural experience.

! 135! The fact that Cristóvão de Aguiar opts to not italicize these words within the narrative also leads to another interesting conversation: why italicize the other regionalisms, then? By not italicizing “corisco” and “ala bote,” de Aguiar invalidates any argument that the localisms within the text are in italics in order to set them apart from the standard Portuguese. If this were the case, the current two examples would be formatted in the same fashion. As such, the most plausible reason for italicizing the vocabulary is precisely to indicate that they will appear with an explanation in the accompanying glossary—since de Aguiar chooses not to include “corisco” and “ala bote” in this selection of vernacular that varies from the standard Portuguese, they do not appear in italic. If we consider the other side of this, however, we understand that highlighting regional qualities of these words is not de Aguiar’s intention by italicizing.

That is, italicization is merely a tool to indicate that a word will be later defined—it does not serve to set the regional dialect apart from the rest of the narrative. This seems important to note, since in many other texts, both from the Azores and Cape Verde, localisms, or in the case of Cape Verde, crioulo, are often italicized with precisely this intention, even in the absence of an accompanying glossary. For de Aguiar, then, there is no privilege given to the “high Portuguese.” The Azoreanisms—that is, the phonetic speech, the words borrowed from English, which speak to the emigrant reality, and the archaisms—are treated with equal importance and are placed on the same level as the national standard. They are not italicized to denote a difference, or to separate them from the national linguistic norm. They are equally Portuguese, since they are used in the day- to-day conversations of the Portuguese living in São Miguel.

! 136! While giving the regional dialect the same importance as the national standard, de

Aguiar is also making a fundamental decision with its inclusion—he is specifying the space of the narrative, making it so that it must be speaking to a micaelense reality. The history is irreversibly tied to the place when the narrative is laden with local dialect.

Since this trilogy portrays, in great detail, life in São Miguel, serving almost as an ethnographical study, it only makes sense that the author also explores the local speech.

The orality of the narrative—indeed, it is almost entirely composed of members of the community recounting their own memories—allows for this to occur in what seems the most authentic fashion. Instead of simply quoting characters and using the localisms to characterize their speech, the micaelense variety of Portuguese is what the narration itself is composed of.

Germano Almeida has also explored orality throughout much of his work—the first and, perhaps, the most notable example being Ilha Fantástica, published in 1994. In this novel, the oral nature of the narrative—the story is told in first person—is in itself an esthetic decision that approximates the text with African traditions, which were often a component that received less attention from the earliest Cape Verdean writers. Indeed, this is a novel which attempts to return to these roots—besides the story-telling aspect of the of narrative, many other themes are reminiscent of the African heritage on the islands, the most prevalent example being that of superstition.

Further, as Leonor Simas-Almeida points out in her article “Germano Almeida e o filtro dos afectos na transfiguração do real em ‘ilha fantástica’” (2007), the oral register of the narrative and, thus, and especially relevant to this conversation, the use of local speech, allows for an emotional approximation between the narrator and the reader.

! 137! While, as Simas-Almeida refers, the use of free indirect discourse allows for a greater intimacy and identification between the narrator and the characters and, thus, the narrator and the readers, the local language also plays an important role in this relationship.

Simas-Almeida writes:

Outra forma de a acentuar é a escolha de uma linguagem bem representativa do seu discurso característico; multiplicam-se as expressões do crioulo, generaliza- se a sintaxe típica da oralidade e, mais relevantemente ainda, mesmo quando o sujeito do discurso é o narrador de 3a pessoa, a sua fala deixa-se claramente contaminar pela dos Boavistenses (139).

The use of the local speech places the narrator within this space, proving his legitimacy and intimacy with the other characters, once again allowing for the forging of an identification between the narrator and the reader.

Interestingly, however, the extensive use of Crioulo is limited throughout this novel, especially in comparison with writers like Orlanda Amarílis. In fact, reminiscent of the case of Chiquinho, it is quite rare for the narrator to employ the native Cape

Verdean language. While the narration is peppered with some local vocabulary, it is not so concentrated as we have seen in some other texts. Some common vocabulary that we have seen in other texts, including “sabe”, “Sãocente”, “sodade,” and “bo”, appear frequently throughout the novel. Along with these terms, the narrator also employs verbs, such as “djodjar” (to fix) (90), as well as the term “spote,” or “chamber-pot,” which is used quite frequently. All of these terms can be related, in some way, to the intimacy of the every day life of the Cape Verdean, whether in regards to pleasure, identity, emotions, or even the most basic human needs.

Besides using Cape Verdean Creole vocabulary, Germano Almeida also often creates a sort of hybrid between the two languages, either by turning Cape Verdean more

! 138! Portuguese or, more frequently, turning Portuguese more Cape Verdean. An example of this is when the narrator refers to “ovos… tchocos” (105). Despite using the terms

“chocar” and “choco” in the sentences leading up to this one, he decides to, in the last instance in which he refers to the eggs, “Cape Verdianize” the word, adding a “t” before the “ch” to represent the Cape Verdean pronunciation of this sound, which is harder than the soft “sh” sound it represents in standard Portuguese. This same method is employed with various vocables throughout the novel, such as “tchacina” (21), “motcha” (51), and

“intchado” (54).

It is not only in relation to pronunciation that this representation takes place, however. Again in reference to the eggs, the narrator says that they were “cheirando mais mal que pele de cabra sem sal” (105). Once again, orality and local speech take precedence over grammar, as the author opts for “mais mal” instead of the grammatically accepted form “pior.”

The treatment of Crioulo when it does appear, however, is of utmost importance.

When Almeida inserts creole terms—which, in contrast with the case of the Azores, indeed constitute an independent language, separate from Portuguese, no matter the similarities—he does not distinguish them from the rest of the text. That is, they are inserted into the middle of the text, and completely blend in with the Portuguese—they are not italicized, nor are there accompanying footnotes or a glossary included within the book. To serve as a counterexample, we have some English words that appear in the text and are italicized—for example, the car “ford” is referred to (53). This approximation of

Cape Verdean Creole and Portuguese is quite telling—it serves as a way to assert the regional, equating it in importance and status to the national.

! 139! The infrequency in the use of the Cape Verdean language throughout the text results in an accentuated significance in the moments that it does appear. While the narrator tends to translate from Creole when quoting other characters, those moments in which the native language does arise are instances of greater intensity, intimacy, and are often related to questions of identity. For example, one of the first times that we see

Creole is when Mari de Felacindade is referred to as “Mari Moringue” by English sailors that had shipwrecked and were temporarily staying on the island. Offended by this negation of her identity, she retorts “nha nome não é Mari Moringue, nha nome é Maria de Felacindade, não estou aqui para aturar trivimento de inglês…” (60). The use of

Crioulo here, then, is representative of its role in general in Cape Verdean literature—to assert an autonomous identity, to reclaim the right to define oneself and not be defined by the European.

Soon, however, Mari will gain yet another nickname—Mari Bijóme—the one that eventually sticks. When Mari meets João Manco, some time after the previously referred episode, the two become sexually involved. Initially, Mari claims that Manco sexually assaulted her, forcing her to have relations. We later hear, however, another version of the story from Filipe, the father of Mari’s fiancé, in which it was Mari who repeatedly said “bijome,” which would mean that the sexual relation was consensual. Even more,

João Manco, who, it is previously stated, only spoke crioulo on one occasion in his life

(which will be discussed ahead), also expresses himself in their native language: “abri bu tchom mitê, uai, uai, ó que sabe!” (73). The narrator notes that this use of Creole on the part of Manco is quite significant, and “dessa forma a mostrar o absoluto grau de agrado dos dois…” (72). In this instance, then, the use of Cape Verdean Creole can be related to

! 140! intimacy and pleasure, as well as a certain agency on the part of Mari, as she uses it to express her desires.

As previously referred, before this encounter, João Manco had only been heard speaking Creole once—again, it was in a moment of great vulnerability. It is also the moment which will come to give him his nickname. As the narrator tells:

Em toda a sua vida, uma única vez João Manco foi ouvido a falar crioulo e foi justamente da circunstância de que lhe adveio a alcunha de “Manco”. Tendo ido um dia fundear um bote, atirou-se depois ao mar para chegar à praia. Não eram mais de 50 metros de distância e ele vinha nadando calmamente, quando se sentiu agarrado e preso pelo calcanhar. Quando viu que tinha sido atacado por uma moreia cadela desesperou-se aos gritos de que “ele ta ta comeme nha perna, ele ta ta bem matome!” (56).

Once again, it is in a moment in which João Manco is most vulnerable, when his space is invaded and the walls he creates by speaking Portuguese fall, that he allows himself to speak Creole, as he cries out in pain. Furthermore, it is interesting to note that, once again, this episode is the one that gives him the name he is known by, after the eel injured his leg, making him walk with a limp. While the nickname itself isn’t in Creole, it seems significant that it is in the same moment that Manco speaks Creole and receives the name that will define him for the rest of his life—once again drawing a link between Cape

Verdean Creole and identity.

The examples serve to show that, while Creole is not so frequently used throughout the narrative, it is the language closest to the Cape Verdean—the language used to express hurt, fear, desire, and the one employed in regards to questions of identity. It is, indeed, the intimate language of the Cape Verdean. The fact that Almeida decides to employ it in very specific moments highlights its importance—as well as its links to the Cape Verdean’s emotions.

! 141! This is not to say that the Portuguese language carries no weight among the population. Indeed, while the emphasis is placed on the African elements in the Cape

Verdean culture, the reader sees the population’s valorization of Portuguese and

European figures. Nhô Quirino, for example, is fascinated by stories of valiant and courageous European historical figures, and often retells them to the children. The common favorite was the story of Charlemagne, which nhô Quirino told in an animated fashion, bringing various characters to life:

Nhô Quirino começava sempre a contar as estórias em crioulo, as pequenas escaramuças dos fronteiros, as longas correrias dos possantes cavalos… mas quando chegava a certas passagens mais emocionantes mudava automaticamente para português, falando rapidamente, derramando sobre nós as belas tiradas que tinha decorado (51).

It is interesting that, in the moments that nhô Quirino gets most excited, when his emotions peak during his storytelling, he actually does the reverse of what we saw previously—he switches from Creole to Portuguese. Of course, as it is referred,

Portuguese is the language in which he learned the story of the Frankish hero. As such, we can infer that the switch to Portuguese is a shift to the source—since he learned it and memorized it in Portuguese, he would be expected to translate it to Creole to retell it. In a moment of emotion, however, his capacities for translation were eliminated, as he simply wanted to expel the rest of the story. Besides this, it demonstrates the official nature of the Portuguese language—it is that which is used in reference to distant histories that have little to do with the Cape Verdean immediate reality.

Still, the fact that nhô Quinino retells this story frequently to the island’s children once again reminds the reader of the ever-present African element. Despite being a

European story, it is molded to the African traditions when nhô Quinino, in a lively

! 142! fashion, retells this story, and others, to groups of children. This is the source of the children’s knowledge of the stories, and probably what makes them most memorable, instead of what might happen with a history book read at school.

Concluding Reflections

In both the Azores and Cape Verde, the varying uses of local speech within their literary productions serve to demonstrate the specificity of the locales. As we have seen, the characteristics that distinguish these forms of speech from the standard Portuguese are oftentimes resultant of the varying conditions that form and influence the lived experiences on the archipelagos, many of which are discussed in this dissertation: the isolation leading to the preservation of archaisms, the stronghold of the English language brought back to the islands by the whalers and emigrants, and other foreign influences— as for Cape Verde, the relation of the Portuguese language with the African ones brought by the slaves, resulting in the development of Cape Verdean Creoles.

After considering the various uses of the local speech throughout the literatures of both archipelagos, it seems safe to conclude that the case of Cape Verdean writers shows, perhaps, a more strategic use of the local language, very strongly linked to questions of identity and interpersonal relationships. In the Azores, on the other hand, the representations of local speech are used more sparingly, in a variety of contexts and to refer to a variety of realities. One could conceivably relate this to the issues outlined at the beginning of the chapter: while the Azores are representative of a monoglossic society, an autonomous region within a nation that speaks the same language, Cape

Verde represents a diglossic one, and thus a language almost completely foreign to the

! 143! Portuguese of the mainland. As such, the Azorean writers have more flexibility to employ local speech a bit more freely, as the vocabulary, being Portuguese, will be at some level recognizable to the reader, even if just in terms of etymology and the apparent Portuguese structure. In Cape Verde, since the language will strike the reader as foreign and, often, incomprehensible without much context, the writers must be much more selective in the examples they provide. Since the language is used as a tool of affirming Cape Verdean- ness, it makes sense that writers often choose to employ crioulo in contexts of personal and local identity.

One final observation is in relation to the appearance of English terms, made to sound more Portuguese, throughout these texts, which are introduced into the island societies by returned emigrants. It is interesting to note that these terms appear much more frequently in Azorean literature than in Cape Verdean literature—while they tend to permeate the texts in the case of the Azores, as we can see especially in the examples of

Dias de Melo and Cristóvão Aguiar, but also in the works of many other Azorean writers, they are not as frequently noticed in Cape Verde writing, with the exception of

Chiquinho, which was referred to at the beginning of this chapter. Since the phenomenon of emigration was just as strong, and the effects were just as wide reaching, in Cape

Verde as in the Azores, it is an interesting paradox to consider. Indeed, as Celeste Pinto

Costa Martins shows in “Presença da língua inglesa no léxico crioulo de Cabo Verde,” the spoken language in Cape Verde does evidence these influences. Their rarity in the literature, then, seems to be a deliberate choice made by the authors, and one that we can relate to the discussion of chapter four of this thesis, in which we see that the protagonists of Cape Verdean prose almost always tend to stay on the island when facing the dilemma

! 144! between staying and leaving, in a move to valorize the local, prioritize the Cape Verdean experience, both present and future. Chiquinho is, seemingly not coincidentally, also an exception in this case. The choice, then, to limit the use of English lexicon can be related to this endeavor to focus on what is Cape Verdean, to “fincar os pés na terra.” Like keeping the protagonists in the islands, avoiding the extensive use of English lexicon adopted in the islands takes some focus away from the outside and from the desire to depart—even if this desire is constantly reflected on throughout the literature, as a sort of destiny of the islander.

! 145! Chapter 3: The land, the sea, and the climate: The role of geography and the man’s affective attachment to the land

In his essay “Açorianidade,” Vitorino Nemésio writes that, “A geografia, para nós, vale outro tanto como a história…” in regards to the Azorean identity. Manuel

Lopes, an original member of the Claridade movement, also recognizes nature’s force over the Cape Verdean psyche. In the first issue of the journal, he writes: “Nós sabemos que o clima e todos os seus fenómenos, a paisagem e todos os seus aspectos exercem um controle permanente, uma acção ora lenta ora rápida sobre a formação psicológica dum povo...” (6).47 In Caribbean Discourse, Glissant writes in a comparable vein: “The individual, the community, the land are inextricable in the process of creating history”

(105). My third chapter, then, focuses on the importance of geography, of the land, and of climate. It is the central argument of my dissertation, after all, that the insular realities of these two societies are precisely what create the circumstances adequate for the comparison between the Azores and Cape Verde. More than that, however, it is the harsh conditions on these two archipelagos that heighten this parallel: in the Azores, the constant underlying threat of a volcanic eruption or an earthquake, the humidity, the greyness, the persistent rain, and in Cape Verde, the opposite: aridity, leading to minimal opportunities for agriculture, droughts, eastward winds that destroy crops, leading to

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 47 Manuel Lopes does not, however, refer to this influence as a sort of geographic determinism— he recognizes the transformation of the Cape Verdean once he or she has left the archipelago at the beginning of this same text. In fact, it is an attempt to understand this difference that lies at the center of this text.

! 146! starvation, as well aforementioned threats of volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. In both archipelagos, the force of the sea is constantly referred.

The incredible impact of these conditions upon Azorean and Cape Verdeans by natural factors as a result of their geographic position results in a strong symbiotic relationship between the man and the land. The land’s importance, however, is not merely in terms of sustenance: the Azorean and the Cape Verdean novels demonstrate a profound emotional connection to the islands, and any shifts due to a natural order will also result in shifts in the people’s mental or emotional status. Beyond this, and as

Nemésio asserts, geography will play a key role in the formation of regional identities.

This is not, by any means, geographic determinism: even Nemésio is careful to point out that geography influences the human’s character while in the Azores, but not his essence—it does not determine how he will comport himself if he leaves the island. It is easy to see this influence in cultural terms. Take, for instance, the cult of the Espírito

Santo, still thriving in the Azores to this date, despite its disappearance from the culture of mainland Portugal centuries ago: it was, indeed, the isolation imposed by the sea that allowed for this tradition to remain intact. Similarly, the strong Catholicism that we so often identify with Azoreans and Cape Verdeans can be related to the geographic conditions: faced constantly with the possibility of a natural disaster, religion becomes a sort of coping mechanism, as faith allows the islanders to lead their lives normally with the confidence that God will protect them. Some of the strongest moments of religious fervor in these two literatures are, indeed, seen in the presence of some sort of natural phenomenon. For example, we can consider Nemésio’s short story “Misericórdia” depicting an earthquake in Praia da Vitória, and the piety of a devout family who remains

! 147! together with faith in God until the last moment. Similarly, in Os Flagelados do Vento

Leste (1959), by Manuel Lopes, the protagonist João Cruz never relinquishes his conviction that the Lord will save him and his fellow islanders during a period in which all crops were destroyed and extreme starvation, misery, and death permeate the island.

Onésimo Teotónio Almeida defines geography, related to Azorean literature, as follows: “[geografia é] – no seu mais lato sentido – a terra e o mar, mas também a vulcanologia, o clima e todos os elementos físicos que afectam aquele espaço geográfico, como a própria distância que separa o arquipélago dos continentes mais próximos, bem como as próprias ilhas entre si” (2014, 45). This is the definition that I will be using throughout my analysis in this chapter—when speaking of geography in regards to

Azorean and, I argue, also in Cape Verdean, cases, we cannot limit ourselves to mere questions of land formations and the sea. The climate, oftentimes unpredictable, the spatial isolation, and the volcanic origin of all these islands are other fundamental aspects to take in account when considering the vital role natural, physical space plays in these two literatures. Almeida finds that it is inevitable that geography play a key role in

Azorean literature, given the instability of nature on the islands: “[q]uinhentos anos de memória colectiva de cataclismos, tempestades e vulcões, acrescidos da constante sensação de isolamento, o cinzento carregado das nuvens e das chuvas prolongadas, não podem deixar de modelar uma cultura (no sentido antropológico), e naturalíssimo é, por isso, que essa realidade penetre de uma maneira ou de outra a produção literária” (45).

Mutatis mutandis, the same can be said of Cape Verdean literature.

In regards to Azorean poetry, Almeida argues that the focus on geography is not an invention of the authors. Instead, “parece acontecer por ser mesmo assim, por fazer

! 148! parte do mundo do poeta, do mundo açoriano” (43). The same could be said for Azorean prose writers. That is, authors do not seem to decide to write about the land as a mere aesthetic choice—instead, it is almost imposed on authors who aim to reflect on the

Azorean reality in their literature, being such a fundamental factor in the Azorean lived experience. This is why discussions of geography and its influence permeate Azorean literature—like Almeida points out, it is not a literary leitmotif to which only a few authors subscribe, but in fact a reality that stretches across the works of most, if not all,

Azorean writers.

When Nemésio wrote, in 1932, that famous line quoted at the beginning of this chapter, he puts the two components on equal playing field in the construction of the

Azorean identity: “Como homens, estamos soldados historicamente ao povo de onde viemos e enraizados pelo habitat a uns montes de lava que soltam da própria entranha uma substância que nos penetra.” Before Almeida, Nemésio had already decades earlier affirmed that the climatic and geographic conditions are so extreme, that it is no wonder that they constantly appear in Azorean writing.

Further, Nemésio speaks of a profound connection between the man and the island, so deep that the two almost become one—the Azorean incarnates the land and the sea, as the geographic realities manifest themselves within the Azorean character. Here, we should recall another well-known and lyrical quote from this essay: “Como as sereias, temos uma dupla natureza: somos de carne e pedra. Os nossos ossos mergulham no mar.” The very stone of these volcanic islands are part of the Azorean’s composition, just as their bones belong in the sea. We can see here how truly penetrating the love for the land is: it becomes a part of the person, a piece of his or her soul and being.

! 149! The apego à terra that will be discussed both in this and the next chapter is defined by Nemésio—he explains it as being a feeling of “amor elementar que não conhece razões, mas impulsos.” Still, there is a desire to know the other, to explore the universal, perhaps as a result of the extreme isolation existent until recent years: “Uma espécie de embriaguez do isolamento impregna a alma e os actos de todo o ilhéu, estrutura-lhe o espírito e procura uma fórmula quase religiosa de convívio com quem não teve a fortuna de nascer, como o logos, na água.” These effects of geographic realities on the Azorean character and psyche will lead to the dilemma discussed in the next chapter—the conflict and tension between the attachment to the land and consequent desire to stay on the island, and the dreams of the world beyond the sea’s horizons, and the want and, oftentimes, need to emigrate.

Scholar António Machado Pires also reflects on the question of the role of geography in Azorean culture and literature extensively. Machado Pires affirms that geography and history are intrinsically connected at the foundation of the Azorean identity—the memory of the historical decision to populate an uninhabited land and the isolation of the place combine to form a strong sense of being Azorean. As he writes:

A História é o que cada geração pensa dela, o que lhe garante vida sempre renovada. Também o amor dos Açoriano à(s) sua(s) Ilha(s) tem vida sempre renovada. É intemporal na sua temporalidade histórica. Tem a carga afectiva que têm todas as raízes telúricas mais a peculiaridade da Geografia e da História. Aliança determinante entre o ADN histórico lusíada e a experiência vivida nestas ilhas desertas povoadas a partir de um interessante grau zero. Cruzadas por impérios, guerras, ambições, heroísmos, participações decisivas na História nacional. Com uma história dentro de outra História (2008, 78).

In fact, for Machado Pires, the insularity of the Azores is precisely what molds the

Azorean culture(s)—while simultaneously connecting it to the Lusitanian past. That is, while isolation might point towards autonomy, Machado Pires argues that it is precisely

! 150! the Portuguese culture that is conserved in the islands: “Mas os Açores estão fortemente ligados ao passado de lusitanidade de que fala Nemésio e que as ilhas, no seu isolamento, guardaram conservadoramente” (80). The distance between the islands themselves also contributes to the variety in Azorean culture—the geography, the being an archipelago, is what unifies them despite cultural variations. Machado Pires writes:

A psique colectiva, temperada por séculos de isolamento, conservou, moldou e modificou um vasto acervo de tradição e cultura, criando um mosaico característico de expressões estético-culturais. Daí que se possa dizer, pela diferença de sensibilidades, falares de modos de ver Deus e a vida, que há povos açorianos na sua realidade antropológico-estética e apenas há um povo na sua realidade de sujeito e objecto de governação. Unidade na diversidade, divergência e convergência, um desafio que obriga a perigosas dispersões e partilhas de recursos e instituições. Novamento destino da Geografia, a valer mais do que a História, ou a fazê-la. Uma “alma’ de lugar’, um “eixo do cosmos” que se procura no local de naturalidade, com um alvoroço e uma emoção que podem levar a saudades sublimes como a bairrismos ferozes (2008, 81).

That is, while isolation from the rest of the world, and even between the islands themselves, allowed for certain traditions to remain strong and evolve in different ways in each island, the geographic reality unites them. Each island has its own historical and anthropological reality, no matter how many parallels can be drawn between them; their societies were formed in isolation of each other. Yet, being part of the same archipelago is the underlying tie that brings a micaelense and a corvino together, despite drastic differences in lived experience.

In conclusion, Machado summarizes the importance of geography in the formation of the Azorean identity, while being careful to distance himself from geographic determination theories, like those of Willy Hellpach. Still, Machado Pires underlines its importance: “A geografia não é só uma posição no mapa, mas uma experiência climática, telúrica e anímica envolvente e impregnante” (82). He continues:

! 151! “… é marcante nos Açores a força natural que deixará efeitos ao longo de gerações. O mormaço e o quadro de referências têm mais força do que a História. Mas esta enquadra e condiciona destinos históricos, limitando voluntarismos” (82). That is, given the importance of history in the formation of the Azorean culture, one must also consider the question of geography—the extreme isolation and harsh climatic reality are indeed what shapes the historical trajectory.

Luís Ribeiro, in his essay “Subsídios para um ensaio sobre a açorianidade,” outlines how specific environmental factors—the volcanic presence, the humidity, and the sea—influence the local culture. With the humidity of the islands, Ribeiro relates a sense of indolence and apathy among the population (despite the hard-working character of the micaelenses, which he constantly refers)—he gives the examples of the solene folklore music and general disinterest in folkloric dances (with few exceptions), especially when compared to the music and dance of the mainland, as evidence of this indolence.48 Further, he points out that the most vivacious of all the islanders are those of

Pico, who show a diversity in their labor—they are the only islanders with a population where one can find many individuals dedicated both to the land and sea (530). As Ribeiro will come to point out, Pico is the least humid of all the Azorean islands, further supporting his prior assertion (531).

Coupled with this indolence, and also attributed to the insularity of the islands, is the heightened sense of saudade among the islanders, which Ribeiro evidences with the archipelago’s various versions of the folkloric song “Saudade” and the letters sent to and

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 48 It is important to note that, like Nemésio, Ribeiro is careful to not fall into the territory of geographic determinism. In order to do so, he provides a reflection on the hardworking, rigorous, and robust nature of the Azorean workers in the United States, showing how, once removed from the environment of the Azores, these characteristics dissipate (535).

! 152! from America. Ribeiro affirms that if saudosismo is characteristic of the Portuguese population as a whole, it is heightened among the islanders (532). As far as the constant presence of the sea, Ribeiro links this element of the Azorean geographic reality to the almost instinctive desire to emigrate (542). Throughout this chapter and the next ones, we will explore these characteristics in relation to the literary texts—while the saudosismo can be linked to the apego à terra, the desire to emigrate is something we will see constantly, and will be discussed in depth in chapter four.

Perhaps most interesting and relevant to the texts that will be discussed in this chapter, however, is Ribeiro’s discussion on the relation between the volcanism of the island and the religiosity of the islanders. The scholar shows how religion serves to give the Azorean a sense of strength, as he or she becomes aware of humans’ total weakness in the face of the constant threat of volcanic eruptions and earthquakes. As Ribeiro writes,

Em presença de uma erupção vulcânica ou de um abalo de terra, o homem sente com desusada violência a sua fraqueza e a grandeza das misteriosas forças naturais que o cercam. Surpreso, apavorado, procura acolher-se à protecção divina, porque as forças que se desencadeiam em sua volta excedem muito todas as suas possibilidades de defesa, e recorre então a Deus para que lhe salve a vida ou lhe conceda uma boa morte. Sob a ameaça de ver destruído tudo o que o cerca e que julgava desafiar a eternidade, compreende a fragilidade do que é material e terreno, e o seu horror à destruição e ao aniquilamento dá-lhe uma noção, mais perfeita do que nunca, daquilo que é eterno e omnipotente (524).

Ribeiro supports this by referring to the persistence of the cult of the Holy Spirit in all of the islanders and the fact that news of a violent earthquake or a volcanic eruption often comes with mention of holy promises or collective prayers (526). Further, he gives the examples of the romarias and the cult of Santo Cristo in São Miguel as examples of the most solemn manifestations of religiosity in the most pious of all the islands—not

! 153! coincidentally, according to Ribeiro, it is also the island that has historically been most affected by disasters linked to the volcanic reality of the island (525). In this chapter, I will explore two examples of the relationship between religiosity and volcanism:

“Misericórdia,” by Vitorino Nemésio, and Arquipélago, by Joel Neto, which provide us with more evidence of this relationship. Still, other fictional examples will prove that it is not merely the consequences of being volcanic islands that inspire this religiosity, both in

Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures—indeed, we see a surgence of religious faith in the face of most impeding disasters.

In his essay “Inquietação e Serenidade. Aspectos da Insularidade na Poesia de

Caboverde”, Gabriel Mariano analyzes an affirmation by Baltasar Lopes, revealing a sentiment of unity between man and the land similar to that expressed by Nemésio.

Mariano quotes a piece in which Lopes writes about the objective of Claridade, which is to understand the Cape Verdean reality: “[o] nosso caso, isto é: o Caso de Caboverde”.

Mariano continues:

O “nosso caso” é o “caso da nossa terra”. Ora, essa identificação ou pelo menos esse querer a identificação com o meio além do seu aspecto imediato… revela também que a sociedade caboverdeana, atendidas as suas origens plurirraciais e atendidos os mecanismos de “química social” que determinaram a formação de povos mestiços afro-europeus, continha já em 1936 os méritos capazes de aglutinar indivíduos de ilhas diversas e de formações diferentes e de fornecer a esses indíviduos um motivo de preocupação comum: fincar os pés na terra e entender Caboverde (97-8).

That is, the Cape Verdean’s reality is synonymous with the reality of the Cape Verdean land—in still other words, it is dependent on the geographic situation. Further, it is the similarities that encompass all of the islands, the harsh conditions and insularity, that bring them together to form one Cape Verdean identity among many islands with varying historical and racial makeups. Indeed, the fact that the very slogan of the Claridosos was

! 154! to “fincar os pés na terra” in order to explore and reveal the Cape Verdean experience is in itself quite telling of the vital role attributed to the land.

Further, Gabriel Mariano ponders how insularity influences the lived experience of the Cape Verdean populace. In fact, it results in a paradox, which Mariano summarized in the contrast between serenity and restlessness: “… de um lado, determinando aspectos predominantemente serenos: o convívio local, a familiaridade nos contactos, uma especial inclinação para a serenidade repousante ou para a boémia pachorrenta; do outro, a limitação dos estímulos provocando o desejo ou a necessidade de travar relações novas…” (99). Both the emotional attachment to the homeland and the underlying urge to know the world beyond one’s horizons, then, can be attributed to the geographical isolation of the space; that is, the insularity of the place is precisely what leads to the dilemma between remaining in Cape Verde and emigrating, which I will explore in the next chapter.

In his editorial “Cabo Verde: Insularidade e Periferia”, João Lopes Filho echoes what António Machado wrote in the case of the Azores, this time in regards to Cape

Verde. After speaking about the specificities of the Creole culture and language, Lopes

Filho writes: “Convém portanto salientar que se Cabo Verde não fosse um país insular, muitas dessas interessantes características não existiriam. Destaque-se, contudo, e com igual empenho, que tal insularidade não aponta apenas para questões tão simpáticas, pois acarreta, principalmente, aspectos negativos de ordem sócio-económica par [sic] um País de fracos recursos” (16). These peculiarities of the Cape Verdean were given space to evolve due to the isolation of the islands, without close neighboring cultural influences entering and impeding their development. This is also true of differentiations

! 155! between the islands themselves—as Lopes Filho points out, each island has its own form of Crioulo, as the language evolved initially on each island, in isolation of the other.

Like many others, Fátima Bettencourt speaks about the duality of nature—that with both gives life to its people and can have destructive influence over this very gift— in her article “A idiossincrasia cabo-verdiana.” As she writes, this paradox is part of the very being of the islands: “As Ilhas nascem duma explosão de forças de natureza que ora maltratam ora embalam” (18). The sea also poses such a duality, and equally exerces great influence over the population: “O mar—elemento determinante no imaginário cabo-verdiano—sempre presente na vida dos ilhéus, há até quem diga que lhe cria uma alma grande, ainda quando o seu corpo é prisioneiro nos limites da Ilha” (21). These contrasting sentiments offered by the sea—a feeling of hope and a sense of imprisonment—are often experienced in unison by the Cape Verdeans, as well as the

Azoreans. These apparent contradictions of the island experience are at the very heart of what will be discussed in this chapter.

Manuel Lopes had already reflected on this paradox in the aforementioned text included in the first publication of Claridade entitled “Tomada de Vista.” In this essay,

Lopes writes that:

As condições de vida exterior impõem-lhe uma dose moderada de prudência, que é a contra-partida do seu instinto de expansão. Essa prudência não lhe permite satisfazer plenamente o seu desejo de aventura. Dum lado temos o instinto de libertação criada por dois factores: a sua condição de ilhéu (o mar é um convite a estender-se ao redor) e a esterilidade da terra, as estiagens repetidas...—e por outro lado o amor por essa mesma terra de que ele pretende libertar-se, a sua prudência, em conclusão, a sua trágica renuncia às longas distancias—ou o regresso inevitavel imposto pelo nostalgia (Manuel Lopes, n.1, pg 5).

That is, the environmental conditions simultaneously serve as a catalyst for an overwhelming desire for adventure, and a certain prudency and reservation, linked to the

! 156! love for the homeland, within the Cape Verdean. Once again, the idea of the inviting sea that imprisons the islanders is raised—even more, in the case of Cape Verde, is the harsh reality of drought and the destruction of crops, contributing to the desire to leave.49

Manuel Lopes also provides the readers with an idea of the force of nature in comparison to that of man in the third issue of Claridade, in an essay similarly entitled

“Tomadas de Vista.” Lopes reflects on the struggle between the two entities:

A luta entre o caboverdeano e a natureza é heroica. (Porque há que lutar, lutar de qualquer maneira para o conservação da espécie). O drama reside na penosa constatação de que a naturesa é, em Cabo Verde, tão rebelde e diabólica, que o homem não consegue vence-la, que o homem antes de tudo é vítima dela. E é na tragica renuncia, entremeada duns estéreis assomos de entusiasmos, que em outras circunstancias seriam cómicas, do homem deante da naturesa sarcástica, que se pretende descortinar essa apatia. Deve-se antes de tudo concordar em que a naturesa que envolve estas dez ilhas, desqualifica o homem (Manuel Lopes, n.3, p 9).

Once again, Lopes follows up this comment by insisting that the Cape Verdean is not, by nature, indolent—this indolence50 is, instead, a reaction to the physical surroundings that impact his or her life. It is in the face of such an overpowering force that the population demonstrates such characteristic, in their comparative impotency.

While the possibility of a volcanic eruption is very real in Cape Verde, it is not the most immediate threat to the population. The aridity of the land, and the eastern winds from the coast of Africa bringing heat and dust to the islands, along with the scarce rainfall all contribute to extensive, aggravated periods of drought that wreak havoc on the islands and are, by far, the most influential component of nature on the human population. As Norman Araujo observes, the name Cape Verde is quite unfitting for the !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 49 This desire to depart from the island will be further analyzed in chapter four of this dissertation.

50 Manuel Lopes’s use of the characteristic of “indolence” of the Cape Verdean mirrors that of Ribeiro and Nemésio in regards to the Azorean, drawing yet another parallel between the two realities.

! 157! archipelago: “The Cape Verdean Islands are for the most part desolate, barren, and, except for Sal and Maio, jaggedly mountainous. Rare indeed are smooth plains and even terrains” (2).

The effects of such geographic reality are far-reaching; as Richard A. Lobban, Jr. writes, famines caused by drought have often led to a 10 to 40 percent decrease in population (62). The frequency of these disasters is not small—“Statistics from 1747 to

1970 show that there have been 58 years of famine and over 250,000 related deaths in some 12 drought periods” (62). More recent droughts have also caused severe economic damage. Besides death of the population, these periods also contributed to the need to emigrate, and have been a great cause of population loss to other nations.

When reflecting about the religiosity of Cape Verdeans, Lobban interestingly observes: “Even though Cape Verdeans endured numerous hardships caused by the recurrent famines and droughts, harsh labor conditions, and emigration to foreign lands, they could always find solace in their religious traditions” (65). Once again, similar to what we have seen expressed by Ribeiro, there is a connection drawn between the natural conditions of the islands and the pious religious faith of the populations. For Lobban, religion is a source of peace and serenity amidst the chaos of the hardships imposed by the land.

Given the extensive similarities between the Azores and Cape Verde in geographic terms—being two of the most isolated archipelagoes of the Portuguese empire (without counting São Tomé and Príncipe), composed of volcanic islands and faced with a plethora of hardships imposed by insularity and extreme climatic conditions— it does not come as a surprise that this is the area in which we see the most

! 158! overlap between the literatures of the two archipelagoes—as we will see in this chapter, it is in this regard that Azorean and Cape Verdean prose diverge the least, where they bear the most common characteristics. As such, I would argue that the previously discussed observations from both Azorean and Cape Verdean scholars can universally be applied to both archipelagoes—they are, after all, speaking of a similar phenomenon, resultant of incredibly similar conditions.

The exceptionality of this, of course, is the preservation of antiquated Portuguese customs that I previously spoke of—in Cape Verde, the miscegenation with African cultures causes a shift in this process. Still, in Cape Verde, the isolation led equally to a unique culture—one that incorporates elements from both Europe and African ancestors, and subsequently evolved separate from these realities.

The role of geography in Cape Verdean prose

Manuel Lopes’s Chuva Braba not only displays a profound bond between the man and the island, namely on the part of the protagonist Mané Quim, but it also documents the land’s immense power over the destinies of its inhabitants.

Mané Quim’s relationship with the island of São Nicolau serves as the contrast to his need to emigrate in order to achieve a better standard of living—this dilemma will be developed in the following chapter of this dissertation. It is the drought on the island that makes him consider the option proposed by his uncle, despite his deep love for the land.

Shortly after Tio Joquinha’s proposal, in fact, Mané Quim goes home deep in thought— eventually, it will seem that the island is talking to him, urging him to stay, reminding

! 159! him that this is his land. Of all the characters to try to convince Mané Quim to stay, the land is the first to make this plea.

Artur, whom Mané Quim encounters as he prepares to depart for Brazil, provides us with a reflection on how the harsh aridity of the land builds Cape Verdean character.

He asserts that the suffering inspires a shift in behavior:

…é bom de vez em quando uma secazinha. O nosso povo é muito soberbo, precisa baixar a crista um pouco. Nos anos de fartura não se encontra uma mulher nesses campos para transportar um saco. Os homens sentam-se nos terreiros das casas a tocar viola e a fumar canhoto, e não querem saber do resto. Se a gente anda em negócios no interior, vemo-nos à rasca para carretear os produtos… (188).

According to Artur, a change in climate influences the population, and results in a change in behavior. That is, when there is rain and crops are prospering, the inhabitants take this good fortune for granted—they simply want to bask in the comfort of knowing that they will have food to eat and money to survive. On the other hand, drought reminds them of struggle and sacrifice, forcing them to work harder in order to survive. Perhaps, though, we can see this changing dynamic in direct correlation precisely with the extremes between which the climatic pendulum swings—it is because they know the profound suffering of drought time that they must appreciate to the fullest times of prosperity, they must take advantage of life and its beauties, since they seem to have so little opportunities to do just that.

In the end, it is a gift from Mother Nature that allows Mané Quim to make the decision to stay in São Nicolau—immediately before he departs, a torrential downpour begins, and he realizes that where he belongs is on his island, putting efforts into his own land to help his society prosper. Once again, we are reminded of the influence that nature has over the destiny of the Cape Verdean—while the arid conditions that often result in

! 160! famine push many to leave, a coming rain can inspire the hope in the future of the archipelago, ultimately making remaining on the island a possibility. These signs given by Mother Nature are highly respected by the population, which often relinquishes their own power to the will of the land.

In Os Flagelados do Vento Leste, Lopes again considers the relationship between the Cape Verdean and the land, this time in extreme, dire circumstances: out of love for his island, the protagonist José da Cruz refuses to leave, even when misery and hunger run rampant. In fact, as Norman Araujo points out, “the more violent become the winds and the more desperate the circumstances, the more adamant his stand and the more lucid his reasoning” (128). Still, this novel is representative of the defeat of the man at the hands of nature, as Manuel Lopes points out in an interview quoted by Araujo (127).

The very structure of this novel points to this profound relationship between the population, geography and natural elements. Divided into three parts, the subtitles are:

“Chuva”, “Lestada”, and “Os Flagelados”. “Os Flagelados,” the whipped ones, or the

Cape Verdean population, are whipped precisely by the natural conditions of the islands and referred to in the first two parts, the rain and the eastward winds.

In other instances, the lines between natural forces and humans are blurred, with the two constantly assuming characteristics of each other. For example, when the torrential rains begin in the first part of the novel, it is likened to an “exército invasor” coming from the south of the Atlantic to the islands (24). Its force upon entering brings with it a sense of attack, and the idea that it will wreak havoc on the island. On the other hand, characters are also likened to meteorological forces; this happens when Miguel

Alves and the village teacher Maria Alice are in confrontation, when the former attempts

! 161! to force Maria Alice to have sexual relations with him. In this case, Maria Alice is likened to the rain, and Miguel Alves the wind that suffocates it, exercising dominance between the two elements: “O vento redemoinhava no terreiro, dançava junto da porta e entrava perseguindo-a” (84). Later, Miguel Alves will be compared to the wind again, this time after he decides not to buy land from José da Cruz, since he realizes that his broken dream of being with Maria Alice will not be concretized. Zepa, José da Cruz’s wife, remarks that Miguel is like the wind—they both destroy everything. Still, the ultimate force lies with the land, as she concludes that the wind is stronger than Miguel

Alves.

All of these examples blur the lines between human beings and nature. The two are constantly morphing into each other, transforming into another element as they take on characteristics of one another. Perhaps, from this, we can understand another level of the attachment to the land, the profound connection that the population feels with the island—if the rain can be personified, and if characters can embody natural phenomena, the two groups are then put, in a way, on an equal level, which serves to facilitate a strong, emotional relationship. That is, the man and the land become one in the same; the land, to the Cape Verdean, is just as any other loved one, and therefore the connection felt can be just as profound.

Profound, indeed, is José da Cruz’s love for and loyalty to his island. In fact, it is so strong that it leads to his own and his family’s demise, as he refuses to depart after the eastward wind destroys all crops, and death and starvation reach the entire island. He is resigned to God’s will: after all, above both men and the land, is only God. As the narrator observes: “O homem tinha uma medida. Chuva, vento e sol estavam fora dessa

! 162! medida, e o homem não se podia incriminar pelo que sucedia fora da sua medida. Os desígnios de Deus eram superiores à vontade dos homens, mas o dever do homem era lutar mesmo contra esses desígnios” (87). That is, the man must persist against the obstacles that God places in his path. His duty is to fight God’s decisions—not to escape from them through emigration. He is not only fighting for himself, then—by staying, he is fighting, also, for his island.

By the end of the novel, however, José da Cruz will lose everything as a result of his stubbornness—the starving man mourns the death of his wife Zepa and the abandonment of his son, Leadro, by the end of the novel. This time, the faithful relationship between man and land is not as glorified. As Araujo observes:

He is at fault not because of anything intrinsically perverse in his attitude of actions but rather because of a major flaw in his reasoning—the confusion of human dignity with the stubborn maintenance of the man-land relationship. It is here that the thinking of Manuel Lopes marks a considerable advance over the thesis of Chuva Braba. In the earlier novel the element of dramatic conflict was finally reduced to the all-pervading influence of the elements in Quim’s decisive steps. In Os Flagelados do Vento Leste, the matter is more complicated. In addition to the absolute dominance of the elements, there is the tragic resistance of man. The result is disaster (129).

Lopes does not seem to be condemning this relationship either. Instead, he is showing the harsh reality of a man who expresses unconditional love and devotion to his island, even when this love leads to his very demise, for the force of nature is far stronger than that of humans.

The land’s role in molding the lived experience of the population is also underlined throughout this novel. In the beginning chapters, we learn that, for those living in the countryside, childhood does not exist: “Porque infância de menino de campo é isto: trocar as mamas da mãe pelo cabo de enxada do pai. Porque o homen do campo

! 163! não teve infância. Teve luta só, e luta braba. E esperança e incertezas; a labuta das

águas e o drama da estiagem marcados nas faces chupadas e o olhar sério” (46). The natural and social conditions on the island do not allow for the children to experience their childhood—they must also dedicate themselves to producing as much as possible on the arid land. More than this, we see how the geographic and meteorological conditions manifest themselves physically within the population, being exposed in the very faces of the Cape Verdeans. The fact that it is the face that reflects the harsh conditions and the strenuous work that must be done because of them seems key—the face often is the first element recalled in identifying people. In this way, their very identity is rooted within these natural factors.

When the population begins to react to the devastating destruction of the crops and resultant widespread hunger, Maria Alice observes a change in behavior: “Homem na falta é diferente de homem na fartura” (117), she remarks. Indeed, the loss of life’s sustainable resources provokes a tremendous shift within the characters, the most obvious example being Leandro, the son of José da Cruz: he goes to live in the mountains, but only after killing his elderly neighbor, senhora Aninhas, when she pleas for food, signaling the moment in which he becomes savage in response to tragedy. Once in the mountains, we see Leandro tempted to murder once again, when he encounters a man with cows; this time, however, he fails and the two follow separate paths. This character shift, from a compassionate, loving son, if also isolated and ostracized by society, to a murderer, is a direct result of the natural disaster that provokes a desperate response.

Returning to Maria Alice’s affirmation, if we consider that nature plays a decisive role in

! 164! when there will be a time of scarcity and when there will be a time of abundance, we can better understand its relation to Leandro’s character shift.

As Norman Araujo points out, this display of violence is an exception in Cape

Verdean literature, especially among the Claridosos (87), an affirmation which only helps to underline the dramatic power the land has in this novel, since it leads Leandro to a state that is almost unseen in the nation’s literature as a whole. As Araujo writes later on, comparing Leandro to his father, a “normal individual” who saw his life ruined by the disaster, the novel shows “how [disaster] can liquidate [the life] of a borderline case requiring only an abnormal situation, such as the winds produce, to push him into the abyss of militant savagery” (130). This juxtaposition of father and son serves to show the varying degrees of the effect of nature on the human population. As Araujo writes, while

José da Cruz represents the typical Cape Verdean in his love for and attachment to the island, resigned to the will of the higher powers as he insists on remaining on the island,

Leandro represents “an individual case and demonstrates how cruel the crisis, devastating for all, can be for one whose private life already contains suffering unattributable to the stiffling effects of the environment and simply compounded by them” (131). Os

Flagelados do Vento Leste is indeed unique in that it shows the reader these two perspectives, and the effects that the natural components may have on a variety of individuals.

Similarly, Baltazar Lopes’s Chiquinho also shows the desperation that results from the hunger imposed by long periods of drought. At the end of the novel, just prior to

Chiquinho’s decision to depart from São Nicolau to New Bedford, starvation and death pervade his island. There is a resultant chaos as the population desperately seeks for

! 165! means of sustainment—children are begging and selling belongings, as well as skipping school, which becomes deserted. Once again, this points to the robbed childhood of Cape

Verde’s children that Manuel Lopes also refers to—education is foregone as these young citizens have to worry about much more basic needs that are put in jeopardy by the climatic situation. Even more than this, the deserted school is also a result of the death of many children who are dying of starvation, consequence once again of the drought wreaking havoc on the island.

Further, we also see the hysterical reaction of those acting out of desperation. Just as the ethical Leandro became a murderer in the face of extreme hunger, the honorable mothers of the village also turn to crime as they assault and rob a local store. While the men stand back, still too proud to exhibit such desolation and need, the mothers relinquish their prior concerns or beliefs in hopes of feeding their children. When considering this, along with Leandro’s actions, we can see the ability that nature and the climate has to transform the population—despite prior cultural and social customs, the relationship with nature is the most primal, and therefore any shift in climatic conditions have the ability to overpower other elements of the culture.

In Contra o mar e vento, a short story collection by Teixeira de Sousa, the resignation to the force of nature, coupled with an intense faith in God, is highlighted in the story “Jocasta”. We will see ahead a similar situation in Nemésio’s “Misericórdia”. In the story, the tumultuous weather mirrors young Neco’s behavior, as he suffers through an episode of his mental disorder. As his stepmother worries about his agitation and inability to sleep, a thunderstorm brews:

A seguir ao relâmpago prolongado, rebentou mesmo por cima da casa uma trovoada que durou igualmente uma eternidade.

! 166! Seja feita a vontade de Deus. O mundo parecia que se esbarrondava todo. Os relâmpagos e as trovoadas sucediam-se agora sem intervalo. Dir-se-ia que arrombava a montanha próxima, rolando os penedos pela costa abaixo. Seja feita a vontade de Deus. Os trovões roncavam em crescendo e as faíscas estalavam como chicotadas de fogo. Ela sentia-se esmagada pela natureza em fúria. Fechou os olhos e deixou-se subjugar pelas forças que a enlaçavam, a apertavam, a devoravam toda. Seja feita a vontade de Deus (188).

Here, the stepmother is completely resignated—a characteristic often applied to characters in both Cape Verdean and Azorean literatures. In the face of the force of nature, with which the humans know they cannot compete, they must accept the destined outcome, and keep faith in God’s good will and mercy. The repetition of the line “seja feita a vontade de Deus,” as the storm progresses, underlines this—faith in God is the only weapon the population can use to combat nature. In this story, the weather outside serves as a reflection of the struggle with her stepson, Neco, unable to sleep. Shortly after the storm ends, she goes to check on him, and finds him in a serene slumber.

The simultaneously suffocating and liberating presence of the sea is an essential element to consider. Gabriel Mariano wrote of the two contrasting forms of expression in regards to the sea in his essay “Inquietação e Serenidade. Aspectos da Insularidade na

Poesia de Caboverde”: for him, there exists “… uma temática em que o mar parece reduzir-se a elemento familiar e rotineiro, quase que perdendo a sua qualidade de potência líquida, de potência extraterritorial, para se confundir, dir-se-á, com a própria terra; outra em que o mar surge como ser individualizável que colabora ou não nos destinos colectivos de libertação especial e económica” (99). While Manuel Lopes and

Baltazar Lopes do not reflect so much on this facet of the Cape Verdean geography,

Manuel Ferreira later will, in his short stories from the collections Morna and Morabeza,

! 167! as well as in his novel, Hora di Bai. In fact, the insular condition lies at the center of many of his narratives, as characters often contemplate the sea and its power.

In the story “Puchinho,” the concept of the sea that both imprisons and liberates the islander—a leitmotif in both Cape Verdean and Azorean literatures—takes primary importance, as the young boy Puchinho gazes off into the horizon, daydreaming of the possibility to one day embark and encounter the world beyond. As he and his friend

Mário observe a Greek boat leaving the port of São Vicente, mourning their never achieved dream of escape, it is observed that “Então a ilha outra coisa não seria do que fonte de solidão” (18). At the same time, the crashing waves serve as a reminder of the lives beyond the horizon.

In Hora di Bai, the sea will once again serve a fundamental role. In fact, it itself receives treatment as a character, personified in its ability to communicate with the islanders, much like the mountains in Chuva Braba. Even more in this case, since emotions are even attributed to the sea. Still in the beginning of the novel, it is said “… mar está a conversar com vocês. Isto é fala do mar. Mar é assim modo gente. Mar conversa, mar chora, mar dança…” (16). Indeed, just like we have seen in many other cases, the geographical space holds such power and influence, that it is able to communicate with the people whose lives it affects. Its greatness is repeatedly underlined throughout the novel. Later, we will see this dichotomy between the prison and the gateway to the rest of the world resurge: “Mar enorme, eterno e sem fim, ligando as ilhas—ou derramando-se num convite permanente à evasão?” (54). That is, the sea is both what connects the islanders to their neighbors, and what imposes their unforgettable insular condition, which they are tempted to escape from through emigration.

! 168! Indeed, there is a certain sense of hope invoked by the sea—one that is often met with disillusionment. At the novel’s opening, we see people moving from the interior of

Santo Antão to the coast, in hopes of finding a great abundance of food—they envisioned cassava, fish soup, and other resources. What they were met with, however, was mere disappointment, as they learned that the people living by the sea were also starving. The hope, then, is transferred to the places to which the sea can bring them: “Era o veleiro mandado por Deus Nosso Senhor que levaria aquele povo à outra ilha distante e abençoada onde todos encontravam abrigo e protecção” (11). The past has shown the islanders that the land will not suffice, that the arid, precarious conditions serve as an obstacle to a sustainable life. In light of this knowledge, they turn to their only other option: the sea, and where it may lead them to: “A condenação do cabo-verdiano não tinha apelo: procurar na emigração ou no mar o que a terra lhe negava” (33).

The role of geography in Azorean prose

Raúl Brandão’s As Ilhas Desconhecidas and Fernando Aires’s Era uma vez o tempo both give detailed accounts of the Azorean land(s), truly painting a portrait of various spaces. Since these narratives are not fictional, but are instead memorialistic—in the first case, a travel log, and in the second, a diary—my analysis will not go into great detail. Still, both have made an incredibly contribution to Azorean literature, especially in regards to the attention paid to the land.

In fact, As Ilhas Desconhecidas, published in 1926, was the first narrative to reflect extensively on the Azorean (and Madeirense) geography, and to draw correlations between the physical space and culture on each island. Indeed, Brandão insists on the

! 169! differences between each island, considering how each has its own characteristics and, thus explaining a variety of Azorean cultures emerge. He names each island after a different color, for example, in accordance with the dominant feature that distinguishes it from the other islands. São Miguel, then, is the Green Island, due to the abundance of pastures, while Flores is the Pink Island, with the color referring to the overwhelming amount of pink hydrangea that divide properties on the island, and Pico is the Gray

Island, in homage to the rocky terrain of this mountainous island.

Aires, for his part, is considered the contemporary writer that “mais atenção e sensibilidade revela ao ambiente geográfico – a paisagem, a vegetação, o mar, o tempo, os elementos em geral, a luz…” (Almeida 2014, 51). As Almeida continues, Era Uma

Vez o Tempo is a “momento único de sensibilidade estética ao meio físico que tão inconfundivelmente identifica o espaço insular…”, within the pages lies a “simples verificação da presença influente da paisagem e do tempo metereológico no quotidiano ilhéu dos Açores” (51-52, 2014).

Vitorino Nemésio’s short story “Misericórdia” pays special attention to the land and its relation to culture, especially when natural disaster imposes itself. In this case, he juxtaposes a destructive earthquake in Praia de Vitória with the religiosity of the population. As we have seen, strong religious fervor is often seen in the wake of natural disaster, serving as a means of overcoming the obstacle at hand. While the narrator illustrates this relationship with an overarching ironic tone, the correlation between the two components of the Azorean reality is made clear.

In his study about the population of São Miguel, Francisco de Arruda Furtado, who will later be cited by Luís Ribeiro in the work already referred to at the beginning of

! 170! this chapter, reflects on this relation: “Os micaelenses têm o sentimento religioso muito desenvolvido e os fenómenos vulcânicos devem ter contribuído para isto…” He references a popular song from Vila Franca do Campo that arose after the earthquake in

1522, which “está repassado de sentimento religioso e dá uma nota admirável de todo o temor de Deus que o tremendo vulcanismo de então fez avivar nos nossos antepassados”

(241). To substantiate this link, he gives examples of times in which religious fervor and a fear of nature coexist: “Não se passa nenhuma Sexta-Feira Santa sem que esteja bem presente na memória de nós todos o forte tremer de terra que houve há alguns anos nesse dia” (243), or still the example of the earthquakes that destroyed houses in Povoação days after the town had made the bold move to destroy the public distribution of homes, leading the men to walk down the street on their knees, praying, full of regret for the audacious move. Arruda Furtado also points out how the isolation has allowed certain religious traditions to maintain a stronghold in São Miguel, even while disappearing in the mainland—the fundamental example being the cult of the Espírito Santo.

While Arruda Furtado’s study focuses only on the island of São Miguel, the same can be said of the other eight islands of the Azores, faced with the same geographic conditions. It is certainly the case in Terceira, as Nemésio shows us in “Misericórdia.” In this narrative, as the ground begins to tremble, the family immediately comes together, united in the face of danger and in their religious piety. After the first tremor, when the animals begin to react, a family member announces “… o Pai do Céu deu aos bichos o entendimento das degraças. Toca a alarmar a gente. Prepara-te, reza… Faz setenta anos que caiu a Praia a vez terceira. Ai, que cairá uma quarta! Misericórdia!” (90). This conveys the belief that God is attempting to warn the people of Praia, and that they will

! 171! find their salvation through prayer. While the unnamed speaker is sure that the city will fall, there is also faith that the first tremor came as a forewarning from God, and that He will protect them—for this, they must pray.

Later on, when Sr. Joãozinho asks the townspeople for their opinions—whether hope or despair prevail—the reader learns that

Respondia para os dois lados. Deus seria servido; já lá dizia o Salema que estávamos todos à conta de Deus, e era verdade. Lembrava que em outros anos houvera também terramotos. Fora assim sempre: pobre terra fadada para joeira dos homens, esta Praia! Mas a Sr.a D. Júlia lastimava que não pudessem fugir como os outros, talvez para o Porto Martim, onde dormiriam na adega, no sótio, mandando-se ir os cobertores da casa nova. O Sr. Joãozinho encolhia os ombros, fiava-se em Deus. Então recorriam à coroa que acabrama as fúrias, no quarto do oratório (92-3).

Salema piously places all of his hope on God’s mercy, convinced that He will show mercy on the people of Praia. This event, after all, is simply part of the reality of living on the island—the land is destined to sieve out the good from the bad—which is treated as something that holds a strong, holy power. That is, it is in Terceira, more specifically in Praia, that God’s will is executed through the earthquakes. Being so, the only resolution is to continue to pray, to worship, and to maintain faith in God.

Sr.a D. Júlia expresses some apprehension about the event at hand—she would rather try to find a refuge than to stay in Praia, with the faith that God will show his mercy on her. Still, she never outright rejects God’s role—and, in fact, when no other option presents itself, and when Sr. Joãozinho shrugs his shoulders in resignation to

God’s will, confident that He will save the people, she also stays behind and prays.

Catholic imagery permeates the story, as well. First, the teacups used for the Bodo de Leite during the feast of the Holy Spirit shake. Senhor Joãozinho’s religiosity is emphasized by the declaration that he is the first to put his finger in the Holy Water when

! 172! a fatal event approaches. When the third tremor comes: “arregoou a parede, caiu cal, no oratório envidraçado a Coroa da Virgem Mãe ficou de lado” (91). At a first glance, these examples demonstrate just how ingrained religion is in the daily lives of the

Terceirenses—the crown falling to the side is likened to the wall that begins to fall. If we look at these images symbolically, we can see how faith may be shaken here: the cups for the Espírito Santo fly, and the Crown of the Virgin Mary falls to the side, demonstrating perhaps a lack of stability. That is, the earthquake may cause doubt, it may put one’s faith into question.

From what we see in the story, however, the faith of the inhabitants remains strong—as we can see with Senhor Joãozinho’s instinct to bless himself with Holy Water whenever he suspects impending danger. The last instance of religious imagery also points toward this stability—after the earthquake ends, the church remains intact:

De roldão veio a gente e os sinos tocaram por si. O capelão mandou que se abrissem as portas da igreja, o que se fez com alvoroço. E a vaga aos berros, no mar, e os homens aos brados, na terra—tremeu a leiva, houve casas e casas no chão, num esboroar de acabamento. Só a Misericórdia de Deus, pelo seu templo, ficou de pé e não se acabou nem se acaba; e a casa das Senhoras, por ser vizinha e boa, ficou de pé também (94).

The fact that the church remains unharmed, that it “não se acabou nem se acaba” conveys the piety of the population—just as the church is unaffected, so is their faith. The narrator points out ironically that despite the fact that their own houses were completely destroyed, the people rejoice in the fact that the church remains erect: “O povo, de rojo nas lájeas da igreja, então cantou mais o mar: Senhor Deus, Misericórdia! – Virgem

Mãe de Deus, rogai por nós!” (94). Despite having lost their own belongings, they thank

God for his mercy, not only for their own lives, but also for the sparing of the church.

! 173! This is not the first instance that the narrator comments ironically on this zealous faith in God. Earlier in the story, when it is proclaimed that God is merciful, and that no one should fear, the narrator observes:

Se aquilo era verdade—e eu não duvido—e ser Pai de Misericórdia é ter mantas de agasalho em boa urdedura, comidas para as fomes, riquezas, fraca era a arca do céu nesse dia de agoiro, que ao botar da noite a cama da terra era fria, e nem vira de lençol havia na areia, capaz, pois escuma do mar mais suja eu nunca vi com estes dois (91).

The narrator himself doubts the existence, or at least the power, of God—if God has mercy on all, why is there so much suffering and misery? That is, what good is God’s mercy if it does not end poverty and starvation? This comment helps the reader understand the narrator’s own position towards religion—skeptical at best. As such, is it clear that Misericórdia is not intended to be a moralizing, indoctrinating story to profess the Catholic faith. Much to the contrary, the underlying irony conveys a sense of criticism of this aspect of Azorean culture. It, however, is an aspect that has a stronghold, one that withstands time—the church “não acabou nem se acaba”—and one that has an intrinsic connection to the land and its severity and power, as Nemésio shows in this story.

In his novel Arquipélago, Joel Neto draws the same correlation between the land—more specifically, the 1980 earthquake in the main city of Terceira, Angra do

Heroísmo—and the culture of those on the island. In fact, the earthquake and its repercussions become a leitmotif throughout the novel.

In a discussion with André, his Lisbon-born son, the recently returned José Artur strives to make his child understand the culture of his home island. When he senses indifference on the part of his son towards the traditional Carnaval dances and plays, and a sort of sarcasm in referring to the festive spirit that distinguishes terceirenses from

! 174! other Azoreans, he insists on the need to find happiness in life, relating it to the constantly looming force of nature that could impose itself at any moment. Frustrated,

José Artur retorts:

- Aqui não há nada desprovido de préstimo para se fazer uma festa, percebes? Como os soldados em Guerra também precisam de festas antes de cada expedição. Podem morrer na manhã seguinte. […] - Estou aqui ainda não há um ano e já os vi fazerem desfiles do Bodo, marchas de São João e corridas de toiros, em praças e nas ruas […] Já tentaram pôr-me a rimar, já me obrigram a ter rebuçados num cestinho, para distribuir no Pão-por- Deus, e já me cruzei com festivais de quase tudo: jazz, rock, folklore, cinema, literatura. Ofereceram-me postas de carna e bolos de massa sovada, pelo Espírito Santo. Há festas em Angra e na Praia da Vitória, festas pelas freguesias e até no mato, às vezes seis ou sete em simultâneo. Guardam-se dias especiais para os Amigos e as Amigas, os Compadres e as Comadres. Há feiras e demonstrações de tudo o que te possas lembrar— até de motards, e os aniversários, os casamentos e os baptizados são pouco menos que uma obsessão. É uma alegria. E é também uma tristeza, mas uma tristeza a que se tenta resistir com alegria. Perdoam-te tudo, menos que rejeites um convite (145-6).

This extensive quote serves to demonstrate just how deep the connection between the land and culture runs. For Joel Neto, the land is at the base of it all, due to the permanent threat of natural disaster. Just like the soldiers that he likens the terceirenses to, a tragedy may strike for the islanders at any moment, and therefore the present must be taken advantage of. The festive spirit of the Azoreans, then, becomes a mode of resisting—as

José Artur says, the happiness exists to resist the permeating, persistent sadness—and a means of transcendence from the suffering of day-to-day life, and the unknown of tomorrow.

Shortly after, when father and son attend the Carnaval event, and José Artur listens to his elders tell stories about his late father, there is an important observation:

“Para os velhos da sua terra, o tempo continuava a dividir-se entre Antes e Depois do

Abalo” (147). The event carries a huge significance, as it denotes a sort of transition in

! 175! the lives of the elders, a time when their lives were changed. In their own perceptions and memories of the experience, the land plays a defining role. Indeed, the author asserts that the earthquake had psychological effects on the population that remain until present-day:

“As mais simples rotinas encontravam as maiores dificuldades, e os efeitos que estas provocavam na psicologia das pessoas eram como que novos cataclismos, porque tudo nelas intensificava a sua sensação de impotência” (383). The force and the might of the land far outweighs that of the man—this earthquake reminds man of his own frailness when faced with nature’s strength.

Despite this constant threat, however, there is a deep connection between the man and the land, a profound love of the Azorean for his island. When José Artur meets

Violeta Berquó at a tourada, they embark on a conversation that lasts the rest of the afternoon. The central topic of this conversation is José Artur’s thesis that the Azorean islands were inhabited before the arrival of the Portuguese; Violeta fervently agrees with this belief. “Quem é que ainda pode acreditar que esta gente, esta cultura e esta relação com a natureza vêm de mil quatrocentos e não sei quê?” (283), she inquires. Confident in her idea, she asserts that human existence on the islands dates to pre-history: what is necessary is to discover who this Man, the ancestor of the Azoreans, was, who the people who used the stones to communicate with God and with Nature truly were. She is sure that this is where the real basis of so many Azorean traditions, and the way of being with

Nature, lies:

O culto do Divino Espírito Santo, estou convencida, é o resultado dessa sabedoria. O culto, as irmandades e a filosofia de vida do Espírito Santo. O misticismo e a partilha daquelas oito semanas a seguir à Páscoa. A própria subversão da ideia de que o eixo pode estar, afinal, em qualquer um de nós: tudo isso que conhecemos como devoção ao Divino, incluindo o seu sentido de comunidade e a força com que, através dele, festejamos contra os terramotos e a

! 176! morte […] são a herança que nos deixa esse Homem extraordinário de que provimos (284).

Violeta believes that the Azorean cult of the Holy Spirit and the relationship of love and respect for the land must date back much further than the arrival of the Portuguese to the

Azores in the 15th century. In fact, for her, the Holy Spirit is precisely the manifestation of this relationship between the Azorean and the island—it serves as a means of escape, as well as rejoicing. To her, this could not be something imported from the mainland, but instead must have roots on the islands prior to the Portuguese settlement, for it is something that is essentially Azorean, born from and specific to the relationship that we have been discussing here.

There is also a constant sense of discovery of the land on the island. Just like with any character analogous to the human figure, the island’s moods, perspectives, and dispositions change continuously, become something different at every glance. Shortly after moving back to Terceira from Lisbon, José Artur reflects on his frequent rediscoveries of his native land: “Sentiu que descobria outra Terceira ainda: uma ilha fechada sobre si mesma, cujo centro de gravidade era já não o mar, mas as próprias entranhas da terra” (97). Later, when he is sightseeing with his son, André, he remarks:

“O mais extraordinário… é que, quanto a alguns dos lugares que te encantaram, foi como se eu próprio os visse pela primeira vez. Esta paisagem muda de estação para estação, de mês para mês, até de dia para dia. E conta sempre uma história diferente”

(149-150). The relevance given to the land here is fundamental—it is, without a doubt, a character in this book, especially in view of the constant, wordless communication that exists between the island and its inhabitants, the relationship of deep, reciprocal understanding and respect. While being the only constant throughout generations, it itself

! 177! is highly inconsistent and unpredictable—one can never look upon the same view twice, as its meaning changes throughout time and experience.

While the land itself has taken on the central importance of the daily lives of the inhabitants, turned inwards and closed over itself with its back to the sea, one must not forget the weight the latter carries in the Azorean imaginary. In a presentation at Brown

University in 2016, Joel Neto affirmed that the sea does not appear with frequency in his texts and that he had dedicated much more attention to the land and the interior of the island of Terceira—an untouched space that in itself distinguishes this island from the other eight. He asserts, however, that those moments in which the sea does appear are moments of “epiphany.” In this novel, it is in fact during moments of deep reflection or anxiety that the sea appears. In the final chapters, for example, when Maria Rosa, the little girl who José Artur becomes particularly fond of, and whose mother is his love interest, is captured in an attempt of vengeance for an old family feud. It is in this moment, as José Artur goes to find the little girl, that the sea appears:

À esquerda, o mar, por sobre o qual a terra se projectava, dramática, tornara- se cinzento. Um halo esverdeado arrendondava-se no horizonte, e tudo o mais em torno dele era sombra. Respirava-se com dificuldade, e nem o ar que entrava pelas janelas abertas do automóvel lhes provocaca qualquer sensação na pele – nem de frio, nem de calor, nem sequer de vento Toda a ilha era como só uma esfera líquida, e o mar com ela, o mundo todo… (417).

From the fog, he predicts either a storm or an earthquake. In this moment, not only does the sea appear and reflect the turmoil of the moment, but it becomes one with the land— the two most important elements are joined in this crucial moment. And, indeed, it is now that an event revealing the change in José Artur—from a quite apathetic man to one who risks his life to save the young girl—occurs. As a result, he and Luísa will give in to their

! 178! love for each other, which, in a way, can represent José Artur’s love for the island—it is by assuming this relationship that his permanence in Terceira is confirmed. The presence of the sea, then, is in fact not arbitrarily placed here—indeed, the great power of the sea, its reflection of turmoil, appear when José Artur himself experiences no feelings. It is, indeed, a moment of drastic change—the sea is discussed in the moment that will serve as a catalyst for José Artur’s definite staying on the island.

Daniel de Sá’s Sobre a verdade das coisas tells the story of a place—Maia, in São

Miguel—through the stories of an array of characters. The geographic space is indeed what connects all of these narratives and the people that populate them with their various pasts, presents, and futures. In the story entitled “A Ribeira do Calhau,” a space that appears repeatedly throughout the collection, this unifying element is highlighted. It is a place that inspires peace and calm for those in its presence, and where there are still: “as pedras que foram lavadoura de muitas gerações, abandonadas, sem préstimo, fora do lugar algumas, recordação todas elas” (33). These stones serve as memories—they connect the visitors to the past, to the previous generations who would wash their clothes on them. More important than this, however, is the question of temporality. Indeed, these same rocks have witnessed various generations—the land enjoys a permanence that humans do not. Even though some rocks are out of place, and many of them have been forgotten and abandoned, they continue to exist in the same space that has brought peace to many generations. As a result, the sense of grandeur possessed by the land, of potency, imminence, and force largely outweighs that of the population who depends on this space, for it is the land that has withstood the passage of time.

! 179! In his novel A Ilha Grande Fechada, which I will analyze in depth in the following chapter, Daniel de Sá once again pays homage to the island of São Miguel. The space is once again central in this narrative—João, the protagonist, is preparing to embark to America, and does one last pilgrimage around the island before departing.

Various locales throughout the island appear in these pages as João says goodbye—much like the rocks of the Ribeira do Calhau, these locations all inspire recollections from the past, complicating João impending journey as he begins to question his choice. More than this, and just like José Artur’s experience with Terceira in Arquipélago, João’s weeklong trip serves as a (re)discovery of the island.

In João de Melo’s O meu mundo não é deste reino, the land’s role is primary in the constant Biblical references. Indeed, before we meet any other principal character from the novel, we are introduced to the island of São Miguel in its primitive state upon discovery. In fact, the process of inhabiting the land, in all of its grandeur and roughness, is compared to God’s creation of the earth—just like the Lord, the new inhabitants of the island rested on the seventh day. Catholicism is not the only religion applied to the island, however; there is a sort of pantheistic mysticism present, attributed to the rocky mountains and the feverous sea. When a storm erupts and the population fears the possibilities of the sea flooding the island, a wise old man assures that a mountain god will protect them from that possibility: “Há um deus antigo por dentro do gigante montanhês… É o deus montanhês, o sábio deus da terra, que ali permanence há séculos sem destruição. Enquanto ele existir, nós estaremos seguros de nossa segurança” (19).

! 180! This fundamental role of the land in the Azorean existence is further underlined— being that the land holds such mystical powers, it is only natural that within it, lies the destiny of the population:

Suposto é porém que a sorte de tal gente houvesse de ficar escrita de modo perene no próprio basalto, pois a memória das pedras resiste ao tempo da duração das pedras. A forma das rochas batidas pelo mar e pelos ventos, e as corcovas da terra, com seus promontórioss, falésias e algumas feridas sem remédio, mesmo a sonatina das ondas, dissumulavam uma certa voz longínqua e com segredo de búzio dentro—e a montanha tanto se descarnara que o seu perfil torcido tomara o caprichoso aspecto de um gigante cujo rosto se fixara à pedra com um esgar de cólera e espanto. Havia um deus por dentro dela, um negro e oculto deus montanhês que vomitava por vezes pedras e areias incandescentes e rugia com tal assombro que a própria paisagem, antes de ser devorada pelo desespero, tremia de pânico ante a iminência da sua destruição (15).

Again, the mountain is referred to as a god, one who holds the destiny of the island and its inhabitants—when it so desires, it can “vomit[ar]… pedras”, creating universal destruction. It is within the rocks of basalt that the “fortune” of the population is written.

Besides being at the mercy of the land, O meu mundo não é deste reino includes the sentiment of the island being a prison, as we have seen in innumerous other texts,

Cape Verdean and Azorean alike. This is, of course, a result of insularity, of the long distances to any other land imposed by the sea. After professor Calafate explains:

Ninguém habitava uma Ilha; era uma prisão insular, com o seu tecto eternamente baixo em todas as estações do ano, um mar, um espaço redondo como a respiração ou um movimento em torno de um eixo—e nada mais. Podia ser que esse mar pudesse crescer um dia até às partes mais altas da montanha e tudo submergisse no seu grande seio de mãe-baleia; ou que a própria Ilha se devorasse por dentro, atacada pela cólica dos cogumelos da terra, os vulcões, e assim tivesse nela origem a ancestral profecia das águas bíblicas, que não deixariam pedra sobre pedra nem criatura viva ao cimo do mundo (72).

Professor Calafate expresses a sentiment not only of imprisonment, of an inability to escape the island due to the walls imposed by the sea, but, further, a constant uncertainty of the future. Living on a volcanic island in the middle of the ocean, there is a permanent

! 181! threat of natural disaster—even one capable of destructing all life on the island. This sentiment, of course, is only a slightly more fatalistic perspective of the reality on the islands when compared to what is expressed in other narratives, where we see the same feelings of entrapment, as well as the perpetual fear of nature’s unknown, which often results in a deep reverence for the land, as well as religious piety.

During the same conversation as the one referred previously, Professor Calafate also differentiates the children born in the Azores from their parents, who came from outside to inhabit the land. While the older generations have inexpressive, brown eyes, those of the children are blue—perhaps, refers professor Calafate, this is because they are children of the sea, carrying with them “a memória da água desde a sua criação” (72).

He further explains this differentiation: “A diferença entre as nossas crianças e os homens está em que eles tomaram para si o destino do mar, enquanto os adultos lançam raízes à terra, como as plantas, com medo de partirem de novo” (72). This quote seems to have two functions: first pointing both to the relationship between the human and the land, and also providing a reflection on varying responses to insularity.

In the first place, it points once again to a connection between man and his physical surroundings—so much so, that the man becomes a part of this space, whether for having been born from the depths of the sea, or from having become plants in the dirt of the island. This is reminiscent of Nemésio’s understanding of this bond, quoted at the beginning of this chapter and repeated here: “Como as sereias temos uma dupla natureza: somos de carne e pedra. Os nossos ossos mergulham no mar”. That is, the

Azorean man and the physical space become one in the same.

! 182! Furthermore, though, these two realities—of being either born of the sea or a plant in the soil— can be seen as the diverging reactions to the imprisonment experienced on the island. While the adults accept their destiny, working the land with no desire to travel to a new land, the children perhaps see the sea not only as what imprisons them, but as their means of escape. Indeed, earlier on in the narrative, we see the children’s fascination with the sea, their desire to know it better, to descend to the coast, and their parents’ strict prohibition of such until they are older (43-4). The sea is referred to as the ultimate source of happiness: “Onde está a alegria a não ser no mar, crianças da Ilha, a furiosa, a única e definitiva alegria de se estar vivo depois de ir lá ao fundo das rochas para conhecer o mar?” (44). The sea, then, represents a means of achieving happiness, and a break from the monotony of island life.

At the same time, and despite the hardships presented to the population by the physical space surrounding them, there is an unwavering love for the island and a need to care for it. In fact, it is when the island offers less that this sentiment is heightened. When speaking of destruction of crops, the narrator writes:

Vezes sem conta, assim, foram os ventos destruindo os milhos, como já a geada e o bicho da alforra queimara as hortas e os pomares—e outras tantas vezes os homens voltaram o rosto na direcção do norte. Era assim a coragem, pensavam. Por cada grão de terra encaroçado pela chuva se dizia: a terra é uma criança desprotegida, temos de pegar-lhe ao colo e amá-la muito com as mãos (33-4).

There is an understanding that the land provides all means of sustenance for the population—when it is not able to do so due to other natural forces, the characters understand that they must put extra care into the land, in order to successfully produce any goods. This results in a strong symbiotic relationship between the two—neither man nor land can flourish without the other. From this dependency develops a profound

! 183! affective relationship, a love for the land, which will be further discussed in the following chapter.

O meu mundo não é deste reino concludes in the same fashion in which it began: with the island at the forefront. The narrator observes the Azorean birds, and reflects on their relationship with the island. Adelaide Monteiro Batista argues that these birds represent the Azorean population itself (1993, 15). At one point, the narrator remarks “…

E EU VEJO-OS VOAR QUANDO POISAM NESSA ALEGRIA E SEI QUE NASCI

TAMBÉM ASSIM DA EXTREMA NUDEZ DOS SEUS NINHOS E UM DIA POISEI COM

ELES O MEU PÉ DESCALÇO NA TERRA-POUCA COM O SEU TÃO INFINITO

DESERTO DE ÁGUA EM VOLTA” (257). He speaks of the relationship of the birds with the sea—“UM MAR DE CHEGADA QUE NÃO LARGA MAS PROMETE SEMPRE”

(257), referring to the paradox presented by the sea, both enticing in its possibilities but imprisoning in its vastness. The novel ends with the narrator affirming that, while there has been no study of the birds, one would never be able to truly understand them and their relationship to place, regardless:

NÃO SABEM QUE LUGAR? VOCÊS NÃO SABEM, NÃO SABEM, NÃO SABEM. POIS NUNCA PUDERAM APRENDER O MODO COMO O SAL FORMA, ENFORMA, DEFORMA E DEPOIS DEVORA OS OSSOS E O OLHAR DESTES PÁSSAROS-AÇORES. PODEM SER LEVES E OCOS E DECERTO ESPESSOS, PODEM CERTAMENTE ERGUÊ-LOS, OS OSSOS, À ALTURA DO VOSSO LOGÍNQUO OLHAR: PORÉM OS OSSOS, OS OSSOS DOS PÁSSAROS, NOS AÇORES, SÃO AFINAL OS FRUTOS, O SOL (BRANCO) OS SINAIS OS SONS PRÓPRIOS E, DIZEM, ATÉ OS LUGARES INÚMEROS AONDE NUNCA EU VISSE CHEGAR MUNDO NEM REINO MAS ONDE CHEGARAM CEDO PARA FICAR MUITOS, QUASE TODOS OS SEUS SENHORES (258).

It is this remote land, where no kingdoms had reached before, that forms the birds, or more, all its inhabitants. Their bones are comprised of the salt, the fruit, the sun; all aspects of the physical space manifest themselves through the living beings that inhabit it.

! 184! Just as it serves to form the living on the island, however, it also has the capacity to destroy all beings. Hence, the narrator’s insistence on the inability to completely understand this relationship, in which that what man loves most, what has shaped his life, is precisely that which, at any given moment, can lead to his demise.

The Land as a Namesake: Pedras Negras and Ilhéu dos Pássaros

The land is truly the center of Azorean Dias de Melo’s 1964 novel Pedras

Negras. De Melo brilliantly illustrates the picoense, his dedication to the sea, and the significance of the dark and rocky land. The title alone of de Melo’s work already demonstrates the importance that the island will exhibit throughout the narrative: pedras negras refers to the very island of Pico, dramatically different from any other Azorean island, as the black stones permeate and dominate the geography and landscapes, pointing to the central role the island will play, nearly becoming a character in this work.

The island of Pico does not lend itself metonymically only to the title of the novel as a whole. In fact, the names of the first chapters are references to the land as well.

While the first of six larger subdivisions is called “A Ilha Escorraça a Gente,” two out of four of the chapter titles also refer to the island: one repeating the title, “pedras negras,” and the other referring to the suffering caused by the reality of the land, “Não é a Terra do Pico que me há-de roer os ossos.” This indicates to us that the island will provide very strong conditions under which our characters will react.

The novel opens with recollections of the ano de fome, a time of misery on the island—in these first pages, the reader becomes aware of the force of the island. The grandfather recounts:

! 185! Quando eu era rapaz, houve o Ano da Fome... um ano antes, num dos últimos dias de Agosto, viera um ciclone. O povo correu à igreja, ajoelhou diante das imagens dos santos e da coroa do Divino Espírito Santos—porém, o mar não cessou de investir contra os rochedos da Ilha, meteu-se pela terra dentro, engoliu vinhedos e cerrados de pão. O vento varreu a Ilha de ponta a ponta, derrubou paredes, arrancou tectos, desenraizou árvores, milhos, batatas-doces. Deixou os campos lambidos, nem que por eles tivesse passado fogo (22).

Religiosity, a key element in the portrayal of açorianidade in Azorean literature, is here linked to the force of the land and the sea. The population is left at the mercy of these elements, and therefore turns to religion in order to maintain hopes for salvation. This is reminiscent of Nemésio’s short story “Misericórdia” and Teixeira de Sousa’s “Jocasta,” to which I previously referred. Similarly, in the next year, when there is no rain, the people turn to Espírito Santo: “Definhavam-se os milhos, agoniavam-se as gentes.

Apegaram-se ao Divino Espírito Santos—e passavam à noitinha, por esses caminhos por entre esses campos de milho, em procissões de preces e penitências, com a coroa do

Divino Espírito Santo nas mãos” (23).

The cult of the Espírito Santo is a unifying element in Azorean culture, being that the nine islands share in this tradition. At the same time, it is something that separates them from the mainland—while the devotion to the Holy Spirit disappeared from mainland Portugal centuries ago, it remains strong in the islands to the present day. As such, it has become a defining element of açorianidade—that is, more than just a constant notion of religiosity present in texts, the Espírito Santo permeates Azorean narratives.

In these passages, we see that this defining element has an intrinsic connection with the land. As previously stated, the harsh conditions provoke a more profound religious manifestation. The people are powerless in the face of the force of nature—their only option is to express their devotion in hopes of salvation being brought upon them.

! 186! While religion and the cult of the Holy Spirit are manifested in a variety of ways in this novel, as well as in Azorean literature more generally, the moments of the most authentic and profound piety almost always arise as a result of some sort of natural phenomenon.

Of course religious traditions and festivals are also discussed in lighter tones, and moments of joy are an undeniable presence. These instances, however, tend to focus more on the pagan and social aspects, and not so much on religious devotion.

Dias de Melo pays great attention to the land—most specifically—the stones. In the following description, the island of Pico almost becomes a character in the novel.

Diante dos olhos de Francisco Marroco ondulava a chã costeira das vinhas, que os riscos negros dos muros baixos dos abrigos de pedra solta retalhavam no xadrez dos currais pequeninos e das canadas estreitas e compridas. Elevavam-se depois as encostras, ora em arrebatamentos vertiginosos, ora em pendores, suaves até ao rebordo da planura do alto, onde se espraiam os vales, repousam as lagoas e se firmam os montes e montanhas do interior da Ilha. Todos aqueles campos eram um corpo atormentado. Neles, o mais que os olhos deparavam era pedra. Pedra – remoída e espalhada na praga do burgalhau pelas vinhas da beira-mar! Pedra – pelas encostas acima amontoada em moroiços e paredões que oprimiam e abafavam as pobres terras de milho! Pedra – a erguer-se, cascão disforme de ferida que jamais sara, em rochedos maciços de carranca dolorosa! Pedra – estirada em lajes enormes, no abandono de quem se atirasse para ali, farto de sofrimento que não podia mais aguentar! Pedra—nos cerros, alcantis e arrifes que atravessam a Ilha de costa a costa! Pedra—por cima da terra, por baixo da terra, a transbordar da terra nos abismos do oceano! - A terra não tem culpa—repetia João Peixei-Rei (28).

Francisco Marroco speaks of Pico as if it were a person. When insisting that the land is not guilty, he uses the pronoun “quem” – who – instead of “que” – what. His defense can be likened to the defense of another person—while so many blame the land for their lack of resources, he reminds that, given the reality of Pico island—covered primarily in rocks—one cannot expect more from it.

The narrator himself also personifies the land: “todos aqueles campos eram um corpo atormentado.” The extensive description of the rocky landscape is, then, in fact a

! 187! description of this tormented body. If the people are suffering, it is because the land itself is a tormented being. This takes us back to Marroco’s comments: once again, we are asked to feel a sort of sympathy for the land, an understanding that it, too, suffers at the hands of the dark stones that dominate.

The land is not guilty of the need to emigrate—to go out to sea— that so many of its inhabitants feel. “Quem dá o que pode, a mais não é obrigado” (27). As such,

Francisco Marroco will venture out to sea, in order to improve his own conditions.

Marroco’s automatic instinct to attest to the land’s own lack of agency not only conveys this idea of the land being in itself its own character, but that it is a character that is dear to the protagonist—just like he would speak of a family member, Marroco insists on the island’s “innocence”. The protagonist cares for the island and its integrity—just as in O meu mundo não é deste reino, the people see times of scarcity not as a time to turn one’s back on the island but, instead, to treat it with even more love and care.

Besides the obvious importance given to the land in these passages, the valorization of the description of landscapes and the apology for the island herself, we see the land’s connection with another recurrent theme in Azorean literature and defining element of the Azorean experience: emigration.

The phenomenon of emigration is one that has left no Azorean untouched— whether by the dream to depart, the realization of this dream, or the absence of a loved one who embarked on their path to America. This has been extensively reflected on in

Azorean literature. In Pedras Negras, we see how the misery suffered at the hands of nature puts many in a position in which emigration becomes the only means of survival.

Marroco’s decision is reminiscent of what happens after the Ano de Fome: “teimavam os

! 188! sobreviventes em aguentar o fôlego nos corpos—e começou a debandada. A bem dizer, só ficaram os velhos, os doentes, os inutilizados. Novos, sadios, válidos—todos se foram!

Para a América, para o Brasil, e os menos arrojados ou mais pobres de sorte, para as outras ilhas do arquipélago” (24). In fact, while the title of the novel refers to the island of Pico, the plot itself revolves around this character of Francisco Marroco and his experience in the whaling industry and then as an immigrant in the United States, as well as his reality once he returns to the island as an “americano.” We can see, though, the correlation: it is the land and its lack of production that serve as the catalyst for emigrating—in this novel, emigration is the means of survival and a vehicle for establishing a better life in a land that cannot offer comfort to its own inhabitants.

This reality of emigration will be further analyzed in the following chapter, including in regards to this novel. However, it seems important, at this point, to note how this experience affects Marroco’s relationship with his island, further proving the love he has for it. In the time leading up to his permanent return to Pico, Marroco was anxious to see his family. After disembarking and before greeting his beloved parents and fiancée,

Maria, who were initially the ones that inspired the most nostalgia, he immediately falls to the ground and kisses the dark stones of Pico.

In the days following his return, his reunion with his home island is just as significant as that with his family and friends. In several instances in which his meetings with his parents and beloved Maria, as well as good friends from the past, are referred, the land does not fall behind:

Reencontrava a antiga paisagem, a antiga gente—e reencontrava nelas a sua alma de menino e jovem. A sombra daquele castanheiro, os vinhedos da beira- mar, aquele atalho de deserto, as pedras negras da costa... palavras de amor balbuciadas, gotas de suor vertidas, a confidência de João Peixe-Rei... – e aquela

! 189! noite de breu rasa de sobressaltos e pavores... – e, dentro de si, Francisco Marroco descobria raízes fundas, que lhe vinham do coração e o prendiam a tudo (106).

Interestingly, the landscapes proceed the people in this instance—reminiscent of when

Marroco kissed the ground before his loved ones. The scenes of his past are intertwined with his interpersonal relationships, as they become one in the same. As these memories bombard Marroco, he once again feels a renewed love for his island. In fact, his attachment beomes even stronger—he discovers the roots that connect him to that space and to those people. Once again, this image of roots coming from Marroco’s heart and binding him to the land are suggestive of a fundamental tie between the man and the island, an instrinsic affective link felt by the man for the land that provides his sustenance, but also oftentimes leads to devastation.

The long history of co-dependence between man and the island are also referred—Francisco Marroco reminds João Peixe-Rei of the hardships of those that came before them, who suffered in order to make the island inhabitable. He argues:

Já quando os homens chegaram pela primeira vez à Ilha, a encontraram rasa de pedra, que fora fogo vomitado pelos vulcões: pedras colossais, amontoadas a esmo, à semelhança das que se vêem soltas por cima dos calhaus e dos penhascos da costa: pedra miúda, burgalhau, campinas e campinas de burgalhau. Àquela primeira visão deviam os homens sentir-se pequeninos, esmagados, apavorados... (29)

Instead of giving up, though, they confronted the intimidating force of the island—they fought against Pico’s dark stones, in order to survive on the island: “Estarraçaram, escavacaram, removeram pedra, abriram caminhos – e a terra começou a surgir!” (29)

Certainly, the land was still unstable, and the areas for cultivation, limited, “Mas era terra! Terra que seria pão e vida!” This success inspires a renovated hope within the men, who work even harder to bring Pico to the island that Francisco Marroco and João

! 190! Peixe-Rei know: “Hoje, na Primavera, a gente olha pra tudo isso verde, e nem imagina o que os antigos penaram!” (30). From this excerpt, the reader understands the ruggedness of the land and the challenges it inherently poses to its inhabitants; it also shows, however, the tenacity of the population, who perservere in order to reap the most possible benefits from the land. In this instance, then, we see more than how the land shapes the human—we also see how the human, in turn, has the power to shape the land. It is, after all, due to the work of the previous generations that the island that Francisco Marroco so loves has come to be a place where life reemerges from under the dark earth every spring.

Once again, mutatis mutandis to Cape Verdean literature. The land has a soothing, calming effect in the short stories compiled in Orlanda Amarilis’s collection Ilhéu dos

Pássaros. Indeed, it is this very islet, between the islands of Santo Antão and São

Vicente, which brings serenity and peace to the characters of the stories. Fittingly used as the title of the book, it is the fiber that connects all of the stories—it is a defining presence, one that characterizes the islands of São Vicente and Santo Antão, and carries a weight so significant that it can be compared to a character in any story.

In the first story of the collection, Thonon-les-Bains, the young Gabriel is about to return to Europe after a negative emigration experience in which his half-sister is killed in

France. This time, he will return to Switzerland—what he does not tell his mother, however, is that his destination is near the town in which the murder occurred, and he intends to avenge his sister’s death. Before he leaves, he allows himself a moment of reflection:

Gabriel tinha os olhos rasos de água. Porquê agora, porquê isto? Limpou os olhos com as costas da mão e foi sentar-se outra vez ao pé da madrasta. Logo à tarde iria até ao Step. Dali avistaria o ilhéu, ia-se sentir mais calmo. Espraiar o

! 191! olhar até ao ilhéu dos Pássaros, isolado a pouco mais de umas centenas de metros da praia, ia dar-lhe a tranquilidade de espírito tão precisada agora (27).

The land, more specifically the ilhéu dos Pássaros, is the only element present in this story than has this effect on Gabriel—in fact, the vision of it is his refuge, his means of escaping from his horrific past and his questions about his impending actions.

This story sets the tone for the future appearances of the ilhéu dos Pássaros, which becomes a character in its own right. It will indeed serve similar purposes for the characters from all of the following stories. In “Luna Cohen,” the protagonist, who suffers an identity crisis on a trip to Africa, as a black woman with Jewish ancestry, wonders if she would see the ilhéu dos Pássaros when she landed in the island of Sal.

Here, the ilhéu is “a sentinela entre S. Vicente e Santo Antão” (64)—a passageway for which she knows the password. In “Canal Gelado”, the landmass appears in the report from a woman who recently visited São Vicente, and who is relating the changes in topography on the island. The narrator asks “Ouve, Ludja, e o Ilhéu dos Pássaros? Está no mesmo sítio?” to which Ludja responds “Está, sim senhora. E mais imponente como nunca” (77). After the death of the title character in “Prima Bibinha,” who dies at sea as she travels to Lisbon for medical treatment, her mother wants to pay homage to her:

“Talvez alugar um bote e ir deitar uma coroas de flores no mar, entre a ponta de João

Ribeiro e o ilhéu dos Pássaros” (98). Ildo from the story “Xanda” longs for the islet after his unpleasant meeting with his compatriot, who is working as a spy for PIDE, in Lisbon:

“Oh gente, se eu pudesse estar entre a terra e o mar e só sentir o céu azul por cima de mim! Se eu pudesse estar agora no ilhéu dos Pássaros” (119). Finally, in the story

“Requiem” the frustrated writer Bina remembers the ilhéu before throwing the papers in front of her in the trash:

! 192! É curioso! Porque se lembrou neste instante do ilhéu dos Pássaros? Do farol do ilhéu dos Pássaros? Quanto se sentou para começar a comer, viu as folhas esquecidas em cima da mesa. Agarrou-as e foi até ao canto. Tocou com o pé na mola do balde do lixo e aí as deixou cair. Requiem! (132).

In “Luísa filha da Nica,” the islet plays a slightly different role, but still one that demonstrates superior force. With the storm, the waves of the ocean begin to crash forcefully into the islet—“e escorria [o mar] meloso pelas escarpas” (40). Just as it occurs with the humans in these texts, the ocean is the one being calmed during the storm, as it slowly drifts down the sides of the islet. Considering this storm as a symbol of Luísa’s inner turmoil, and recalling her strength in trudging on against the winds, in this case, the ilhéu dos Pássaros seems to represent her own inner force.

In all of the cases, the ilhéu dos Pássaros is a guiding, defining force. For these characters, the islet represents their island, which, on a larger scale, represents the pátria.

It is grand and majestic, it represents home, it carries a mystical or religious weight, and it leads the characters to finding inner peace. Most interesting, perhaps, is the quote from the story “Xanda.” Here, the reader can understand the reason why the ilhéu bears so much importance on the populations of São Vicente e Santo Antão: it is the place between the land and the sea, and where the blue sky can be felt. In other words, it is the meeting point of the dominating natural elements—it is not merely the land or the sea, but the junction of the two, even more, of the two with the endless horizon. As such, it embodies the most significant geographic elements of the insular condition—there is no preference given to the land or the sea, instead highlighting the point in which both meet.

Orlanda Amarilis’s short stories in this collection pay homage to the land. Each story underlines the importance of the islet—it is fundamental to note that the vitality of

! 193! the landmass is always underlined through its relation with people. Better, the emphasis is placed on the positive effect the land has on human beings, and on the deep emotional connection between the land and the Cape Verdeans: the former becomes synonymous with the identity of the latter. It still seems important to point out, however, the dominance of the land in these short stories: the ilhéu dos Pássaros, which gives name to the collection, is the only literary figure to appear consistently in all of the narratives compiled here. If we consider the islet a metonym for the homeland, this fact therefore suggests that the archipelago is superior to its inhabitants: it is more permanent (as we can see in “Canal Gelado”) and it encompasses all of the individual and collective experiences of the Cape Verdeans.

Ilhéu dos Pássaros is a collection of stories that focus in large part on day-to-day human interactions and social questions. The majority of the narratives revolves around these issues—these stories are not highly descriptive in nature. The fact that the great majority of these stories focuses on interpersonal relationships, and not the relationship between people and land, however, seems to give even more importance to the examples discussed above. Just as in Pedras Negras, it is as if the relationship to the islet is being placed in the same plane as the relationship with other human beings. Perhaps, even,

Amarilis subtly gives more importance to the land, as previously referred, since land is the only character present in all of the stories, and it gives a name to the collection. More than this, it is the element with the most power over any character, the only one with the ability to bring these figures a sense of tranquility and serenity amidst the various obstacles and social struggles they face, often imposed by other human beings.

! 194! It is interesting to consider other reactions to the land and climate present throughout these stories. In the story “Prima Bibinha,” for example, the lack of rain is referred to only by the narrator—it is something that the characters themselves prefer not to discuss. The story opens with the maids gossiping, “papia[ndo] de nada”. The narrator observes, however, that they opt to ignore the precarious reality on the island, induced by the weather: “Nunca falavam da falta de chuva. Pâ quê? Nove ano sem chuva, pâ quê falar mais em chuva? Comida? Deixa-me rir. Pão com rebuçado, uma caneca de qualquer chá, aperta cinto, carinha contente" (83). Instead of dwelling on the negative aspects of their reality and focusing on that which they lack, the women distract themselves from these painful discussions. Instead, they look to gossip—as a way to survive, to bring a certain levity to their every day life, and a chance to not focus on their own problems. It is interesting to note how, once again, space plays a role in even this form of distraction—the small size of the island, and the resultant proximity among the population, is what grants greater access to the lives of others. In fact, this is referred in the first story of the collection “Thonons-les-Bains,” when nha Ana complains about the

“mesquinhez” of the neighbors, and the fact that everyone knows intimate details of the others’ lives.

“Luísa filha de Nica” is the story that gives us the most detail about the climatic situation. The story is of a delusional young girl, who argues that Anton, a guest from

Santo Antão, is suffering tuberculose and must be brought to the hospital. It is only at the end of the story that the reader learns that Anton died days before Luísa was born, and her obsession with cases of tuberculosis is rooted in mental instability. On the way to the hospital, and as Luísa argues with neighbor nha Ninha, the young girl believes that Anton

! 195! has left her, leading her to search the streets for him before returning home. In the moment, the forces of nature that she fights against seem to represent her own struggles in regards to her mental health:

Um vento empurra-a para fora do seu chão, para um espaço de ventona, de calhaus, de vulcões mortos, de poeira redemoinhada. Tapou o nariz com as duas mãos e caminhou de cabeça inclinada, corpo em arco, contra a tempestade sem chuva, sem trovões ou relâmpagos. E este desfragar de rochas desfeitas em pedregulhos sempre atrás dela. E ela sempre a fugir e as pedras aos saltos, em passadas certas e fragorosas. São passos de canelinha. Canelinha é tão leve e tão corpo uno de pernas braços, cabelos, um todo canelinha, tíbia ou peróneo, tanto faz, é sempre canelinha (39).

After being pushed off her course by the wind, into an area of rocks and volcanos, the young girl resists—lifting her head, she trudges against this great force. She has a lightness about her that allows her to escape from everything that comes her way. While she is followed constantly by small rocks and pebbles, she remains untouched. In this moment, the young girl reveals a force greater than that of nature—she is able to resist agianst its violence, perservering and continuing on her path.

Like in Teixeira de Sousa’s “Jocasta,” in this story, the weather serves as a reflection of the inner turmoil of the young Luísa. It is interesting to note, however, that she is not healed of her illness in the story—it ends with Tatóia going in search of the doctor to treat her. Still, we can see her tenacity in continuing against the storm as a sign of her own inner strength—the fact that the windstorm itself lacked rain, lightening or thunder point to the fact that it is indeed a case of inner turmoil, as it lacks the characteristics of a storm more universally felt.

As I referred at the beginning of this chapter, it is in regards to the role of the geography that Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures bear the most similarities—the discourses do not diverge as much as in relation to other themes, such as emigration, as

! 196! we will see in the following chapter. Indeed, Pedras Negras and Ilhéu dos Pássaros support this assertion—in both works, the land gives name to the text, and holds an importance that pervades the pages from beginning to end, with the land becoming in itself a character in the narratives. Further, the relationship between the land and its inhabitants is a powerful one, similar to a relationship with any other loved one, but with the capability of offering a unique sense of serenity. Indeed, we see this in all the stories of Ilhéu dos Pássaros—but it also transpires in the pages of Pedras Negras, when we see

Francisco Marroco’s deep love for Pico, and his actions and reflections upon returning, often giving the island priority over the humans.

! 197! Chapter 4: To Stay or to Depart?: The Dilemma of Emigration

It seems impossible to discuss the most central themes of Azorean and Cape

Verdean literatures without paying close attention to emigration. It has in fact lent itself to many studies in the fields; Carmen Ramos Villar wrote The Metaphorical Tenth Island in Azorean Literature, for example, while there have been many articles about emigration in Cape Verdean literature. The phenomenon, which is of great importance in Azorean and Cape Verdean societies and imaginaries, is reflected on constantly in literary works, from a plethora of perspectives and in a variety of contexts. Primary and secondary characters alike constantly find themselves dreaming of America, imagining what it may be like, visiting or emigrating to the New World, and travelling back to the homeland and finding things a little different than before. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, neighbors and friends: it is rare to find a character untouched by the realities of emigration.

The islander as the wanderer is a concept that has been discussed by various thinkers and critics. In Caribbean Discourse, Édouard Glissant talks about the phenomenon in relation to those from his Caribbean islands, as well as to this archipelago’s literature. He attributes this concept to the very condition of the islander in a small and isolated geographic space: “We too shudder from the need to remain and the temptation to leave. No doubt a small island sheltered within a port is the most secure repository of the urge to wander” (226). It is the feeling of being distant and cut-off from the rest of the world that results in the need to know it, to leave the island that is often

! 198! seen as a prison.51

Dina Salústio, the Cape Verdean author, writes beautifully about this same topic in her text “Insularidade na literatura cabo-verdiana;” in her study of Cape Verdean poetry, her own analysis of the question is quite lyrical:

Insularidade que origina, por reacção, uma das facetas mais marcantes do isleno, a evasão, que o perspectiva em contornos de fuga para o encontro com outros seres, outros horizontes, outros continentes e cidades. Fuga às vezes, apenas para dentro de si, no “vapor” onde cabem os desenganos e o desespero, mas também os desejos mais íntimos, a esperança que dura até à largada e que renova no primeiro sinal que anuncia no horizonte, um novo vapor, uma nova chegada… Evasão que lembra a partida e o regresso, os sonhos mais sonhados de qualquer ilhéu, que de tanto sonhar, às vezes parece ele mesmo um sonho ambulante pelos “cais de ver partir”, pelos portos que o não levam, pelos barcos que o deixaram com os chamados-promessas-de-felicidade-sempre-adiada (36).

Other critics of Cape Verdean and Azorean literatures alike have referred to this same wanderer quality in the respective literatures that they study. In his article “A busca da identidade regional e individual em ‘Chiquinho’ e o movimento da Claridade,” David

Brookshaw refers to wanderlust as a component of Cape Verdean culture, already present in the first Cape Verdean novel. Mónica Serpa Cabral, for her part, refers to the same sense of evasion in Azorean literature, particularly in the early to mid 20th century: “Os navios estimulam a imaginação de quem vive num espaço restrito, cercado pela amplidão infinda do mar, e alimentam o sonho de descobrir outros lugares” (281).

Of course, this need for evasion is only further aggravated by the political and social conditions on the island prior to the Portuguese Carnation Revolution in 1974—

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 51 Onésimo Teotónio Almeida uses the model of a pyramid to describe emigratory patterns of the Azorean. While the top of the pyramid, the social and economic elite, tends to point towards Europe as the desired destination, the bottom part—where lies the majority of the population— points toward America (2010, 226). In Azorean literature, and especially in the works considered in this dissertation, the figure of the emigrant is primarily he or she who departs for America, thus representative of the populace.

! 199! both critics refer to how emigration becomes “quase forçada” (Cabral, 280) in the

Azorean and Cape Verdean cases, given the widespread poverty, hunger, and misery on the islands.

Norman Araujo refers to emigration as often being the only escape for the Cape

Verdean: “One might say, without any real exaggeration, that every Cape Verdean is a potential emigrant who, given the chance, would leave in search of more wholesome conditions of existence” (20). While this is certainly true in Cape Verdean society, the literature does not mirror this sentiment, as we will see in this chapter. For now, it suffices to say that no protagonist in Cape Verdean literature departs from the island without deep introspection first—they do not jump at the first chance of emigration.

It is precisely the intersection between this feeling of the need to leave and the attachment to the homeland discussed in the previous chapter that interests me here.

Indeed, both are very real phenomena discussed at length throughout both Azorean and

Cape Verdean literatures that are rooted in the geographic, insular realities. That is, if wanderlust can be linked to the isolation and feelings of imprisonment on the island, the very same isolation, as well as nature’s forces on the island, lead to a strong affective connection felt by the man for the land, as was shown in the previous chapter. The two phenomena often result in an internal struggle faced by the protagonists of many Azorean and Cape Verdean works; that is, the dilemma between staying and leaving. Russell G.

Hamilton summarizes this dilemma between the existence of a “centrifugal force (i.e., wanderlust and the economic imperative to emigrate) [which] juxtaposes with a centripetal force (i.e., a sentimental attachment to the land)” (1993, 260). Both options, however, are intrinsically connected to the land itself: as Serpa Cabral writes, “a terra

! 200! pode ser tão violenta quanto benéfica, repelindo, em determinadas alturas, e atraindo, noutras” (295)

This dilemma is often reflected upon—though through various scopes and at differing degrees—in Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures. It harkens back to the classic quote from Jorge Barbosa: “Esse desespero de querer partir / E ter que ficar!” Or is it “querer ficar e ter que partir?” In truth, it can be both.

There is, however, a clear trend in regards to this question in both Azorean and

Cape Verdean literatures; and it is precisely in this respect that the two bodies of work diverge. That is, if Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures are similar in both paying special attention to the question of emigration, and to the various pushes and pulls between the New World and the homeland, it is in the ultimate choice—emigration or the homeland—that lies their difference. In Cape Verdean prose, when faced with the option for emigration, the protagonists tend to stay on their island. In Azorean prose, however, this does not happen; to the contrary, the Azorean protagonist will almost always embark if he or she finds him or herself in such a situation—when emigration is not the result, it is with clearly expressed frustration in the inability to do so. In other words, the Azorean protagonist does not tend to opt to stay on the island out of free will.

This does not mean that the Azorean does not consider the attachment to the homeland, or what he or she will be leaving behind, in the decision to depart. It is in fact reflected upon, and often causes hesitations, as we will see later on in the chapter. The strong desire for and the force of the attraction to America and its promises of success and wealth, however, tend to defeat these doubts, at least during the moments leading up to departure. We will see, however, that there is often a heightened sense of apego à terra

! 201! and longing for the homeland as a consequence of emigration. That is, while in Cape

Verdean literature, the dilemma—or desespero, as Jorge Barbosa put it—is often strongest in the decisive moments of whether or not to emigrate, in Azorean literature, this tends to be felt once the protagonists find themselves in the United States or Canada.

The emigrant rarely integrates fully into American society, and the force of insularity remains strong; further, the communities tend to re-create the island and its traditions in the receiving country, and are often isolated from the general society. As Carmen Ramos

Villar writes in regards to this recreation, “This adaptation of the island attests to the imprisonment of the islander, who will never escape his or her insular condition.” (284)

Once emigrated, this insular condition of the Azorean consists precisely of his/her trapping within this space between the homeland and the adopted nation, living in his own “island” within the host society.

It is interesting to note that Azorean literature pays much more attention to the experience in America than Cape Verdean literature. Many Azorean writers write novels either partially or entirely about the communities in North America: Já Não Gosto de

Chocolates, by Álamo Oliveira, Passageiro em Trânsito, by Cristóvão de Aguiar, Afectos da Alma, by Judite Jorge, Sapateia Americana, by Onésimo T. Almeida and Mar e Tudo, by José Francisco Costa, are some examples of the many novels that pay special attention to the experience of life in America, as seen from the perspective of those who are on the other side of the Atlantic. While these works will not be the focus of this chapter, this marked difference between the Azorean and Cape Verdean corpi seems to be related to the already mentioned divergence: the fact that it is much more common to see protagonists leave their islands in Azorean literature than in Cape Verdean literature. The

! 202! narration of the emigrant experience, therefore, serves as the continuation to this trend, and also provides the space for the manifestation of saudade once the emigrant finds him or herself in a new land. This saudade is yet another component of the dilemma between staying and leaving, this time as a result of the emigration, and is often seen in Azorean literature.

Given that the main objective of the Cape Verdean Claridosos was to “fincar os pés na terra,” to highlight the values of the Cape Verdean islands and their people, it seems logical that authors would not only choose for their protagonists to stay in the archipelago, but also opt to not focus on the emigrant experience so much as Azorean writers do. Socially, emigration plays just as important a role in Cape Verdean history as it does in the Azorean one. The mission of the Claridosos, however, was not only to show the reality of their archipelago, but to call for an increase in the valorization of the islands, even on the part of the Cape Verdeans. The Azoreans, on the other hand, were simply interested in writing texts true to their realities on the islands, ultimately resulting in a what we can now consider a canon of Azorean literature. These very objectives shed an important light on these two diverging paths, and can explain the conscious or inconscious decision of the Claridosos to give their protagonists destinies within the archipelago.

The Tendency to Stay: Partir/Ficar in the trajectory of Cape Verdean literature

The first Cape Verdean novel, Baltazar Lopes’s 1947 Chiquinho, is the exception to this rule: in fact, in this novel, the protagonist does ultimately emigrate. Though

Chiquinho only departs at the very end of the novel, Lopes’s work can truly be

! 203! considered one of emigration: it is a theme that is constantly tackled, starting on the very first page of the novel. This is because our protagonist’s grandfather had himself been a whaler, and his father had emigrated to New Bedford, a decision to which the family attributes their house and all of their comforts.

Throughout the novel, we see the protagonist’s idealization of the emigrant and of

America. Not only does the child feel a strong connection with America—his father’s emigration makes the nation also “his”—but he glorifies emigrants, whom he sees as the epitome of a hero. The emigrant is often juxtaposed with those who stay on the island and work on the land. In fact, in the eyes of our young narrator, as well as his friends, there is a clear hierarchy between the emigrants, the whalers who return to the island, and the men who dedicate themselves to agriculture on the island. The emigrant is seen as the superior of the three—not only does he have the courage to go to sea, but he is able to create a life for himself, instead of working for another man, as do the whalers.

Chiquinho outlines the three levels clearly when a whaling ship returns to the island.

Later on, Chiquinho will speak of his grandfather,who himself was a whaler. He tells us: “Sem o ter conhecido, tocava muito perto ao meu coração. Gostaria de ser como ele, e sair a percorrer mares na pesca da baleia, conhecendo terras. Admirava a sua vida heróica.” Shortly after, he makes a clear distinction between this life and that of the men who work the land:

Como aquele avô heróico me parecia diferente dos homens que eu via todos os dias puxando na enxada, para voltarem à noite à casa podre, coberta de palha! Lá dentro faziam a sua vida de servos, numa resistência que eu não compreendia. Tinham povoado a minha infância de imagens que não me deixavam admirar aquela heroicidade constante e apagada (80).

! 204! As such, we can see that, even if he sees whalers as inferior to emigrants, men of the land hold the bottom spot on this hierarchy. While, as our adult narrator, he recognizes some heroism in those men that resist and continue to struggle against the force of the land, dedicating themselves to its cultivation with little gain, it is clearly a heroism that, for

Chiquinho the child, is inferior to that of the whalers, since it is a heroism that he cannot understand. While others may see these men as heroes, for our protagonist, theirs is a strength that does not distinguish itself. Moreover, there is a clear disdain for those who stay on the island, which we can certainly associate to the boy’s admiration for America, and the affective proximity that he maintains with the country to which men from his family departed, just as so many other Cape Verdeans, in order to gain the resources needed to improve their lives, since the island did not offer them. On the other hand, it seems important to note the subtle nod to the constant and unglorified heroism of those who chose to stay in the islands. Even if Lopes chose to have Chiquinho emigrate, he does so while reminding of the value in staying and working endlessly to improve the land.

Keeping all of this in consideration, it is not surprising that Chiquinho also decides to follow the same path to America, emigrating to New Bedford. In his words,

“[o] mar também era o [seu] caminho” (289)—this is his reply after his father asks if he wants to join him in the United States. He is immediately overcome with hope for his future with his girlfriend, Nuninha: “A América foi ficando para mim uma Terra da

Promissão em que eu poderia realizar tôdas as minhas virtualidades. E uma grande esperança me invadiu” (290), and, later, “[a] América aparecia-me transfigurada de esperanças” (294). Chiquinho’s plans, however, aren’t the same as his father’s: the

! 205! young man does not intend to just work in order to earn money, but he also plans to study during the day, in order to guarantee a better life for himself and for Nuninha. Moreover, he intends to study the Cape Verdean community in the United States—the group that he so admired throughout his childhood. In this way, he combines the admiration he has for

America, and his own perceived need to emigrate, with the love for his homeland where he cannot continue to live. He therefore, in a way, resolves the dilemma between staying and leaving. As Russell G. Hamilton writes: “Chiquinho’s decision to join his father in

New Bedford, Massachusetts, comes directly, then, from Baltasar Lopes’s modified treatment of the problem of wanting to stay, having to depart” (Hamilton, 324). He must leave in order to achieve for himself that which he always heard of in the letters that came from America; as Norman Araujo writes, “He has every reason to believe… for it is the money received from America which has enabled his family to maintain a social position superior to that of the extremely poor people around him” (Araujo, 139). And, in fact, it is in America that:

Construí na América a casa para mim e Nuninha, que eu havia levantado no alto da Horta Nova. Só a América me permitiria fazer uma boa casa para receber Nuninha. Uma boa casa para Nuninha. Conhecia nomes muito bonitos de casas que a gente habita quando larga para trás as terras das ilhas... Camas de spring, gramofone, pianola, cómodas, louça fina, um ror de coisas. Nada disso as ilhas davam à sua escravatura. Escravo não merece mais do que a cama de cancarã, uma caixa de goiabeira, louça da Boa Vista e um pote ao canto da casa. Eu não concebia Nuninha morando assim (294-5).

This juxtaposition of the conditions in the United States and those in Cape Verde make the reasoning for Chiquinho’s decision to leave quite clear: America offers a much better life than would be possibile in Cape Verde, which is something that our narrator is aware of from a very young age, since he has, his whole life, heard stories not only of his father abroad, but of his grandfather that built the very house Chiquinho was born in with

! 206! money from America. And with that, “Chiquinho departs quietly in an atmosphere unmarked by great dramatic tensions” (Araujo, 139), fulfilling the same destiny that the men in his family had also fulfilled, and never doubting his choice to leave.

After this first novel, however, the tendency will shift, and we will begin to see protagonists opting to stay on the island(s) when facing the question of emigration. In fact, it is when Manuel Lopes publishes Chuva Braba, in 1956, that this shift takes place.

As I believe that this novel is the most emblematic of the struggle between the apego à terra and the necessity to leave the island in the Cape Verdean case, it will be discussed in greater depth later on in this chapter. It is important to note, however, that in this novel, Mané Quim decides to remain in São Nicolau.

The same will occur in Lopes’s 1959 collection of short stories, O Galo que

Cantou na Baía. The story “O Jamaica Zarpou” is indeed very reminiscent of Lopes’s earlier novel. The young protagonist, Rui, who was raised by his aunt, faces the choice of leaving or staying when his emigrated father returns from America on a trip, with the hopes of bringing his son back with him. The son, however, is reluctant to leave—he instead aspires to work his aunt’s land in Santo Antão to better their conditions. In fact, the story opens with Rui imagining how he will tell his aunt that he abandoned the ship, leaving his father behind. “É melhor ficar aqui, lutar aqui,” he reflects. His affinity for the land over the sea is also referred: “A ilha não balança. Não encalha, não vai ao fundo. Não era medo do mar, nem de naufrágio,” (47), but instead, what predominates is a feeling of belonging to the land and, most specifically, his island.

Just like we will see in our discussion of Chuva Braba, the main character’s aunt

Gêgê will encourage him to leave, despite the pain that it brings her. When Rui arrives at

! 207! home, imagining that her reaction will be precisely this one—telling him that he must go, for he has no future in Cape Verde—he overhears a conversation between his aunt and their neighbor. Nha Eufémia encourages nha Gegê that it is best for her to let go of her nephew, and that emigration is the right choice for him, for securing a better future for both. When the aunt arrives home later, Rui is taken aback by her surprise to see him. She questions him on why he abandoned ship and his father—the omniscient narrator shares with us that, despite her hatred for her brother-in-law, she recognizes that emigration is the only “salvation” (59) for her nephew. Humiliated and losing his determination in his decision, Rui mumbles back that he did not abandon ship. He lies and says that he simply went to buy some things with permission to leave and that he would return; his aunt rushes him and expels him from the home.

When Rui arrives at the dock, however, the ship has already departed. The protagonist experiences a moment in which he imagines himself on the ship, leaving him feeling seasick— a sensation that he feels in the beginning of the story, as well. “Estava mareado. Não era homem do mar. Não aguentava mais. Era homem de chão firme.

Tirem-me daqui!” (67). When he comes to, however, he begins to regret his initial decision not to leave: he wonders if it was worth defying the wishes of his aunt, his elders, and what is seen as his own destiny.

At the end of the story, he does indeed accept his reality and the results of his decision. This happens for two reasons: his memory of Mané Quim, who appears an instance of the intertextuality that Lopes frequently employs, and his girlfriend, Lina.

Lembrou-se do Mané Quim, que ele conhecera na Ribeira das Patas. Não quis trocar a sua terra, que a chuva regara no mesmo dia em que embarcava para S. Vicente, pela felicidade material que o padrinho lhe oferecia no Brasil. O cheiro saturado de terra molhada chamara-o para a sua ribeira. Voltou as costas ao

! 208! mar. Há sempre uma voz interior que nos chama, que nos guia, através de todas as vicissitudes, de todas as escuridões. Rui julgou nesse momento ter compreendido. Agora compreendia melhor, talvez. Ocorreu-lhe esta passagem de um livro de Somerset Maugham: “Achas tão pouca coisa o contentamento? Sabermos que de pouco vale a um homem ganhar o mundo inteiro e perder a sua alma. Eu creio que achei a minha…” Assim falava um homem da terra. Um homem para quem o cheiro a terra molhada despertaria os mesmos sentimentos que levaram Mané Quim a voltar as costas ao mar. Nhô Lourencinho e Mané Quim ter-lhe-iam pegado a doença? Eduardinho acreditaria que sim. Mas Eduardinho… Para o inferno o amigo Eduardinho, com a sua mania de “regresso à terra”. Rui lembrava-se de ouvir Tuta dizer-lhe, num rompante: “Se tu arregaçasses as mangas da camisa e cavasses o chão como eu faço, usarias uma linguagem mais terra-a-terra para exprimires o sentimento do povo…” Não, não era teoria, mas uma realidade e uma conquista (70-1).

Rui recognizes that it was his own internal voice that had guided him through this episode that had made him choose to abandon ship the first time. He realizes the value in his own happiness, just as Mané Quim did: while the adventure of emigration and the greater material comforts that would result from such an endeavor are undeniable and therefore made him question his decision, he realizes now that his own happiness on his island is worth much more. Just as in Chuva Braba, the question of not losing one’s soul to emigration is raised. He rejects the idea, however, that he could have been influenced by Mané Quim and Nhô Lourencinho, or that this is an experience that can be theorized.

To the contrary, it is highly personal: but it is his reality, and one that he sees as a victory.

Lina, the love interest of the protagonist, is the second source of comfort as he stays. When he accepts his reality, wondering if he does indeed have no future, he feels

Lina gently touch his shoulder. She speaks to him, and he pays little attention to what she says, and instead looks into her eyes. At that moment: “pareceram ao jovem sem caminhos, as duas margens dum caminho profusamente iluminado” (72). Lina, then, is

Rui’s future; when he felt as if he may not have any paths to follow, he realizes that his path is on his island with her. Throughout the story, we see that Lina represents a sense of

! 209! comfort, of family, and of home for our protagonist. These feelings, which can also be associated with the island, are what allow him to see hope in the young girl’s eyes, a hope for his future in Cape Verde.

The decision to remain on the island and to fight for success in the homeland, since an individual’s success is also capable of bringing progress to the island as a whole seems to be important to Manuel Lopes, given that “O Jamaica Zarpou” is essentially an abbreviated version of Chuva Braba—placed in the context of a different family, the same issues and arguments arise, ultimately leading to the same decision. Obviously, this has quite a bit to do with the valorization of the homeland, an affective connection to the island, and a desire to see it prosper. There seems to be another nexus, however—this one between the decision to stay and one’s own Cape Verdean identity. While this will be reflected on in greater detail in the conversation about Mané Quim, the story “No ferreiro do bruxo baxenxe,” which is also included in O Galo que Cantou na Baía, also gives us a hint towards Lopes’s perception of this relation. When speaking of Tony Leandro, a Cape

Verdean who had spent time emigrated in the United States, nhô Baxenxe observes:

“Quem sai e volta, já não é quem sai mas é quem volta” (106). That is, part of the Cape

Verdean identity is lost upon emigration. In his book O Peso do Hífen, Onésimo Teotónio

Almeida reflects on this phenomenon:

Porque crescemos num mundo, esse mundo passa a ser parte de nós mesmos. Emigrar é romper com esse mundo. Daí que, ao voltarem, se reintegrem quase sem problemas aqueles que saíram já adultos e de gostos formados. E digo quase, porque o mundo a que regressam os emigrantes já não é o mesmo que deixaram. Não vivem ou não estão lá muitas das pessoas que o povoavam, e algumas outras coisas, pelo menos, mudaram. Além disso, ainda que superficialmente, no imigrante algo mudou também. O novo mundo passou, de algum modo, a fazer parte dele e daí o relativo desajustamento do regresso (49-50).

From the perspective of those who stayed, however, it is logical that the changes in the

! 210! returned emigrants’ character are what stand out: when expecting the same person to return, it is natural to notice the aspects of Cape Verdean identity that were lost, and those characteristics gained abroad. Just as the home society is different to the returned emigrant, he himself is different to those who await his arrival. On a rhetorical level, it seems important that Lopes stress this transformation—if the goal of the Claridosos is to give value to the Cape Verdean culture, the writer must emphasize the loss of certain elements upon emigration.

The Claridosos laid the foundation for the generations of writers that would come to follow them, who have also lent themselves to many of the same preoccupations and objectives to valorize the islands. As such, the Claridosos’ tendency for the protagonist to stay in Cape Verde is something that we will continue to see in Cape Verdean literature until the present-day.

Manuel Ferreira’s Hora di Bai, though not focused on emigration, touches on the same question when Nha Venância, a respected woman in the community who is disappointed in the state of her island of Santo Antão, considers departing for Lisbon at the end of the novel. She confides in Jacinto, making him aware of her plans. The news leaves him disappointed, too, and he attempts to convince her to stay: “Cabo-verdiano deve agarrar-se à sua terra. Encontrar aqui, nas horas de infortúnio a sua razão de ser.

Então, vamos todos desertar?” (187). Through Jacinto’s call-to-action to Nha Venância in his attempts to convince her to stay, Ferreira is also reflecting on the Cape Verdean reality as a whole: “vamos todos desertar?” While not negating the lamentable conditions in the archipelago—quite to the contrary, these are always stressed in the archipelago’s literary works, as we have already discussed—Jacinto argues that the Cape Verdean

! 211! should find a reason to stay even amidst all of the despair. What would be of the islands if everyone escaped?

As Jacinto continues to plea to Nha Venância, he shifts into speaking crioulo instead of Portuguese. As we have already discussed in chapter two, the code-switching to crioulo tends to occur in moments in which there is a heightened emotional charge, both with other Cape Verdeans and with the Cape Verdean islands themselves. It is also a mechanism to accentuate both the importance of and the enforcement of the Cape

Verdean identity. Jacinto pleas to Nha Venância, urging her not to make her decision based on the condition at the moment, insisting that she must maintain hope for the future of her land, and guaranteeing that rain will come and the suffering will end. “Amanhã é sempre de esperança. Porque não tê-la depois de tanto sofrermos?” (190). Initially, Nha

Venância responds in Portuguese, insisting that no one should be subjected to remaining a prisoner to insularity. It is after this final question, however, that she eventually also moves in to crioulo, marking the moment that she begins to reconsider her decision “Sim,

‘m tâ bâ pensâ um bocadinho” (190).

After he leaves, reminded of the freedom of childhood, Nha Venância decides not to depart for Lisbon, and to stay in Santo Antão instead. During her conversation with

Jacinto, the narrator had referred to the fact that Nha Venância was among those that “só na sua terra encontram o verdadeiro segredo da vida, a genuína morabeza nas relações…” (188), clearly demonstrating her strong identitary and emotional ties to the island. When Jacinto speaks to her in Creole, and she responds in the same language, these ties are being called to the forefront. As she recalls her fondest memories of her childhood, with her housekeeper humming a morna in the background, she is reminded

! 212! of the strength of these connections, making the ultimate decision to postpone her emigration to Lisbon: “Balançando cismando sonhando quanta coisa não lhe bulia no fundo das suas recordações… Apareceram as duas e nha Venância, erguendo-se da cadeira de balanço e mirando-se ao espelho, disse-lhe que a partida para Lisboa ficava adiada” (192). And so ends the novel, with the indefinite postponement of nha

Venância’s emigration. Several components of Cape Verdean culture that are often emphasized in literature—creole, morna, morabeza—are highlighted in order to give value to the island and its people, convincing our protagonist not to emigrate, as her connection to the island and own life history outweigh the negatives, such as drought, hunger, and corruption, that had made her consider leaving.

Similar to Manuel Lopes, Ferreira will revisit the topic in his short story

“Puchinho.” Puchinho, the protagonist, expresses sentiments similar to those of Nha

Venância: the weight of insularity and isolation, the desire to leave and embark on a greater destiny, and even sharing in the projected destination of Lisbon. For the entirety of the story, the reader observes the child and his friend, Mário, gazing from the docks to the sea—that which traps them, but that also gives them hope to leave. The overarching tone is quite melancholy—indeed, the narrator notes that they are feeling a saudade for the dream never accomplished. They reflect on the reality of the island—“Então a ilha outra coisa não seria do que fonte de solidão” (18)—as well as the resignation of their compatriots—“Todos integrados aceitando a pequenez” (23).

Puchinho considers going to Lisbon, at least temporarily—just as Nha

Venância—in hopes of pursuing studies to then be able to return to his island and write about the crioulo reality— just as those of the Certeza group. In the end, however, it is

! 213! creole and Cape Verdean culture that comforts him as he remains on the island. The short story closes with Puchinho walking away and singing a morna—“vidinha sabe esta de

Soncente” (28). Once again, the local culture, and one’s appreciation and affective connection to it, are ultimately more profound and therefore carry more weight than the desire to leave. The particular line chosen for the end of the story only serves to emphasize this—immediately following the manifestation of his urge to leave, Puchinho sings of the goodness of his life on São Vicente. Beyond underlining the importance of the Cape Verdean culture for the archipelago’s people, and their decision to stay, this ending, just as Nha Venância’s story, brings a sense of hope to the reader by emphasizing the goodness of life on the island.

In 1963, as the Portuguese colonies in Africa were asserting their fight for independence, Onésimo Silveira writes “Consciencialização da literatura caboverdiana,” published by the Casa dos Estudantes do Império. He calls attention to the need of an elevated consciousness (“entendida esta como intervenção no processo social” (10)) in the literature of the archipelago, which should come to include “uma parcela ideológica autêntica e actual” (7), criticizing the writers of the 1940s and 1950s for their lack of responsiblity in their writing, their inauthenticity, and their shortfalls in true service to the

Cape Verdean people.

His first charge against these writers is their extensive use of what he calls evasionismo: “O drama da evasão pretendeu ser a tradução intelectual do problema da emigração do ilhéu” (10). He affirms, however, that the writers did little beyond exposing the realities that lead to this dilemma:

Mas, conquanto fosse um dos principais tópicos do seu programa, em parte não expresso, esses homens não lograram tomar e manter, no plano literário e no da

! 214! acção prática, as posições necessárias à denúncia desse problema em termos positivos. Focando o drama da evasão, a dualidade “querer partir e ter que ficar” ou “querer ficar e ter que partir” conforme a filosofia evasionista de cada um—acabaram por simplificar, arbitrariamente, este complexo problema e por oferecer uma imagem estereotipada do homem caboverdiano, renunciando conscientemente a buscar as raízes psicológicas e sociais do facto emigratório (10).

He further criticizes them for the lack of attention paid to the forced emigration to São

Tomé and Príncipe, which he attributes to his supposition that the dilemma so often portrayed in literature in fact represents the individual desires of the writer to be on the outside of the islands, in Europe or the Americas, instead of an objective to show the reality of emigration in all of its facets, including the horrible ones. His 1960 novela Toda a gente fala: sim, senhor is itself a reflection on the Cape Verdean experience on the distant archipelago.

As has already been established in the first chapter, the writings of the Claridosos were not politically charged, in terms of fighting for an independent nation and clearly denouncing the injustices suffered at the hands of the Portuguese government. I would argue, however, that the striking choice that prose writers make to constantly have their protagonists stay on the archipelago is already an important first step in the process of bettering the Cape Verdean society: exposure of the problem, even if it is not analyzed in great depth, and the hope for improvement, symbolized by a decision to remain in Cape

Verde are crucial elements in this process. As Heitor Martins argues, the “evasionismo” of Cape Verdean writers can in fact be seen as a form of awareness:

Em vez de representar uma forma de alienação, falta de consciência da realidade cabo-verdiana ou separação do ser humano desta realidade, o que temos é, antes, a consciência de que a insularidade produz reacções psicológicas que constituem a estrutura mental de um determinado tipo de ser humano. E que, no arquipélago de Cabo Verde, estas reacções são definidas por uma complexa atitude que abarca o partir como parte do regresso, a “hora di bai” como “hora de birai”

! 215! (64).

That is, the lack of concrete solutions to the socio-economic and political issues that spur the need to emigrate does not necessarily point to a lack of consciousness of these problems, nor to avoiding to expose them. Notwithstanding, Silveira’s criticism and ideological stances are, of course, vital in a call to action during a turbulent period of change.

The 1960s marked a time of widespread political and ideological awakening in the Lusophone world. In terms of Cape Verdean literature and its discourse on emigration, this decade also serves as a turning point. As we will see in the following examples, while emigration is still an important theme, and the question of staying or leaving is referred, it is now treated with much greater nuance.

The protagonist in Germano Almeida’s O Testamento do Senhor Napumoceno da

Silva Araújo, published in 1991, is also attracted by the constant pulls from the outside.

Senhor Napumoceno is a character torn between various realities—his own Cape

Verdean identity, the allure of European high culture and status, and the attraction to gadgets and other symbols of American progress and ideals. Quite often, these various facets of his identity enter into conflict; the European and American elements especially prove, in many ways, incompatible with the Cape Verdean context. While his attraction to the European is often manifested in the island—for example, the extravagant dinners with food sent from Lisbon—the force that America has over him is strengthened by his trip to the United States. His relationship with Africa, on the other hand, is quite reminiscent of that of the generation of the Claridosos—he hyper-valorizes what is

European and America, while showing a certain disdain or disinterest for Africa. For

! 216! example, his only interaction with Africa is a one-night stand with a Senegalese woman, from whom he contracts gonorrhea.

The magnetic pull of the progress of America takes hold of Senhor Napumoceno.

In fact, he often refers to himself—as do others refer to him—as a “self-made man,” incarnating an American ideal within the context of his Cape Verdean islands. When he takes a three-month trip to the United States, he returns a new man “[d]e calmo e pacato, vinha nervoso, apressado, concludente e falador” (46). He is now obsessed with technological gadgets from the US, including a mini stop light that will allow visitors to know when they can and cannot enter his office and, most valued, an answering machine with a mobile device that allowed him to access his messages from home. In the time immediately following his arrival to São Vicente, he is certain that this technology will better his life, minimizing efforts that he himself will have to make, and lets himself be taken away by these distractions for several months. Upon writing his testament, however, he will recognize his own exaggeration and will reflect upon the space for such progress on the islands:

… considerava igualmente do seu dever declarar ter pensado exageradamente acerca dos benefícios da ciência e da técnica, pelo menos nas nossas ilhas, porque acabara por concluir que a mesma é a mão que faz as pequenas coisas maravilhosas que nos deleitam e também os instrumentos mais mortíferos para a destruição do homem (48).

He senses that the spirit that results from such inventions enters into conflict with the calm, laid-back islander spirit that he so values and that is constantly accentuated throughout the novel—as a result, he determines that economic riches are not worth the loss of the soul, which his compatriots possess and that should be preserved.

! 217! Although he will eventually come to reflect upon these conflicts as he nears his death, the progress of America remained a strong attraction and means of self-definition for most of his active life. As previously stated, Senhor Napumoceno is viewed as a self- made man, who rose from poverty on his birth island of São Nicolau, to an influential figure in the more affluent and cosmopolitan city of Mindelo, on the island of São

Vicente. This success, however, will once again create conflict with his sense of national solidarity, for it is at the cost of his fellow Cape Verdeans that he gains his riches: not only by stopping exports of local products (at the advice of his manipulative nephew), but also through a serendipitous act that will benefit him, yet cause great damage for the rest of the population. When the protagonist decides to import umbrellas as protection from the hot sun, a small confusion leads 10,000 umbrellas to be delivered, instead of 1,000.

His immediate concerns that this will signify a loss for his company are alleviated when a calm rain begins and provides initiative for the sale of the umbrellas; his guilt is felt eight days later, when the rain severely worsens, causing destruction of homes and the loss of lives. The guilt inspires Napumoceno to feel indebted to the poor, and charity will become a central preoccupation—still not without selfish motives, however, as he states that he desires to be remembered monthly when others receive his money. While talking about Senhor Napumoceno’s adhesion to certain American values and ideals, it seems important to point out that the protagonist keeps a large portrait of Abraham

Lincoln hanging in his office, and often tries to find parallels between himself and this idealized figure. Once again, this demonstrates his identification with the United States— one that is ridiculed by his nephew, who points out that there exists no real comparison between the two men.

! 218! Despite all of this attraction and sense of identification, however, Senhor

Napumoceno never makes the move to permanently relocate to the United States. It is clear that he sees his future in Mindelo; instead of thinking of how to change his life by embarking, he considers the possibilities of implementing what he has discovered in the

United States in the Cape Verdean context, recognizing however, in the end, that a complete transfer of ideals is illogical and improbable, and even not the most desired outcome. He maintains a strong sense of solidarity with his islands and hopes to see them come to be the best possible: it is just that, for Senhor Napumoceno, much of what is the best is what comes from the outside.

Phillip Rothwell points to this conflict between the United States and Cape Verde as a struggle between materialism and idealism. This struggle will become an important question as the newly sovereign nation begins to develop itself independently—how does the nation progress without risking the loss of the cultural identity? What models can be taken from the exterior in order to minimize economic dependence as a post-colonial, island nation? This dependence is pointed out in the novel with the reflection on emigration in another context—Senhor Napumoceno’s love affair with Dona Jóia in Boa

Vista cannot be carried out to its full potential, for she is an emigrant visiting her homeland on holiday. He will later reflect that America robs the islands of all potential wives and mothers, demonstrating the extent to which this phenomenon—often the only option in surpassing economic hardships—affects the life on the islands. This also underlines Senhor Napumoceno’s own allegiances: he is worried about the welfare of his own islands and, despite any attraction to the outside, his feet will remain firmly planted there.

! 219! In the case of O Testamento do Senhor Napumoceno Araújo da Silva, this question of the outside versus the homeland takes on a slightly different weight. The novel is set at a turning point in Cape Verdean history: the writing of our protagonist’s will coincides with the revolution in Portugal. Of course, Senhor Napumoceno’s staying on the island, despite all of the constant temptations from the United States and Europe, underlines the need for Cape Verdeans to stay in their islands and work for the progress of their own society, as Senhor Napumoceno does. The fact that this novel takes place during the transition to independence, however, also brings the question of national identity to the forefront, especially since Senhor Napumoceno must die in the process.

Senhor Napumoceno’s will and testament is written in November of 1974—six months after the Carnation Revolution in Portugal that ended the colonial wars—though he would only die ten years later, in 1984. In fact, it is observed that the protagonist considered himself deceased from this year on, not only demonstrated by his writing of his testament, but also by his loss of interest in his wardrobe, previously so carefully coordinated, indicating an onset of indifference and even alienation. Spiritually, Senhor

Napumoceno dies with the revolution and eventual independence of the nation, removing himself from this newly autonomous society. This seems to indicate an inability to fit in to this new society in construction—in a nation where the identity as an independent state is being formed, there is no room for Senhor Napumoceno or, further, those of his generation who share his worldview. In a moment in which it is necessary to define the

Cape Verdean as its own entity and, therefore, to minimize dependencies on the exterior that are aggravated by insularity, such conflicts as those experienced by Senhor

Napumoceno cannot exist—the external pulls that create friction with the local identity

! 220! must be eliminated and the focus must be turned inwards, towards the Cape Verdean society and culture themselves. Perhaps we can see this as Almeida’s response to the

Claridosos and the tensions between the outside and the inside constantly reflected upon in their work, demonstrating that such struggle does not have space within the newly independent Cape Verdean society.

None of this is to say, of course, that Cape Verdean literature does not pay attention to the reality of those who have decided to depart. To the contrary, emigrants appear constantly in Cape Verdean narratives, and have even been referred to here in my analysis. There are important qualifications to be made, however. Overwhelmingly, emigrant characters in these texts are secondary characters. In fact, they are often the ones to make our protagonists, even the ones discussed here, reflect on the phenomenon of emigration: tio Joquinha, Puchinho’s father, and Dona Jóia. They, however, are by no means the heroes of the narratives in which they appear.

In fact, in Vida Crioula, by Teobaldo Virgínio, the protagonist of the novella,

Toninho, does indeed depart after years of dreaming of a life in America. Published in

1967, the novella addresses many of the same questions that have already been discussed here: the constant tug-of-war between the desire to leave and that to stay, the desperation of the loved ones who will be left behind, and the glorification of a life at sea and, eventually, in America. Moments of intertextuality permeate the novel, as Virgínio dialogues with those who came before him, namely the Claridosos. As to be expected,

Chiquinho is often referred to in Toninho’s desire to depart.

Before he leaves, however, he hears one last plea to stay from his friend, Tomás.

His arguments eco many of those that have been discussed here. The conversation begins

! 221! on the topic of a piece of writing, for which Toninho would like Tomás’s feedback.

Tomás reacts to the underlying desire to leave:

O nosso tema será outro: prendermo-nos à terra. Ganhar a terra. Tornar estas pedras em pão… a vitória está sobretudo e principalmente no grau de dedicação que devotarmos à nossa terra, nós, os mais esclarecidos. A nossa fé, tenacidade e exemplo são as bases da vida nestas ilhas… Assim como dizes “todos os dias à beira-mar com este desejo (de partir) incontido” estás desertando. Estás convocando para a largada. E se fôssemos todos dava-se o despovoamento, que o mesmo é dizer a pura perda da cabo-verdianidade ou a sua transfiguração em outros cambiantes…. Eu tenho orgulho de ser de onde sou. O que sou. Isolados da terra, não poderíamos permanecer integrais como somos aqui… Falam das nossas colónias. Realmente nelas existe um certo sentiment de cabo-verdiniade. Mas no fundo dá-se a degeneração (135-8).

The call to give value to Cape Verde and its culture is latent here, as Tomás represents the arguments set forth by the Claridosos. In fact, he refers to himself and his group as

“os mais esclarecidos,” which seems to explicitly point to this connection.

Toninho, however, feels the need to fulfill his own destiny. After his conversation with Tomás, he reflects: ““Prendermo-nos à terra, ganhar a terra.”… Ideia boa, não há dúvida. Mas, senhores, esta situação indefinida, dia a dia a caminhar para a velhice, sem um objectivo, sem rumo… Deixar Cabo Verde custava muito, mas ficar parecia ser pior” (141). He invokes some of the literary figures already discussed here and their various outcomes: “Todos tinham razão. Cada UM com a SUA razão…

Precisamente: a morna adoçava a necessidade de partir com o prazer do regresso”

(142). This is the last line of the first part of the novel; the second part begins immediately following, with Toninho already in Los Angeles.

It is important to note that the amount of space taken up by Toninho’s American experience is much less than the plot that takes place in Cape Verde. In fact, it is significantly less than a third of the novella that speaks to our protagonist’s time in Los

! 222! Angeles. Much like what we will see in the Azorean case, his days are filled with nostalgia for his homeland, as he attempts to seek out connections to his islands. This happens as soon as he enters the ship, to which we can access through flashbacks: he writes poetry and mornas longing for his homeland, dreaming of bringing betterment to his islands.

Um desejo grande de fazer algo de importante para bem de seus irmãos das ilhas. Honrar Mãe-Terra, engrandecer sua gente. Ficar no curacao de MAMÃE. Quem amava mais, sua mãe ou Mamãe-Terra? Nem fome nem miséria. “Toninho só quadra para mocinhas.” Não, Toninho disfarça nas quadrinhas das suas crioulas o grande sonho que sonha para Mamãe-Terra.—Sem fome, sem miséria (155).

We can see, then, that his emigration to America is indeed undertaken with the main objective of improving life in the islands. While, for some, the solution would be to stay on the islands and work for progress, for Toninho, it seems best to depart for a while in order to earn money that can benefit Cape Verde.

Indeed, at the end of the narrative, Toninho does return to his homeland. There is a serene sense of hope derived from the land at the close of the novel: “Aqui, na sonoridade dessas águas, há uma mística, voz imensa e fraternal para além de todas as limitações, como oração de esperança, como semente de esperança do filho da ilha, no sei de MAMÃE-TERRA, ali no mar do canal, simbolizado pelo farol piscandom marcando presence, congregando irmãos, na roda do tempo!” (182). As such, despite his urge to emigrate, to which he gives in, we can see his profound connection with the land, and his hope for its betterment in the end. With his return to the island, this hope is not merely an abstract sentiment, but it is something that will manifest in his contributions to the island, just like those of the previously discussed protagonists that opted not to emigrate.

! 223! The other instance in which emigrants tend to appear in Cape Verdean literature, and even as protagonists, is in moments after they have emigrated. That is, when an emigrant is the protagonist of the novel, we do not tend to see his or her decision-making process, but instead, the story will take place abroad. As I’ve previously stated, however, the presence of this type of narrative is nowhere near as pronounced in Cape Verdean literature as it is in Azorean literature.

Orlanda Amarilis is the writer who has most dedicated herself to the fictionalizing of emigrants’ experiences. In her short stories from the collections Ilhéu dos Pássaros and Cais-do-Sodré té Salamansa we constantly see Cape Verdeans living in Portugal and

France. In fact, as the title itself indicates, Cais-do-Sodré té Salamansa is precisely a collection of stories about emigrants in Lisbon. The story “Thonon-les-Bains,” from the collection Ilhéu dos Pássaros, is an exception: it does indeed show the moments before the emigration of the young girl, Piedade, who is sent to France. She was called over by her half-brother, Gabriel, an occurrence met with great excitement on her mother’s part.

Her mother is, understandably, anxious to provide her daughter, and later on her other children, with a better life: explaining the emigration to her friend, she says “Sabe, comadre, a vida aqui já não podia continuar como era. Sete anos sem chuva é muito”

(14).

It is key to note, however, that the young Piedade has little agency in this story. In fact, before her departure, we do not see her stance on emigration—she doesn’t even appear in the story until later on, already in France. Her departure itself barely receives a sentence in the narration, showing that this moment is of little importance—what is important is the fact that she is assumed to be on her way to a better life in Europe.

! 224! In the initial moments of her emigration, we see how this new way of life is seen positively by Piedade, attracted to the expensive stores and the colored televisions that she writes home about, as well as her new French boyfriend. The story quickly takes a turn, however, coming to denounce the marginalized position of the Cape Verdean immigrant in France. We see Piedade’s lack of agency return, namely in her new relationship, which quickly becomes abusive and culminates in the murder of the young

Cape Verdean girl when her boyfriend is uncomfortable and jealous at a party among

Cape Verdeans, who relish in the food and culture of their missed home.

Gabriel’s life is also changed following the incident: besides losing his sister, he cannot find a place to live, as no one wants him in their home. Further, he and his friends were told that they must leave the village of Thonon, or else they would be deported, as if they themselves were the criminals. When his stepmother becomes indignant with the news, and the fact that he chose not to denounce his sister’s murderer, he attributes the reality to the marginalization of the emigrant. After telling her that exposing the assassin would get him nowhere, that the authorities already suspected the boyfriend but would not take steps towards his prosecution, he finishes: “Emigrante é lixo, mãe Ana, emigrante não é mais nada” (25). At the end of the story, Gabriel does return to Europe, this time choosing Switzerland as his destination. What he doesn’t reveal to mãe Ana is that he chose this location, from where he could dislocate easily to Thonon, in order to avenge his sister’s death.

At the end of the story, a distraught Gabriel seeks peace. He knows exactly how to achieve it: he will sit and contemplate the ilhéu dos pássaros, the small islet between the islands of Santo Antão and São Vicente that gives name to this collection, and from

! 225! which the protagonists of all stories gain a sense of comfort. And the story concludes:

“Dali avistaria o ilhéu, ia-se sentir mais calmo. Espraiar o olhar até ao ilhéu dos

Pássaros, isolado a pouco mais de umas centenas de metros da praia, ia dar-lhe a tranquilidade de espírito tão precisada agora” (27).

Despite being a story in which we do see a main character depart for the exterior, leaving the homeland behind, “Thonon-les-Bains” in no way glorifies the realities of emigration. Quite to the contrary, its purpose is to expose the injustices experienced by

Cape Verdeans when they are forced to leave by the natural conditions that make it nearly impossible to stay on the island. As such, Amarilis’s message does not differ too much from that of other writers, who choose to have their protagonists remain in Cape

Verde; in fact, it shows that the authentic Cape Verdean experience in North America or

Europe does not correspond to the idealized image that many maintain within the archipelago. When we consider Gabriel’s moment of peace on his home island, gazing at the islet that is so dear to those from Santo Antão, we cannot deny that this very dark story culminates with a sense of hope and serenity that is intrinsically connected to the homeland. In that way, although Amarilis decides to reflect upon the emigrant experience in this short story, it is the homeland and one’s deep emotional connection to it that prevail once again.

The other stories from Amarilis’s two short story collections that deal with emigration share these features. That is, the objective is not to contribute to the glorified image of life outside of Cape Verde but, instead, to reveal the difficulties of the emigrant experience and the marginality of the Cape Verdean community abroad, namely in

France and Portugal. As Kathryn Bishop-Sanchez writes, this is indeed a shift from the

! 226! tendencies of the Claridosos, as Amarílis “ilustra uma perspectiva da emigração distinta da literatura evasionista dos claridosos.” As Bishop-Sanchez continues, this time in regards to Cais-do-Sodré té Salamansa:

Amarílis apresenta uma visão nostálgica da terra natal e simultaneamente uma tomada de consciência nacional cabo-verdiana. Temos de sublinhar que esta sensibilidade não é apresentada a partir das ilhas cabo-verdianas, como era frequentemente a tendência dos claridosos, mas é desenvolvida a partir de longe, no estrangeiro. Além disso, não se trata de um [sic] evocação utópica de um mundo melhor sem tê-lo conhecido previamente (2).

It is indeed a theme to which Amarilis dedicates a great portion of her writing. She herself had great contact with the Cape Verdean diaspora, namely in Lisbon, where she lived from the 1950s until the time of her death in 2014; perhaps, this can help us understand her profound preoccupation with speaking about these dislocated communities, which do not gain great amounts of attention in Cape Verdean literature.

The Tendency to Leave: Partir/Ficar in the trajectory of Azorean literature

“Viagem Certa,” a short story by Diogo Ivens, published in 1949, highlights the relentless desire to depart that permeates Azorean literature. Sentiments of claustrophobia felt on the island and the urge to continue on to greater horizons are clear from the very beginning of this story, which narrates brief moments in the lives of field workers on an arduous day of work: “O homem olhou o céu que, naquele dia, era uma campânula cinzenta de vidro fosco. Tentou ler as horas. Depois estendeu o olhar pelo mar adormecido sob o infinito estático” (211). There will be a funeral that day, to which the laborers begin to make their way. As they prepare to leave, however, they see a large ship pass by, having left the island of Santa Maria on its way to America. The sighting inspires an almost religious reaction from the workers, who all immediately stop and gaze

! 227! at the drifting boat headed to the land of their dreams, silence fallen upon them. Someone had muttered “um navio para a América.” The narrator reflects on the meeting of these very few words: “Aquela frase trazia um sentido mágico. E ficaram olhando o navio que se aproximava da ilha, estatuados em ansiedade como se perante eles se fosse realizar um milagre” (211). That is, embarking to America signifies a miracle. Carmen Ramos

Villar writes extensively on this link between emigration and religion, affirming that the former can be seen as the “extension of the reality of the pilgrimage” (87). In Ivens’s short story, the opportunity to leave is undoubtedly seen as a form of salvation; the intensity of the desire to embark can in fact be compared to religious fervor.

In this story, there is no doubt as to the decision that would be taken if the opportunity to emigrate arose: “Quedaram-se quase imóveis, padecendo da ansiedade de partir, imperiosa, que lhes adoecia as almas, sorvendo largas fumaças a que se imiscuía a sua inquietação de mar em fúria. A América, fames, dólares, estôas, vestuários confortáveis, fartura, cidades de prazer, shôs, machins… “ (212). America represents to them everything that the island does not: money, adventure, elevated comfort, and less arduous work. This image is further supported by those emigrants who return to the island on vacation, spending their dollars freely and promoting ideas of the ease of achieving wealth once the Atlantic Ocean is crossed. While the narrator acknowledges that this discourse is often superficial and used to hide the true hardship of the emigrant experience, for those islanders hearing these stories: “o resultado… era lenha atirada à fogueira das suas ansiedades” (212)

The word partir is repeatedly invoked throughout the story. Abandonar and deixar also frequently appear. The word ficar, however, is absent throughout the

! 228! narrative. In fact, the workers do not understand the reasons the emigrants would want to return to the island, even for a brief visit:

Partir… Partir num navio como aquele que, agora, majestoso, quebrava em frente dos cavadores o espelho do mar, numa pressa de chegar ou num daqueles aviões que, frequentemente, ronronavam por sobre as suas cabeças levantando voo de Santa Maria. Partir… Deixar a terra onde enterravam os pés descalços, já cavadas e tornado a cavar centenas e centenas de vezes por seus avós e pais. Partir… Abandonar a terra que regavam com o suor do seu rosto e de que cuidavam com o seu amor e que, apesar da abundância que lhes dava, mal os recompensava… Partir… para sempre… Mas porque voltam os americanos a matar saudades? Saudades de quê?!! (212).

It is not that the attachment to the homeland is completely absent in this story. In fact, the affective relationship between the man and the island is highlighted, especially in these two paragraphs. We see references to the various generations that worked this land: they are digging the same dirt that their fathers and grandfathers once dug. Their own sweat watered the land, and it was their love for it that made them persevere in their work. It is truly a relationship of co-dependence, but one in which the land does not provide enough in return for all that the men and women invest in it. For that reason, despite all love for the homeland, leaving is the only desired option.

They cannot leave, however. These workers are dreaming an impossible dream, since they do not have anyone who can call them to America, nor were they born there during a previous emigration experience. While in the Cape Verdean case, the protagonist would often find comfort in the culture and island while resolving to stay, this reality is met with pure frustration in “A Viagem Certa.” As our protagonists continue on to the funeral and the boat to America slips out of sight, the references to death become constant. The narrator refers to our protagonists as “condenados” (214): it is understood that staying on the island is a form of punishment. It is a prison, in fact: António

! 229! Machado Pires refers to this story as one in which this conception of the island is most prevalent (1984, 58). As they walk to the funeral, “e lamentando-se por sobre a aldeia, o sino da igreja gemia a dor dos que ficavam” (214). That is, the same bell that signifies the death of a loved one. In this sense, the lack of opportunity for emigration becomes a death: the death of the hope inspired by the boat to America, and the own internal death of the protagonists destined to live a life of resignation to their current conditions.

As they pass a neighbor, she comments that death is our last trip: “é a nossa

última viage!” (214). This will be repeated constantly until the close of the story, in the mental reflection of one of the farmers. It is put in contrast with the voyage that represents emigration—the impossible voyage for him. The former is indeed “a viagem certa,” which gives title to the story: not only is it the only one that is guaranteed, it is the only one that he foresees for himself. Unlike in emigration, one cannot come back from that trip. Contrary to the white boat of hope that signifies the trip to America, the only voyage that he can really expect is much darker, but the one in which he will someday fatally embark.

In this incredibly melancholy story, we can see the persistent desire to abandon the homeland. Regardless of the unstated love and attachment our protagonists may have for their island, there is no redemption in their impossibility for leaving it behind.

Dias de Melo’s 1964 novel Pedras Negras tells the story of a man who was able to leave his island—and who returns to it permanently at the end of the novel. The narrative underlines the intrinsic connection between emigration and the land. In fact, while at least a third of the book takes place in the United States, and while the work

! 230! maintains the theme of emigration throughout, the title itself refers to the homeland, to the island of Pico and its dark stones that make it so unique.

For Francisco Marroco, our protagonist, though, there is no question as to whether he should stay or leave. His drastic natural conditions, the widespread misery and hunger, do not allow it. He, like so many before him, must leave. His desire to marry Maria Rosa, much to the displeasure of her father, also serves as a serious motive: Marroco decides to go to America to earn the money needed to begin a life with her. Still, his intention is not to stay on the island after the marriage: “Mas é só casar e andar, que não quero saber mais disto. Tenho pensado muito. O Ano da Fome, secas, ciclones, fogo de vulcões, terramotos… Não! Não é a terra do Pico que me há-de roer os ossos!” (36).

It is interesting to note that, prior to the definitive decision to embark, Francisco

Marroco and his friend and mentor João Peixe-Rei discuss the reality that the islanders must face and that Marroco refers to in the above quote: the natural disasters and the resultant widespread suffering. Peixe-Rei is the first to affirm: “…a terra não tem culpa.

Quem dá o que pode, a mais não é obrigado” (27). Immediately following, there is a description of the land, in which the island is personified.

Diante dos olhos de Francisco Marroco ondulava a chã costeira das cinhas, que os riscos negros dos muros baixos dos abrigos de pedra solta retalhavam no xadrez dos currais pequeninos e das canadas estreitas e compridas. Elevavam-se depois as encostas, ora em arrebatamentos vertiginosos, ora em pendores, suaves até ao rebordo da planura do alto, onde se espraiam os vales, repousam as lagoas e se firmam os montes e montanhas do interior da Ilha. Todos aqueles campos eram um corpo atormentado. Neles, o mais que os olhos deparavam era pedra. Pedra – remoída e espalhada na praga do burgalhau pelas vinhas da beira-mar! Pedra – pelas encostas acima amontoada em moroiços e paredões que oprimiam e abafavam as pobres terras de milho! Pedra – a erguer-se, cascão disforme de ferida que jamais sara, em rochedos maciços de carranca dolorosa! Pedra – estirada em lajes enormes, no abandono de quem se atirasse para ali, farto de sofrimento que não podia mais aguentar! Pedra—nos cerros, alcantis e

! 231! arrifes que atravessam a Ilha de costa a costa! Pedra—por cima da terra, por baixo da terra, a transbordar da terra nos abismos do oceano! - A terra não tem culpa—repetia João Peixei-Rei (28).

This excerpt, which was analyzed in the previous chapter, shows a personification of the island, and a sense of compassion for the land, realizing that it, too, suffers, and refusing to place blame for the population’s reality upon it.

When considered in the context of the dilemma between staying and leaving, this passage serves an interesting role. It demonstrates, once again, the Picoense’s love for his island, even when recognizing the need to depart. While this attachment isn’t enough to make the protagonist and his mentor reconsider their decision to embark, it is enough for them to do so without resentment. Yes, many suffered in the island of Pico, which resulted in the need to emigrate: this, however, is not the land’s fault, for she herself is also suffering.

It is only when he is in America that Francisco Marroco will begin to long for the island. Naturally, this originates in his longing for his loved ones; when he reads the letters they send him, however, he closes his eyes and is transported to the island he left behind: “Francisco Marroco estava lá, na Ilha, em casa dos pais, sentado na esteira, na cozinha, numa noite de Inverno. O mar, o vento, a chuva… Os vizinhos chegavam para o serão, o pai fumava, a viola gemendo em suas mãos, a mãe remendava, o avô contava histórias tristes. Maria, muito linda, aparecia também” (75). When he is brought back to reality, it is a quite bitter moment: “Estremunhado, coração a extravasar amargura, corpo derreado, olhos a doerem-lhe nas órbitas, Francisco Marroco enfiou as cartas na algibeira de trás das calças e também se foi para mais um dia de trabalho” (75-6).

! 232! When he finally saves enough money to return to the island, he is no longer so resolute in his decision to make it a brief trip for marriage, to immediately return to the

United States after. At this point, he is staying in the home of an Azorean family, where he finally feels welcomed. They often stay up at night nostalgically recounting stories from the island. When the patriarch of the family, Manuel Parreira, suggests that

Francisco buy a ranch nearby, however, our protagonist is not so sure that he is ready to commit to a future in California: “Não. Por enquanto, Francisco Marroco não comprava rancho. Iria primeiro à Ilha, casar. Depois, então, se voltasse…” (84). The discourse is no longer when he returns, but if he returns. Later on, at the moment of his departure and when the family asks if he is going to return to Pico permanently, they are met with similar uncertainty: he would go to see his parents and to marry, while leaving his money in America. “Depois, veria.” (86).

This gradual change of heart during his time in America follows in the pattern of what I have explained above. That is, in the Azorean context, the dilemma between staying and leaving tends to be felt much more after the moment of emigration, in the form of longing for the island and never being exactly sure of one’s place in the world— the constant pull between the two lands to which the Azorean emigrant feels allegiance. It is necessary for Francisco Marroco to leave his island to begin to feel the urge to create the rest of his life in his birthplace. This calls to mind Salman Rushdie’s Imaginary

Homelands: the onset of heightened nostalgia for the islands may have to do with the emigrants’ fragmented memory of their birthplace, as the more negative aspects of their past experience have been half-forgotten. As Rushdie writes, speaking of his own experience with India,

! 233! It may be that writers in my position, exiles or emigrants or expatriates, are haunted by some sense of loss, some urge to reclaim, to look back, even at the risk of being mutated into pillars of salt. But if we do look back, we must also do so in the knowledge—which gives rise to profound uncertainties—that our physical alienation from India almost inevitably means that we will not be capable of reclaiming precisely the thing that was lost; that we will, in short, create fictions, not actual cities or villages, but invisible ones, imaginary homelands, Indias of the mind (10).

While, in this case, Francisco Marroco, just like the other Azorean emigrants in these narratives, are not themselves the writers, we can see how this same idea is universal: while far from the homeland, memories become distorted and fragmented, and the homelands become imagined. In these imagined Azores, the misery and suffering that initially spurred emigration cease to exist. Instead, the islands are remembered as the place where affections lie, and where loved ones remained; they are remembered for the positive aspects, and no longer the negative ones.

And, in fact, it is when he returns that we see how the distance affected his relationship with Pico. Before greeting his beloved parents and fiancée, Maria, who were initially the ones that inspired the most nostalgia, he immediately falls to the ground and kisses the dark stones of Pico. The next morning, he looks out on his island: “E olhava os campos e o mar daquela terra linda (não a supusera nunca tão linda!) que era a sua terra” (93).

After his wedding, then, Francisco Marroco faces the decision of whether to remain in Pico or to depart. Just as before, there is not much reflection or back and forth in the decision-making process. This time, however, he opts to stay: “Decidiu Francisco

Marroco ficar para sempre na Ilha. Pedia-lho Maria – e que lhe pediria ela que ele não fizesse? , pediam-lhe os pais na linguagem calada e triste dos olhos e do rosto. Mas, que ninguém lho pedisse—Francisco Marroco não podia mais desapegar-se da Ilha” (117).

! 234! He will remain on the island, where he will forever have the title “Senhor Americano,” which also serves as the title to the penultimate part of the novel.

While this ultimate decision to stay in Pico may seem contrary to the trend established in Azorean literature, I would argue that, when considered as a whole, the novel does not in fact go against such tendency. In the first place, we must remember the initial decision to leave, and Marroco’s determination in departing in order to build a better life to which he could eventually bring Maria, who would then be his wife. In this way, Francisco Marroco is completely in line with the trend that we have seen established.

At the second moment of possible embarkation, apego à terra does indeed outweigh emigration in this novel. It is important, however, to remember the circumstances under which this occurs. That is, Francisco Marroco has already spent an extensive amount of time in California, earning enough money to allow him to live comfortably on the island, and in fact become owner of a whaling company. Further, he has already lived his American adventure, and knows the true hardships of the emigrant experience (which are never told by those who visit their homeland), which makes

America lose a bit of its glow in his own imaginary. As such, Francisco Marroco becomes an exception, an extraordinary case who no longer has any need to emigrate— he is no longer living in the misery that so many of our Azorean protagonists experience.

And it is, after all, the misery and suffering that make the option of emigration so much more appealing than staying on the island, no matter what the level of emotional the character’s attachment to it may be.

One good example of such the conjunction between departure and the recreation

! 235! of the island is the highly awarded 1988 novel Gente Feliz com Lágrimas, by João de

Melo. It narrates the saga of a family with emigration as a constant in their reality. In fact, the five siblings in this family from the Nordeste in São Miguel all leave the island—the central protagonist and one of the story’s narrators, Nuno, to establish his life in the

Portuguese mainland, and the other four following paths taking them to various cities in the United States and Canada.

Nuno departs from São Miguel at a young age in order to attend the seminary, when his older sister also travels to the convent. Their departure is important because, as two of the principle characters, it is their emotions that we most see at the moment of embark. Maria Amélia is most confident in this next step she will take in life—she doesn’t cry. Instead, she is “determinada a deixar para trás um passado sem história e a esquecer-se dele sem a menor sombra de sofrimento” (12). Nuno, on the other hand, demonstrates a mixture of emotions, unsure of how to feel and embodying the ambiguity and ambivalence carried by the very title of the novel:

Com Nuno, aconteceu o impossível: chorava e sorria na direcção do pai, feliz e infeliz, sentindo-se só e porém apertado por aquele convés de gente que se apoiava nos seus ombros e o empurrava de encontro à amurada. Tomara então a profunda consciência dos seus dez anos de idade, ao ver-se, miúdo e assustado e desprotegido, no meio de tantos estranhos. Ia à procura da sua estrela, mas não lhe tinham ensinado o céu onde devia encontrá-la” (12).

What Nuno experiences is the natural reaction of any ten year-old child about to leave behind all that he knows to begin a new life on his own away from the only home he had known up to this point. He demonstrates an exceptional amount of strength, however, and quickly adapts: not only to the fact that this voyage is one that must be taken, but also to his new reality. This becomes undeniable when he returns to the island on brief visits and already begins to feel as another, changed by his new place of residence and different

! 236! from his family—whether in terms of behavior or in accent.

His brothers and sisters, along with his mother, will also eventually depart from

São Miguel. They will follow trajectories different of that of Nuno’s: some passing through Africa, and others through various North American cities. They do all ultimately end up on the North American continent, divided between Boston, Toronto, and

Vancouver, where the matriarch passes away. It is there, then, that Nuno will be temporarily reunited with his siblings.

The reader does not have access to the siblings’ decision-making process in their move across the Atlantic—instead, it is taken as a given that destiny would bring them to these new cities. Through Nuno’s observations, however, the reader is allowed to see how they are living their immigrant experience. He comments on the suffering of the immigrant: the fact that while, physically, his siblings live in North America, they truly never left the island, in emotional and cultural terms:

Todos estão aqui mas continuam nesse tempo da Ilha. Trouxeram-na, mantêm-na intacta dentro de si. Tal como eu, embora por motivos diferentes, mudaram de nome—mas persistem no tempo obsessivo das procissões e romarias, no pudor da mais sagrada nudez, no vício de dizer mal dos vizinhos. Encontram-se para comer tremoços e amendoins e beber cerveja preta, para estarem longe das suas mulheres. Apesar de desempregados, continuam a passear-se nos seus longos carros cinzentos. Tristes, enigmáticos, fingem a euforia dessa imensa importância de se estar vivo nos dias de Vancouver. Sonham com as vacas, as terras e os cavalos dos Açores, e fazem planos para casas vistosas à beira da estrada que liga o Nordeste a Ponta Delgada (344).

This quote embodies precisely what has been discussed in regards to the transplantation of the constant struggle between the attachment to the homeland and the need to emigrate. As has been discussed already, in Azorean literature, the tendency is to see this conflict accentuated after the moment of emigration—prior to leaving the island, our protagonists usually find themselves anxiously awaiting the moment of departure in

! 237! anticipation of the glories they expect to encounter in the United States and Canada. It is in the American space that the Azoreans seem to begin to feel something more similar to what the Cape Verdeans usually manifest while still in their homeland—a recognition of the need to be outside of the island, but a constant, antecipated longing for the it52. In the

Azorean fiction, as a result, we have the recreation of the island within the new space, as we see in this quote from Gente Feliz com Lágrimas. This is, in fact, a common occurrence in the Azorean communities of North America: as Onésimo Teotónio

Almeida writes, in these immigrant enclaves, "...não é necessário falar inglês para sobreviver... A vida das ilhas foi recriada com dinamismo e elasticidade; entusiasmo, saudade e milhares de horas de trabalho voluntário oferecidas às associações ou à

Igreja.” Most services can be performed in Portuguese, Portuguese food is available in abundance, there are Portuguese associations, clubs, and social organizations, and a variety of celebrations throughout the year (39-40). More than the recreation of the homeland, Nuno’s siblings never actually left their island, in mental, emotional, and cultural terms. Instead, they carried it with them in their endeavor of emigration. Almeida also elaborates on this: as he writes, what Azoreans bring to their communities in North

America is not just linguiça and folklore music, but “são também os hábitos do convívio, o modo de relação familiar, o modo de encarar o mundo, a escala de valores que lhes dita as prioridades na vida e tudo o mais” (49). In that way, leaving the island behind and the emotional attachment to it are not necessarily mutually exclusive; emigration does not by definition signify an affective break with the homeland. The apego à terra

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 52 In Cape Verdean poetry, the examples “Poema do Mar” by Arnaldo França, and the famous poem by Jorge Barbosa, of the same title, demonstrate this feeling of despair in regards to the constant push and pull of the homeland and the exterior. Perhaps the most famous line from Barbosa’s poem is the concluding two: “Este desespero de querer partir / e ter de ficar!”

! 238! can be manifested from a distance: one does not necessarily have to remain on the island.

As we can see in this passage from Gente Feliz com Lágrimas, these two apparently oppositional forces can be constantly working together, intertwined.

Judite Jorge’s 2001 novel Afectos da Alma tells the story of Maria, who left her island of Pico as an adolescent to better her life and that of her family by adventuring to

California. From a young age, our protagonist is fascinated with the exciting stories of those who have already experienced America, listening attentively to the stories of returned emigrants. These conversations influence her own aspirations: as a teenager, she is already resolute in her decision to follow in their footsteps. As our narrator informs:

Não se sabe quando é que começou a pensar em ir para a América, mas falava nisso desde muito nova e não é de admirar, era esse o destino de muitos como ela, atraídos pelas histórias que ouviam nas cartas de familiares, chegadas de meses a meses e lidas em voz alta, e pelo regreso de alguns parentes, trazendo relatos fantásticos das terras para lá do mar (52).

Since emigration is a reality so close to home, one experienced by friends and family, it in a way becomes familiar to Maria. Perhaps this is why she never doubts her decision to leave. In fact, she is met with hesitation and worry on the part of her family, unsure if they should encourage or allow a young girl to emigrate by herself. She embodies strength and determination, however, when she insists that she is making the correct decision—the one that is best for both her and her family. She is finally able to convince her father and, after she promises to return, she boards the ship to New Bedford after

Christmas.

Her experience in America does not live up to the idealized image she once held of the country. Still, Maria perseveres: after a negative experience in New Bedford, she will continue to San José, California. Here she will have a failed marriage, and eventually

! 239! end up renting a room in San Francisco. She hides her struggle from her family, and still works to save as much money as possible, in order to fund the construction of a small chapel in her village of Pontas Negras. Maria fulfills her promise to return to the island, visiting the ermida after it is opened and partaking in celebrations. She, however, does not follow in the footsteps of fellow Picoense Francisco Marroco, from Pedras Negras: after her visit, she returns to California, where she had begun to establish her own life, ultimately choosing, for the second time, the life of emigration over her native island.

We can see her determination to fund the raising of the chapel as the manifestation of her attachment to the homeland, however. Much like in Gente Feliz com

Lágrimas, we see that Maria Polly (our protagonist after taking on her husband’s surname) to some extent also continues to “live” on her island. In this case, it is most notably on an emotional level—the very “afectos de alma” that give title to this novel.

Sorriso por Dentro da Noite, Adelaide Freitas’s 2004 novel, is another narrative whose plot revolves completely around the question of emigration. In this case, however, the focus remains centered on those who stay behind: our protagonist Xana and her siblings, who are raised by their grandmother while their parents emigrate temporarily to

New Bedford. Throughout the novel, effects that this experience have on the children are constantly exposed. On a more positive note, we see the constant presence of America in their every day lives, which, like in the case of Chiquinho, creates a sense of belonging to the distant land in which they never stepped foot. In fact, the novel is, as Daniel de Sá writes, and Álamo Oliveira quotes, “[uma] história dos “emigrados” que ficam, aqueles que partem sem sair da ilha, porque vai o melhor deles com quem lhes leva as memórias e os sentimentos.” That is, even those who stay lose a piece of themselves to the United

! 240! States: this piece is related to their emotions and is, therefore, the cause of the affective relationship that they feel for their loved ones’ destination. We can see examples of this in their happiness that their parents will be departing, bringing them closer to America, a destination quite familiar to their family who constantly lived in a habit of coming-and- going between the islands and the destinations further west. The foreign society is referred to as almost being a part of the family, and it is constantly present within the household: in pictures, clothes, candies, post-cards, and other objects sent back by their loved ones.

However, the negative impact of emigration is, undoubtedly, that which is most highlighted throughout the novel. As Assis Brasil, the Brazilian writer and scholar who has paid special attention to Azorean literature, writes in his article “Choram o mesmo, aqueles que ficam,” “Sorriso por dentro da noite é a história dos que ficam, amargando saudades, ausências e abandonos e, nesse sentido, estamos frente a um romance que dedica atenção ao ‘outro lado’ da emigração, que pode ser tão doloroso quanto ela própria” (3): in fact, Freitas fully explores the most painful experiences of those who stay. These aspects are mostly manifested through our protagonist Xana. She grows up without knowing her parents and identifies her grandmother as her mother, she demonstrates a delay in her speech, she is unable to distinguish between English and

Portuguese when she does begin speaking, and she longs for the return of her parents.

When the so-desired moment arrives, however, she rejects her parents, to whom she feels no connection. Assis Brasil writes the following about this episode:

...o momento em que as coisas se transtornam (como se já não estivessem transtornadas) é o da volta dos pais e dos irmãos. Não retornam com a amena previsibilidade dos garajaus, mas trazem nas mãos o pomo da discórdia e, na alma, um labirinto de angústias. Já não são os mesmos que partiram. Perderam a

! 241! inocência, mas não amadureceram. A volta, tão desejada, põe-lhes à frente uma vida sem perspectivas (5).

After such antecipation for their return, Xana does not recognize her parents, nor does she feel any affection for them. The mother returns cold, affected by the difficulties faced in the United States and the continuous need to emigrate, since that which she earned in

New Bedford was not enough to sustain a life in the Azores. Her husband, a bit hesitant when faced with the decision to emigrate once again, but by character weak and submissive to his wife, utters, in a moment of strength “Ou lá ou cá, mas nunca cá e lá”

(243), asserting that a life in between the two worlds is neither sustainable nor healthy for the family. When they decide to emigrate to Brazil, this time with their children in tow,

Xana resists. She stays on the island with her beloved grandmother: when the rest of the family leaves the house that morning to fulfill their destiny for emigration, and while her grandmother stays in bed to avoid the pain of saying goodbye to them, “[a] Xana chegou-se ao umbral, braços abertos em voo, agarrando-se à porta como quem se agarra à Vida...” (247). And thus, the novel ends, with Xana clinging on to her life, which is in São Miguel with her grandmother, and with a family divided by the necessities that made them continue their voyage to Brazil.

This novel, then, presents us with two outcomes: that of Xana’s parents and siblings who, despite their strong attachment to their island and the family that they will leave behind, decided to emigrate on various occasions, making their move permanent at the end of the novel, and that of Xana who, so attached to her grandmother, refuses to leave. In her parents’ decision, we can see once again that the urgent to sustain a large family makes it so that there is not much question as whether or not to depart: it is a necessity that will be fulfilled, albeit with serious familial and emotional consequences.

! 242! Xana’s decision, on the other hand, serves as a counter-example to the norm found in Azorean literature. This discrepancy could be attributed to her young age—Xana is much younger than the other protagonists that we have met. As a consequence, she does not yet understand the reasons and conditions that lead to the financial obligation to leave the island. What she does understand is the constant pain of waiting for the uncertain date of arrival of her parents, her love and devotion to her grandmother that raised her, and the distance and lack of affection between her and her mother, seen as a result of the latter’s emigration. Still a small child, Xana is dominated by her emotions, and not by reasoning. Throughout the novel, we see this characteristic, once again often attributed to her upbringing in the absence of her parents: she is highly spontaneous and unpredictable. Therefore, perhaps we cannot consider her in the same category as many of other protagonists, who must consider their dilemma much more rationally.

Another key aspect to be considered when reflecting on Xana’s decision to stay on the island is that this novel is openly based on the author’s autobiography. As

Vamberto Freitas confirms in his “Revisitação a Sorriso por dentro da noite” (2012),

Xana is “naturalmente a infância reinventada da Adelaide.” While the members of the

Claridade and Certeza movements in Cape Verde were interested in emphasizing the need for Cape Verdeans to stay and the valorization of the land, Freitas’s novel serves as a reflection of her own, personal Azorean experience. Therefore, Xana’s desire to São

Miguel has much more to do with Freitas’s own reality. Thus, the message conveyed through this novel is on a larger scope: that of the suffering of families divided by a phenomenon to which they are subjected in order to survive. The purpose, therefore, is to shed light on yet another effect of emigration, this time from a less glorified viewpoint. In

! 243! this way, we can compare Freitas’s novel to Amarílis’s short stories, in their concern for showing the dark realities of the phenomenon of emigration in their respective archipelagos.

Chuva Braba and Ilha Grande Fechada: Two Novels Focusing on the Tensions Between Staying and Leaving

The central conflicts of Chuva Braba, published by Manuel Lopes in 1956, and Ilha

Grande Fechada, Daniel de Sá’s 1992 work, exhibit tremendous similarities, despite the large temporal expanse between the publication dates. That is, de Sá’s work explores many of the same questions that Lopes’s did nearly forty years earlier: the islander who is faced with the opportunity for emigration and reflects on his options in the days leading up to the possible departure. Yet, while the central plots of the two novels are strikingly similar, they culminate in two quite different outcomes, in which each work falls in line with other works from their own archipelagos in respect to the question of emigration.

That is, while Mané Quim, our young Cape Verdean protagonist in Chuva Braba ultimately stays on his island of São Nicolau, João, the protagonist of Ilha Grande

Fechada, never sees remaining on São Miguel as a true option.

The process of the decision to emigrate is thoroughly examined in Chuva Braba, by the author Manuel Lopes. In fact, perhaps this is the Cape Verdean novel that concentrates the most on this question, as it serves as its central dilemma. As Elga Vilela

Costa writes, Lopes

Diz, como poucos, o medo constante que o povo sente relativamente às secas prolongadas que assolam as ilhas; o sonho permanente e o desejo irresistível de ir a outros mundos; e, simultaneamente, diz também o amor desmedido que o povo sente pela sua terra, e o desejo de aprofundar e ligar a alma do homem à raíz daqueles solos.

! 244!

The plot revolves around the protagonist, Mané Quim, who finds himself in need of leaving the island of São Nicolau in search of a better life, but who wants to stay on this island to improve his own conditions, as well as those of his homeland, without having to leave it. He is faced with the difficult decision of leaving or staying on his island when his godfather, Joquinha, an emigrant to Brazil who is disappointed to see the conditions of his homeland during his visit, attempts to convince him to depart for the New World.

As Joquinha argues, “o mundo por estas bandas [em Cabo Verde] está de rabo virado”

(13)—water no longer exists in spots that it before ran abundantly, leaving the land continuously more arid and unfruitful. “Cadê o cheiro a fartura, aquele ar de satisfação, aqueles tambaques de milho às portas que deixei quando parti?” he asks. For Joquinha, the only viable resolution and the only promising future for his godson is to emigrate to

Manaus.

Mané Quim, for his part, is not immediately convinced. His weighing the option, and constant swaying between positions, is what makes up the plot of this novel. Once he is alone, the narrator informs the reader that “Mané Quim não levava a paz consigo.

Acompanhava-o o desassossego e uma indizível ansiedade, uma sensação de culpa como se tivesse sido forçado a contribuir para um acto criminoso, acto esse que o privasse, ao mesmo tempo, dum bem indispensável” (23). In this moment, he begins to hear the

“música” and the “sussurro” of the land that, as the narrator notes, has been his only reality for 23 years. There is a certain mysticism attributed to the islands, through which the emotional connection of the protagonist emerges—it is in this moment that he begins his internal conflict about whether or not to leave his island. Though his godfather’s proposal has weighed heavily on his mind, his thoughts of departing begin to drift away

! 245! as he becomes entranced by these sounds, as well as by the animals that he encounters this night—it seems that even the goat is attempting to urge him not to leave. Ideally,

Mané Quim would prefer to stay and work the land that his mother owns—he feels particular attachment to the Riberãozinho: “Trocaria de bom grado todo o dinheiro que fosse ganhar aonde quê, com quem quer que fosse, com o padrinho ou com outro qualquer, por uns centos de mil-rís só, para reavivar e recuperar aquela nascente moribunda” (30). In order to do so, however, it is necessary that it rains…

Throughout the novel, many of the respected men in the community offer advice to

Mané Quim as he makes his life-changing decision. Nhô Lourencinho and nhô Sansão provide him with contrasting opinions. Nhô Lourencinho believes that the young boy should not leave, for those who leave lose their soul:

Compreende o que te vou dizer: trança os teus olhos com os teus braços e as tuas pernas e o sangue que sai quente do teu corpo; espalha, como quem despeja esterco, à roda da tua casa. Então, tua vida virará rica… Olha… Quem vai longe não volta mais. O corpo pode um dia voltar, mas a alma, essa, não volta mais. É suor do rosto todos os dias, toda a hora, e calos nas mãos, que fazem a alma aguentar aqui. Pensas que a terra dá alguma coisa sem fé? … Quando eu era rapaz desta alturinha assim, estive em S. Vicente a estudar. Passados dois anos voltei. Voltei quase sem alma. Nunca mais arredei pé deste chão” (91).

Nhô Sansão, on the other hand, warns Mané Quim that his plan to borrow money in order to open up a pathway for streamwater to run into his land is a dangerous one, one that he himself had travelled down and regrets. At one point, after offering grogue to the young man, which he did not accept, he concludes: “Não queres, então? Tu parece que não és dado a coisas da nossa terra. Teu destino é embarcar…” (104). Confused, the protagonist eventually meets with his godfather, who is with a friend, nhô André. This man provides much more decided advice: “Tu o que tens a fazer… é preparar a trouxa e seguir com o teu padrinho. Assim é que andas assisado. No teu lugar e na tua situação, é

! 246! o que fazia” (126). Here, then, we see both sides of a continuous argument: that what is most important is to preserve one’s identity and soul by staying in the homeland, and that, in the face of the scarcity of resources, emigration is the only option for many young people.

Soon, following these conversations, Mané Quim will decide, as a conclusion to the first part of the novel, that he will depart for Brazil.

How the departure of so many Cape Verdeans affect those who stay is most clearly illustrated with the character of nha Joja, Mané Quim’s mother, who has already lost her two eldest sons to emigration. At no point throughout the novel does the protagonist’s mother oppose the possibility of her third son’s venture to Brazil. Instead, she accepts it as his destiny, as the destiny of all of her sons. In the first conversation in which Mané

Quim goes to his mother seeking clarity, she first laments: “Joãozinho foi e nunca mais eu soube dele. Tiago escreveu duas cartas só, e não está passando sabe pra lá, não está passando sabe. Agora és tu. Eu não posso estorvar. Deus Nossenhor te proteja, e não vás esquecer de mim c’ma Joãozinho e Tiago” (44). Just prior, the narrator more explicitly outlines the reason for the lack of contact on the part of Joãozinho and Tiago: while it is suspected that Joãozinho died at sea, Tiago is experiencing great hardships in the receiving country: so much so that he desires to return to Cape Verde, though he doesn’t have the means to do so. Still, nha Joja does not take a strong position against Mané’s proposal; despite being obviously saddened, she repeats “Destino d’ocês todos é andar…

Segue o teu destino…. Destino d’ocês todos é andar… Pra nós, aqui, a vida acabou fep.

Se eu fosse a ti andava também como andaram os outros. É caminho de cada qual” (44).

Resignation is a common theme in the literature of the Claridosos—Cape Verdeans are

! 247! often portrayed as a people that trust in the God’s will and accept their fate. While often times this translates into accepting the miserable conditions that the land has to offer as fated for them, emigration is also seen as a common destiny for Cape Verdeans—whether to the New World, to Lisbon, or to São Tomé as forced workers on the coffee plantations—being that it is regarded as the only possible escape or solution. In this case, nha Joja accepts departure as her children’s destiny, while also resigning to the life that has “ended” on the island for herself. As the narrator notes, her response “era uma espécie de renúncia e ressentimento, e era a resignação” (44). When Mané Quim later on decides that he will indeed depart for Brazil, Nha Joja’s reaction is to show the same resignation: “Nha Joja deixou pender a cabeça de novo e recomeçou aquele chorinho que era o destino e a sua consolação” (174). “Recomeçou o choro,” as if no time had passed since the last time she experienced the loss of a son to the Americas. In many ways, we could look at Nha Joja as the Cape Verdean islands themselves—destined to passively watch their sons depart, with little to no power to convince them to stay.

It is interesting to note another component in this story, which is revealed to us when Mané Quim reaches Mindelo on his voyage: the perspective of the emigrants themselves. Here, what is demonstrated is a new valorization of Cape Verde and its culture that can oftentimes only be fully realized by leaving and experiencing new societies. Maria Lé, a woman who welcomes Joquinha and Mané Quim into her house and serves them cachupa, like she does for many other emigrants, notes:

Vá você perguntar a um cabo-verdiano em qualquer lugar no cabo do mundo: “Que é que gostaria de comer agora mesmo?”. A preto ou a branco, a rico ou a podre. Soberba faz muito finória dizer que não gosta de cachupa. É comida de pobre, é comida de preto. Ah, ah, ah! Aqui na sua terra. Mas em pisando terra longe não pensam senão na cachupa e no cuzcuz (195).

! 248! Joquinha confirms this declaration when he is reminded to ask her to prepare cuzcuz for his breakfast and cachupa for lunch the next day. The emigrant then tells the story of an encounter with a Cape Verdean man in Boston: “havia vinte anos que ele tinha abandonado a terra; como me acompanhavam outros amigos o homem chamou-me de lado e disse-me com o ar de quem esperasse um milagre da minha parte: ‘Sabes, Jack, sure, tenho saudades de três coisas—papiar crioulo, dançar morna, e comer cachupa”

(197). These are aspects of the Cape Verdean reality that are often forgotten or unacknowledged when living on the island—with the conditions as they were, the worries of survival become more important than cultural questions. Still, in this scene,

Manuel Lopes offers us a different perspective—one that proves that, in fact, there is value in the Cape Verdean reality, which should be acknowledged by its people. Maria

Lé, who once upon a time dreamed of leaving to America but now says that no one could convince her to leave her island, serves as the catalyst to this discussion.

At the end of the novel, on the day that Mané Quim is to board the boat to Brazil with his godfather, a miraculous event occurs: a torrential downpour arrives in the islands suffering through a drought. Mané Quim runs to meet his godfather and inform him of his change of mind: “Esta chuva está-me a chamar lá pràs minhas bandas… Eu tenho pena… Mas quero voltar pra trás, quero ir-me embora… Com esta chuva toda lá pra riba, a minha gente tem precisão de mim” (247-8). When Joquinha questions the importance of the rain, the omniscient narrator allows us access to Mané Quim’s thoughts: “Que valor tinha a água que estava caindo sobre a ilha?! Não compreendia o padrinho. Então… mas a chuva não significava tudo? Eram as nascentes a transbordar como mamas de vaca parida de fresco, era o milho a despontar na ourela das casas e

! 249! nos imensos sequeiros do Norte, era a erva nova nos campos…” (249). Even when his godfather attempts once again to persuade him to leave with him to Brazil, Mané Quim insists: he belongs on his own island, he does not want to lose his soul.

Norman Araujo underlines an important element in Quim’s decision to stay: this decision is completely manipulated by the climatic conditions, showing, once again, nature’s force. As Araujo writes: “To the very end of his novel, therefore, Manuel Lopes is intent upon showing, through the manner in which his principal character feels his belonging and reacts to the absence of rainfall or the prospect of it, the dominant role of the elements. By describing how the first drops of rain resolve Quim’s excrucriating dilemma, he leaves no doubt as to the governing force in his novel” (118). That is, Quim is at the beckon call of nature, which is the determinant factor between staying and leaving—while the arid, poor conditions initially push Quim away, the sight of rain, symbolizing hope and the force of the attachment to the island, convinces him to stay.

In Chuva Braba, therefore, Manuel Lopes provides us with a hopeful ending, one in which the apego à terra is stronger than the need to emigrate. For Mané Quim, the prospect of being able to stay in his homeland with what he sees as a viable future is undoubtedly a better choice than emigration. His desire to work his land and be with his people demonstrates an important message: it is crucial for Cape Verdeans to dedicate themselves to the betterment of their land, instead of fleeing to other countries. This hopeful message is not specific to Manuel Lopes—in fact, while we tend to look at Cape

Verdeans as destined to emigrate, a perception proved by the statistics that show that there are more Cape Verdeans living outside the archipelago than on the islands, in Cape

Verdean literature, this sense of fatalism is challenged. As we have seen in Manuel

! 250! Ferreira’s Hora di Bai, the narrative also ends on a hopeful note when D. Venância decides not to emigrate to Lisbon, while Germano Almeida’s Senhor Napumoceno, attracted as he may be to American society, he successfully remains on his island until death. As such, though the misery of the islands is shown with detail in Cape Verdean literature, it does not defeat the population—in the end, what is most important is the apego à terra, and the hope of a better future. Considering all this, we can perhaps conclude that Cape Verdeans writers, and particularly those of the 1940’s and 1950’s, challenge the reality of the archipelago by so often having their protagonists deny a phenomenon so common that it is considered the destiny of the Cape Verdean, a quotidian element of the Cape Verdean reality. As Vilela Costa writes, “Eis o que pretende este sensível escritor, e tantos outros da sua geração: convidar o povo a apostar na terra, evitar que a sua ‘alma se perca em outras paragens,’ promover a união entre os homens para que, juntos, possam ‘construir’ o remédio para sarar tão grave ferida de uma Mãe que vê seus filhos partir.”53

In Azorean literature, the tendency in regards to the dilemma between staying and leaving is quite different. In fact, protagonists are constantly leaving the islands in

Azorean novels and short stories. When we do not come to see the protagonist leave, we at least see his or her strong desire to do so, and frustration in the impossibility of emigration. Emigration is so common in Azorean literature that Carmen Ramos-Villar, in

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 53 As discussed in the previous chapter, Os Flagelados do Vento Leste shows a sort of evolution in Manuel Lopes’s perspective on this topic. Indeed, José da Cruz incarnates the apego à terra in its most extreme form, refusing to abandon his island even when misery and death pervade it. In this case, then, the apego à terra is ultimately the cause of Cruz’s destruction, as well as that of his family—while his wife died, his son Leandro becomes a savage, indifferent to his father, and moves to live in solitude before he, too, is killed. No longer does Lopes glorify the Cape Verdean’s attachment to the homeland—in this case, he demonstrates that it may not always be the ideal option in an individual’s life.

! 251! her book The Metaphorical “Tenth Island” in Azorean Literature: Emigration in the

Azorean Imagination, likens the phenomenon to a sacrament among a highly religious population—that is, departing from the island is a fundamental step for many Azoreans.

Ilha Grande Fechada, by Daniel de Sá, is, in my opinion, the Azorean novel that we can best compare to Chuva Braba in the context of the struggle between the attachment to the island and the desire or need to emigrate. Published in 1992, almost 40 years after the publication of Chuva Braba, Ilha Grande Fechada follows the protagonist

João on his pilgrimage around the island of São Miguel, immediately before he emigrates to Canada. The novel, however, follows in the tradition of Azorean literature, in stark contrast with Chuva Braba and Cape Verdean literature in general: at the end of the novel, João does in fact depart.

As such, Ilha Grande Fechada is João’s goodbye to the island. Throughout the majority of the text, he is quite certain that he is going to leave, though not without his remorse for what he is going to leave behind. Urbano Bettencourt writes about this duality in sentiments before embarkation in Emigração: Alguns fio da meada:

Nalguns casos, como acontece em Nunes da Rosa… a narração do embarque alterna com a evocação saudosista diz aterra, na sua vertente mais afectiva, e isto há-de entender como uma das motivações que justificarão eventuais regressos, mas à escrita interessará sobretudo a captação do “silêncio que antecede sempre as grandes dores” ou do instante da separação, tornado uma espécie de “morte na vida”, porque ao carácter doloroso da separação acrescem os factores agravantes que a descontinuidade física e geográfica accareta (18).

In Ilha Grande Fechada, we will see precisely this alternation between the desire to depart and the sentiments of saudade that are anticipated. Still, João ultimately decides to embark at the end of the novel.

Before João departs for Canada, he must fulfill his promise to participate in the

! 252! pilgrimage around the island—while overseas in the Colonial War, he made a pact with

God that if he survived, he would to partake in the romaria. We see that he realizes that this is the moment in which he must undertake this religious endeavor, since his desire to emigrate is at an all-time high: “Mas com a cisma de emigrar mais do que nunca metida na cabeça… Finalmente, vai o sonho ser verdade… Mas a sua pressa é tão grande que tem a passagem marcada para o dia seguinte ao do fim da romaria” (11). The importance of religion notwithstanding, it is his need to emigrate that gives him the final push to fulfill his promise. As he will leave the day immediately following the end of the romaria, this seven-day pilgrimage also plays the role of his adieu.

Throughout the novel, which employs flashbacks on several occasions as João experiences moments of deep reflection, the reader sees that the protagonist’s desire to leave is profoundly ingrained and long-standing. This manifests in the scenes in which we see João’s strong attraction to Olga, a Luso-Canadian who is referred to, as was common in the Azores at the time, as a “passport:” João’s means of leaving to Canada.

Their strong attraction is manifested during the summer at the village feast, despite his commitment and deep love for Irene, the Azorean who he plans to marry, and her mother’s watchful eyes. On this night, this same juxtaposition is made between fortune in his own island and the abundance of America: in his conversations with his girlfriend,

“João sonhou em voz alta com pastos e gado seus (mas o bom era mesmo emigrar…)”

(40).

It is after Irene’s strict mother forces her to leave when João briefly goes to speak to friends and get an ice cream that Olga appears, a stark contrast to the innocent image of the Azorean girl:

! 253! João voltou-se, segurando os gelados do seu desconcerto num gesto desajeitado, e tinha quase colado ao seu o corpo esguio da Olga, apertado nas suas calças de ganga, insinuando numa blusa ajustada, e coroado por um cabelo riçado da cor artificial da palha a emoldurar um rosto com quase as sete cores do arco-íris. Olga emigrara para o Canadá no ano em que fez a quarta classe, enfezada e sem um pingo de graça, mas voltara nesse verão já mulher feita, com uma magreza que era moda e motivo de cobiça, transformada pelos ares e pinturas daquela terra onde alunos médios de cá chegavam a aparecer nos jornais com fotografias por distinção no curso, e onde uma sombra de beleza acabava por mudar-se no fascínio das grandes tentações. Não faltava quem chamasse passaportes a outras que, como ela, vinham arranjar noivo, mas merecer da Olga esse favor seria um privilégio… (42).

Olga represents all that is new, striking, and different from the traditional. Her tight clothing and excessive make-up, something that Irene, for example, does not use, makes her incredibly attractive to João—as does her Canadian citizenship.

In fact, Olga’s new attitude and appearance are intrinsically related to her being

Canadian: it was there that she had more social liberty to dress in the manner which she wished, without worrying about the norms of the island society. Irene, on the other hand, remained constantly under her mother’s vigilance in her entire stay at the feast, barely even touching hands with João for fear of what her mother, as well as the other villagers, might think.

We do see moments in which João is truly tempted by Olga. Initially, when she asks him to feed her the ice cream, he is uncomfortable, worried about Irene and the opinion of others. This discomfort quickly subsides, however: when he takes a bite of the ice cream, at her urging, Irene suddenly becomes a distant memory, as he is taken away by Olga and all that she represents. The Luso-Canadian, on the other hand, was never truly interested—once she realizes that she provoked the reaction intended, she leaves

João alone as she walks off laughing in ridicule. Olga is not attainable to him; neither is

! 254! his dream of emigration, at least at the moment.

Let us return, however, to the juxtaposition between Irene and Olga. Despite the fact that Irene will eventually join João in his emigration, she, at this moment, can represent the homeland, in her tradition and in his pure love for her, while Olga, with her novelty and hints of adventure, represents Canada and emigration. Perhaps at this moment, then, we see a bit of foreshadowing to what will come at the end of the book— the constant pushing and pulling between the two sides, the need and desire to leave, coupled with the sudden urge to stay. Just as João felt torn, at least in the beginning, between Irene and Olga, he will feel the same dilemma at the end of the novel, this time between the homeland and emigration. He does eventually give in to his desires with

Olga, if only momentarily, just as he will depart at the end of the novel. Still, there is always the sense of uncertainty—doubting temporarily the passion and the unknown, and realizing the worth of what is familiar.

The temptation will eventually be too great to resist, resulting in a fleeting

“namoro” with Olga on the following night of the feast. They will come to exchange letters, even after she returns to America. Before the narrator informs the reader of the continued correspondence, however, we see João’s present reflection on the relationship; it is referred to as “aquela tolice em que caiu, talvez mais por causa da cisma de querer apanhar-se no Canadá” (68).

After the brief relationship with Olga has ended, the narrator calls upon these ideas of what each woman represents once again. Olga symbolized passion; she was attractive because she represented Canada, a new world, and she enjoyed a sort of liberty that Irene, for example, did not. She could read in English, she could drive, and she wore

! 255! whatever clothes she wanted. Irene, on the other hand, is the true love that João returns to after the collapse of his love affair with the Luso-Canadian girl. If Olga personifies

Canada, the narrator questions: “E tu, Irene, que espaço habitas ou por que espaço anseias?” He recalls that our protagonist never saw Olga in a vulnerable state—she was always immaculately made up, without a hair out of place. Irene, on the other hand: “a ti, viu-te com os joelhos sujos de penitente sem voto, a tela da tua cara nunca foi carmim à força nem glauca à volta dos olhos, as unhas das tuas mãos gastam-se mais do que as cortas, a roupa desse teu corpo diz da tua liberdade e não disfarça a figura das belezas que não tens” (102). His relationship with Irene goes far beyond the superficial. He knows her inside and out—there is vulnerability and intimacy at levels that far exceed what exists in his relationship with Olga. We can see João’s relationship with Canada and

São Miguel incarnated, then, once again, in these two women: it is São Miguel, as it is

Irene, that he has a much more profound relationship with. He knows the depths of the two, the “carne e osso.” Olga, and Canada, are mere novelties, that he will never grow to love in the same way, regardless of how attractive they may be to him.

Immediately following this revelation in the narrative, but now in the present day during the romaria, moments of doubt begin to cloud over João in regards to his impending departure. On the seventh day of his pilgrimage, he visits Sete Cidades, which permits a mystical experience that leads him to truly reflect upon his decision. Seeing the lakes, he, for a moment, forgets the “saudades de uma América nunca vista,”54 and begins to feel nostalgia for the island he will soon leave behind. Immediately following, the narrator observes: “E, enquanto João vai descendo ao povoado, talvez já a pensar de

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 54 A concept that serves as the leitmotif of the previously discussed novel Sorriso por Dentro da Noites, by Adelaide Freitas.

! 256! novo no sonho dessas ‘Califórnias perdidas de abundância,’ que lhe estragou metade da vida, por desejá-lo, e lhe há-de estragar a outra metade, por cumpri-lo” (108).

This excerpt seems to exemplify quite well the dilemma between the attachment to the homeland and emigration as portrayed in the novel as a whole, and even in

Azorean literature in general. That is, the trend is not so much towards the constant struggle between having to leave and wanting to stay, or vice-versa, as it is in Cape

Verdean literature. Instead, we see the constant idealization of America and the all- consuming desire to one day embark on a journey that will bring the Azorean there permanently. Among the consequences of emigration, however, there usually exists the sentiment of saudade, of belonging to two worlds simultaneously, but never completely to one, and constantly yearning for the other location. In other words, the struggle between the apego à terra and the need and desire to emigrate is not usually seen as a decision to be made—to emigrate or not—but the attachment to the homeland manifests itself quite strongly once the emigrant leaves his or her previous life on the island behind.

This can be summed up by the oft-cited quote that comes from the very last pages of this very novel, during João’s last hours on the island: “Sair da ilha é a pior maneira de ficar nela!” (132) That is, for de Sá, the emigrant never truly leaves—his soul will remain constantly attached, imprisoned within the island, even when he is physically displaced in the North American continent.

In his interview with Daniel de Sá about this particular book, critic Vamberto

Freitas in fact asserts that this phrase “agarra por completo a nossa psicologia de ilhéus”

(142)55. The author relates this to the fact that many identify with the novel, given that

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 55!In: Freitas, Vamberto. Mar cavado: da literatura açoriana e de outras narrativas. Lisboa: Edições Salamandra, 1998.

! 257! “não se encontra uma única página que, rigorosamente, não pudesse ter acontecido tal como consta da ficção que a obra é.” De Sá speaks to the famous line, in the context of his own emigrant experience in Spain:

Chega quase a ser contranatural viver no isolamento de uma ilha, mas torna-se insuportável estar longe dela, talvez porque uma ilha tem dimensões mais à medida do Homem do que os grandes espaços continentais. Aqui, sentimo-nos em casa, lá fora… não sei, falta qualquer coisa, está-se sempre a pensar nestes calhaus como se não houvesse mais mundo. É uma contradição aparente, mas é verdade: se nenhum homem se sente bem onde está (o sonho é sempre outro), o ilhéu leva esse sentimento ao extreme. A ilha cansa, quase revolta, por vezes, mas quando se vai para longe deixa-se o melhor de nós com as raízes nela (142).

In other words, for him, part of the islander experience is precisely this constant tug of war between the forces of the island itself and the attraction to the outside.

João’s realization that he will in fact miss his island upon departure is something that only becomes more profound towards the end of the novel. He recalls a conversation he had during the war, when the distance from his island reminded him of the importance the land had to him. When his superior tells him that he would soon grow accustomed to being without his family and that his longing would pass, João realized that he was also yearning for São Miguel:

Não eram só da família, as saudades. Das suas coisas também, dos bichos, do mar… Tinham-lhe metido na cabeça aquela de que o mar dá saudades, que um homem das ilhas não pode viver sem ele. Era capaz de passar dias e meses sem o olhar com atenção, anos sem comer lapas ou polvo guisado. Mas chegara a sentir falta de tudo isso como se não desejasse nada mais na vida (127).

When on the island, the Azorean is consumed by daily life and the suffering that leads him or her to dream of emigration. The connection felt to the island is, therefore, oftentimes only accentuated when outside the island, as when João is in Angola fighting the Colonial War, or about to depart indefinitely, as we see now on the eve of his !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!

! 258! emigration.

Soon after the romaria, our protagonist goes to say goodbye to his friends, who are full of envy of the opportunity he is about to embark on, and unable to understand his melancholic disposition. As he leaves, he remembers the days when “doía-lhe a alma só de pensar na América e no Canadá”, when trunks full of clothes giving off the “cheiro da América” would arrive, sent from loved ones who had already made the move to

North America (129). But now, he is not so certain: he is beginning to realize the value his island has for him. “Um homem é uma desgraça…” he thinks: “Isto é lá terra que dê saudades a alguém. Mas dá, eu sei que dá. Não dá mais nada, mas dá saudades. Quando eu me apanhar com uns dólares, volto para trás, arranjo uma casa, compro vacas, e acabou-se” (129). The island does not provide enough for many Azoreans to be able to remain in the archipelago and sustain a life—but it does nourish an attachment that manifests itself upon departure. Once again, however, João’s posture towards these two forces pulling him in different directions draws a stark contrast with the case of Mané

Quim and, at large, the tendency in Cape Verdean literature: while recognizing the strength of his connection to the island, and the fact that his decision would not bring him the pure joy he had once thought, João does not go back on his decision to emigrate—nor does he consider this possibility. For as painful as it may be, it is necessary for his survival and for that of his family—at best, he can follow in what often becomes the goal of many Azoreans, which is to gain enough money in foreign lands to be able to return and live the life desired, back on the island.56

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 56 An objective that is often met with frustration, as emigrants find themselves in socio-economic situations much different than their expectations, which were created with their glorified image of America in mind. This can also be seen in some Azorean literature, but to a greater extent, in Portuguese-American literature.

! 259! As such, the portrait of the dilemma between the attachment to the homeland and emigration that these two novels provide us are, despite the many similarities in the mere existence of this plight in the two narratives, strikingly different: while in Chuva Braba, it is truly a questioning on the part of the protagonist on whether he should stay or leave, and a constant swaying back and forth between the two positions, in Ilha Grande

Fechada, our protagonist never goes back on his initial decision to emigrate—the dilemma manifests itself more as the realization of this in-between space that João will come to habitate, as he will emigrate out of necessity, no matter how much he realizes that where he truly belongs is on the island, and that he will constantly long for his homeland.

As Carmen Ramos-Villar writes, João’s pilgrimage around the island is a necessary step for him to be able to emigrate: “as he finishes his pilgrimage, it allows him to understand the nature and effects of the island on its own inhabitants, allowing him to enter a state of enlightenment from which to break links with his past and with the island itself” (91). In order for João to depart, however, he must make a sacrifice: he kills his dog and loyal companion, Diana, and then “fech[a] a ilha sobre ela.” (134)—as Villar notes, yet another ritualistic act (91). The final pages of the book show João talking to

Diana, realizing that she is truly what he will miss the most from the island, and worried about her reaction when she comes to feel his absence.

Não deixo para trás nada que me faça falta, a não seres tu, Diana. Vais andar por aí ganindo, esfomeada e tonta, pois tens esse mau feitio de não comer a jeito quando não estou… O resto, Diana, são saudades de fome, de suor, de trabalhar como um negro desde os seis anos, e, vamos lá com Deus, de algum copo de vinho com uns amigos, que só tornam a pensar em mim quando eu vier de visita ou lhes mandar um postal de Boas-Festas com um dolarzinho, para beberem pela minha saúde” (130-1). !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

! 260!

Later, he returns to the same lamentation, “Se eu pudesse levar-te, Diana, não me ficava pena nenhuma do que deixo atrás. Só minha mãe e meu pai, coitados, já se vão pondo velhos, mas esses, mais dia menos dia, de certeza que estão lá caídos” (131). He begins to consider killing the dog—that way, he is not leaving behind a living being that will be affected by his departure.

Despite his insisting that Diana is in fact all that he will miss, he remains bewildered at how, as confident as he is that his life will improve in Canada, the thought of emigration—of losing his island and his life there—leaves him so heartbroken: “Mas, então, por que raio estou tão triste, com uma tristeza que, se eu soubesse que isto era assim, nunca me tinha posto a passar papéis para emigrar e ainda por cima meu cunhado pensa que lhe fico devendo as gadelhas só porque me fez a carta de chamada?”

(131). Even if he may say that he is not sad for his “nica de terra,” the reader understands, from all of his reflections, that there is more to his sudden reluctance than the sadness in leaving his dog. It is also a sadness in leaving his island and his life there, leaving all that he knows—all of this is represented by his love for and pain in leaving

Diana. Just as nha Joja symbolized the Cape Verdean islands that are destined to see their children leave in Chuva Braba, Diana here—once again a female—embodies all that

João suddenly realizes that he doesn’t want to leave behind. Diana represents the island.

Thus, in the culminating lines of the novel, when João decides to kill Diana—so that he is not leaving her behind—he is also killing his memory of the island, of precisely that which he is leaving behind. He is overcome with grief after his act: “Abriu uma cova o mais fundo que pôde. Bateram as trindades, as últimas que iria ouvir por muito tempo.

Descobriu a cabeça e rezou, coisa que nunca fizera ao som dos sinos da tarde. Depois,

! 261! atirou Diana para dentro da cova e fechou a ilha sobre ela” (134). Placed deep underground, with the island closed over her, Diana becomes one with the island. João, for his part, has symbolically cut his ties with the homeland, allowing him to take the next step towards a new life in Canada in peace, and with less remorse for that which he will leave behind.

We can see, then, how these two novels, despite their similarities, also offer starkly different readings of the tensions between staying on and leaving the island of birth. When these two young men have the opportunity to embark, acting on the feelings of wanderlust referred at the beginning of the chapter, they choose opposite destinies.

This is not to say that there is a lack of attachment to the homeland in Ilha Grande

Fechada, as I hope to have shown57—the need to emigrate and escape the poverty and social oppression on the island, however, is more urgent than the love that João feels for the homeland.

Chuva Braba and Ilha Grande Fechada fall in line with other works of prose in their respective archipelagos. While in Cape Verdean poetry we constantly see the frustrated desire to leave, in prose fiction, the protagonists overwhelmingly tend to stay on the islands: the emotional connection to the land and its people are constantly remembered as this decision is made. To reiterate, it seems that this can be largely connected to the Claridosos’ mission to emphasis the value of the Cape Verdean homeland—whether it was done consciously or not, the result is precisely this tendency !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 57 In other works from writers from São Miguel, we can see, at times, a more definitive alienation. In “Desconcerto a duas vozes,” a short story in Onésimo T. Almeida’s Aventuras de um Nabogador, the reader is presented with Portuguese, especially Azoreans, and namely micaelense, emigrants in the U.S. who have turned their back on their island, showing only contempt for the homeland. For the micaelenses, “… não era apenas a falta de lealdade à terra- mãe, pois iam mais além atingindo as raias de um ódio subliminar” (148). This, however, as the narrator even clarifies, is a minority within the community.

! 262! of the protagonists to stay, to not abandon the very space that is being valorized. To the contrary, in Azorean literature, our protagonists either leave, or are frustrated in their inability to do so. Once emigrated, however, we can see their persistent sense of attachment to their home islands, from which they perhaps didn’t migrate spiritually.

! 263! Conclusion

As I have attempted to show in the previous pages, comparisons between the

Azores and Cape Verde offer a vast area of exploration. The similarities between the political and literary realities are many—both peripheral spaces within the former

Portuguese empire, the geographic conditions, which often influence cultural characteristics, heighten the sense of love for the homeland. Still, in both archipelagoes, there has been, through the centuries, a very real need for emigration; this need, coupled with the attachment to the land, presents a paradox in both literatures.

Still, the differences between the two archipelagoes are fundamental, critical to the understanding of each of the literatures, and can help one understand the divergences in the discourse presented in regards to the themes common to the literatures of both societies. As Urbano Bettencourt writes in “De Cabo Verde aos Açores: A Luz da

‘Claridade’:”

Em qualquer caso, é óbvio que essas afinidades, se bem que possam, e muito justamente, proporcionar nítidas zonas de aproximação e contacto que justificariam mesmo estudos comparativos em diferentes campos e no âmbito de uma história dos arquipélagos atlânticos e dos seus imaginários, fazem-no passando ao lado quer de condicionantes que marcaram de forma singular a formação e a estruturação da sociedade cabo-verdiana, quer da diferente intensidade e impacto de certas situações conjunturais verificadas nos Açores e em Cabo Verde (90).

That is, conditions such as race and creolization, which not only point to a differentiated cultural identity, but also to a different status within the Portuguese empire—thus the

“diferente intensidade e impacto de certas situações conjuntuais” between the realities of the two archipelagoes, both peripheral, but still “inequivalent” in the eyes of the metropolis, since one population is white and, the other, African— and the ultimate

! 264! independence of Cape Verde, do not allow us to make the claim that the Cape Verdean and Azorean experiences and, thus, literary productions, are identical.

What I aimed to explore in this dissertation, then, was both the similarities and differences between the two literatures. More than this, my goal was to explore to what extent the insularity of the two spaces allows for comparisons, and in what way the racial and political truths led to clear distinctions between the rhetoric presented in the two literatures. In this study, I also pondered questions such as: what are the complexities of racial discourse in Cape Verde, and how does it evolve over time? Can we compare the trajectories of political discourse in the two archipelagoes, even if the Carnation

Revolution of 1974 in Portugal led to the autonomy of one region and the national independence of another? How do these political realities post-Revolution relate to the evolution of the literatures of the archipelagoes?

The selections of literature included in my study begin with the production of the early 20th century—more specifically, with Vitorino Nemésio, in the Azores, and the

Claridosos, in Cape Verde—and continue to contemporary production. It was precisely these early writers who began to elaborate on the question of their regional identities—on the formulation of an understanding of açorianidade and caboverdianidade, respectively.

This decision is related to another central question of my thesis: how do the Azorean and

Cape Verdean authors assert their independent cultural identities, as a means of affirmation within the space of the Portuguese colonial empire? While race and political status are clearly fundamental, central aspects of these identities, I also explore to what extent the insular space, with all of its emotional, cultural, psychological, and social implications, plays a role in the formation and assertion of these identities. I do this

! 265! through an examination of the use of local speech in literature, the ruthless force of nature and the human’s resultant relationship with the land, and need to emigrate, due to scarcity of resources, in juxtaposition with this profound emotional attachment to the islands.

All of these considerations, in conjunction, would help me respond to my central question of this conclusion: in what ways do the stark differences in the socio-political realities between the two archipelagoes manifest themselves even in those themes common to the two literatures? That is, while the same themes tend to pervade the two literatures (such as, as previously mentioned, language, geography, and emigration), does the racial reality of Cape Verde, as well as the distinct political positions post- independence, led to diverging rhetoric between the two literatures?

After exploring the treatment of these themes that serve as an underlying thread that connects Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures, I would respond both yes and no to this inquiry. That is, yes, to a certain degree—the disparities are seen much more in regards to some themes, such as emigration, than in others, such as the force of nature and the connection to the homeland. Still, perhaps we can understand even this difference in relation to the socio-political objectives of the writers in the two archipelagoes, especially in regards to the initial movements.

When comparing the Claridosos to the writers of A Ilha, or even Nemésio, there does seem to be a particularly important difference that may help us to understand these divergences: while the writers of both archipelagoes wanted to firmly place their literatures within their respective spaces, as I showed in the introduction to this dissertation, the Cape Verdeans also had the objective of heightening the value that the

! 266! population gave to the home islands. The Azoreans, on the other hand, aimed to express the regional reality and, thus, difference, through their literature.

This seemingly subtle difference in agendas seems to play a key role in the treatment of themes common to both literatures, which was seen most notably in chapter four, in regards to the dilemma of emigration—the struggle between staying and leaving.

As I aimed to show in this chapter, while the Azorean protagonist tends to ultimately depart from the islands, often without reflection on this paradox between his love for the island and his dream of the “Califórnias perdidas de abundância” (the emotional struggle of the Azorean tends to be manifested after emigration), the Cape Verdean protagonist rarely departs, save for a few exceptions. Even among these exceptions, it is implicit that the character will one day return to the homeland. This decision on the part of Cape Verdean prose writers seems to be undoubtedly linked to the very objective of increasing the valorization of the archipelago—in trying to convince the population of

Cape Verde’s worth, and the need to value the islands, working for their betterment, it would be a counterproductive example for the protagonists of these novels to abandon the homeland.

It seems to be equally important in the insistence of either the use of Cape

Verdean Creole, or a Creolized appropriation and subversion of the Portuguese language.

While Azorean authors also pay great attention to local speech, the preoccupation with oral representation of the Cape Verdean mentality appears more persistently and strategically in the respective literature. Another important difference to note is the relative lack of English terms used in Cape Verdean literature, especially in comparison to that produced in the Azores. While both societies were equally affected by the

! 267! emigration phenomenon, and there was a consequent influence of English vernacular in the local speeches, this is a component that is nearly absent in Cape Verdean literature, save for few exceptions, such as Chiquinho. This can be related to the previous observation about the tendency to not emigrate on the part of the protagonists of prose— similarly, while the authors strive to include local speech, they seem particularly preoccupied with the Creole aspects of it, and not the other foreign influences. Again, this seems to be connected to the attempt to valorize the islands and their culture, without giving in to the enticing attractions of all that is foreign.

It is in chapter three, in which I explore the impact of geography and the human’s emotional connection to the land, that we see little variance between Azorean and Cape

Verdean discourses. Indeed, in both cases we see a profound respect, admiration, and love for the land, as well as common resultant cultural traits, such as profound religiosity and resignation, and even the very sentiment of wanderlust addressed in chapter four.

This suggests that it is, indeed, the geographic conditions—one of which being insularity—and human’s reaction to nature that most approximate the Azorean and Cape

Verdean identities. Further, since it is the shared objective to firmly situate the literature within the local context, the rhetoric does not vary between the literatures of the two archipelagoes – since the ideology that the geography is a central element in the Azorean and Cape Verdean identities is shared, the discourses do not diverge significantly. Indeed, as we saw, island thinkers, such as Glissant, Nemésio, and Lopes, tend to agree that geography and history are two fundamental forces in the forging of a local identity.

Indeed, Elizabeth M. DeLoughrey titled her book, a study of post-colonial insular spaces especially in the Pacific, “Routes and Roots.” These two homonyms are, for her, at the

! 268! very essence of the islander identity—routes referring to the maritime navigation implicit in the Europeans’ arrival as well as the migratory patterns of islanders (history), and roots to speak of the telluric roots, the influence of the land and the human’s connection with it

(geography).

Thus, we can conclude that, naturally, the racial and political realities do indeed serve as a catalyst for a vast differentiation between Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures. Still, this difference is in terms of rhetoric, of treatment of common themes.

These shared themes, that pervade both Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures since the

1930s, stem from their analogous insular realities. 58 Indeed, as Hans-Peter Heilmar writes: “Não obstante um grande número de temas e motivos diferentes, poder-se-á chegar à conclusão de se tratar, nos Açores e em Cabo Verde, de literaturas de tipo semelhante no que diz respeito à maior incidência no vincar das características regionais específicas” (1994, 1). That is, the writers of both archipelagoes are looking to define the regional essence, what makes it different from mainland Portugal, and to manifest açorianidade and caboverdianidade, respectively. Given their similar archipelagic natures, not only do both groups tend to insist on the “características regionais específicas,” but there are many parallels to be drawn among those characteristics referred in the two literatures.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 58 Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures are vast bodies of work, with authors who reflect on an array of issues. This dissertation by no means attempts to provide a definitive overview of the two literatures, which would be impossible in a project of this scope. Instead, it focused on the question of the formation and assertion of the regional identities of the Azores and Cape Verde, and eventually the national in the case of the latter, with themes that have been reflected on by many authors throughout the last century. There are others who reflect on these questions and may not have been included in this dissertation—I strove to include those writers and works that I found most emblematic of the questions at hand.

! 269! Anthony Soares writes that “An imagined state of ‘islandness’ – whether played out in a local, national, or continental context – can describe a psychological or cultural disposition that tends towards the reactionary, the isolationist, or the defensive, in a manner that frequently complicates neat colonial binaries of centre and margin” (xv).

Even with differences of identity, variations of force, and discrepancies between the intensity of the lived experience in the periphery, both Azorean and Cape Verdean writers felt an urge to explore the collective experience in their respective archipelagoes in literature. Perhaps, this is a side effect of this “psychological or culture disposition” that

Soares speaks of—the need to react to the peripheral status and resultant socio-political effects by affirming a separate, local identity. For Soares, it is the isolation—whether real or imagined—that contributes to this urgency, that makes a self-assertion so necessary.

Besides the insularity already implied in the being an island, the Azores and Cape Verde are particularly distant from mainland Portugal and Africa.59 This shared condition, and all of its implied effects (which I explored throughout my chapters) is the very basis of the comparison made in this dissertation.

Paths for Future Research

In this dissertation, I have attempted to begin to demonstrate some of the many points of comparison between Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures. There remains a vast amount of topics and works to consider in comparative studies between the canons of the two archipelagoes. In the first place, perhaps a more in-depth study of any two given authors would be of interest. In this dissertation, I sought to give a more general !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 59 While São Tomé e Príncipe is also geographically isolated, the cultural ties to mainland Africa are stronger—the Creole identity in Cape Verde ultimately isolates this archipelago culturally as well.

! 270! overview, in order to underline the fact that these themes appear frequently in the works of a variety of writers. Perhaps, however, it would be interesting to explore more profoundly comparisons between the Claridosos (specifically Baltazar Lopes or Manuel

Lopes) and Nemésio, for example, as literary pioneers in the search to understand the regional identities of their respective archipelagoes. It would also be interesting to analyze how these same themes appear in the poetry of the two archipelagoes—it was, after all, the first form of literary expression in both cases, and both canons include a wide range of poetic production.

Finally, I am particularly interested in further examining the most contemporary writers from the two archipelagoes, who reflect on the position of the islands in a much more globalized world. As Vamberto Freitas writes in his review of the work of young

Azorean author Hélder Medeiros, “A ilha é, mais do que nunca, o mundo. Tudo o que tínhamos assumido no passado caiu com a globalização, no bom e mau sentido” (2017).

As such, I would like to explore the new understandings of the Azorean and Cape

Verdean identities, as simultaneously part of a small, local society, as well as citizens of a larger, globalized world. I would look at authors from the latest generation, such as Joel

Neto and Hélder Medeiros, in the case of the Azores, and Germano Almeida and Mário

Lúcio Sousa in the case of Cape Verde.

Azorean literature has been a passion of mine since I entered academia. As a first- generation Azorean-American, I delved in to the literature, through the work of all of the writers mentioned throughout this dissertation, among others, as a way to approximate myself to the islands and to gain a greater understanding of the then-unknown archipelago to which I felt so connected. It was precisely these questions of identity

! 271! outlined throughout this dissertation that most interested me, as they opened a space for the discussion of the identity of my ancestors’ and, in a way, my own identity.

Particularly interesting to me has been the question of emigration, through many lenses, such as the dilemma between staying and leaving, discussed in this dissertation, the return of the emigrant to the homeland, and reflections of diaspora.

When I first read Baltazar Lopes’s Chiquinho in a graduate seminar, the similarities to many Azorean works that I had already read nearly jumped off the pages.

Questions of emigration, orality, a certain resignation coupled with an enduring sense of hope, and the connection to the island were only some of the parallels I saw between this novel and Azorean literature. I realized that many of these themes were linked to the fact that the two societies were highly isolated archipelagoes—I knew then, in my first year of graduate school, that it was precisely this connection that I wanted to explore my dissertation, widening the scope to compare the literary evolutions throughout the decades since the 1930s. I looked to understand Azorean and Cape Verdean literatures in a different context, by widening the usually focused study of Azorean literature to a comparative one, and shifting from the common analysis of Cape Verdean literature in comparison to that of other African ex-colonies of the Portuguese empire, in order to understand how another reality, the geographic one, influenced the literary discourses.

I believe that this is a comparative study that deserves further investigation from other scholars. Indeed, we should look at these literatures from various angles, and understand their significance in different contexts. Since the archipelagic, insular character of these spaces is so fundamental to the lived experience of the populations, I think it is important that we continue to consider how the physical space has influenced

! 272! these realities and, in turn, their literatures, both historically and contemporarily, in order to gain a more complete understanding of the Azores and Cape Verde, as once highly isolated archipelagoes that are ever-more making their imprint on the world at large.

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