AESTHETIC EXPERIMENTATION

AND THE SEARCH FOR A CARIBBEAN IDIOM

BY MARIA D. MORENO

B.A. UNIVERSIDAD DE LOS ANDES, 1998

M.A. UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA, 2003

A DISSERTATION SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE

REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

IN THE DEPARTMENT OF FRENCH STUDIES AT BROWN UNIVERSITY

PROVIDENCE, RHODE ISLAND

MAY 2010

© Copyright 2010 by Maria D. Moreno

This dissertation by Maria D. Moreno is accepted in its present form

by the Department of French Studies as satisfying the

dissertation requirement for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy.

Date ______Réda Bensmaïa, Advisor

Recommended to the Graduate Council

Date ______Esther Whitfield, Reader

Date ______J. Michael Dash, Reader

Approved by the Graduate Council

Date ______Sheila Bonde, Dean of the Graduate School

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VITA

Maria D. Moreno was born on April 21st, 1974 in Mérida, Venezuela. She spent her childhood and teenage years in her hometown, where she completed a B.A. in Modern

Languagest at the Universidad de Los Andes in 1998. In 1997-1998, she spent most of the academic year working in France, teaching in two high schools of the outskirts of

Paris. After graduating, she worked as an instructor of French for a few years before deciding to return to school to pursue graduate studies. In May of 2003, Maria obtained a

M. A. in French Literature and Pedagogy from the University of Arizona, Tucson, AZ.

While being a student at the department of French and Italian, she worked as a TA, teaching beginner, intermediate and advanced French language courses. During the summer of 2004, she was part of the instructor crew of the Arizona in Paris program.

Maria entered the doctoral program of the Department of French Studies at Brown

University in the fall of 2004. During her years at Brown, she was also a Teaching

Assistant and instructed beginner, intermediate and advanced French language courses.

She also worked as webmaster and co-editor of Equinoxes, an on-line journal created and edited by the graduate students of the French Studies department. Maria is currently

Assistant Professor of French in the Department of Foreign Modern Languages at Mars

Hill College, North Carolina.

PUBLICATIONS:

―Ghosts of Africa in Europe‘s Museums‖. Translation of ―Les fantômes d‘Afrique dans les musées d‘Europe‖ by Hassan Musa. In Critical Interventions: Journal of African Art History and Visual Culture, No. 2, Spring 2008

―Head above Water, Bandjoun Station, and the Venice Biennale‖. Translation (interview with Barthélémy Toguo and texts by the artist). In Critical Interventions: Journal of

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African Art History and Visual Culture, No. 2, Spring 2008

―L‘exposition du Congo and Edouard Manduau‘s La civilisation au Congo‖. Translation of ―Édouard Manduau et son tableau La civilisation au Congo (1884-1885)‖ by Sabine Cornelis. In Critical Interventions: Journal of African Art History and Visual Culture, No. 1, July 2007

―Du bovarysme à la créolité: le rapport des écrivains antillais à la langue française‖. Equinoxes journal, No. 9 (Spring/Summer 2007) http://www.brown.edu/Research/Equinoxes/journal/Issue%209/eqx9_moreno.html

PRESENTATIONS AND CONFERENCES:

―Between the I and the We: Aesthetic Experimentation and the Creation of a Caribbean Poetics in French and Spanish‖, American Comparative Literature Association Conference. Harvard University, March 26-29, 2009

―The Audacious Language of Birahima, child soldier‖, Northeast Modern Language Association, 40th Anniversary Convention. Boston MA, February 26 – March 1, 2009

―Du bovarysme à la créolité : le rapport des écrivains antillais à la langue française‖, 15th Equinoxes Conference: “Snobismes”. Brown University, Spring 2007

―Le langage de Birahima, l‘enfant-soldat à la verve audacieuse dans Allah n'est pas obligé, d‘Ahmadou Kourouma‖, 15th Annual GSO Colloquium "Politics and Persuasion". Indiana University, Spring 2006

―Avatars cinématographiques de La Princesse de Clèves‖, 14th Equinoxes Conference: “La consommation littéraire”. Brown University, Spring 2006

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The process of writing a dissertation is an arduous one, a process that can also be lonely if we do not count on a strong community to support us. I have been fortunate to have a wonderful community of people around me, people who have trusted and believed in me at times when I thought I could never ―pull this off‖. I‘m not big on long speeches, so this will be brief, but I do want to acknowledge all of those who have helped me in many different ways. First of all, I‘d like to thank the members of my committee, professors

Réda Bensmaïa, Esther Whitfield and J. Michael Dash, for their support and guidance. As an advisor, Prof. Bensmaïa has been everything I could have asked for: an attentive listener and critic, a supporting mentor, a generous colleague, a stimulating influence.

Thank you for supporting me in my decision to go ―off the beaten path‖, academically speaking. Prof. Whitfield‘s thoughtful comments and suggestions have not only pointed me in the right direction countless times; they have also helped me find fascinating connections that I‘ll be excited to keep exploring in my academic career and personal life. I‘d like to thank you for all of this, and for never making me feel like I should have already read this or that classic of Cuban or Puerto Rican literature (although I probably should have). As for Prof. Dash, the influence of some of his writings was –without exaggeration– pivotal in the direction that my dissertation ultimately followed. Your knowledge of French Caribbean writing and theory are a continuous source of inspiration; I feel truly fortunate to have had you as one of my readers. Thank you.

vi

I also want to thank professor Lise Leibacher, my unofficial mentor at the

University of Arizona, for encouraging me to aim high and pursue an unconventional and stimulating path, and for convincing me that it was worth leaving the balmy winters of

Tucson for the less-than-hospitable climes of Providence. Your passion for teaching and learning inspire me to this day. To my husband and best friend, Mike, thank you for your infinite love and support, for constantly reminding me that there is a world outside of books, for forcing me to have fun. These have been the best ten years (already!) of my life. To my son Miguel Armando, thanks for being my ray of sunshine, for giving me the opportunity to experience motherhood, with its joys and worries.

Thank you, friends of here, there and everywhere, for making my years of grad school (both in Tucson and in Providence) rich, fun and stimulating: Erika, Jen, Clint,

Allison, Teresa, Claudia, Adele, Meadow. Thank you for listening, for making jokes, for coming to the beach with us, but also for your sense of style, movies and literature, and for all the high-brow and low-brow conversations we‘ve had throughout the years: only now do I realize that this all helped shape this product that is now coming to fruition.

Le dedico esta tesis a mi familia, por estar siempre a mi lado a pesar de la distancia:

Mami, Papi, Martha, Pedro, Adrián, Paula, tios, abuelos y primos, Hercy (creo que no necesito decir más). Los quiero.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Introduction Mapping the Caribbean as a Literary Region ...... 1

Chapter One Grandes lignes of Caribbean literature in French and Spanish ...... 8 One Caribbean or several Caribbeans? ...... 13 Representations of slavery ...... 20 Racial relations...... 28 Mulattos, an ―intermediate race‖ ...... 34 Race and cultural alienation ...... 40 ―Ella es toda pasiñn y fuego‖: Mulatas in Caribbean literature ...... 44 Manifestations of creole culture...... 49

Chapter Two Creolization in the works of Patrick Chamoiseau and Guillermo Cabrera Infante ...... 56 Creolization: origins of the term ...... 58 Literary creolization ...... 60 Patrick Chamoiseau, marqueur de paroles ...... 62 The ‗chamoisification‘ of French language ...... 64 Chronique des sept misères ...... 64 Solibo Magnifique ...... 66 Texaco ...... 74 Écrire en pays dominé ...... 77 A ‗schizophrenic‘ oeuvre? ...... 81 Guillermo Cabrera Infante, the iconoclast ...... 84 Creolization in the works of Cabrera Infante ...... 86 Tres tristes tigres ...... 87 Three Tricky Tigers ...... 94 Delito por bailar el chachachá ...... 96 ―Seðor juez, seðor juez, seðor juez, mi delito es por bailar el chachachá‖ ...... 102

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Chapter Three The neo-baroque poetics of Severo Sarduy and Édouard Glissant ...... 107 The fight for a creative equilibrium between Word and World ...... 110 Apotheosis of the neo-baroque ...... 113 De donde son los cantantes ...... 119 Cobra ...... 122 Maitreya ...... 125 Colibrí ...... 128 Pájaros de la playa ...... 136 Un bâtisseur de langage ...... 138 La lézarde ...... 142 Le quatrième siècle ...... 144 La case du commandeur ...... 146 Les affres de l‘histoire ...... 151 The quest for an idiom ...... 155 Final considerations ...... 160

Chapter Four The twilight persona of carnival narratives ...... 163 The subversive nature of carnival narratives ...... 169 Hadriana dans tous mes rêves ...... 171 El color del verano...... 181 The writer as twilight persona ...... 193 Trilogie tropicale ...... 194 “Moi, qui avais horreur des chabins”: the question of race ...... 204 El entierro de Cortijo ...... 205 Final considerations ...... 214

Conclusion ...... 215

Bibliography ...... 218

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1

INTRODUCTION Mapping the Caribbean as a Literary Region

Fue en el Caribe que el Nuevo Mundo fue descubierto; fue en el Caribe donde las ideas de la revolución francesa primero provocaron un régimen liberal en nuestro hemisferio; fue en el Caribe donde, por primera vez, en América Latina, un pedazo de tierra obtuvo su independencia de la metrópolis europea; fue en el Caribe donde los esclavos fueron por primera vez liberados, en nuestro hemisferio; fue en el Caribe donde se estableció el primer régimen socialista en el Nuevo Mundo. Bernardo Vega, El Caribe de Ayer y Hoy

Au moment où le maître, le colonisateur proclament " il n'y a jamais eu de peuple ici ", le peuple qui manque est un devenir, il s'invente, dans les bidonvilles et les camps, ou bien dans les ghettos, dans de nouvelles conditions de lutte auxquelles un art nécessairement politique doit contribuer. Gilles Deleuze, L'image-temps

The idea for this dissertation came to me over the course of the last few years, as a result of a gradual intellectual revelation -if such a thing exists-. First, I discovered the rich universe of Francophone Caribbean literature through the novels of Maryse Condé,

Simone Schwarz-Bart and Patrick Chamoiseau. At that time, I was struck by the ambivalent relationship many of these writers have toward French, their language of expression. Then, as I worked this problematic relationship into the topic of my preliminary examination while taking a course on Latin American literature that included several Caribbean writers, a series of thematic and stylistic similarities between these two bodies of literature became increasingly evident, including references to the colonial past of their societies, a predilection for experimental techniques and other subversive discursive practices, and a will to re-create history.

2

The last step of this ―revelation‖ occurred after reading Severo Sarduy's De donde son los cantantes and Edgardo Rodríguez Juliá's Sol de medianoche, when I became aware of the extent to which my native –Venezuelan– culture has been and is still influenced by Caribbean culture. The particularities of the language, the references to various musical genres, and even a certain ―world view‖ present in those texts strongly resonated with traits of my own culture which, until then, I had only conceived of as inscribed in a Latin American tradition. This discovery arose my curiosity and made me wonder: could these similarities extend to the other Spanish-speaking countries that were close to the Caribbean sea and possibly beyond, to other cultural blocs of the region?

One of the main goals of my dissertation is to show that, in spite of the cultural diversity of the region, there exists a distinctly Caribbean literary space, which transcends language barriers. With all its limitations, this project seeks to contribute to fill a void that has been evident for quite some time now: the study of Caribbean literature on a comparative basis1. To this end, I intend to examine two corpora: 20th century texts - mostly novels and short stories, but also some poems and plays- from the French and

Spanish Antilles. While an attempt has been made to include all the territories of these

1 In 1978, the University of Minnesota organized a conference that sought to ―examine the literary production of the Caribbean area conceived as a unity‖ and thus to ―rescue‖ literary studies of the area ―from its long-standing invisibility and oblivion‖ (Process of Unity in Caribbean Society xi). It is true that, over the last thirty years and due to a variety of factors, Caribbean literature has certainly gained visibility both in American academia and among the general public; yet, little attention has been paid to the comparative study of works or literary trends that comprise more than one cultural / linguistic sub-area. The proceedings of the foregoing conference stressed the need to ―study Caribbean literature on a comparative basis‖, and evoked the ―obvious coincidence of themes and preoccupations, growing out of a similar experience‖ as the best argument ―for the conception of the Caribbean as a unity‖ (27). Almost twenty years later, a Dominican scholar points to ―the futility of venturing global conceptualizations of the region on the basis of knowledge of only one Antillean nation or even one linguistic area‖ and suggests that ―given the variety of cultural matrices that have shaped the lives and ideas of Antilleans and the variety of languages in which Caribbean literature expresses itself, perhaps it is only a comparative and interdisciplinary approach that can hope to shed light on the socioaesthetic imperatives that inform literary production in this part of the world‖ (Torres-Saillant 1997, 68).

3 linguistic areas, readers will perhaps notice the predominance of texts by Cuban and

Martinican authors. This is partly due to the patent thematic and stylistic affinities that exist among these literary traditions, as well as to the fact that, for various reasons, they have become more established than those of their neighboring nations2. The analysis will consist of close readings of texts by celebrated authors such as Aimé Césaire, Guillermo

Cabrera Infante and Édouard Glissant, as well as others by less-known writers like Ana

Lydia Vega and Raphaël Confiant3.

My methodological approach to this study is modeled after scholarship by literary historians such as A. James Arnold, Julio Rodríguez-Luis and J. Michael Dash, who suggest that analyses of fictional works should be anchored in their historical context, and who first attempted to break the ―mono-lingual bias‖ of literary studies of the region. In their introduction to A History of Literature in the Caribbean, the authors state their goal of ―[creating] a history of Caribbean literature that could be read across the linguistic divisions both for commonalities and for regional cultural differences‖ and, at the same time, acknowledge the difficulty of ―[assessing] the extent to which European languages have been creolized in the Caribbean region and have given rise to a literature that is linguistically and culturally distinct from the metropolitan literature‖ (XIV). What, we could ask, is the ultimate goal behind a project of this scope? By creating a literary map

2 Neither Martinique nor Cuba were the first settlements of France and Spain in the Caribbean; however, due to a conjunction of socio-economic and political factors, they came to occupy a privileged position that in turn reflected in the emergence of thriving intellectual establishments. The influence of Cuba on the literary, intellectual and political spheres is well known. Likewise, Martinique has been dubbed ―the isle of intellectuals‖, due to the large number of writers and thinkers that it has produced.

3 The literature of the Dominican Republic, on the other hand, is entirely absent from my dissertation. Although my omission was derived from a practical choice, it is interesting to note that, in general, this literary corpus has suffered from exclusion from Caribbean overviews. In this respect, Dominican critic Silvio Torres-Saillant attributes the ―little regard enjoyed by Dominican texts even within the Caribbean itself‖ primarily to the ―reticence of Dominican intellectuals to assert their country‘s cultural link and affinity with the rest of the region‖ (Torres-Saillant 1994, 40).

4 of the region that can be read across linguistic divisions, these scholars set out to ―present a contrastive view of how literature emerged as a social institution in the several areas of the Caribbean region‖ (XIV).

My dissertation does not intend to be a continuation of such an endeavor, for I do not claim to be a literary historian. Instead of analyzing a variety of literary genres over the course of several centuries, I mostly focus on 20th century texts of the French and

Spanish Antilles. However, I do concur with the authors mentioned before in the belief that literature being a social institution, the analysis of literary works is most fruitful when these are related to their historical context. This type of approach becomes a necessity in the case of the texts we will study: the vast majority of them refer –directly or indirectly– to the social, and many of them allude specifically to the political.

Guadeloupean writer Maryse Condé underscores this fact, when she observes:

À la limite, pour nous, toute littérature est engagée dès qu‘elle n‘exprime pas uniquement le fantasme ou la rêverie individuelle, mais a pour objet le fait national. Or, qu‘il s‘agisse du milieu rural ou du milieu urbain, du peuple, de la petite ou moyenne bourgeoisie, l‘écrivain antillais est uniquement concerné par le fait social ou politique (Le Roman Antillais 13).

In this passage, Condé is referring to the literature of the French islands. Yet the same can be said of the production from the Spanish Antilles. Witness Julio Rodríguez-Luis, who reminds us of the inextricable relationship between the colonial history of the area and its literature: ―…the literature of the region is deeply marked by its writers‘ reaction, manifest or implicit, to that humiliating situation [colonial dependence] and their nations‘ concomitant underdevelopment‖. Indeed, for the author, ―the colonial or semicolonial status of the Hispanic Antilles permeates not only the themes of its literature in explicit ways but is the main force shaping its voice, the tone of that voice, its way of projecting

5 itself, and the aims it proposes for itself4‖.

Clearly, in this respect, the predicament of writers from both French and Spanish

Caribbean nations is no different from that of intellectuals in post-colonial societies in general: their writing bears the scars of a disgraceful history that continues to have painful implications in the present of their societies. Thus, literature in these areas is necessarily politically or socially engaged to some extent. They may decide to address that ―fait social ou politique‖ mentioned by Condé through a rhetoric of dense imagery and meandering or, conversely, through a more straightforward and utilitarian type of discourse, but their main concern will always be on the side of the social.

The dissertation is divided into four chapters. The first chapter is intended as an introductory section that presents some of the major themes or grandes lignes of the literatures of the region. Here, I explore a series of elements that recur in both Spanish and French-language texts and that I would qualify as specifically Caribbean: The history of slavery, the question of race, and representations of various facets of a Creole culture.

By mapping out some of the main themes of the Caribbean literary scene, I want to demonstrate that their recurrence is by no means mere coincidence. In fact, it is the result of a deliberate effort; these topoï constitute a critical factor in the construction of a literary culture that attempts to affirm its identity.

In my view, one of the main forces that drive Caribbean writers is the desire to offer a faithful representation of the world in which they live, while at the same time finding a voice that is their own. Negotiating the ambiguous legacy of French and

Spanish in the region, these writers are acutely aware of both the power and limitations of language as mediator in this search. Thus, I argue, many of them engage the use of

4 In A History of Literature in the Caribbean, vol. 1, p. 5

6 experimental techniques in their literary texts, in an attempt to come to terms with this problematic heritage of the colonial era.

Chapter Two analyzes the concept of creolization in the works of Patrick Chamoiseau and Guillermo Cabrera Infante. I argue that in its literary sense, this term refers to a conscious effort of appropriation of a European language to make it reflect a Creole culture and reality, and to the specific techniques that facilitate this appropriation. In

Chamoiseau‘s case (and, in general, in texts from the francophone islands), creolization often involves the incorporation of lexical, syntactic and rhetorical elements from the

Creole language. In texts from the Spanish-speaking areas, the strategies engaged in this process are slightly different, since this cultural area virtually did not see the birth of

Creole languages. Here then, as in Cabrera Infante‘s works, creolization entails the appropriation of Spanish through a number of linguistic and rhetorical strategies drawn from the realm of orality and/or popular culture.

Chapter Three studies the neo-baroque fictions of Severo Sarduy and Édouard

Glissant. These authors firmly believe that good literature must be challenging to the reader, and thus have strived to develop a particular idiom, characterized by a degree of opaqueness (in Glissant‘s case) and artificialization (in Sarduy‘s works), and by the privileging of a number of rhetorical strategies such as circularity, intertextuality, repetition and accumulation. In addition to analyzing some of their principal narrative texts, I will evoke key aspects of their theoretical work -reflections on their own writings and on texts written by their contemporaries-, in an attempt to elucidate their position vis-

à-vis the role of experimentation in Caribbean literature. Indeed, as I hope to show, both

7 writers have felt compelled to reinforce their literary endeavors through essays that explicate the centrality of this neo-baroque poetics in the context of the region.

The experimental techniques analyzed in Chapter Four no longer have a linguistic slant. Here I focus on a thematic element: the predominance of the ―twilight persona‖, a complex, contradictory figure prevalent in Caribbean texts that can be identified as

―carnival narratives‖ (i.e. texts that draw on the carnival and other manifestations of popular culture; they are usually parodic in nature and privilege an aesthetic of grotesque realism). I develop close readings of works by René Depestre, Reinaldo Arenas, Raphaël

Confiant and Edgardo Rodríguez Juliá. While drawing on Mikhail Bakhtin‘s views on the carnivalesque, my analysis will also inevitably show the limitations of this model when applied to the context of contemporary Caribbean literature.

By contrasting such divergent approaches to writing, my goal is not so much to point out obvious stylistic differences as to call attention to a common objective these authors pursue: the search for a distinctively Caribbean idiom. Having said this, the plurality of the region forces us to confront the points in which the literary traditions of the French and Spanish Caribbean do not converge: indeed, every Antillean nation faces particular challenges that get carried on to the realm of the imaginary. Some of these will be briefly addressed in the concluding section of my dissertation.

8

CHAPTER ONE Grandes lignes of Caribbean literature in French and Spanish

...de nada sirvieron las eficaces rogativas que desencadenaban rotundos aguaceros, ni el agua bendita dispensada sin miramientos…: los catecúmenos volvían siempre a los orishas venerables, escondidos en lo alto de los armarios, herencia –con la piel canela y el bembón- de algún antepasado cimarrón si no de un abuelo que, por oriundo del África misma, era reconocido en la barriada como negro de nación. Severo Sarduy, Cocuyo

Et ce pays cria pendant des siècles que nous sommes des bêtes brutes ; que les pulsations de l’humanité s’arrêtent aux portes de la négrerie ; que nous sommes un fumier ambulant hideusement prometteur de cannes tendres et de coton soyeux et l’on nous marquait au fer rouge et nous dormions dans nos excréments et l’on nous vendait sur les places et l’aune de drap anglais et la viande salée d’Irlande coûtaient moins cher que nous… Aimé Césaire, Cahier d’un retour au pays natal

The Caribbean is a complex place in which conflicting identities and ethnicities have had to coexist for a long time. This situation, it can be argued, is not unlike that of many other regions that have undergone processes of colonization. In the Caribbean, however, such problematic coexistence fostered the mingling of these cultures and the subsequent emergence of a new, hybrid culture. Birthplace to a family of discourses that encompass the idea of mixture5, this geographical area is often cited as being a sort of ‗breeding ground‘ from which have spawned key concepts to the configuration of Western post- modern identity. For instance, in Consuming the Caribbean, Mimi Sheller claims that the area is ―at the forefront of ‗globalization‘‖ (174). She argues that many of the defining

5 I am thinking of concepts such as mestizaje and créolisation, to name but a few. Evidently, they are all inter-related but each has specific nuances. For example, in his Poétique de la Relation, Martinican writer Édouard Glissant defines créolisation by contrasting it to the earlier métissage: ―Ce qui s‘est passé dans la Caraïbe, et que nous pourrions résumer dans le mot de créolisation, nous en donne l‘idée le plus approchée possible. Non seulement une rencontre, un choc (au sens ségalénien), un métissage, mais une dimension inédite qui permet à chacun d‘être là et ailleurs, enraciné et ouvert […] Si nous posons le métissage comme en général une rencontre et une synthèse entre deux différents, la créolisation nous apparaît comme le métissage sans limites, dont les éléments sont démultipliés, les résultantes imprévisibles‖ (46).

9 features of what is understood as globality have long been present there, ―including transnational flows of trade and investment, mass migration to and from far-flung parts of the world, intermixture of many ethnic, linguistic, and cultural groups, and dynamic processes of ‗creolization‘‖. In her view, the Caribbean has become ―a prime location for the emergence of transnationalism, both in terms of its uprooted people and its hybrid texts, spoken languages, diasporas, and music traveling across world markets…‖ (174).

At the same time, however, it is interesting to note that, somehow, the West has managed to erase the Caribbean off its ideological map (with the exception of Cuba, perhaps). To borrow C.L.R. James‘ expression, it seems to be ―in but not of the West‖.

Though from a geographical point of view the region lies at the heart of the Western hemisphere, it remains a place of exoticism, mystery, a definitive Other to the Western mind. As Sheller puts it:

Displaced from the main narratives of modernity, the shores that Columbus once first stumbled upon now appear only in tourist brochures, or in occasional disaster tales involving hurricanes, boat-people, drug barons, dictators, or revolutions. Despite its indisputable narrative position at the origin of the plot of Western modernity, history has been edited and the Caribbean left on the cutting-room floor. Having washed its hands of history, the North can now present itself as the hero in the piece, graciously donating democratic tutelage, economic aid, foreign investment, military advisers, and police support to the Caribbean region (1).

Indeed, notwithstanding its decidedly crucial involvement in the making of Europe‘s modern self6, the Caribbean is often conceived of as a non-distinct, fuzzy yet dual place

6 In a 1978 conference, Caribbean historian Frank Moya Pons reminded audiences of the key role played by the Caribbean in the history of the Western hemisphere: ―The conquest and colonization of America beginning from Hispaniola, turned the Caribbean, throughout the 16th century, into the ―American Mediterraneum‖ of the Spanish empire. Later, in the 17th century, the struggle for mastery of the seas and territories of this area was one of the principal concerns of the Spanish rulers. At that time, the Caribbean became an imperial frontier where France, England and Holland fought for control over the emerging colonial markets in a whirlwind of wars that raged until the very end of the 18th century… It was during those years that the French revolution brought about the momentous slave uprising in Haiti that dealt a catastrophic blow to the French colonial economy. Finally, at the beginning of the 20th century, and as one of the many consequences of the Spanish-American war and the American interest in the security of the

10 that both appeals and repels its Western Other. On the one hand, it is viewed as a space of paradisiac beaches and nonchalant, welcoming peoples who appear to live under the motto of ―don‘t worry, be happy‖. On the other hand, it is also seen as a space of crime, violence and depravation, a sort of black hole that threatens to swallow everything around it and needs to be contained. This dual image can be traced back to the time of the first conquistadores, and has been studied by a number of scholars.

For example, in his famous essay Calibán: Apuntes sobre la cultura en nuestra

América (translated into English as Caliban: Notes toward a Discussion of Culture in

Our America), Roberto Fernández Retamar explores the history of the eponymous theatrical figure coined by Shakespeare and relates it to two seemingly opposing images.

The first one is that of the fierce, anthropophagus ‗race‘ described by Columbus in his log books: the infamous carib/cannibal. The second one is that of the ―peaceful, meek and even timorous and cowardly‖ (6) Arauaco of the Greater Antilles. As we know, both images of the American man have persisted through time and reappeared under different literary guises, some of which have had more resonance than others.

These stereotypical images have been so pervasive that they have even been adopted by many a Caribbean writer. Indeed, a large number of 18th and 19th century texts produced by writers from the area portray their culture through the eyes of the European traveler. Patrick Chamoiseau and Raphaël Confiant allude to this phenomenon in Lettres

Créoles, a study that traces the literary history of the French-speaking spaces of the

Caribbean rimland. For these authors, ―[être] en littérature pour les Blancs créoles de nos premiers textes, c‘était oublier l‘île, éteindre la braise du lieu et n‘entrer en soi (quand on

Panama Canal, the Caribbean acquired a crucial strategic importance for the United States, the heirs of the Spanish empire in America‖ (―Caribbean Consciousness‖ 1).

11 y entre) que sur les modes du voyage avec les yeux de l‘étranger‖ (92). One specific mode of what they consider a case of literary alienation is the poetry that has come to be known as doudouisme, which afflicted mulatto and white poets alike:

Dans cette tracée littéraire, on utilise la réalité créole, mais […] avec une vision européenne, une vision exotique donc superficielle. Et ce regard superficiel sur soi-même ne retient que l‘évidence paradisiaque, les bleus du ciel, le blanc du sable […] et surtout celle que le voyageur apprécie par-dessus tout: la doudou, une créature envoûtante qui cherche moyen d‘améliorer sa déveine en charmant ceux qui passent (118-19).

Admittedly, stereotypical portrayals of the sort become less frequent in more recent works, but we can still see their traces, for instance, in the Romantic novel of the19th century. This Manichean vision tends to be applied to the people and to the islands as a whole, regardless of language and culture. It is thus interesting to note that while this generic, all-encompassing picture stands as valid not only in Western popular culture and media but also within an important part of academia, most studies of the literature of the

Caribbean region have tended to compartmentalize it, focusing on specific linguistic groups or on the relationship of those islands to the countries that once colonized them7.

My dissertation stands in direct opposition to this compartmentalizing tendency. I seek to show the existence of a literary space that is uniquely Caribbean, which transcends language barriers. If, as I claim, such a space exists, the next logical question would be: what are its defining traits? Beyond the many differences that exist among

7 For example, J. Corzani‘s La littérature des Antilles-Guyane Françaises traces literary manifestations in the French territories of the Caribbean from the 18th century to the present, including texts from both black and mulatto writers and white creole ones. Régis Antoine‘s Les écrivains français et les Antilles is a survey of French literary texts from the 17th to the early 20th centuries, which speak about the Antilles on both sides of the Atlantic ocean. On the Anglophone side, to my knowledge, the first attempt at a comprehensive survey of Caribbean literature written in English is Bruce King‘s 1979 West Indian Literature. Studies on Spanish-language literature of the area have tended to be even more specific, usually focusing on one nation at a time or inscribing it within the larger context of Latin American letters. Notable exceptions to this trend are A. Benìtez Rojo‘s La isla que se repite and J. Otero Garabìs‘ Nación y ritmo. The former has a Pan-Caribbean scope; the latter explores the role of popular music in all of the Spanish-speaking Antilles.

12

Antillean societies, scholars generally agree that these nations‘ heritage as plantation colonies is the main element they all share, together with the African presence in them.

Corollary to the common colonial past of these countries is the prolongation of their colonial or semi-colonial status in the present8.

In this chapter, I examine a series of thematic elements that recur in literary texts from the French and Spanish Antilles, which reflect these commonalities. The first of the grandes lignes explored here is the representation of slavery, inescapable topos of the literature of Haiti, Guadeloupe and Martinique, but also of Cuba and Puerto Rico. The second topic that interests me in this section concerns the question of race or –since

Caribbean countries are essentially multiracial societies- the tensions that underlie the relations among different ethnic groups. The last of the major themes I analyze is the portrayal of various facets of local or creole culture. In Haitian novels, for instance, depictions of vodoun religion abound. It is thus worth asking: is this also the case for texts from the other islands? What other cultural manifestations can we find and how are they articulated?

The goal behind this exploration of thematic foci is to offer a ‗panoramic view‘ of the Caribbean as a literary region. In other words, to use A. Benìtez Rojo‘s terms, I want to highlight a number of thematic ―regularities‖ that give coherence to a body of works from a geographical area that has traditionally been thought of as fragmented or –at the very least- extremely diverse. I am aware of the fact that this list is far from being exhaustive, and this is by design. The selection of these themes came as the result of an

8 Guadeloupe, Martinique and Puerto Rico are extreme examples of this ―semi‖ or ―neo‖ colonial status; the dependence of countries like the Dominican Republic and Haiti on the US is definitely more subtle but just as insidious.

13 empirical process (i.e. through contact with the texts themselves), rather than from theoretical inquiry. In this respect, the scarcity of critical studies on the subject is significant; indeed, much attention has been given to the analysis of individual topics or literary figures (―landscape‖, ―the mulatto‖, ―nature‖), but few have attempted to chart the landmarks of the Caribbean literary space9. Ultimately, by mapping out some of these main themes, I seek to demonstrate that their recurrence is by no means a fortuitous phenomenon. In fact, we will see, it is the result of a deliberate effort; these topoï constitute a critical factor in the construction of a literary culture that attempts to affirm its autonomy.

One Caribbean or several Caribbeans?

At this point, I must clarify that the socio-historical and cultural unity of the

Caribbean is a problematic concept that, in fact, has been contested by many scholars.

Since literature is a social institution, it follows that the literary unity of the area has also been challenged. For the sake of interest, I have decided to take the approach proposed by

Dominican critic Silvio Torres-Saillant, who thinks Caribbeanists should ―shrug off the intellectual burden of proving the oneness of Caribbean literature and to affirm the working hypothesis that Caribbean literature exists as an object of cognition‖ (1997, 57).

Having said this, since what we are dealing with here are in reality two sides of the same coin –to use a familiar expression-, it will be helpful to briefly review the diverging

9 Having said this, I should note that recently I found a 1951 article by José A. Portuondo that deals with the topic. It provides an overview of what the author considers the predominant themes of Caribbean texts of the first half of the 20th century, namely: ―landscape‖, ―the men‖ (which includes the figure of ―the Negro‖) and ―imperialism‖. While the relevance of these themes in the literatures of the area cannot be contested, their analysis remains rather impressionistic and perhaps –for a 21st century reader- even a bit patronizing. We learn, for instance, that while the ―Indian‖ in the literature of Mexico and Central America is ―sad‖, the ―Negro‖ of Caribbean narratives and poems is ―piquancy and spontaneous laughter‖, and is ―present also, happy or enraged, in the story and the novel‖ (―Caribbean Literary Themes‖, 263).

14 arguments that inform the debate on the existence of a Pan-Caribbean identity before we start delving into the main topoï of the literatures of the region.

The first viewpoint is represented by scholars who, focusing on the similar features these societies share, posit the premise of a common Caribbean culture expressed mostly through music, dance and rhythm. For historian Sidney W. Mintz, however, the heterogeneity of the region makes it difficult to consider it as a cultural area, i.e. one in which the term ―culture‖ implies ―a common body of historical tradition‖. Mintz refers to the diverse origins of its populations, the ―complicated history of European cultural impositions‖ and the ―absence in most societies of any firm continuity of the culture of the colonial power‖ as some of the causes for such a diverse cultural picture (914-15).

Instead, he deems it more appropriate to speak of the region as a ―societal area‖:

And yet the societies of the Caribbean – taking the word ―society‖ to refer here to forms of social structure and social organization – exhibit similarities that cannot possibly be attributed to mere coincidence. It probably would be more accurate (though stylistically unwieldy) to refer to the Caribbean as a ―societal area,‖ since its component societies probably share many more social-structural features than they do cultural features‖ (915).

In opposition to this line of thought we find a second group of scholars, for whom the divergences that separate the islands of the Caribbean are much stronger than the commonalities. For instance, Frank Moya Pons argues that, for the majority of the population of the area, ―the ‗Caribbean‘, as such, has meaning only as a convenient term in geography classes in schools and universities‖ (1). In his view, there is no such thing as a Caribbean ―living community, with common interests and aspirations‖. Instead, he proposes the more ―sensible‖ concept of ―several Caribbeans coexisting alongside of each other‖. Although he concedes that the local economies follow a similar pattern,

Moya Pons observes that ―the cultures and the social structures of this region do vary

15 considerably, and, consequently, lifestyles and political behavior vary as well‖ (1).

In his article, the author evokes the history of colonial dependence on different metropolis and the existence of a rigid plantation system as factors that, for the longest time, kept the islands‘ populations ―living in closed worlds‖. He posits that the attainment of independence by most of these colonies did little to change what he calls the

―insularism of the area‖, as the new nations, mainly composed of ―colored peasants, descendants of former slaves and indentured servants, had not reached a common historical awareness of their problems or even of their lack of communication‖ (2). The

Caribbean historian categorically concludes by stating that ―if there is a Caribbean, we could call it the ―Problematic Caribbean‖, one that faces a host of common problems such as persistent unemployment and underemployment, ―severe balance of payment difficulties, insufficient industrial capacities‖, brain drain and heavy dependence on a few basic staples (8, emphasis in the original).

A third, perhaps more nuanced reading of the Caribbean space is proposed by

Antonio Benítez Rojo in his seminal essay La isla que se repite (translated into English as

The Repeating Island). Drawing on theories of Chaos, the Cuban scholar seeks to identify

―common dynamics that express themselves in a more or less regular way‖ (24) across the linguistic and cultural blocs of the area. He claims that ―within the sociocultural fluidity that the Caribbean archipelago presents, within its historiographic turbulence and its ethnological and linguistic clamor, within its generalized instability of vertigo and hurricane, one can sense the features of an island that ―repeats‖ itself, unfolding and bifurcating until it reaches all the seas and lands of the earth‖ (3). By emphasizing the word repeats, the author seeks to give the term the ―almost paradoxical sense with which

16 it appears in the discourse of Chaos, where every repetition is a practice that necessarily entails a difference and a step toward nothingness…‖ (3).

This idea of a common dynamics, of difference within repetition is crucial to the analysis of literary texts that I undertake in this dissertation. The novels, poems, plays and short stories I study share an underlying core of Caribbeanness that, I argue, transcends the very specific realities they are rooted in. For Édouard Glissant, for instance, this Caribbeanness or antillanité is translated in a set of values or a ‗world vision‘ that works as a common idiom among Caribbean writers, regardless of their actual language of expression:

[L‘antillanité] a pour ambition de continuer en les élargissant à la fois la dimension africaine, qui se change ici en se retrouvant, et la souche du langage, qui se renforce en se multipliant. Derek Walcott pervertit la langue anglaise autant que Nicolás Guillén effile l‘espagnole, tout autant que V.S. Naipaul affirme en le niant le pays qu‘il explore. Il m‘importe peu qu‘ils ne parlent pas le créole ; nous parlons, sous des espèces différentes, le même langage (Le discours antillais 182).

The elusive and problematic nature of a Pan-Caribbean identity is illustrated in Ana Lydia

Vega‘s ―Encancaranublado‖. First published in 1982, this short story narrates the voyage of three Antillean men who, searching for a better life in the U.S., take to the sea and leave their respective countries behind. The opening scene depicts an exhausted and scared Antenor, who has been on a precarious boat for two days. For him, having to brave the elements and the danger of being eaten by sharks is preferable to the situation in his native Haiti: ―la triste aventura marina es crucero de placer a la luz del recuerdo de la isla‖ (11). He soon runs into Diñgenes, a Dominican who is also heading for Miami and whose boat shipwrecked. Initially, a feeling of solidarity is established between the two men, based on a mutual experience of poverty, discrimination and a traumatic political history: ―Allì se dijo la jodienda de ser antillano, negro y pobre. Se contaron los muertos

17 por docenas. Se repartieron maldiciones a militares, curas y civiles. Se estableció el internacionalismo del hambre y la solidaridad del sueño‖ (12).

However, when a third passenger comes on board, things start to change. The arrival of Carmelo -a Cuban shipwreck victim bound for the same destination- alters the existing dynamics. The latter's presence not only carries heavy implications in terms of survival (at one point, Antenor finds himself in danger of being thrown out of his own boat if he does not share the little food he has left); it also -perhaps more importantly- brings to the fore painful wounds that are part of the cultural baggage of these conflicted nations. As Carmelo explains the reasons that forced him to leave his beloved Oriente province, lamenting on the hardships of life as a sugar cane cutter, Diógenes subtly complains that that possibility no longer exists in the Dominican Republic, as local labor has been replaced by workers brought in from Haiti: ―Qué vaina, hombre. En mi país traen a los dichosos madamos10 pa que la piquen y a nosotros que nos coma un caballo...‖(13).

Soon, the honorable intentions and goodwill expressed at the beginning go up in smoke, as each man tries to hurt the others by making crude references to the delicate political histories or current situations of their respective motherlands. The end of the story provides an ironic turn of the screw that puts the characters back in their initial state of brotherhood and solidarity. After getting into a fight that causes the boat to sink, the three men are miraculously rescued by an American ship. The ship's Aryan-featured captain orders the crew to ―get those niggers down there and let the Spiks take care of

'em‖ (17). Once in the hold of the ship, the men begin to get a feeling of relief, when a

10 ―madamo‖: presumably from the French madame, pejorative term used in the Dominican Republic to refer to Haitians.

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Puerto Rican mate-in-distress warns them about the future that awaits them all: ―Aquì si quieren comel tienen que meter mano y duro. Estos gringos no le dan na gratis ni a su madre... - e introdujo un brazo negro por entre las cajas para pasarles la ropa seca‖ (17).

This rich albeit brief story emblematizes the complex political and historical ties that exist among the islands of the Caribbean. Moreover, as Vega so well illustrates in the culminating lines of the text, these connections become even more problematic when we take into account the unavoidable presence of the U.S. in the region. Positing the

―prolongation of their colonial or semicolonial status‖ and their common heritage as plantation colonies as the strongest link between the Hispanic and non-Hispanic Antilles,

Julio Rodríguez-Luis points to another crucial factor that joins them: their dependence on the United States. In his introductory essay to the section on Hispanic Literature of A

History of Literature in the Caribbean, Rodríguez-Luis reminds us that the Caribbean has been ―defined by the United States as its mare nostrum since at least the end of the nineteenth century‖ (5). He refers to the military intervention in Panama as the most recent demonstration that ―the U.S is determined to maintain it as such‖. Since the publication of this multi-volume work in 1994, the political world scene has sensibly changed, but the validity of this assertion still stands.

―Jamaica Farewell‖ furthers explores the problematic implications of a Pan-

Caribbean identity. Also a part of Vega's 1982 collection, this short story represents a mordant critique of bureaucratic efforts to create a federation of Caribbean States. Set in

Kingston, Jamaica, the story recreates the closing session of a fictional ―Conference for

Caribbean Unity‖ that celebrates its twentieth edition. Irony and humor permeate the text from the very beginning. The various delegations being synecdochically referred to by

19 the names of the countries they represent, we find that the U.S. was presiding the session, sitting between Rico and Jamaica, while Haiti and the Dominican Republic ―ocupaban extremos opuestos de la mesa‖ (5). De rigueur toasts are made for Antigua and Barbuda's future, to Somoza's memory, Duvalier's health and Balaguer's return, among other things.

Likewise, conference resolutions include: the reclusion of African Americans and

Native Americans in new reserves in Hawaii and a generous subsidy from the U.S. to all nations participating in the event, which would help pave their way to a future of democracy and economic prosperity in return for ―algunos kilñmetros de cada uno de ellos para la instalaciñn de discretas bases nucleares‖ (36). More importantly, though, it is agreed that the much anticipated Antillean Federation does not need to wait for the independence of all the region's islands to proclaim its existence, as the cooperation between the archipelago and their ―Buen Vecino del Norte‖ is already a reality, ―una realidad operante, constante y sonante‖ (36).

Witty and dark at the same time, the tone of these texts leaves readers with a bitter aftertaste. Although the Puerto Rican author seems to openly support the establishment of a project that would have political and/or economic implications (the book is dedicated to

―la confederaciñn caribeða del futuro‖), her pragmatism and knowledge of the history of the region lead her to cast doubts on the feasibility of such an endeavor. Even though the latter of Vega‘s stories avoids going into detail about the various rivalries that exist in the area, one cannot help but think, for instance, about the short and problematic life of the

West Indies Federation, which ran a little over four years (1958-1962) and finally collapsed due to internal political conflicts. In the end, however, I view the presence of such conflictive relationships on the literary radar as a positive sign. Whereas historically,

20

Caribbean societies have lived ―with their backs turned against each other‖, this phenomenon might attest to the emergence of a sense of mutual awareness and to the recognition of a common heritage. This common heritage is reflected in the key topoï that we will explore next.

Representations of slavery

Out of the various topics that have preoccupied Caribbean writers, one that prevails with utmost insistence is that of slavery and its problematic legacy11. For practical reasons – and for the sake of interest-, I do not intend to trace the literary texts that first treated this topic, or to create an inventory; instead, my analysis will focus on a few key works that stand out for their success within the public and for the influence they have had on the

Caribbean intellectual scene. Having said this, it is necessary to point out that, in general, slavery as a theme appears earlier in the literature of the Spanish-speaking territories, which started to develop before that of the Francophone islands. The specific socio- political histories of these two sub-areas have developed in such a way that they allow us to find parallel literary manifestations at different points in time12.

11 Any intellectual project implies an ideological bias; mine is no exception. Readers probably assume by now –but I should say it explicitly- that this chapter will be dealing with texts that view slavery as a deplorable institution that deeply marked the history of Western Europe and the Americas. For an overview of texts by Creole writers that promoted/defended the argument of slavery as a ―civilizing mission‖, see Régis Antoine‘s Les écrivains français et les Antilles: des premiers pères blancs aux surréalistes noirs, which sheds light on both sides of the issue.

12 One example of this phenomenon, mentioned by Ileana Rodríguez in Process of Unity, is the narrative literature of the abolitionist period. In Jamaica, she claims, we find travel books and diaries at the end of the 18th century and some novels at the beginning of the 19th century; in Cuba, there is a virtual ―take-off‖ of novelistic production during the 1830‘s. Rodrìguez observes that, although they are chronologically distinct, these moments in the evolution of Caribbean narrative are considered parallel because they ―occur at the same phase of economic development for each island‖ (67). The parallel nature of these literary manifestations is confirmed by the key questions they explore: ―the politics rooted in the problem of labor; the mechanization of sugar and the abolition of slavery‖ (67).

21

One of the most compelling accounts of Caribbean colonial society is Cirilo

Villaverde‘s Cecilia Valdés o la Loma del Angel, first published in New York in 1882.

This novel narrates a story of forbidden love between Cecilia Valdés, a ravishing mulata from Havana and Leonardo Gamboa, a young white man belonging to the local elite.

Cecilia Valdés soon achieved mythical status: it was celebrated, criticized and re-written by other novelists, set to music and even adapted for the screen13. Such smashing success cannot really be attributed to its tragic plot of interracial and incestuous love (the protagonists do not know that they have the same father) because, in fact, storylines portraying those types of relationships were not unconventional at the time. Rather, the novel‘s interest lies elsewhere: its vivid depiction of 19th century Cuban society provides what Sibylle Fischer has called a ―vast canvas of life in a slaveholding colony, at times horrifying, at times quaint, but extraordinary nonetheless‖ (xi).

Indeed, Villaverde‘s dissection of a society produced by colonialism and slavery surpasses the scope of most costumbrista novels14. It offers a window into the lives of masters, slaves and free people of color, revealing the prejudices that formed barriers among them. Although the author has been criticized for creating characters that allegedly justify the racial hierarchies of the time, it seems clear to me that Villaverde‘s

13 In her introduction to the English translation, Sibylle Fischer explains that, due to censorship reasons, the novel was not published in Cuba until 1903. Fischer counts at least 14 major editions of the novel between 1903 and 1982. Adaptations to other art forms include an eponymous zarzuela (an operatic genre of Spanish origin) ―composed in 1932 and still frequently performed in Cuba and the United States‖ and Cecilia, a six-part film (xxvi).

14 Costumbrismo: (from Spanish costumbre, ―custom‖), a trend in Spanish literature that emphasized the depiction of the everyday manners and customs of a particular social or provincial milieu. Although the origins of costumbrismo go back to the Golden Age of Spanish literature in the 16th and 17th centuries, it grew into a major force in the first half of the 19th century, first in verse and then in prose sketches called cuadros de costumbres (―scenes of customs‖) that stressed detailed descriptions of typical regional characters and social conduct, often with a satirical or philosophical intent […] Costumbrismo's lasting importance lies in its influence on the development of the regional novel in Spain and Latin America. Encyclopædia Britannica Online. 23 June 2009 .

22 goal in including all sectors of society was to denounce the horrors of slavery while showing the intricacies of the master/slave dialectic. Numerous scenes give readers a glimpse of the harsh treatment slaves were subjected to, often times for the most trivial reasons. For instance, when late one night Aponte -Leonardo‘s driver- is caught sleeping next to his buggy, his master wakes him up by furiously lashing the whip on him. The following morning, when Tirso -one of the house slaves- refuses to wake the young man up for breakfast because the former had been out all night and did not want to be bothered, Leonardo‘s father Cándido threatens to kick him if he does not obey: ―¿Qué?

¿Qué dices? ¡Ah! ¡Perro! Anda, corre si no quieres subir a puntapiés‖ (126).

However, the portrait presented in Cecilia Valdés is far from being a simplistic apology of the victim and a condemnation of the oppressor. Villaverde digs deep into the complex relationships created by the dynamics of slavery and the plantation system. As

Jean Lamore suggests in his introduction to the Spanish edition I am quoting, this text succeeds in creating an outline of a master/slave psycho-sociology (25) that ultimately sets to show the corrupting power of slavery as one of the foundations of 19th century

Cuban society. To this end, the author makes use of all the means at hand: sometimes he speaks directly to the reader; other times he lends his voice to some of his characters.

Through Isabel, Leonardo‘s fiancée, Villaverde sheds a critical light on the beauty of the

Vuelta Abajo region, where La Tinaja -the Gamboas‘ plantation- is located:

[Las puertas de Vuelta Abajo] no podían ser más espléndidas; podían calificarse de doradas. Pero, ¿qué pasaba allá abajo? ¿Habría dicha para el blanco, reposo y contentamiento alguna vez en su vida para el negro, en un país insaluble y donde el trabajo recio e incesante se imponía como un castigo y no como un deber del hombre en sociedad?...Aquellas fincas colosales que representaban la mayor riqueza en el país, ¿eran los signos del contento y de los puros placeres de sus dueños? ¿Habría dicha, tranquilidad de espíritu para quienes a sabiendas cristalizaban el jugo de la caña-miel con la sangre de millones de esclavos? (423)

23

The episode that follows this passage confirms Isabel‘s suspicions about the rampant despotism that reigns in La Tinaja and, at the same time, establishes a stark contrast with the atmosphere of her own family‘s plantation, depicted in a preceding chapter. Whereas she tries her best to ensure that her slaves are treated fairly, those of the Gamboa plantation are beaten and tortured night and day, and many times the punishment is disproportionate to the fault. During Isabel‘s visit to La Tinaja, a group of slaves that had run away is caught and brought back; the leader of the group is beaten so badly that he ends up committing suicide, perhaps the only way to avoid further pain and humiliation.

Horrified by the mix of ruthlessness and indifference displayed by the Gamboas, she helplessly laments on the perverse effects of slavery on the souls of both male and female masters: ―[la esclavitud]… poco a poco e insensiblemente infiltraba su veneno en el alma de los amos, trastornaba todas sus ideas de lo justo y de lo injusto, convertía al hombre en un ser todo iracundia y soberbia, destruyendo de rechazo la parte más bella de la segunda naturaleza de la mujer: la caridad‖ (479).

This portrait of the master/slave dialectic is completed by myriad examples that provide insightful nuances; thus, as mentioned before, Isabel is the kind slave-owner whose departure makes her slaves cry of sorrow. A contrasting case is that of slaves so poisoned by their vile condition that they behave like furious beasts, unleashing their repressed hatred at unexpected times. After a traffic collision, two drivers get into a nasty fight, forgetting their passengers and cargo. The narrator remarks: ―No era que se conocían, estaban reñidos o tenían agravios anteriores que vengar; sino que siendo los dos esclavos, oprimidos y maltratados siempre por sus amos, sin tiempo ni medio de satisfacer sus pasiones, se odiaban de muerte por instinto y meramente desfogaban la ira

24 de que estaban poseìdos, en la primera ocasiñn que se les presentaba‖ (200). Lack of solidarity, a propensity toward self-denigration; these are some of the pernicious psychological effects denounced by the author, to which we will come back in the section dedicated to a subject inextricably linked to that of slavery: the question of race.

A little over half a century after the publication of Villaverde‘s novel, Martinican poet Aimé Césaire would start the composition of his celebrated Cahier d‟un retour au pays natal, which constitutes an equally powerful condemnation of the savagery and dehumanization imposed by slavery. This masterful poem retraces a journey of self- discovery that is both physical and ontological, and which poses the painful heritage of slavery as an obligated stop in this process. In contrast with the obscure style that characterizes most of the text, the passages that evoke this historical period are marked by a straightforwardness that leaves little room for ambiguities:

Et ce pays cria pendant des siècles que nous sommes des bêtes brutes ; que les pulsations de l‘humanité s‘arrêtent aux portes de la négrerie ; que nous sommes un fumier ambulant hideusement prometteur de cannes tendres et de coton soyeux et l‘on nous marquait au fer rouge et nous dormions dans nos excréments et l‘on nous vendait sur les places et l‘aune de drap anglais et la viande salée d‘Irlande coûtaient moins cher que nous, et ce pays était calme, tranquille, disant que l‘esprit de Dieu était dans ses actes.

Nous vomissure de négrier Nous vénerie de Calebars quoi ? Se boucher les oreilles ? Nous, soûlés à crever de roulis, de risées, de brume humée Pardon tourbillon partenaire !

J‘entends de la cale monter les malédictions enchaînées, les hoquettements des mourants, le bruit d‘un qu‘on jette à la mer… les abois d‘une femme en gésine… des raclements d‘ongle cherchant des gorges… des ricanements de fouet… des farfouillis de vermine parmi des lassitudes… (Cahier 1815)

The first of the three stanzas quoted above details, in a tone of bitter recrimination, the

15 I am quoting from the second edition of an annotated volume prepared by Abiola Irele (2000).

25 objective dehumanization and ideological devaluation of the black race during slavery

(―des bêtes brutes‖, ―l‘humanité s‘arrête aux portes de la négrerie‖, ―fumier ambulant‖).

Moreover, by evoking two of the most important goods produced through this system of forced labor (―cannes tendres‖ and ―coton soyeux‖), the poet emphasizes the key role slavery played in the economic development of Europe, referred to in the first and last lines as ―ce pays‖. Personally, what I find most poignant about Césaire‘s poetry -and this is something that is demonstrated in this stanza- is his ability to condense meaning. In this specific case, a few powerful images effectively decry dehumanization and exploitation while simultaneously criticizing the way Europeans were able to justify the monstrosity of slavery through moral and religious arguments (―ce pays était calme, tranquille, disant que l‟esprit de Dieu était dans ses actes‖).

The next two stanzas recall the historical conditions of slavery and recreate the agony endured by the slaves during the Middle Passage: they were hunted like animals

(―vénerie‖) and treated as such, stacked in the holds of the slave ships and thrown into the sea when they died or became ill. In his comments on this section of the Cahier, Abiola

Irele accurately points to these lines as an indication that ―the memory of slavery remains with the poet as a profound psychological experience‖; indeed, he claims, ―the dramatic quality of the evocation brings out the pathos and full horror of the voyage‖ (101).

However, this psychological experience Irele refers to is not just a personal one.

In my view, the fact that the narrative voice alternates between singular and plural throughout the poem (―nous, vomissure…‖; ―nous vénerie…‖; ―j‘entends…‖) constitutes a clear sign that this experience has collective implications. It is true that the poet‘s orphic voyage is one of self-discovery; it is also true that this discovery is intimately and

26 unavoidably linked to the re-affirmation of his people‘s ethnic and cultural identity. The use of this poetic device corresponds to the author‘s desire to speak for his people, to give voice to a collective entity that was hitherto voiceless, as underscored in the famous lines:

Je viendrais à ce pays mien et je lui dirais: ―Embrasse-moi sans crainte… Et si je ne sais que parler, c‟est pour vous que je parlerai‖.

Et je lui dirais encore: ma bouche sera la bouche des malheurs qui n‟ont point de bouche, ma voix, la liberté de celles qui s‟affaissent au cachot du désespoir‖ (Cahier 8-9, emphasis mine).

As we will see, Césaire is not the only one to express this yearning. As a matter of fact, it could be said that, to varying degrees, all Antillean authors share this motivation. Indeed, in a world in which History -with a capital H- has been written by the colonizer, the ability to tell the untold stories of the ―petit peuple‖ becomes an urgent necessity. In this dissertation, I contend that one of the main forces that drive Caribbean writers is the desire to offer a faithful representation of the world in which they live, while at the same time finding a voice that is their own. For many of them, the latter element is contingent upon the former; in other words, this ―idiom‖ cannot be found if a fundamental part of that world is missing from its representation.

In their Éloge de la créolité, for instance, Martinican intellectuals Jean Bernabé,

Patrick Chamoiseau and Raphaël Confiant affirm that ―[ce] que nous croyons être l‘histoire antillaise n‘est que l‘Histoire de la colonisation des Antilles‖ (37), thus calling for a ―mise à jour de la mémoire vraie‖. These words echo those of their compatriot

Édouard Glissant, who devotes considerable sections of his Discours antillais to this issue. In Glissant‘s view, it is a writer‘s obligation to help counter the devastating effects of colonization on the collective memory of Caribbean societies:

Parce que la mémoire historique fut trop souvent raturée, l‘écrivain antillais doit

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‗fouiller‘ cette mémoire, à partir de traces parfois latentes qu‘il a repérées dans le réel. Parce que la conscience antillaise fut balisée de barrières stérilisantes, l‘écrivain doit pouvoir exprimer toutes les occasions où ces barrières furent partiellement brisées. Parce que le temps antillais fut stabilisé dans le néant d‘une non-histoire imposée, l‘écrivain doit contribuer à rétablir sa chronologie tourmentée, c‘est-à-dire à dévoiler la vivacité féconde d‘une dialectique réamorcée entre nature et culture antillaises (133).

In this effort to ‗re-write history from below‘, the evocation of slavery serves a specific purpose. As we all remember, the native populations of the region were virtually exterminated within the first two centuries of European colonization, which resulted in the transfer of massive numbers of Africans as working force for the exploitation of sugar cane. It is thus safe to say that the Caribbean societies of the present are the product of the forced mingling of cultures brought about by this socio-economic phenomenon. For many of these writers, then, it is the brutal dislocation of the slave trade that constitutes the true albeit painful genesis of their people. This view is emblematized in the words of

Papa Longoué, one of the protagonists of Glissant‘s Le quatrième siècle, who claims that the smell of death of the slave ships lingers on through the centuries:

Pourtant je la sens [cette odeur de vomi, de sang et de mort], pensait Papa Longoué. Depuis le premier bateau, quand ce commerce n‘était encore qu‘une aventure dont nul ne savait si les profits seraient convenables, jusqu‘à la Rose- Marie, à l‘époque où c‘était devenu une affaire fructueuse, oui, jusqu‘à ce matin qui vit les deux ancêtres débarquer de la Rose-Marie pour commencer l‟histoire qui est vraiment l‟histoire pour moi (23, emphasis mine).

Evidently, I do not want to imply that this theme invariably occupies a central role in all texts from the French and Spanish Caribbean. In some cases, slavery serves as a backdrop to the story. In other cases, it appears as a faint reference to a difficult yet distant past that must be overcome, as illustrated in Maryse Condé‘s Traversée de la mangrove, in which one of the characters tells his mother: ―…tout ça, l‘esclavage, les fers aux pieds, c‘est de l‘histoire ancienne. Il faut vivre avec son temps‖ (82). At any rate, one implicit, persistent

28 question seems to underlie these texts: ―How can we find ourselves as a people if we do not know who our ancestors really are, where they came from and what they went through?‖ This brings us to the second of the grandes lignes of Caribbean literature we will analyze in this chapter, one which emerges as a corollary to slavery in the region‘s quest for identity and self-affirmation: the question of race.

Racial relations

The racial diversity of the Caribbean is a fact that has been discussed countless times; indeed, the culture of the area constitutes a gigantic confluence of ethnic components of the most varied kinds. This phenomenon of cultural mingling occupies an important place in its literary discourse. Due to the historical circumstances mentioned earlier (slavery, early extermination of indigenous populations), the African element bears considerable weight in the racial makeup of these societies, which is also reflected in their literatures.

Nevertheless, it should be noted that the ‗question of race‘ in Caribbean culture rarely focuses on just one ethnic group; in reality, it would be more appropriate to speak of racial relations. Thus, when the views or problems of one group are treated in literary texts, it is usually vis-à-vis those of another. This is yet another component of the problematic legacy of colonialism, which instituted the ‗superiority‘ of Europeans in the

New World (Álvarez 114).

The complexity of the issue becomes evident when we take into account the history of the colonizing powers and the specific circumstances that surrounded the process of ethnic mixture in the different areas of the Caribbean. Thus, for instance, it is impossible to overlook the fact that the Spanish culture of the 15th century was already

29 the product of several hundred years of profound mestizaje. The influence of Arabic and

Jewish cultures had acquired such magnitude that it came to be regarded as a threat to the integrity of the nation, leading to the adoption of extreme measures like the reconquista or expulsion of the Moors and Jews from Spain in1492 (year of the ‗discovery‘ of the

New World). This conjunction of events was a decisive factor in the conception and implementation of subsequent colonial policies by the Spanish monarchy:

The new Spanish discourse on nationhood established blood as an exclusionary factor, and impure blood rapidly became the ultimate sign of Otherness. Its transference to the African slaves and, more importantly, to their mixed-blood offspring in the New World created the paramount signifier of new American nationhood: Christian and white (Arnold 1997, xiii).

The impact of this ideal of ―purity of blood‖ was not the same in all Spanish colonies.

Puerto Rico, for instance, witnessed an intense process of racial intermingling that resulted in the rapid outnumbering of a ―white‖ population that had been extremely small from the beginning. As Cuban critic José Sánchez-Boudy has observed, the presence of large numbers of African slaves and the absence of a white minority constituting a privileged class allowed for the rise of blacks and mestizos on the social ladder. In Puerto

Rico, he adds, ―los blancos, parias y pobretones, no encontraron escrúpulos al mezclarse con el indio y el negro encontrando sus pasiones sexuales fácil desaguadero‖ (54).

In Cuba, on the other hand, ―el blanco se abroqueló dentro de un mundo social y se casó entre sí o esperó la llegada de la novia blanca de España. No formó hogar, jamás, con la raza opuesta. El prejuicio siempre se impuso sobre el instinto y el negro fue segregado y discriminado‖ (Sánchez-Boudy 54). Here, as in other parts of Latin America and the Caribbean, anxieties over the perceived purity of one‘s blood became a veritable obsession that deeply marked the collective psyche, and whose traces endure until this

30 day. Indeed, in many of these societies, ―whiteness‖ (and the positive value associated with it) is still considered a highly desirable attribute; it is thus not uncommon to hear people say that a dark-skinned person who marries a lighter-skinned one is fortunate because they get the opportunity to ―mejorar la raza‖ (literally ―to improve the race‖).

This tension between ‗pure‘ vs. ‗impure‘ blood constitutes one of the thematic pillars of Cecilia Valdés. In an early episode of the novel, one of Leonardo‘s teachers is described as a stocky fellow with a big head and thick neck, curly black hair, thick lips and ―un color de tabaco de hoja que hacìa dudar mucho de la pureza de su sangre‖ (147).

Likewise, one of the male protagonist‘s friends seems tormented by the waviness of his hair, as this is a visible sign that betrays the possibility of a mixed-blood origin.

Leonardo, on the contrary, thinks this is a non-issue, and is not ashamed to acknowledge his fascination for mulattas: ―…no sé si porque tengo algo de mulato me gustan un puñado las mulatas. Lo confieso sin empacho‖ (136). Moreover, he mockingly disregards rumors that his father has paid a lot of money in Spain to commission ―un árbol genealñgico en que no habìa de verse ni una gota de sangre de judìo ni de moro‖ (183).

It is interesting to note that, during the first decades of their colonization process

(which in actuality did not start until the 1600s), this ideal of purity of blood did not have an equivalent in the French territories of the New World. Overall, the white population of these colonies was characterized by its extreme diversity in terms of regional and social backgrounds, to the extent that one scholar describes it as a ―disparate‖ group made up of

―fixed-contract fieldworkers, former prostitutes, ex-buccaneers and younger sons of noble families‖ (Brooks 121). Nevertheless, after the 1660s the colonizers began to be outnumbered by non-whites, which prompted them to try to affirm their power by

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―coalescing into a ‗caste‘, creating a symbolic solidarity through a shared set of values‖

(idem). This effort to preserve white hegemony was strengthened by the promulgation of

Louis XIV‘s infamous Code Noir (1685) which, among other things, sought to curb the growing métis population and served to legitimize discrimination against non-whites16.

Finally, the development of racialist theories over the course of the 18th and 19th centuries provided this sector of society with powerful ideological weapons that helped seal its position as ruling class. As a group, white Creoles saw themselves as politically, economically, morally and even biologically superior to the other sectors of society, and they went to great lengths to convey this message. Disconnected from their cultural roots, treated as animals and constantly subjected to various types of punishment and humiliation, African slaves and their descendants progressively came to regard the color of their skin as a symbol of shame.

The internalization of such attitudes, which imply the existence of a racial hierarchy, is reflected in numerous literary texts from the French Antilles. For example, in

Gisèle Pineau‘s ―Tourment d‘amour‖, a short story set in contemporary Martinique, the female protagonist/narrator is scolded for accidentally invading the privacy of an old lady‘s home. Although they are both black, the young woman is accused of affecting feelings of superiority that do not befit her condition: ―…[est]-ce que tu te considères comme un Blanc-France avec cette peau noire-charbon, et cette tignasse raide à casser les dents de peigne !‖ (81). Similarly, the anxieties of Cinna Chimène -one of the characters

16 Through this decree, the French monarchy defined the conditions of slavery in its colonies of the New World, restricted the activities of free Negroes, forbade the exercise of any religion other than Roman Catholicism and banned Jews out of its colonies. The Black Code also resolved the legal debate regarding the status of mixed-race children, especially those born from white fathers and slave mothers, who were sometimes considered as slaves, sometimes considered as free and were thus seen as a threat to white hegemony. Article 13 states that the child of a male slave and a free woman is free, whereas the child of a female slave and a free man is a slave.

32 of Glissant‘s La case du commandeur- illustrate the insidious effects of racist discourses that, to this day, are perpetuated by people on both sides of the racial divide. She is convinced that the black race –to which she belongs- is fundamentally unattractive, and her fixation frequently finds an outlet in conversations she holds with her husband

Pythagore, to whom she asks:

Avez-vous déjà vu…une race plus délabrée que la race noire ? La race mulâtre a de la chance, elle blanchit du gros orteil au bout du nez. Elle a des cheveux plus doux que poils de maïs. Avez-vous déjà vu quelqu‘un qui nage dans le noir et qui porte la beauté ? (Case du commandeur 31)

Although Pythagore assures Cinna Chimène that she is ―plus belle que la rosée sur le magnolia, plus droite que le balisier dans la forêt‖ (32), she insists on denying her beauty and buries herself ―dans une banalité soigneusement mise en place‖. Later on, as her daughter Mycéa prepares to do her homework, Cinna Chimène gravely scrutinizes the images found in her textbook, hoping to find confirmation of her beliefs. The drawing that depicts the classification of the human races basically speaks for itself, but since

Mycéa –the only literate person of the household- is not willing to interpret the text, she is soon forced to drop the case.

The contrast in the portrayal of the white man and the black man in the drawing is both striking and typical of the ‗scientific‘ theories prevalent throughout 19th century social discourse on race: ―En regard de la figure pensive et profonde d‘un Blanc s‘étalait la lippe brute d‘un Nègre qu‘on eût dit vérolé‖ (33). The caricaturesque nature of this depiction might seem somewhat anachronistic for a story that is said to take place in the

1930s and 40s, but it effectively reminds readers that these ideas ‗die hard‘. During slavery times, the supposed inferiority of Africans was frequently reinforced through language, by the use of negative epithets and imputations of animalistic behavior. This

33 practice is illustrated in André Schwarz-Bart‘s La mulâtresse Solitude, a novel that imagines the life of a former slave that became a legendary figure in the history of

Guadeloupe due to her involvement in slave uprisings of the late 18th century. In an early episode, the eponymous protagonist closely watches her mother, who is also a slave.

Solitude analyzes her demeanor in search of clues that might help her elucidate this woman‘s mysterious past. She ponders:

Elle savait que sa mère venait de l‘autre côté de l‘océan, que c‘était une sauvageonne, comme disaient les Blancs, une diablesse d‟Afrique, comme disaient les Noirs de celles qui n‘étaient pas nées au pays et que l‘on reconnaissait à leur figure incisée, à leur parler de bêtes, à leurs inquiétantes manières d‘eau salée (54, emphasis added).

The thoughts of the young girl inadvertently reproduce some of the prejudiced views of the time, stereotypes aimed at denying the humanity of Africans and ratifying their status as objects. Her looks, on the other hand, personify the violent mixture of cultures that would eventually bring a new social group into being: the mulatto population. The unwanted child of an African woman and an unknown French sailor, Solitude‘s features epitomize the hybrid nature of these ―êtres jaunes qui servaient d‘intermédiaires entre les

Noirs et les Blancs‖ (51). At birth, she was ―à peine teintée‖, and ―ne s‘assombrit véritablement qu‘au bout de six semaines‖ (49). The mother likes to look at her newborn daughter‘s mouth due to ―la plénitude rassurante des lèvres, qui évoquaient l‘Afrique‖

(50), but finds her gaze utterly disconcerting, as she has ―un œil sombre et l‘autre verdâtre, et qui semblaient chacun appartenir à une autre personne‖. The older slaves of the plantation ascribe these unexpected combinations to the swiftness of these sexual encounters, which usually would take place ―en l‘absence de temps et de volupté‖. These children are

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… enfants de barrières, de fossés ou de chemins… et surtout fruits de ces amours de vaisseaux négriers, de cette étrange coutume, la Pariade, qui avait lieu un mois avant l‘arrivée au port, jetant soudain les matelots ivres sur les ventres noirs lavés à grandes giclées d‘eau de mer. Les enfants de Pariade avaient souvent les traits qui se contrariaient, filaient dans tous les sens, des sourcils hésitants, des yeux entre deux mondes… (50)

Mulattos, an “intermediate race”

The foregoing description of Pariade children typifies an image of miscegenation that constitutes a thematic landmark of contemporary Caribbean literature. As a rule, most of the mulatto characters that appear in the texts I have studied are represented as hybrid, conflicted beings that belong to a sort of ―intermediate race‖ between whites and blacks.

Before we look into the various avatars of this literary figure, I should clarify that such depictions of ―bi-racial consciousness‖ are essentially a 20th century phenomenon. In a study on the treatment of racial hybridity in the U.S. and Latin American literary traditions, Carlos Hiraldo emphasizes the need to distinguish between what he calls the

―bi-racial‖ character of 19th century and the ―mulatto‖ one, which rarely appears before the 20th century. According to Hiraldo, the former is ―constructed as either dismissive of his/her miscegenated roots, consciously aligning him/herself with one or the other of the races from which (s)he descends, or as not fully conscious of the implications of such socially taboo origins‖ (31). Mulatto characters, on the other hand, are those ―portrayed as having a self-conscious awareness of their precarious situation at the margins of society as disdained members of two socially imagined distinct groups17‖ (31).

With the exception of Cecilia Valdés, all of the texts I will be focusing on are

17 Although Hiraldo‘s study refers to a larger, Latin American context, many of the texts he analyzes come from the Spanish Antilles and/or countries from the Caribbean rimlands. In my opinion, his distinction of ―bi-racial‖ vs. ―mulatto‖ characters also stands as valid when applied to the literatures of the francophone Antilles.

35 contemporary. I have taken the liberty to include this novel because its representation of the bi-racial character‘s psyche makes it a precursor to the more complicated portraits of mulattos we will find in more recent works. Unlike most of the abolitionist literature of

Cuba, Villaverde‘s novel does not just concern itself with demonstrating the evils of slavery; to a certain extent it succeeds in recreating the psychological impact of bi-racial identity in a slave society. The figure of the protagonist will be briefly analyzed in the section dedicated to the mulata. Here, I will examine two characters that represent the emerging mixed-race middle class of early 19th century Cuba: Francisco de Paula Uribe and José Dolores Pimienta.

The most sought-after tailor in the city, ―maestro‖ Uribe runs a highly successful business that caters to the most exclusive families of Havana‘s high society. Pimienta is a talented musician who, in addition to playing in several bands, must work as the tailor‘s helper in order to support himself and his sister Nemesia, Cecilia‘s best friend. Pimienta is deeply in love with our heroine, but he suffers because he knows that his love will never be reciprocated. As we know, Cecilia loves Leonardo, who, being rich and white, represents an infinitely better prospect in her eyes. Indeed, as the narrator explains: ―A la sombra del blanco, por ilícita que fuese su unión, creía y esperaba Cecilia ascender siempre, salir de la humilde esfera en que había nacido, si no ella sus hijos. Casada con un mulato, descendería en su propia estimación y en la de sus iguales: porque tales son las aberraciones de toda sociedad constituida como la cubana‖ (163).

At one point of the story, Pimienta is asked to try on a jacket that Leonardo is having made at Uribe‘s shop. He becomes visibly upset by this request, which prompts the tailor to advice him to be strong and hide his feelings of jealousy and powerlessness.

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―Haz como el perro con las avispas‖, he adds, ―enseðar los dientes para que crean que te rìes‖ (205). Uribe‘s suggestion reveals a side of his personality that was heretofore unknown both to readers and to his interlocutor. As a matter of fact, on the surface, he is extremely courteous and attentive to his clients‘ needs; in reality, he is profoundly vexed by the role in which colonial society has confined the sector of the population that was then known as the ―free people of color‖. Attempting to pacify his friend, Uribe sets off in a speech that becomes progressively angrier:

¿No ves que ellos son el martillo y nosotros somos el yunque? Los blancos vinieron primero y se comen las primeras tajadas; nosotros los de color vinimos después y gracias que roemos los huesos. Deja correr, chinito, que alguna vez nos ha de tocar a nosotros. Esto no puede durar siempre así. Haz lo que yo. ¿Tú no me ves besar muchas manos que deseo ver cortadas? Te figurarás que me sale de adentro. Ni lo pienses, porque lo cierto y verídico es que, en verbo de blanco, no quiero ni el papel (205).

Ultimately, Pimienta‘s melancholic nature prevents him from grasping the full extent of the political connotations of his friend‘s ranting. What bothers him the most (and perhaps only because of his feelings for Cecilia) is that the men of the ruling class have unlimited access to the women of all ethnic and social backgrounds: ―… es muy duro, durísimo, insufrible, señó Uribe…, que ellos nos arrebaten las de color, y nosotros no podamos ni mirar para las mujeres blancas‖ (206).

Still, with all its insight into the psyche of mulatto individuals, Cecilia Valdés cannot completely escape the ideological limitations of the time period in which it was written. It is interesting to see that, beneath the author‘s honorable intentions, the physical portraits of these characters betray the persistence of racial prejudices. Villaverde writes that ―even if he wanted‖, Uribe could not have hidden his mixed-race origin because of his appearance: ―Era de elevada talla, enjuto de carnes, carilargo, los brazos tenía

37 desproporcionados, la nariz achatada, los ojos saltones, o a flor del rostro, la boca chica, y tanto que apenas cabían en ella dos sartas de dientes ralos, anchos y belfos; los labios renegridos, muy gruesos y el color cobrizo pálido‖ (198).

Pimienta, on the contrary, is said to have ―more white blood than black blood‖.

This reflects in a combination of features that is clearly intended as more pleasant, including ―el color menos bilioso de su rostro…, la regularidad de sus facciones, la amplitud de su frente, la casi perfección de las manos y la pequeñez de los pies, que así en la forma como en el arco del puente podían competir con los de una dama de la raza caucásica. Ni con ser de constitución delicada sobresalían mucho los pómulos de su rostro ovalado, ni tenía el cabello tan lanudo como Uribe‖ (202). Pimienta‘s somewhat feminine traits are closer to the classical ideal of physical beauty, whereas Uribe‘s looks, with his ―horse-like mouth‖ and ―wooly hair‖, demonstrate an ideological bias against

African features that was still prevalent in Villaverde‘s time. In the end, these portraits underlie the idea that ‗all mulattos are not created equal‘, and lead us to another fundamental element in the portrayal of inter-racial relations in Caribbean literature: the intricacies of the ―color spectrum‖.

On the literary realm, the ethnic complexity of the region translates into kaleidoscopic configurations in which the terms white, black and mulatto are only three of the myriad possibilities. In certain cases, such as in the societies of the French Antilles, the range of racial subcategories develops into a highly specialized taxonomy. Thus, we find that creole whites are blanc-pays in Guadeloupe and békés in Martinique, whereas metropolitan French are blanc-france. A black person with very dark skin is a nègre- congo. People from Indian origin are coolie (or kouli), and those who migrated from any

38

Middle Eastern country are syriens. When it comes to the different types of mulattos, however, things get even more complicated: within the traditional mulâtre group, there are also câpres and chabins, which can in turn be rouge or jaune (or the more poetic version dorée, usually applied to beautiful women).

Each subcategory is attributed certain intrinsic personality traits: coolies are often depicted as quiet, mysterious beings that do not easily mix with the rest of the population; chabins are reputedly untrustworthy and insensitive by nature. In one of the novels that comprise Raphaël Confiant‘s Trilogie tropicale, the narrator enlightens his foreign readers with the particularities of this subtype, to which he belongs:

…le chabin est… un mélange insensé de nègre fou et de Caucasien barbare, un être qui a hérité des pires défauts des deux ethnies les plus antagonistes de l‘univers… et qui, pour son malheur, n‘a généré, ou autogénéré, aucune qualité humainement et papalement reconnue comme relevant de la charité, de la tendresse ou de la patience‖ (La savane des pétrifications 18).

It is easy to see that, whether they are being employed in a serious or ironic tone, these representations tell more about prevalent stereotypes than they do about actual cultural behaviors. Having said this, it seems that the commonly held view of mulattos as conflicted beings is not entirely false. By this I mean that many texts that depict mixed- race individuals ‗from within‘ tend to highlight the characters‘ struggle with the

―consciousness of descending from ‗black‘ and ‗white‘ forebears in racially stratified societies‖ (Hiraldo 55).

Few narratives take the black/white dichotomy of the mulatto character as literally as ―Otra maldad de Pateco‖, another short text in Vega‘s Encancaranublado. Written in the manner of a fairytale, the story opens with the image of Pateco Patadecabro, a sort of trickster figure, dying the skin of a baby to make it two-tone. The child presumably

39 belongs to doña Amalia Montero, the owner of a large sugar plantation. When they realize that their baby has a white body and a black head, doña Amalia and her husband decide to abandon him to his own luck. But the slave in charge of getting rid of the child takes pity on him and leaves him under the care of Mamá Ochú, a black healer.

As a way to protect the young boy –whom she has called José Clemente-, Mamá

Ochú forbids him to leave the house, so he grows up knowing nothing of the outside world, with her folk tales as his sole distraction. As his curiosity develops, José Clemente starts to observe things around him; he asks the old healer one day: ―por qué soy blanco y tú negra, Mamá Ochú?‖ (―Otra maldad‖ 69). The boy imagines that he is white because there are no mirrors in his house, so he has never seen his own, black head. Instead of telling him the truth, the woman lies by saying that his eyes are ―azulitos como el rìo‖ and his hair is ―amarillito como el sol‖ (70). Eventually, he goes out into the world, meets a young slave and falls in love with her. When the girl vanishes without a trace, José

Clemente cries inconsolably next to a river and, only then, he gets to see the reflection of his face in the water for the first time.

Finally confronted with the fact that he is not entirely white, our hero implores the

African gods for his ―color‖ to be returned to him, only to get Ogún‘s enigmatic response:

―entre los tuyos está tu color: cuando seas uno ya no serás dos‖ (72). Soon after this, a fire develops in the plantation and the meaning of Ogún‘s words is revealed: José

Clemente must choose between saving the masters and saving the slaves. In the end, guided by a superior force (―como movido por una fuerza superior‖), he frees the slaves and ends up joining them. Through this decision, he resolves his racial uncertainty, as he sides with the people who raised him and rejects those who rejected him at birth. When

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Mamá Ochú sees him again, the young man has literally turned all black: ―Cuál no sería su sorpresa al ver al joven, machete en mano, seguido de su gente, con el cuerpo tan negro como la cabeza y una sonrisa cimarrona en los labios‖, 73).

In my view, the resolution of this short story proves problematic insofar as the protagonist, like many of his 19th century predecessors, is forced to ‗choose a side‘. On the other hand, José Clemente‘s racial origins are never entirely elucidated; it is hinted that he could have been black all along and sent by the gods to the Montero family in order to teach them a lesson, but nothing is too certain. In any case, the point of Vega‘s story seems to reside elsewhere. As one critic has observed, ―[the author‘s] refusal to provide a single clear explanation indicates the uncertainty of racial status in Puerto Rico and suggests that, in certain contexts, biological race does not matter as much as culturally variable assumptions‖ (Bost 198). For the bi-racial individual, race is often a matter of choice. In this case, what seems to have more weight in the definition of the character‘s identity are his moral and political decisions.

Race and cultural alienation

At first sight, it would seem that the ambiguous position of mulattos in society makes them somehow more prone to being victims of cultural alienation. The literatures of the

New World are populated by thousands of characters who, like José Clemente, are forced to choose sides, thus neglecting part of their heritage in order to forge an identity. And yet, a more attentive reading of certain texts reveals that, at least in the francophone

Antilles, blacks are just as susceptible to the assimilating forces of metropolitan culture and values. This is certainly the case for the ―nègres savants‖ of Glissant‘s novel

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Malemort, a group of high school teachers whose foppishness becomes legendary: ―la cravate à gros nœud invariablement accrochée au col amidonné, le complet de drill blanc

à veste un peu tombante à l‘endroit des poches, les grosses bottines à lacet sous le tombé serré des pantalons…, l‘air de toujours suivre un conte tissé dans l‘air…‖ (148-149). Lost in the preciosity of their language and manners and the artificiality of their views, these men spend their lives trying to be something that they are not. The incongruity of their attire betrays the absurdity of their existential quest:

[ils] avaient mis un entêté génie à gratter la même irréductible gratelle d‘être, avaient poussé à l‘extrême de l‘inconfort et n‘avaient pas ménagé le ridicule de leurs manies, comme persuadés qu‘il eût fallu vivre jusqu‘au bout leur caricature, pour à la fin espérer sortir pathétiques du trou de néant où on les avait bloqués (Malemort 149).

In the same vein, Maryse Condé‘s Le cœur à rire et à pleurer -a book about the writer‘s childhood in Guadeloupe- provides a fascinating account that I would like to explore in some detail. Some may object that a non-fictional memoir should not be included in a dissertation that places an emphasis in the analysis of fictional narratives, but the truth is that autobiographies are often as much a reflector of cultural values as are novels or short stories. In the case of Condé‘s text, her reflections vis-à-vis the customs and attitudes of her black bourgeois family give readers invaluable insight into the complexities of an

Antillean society that has continually been under the influence of French cultural assimilation policies.

The weight of this influence is introduced since the opening paragraphs, where the narrator explains that, for her parents, the hardest thing about the World War II period had been the impossibility to take their accustomed trips to France, to which they were entitled for being public servants. For them, this country did not represent a symbol of

42 oppression or the site of colonial power; on the contrary, it was ―véritablement la mère patrie et Paris, la ville Lumière qui seule donnait de l‘éclat à leur existence‖ (11). When, after 1946, the family is finally able to visit France again, they must confront the typical reactions of people on the street who marvel at how well they speak French. Such ignorance represents an evident source of distress for the father, who is convinced that they are ―aussi français qu‘eux‖ (13). The mother goes one step further, claiming that, in fact, they are even ―[plus] français‖, while adding as a justification: ―Nous sommes plus instruits. Nous avons de meilleures manières. Nous lisons davantage. Certains d‘entre eux n‘ont jamais quitté Paris alors que nous connaissons le Mont-Saint-Michel, la Côte d‘Azur et la Côte basque‖ (13).

In my opinion, this desire to be ―more French than the French‖ is but one of the symptoms related to the struggle that both blacks and mulattos from Guadeloupe and

Martinique have been fighting for centuries. Since the abolition of slavery -and, for the

―free people of color‖, even before that-, the non-white classes of society have had to make great efforts to disassociate themselves from the stigma of a disgraceful past.

Realizing that in the absence of money, their chances of ascending in society could be furthered by acquiring an education, many of them would decide to embrace a culture that was being offered to them as part of the French ‗civilizing mission‘. A similar phenomenon has been observed within the black and mulatto populations of the United

States. As Judith Berzon notes in her study of mulatto characters in American fiction,

―[t]here have been both full-blooded and mixed-blooded blacks who have rejected their African roots […] The most extreme form of this denial is ―passing for white,‖ wherein the mulatto abandons all affiliation with the black community. A second form of rejection has been membership in elitist black bourgeois communities […], many of whose members are light-skinned. In certain places […], black middle- and upper- class communities have emphasized their rejection

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of the black proletariat and have embraced white middle-class values in which physical appearance, (white) ancestry, money, status, and conspicuous consumption play major roles. Membership within these elitist communities has provided the means for making the American dream work –to some extent- for an oppressed racial minority‖ (Neither White Nor Black 6).

We could extend the metaphor and say that, in the case of Martinique and Guadeloupe, former colonies of France and now full-bodied members of the republic as Départements d‟Outre-Mer, this mechanism has provided a means for oppressed sectors of society to make the ‗French dream‘ of liberté, égalité, fraternité work for them. After all, they are - at least theoretically- as much French citizens as their metropolitan counterparts. An important distinction must nevertheless be added to the list of white middle-class values mentioned by Berzon: the idea of ―culture‖ within French society. Beyond the basics of a formal education, many blacks and mulattos will strive to become (or at leas to appear) learned within the Western vision of culture. Going back to Condé‘s memoir, we find that the narrator‘s father employs Latin expressions in everyday conversations and envies a neighbor for having ―all of Victor Hugo, Balzac and Émile Zola‖ in his library (30).

The other side of this ‗frenchification‘ process entails a rejection of Creole cultural values, which remain an inextricable part of the denigrating heritage of slavery18.

Thus, little Maryse and her siblings are not allowed to speak Creole at home, nor can they go out to play with other children on the street (although this restriction is lifted during their stays in France, where they are actually encouraged by the parents to interact with the petits français). Likewise, they are exposed to stories like Peau d‟âne and Les malheurs de Sophie, but not to the creole tales of Zamba and Compè Lapin. The task of insulating this educated family from the ‗pernicious‘ ways of the petits-nègres and lower

18 For an interesting analysis of the changing status of the Creole language in relation to that of French in the Lesser Antilles, cf. Jane Brooks‘ ―Challenges to Writing Literature in Creole‖.

44 class mulâtres seems to have been facilitated by the rigid social environment of 1950s

Guadeloupe: ―en ce temps-là, en Guadeloupe, on ne se mélangeait pas. Les nègres marchaient avec les nègres. Les mulâtres avec les mulâtres. Les blancs-pays restaient dans leur sphère et le Bon Dieu était content dans son ciel‖ (62).

For sentimental reasons perhaps, Condé refuses to see her parents as one more example of the cultural estrangement denounced by sociologists. When her older brother suggests that they are nothing but ―une paire d‘aliénés‖ (15), her ensuing reflections indicate that she is not ready to accept this as a fact. Like her mother, Condé concedes, her father ―était convaincu que seule la culture occidentale vaut la peine d‘exister et il se montrait reconnaissant envers la France qui leur avait permis de l‘obtenir‖ (18). And yet, in her eyes, neither of them ever experienced ―le moindre sentiment d‘infériorité à cause de leur couleur. Ils se croyaient les plus brillants, les plus intelligents, la preuve par neuf de l‘Avancement de la Race des Grands-Nègres‖ (18). In an interesting paradox, toward the end of the book, the question of cultural alienation surfaces again, as the narrator seems to come to the realization that her upbringing has separated her from her culture:

La lecture de Joseph Zobel, plus que des discours théoriques, m‘a ouvert les yeux. Alors j‘ai compris que le milieu auquel j‘appartenais n‘avait rien de rien à offrir et j‘ai commencé de le prendre en grippe. À cause de lui, j‘étais sans saveur ni parfum, un mauvais décalque des petits Français que je côtoyais. J‘étais ‗peau noire, masque blanc‘ et c‘est pour moi que Frantz Fanon allait écrire (120).

“Ella es toda pasión y fuego”: Mulatas in Caribbean literature

At this juncture, it will be useful to return to Cirilo Villaverde‘s celebrated novel and its bi-racial protagonist. Perhaps the least original aspect of this engrossing text, the character of Cecilia Valdés has nonetheless acquired paradigmatic value as ‗New World‘

45 heir of 19th century European discourse on Africa/blackness. Although the fascination of the Old Continent with blackness dates back to the Middle Ages, it attains its most sophisticated form in the literary and medical representations of this historical period, which coincides with the apogee of Europe‘s colonial enterprise. As T. Denean Sharpley-

Whiting has suggested in Black Venus, lettered men of the time were ―plagued by questions concerning the nature of femininity […] as well as by the more profound discovery of other worlds that shook the very foundation of Europe‘s belief in its essence, rather than incidentalness, to humanity‖. ―Desire for knowledge‖, she adds, ―and thus mastery of blacks and women, led to the creation of racist-sexist ideologies, images […], and institutions […] to produce and sustain the illusion of realism, of absolute truth, thereby effecting mastery of otherness‖ (6).

If, in general, Africanism (representations of blackness) symbolizes the abnormal in Eurocentric discourse, it follows that black women, ―embodying the dynamics of racial/sexual alterity‖ signify ―ultimate difference (the sexualized savage) and inspire repulsion, attraction, and anxiety‖. This gave rise to what Sharpley-Whiting calls the

―nineteenth-century collective imaginations of Black Venus (primitive narratives)‖ (6). In the specific case of texts like Cecilia Valdés and Honoré de Balzac‘s La fille aux yeux d‟or, mulatto women constitute quasi-mythical creatures whose beauty has hypnotic powers that charm even the most spiritual of men19. Due to her African heritage, the mulata of these narratives is governed by a lascivious nature. On the other hand, her

19 The parallels between the protagonists of these two stories are striking. In addition to sharing a last name with her Cuban counterpart (the Paquita of the golden eyes is, as we remember, also a Valdés), Balzac‘s character is Antillean and possesses that dangerous mixture of innocence and voluptuousness. After seeing her for the first time, Henri de Marsay cannot help but exclaim: ―Since I have begun to contemplate women, my unknown is the only one whose virginal bosom, whose ardent and voluptuous curves have realized for me the unique woman of my dreams… She is an ideal woman, an abyss of pleasures where one wallows endlessly… I must have this girl for a mistress‖ (quoted in Sharpley-Whiting, pp. 48-49).

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European (i.e. French/Spanish) side endows her with physical attributes that correspond to the Western canon of feminine beauty.

The figure of Cecilia Valdés is a remarkable personification of the dichotomy between the mulata‘s appearance and her sexual nature. Unlike many of the tragic female characters described by Berzon in her study of American fiction20, Cecilia is generally well loved and accepted by her own people and by the rich families that know her. Her innocence, naïveté, and the fairness of her features are echoed in the nickname that identifies her throughout the novel (they call her ―la virgencita de bronce‖). However, the

African element of Cecilia‘s ancestry seems to taint her disposition. When she is first introduced to us, we are made aware of certain proclivities that her upbringing will help exacerbate. Her mouth, for instance, is described as ―chica y con los labios llenos, indicando más voluptuosidad que firmeza de carácter‖; her facial features make up ―un bello conjunto, que para ser perfecto sólo faltaba que la expresión fuese menos maliciosa, sino maligna‖ (73). In the long run, her overflowing sensuality has an almost diabolical effect on Leonardo, who confesses that he is obsessed with her:

[Cecilia] me trae siempre loco, me ha hecho cometer más de una locura y todavía me hará cometer muchas más. Con todo, no la amo, ni la amaré nunca […] Aquella es toda pasión y fuego, es mi tentadora, un diablito en figura de mujer, la Venus de las mula… ¿Quién es bastante fuerte para resistìrsele? ¿Quién puede acercársele sin quemarse? ¿Quién al verla no más no siente hervirle la sangre en las venas? ¿Quién la oye decir te quiero, y no se le trastorna el cerebro cual si bebiera vino? (414, emphasis mine)

The overarching image of the preceding passage is that of Cecilia‘s ‗fallenness‘. This image is reinforced by the comparison Leonardo draws between her and Isabel, his white fiancée, who is depicted in terms that highlight her austere albeit graceful nature: ―Bella,

20 For Berzon, ―the tragic mulatto character is an outcast, a wanderer, one alone. [He/she] is the fictional symbol of marginality. Rejected out of fear and hatred by the dominant group, [he/she] is often rejected out of envy and hatred by the lower caste as well‖ (Neither White Nor Black 100).

47 elegante, amable, instruida, severa, [Isabel] posee la virtud del erizo, que punza con sus espinas al que osa tocarla. Estatua, en fin, de mármol por lo rígida y por lo fría, inspira respeto, admiraciñn, cariðo tal vez, no amor loco, no una pasiñn volcánica‖ (414).

Ultimately, despite her initial reluctance to share Leonardo‘s heart with another woman,

Cecilia succumbs to her ‗sinfulness‘ (but also pushed by the circumstances): she accepts to become his mistress and even bears his child. True to her nature of femme fatale,

Cecilia brings about her lover‘s demise: Leonardo dies at the hands of Pimienta, just minutes before his wedding with Isabel.

Because of the structural constraints of a dissertation, my focus on mulata characters does not intend to be exhaustive. There are too many texts that evoke this topos of Caribbean literature to discuss them in detail within the confines of this study.

Rather, I will summarize by restating that, in most cases, the mulata is primarily a sexual being that has little if any control over her destiny. This portrayal is partly the continuation of 19th century European literary and medical discourse, which viewed

African women as lascivious and demonic by nature. However, we cannot attribute this phenomenon entirely to the intrinsic appeal of this figure as a vehicle for male fantasies.

Sadly, in addition to embodying the ultimate form of otherness in the Western male psyche, this representation of mulatto women is also solidly anchored in the historical realities of these societies. As Jean Lamore has pointed out, these characters are inspired by ―una realidad sociohistórica: el mestizaje considerado como inferior e inferiorizante‖ (41). As miscegenation became increasingly common and sizable mixed- race groups came into existence, the ruling classes in both French and Spanish Antilles started to see them as a potential threat to their hegemony. The various legal mechanisms

48 set in place to neutralize this ‗menace‘ brought as a side effect the depreciation of the honor of mulatto women21.

The psychological repercussions of these social practices have been long-lasting.

It is not exaggerated to claim that, to this day -at least in the fictional world of literature-, not only are mulatas not held to the same standards as white women, they are almost expected to reject certain moral values. The case of Ancinelle, the protagonist of

Confiant‘s L‟allée des soupirs, illustrates this tendency. As a young teenager, she is almost raped by her friend‘s stepfather, escaping only by the fact that the man cannot get an erection. When the news of the incident starts to spread, nobody seems to think much of it, and neither her godmother, her friend, or her friend‘s mother –all women- show signs of sympathy toward the poor girl;

au contraire, on avait bien ri de la mésaventure d‘Ancinelle et sa marraine lui avait crié qu‘elle n‘était qu‘une vierge bonne à rien et que son hymen étoufferait à la longue… Vierge ! Autant dire idiote, couillone à l‘émeri, impotente, malpropre en plus. Et dire que sa mère l‘avait expédiée à Fort-de-France afin que les coupeurs de canne ne la forcent pas dans les champs… (19).

It would not be fair to convey the impression that the image of the mulata is mostly a negative one. After all, the mulâtresse Solitude does not constitute a literary aberration. It is, nonetheless, decidedly a problematic one, which attributes these women a quasi- mythical status for their overpowering sexuality. Their representations are thus often cartoonish, deprived of realism or psychological depth. Many contemporary texts perpetuate or satirize this image (Cuba Venegas of Tres Tristes Tigres, Dolores Rondón of

21 In the case of Cuba, for example, Lamore explains: ―la virginidad de las mujeres blancas era protegida por la familia y la ley, puesto que se trataba de conservar la posición dominante en la sociedad, mediante la garantía de la legitimidad de los hijos. Al contrario, la virtud de una mulata no tenía gran peso, puesto que su descendencia debía quedar ilegítima, con vista a no poder disfrutar de ningún derecho reservado a la ‗sociedad de los blancos‘‖ (Cecilia Valdés 42). A similar situation occurred in the French colonies where, as established by the Code Noir, the legal status of a child depended on that of the mother (see note 13 of this chapter).

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De donde son los cantantes, most female characters of Confiant‘s novels) which, for the time being, remains an unavoidable point of reference.

Manifestations of creole culture

Although this overview of the grandes lignes of Caribbean literatures in French and

Spanish does not claim to be an exhaustive one, it would be sorely incomplete if we do not take into account a theme that appears continually under various guises: creole culture. Whether they are playing a capital role in the architecture of the text or purely functioning as part of the décor, the references to manifestations of an autonomous culture (religion, music, language, rituals) constitute one of the most visible identity markers of Caribbean literature.

In this category, the syncretic religions that have developed in the area are echoed in numerous novels and short stories. Vaudou, for example, is an omnipresent topos of

Haitian literature, and different authors approach it from different angles. Sometimes, vaudou figures simply as one component of the cultural scenery, employed to add local color to a story. Alejo Carpentier‘s El reino de este mundo belongs in this first group. Set in revolutionary Haiti, this novel makes constant references to different aspects of vaudou religion, but always in a superficial way: poisonings, amulets, sacrifices and folk songs interspersed here and there. As J. Sánchez-Boudy has pointed out, this element only comes into play ―para darle cuerpo a la obra‖ (91), in order to underscore its centrality for

Haitian culture22.

Other times, vaudou is presented in a positive light, as an element of resistance

22 The incidental value of Haitian vaudou in El reino contrasts with the treatment of Cuban santería that is at the heart of Ecué-Yamba-Ó, Carpentier‘s first novel, which constitutes a veritable treaty on the subject.

50 and contestation against the religion imposed by the colonizers. This is often the case in the novels of Jacques-Stephen Alexis who, without adhering to vaudou beliefs, seems to sympathize with them while, at the same time, criticizing the Haitian catholic establishment. A similar portrayal is often found in the works of René Depestre (see, for instance, my analysis of his novel Hadriana dans tous mes rêves in chapter 4).

A third group of novels treats the topic from a critical angle. This is illustrated in

Jacques Roumain‘s Gouverneurs de la rosée, which portrays the hardships of rural Haiti.

This seminal text tells the story of Manuel, a man who has just come back to Fonds-

Rouge –his hometown– after spending several years in Cuba as a worker in the sugar cane fields. Upon his return, Manuel finds out that the village has been suffering a terrible drought. As he talks to his parents for the first time, his mother wonders if their misfortunes are a sign that God has abandoned them, to which our hero replies: ―Le bon

Dieu n‘a rien à voir là-dedans‖ (Gouverneurs 36). Considering these words sacrilegious, his mother admonishes him, but this does not keep Manuel from explaining his view of the world: ―Il y a les affaires du ciel et il y a les affaires de la terre: ça fait deux et ce n‘est pas la même chose. Le ciel, c‘est le pâturage des anges […] Mais la terre, c‘est une bataille jour pour jour, une bataille sans repos‖ (36-37).

Soon afterwards, Manuel‘s parents arrange a ceremony in order to thank the loas for bringing about the return of their long-lost son. The scene that describes the ceremony recreates the vaudoun ritual in all its details. After friends and relatives are invited,

Manuel is sent to buy rum and clairin. That evening, torches are lit up around the arbor where people are gathered. The arrival of the houngan, followed by the hounsi, master of ceremony, flag bearers and drum players, marks the official beginning of the ritual:

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Faisant une révérence, Bienaimé offrit à Dorméus une cruche d‘eau. Le houngan la reçut avec gravité, la souleva lentement de ses deux mains jointes vers les quatre directions cardinales. Ses lèvres murmuraient les paroles secrètes. Il arrosa ensuite le sol, traça un cercle magique, redressa sa haute taille et se mit à chanter accompagné de tous les assistants :

Papa Legba, l‟ouvri barriè-a pou nous, ago yé ! Atibon Legba, ah l‟ouvri barriè-a pou nous, pou nous passer Lo n‟a rivé, n‟a remercié loa yo Papa Legba, mait‟e trois carrefours, mait‟e trous chemins, mait‟e trois rigoles L‟ouvri bariè-a pou nous, pou nous entrer Lo n‟a entré, n‟a remercié loa yo. (59-60)

By the end of the episode, it becomes clear that Manuel appreciates the social aspect of these practices but does not really believe they can have any impact on the harsh realities of their lives. For him, the villagers‘ appeals and sacrifices to the loas as a means to attract rain are quite simply ―bêtises‖, ―macaqueries‖ (83). When his girlfriend Annaïse suggests that this could be viewed as a sign of disrespect toward the ancestors, Manuel quickly clarifies: ―Non, j‘ai de la considération pour les coutumes des anciens, mais le sang d‘un coq ou d‘un cabri ne peut faire virer les saisons, changer la course des nuages et les gonfler d‘eau comme des vessies. L‘autre nuit, à ce service de Legba, j‘ai dansé et j‘ai chanté mon plein contentement : je suis nègre, pas vrai ? et j‘ai pris mon plaisir en tant que nègre véridique […] Mais c‘est tout‖ (84).

In my opinion, through the protagonist‘s reluctance to accept the prevailing fatalism of the town, Roumain puts forth a critique of the conformist behaviors instilled by religious institutions. Although Manuel was initially ―one of them‖, his experiences in

Cuba provided him with a different outlook on life, one that favors agency over anything else: ―L‘expérience est le bâton des aveugles et j‘ai appris que ce qui compte […] c‘est la rébellion, et la connaissance que l‘homme et le boulanger de la vie‖ (84).

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Another facet of creole culture that recurs in Caribbean texts –especially in those from the French Antilles– is the world of oral traditions, usually represented by the figure of the conteur or creole storyteller. In this respect, M. Médouze of Joseph Zobel‘s Rue

Cases-Nègres constitutes one the most memorable incarnations of the enigmatic maîtres de la parole23. Friend, mentor and father-like figure to José Hassam –the young protagonist of the novel–, Médouze is an old black man who lives a few shacks away from the boy and his grandmother. He is first described as ―le plus vieux, le plus misérable, le plus abandonné de toute la plantation‖ (51), more of a ghost than a real person. However, the evening gatherings in which he tells José riddles and stories show a different side of him, ―le vrai visage de M. Médouze‖ (52): ―La lueur du foyer éclairait toute la façade de la case; et le corps de M. Médouze, vêtu seulement d‘un pagne […] avec, au cou, un minuscule sachet noir de crasse et attaché à une fibre, ressemblait à un beau corps d‘homme que la flamme avait longuement grillé et qu‘elle se plaisait maintenant à patiner dans toutes les gammes de bruns‖ (52).

Giving the appearance of a subdued, uninteresting character, the conteur stands diametrically opposed to another icon of the histories of the petit peuple: the heroic nègre marron. Both are marginal figures that emerged as reactions to the dehumanization of slavery, but they symbolize radically different attitudes24. The runaway slave embodies the ultimate stance of open rebellion and defiance toward oppression, whereas the storyteller adopts sophisticated strategies of diversion for survival. Designated by tradition as bearer of cultural memory, Médouze‘s unimpressive exterior is thus a mask

23 Another fascinating character is the eponymous protagonist of Solibo Magnifique, a novel by Patrick Chamoiseau that will be analyzed in Chapter Two. 24 Richard Burton‘s Le roman marron offers an in-depth analysis of the various avatars of this pivotal figure in French Caribbean writing.

53 intended to protect and assure the transmission of these collective values.

His riddles rivet little José, presenting the world in a new, unexpected light: ―Tout l‘attrait de ces séances de devinettes est de découvrir comment un monde d‘objets s‘apparente, s‘identifie à un monde de personnes ou d‘animaux […] [S]ur la simple intervention de M. Médouze, le monde se dilate, se multiplie, grouille vertigineusement autour de moi‖ (53-54). In addition to entertaining, these storytelling sessions provide guiding principles meant to help children avoid the dangers of life. Ultimately, though, they seek to safeguard the painful memories of the slavery days. Médouze tells José the story that his own father had told him as a child, of how his family was taken away and separated, but also of what came after:

―J‘étais jeune, disait mon père, lorsque tous les nègres s‘enfuirent des plantations, parce qu‘on avait dit que l‘esclavage était fini.‖ Moi aussi, je gambadai de joie et je parcourus toute la Martinique en courant […] Mais, quand je fus revenu de l‘ivresse de la libération, je dus constater que rien n‘avait changé pour moi ni mes compagnons de chaîne. Je n‘avais pas retrouvé mes frères et sœurs, ni mon père, ni ma mère. Je restai comme tous les nègres dans ce pays maudit : les békés gardaient la terre, toute la terre du pays, et nous continuions à travailler pour eux. La loi interdisait de nous fouetter, mais elle ne les obligeait pas à nous payer comme il faut (57-58).

There are certainly other topics that would provide a more thorough view of the

Caribbean literary scene. In the last forty years, for instance, a growing number of texts from the Spanish-speaking Antilles seem to have drawn inspiration from popular music genres such as bolero, son and guaracha. Novels like Edgardo Rodrìguez Juliá‘s El entierro de Cortijo, Luis Rafael Sánchez‘s La guaracha del macho Camacho, Severo

Sarduy‘s De donde son los cantantes and Guillermo Cabrera Infante‘s Tres Tristes Tigres

–among many others– make use of distinctly Caribbean musical genres usually identified with the popular classes for a variety of rhetorical purposes. This is a fascinating topic

54 that, unfortunately, I will not be able to explore (except for the short stories by Cabrera

Infante discussed in Chapter Two), but it deserves to be mentioned as indicative of an important trend of the literatures of the region.

As I hope to have shown, the recurrence of the above-mentioned themes in the literatures of these nations is by no means mere coincidence. In fact, they are the result of a deliberate effort and constitute a critical element in the construction of a literary culture that, as Michael Dash suggests, attempts to ―write itself free of myths imposed from abroad‖. For Dash,

[the] process of mythification that created ―cannibalistic Haiti,‖ ―the happy Antilles,‖ ―the green hell of French Guiana‖ prompted francophone Caribbean writers to give their version of the truth of these societies. Anticolonial rhetoric, the celebration of local flora and fauna, the strong autobiographical tendencies of prose fiction and the demonstration of the strength of creole culture […] are all manifestations of the demystifying thrust of Caribbean writing25.

Although referring to the specific case of the francophone Antilles, the reaction described by the author stands as valid for the writers from the Spanish-speaking region as well.

However, this ―demystifying thrust‖ of Caribbean literature does not just seek to establish a more authentic thematic landscape. It implies a larger quest that inscribes it within the context of the American continent as a whole, an ontological quest, if you will. In a 1969 essay entitled La nueva novela latinoamericana, Mexican writer Carlos Fuentes conceptualized the motivations behind the novels of the generation that years later would come to be known as the Latin American ―boom‖:

Radical ante su propio pasado, el nuevo escritor latinoamericano emprende una revisión a partir de una evidencia: la falta de un lenguaje. La vieja obligación de la denuncia se convierte en una elaboración mucho más ardua: la elaboración crítica de todo lo no dicho en nuestra larga historia de mentiras, silencios, retóricas y complicidades académicas. Inventar un lenguaje es decir todo lo que la historia ha callado. Continente de textos sagrados, Latinoamérica se siente urgida

25 In A History of Literature in the Caribbean, vol. 1, p. 312

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de una profanación que dé voz a cuatro siglos de lenguaje secuestrado, marginal, desconocido. Esta resurrección del lenguaje perdido exige una diversidad de exploraciones verbales que, hoy por hoy, es uno de los signos de salud de la novela latinoamericana (30).

According to Fuentes, then, one of the main goals of Latin American and Caribbean writers is the search for a new, authentic language, one that would replace the borrowed, foreign language that was imposed on these societies for several centuries. As Fuentes points out, ―[nuestro] lenguaje ha sido el producto de una conquista y de una colonización ininterrumpidas; conquista y colonización cuyo lenguaje revelaba un orden jerárquico y opresor‖ (31). Many of the texts that came out of this literary awakening thus attempt to establish a new idiom, they propose ―una nueva fundaciñn del lenguaje contra los prolongamientos calcificados de nuestra falsa y feudal fundación de origen y su lenguaje igualmente falso y anacrñnico‖ (31).

In the following chapters, I argue that a number of Caribbean writers engage the use of experimental techniques in their literary texts as a means to negotiate the ambiguous legacy of French and Spanish as languages of expression in the region. I posit that the aesthetics of creolization, neo-baroque and carnivalesque narratives constitute different approaches toward the achievement of a common goal: the development of a distinctively Caribbean poetics.

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CHAPTER TWO Creolization in the works of Patrick Chamoiseau and Guillermo Cabrera Infante

C’est dans et par le langage que l’homme se constitue comme sujet. Émile Benveniste

…là où les systèmes et les idéologies ont défailli, et sans aucunement renoncer au refus ou au combat que tu dois mener dans ton lieu particulier, prolongeons au loin l’imaginaire, par un infini éclatement et une répétition à l’infini des thèmes du métissage, du multilinguisme, de la créolisation. Édouard Glissant, Traité du Tout-Monde

One of the main goals of this study is to show that, beyond historical specificities, the literatures of the Spanish and French Antilles have followed similar paths in their search for a distinct voice, linguistically and culturally independent from the metropolitan literatures of the countries that once colonized them. One manifestation of this desire for differentiation and autonomy is the use of a ‗Caribbean‘ or local variant of language in literary texts. It should be noted that in the Spanish islands, this phenomenon generally starts to take place in the nineteenth century, whereas in the French territories it does not become a part of the literary agenda until mid-twentieth century26.

26 Many examples of this incorporation of local terms and dialects in Spanish can be found in 19th century regionalist or costumbrista novels like Cirilo Villaverde‘s Cecilia Valdés (1882). In the francophone realm, see works such as Frédéric Marcelin‘s Marilisse and Justin Lhérisson‘s la Famille des Pitite-Caille (analyzed in Jean Jonassaint‘s article ―Des conflits langagiers dans quelques romans haïtiens‖), Haitian authors who wrote in the early 20th century. More often than not, the interest in these texts lies in the integration of words and expressions that were considered neologisms at the time because they had not yet been accepted by the institutions that regimented the French and Spanish languages. However, in most cases the innovative will of these authors tended to stop there, as the use of such neologisms was normally

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Chronological differences aside, the push for the creation of a local language translates, in both cases, in the activation of complex and numerous linguistic and stylistic devices. Some of these devices operate on a syntactic level (e.g. sentence constructions), others on a lexical level (names of foods, animals, places, and so on).

Many of them were used in Spanish and French when the colonizers first came and are now considered archaisms by metropolitan standards, or have disappeared from those variants altogether. Others are terms, expressions and constructions borrowed from indigenous and/or African languages. It goes without saying that, ultimately, the quest for an ―idiom‖ or a language of one‘s own is the goal of any writer. However, I propose that literary creolization is a foremost tool for the appropriation of languages that were once imposed by the colonizers in the French and Spanish islands. I will retrace this process through the examination of texts by Patrick Chamoiseau and Guillermo Cabrera Infante, authors who have pushed the limits of language through their literary projects and thus greatly contributed to the shaping of a distinctive, Caribbean voice.

I will start by briefly reflecting on the history and implications of the term creolization, for it will soon become apparent that the use I will be making of it (i.e. creolization of language from a literary point of view) differs from the linguistic and/or anthropological definitions. Then, I will analyze specific manifestations of it in the works of Chamoiseau and Cabrera Infante. For each of these authors, I will concentrate on a number of works in which the concept of creolization seems to operate at its fullest. By way of this comparison, I hope to bring to light the parallels that exist between their literary projects (the prevalence of orality, the preeminent role of language) but also limited to the dialog parts and attributed to lower-class characters such as peasants, etc. For more detailed discussions on the topic, see Merrim, p. 10 and Jonassaint, pp. 39-48.

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–necessarily– the aspects in which they differ.

Creolization: origins of the term.

Creolization was originally a linguistic concept intended to designate the process of formation of Creole languages. To this day, the mention of the term in that field of study unavoidably brings about controversy, as experts have not reached a consensus on the genesis of such languages. A detailed review of the various - and often conflicting - theories on the subject is beyond the scope of this essay. However, it is worth briefly mentioning the main points of dissonance within the creolization debate, as they bring to light ideological undertones that are also relevant to our discussion.

According to Robert Chaudenson in Creolization of Language and Culture, many of these hypotheses differ in the claims they make about the filiation of creoles (i.e. which main language they originated from) and about the historical relationship between them. These theories also diverge regarding the very processes of creolization that they posit. In this respect, he draws a distinction between two polar points of views: (a) one that views creole languages as allegedly developing from the interference of two or several linguistic systems; and (b) one that considers them as the results of the restructuring of European languages (43).

Chaudenson then proceeds to review the main hypotheses – including his own - and their position within the two ‗poles‘, highlighting the ideological implications that underlie them. His observations show that, clearly, the question of the genesis of Creole languages is a sensitive one. A priori, this would seem like a theoretical feud having very little to do with the realities of the Antilles. In actuality, it is a question that carries heavy

59 ideological - and, in some cases, even political - weight and that is intimately linked to issues of collective/ethnic identities. Thus, behind some of the theories that posit creoles as the result of the combination of two or more languages, lies a desire to privilege the

African element and, at the same time, to downplay the European element in them. By the same token, other scholars make great efforts to pursue hypotheses that favor an exclusively European origin for a specific type of Creole, as a way to assert affiliation to a given lineage. Such tensions, we will see, constitute an integral part of the Caribbean ethos and are, by definition, a leitmotif of the literatures of the region.

Initially coined by linguists, nowadays the term is also being used in other fields of the social sciences, namely in anthropology. Here, it is used to refer to processes of intermingling, interaction and hybridization of diverse cultural elements, usually in the context of the Caribbean or the islands of the Indian Ocean. In a study on Mauritian culture, Thomas Eriksen views Creole peoples in general as ―uprooted‖. Other points in common among Creoles are that they ―belong to the New World, are the products of some form of mixing, and are contrasted to that which is old, deep and rooted.‖ Indeed, regardless of whether the term refers to a person of European ancestry, of African or mixed blood born in the New World, what all these creoles share is a history of uprootedness that has forced them to craft ―new cultural and social forms under conditions of extreme hardship‖ (4).

Literary creolization

The notion of creolization becomes a lot less precise when we move away from the social sciences and into the realm of literature and literary studies. Although it is becoming an

60 increasingly popular topic of research, many of the critical texts fail to provide a clear articulation of what the term actually means in this setting27. One exception to this tendency is Pascale De Souza‘s ―Inscription du créole dans les textes francophones. De la citation à la créolisation.‖ This article gives an account of the different strategies used by

Caribbean writers who, while using French as their language of expression, strive to give

Creole a presence in their texts. De Souza delineates three main ―modes of integration‖ that do not necessarily correspond to chronologically defined periods but rather to an author‘s personal preference and/or evolution: a stage in which Creole appears in quotation only, a phase of partial integration of Creole into French and, finally, a phase of creolization of French.

In the author‘s view, the true creolization of a literary text takes place when certain typographic markers (italics, quotation marks, footnotes to explain Creole words and expressions) disappear from it and the linguistic structure itself becomes ―the message‖, i.e. it alludes to the existence of a Creole culture/reality. De Souza describes two types of creolization: an ―identified‖ or recognizable one, and a more subtle one in which ―any trace of fusion disappears‖ (174). In this dissertation, we will mostly focus on the latter type. In attempting to trace a poetics of creolization within the literary production of two Caribbean writers, I will use the definition of the term that Édouard

27 For example, in an otherwise very interesting article on Maryse Condé‘s Traversée de la mangrove, Françoise Lionnet makes the following claim: … il faut ajouter que c‘est la langue créolisée du roman qui lui donne aussi une place particulière dans le corpus antillais. Car s‘il est vrai que des écrivains comme Roumain, Césaire et Schwarz-Bart avaient déjà innové en transformant la langue française, il me semble que l‟originalité de Condé tient au fait qu‟elle va plus loin dans la créolisation du français, alors que Schwarz-Bart, par exemple, procède par une dérive syntaxique qui l‘amène plutôt à ‗franciser‘ le créole (483, emphasis added). While stating that Condé takes the creolization of the French language one step farther than her predecessor Simone Schwarz-Bart, Lionnet‘s article does not go into any specifics about how the Guadeloupean author achieves this, nor does it provide specific examples from the text that would support this argument. Instead, it tells readers that Schwarz-Bart‘s technique leads to a certain level of ―distillation‖ or even ―effacement‖ of Creole within the text, and then moves on.

61

Glissant proposes in ―L‘imaginaire des langues‖ as a starting point:

La créolisation pour moi n‘est pas le créolisme : c‘est fabriquer un langage qui utilise les poétiques, peut-être opposées, des langues créoles et des langues françaises. Qu‘est-ce que j‘appelle une poétique ? Le conteur créole utilise des procédés qui ne sont pas dans le génie de la langue française : les procédés de répétition, de redoublement, de ressassement, de mise en haleine. Les pratiques de liste… l‟accumulation comme procédé rhétorique28… [emphasis added]

According to this view, the creolization of a literary text implies much more than just the use of ―créolismes‖, local words or expressions that simply add an exotic ‗flavor‘ to a text. In fact, it would entail the creation of a new language, one which privileges a series of rhetorical tools inherited from the Creole storyteller or conteur: repetition, accumulation, list-making, doubling, and so on. However, as simple and useful as it may seem, this definition soon becomes problematic when we realize that such techniques are not exclusive to Creole storytelling in the Caribbean. In fact, the use of these types of stylistic devices can also be found in the works of ‗metropolitan‘ writers such as Péguy,

Céline, Rabelais and others. In the course of my research, trying to find a better conceptualization of literary creolization turned out to be a frustrating, fruitless task, as both scholars and writers tend to speak of this notion in very abstract, nebulous terms that do not shed much light on the role it plays in the making of a Caribbean ars literaria.

This lack of clarity led me to come up with my own definition, one that is based on the analysis of literary texts but also on declarations made by the authors themselves.

Thus, I argue that the term creolization is used by Caribbean writers as a metaphor.

Moving beyond its original denotation (―the processes through which Creole languages were formed‖), it refers here to a conscious effort of appropriation of a European language to make it reflect a Creole culture and reality, and to the specific techniques

28 Edouard Glissant in ―L‘imaginaire des langues‖, an interview with Lise Gauvin, p. 18.

62 that facilitate this appropriation. In examining the works of Patrick Chamoiseau,

Martinican writer, essayist and journalist, we will see how this strategy of appropriation

(in his case, appropriation of French) articulates his literary endeavors.

Patrick Chamoiseau, marqueur de paroles.

Born in 1953 in Fort-de-France, Martinique, Patrick Chamoiseau studied law and economics in France, where he worked as a social worker for a few years. He then went back to his homeland, where he currently resides. Chamoiseau first came into the French literary scene in 1986, with the publication of Chronique des sept misères, a novel that tells the collective experience of the djobeurs -market porters- of Fort-de-France‘s vegetable market. Solibo Magnifique, his second novel, deals with the conflicts of a society straddling between a past of oral traditions and a present in which the written word prevails. He became internationally acclaimed after Texaco, his third novel, was awarded the prestigious Prix Goncourt in 1992.

Chef de file of the controversial créolité movement, Patrick Chamoiseau‘s first texts prefigure some of the ideas put forth in the now famous Éloge de la créolité, a fiery manifesto that he co-authored with Jean Bernabé and Raphaël Confiant in 1989.

Fundamental orality; updating true memory; the thematics of existence; the burst in modernity; the choice of one‘s speech: these are some of the tenets of the créolistes‟ project29, and they are all prevalent elements in Chamoiseau‘s works. However, it was his innovative style, his playfulness with language and, more specifically, the role of language in his texts that first attracted the attention of both critics and the general public.

29 Quoted from the English translation, In praise of creoleness, p. 95-110

63

Indeed, as early as 1991, Chamoiseau‘s novels earned the praise of intellectual figures like Milan Kundera, who celebrated the freedom and boldness of the (at the time) rising author by stating: « [Chamoiseau] a pris à l‘égard du français une liberté qu‘aucun de ses contemporains en France ne peut même imaginer oser prendre. C‘est la liberté d‘un écrivain brésilien à l‘égard du portugais, d‘un écrivain hispano-américain à l‘égard de l‘espagnol. Ou, si vous voulez, la liberté d‘un bilingue qui refuse de voir dans une de ses langues l‘autorité absolue et qui trouve le courage de désobéir30 » (58). As we will see, it is this freedom that allows him to create what Richard Burton considers ―a highly distinctive fusion of French and creole […], which seeks systematically to inhabit, invest and exploit the interlectal space that has opened up between acrolectal French and basilectal Creole in the French West Indies in the four and a half decades since departmentalization31‖.

We could no doubt keep quoting critical texts that marvel at Chamoiseau‘s ability to fecundate the French language with the rhythms and cadences of Creole, but this would not give us a first-hand look at what those authors mean. Let us now turn to the novels themselves and analyze in detail what this process of creolization consists of.

The „chamoisification‟ of the French language.

In the article mentioned earlier Kundera observes that, in Patrick Chamoiseau‘s novels,

French is not so much ‗creolized‘ as it is ‗chamoisified‘, because no one in Martinique

30 Milan Kundera, « Beau comme une rencontre multiple ».

31 Richard D.E. Burton, ―Debrouya pa peche…‖, p. 467. In diglossic societies such as Martinique, i.e. in societies where two or more languages coexist, there is a tendency to view one of the languages as more prestigious (the acrolect) than the other (the basilect). The former is often the ‗official‘ language, that of administration, whereas the latter is the language of intimacy and the realm of emotions.

64 actually speaks the way he writes. A close reading of his major works published thus far will help us understand how this ‗chamoisification‘, this very specific instance of creolization, manifests itself on the page. Special attention will be given to Chronique des sept misères, Solibo Magnifique, Texaco and Écrire en pays dominé, since they are the ones that play the most prominent role in the development of this poetics of creolization.

These works will henceforth be referred to as Chronique, Solibo, Texaco and Écrire.

Chronique des sept misères

Published by Gallimard in 1986, Chamoiseau‘s first novel Chronique des sept misères narrates the collective experience of the djobeurs -market porters- of Fort-de-France‘s vegetable market. As Burton has pointed out, the market here is used as ―a complex metaphor for the transformation of Martinican society from before the Second World War

[…] to departmentalization in 1946 and the subsequent disintegration… of the traditional

(sic) creole culture under the pressure of imported French goods, French life-styles,

French thought-patterns and, not least, of the French language itself‖ (470).

The story is built around its protagonist Pierre Philomène Soleil, a.k.a. Pipi, one of the djobeurs working in the vegetable market. Readers follow the main character from his cursed conception by a dorlis (a sort of Creole incubus), through his childhood years in the marketplace with Man Elo, his mother, to his crowning as ‗king of the djobeurs‟ and eventual demise. One of the novel‘s strengths is its capacity to weave humor and imagination into what can ultimately be considered a sociological drama. Indeed, a number of passages bring to mind the mix of fantasy and irony one would find in the

65 realismo mágico of Gabriel García Márquez32.

Chronique constitutes a landmark in the post-Césaire, post-Glissant literary scene of the French Antilles more for its language than for its subject matter. In ―A propos de

Chronique des sept misères: une littérature en français régional pour les Antilles‖, Marie-

Christine Hazaël-Massieux claims that ―ce qui fait la richesse principale de ce roman, c‘est sa langue‖ and that, indeed, ―le français régional des Antilles trouve ici une place en littérature‖ (21). To my knowledge, this article provides the most thorough analysis of the novel‘s originality from a linguistic point of view. Moreover, since the rhetorical strategies it describes are also at work in other novels that interest us, it will be useful to summarize its main arguments33.

Hazaël-Massieux carries out a meticulous examination of the novel‘s linguistic structures, both on a lexical and a syntactic level. Following Émile Benveniste‘s distinction between ‗langue du récit‘ and ‗langue du discours‘, she observes that both

‗récit‘ (i.e. an elevated register of French) and ‗discours‘ (regional forms of language) are present in the narration, whereas the dialogues consist of elements of ‗discours‘ exclusively (an alternation of regional French and Creole, to be precise). However, from a strictly linguistic perspective, the author suggests, it is the very peculiar use

Chamoiseau makes of regional French on the narrative level that makes the novel‘s

32 The Encyclopedia Britannica defines magic realism as a ―Chiefly Latin-American narrative strategy‖ characterized by ―the matter-of-fact inclusion of fantastic or mythical elements into seemingly realistic fiction.‖ The term is a relatively recent designation, ―first applied in the 1940s by Cuban novelist Alejo Carpentier, who recognized this characteristic in much Latin-American literature. Some scholars have posited that magic realism is a natural outcome of postcolonial writing, which must make sense of at least two separate realities—the reality of the conquerors as well as that of the conquered. Prominent among the Latin-American magic realists are the Colombian Gabriel García Márquez, the Brazilian Jorge Amado, the Argentines Jorge Luis Borges and Julio Cortázar, and the Chilean Isabel Allende.‖

33 My analysis in this chapter will not focus on the purely linguistic aspects of creolization in Chamoiseau‘s texts, as this has already been done on several occasions. However, I wanted to include Chronique because it was the one that first introduced the general public to his unique writing style.

66 uniqueness. Of special interest to our discussion is her analysis of the creative linguistic and rhetorical devices used by Chamoiseau to create a Creole text while writing in

French. The following table sums up some of her findings :

Structure / phénomène Exemple du roman linguistique Phénomènes de composition nominale «les bas-bois», «posé-reins», «manger-macadam», «touffé-requin», «marchandes-sorcières» Constructions nominales sans l‘article «s‘alourdirent comme sacs de sel», «sur tonneaux et obligatoire en français standard planches», «éviteux du piment sur bôbô» Réutilisation en français régional du modèle «une la-monnaie» existant en créole pour certains nominaux Usages des prépositions selon «son fils en chagrin», «elle loua un local à la rue l‘usage du créole Lamartine» «te voilà en situation» Emploi de spécificateurs créoles «une charge de temps», «une manière de ciel», «n‘importe quelle qualité d‘homme » Fabrication de verbes selon un modèle créole «débraré», «dégrené» Constructions sérielles utilisées comme marqueurs «elle prit-courir», «à tourner-virer», «ce silence qui symboliques d‘un français ‗créolisé‘ l‘emmenait-aller loin du monde» Utilisation du ‗réfléchi‘ créole « repose ton corps » Utilisation de l‘intensif créole « Tort, vous avez tort ! » création d‘adverbes sur le modèle ‗souvemment‘ « malement »

Solibo Magnifique

For the most part, the linguistic hybridity of Chamoiseau‘s works has had positive reception, but it is far from being unanimously hailed. For example, in a 1989 article entitled ―Écrire le créole à la Martinique: Norme et conflit sociolinguistique‖, Lambert

Félix Prudent condemns the vogue of French Caribbean literature that he dubs ―français- banane‖ (77), which would include the first works of Chamoiseau and his close friend

Raphaël Confiant, among others34. Chamoiseau has attempted to counter such criticisms by pointing out, as he does in a 1996 interview, that his literary project involves more than the ―apparent surface‖ (i.e. the lexical elements) of his creolization of the language

(Réjouis 347). ―In fact‖, he adds, ―the creolization of the language is much more

34 In his article, Prudent raises some interesting questions regarding the often stark contrast between the theoretical views of the créolistes and their literary practices.

67 structural… [It] is syntactical, it is in the organization of the paragraph, it is in the construction of the story, it is in the choice of the vision that is presented‖ (347-348).

The Martinican writer then refers to Solibo Magnifique, his second novel, as the most ―Creole‖ of his works. Published in 1988, this text takes the form of a detective novel in order to retrace the death of Solibo, one of the last conteurs (Creole storytellers) of Martinique. However, it soon becomes evident that this is, in fact, a literary alibi, for the true topic of the book is the death of la parole, the Word, the world of orality. As

Renée Linkhorn explains in her 1989 review of the novel, Solibo speaks to us about ―un monde en train de disparaître‖. Indeed, the death of the main character, a ‗maître de la parole‘, is also the demise of orality, of the ‗djobeurs‘, ―la fin d‘une certaine authenticité antillaise‖ (902).

Solibo Magnifique is a kaleidoscopic text that proves deceiving on several levels.

On the one hand, as Kundera mentions in his article, it could be mistaken for an exotic novel, concentrated on its protagonist, very specific to the Caribbean context, when in reality it deals with one of the greatest events in cultural history: the convergence of the death of oral literature and the birth of written literature. On the other hand, it presents itself as a detective novel, but quickly turns into a parodic version of a roman policier that, at the same time, is based on the structure of a Creole wake. Thus, the opening paragraphs mimic the jargon of police reports:

PROCÈS-VERBAL

Transport sur les lieux de l‘inspecteur principal Évariste Pilon, officier de police judiciaire.

L‘an mille neuf cent… Le deux février, six heures dix, Nous, Évariste Pilon, officier de police à la Sûreté urbaine de Fort-de-France,

68

Brigade criminelle, officier de police judiciaire,

Assurant la permanence de nuit, Informé par le brigadier-chef, Philémon Bouaffesse, matricule 000,01, qu‘il vient de découvrir, suite à une intervention de Madame Lolita Boidevan, marchande ambulante, demeurant au Pont-Démosthène après le grand canal, le cadavre d‘un homme sous un tamarinier du lieu-dit la Savane… (17)

The ‗real‘ story starts after this police statement. It is introduced by an omniscient narrator who is also a participating character, and who will later identify himself as a

‗marqueur de paroles‘. The facts of Solibo‘s death are given from the beginning: ―Au cours d‘une soirée de carnaval à Fort-de-France, entre dimanche Gras et mercredi des

Cendres, le conteur Solibo Magnifique mourut d‘une égorgette de la parole…‖ (25)

Nevertheless, this argument does not seem very convincing to the police: nobody actually dies strangled by their own words. An investigation ensues; witnesses are interrogated in an attempt to find a probable murderer or murderers.

Contrasting with the harsh and frequently absurd development of the investigation, we find a series of anecdotes related to the life of the deceased, ―une mosaïque de souvenirs‖ (26) interspersed in the body of the text. In response to the narrator‘s plea to remember Solibo ―à la verticale, dans ses jours les plus beaux‖ (25), his friends exchange stories about one of the last maîtres de la parole. This structure corresponds to the principle of the Creole wake, with people testifying in memoriam. The passage that narrates the encounter between Charlot and the protagonist proves particularly moving. After several failed attempts to slaughter a pig that would be sold around Christmas time, Man Gnam (the pig‘s owner) sends for Solibo, in a desperate effort to calm the enraged beast. Charlot tells us:

69

[Voir le Monsieur Solibo] avec son linge de sac-farine et son panama n‘était pas impressionnant. Court, les bras longs, il gardait la tête en avant comme une tortue molocoye. Quand mes yeux ont échoué sur ses yeux, qu‘il a embrassé Man Goul en soulevant son chapeau et en réclamant une rosée pour sa gorge, j‘ai commencé à percevoir sa force. Sa voix vibrait dans son front, dans ses joues, habitait ses yeux, sa poitrine et son ventre : une Force. Il ne s‘était pas encore penché sur le parc que maître cochon ne criait déjà plus. Il sauta dans le parc pour s‘adresser à la bête en voltige. Là même, elle s‘allongea sur un côté, comme étourdie… (81)

In the same way that the marketplace in Chronique stands as a metaphor for the transformation of Martinique in the last few decades, the figure of the Creole storyteller bears synecdochic value in Solibo. As I mentioned earlier, Solibo incarnates a world of oral traditions; therefore, his death is also the demise of that world. The apparent suddenness of his loss barely hides a process of degeneration that had started long before.

As one of the characters remarks after realizing that the conteur has indeed passed away,

―c‘est pas le jour même où tu manges de la terre que tu meurs enflé: Si Solibo est mort,

ça couvait depuis longtemps, plus longtemps que maintenant‖ (41) In reality, it is the indifference of his people that slowly erodes his life: ―dans ses derniers temps, le

Magnifique ne trouvait plus de tribunes. Il tenait à inscrire sa parole dans notre vie ordinaire, or cette vie n‘en avait plus l‘oreille, ni même de ces lieux où s‘éternise l‘écho‖

(222).

Even before the night of the égorgette de la parole, the memory of Solibo‘s art had already started to fade away: ―On ne se souvenait de lui qu‘en le voyant, et il se dissipait dans les mémoires avec le vent de ses talons. Il avait vu mourir les contes, défaillir le créole…‖ (223) It is this fall into oblivion of both the art and the artist that the narrator decides to fight toward the end of the novel. Alas! Titanic task awaits the marqueur de paroles: how can the fleeting art of Creole storytelling possibly be translated onto the written page? He wonders: ―Comment écrire la parole de Solibo? En

70 relisant mes premières notes du temps où je le suivais au marché, je compris qu‘écrire l‘oral n‘était qu‘une trahison, on y perdait les intonations, les mimiques, la gestuelle du conteur, et cela me paraissait d‘autant plus impensable que Solibo, je le savais, y était hostile‖ (225).

Faced with the difficulty of rendering Solibo‘s craft without betraying its soul,

Chamoiseau will deploy an original approach: an écriture mosaïque which reflects the nature of Solibo‘s speech. In the eyes of the conteur, the art of storytelling involves listening as much as it does speaking or, to put it in Delphine Perret‘s terms, ―parler, c‘est perdre de son importance et parler le langage de l‘autre‖ (835). In ―La parole du conteur créole : Solibo Magnifique de Patrick Chamoiseau‖, the critic argues that, similarly to the storyteller who can ‗speak snake to the snake and pig to the pig‘, Chamoiseau uses a variety of strategies to reach a multiplicity of readers.

However, she claims, a dynamics of displacement occurs in the text, ―un déplacement du plan allocutif (parler la langue de ceux à qui on parle) au plan délocutif

(parler la langue de ceux dont on parle) ‖ (835). The créolistes refuse to see their world through the eyes of the Other and to write mainly for the Other; as a result of this, the other ‗with a small o‘ (i.e. the marginalized, the petit peuple) takes on a privileged role.

This choice manifests itself in the (sometimes nominal) presence of a multiplicity of registers and dialects of both French and Creole: Congo‘s old-fashioned Creole diction;

Didon‘s Guadeloupean Creole; Charlot‘s city Creole; the police officers‘ use of

‗mathematical‘ French with bursts of Creole in emotional moments, and so on. The humorous ‗translation‘ of bureaucratic French into ‗Martinican‘ French during the interrogations is another, hyperbolic instance of such multilingualism:

71

- Nom, prénom, surnom, âge, profession, domicile? - Hein? - Dis comment on t‘appelle, explique Bouaffesse. - Bête-Longue. - C‘est votre surnom? Bien. Nom et prénom maintenant. - Hein? - Quelle manière de te crier ta maman a donné à la mairie, traduit Bouaffesse. - An pa save… - Il dit qu‘il ne sait pas, inspesteur… - Merci, Brigadier, mais je comprends le créole. - Je dis ça pour te rendre service ! Tu es un inspesteur, tu dois pas fouiller dans ce patois de vagabonds… - C‘est une langue, Brigadier. - Tu as vu ça où ? - … - Et si c‘est une langue, pourquoi ta bouche roule toujours un petit français huilé ? Et pourquoi tu n‘écris pas ton procès-verbal avec ? - La question n‘est pas là, coupe Évariste Pilon. Il faudra faire rechercher l‘état civil de cet homme. Monsieur Bête-Longue, quels sont vos âge, profession et domicile ? - Hein ? - L‘inspesteur te demande depuis quel cyclone tu es né, qu‘est-ce que tu fais pour le béké, et dans quel côté tu dors la nuit ? précise Bouaffesse. - Je suis né juste avant l‘Amiral Robert, je pêche avec Kokomerlo à Rive-Droite, et je reste à Texaco, près de la fontaine… (142-143)

The preceding passage proves interesting for two reasons. First, because it gives us a tongue-in-cheek insight into the tensions between the French and Creole world visions that underlie Martinican society. Second, because it recreates the ambivalence most

Martinicans feel toward Creole: all of them use it in their everyday lives, many are ready to defend - on a theoretical level - its status as a language, but in practice French is still the language used for administrative purposes, the language of ‗logic‘ and ‗reason‘.

To go back to Perret‘s argument, I should add that, while I agree with her point of view, it seems clear that Solibo Magnifique also goes to great lengths to speak to the

‗Western Other‘, that is, to the European or non-creolophone reader. I believe that the choice of the detective novel as a sub-genre constitutes such an attempt, even if this

72 choice appers to be a rhetorical ‗pretext‘. In a study entitled ―Patrick Chamoiseau: Un

émule martiniquais de Gadda?‖, Michel Prat draws a series of parallels between the former novel and Carlo Emilio Gadda‘s Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana35.

Prat observes, for instance, that both texts exploit linguistic tensions (between French and

Creole in the former, between literary Italian and a number of dialects in the latter) for creative purposes.

Likewise, both plots are based on police investigations that lead nowhere in the end. In fact, their final objective is quite different from that of the traditional detective novel: ―il apparaît que Chamoiseau ne fait qu‘aller plus loin, avec ironie, dans la voie ouverte par Gadda, d‘un détournement du roman policier: la recherche du criminel est secondaire, ne constitue qu‘un moyen d‘interroger la réalité‖ (202). Thus, in this questioning of reality, Chamoiseau denounces the decline of oral traditions and, in addition, seeks to portray the world of the marginalized, their customs, daily life and, at the same time, to raise some questions regarding a number of key issues: the all-might of

French police and their brutality, the schizophrenia of average Martinicans who live ‗à deux vitesses‘, struggling between a Creole and a French self, etc.

One last point of concordance between the two texts is the use of several forms of parody. Prat notes that, like his predecessor Gadda, Chamoiseau constantly plays with intertextuality (209). References to other texts may appear explicitly, as in the clin d‟oeil to Aimé Césaire‘s Cahier d‟un retour au pays natal at the beginning of part 2: ―Au bout du petit matin, quand Solibo Magnifique exhala les premiers gaz des morts, libérant une

35 C.E. Gadda‘s writing belongs to the tradition of the twentieth-century language innovators, ―writers that played with the somewhat stiff standard pre-war Italian language, and added elements of dialects, technical jargon and wordplay‖ (From http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gadda). The novel in question was first published in 1957, has seen dozens of different editions in Italian and has been translated into English as That Awful Mess on Via Merulana.

73 odeur désespérante, la compagnie quitta sa léthargie pour questionner la hauteur du soleil…‖ (emphasis mine, Solibo 71) They may also take the form of parodies of other genres or even pastiches from authors such as Rabelais and San Antonio36.

Still, despite the obvious and less-obvious references to various Western literary traditions, many areas of intended opacity37 remain in the text, places where only the creolophone reader will be able to go. Burton underscores this fact in the section of his article that analyzes names and nicknames as ―an important area of oppositionality‖ in

Chamoiseau‘s first novels. He observes that most of the male characters (and many of the female ones) have two names: an official name and a nickname or nom des mornes. This practice of opposing official name with unofficial nickname can be traced back to slavery and is an oppositional tactic designed not just to confuse the official naming authority but also to ―give the disempowered room for maneuver within the fixed grids of established society‖. As it turns out, the name of the protagonist of Chamoiseau‘s second novel is actually his nickname, and it bears multiple connotations that will inevitably escape the non-creolophone reader. Thus, in addition to the idea of a fall (chute) explicitly attributed to the nickname Solibo in the novel, Burton traces ―a number of other meanings38 in

36 The phrase au bout du petit matin is found at the beginning of several stanzas in the opening pages of Césaire‘s poem (e.g.: ―Au bout du petit matin bourgeonnant d‘anses frêles les Antilles qui ont faim, les Antilles grêlées de petite vérole…‖). The prosaic context in which Chamoiseau places it creates a stark contrast with the dramatic tone of the original one: For critical texts that evoke the influence of Césaire‘s writing on Chamoiseau‘s works, see Kundera, pp. 59-61; Pied, p. 25 and Perret, p. 828.

37 The notion of opacity is one key element of Edouard Glissant‘s thought that has been influential in Chamoiseau‘s work. In Poétique de la relation, Glissant argues that literary texts are, by definition, ―producteur[s] d‘opacité‖ (129) and pushes for the right to opacity: ―Non pas seulement consentir au droit à la différence mais, plus avant, au droit à l‘opacité, qui n‘est pas l‘enfermement dans une autarcie impénétrable, mais la subsistance dans une singularité non réductible‖ (203).

38 ―Fe an solibo (faire un solibo) means ―to come a cropper‖ but also ―to caper around‖…, while pwan an solibo (prendre un solibo) means to strike the first blow in a fist-fight and bay an solibo (donner un solibo) means to finish off an opponent…‖ (―Debrouya‖ 477). The semantic multiplicity of the term had already been pointed out by créoliste linguist Jean Bernabé in his article ―Solibo Magnifique ou le charme de

74 creole that, significantly, are not revealed in the book but which would be apparent to its creolophone, but not of course its metropolitan French, readers‖ (476).

Texaco

Chamoiseau‘s third novel and winner of the prestigious Prix Goncourt in 1992, Texaco is a complex and fascinating work of fiction that plays a prominent role in Chamoiseau‘s literary project. It pursues a two-fold objective: it tells the story of the implantation of

Texaco, a working-class neighborhood in Fort-de-France, through the voice of Marie-

Sophie Laborieux, one of its founders. At the same time, however, it retraces three centuries of oppositional history in Martinique. As Richard Burton indicates in Le roman marron: Études sur la littérature martiniquaise contemporaine, the book does not deal with the ―official‖ history of the island, i.e. the history of the rulers and of the béké caste, but rather the many histories that have gone untold for decades and that ―très rhizomatiquement, se tortillent sous l‘Histoire une de la colonie-département‖ (181).

One such a story is that of Marie-Sophie‘s grandfather, a slave that mastered the art of poisoning as a way to resist the horror and degradation of slavery in the plantation system. As the narrator tells the ―Christ‖, a city planner that has been sent to inspect the neighborhood in preparation for its demolition:

Le papa de mon papa était empoisonneur. Ce n‘était pas un métier mais un combat contre l‘esclavage sur les habitations. Je ne vais pas te refaire l‘Histoire, mais le vieux nègre de la Doum révèle, dessous l‘Histoire, des histoires dont aucun livre ne parle, et qui pour nous comprendre sont les plus essentielles. Donc, parmi ceux qui rouclaient pour planter au béké ses cannes ou son café, régnaient des hommes de force, ceux-là savaient des choses que l‘on ne doit pas savoir. Et ils faisaient vraiment ce que l‘on ne peut pas faire… [Ils] contrariaient l‘injuste prospérité de ces habitations dans cette chaux de douleurs (49).

l‘oiseau-lyre‖.

75

Some critics consider Texaco as more accomplished than Chronique and Solibo, particularly in terms of its creolization of the language. Marie-José N‘Zengou-Tayo makes this claim in ―Littérature et diglossie‖, a study that analyzes the presence of the

Creole substratum in the novel. In this article, the author highlights Chamoiseau‘s creative use of complex lexical constructions obtained by processes of suffixation (e.g.

―instructionné‖ = qui a de l‘instruction) and agglutination (―lesnègresesclaves‖), among others (164). She suggests that this procedure, the one that best unleashes the poetic potential of the Creole language, is the rhetorical tool that the Martinican writer exploits most fruitfully in his search for an ―effet-de-créole‖. This linguistic analysis leads the author to view Texaco as a literary playground in which Chamoiseau ―instaure… un

(mé)tissage des deux langues dans les interstices desquels surgit sa propre écriture‖ (169).

This conclusion echoes the arguments put forth by Serge Ménager in

―Topographie, texte et palimpseste : Texaco de Patrick Chamoiseau‖. Ménager underscores the role played by the physical organization of the text in the pursuit of

Chamoiseau‘s literary enterprise, namely ―la tentative d‘une langue [le créole] pour s‘imposer dans le cadre de l‘écriture d‘une autre, à savoir la langue française contemporaine dans la structure du roman‖ (62). By way of an examination of the page setup, the author distinguishes the presence of four typographical axes that correspond to four different discourses within the novel: the first one, which constitutes the main body of the text, is the narrator‘s discourse. This narration is punctuated by a second one, attributed to Marie-Sophie, who is soon recognized as the conteuse of the story. A third typographical axis appears later in the text in the form of isolated ―notes‖ belonging to

‗l‘urbaniste‘, the city planner otherwise identified as ‗the Christ‘ in the main narration.

76

Finally, we find the fourth and most scarce body of text, composed of observations from the ‗marqueur de paroles‘ reflecting on the writing process.

This profusion of discourses that infiltrate the main body of the text actually constitutes a whole that is more homogeneous than one might think and, as such, establishes a system of binary oppositions that structure the text: Texaco/En-ville (Fort- de-France); Frenchness/Creoleness; order/proliferation, and so on. This dynamics of duality is multiplied throughout the novel, in a series of metonymical representations that all follow the same design. One of the notes from l‟urbaniste to the marqueur de paroles illustrates this point:

Au centre, une logique urbaine occidentale, alignée, ordonnée, forte comme la langue française. De l‘autre, le foisonnement ouvert de la langue créole dans la logique de Texaco. Mélant ces deux langues, rêvant de toutes les langues, la ville créole parle en secret un langage neuf et ne craint plus Babel. Ici la trame géométrique d‘une grammaire urbaine bien apprise, dominatrice ; par-là, la couronne d‘une culture-mosaïque à dévoiler, prise dans les hiéroglyphes du béton, du bois de caisses et du fibrociment. La ville créole restitue à l‘urbaniste qui voudrait l‘oublier les souches d‘une identité neuve : multilingue, multiraciale, multi-historique, ouverte, sensible à la diversité du monde. Tout a changé (Texaco 282).

Eventually, Ménager observes, the tension between these two poles is resolved to a certain extent by the ‗invasion‘ of the center by the periphery (‗la couronne‟), of the main body of the text by the various sub-texts (67). Just as the Creole city is made up both by the rational, geometrically aligned center and the open, proliferous Creole enclave around it, so the French language of the novel is invaded and renovated by the poetry of the

Creole language. Texaco achieves thus its main purpose: ―la reconnaissance définitive par la littérature […] d‘une forme encore rejetée de son sein ou tout au moins mal reconnue, mal tolérée par elle, l‘écrit créole […] tentant avec plus ou moins de succès le passage de l‘oral à l‘imprimé‖ (63).

77

Yet it can also be argued, as Burton does in Le roman marron, that Texaco is actually more traditional and less innovative than Chamoiseau‘s previous novels or, to put it bluntly, ―un pas en arrière‖ from an artistic point of view (199). He contrasts the ―multilingual wealth‖ and multiplicity of points of view in Chronique to the

―univocity‖ of Texaco‟s single narrator, whose perspective can often be mistaken for that of the author. After closely examining the series of binary oppositions that underlie the text, he concludes that, in spite of its length and complexity, the vision of the foyalais space and, correlatively, of Martinican society that Texaco proposes is actually quite a simplified and reductive one. In fact, Burton posits, it is a fundamentally paradoxical text:

―…cet éloge de la créolité urbaine est on ne peut plus ‗français‘ dans la logique binariste qui le sous-tend, d‘où en partie la faveur dont il a joui auprès de la presse et, surtout, du jury Goncourt…‖ (199-200).

Écrire en pays dominé

Published in 1997, Écrire en pays dominé shares the hybrid nature of Chamoiseau‘s preceding works. Nevertheless, the hybridity that readers encounter in this case is not so much linguistic as it is stylistic. This text could best be described as a combination of fiction, political/sociological essay and memoir that recreates untold parts of Martinican history while retracing the author‘s intellectual coming of age and further trajectory. For those familiar with Chamoiseau‘s oeuvre, Écrire en pays dominé works as the literary equivalent of a ‗greatest hits‘ CD: it compiles the main themes of his novels -figures like the djobeur, major and conteur, the Creole city or en-ville, etc.- and many of the views he has expressed in Éloge de la créolité and Lettres créoles, his theoretical writings, as well

78 as in newspaper articles at home and abroad.

Several voices are heard throughout the book, coming from three textual loci. The first one corresponds to the largest body of text and can be attributed to the narrator/author, who once again identifies himself as a marqueur de paroles: ―ainsi, pauvre scribe, Marqueur de paroles en ce pays brisé, tu n‘affrontes qu‘une mise sous assistances et subventions39‖ (18). Here, readers embark as spectators on the writer‘s journey of intellectual self-discovery (―[un] voyage en moi-même‖). This is a voyage in a broken country that has been alienated by the forces of French départementalisation; it seeks to unearth not only the author‘s motivations for writing but also the ways in which a domination silencieuse, a silent and subtle form of cultural domination necessarily influences his writing: ―Il me fallait alors interroger mon écriture, longer ses dynamiques, suspecter les conditions de son jaillissement et déceler l‘influence qu‘exerce sur elle la domination-qui-ne-se-voit-plus…‖ (21)

The second voice is that of le vieux guerrier, an imaginary old warrior whose discourse punctuates the linear development of the first-person narrative by providing long tirades mostly on matters of social injustice and other political issues. Spawned by the author‘s questioning of his writing, this figure clearly anticipates that of Balthazar

39 As readers of Chamoiseau‘s texts know, the literary persona of the marqueur de paroles as the author‘s textual alter ego is a recurrent one. It was first introduced in Solibo Magnifique and has been a voice in his fictional works ever since. One of the main preoccupations of this figure is the conflicted nature of literature in the context of the French Caribbean since, for him, it necessarily implies a negotiation between the realm of orality and the written form. This constant struggle is evidenced in the name itself: more than simply creating a written text, the task of the marqueur de paroles is the transferring or recreation of la parole, the spoken word, onto the page. In his more recent texts, the marqueur seems to have evolved into another character, the guerrier de l‟imaginaire, whose birth is also accounted for in Écrire en pays dominé (276-280). This new persona marks a sensible change of attitude vis-à-vis the challenges of literature. Indeed, as Lorna Milne has pointed out in Patrick Chamoiseau: espaces d‟une écriture antillaise, the term highlights the writer‘s moral and political duties in the ―re-configuration of the imaginary‖ of Martinican society (170). Instead of feeling trapped between the oral and written worlds and somewhat paralyzed by the impossibility of his project, the guerrier de l‟imaginaire is aware of it and lucidly assumes the responsibility of writing.

79

Bodule-Jules, the protagonist of Biblique des derniers gestes: ―[Ces questions qui harcelaient mon écriture] suscitèrent un étrange personnage, une sorte de vieux guerrier, venu de tous les âges, de toutes les guerres, de toutes les résistances, de tous les rêves aussi qu‟ont pu nourrir les peuples dominés. Il semblait porter les plaies de ce monde et mes blessures les plus intimes40‖ (22, emphasis mine).

The Sentimenthèque constitutes the last ‗voice‘ of the book. More of a murmur than an actual textual voice, the fragments that make up this third body of discourse form a kind of gallery of poetic traces, an acknowledgement of the many influences -literary or otherwise- that have shaped Chamoiseau‘s style and world view. Before setting out on his trip, the narrator invokes these forces:

…Je vous ressens, amis, chaque fois que je me penche au-dessus de ces feuilles. Vous êtes là, présences sensibles en moi. Auteurs aimés, nimbés de signes et de rumeurs… Rien de savant, nulles citations: juste des couleurs accolées à mon âme… Ô dominés-frères et tellement libres aussi, je vous appelle, dans l‘éclat de vos réussites et dans l‘exemple de vos échecs. Venez… la traversée est difficile, qui s‘amorce dans le sommeil des livres… (24).

Most of these ‗literary bytes‘ refer to specific authors, which range from Apollinaire,

Simone Schwarz-Bart, Octavio Paz, Kipling and Dos Passos to Kafka, Pound, Rabelais,

Brathwaite, Kawabata and many others. But we also find references to other types of influences, such as jazz musician Louis Armstrong and the Creole storytellers. As was to be expected, one reference in this sentimenthèque stands out from the rest: that of

Édouard Glissant‘s works41. We find specific mentions to his ars poetica on several

40 Indeed, most of the elements of this character seem to be already given in Écrire. ―Ce vieux guerrier‖, the text follows, ―n‘aurait aucune tristesse, pas le moindre regret, juste la couleur d‘un manque : de ne pas disposer d‘un assez de vie, d‘un assez de temps, pour comprendre ce monde et se comprendre lui-même‖ (22). Similarly, in spite of having fought in every anti-colonial battle around the globe, on his deathbed Balthazar still laments on the futility of his actions. 41 As we know, Chamoiseau has proclaimed his intellectual affiliation with Edouard Glissant‘s thought in more than one occasion (see for instance Lucien Taylor‘s interview Créolité bites, p. 132 or Henri Pied‘s Les secrets de Chamoiseau, p. 25). However, the relationship between the two intellectuals remains a rather

80 occasions. The following is just one of at least five different examples that are scattered throughout the text: ―De Glissant: Fais personnage des arbres, pierres, rivières et paysages et de ton écriture même ; décide d‘un langage travaillé en horloge qui sonne tes propres heures ; ne mollit pas pour les faciles‖ (123). In addition, key concepts of the

Martinican writer‘s thought are quoted by the vieux guerrier in his fiery speeches: ―…les

États-colonialistes se projetèrent à partir de leurs ‗territoires‘, c‘est-à-dire (au sens où l‘entend M. Glissant) de cet espace géographique, possédé de manière quasi divine par mythes fondateurs et filiation biblique, et à partir duquel on est autorisé à étendre sa

‗Vérité‘ aux peuples barbares‖ (28).

A close reading of Écrire en pays dominé reveals the extent of Chamoiseau‘s debt toward Glissant. There is, of course, the open recognition of Malemort (the latter author‘s third novel) as one of the turning points in the créoliste‟s quest for artistic self-expression.

But his influence manifests itself not only on a thematic level. In fact, the very structure of the text presents strong echoes of Glissantian thought. The book is divided into three parts, the second and third of which are entitled ―En digenèses selon Glissant‖ and ―Sur la Pierre-monde‖, respectively42. This intellectual filiation brings about paradoxical repercussions that will be discussed shortly.

I argue that Écrire plays a key role in Chamoiseau‘s poetics of creolization conflicted one, since Glissant disagrees with many of the créolistes‘ views, starting with the notion of créolité itself. In ―La ‗créolisation‘ culturelle du monde‖, an interview given to Label France in 2000, the Martinican writer and scholar was quite emphatic on this point: …je suis tout à fait contre le terme ‗créolité‘ bien que les écrivains de la créolité se réclament de moi comme étant leur père spirituel. Je crois que l'idée de créolisation correspond mieux à la situation du monde. C'est l'idée d'un processus continu capable de produire de l'identique et du différent. Il me semble que la créolité érige le multilinguisme ou le multiethnisme en dogme ou en modèle. Comme je suis contre les modèles, je préfère le terme ouvert de créolisation à cet espèce d'essence ou d'état auquel renvoie le terme de ‗créolité‘.

42 The notion of ‗digenèse‘ was first developed by Glissant in his book Faulkner, Mississippi. It proposes an alternative genesis or non-essentialist myth of origins. As for the ‗pierre-monde‘, this seems to be a direct reference to the concept of the ‗tout-monde‘ explored in his Traité du Tout-Monde.

81 because of its dialogical nature. This aspect is evidenced from the opening paragraphs, as the narrator wonders, addressing himself in the second person: ―Comment écrire alors que ton imaginaire s‘abreuve, du matin jusqu‘aux rêves, à des images, des pensées, des valeurs qui ne sont pas les tiennes ? Comment écrire quand ce que tu es végète en dehors des élans qui déterminent ta vie ? Comment écrire, dominé ?‖ (17). However, since the structure of this text resembles that of Texaco, one could argue that this apparent multiplicity of voices in reality hides a univocity of views. But the truth is that, here, the voices do establish an actual dialogue: the vieux guerrier constantly questions the narrator‘s views and, in more than one occasion, even mocks him for his naïveté. For instance, after a passage in which the latter describes his first readings and the feeling of dissatisfaction that in time would push him to ‗prendre la plume‘, the warrior replies:

―…moi, je voyais notre ciel s‘assombrir. Les Territoires colonialistes devinrent des

Centres à partir desquels le monde relié se régenta en toutes violences […] En ce temps- là, sacré rêveur, je n‘avais pas le temps de lire… (il ricane encore)… Oh, je ne te reproche rien, poursuis ton historiette…‖ (36, emphasis in the original).

A „schizophrenic‟ oeuvre?

A priori, Chamoiseau‘s œuvre could make us think of a tightly knit patchwork in which fiction and theory constantly reinforce each other to form a harmonious whole, as many of the elements present in his novels either prefigure or illustrate the ideas developed in his theoretical texts. Nevertheless, a more attentive reading reveals a number of significant tensions that undermine it or, at the very least, problematize it. Dominique

Chancé brings to light one such conflict in a perceptive essay that attempts to answer the

82 question of the writer‘s reputed ―baroqueness‖. In ―De Chronique des sept misères à

Biblique des derniers gestes, Patrick Chamoiseau est-il baroque?‖, Chancé contests views that liken his texts to those of other Caribbean authors whose styles are often characterized as ―unbridled‖, ―excessive‖ or even ―monstrous‖. Here, the distinction between a style and a poetics becomes a key point since, in her view, the traits of a type of ―baroqueness‖ that is particularly present in the Caribbean result less from a style than from a poetics, i.e. an ―ensemble complexe de significations et de formes qui renvoient à une position spécifique du sujet vis-à-vis de la loi ou de la question de la loi‖ (869).

In this sense, it is worth reiterating that Chamoiseau‘s novels are often structured by a struggle between two camps that makes for a mostly binary world which is in sharp contrast to the ‗désordre symbolique‘ underlying Alejo Carpentier‘s El siglo de las luces or Glissant‘s Tout-Monde, for example. The defense of the petit peuple créole, of a certain authenticity against the forces of neo-colonial powers seem to conflict with a baroque view of the world: ―…l‘idéologie identitaire résiste à la vision baroque, l‘une exaltant des valeurs et réclamant des lois nouvelles, tandis que l‘autre se nourrit d‘ambivalences et de la coexistence de lois contradictoires‖ (871). Ultimately, in placing

Chamoiseau‘s works within the lineage of Jacques Roumain or Jacques-Stephen Alexis and their specific, parabolic brand of réalisme merveilleux, Chancé gets to the core of the issue. She notes that ―[le] balancement de l‘écriture entre réalisme-merveilleux et ambiguïté baroque témoigne sans doute d‘une hésitation entre la créolité ouverte et chaotique, créatrice d‘un imaginaire inédit et la créolité identitaire, fermée sur ses valeurs et sur son lieu d‘origine, conservatrice d‘un idéal politique (894).

Although I agree with this point, I would add that Chamoiseau‘s oeuvre seems to

83 vacillate between two other antagonistic forces: the aesthetic fluidity of Glissant‘s views on créolisation as a cultural process on the one hand and the pedagogical inclinations consistent with the project outlined in the Élogé de la créolité on the other hand. Needless to say, this conflict creates ramifications that extend well beyond the scope of his own literature. Thus, we should not be surprised to hear him advocate creative freedom and writers‘ right to keep certain areas of opacity in their texts while, at the same time, condemning fellow authors –in a rather condescending tone- for their choice of certain words over others43.

Clearly, there are other points of tension that underlie his literary project. In

―Créolité bites‖, an interview with Lucien Taylor, Chamoiseau comments on the dualistic nature of his literary experiments as a young man. He explains:

I had been a cartoonist in my youth. As a teenager, I wrote poetry in a very pure and refined French, while in the cartoons, a less noble art form, I‘d mix Creole and French in the captions. I created an alloy of the two. It was all a bit schizophrenic. I had two personalities: a superego that was very French, and another part that was freer, more underground, which found expression in the cartoons‖ (132, emphasis mine).

Interestingly, though the linguistic issue has been partly resolved in the characteristic

‗interlangue‘ I have just analyzed, his ‗adult‘ works still seem to have kept some of this schizophrenic tendency: his fictional writings tend to tackle political issues in a very

43 In a text prepared for his presentation of Maryse Condé‘s Traversée de la mangrove in Guadeloupe, Chamoiseau starts by stating that Créolité is the foundation of his own work and the ―mental architecture‖ from which he seeks ―answers to [his] questions‖. He adds: ―but it is less theory than statement, and Jean Bernabé, Raphael Confiant and I have already presented it as such in our text‖. He is quick to specify that their intentions are not pedagogical: ―It is therefore not a question of enlisting anyone, nor of prescribing a way of writing, painting, or performing; in short, it has never been our goal to guide artistic expression…‖ (390) Then, a few pages later, after praising Condé for what he considers her text‘s strong points, he chastises her for the use of certain words which, according to him, ―fail to invoke… anything besides the flavor of other places and other cultures‖. He goes into detail: ―For instance, île, a word we never say or think. Saying village instead of bourg since there are no villages here… It seems to me that the writer‟s lexicon must feed itself primarily from what I call our verbal subconscious, in order for the literary fabric to touch us intimately and to release evocative bursts. Also, the footnotes that explain what we already know make us think, dear Maryse, that you are not addressing us, but some other people…‖ (393-394, emphasis mine).

84 indirect way, whereas his autobiographical and theoretical texts are much more politically engaged. This is to be expected of the latter genre, but not necessarily of the former, which has traditionally been viewed as a place for reflection on personal matters. Thus, crucial issues such as racism and cultural alienation within the Martinican school system are addressed under the guise of childhood memories in Enfance créole. In any case, regardless of what the cause for this choice might be, the intended effect is clear: a seemingly innocent anecdote becomes a powerful denunciation tool that speaks louder than any theoretical essay would, as it engages the reader‘s empathy:

Le négrillon s‘aperçut assez vite que le Maître avait ses préférés. Ceux-là disposaient d‘une peau claire… Leur nez n‘était pas aplati ou large, mais long, pointu… Ils parlaient déjà un petit français huilé… Ils étaient loin de ce que le Maître appelait des manières-de-vieux-nègre, manières qui en fait relevaient de la culture créole. Peau noire, traits négroïdes (qui pourtant étaient les siens) versaient pour lui, en conscience ou non, dans la même tourbe barbare que l‘univers créole, et les deux s‘associaient… (Chemin 111)

Overall, the poetics of creolization remains the driving force of Chamoiseau‘s literary project. From the fecundation of French by Creole in Chronique to the dialogical nature of Écrire, his works emphasize oral elements of language as a means to appropriate

French, in the hopes of making it a better tool for the reflection of the realities of

Martinican society. Although belonging to different geographical and historical contexts,

I claim that a similar goal underlies the fictional texts of Guillermo Cabrera Infante, which we will analyze next.

Guillermo Cabrera Infante, the iconoclast

Born in Gibara, Cuba in 1929, Cabrera Infante was a writer, journalist, film critic and screenwriter. His parents were militant communists and founders of the local branch of

85 the Communist party. In 1941, the whole family moved to Havana, where he started studying medicine but quickly switched to journalism. During the last years of Fulgencio

Batista‘s rule44, he was arrested twice: once for publishing stories containing English- language profanities, and once for publicly opposing the regime, for which he spent some time in jail. With the triumph of the Cuban revolution, Cabrera Infante became director of the Instituto del Cine and head of the literary magazine Lunes de revolución, a supplement to the Communist newspaper Revolución (nowadays known as Granma). His initial relationship with the Castro regime quickly turned sour as a result of a government ban on a documentary made by his brother and the subsequent prohibition of his own publications in Cuba45. He was then sent to Belgium, where he spent three years as a cultural attaché. In 1965, after a trip home for his mother‘s funeral, he decided to break all ties with the government. He and his family thus went into exile, first in Spain, then in

England, where he resided until his death in 2005.

Cabrera Infante‘s literary career was built almost entirely in exile. In 1963, he published Un oficio del siglo XX, an innovative text that compiled a collection of film critiques in a fictionalized format and which prefigured many of the techniques employed in later works. Tres Tristes Tigres, the text that earned him international fame, first appeared in 1967. An earlier –and, according to the author, very different- version of this

44 Fulgencio Batista (1901-1973): soldier and dictator who twice ruled Cuba—first in 1933–44, when he gave the nation a strong, efficient government, and again in 1952–59 as a dictator, jailing his opponents, using terrorist methods, and making fortunes for himself and his associates. His regime was finally toppled by the rebel forces led by Fidel Castro, who launched their successful attack in the fall of 1958. Faced with the collapse of his regime, Batista fled with his family to the Dominican Republic. Later he went into exile in Madeira and finally to Estoril, near Lisbon. From Encyclopædia Britannica Online.

45 This short film -which showed different aspects of Havana‘s nightlife- would play an influential role in the birth of Tres Tristes Tigres (translated into English as Three Trapped Tigers). As for the prohibition of Cabrera Infante‘s books in Cuba, it should be noted that not all versions agree on the veracity of this fact. A number of sources go as far as to quote government officials who claim they actually tried to publish some of his works under the exiled writers‘ section of their publishing house, but the writer never gave them permission to do so. In http://www.rebelion.org/noticia.php?id=11811

86 work had won the Seix Barral literary prize in Spain46. Over the course of the following decades, he alternated between his two passions: literature and cinema. He published critical texts on both of these topics, a fictional memoir –La Habana para un Infante difunto, translated into English as Infante‟s Inferno-, short stories, a number of political essays (compiled in Mea Cuba) and worked as a screenwriter on several occasions.

Creolization in the works of Cabrera Infante

At the beginning of the chapter we had clarified that, in literature, the term creolization loses its original, linguistic connotation47 (i.e. processes of formation of Creole languages) and takes on a more metaphoric one (the appropriation of a European language through a number of linguistic and rhetorical strategies inspired by elements of traditional indigenous cultures). In La isla que se repite, Antonio Benítez Rojo uses the term criollización in its anthropological sense, i.e. in reference to cultural manifestations of the Caribbean area:

In my view, no cultural manifestation among us is creolized, but rather in a permanent state of creolization. I believe that creolization does not transform literature, language or music into a synthesis or anything that can be taken in essentialist terms; in fact, it does not even lead these cultural expressions to a predictable state of creolization. To me, ―creolization‖ is a term by which we attempt to explain the unstable states that a Caribbean cultural object adopts through time; to me, it is not a process – this word implies a progression or movement forward– but a discontinuous series of recurrences, of happenings, whose only law is change48…

46 For an explanation on the genesis and metamorphosis of this text, please refer to an interview conducted by Emir Rodríguez Monegal in Mundo Nuevo, p. 49

47 On a side note, it is worth observing that the topic of linguistic creolization in the context of the Spanish Caribbean is truly a perplexing issue. Unlike their francophone counterparts, the Greater Antilles did not see the birth of new languages deriving from a European language substratum; overall, there are less than a handful of Spanish-based Creoles. For one hypothesis on the possible causes for this linguistic enigma, see Chaudenson, pp. 129-134. 48 ―De acuerdo con mi manera de pensar ninguna manifestación cultural entre nosotros está criollizada sino más bien en estado permanente de criollización. Creo que la criollización no transforma la literatura o la

87

Benìtez Rojo‘s definition of the concept –which shares parallels with the one proposed by

Glissant in that they both underscore instability and unpredictability as key factors- opens the way for the interpretation of all Caribbean cultural objects, among which literature plays a prominent role. With this in mind, we will be asking: How does Cabrera Infante‘s literary project fit in the context of that ―discontinuous series of happenings whose only law is change‖? How does he set out to appropriate the Spanish language? What specific mechanisms are at play in his works? Is it possible to compare his approach to

Chamoiseau‘s? Although the Cuban writer‘s oeuvre was quite prolific, in this chapter I will focus on two of his texts: Tres Tristes Tigres and Delito por bailar el chachachá, as it is in these works that the development of a poetics of creolization is most palpable. From here on, we will refer to these texts as TTT and Delito.

Tres Tristes Tigres

First published in Spain in 1967, Tres Tristes Tigres skillfully recreates the Havana nightlife of pre-revolutionary Cuba. It is a ground-breaking text that became an instant classic on both sides of the Atlantic49. Revolutionary on many levels, TTT has been celebrated for its humor, linguistic playfulness and wit, both by critics and the general public. A review of all the critical studies that have been dedicated to this text is beyond

música o el lenguaje en una síntesis o algo que pueda tomarse en términos esencialistas; más aún, ni siquiera conduce a estas expresiones a un estado de criollizaciñn predecible. Para mì ―criollizaciñn‖ es un término mediante el cual intentamos explicar los estados inestables que presenta un objeto cultural del Caribe a lo largo del tiempo; para mí no es un proceso – palabra que implica un movimiento hacia delante – sino una serie discontinua de recurrencias, de happenings, cuya única ley es el cambio...‖ (396) Although an English version of the text exists, the paragraph I am quoting here is an addition to the latest Spanish edition, which came out a few years after the English one. The translation of this passage is mine. 49 A second edition came out the year after its initial publication; within a couple of years, it was translated into several languages, including English and French.

88 the scope of my essay. However, I will briefly describe some of the most influential ones, as they provide useful insight into the intricacies of its fertile universe.

Stephanie Merrim‘s Logos and the word examines TTT from the perspective of an unofficial Latin American sub-genre that she calls the novel of language, i.e. ―texts which are on some level metalinguistic or linguistically self-conscious‖ (8). Strongly influenced by Lewis Carroll‘s ludic approach to literature50, TTT can be considered the epitome of this type of novel. More than being just linguistically self-conscious, the text is actually a celebration of language. Cabrera Infante himself has said that ―en este libro la narración como se entiende tradicionalmente no era esencial, ni siquiera era importante…‖

(Guibert 22, emphasis added) With plot line(s) relegated to a secondary level, language becomes the novel‘s true protagonist.

Through an in-depth analysis of wordplay, wit and verbal humor, Merrim posits

TTT as a ―self-contained game‖ played against an opponent, reality. She claims that with the aim of ―warding off reality (and ‗real‘ discourse)‖ and to compensate for reality‘s defects, the text develops both an ―anti- or game world (the nightworld)‖ and its counterpart, an ―anti-language, which operate on their own, alternative, set of rules‖ (43).

Indeed, by creating an anti-language, Cabrera Infante seeks to challenge the validity of literary language and, more generally, of the literary establishment of his time.

Benítez Rojo, on the other hand, is not so much interested on the linguistic/ experimental side of TTT as on its spectacular nature. In a chapter that examines Alejo

Carpentier‘s celebrated short story ―Viaje a la semilla‖, he proposes the notion of text as

50 Caroll‘s influence is evidenced from the opening lines of the text. The epigraph preceding the prologue is a Spanish translation of a line out of Alice in Wonderland. It reads: ―Y tratñ de imaginar cñmo se verìa la luz de una vela cuando está apagada.‖ Lewis Carroll

89 spectacle. He refers not to ―the use of experimental techniques‖ employed in novels like

Joyce‘s Ulysses or in the works of Cortázar, Vargas Llosa and other Latin American writers, but to the most literal sense of the word: ―When I mention the spectacular nature of the Caribbean narrative, I mean to use the strictest definition of the word spectacle (my

Larousse says ‗public entertainment of any kind‘)‖. In his view, the Caribbean novel shows ―a will to set itself up at all costs as a total performance‖. He then quotes the prologue of TTT and includes it in a tradition of works in which ―the text itself is the star of the show, the great performer‖ (218). It will be useful to reproduce the first lines of this prologue, as they are emblematic of the spectacular nature of the novel and also constitute a telling and entertaining introduction to our topic of discussion:

Showtime! Señoras y señores. Ladies and gentlemen. Muy buenas noches, damas y caballeros, tengan todos ustedes. Good-evening, ladies & gentlemen. Tropicana, el cabaret MÁS fabuloso del mundo… “Tropicana”, the most fabulous night-club in the WORLD… presenta… presents… su nuevo espectáculo…its new show… en el que artistas de fama continental… where performers of continental fame… se encargarán de transportarlos a ustedes al mundo maravilloso… They will take you to the wonderful world… y extraordinario… of supernatural beauty… y hermoso… of the Tropics… El Trópico para ustedes queridos compatriotas… ¡ El Trópico en Tropicana!51 … (15)

Tres Tristes Tigres has inspired volumes of literary criticism; however, none has focused on its orality in attempting to explain its rhetorical mechanisms. By examining this aspect of the text in this part of the chapter, I will demonstrate the crucial role it plays within the development of Cabrera Infante‘s literary project. In a 1970 interview with Rita Guibert, the author reminisced about the origin of his book, emphasizing an oral or, more

51 This quote is noteworthy because it is a mise-en-abyme of the text readers are about to encounter, and also because it introduces – from the very beginning- one of its leitmotifs, the issue of translation and its problematic nature. As Emir Rodríguez Monegal has observed, TTT tries to warn us of the impossibility of the task it sets out to accomplish, i.e. the attempt to translate the nightworld and its language onto the written page. More generally, it advises us that all literature is inevitably -and fatally- the translation of something and, therefore, always inherently flawed (―Estructura‖ 98).

90 specifically, vocal aspect that would take priority over any other:

… mi libro partiñ del concepto de una literatura oral para llegar a la escritura, del habla y de la voz, en este caso la voz, el habla cubana informando la narración. En este libro la narración como se entiende tradicionalmente no era esencial, ni siquiera era importante. Parecía que se contaban una multitud de cuentos, pero en realidad no había más que dos o tres historias básicas que se repetían una y otra vez, alteradas por las voces… (22, emphasis added)

Indeed, the starting point of his book is the concept of an oral literature transferred onto the written page: TTT is an attempt to recreate Cuban speech, the way Cuban people speak. This, he has observed, is one concern that has occupied him since before the book was written: ―mi primera preocupaciñn… fue y ha sido siempre la de tratar… [de] llevar al plano literario el lenguaje que hablan todos los cubanos‖52. It is thus the different varieties of Cuban parole that inform the narration, specifically Havana speech and, even more specifically, the jargon of Havana‘s nightlife. This is stated at the beginning of the text, in an epigraph that ‗warns‘ readers while encouraging them to read it aloud in order to better understand it:

ADVERTENCIA

El libro está en cubano. Es decir, escrito en los diferentes dialectos del español que se hablan en Cuba y la escritura no es más que un intento de atrapar la voz humana al vuelo, como aquel que dice. Las distintas formas del cubano se funden, creo yo, en un solo lenguaje literario. Sin embargo, predomina como un acento el habla de los habaneros y en particular la jerga nocturna que, como en todas las grandes ciudades, tiende a ser un idioma secreto. La reconstrucción no fue fácil y algunas páginas se deben oír mejor que se leen, y no sería mala idea leerlas en voz alta… (9)

TTT was conceived as a ―gallery of voices‖ that constitutes a double ecological project:

52 In ―Las fuentes de la narraciñn‖, p. 44. One important detail Cabrera Infante points to in this interview is the fact that, instead of reflecting class differences, Cuban speech reflects regional differences. ―…en Cuba hay un fenómeno que ocurre y que es totalmente distinto al fenómeno verbal que ocurre en Inglaterra. Todo el mundo sabe que en Inglaterra hay una diferencia básica en el lenguaje que marca nítidamente las diferencias de clase[…] Eso en Cuba no ocurre ni ocurriñ nunca[…] todos los cubanos hablamos absolutamente igual[…] Lo que sì hay en Cuba… son diferencias regionales en el habla y esto está, creo, bien marcado en los TTT….‖

91 the preservation of Cuban speech and the preservation of Havana‘s night life, a world that disappeared with the advent of the Cuban revolution. As the author himself has pointed out, even though the reader may get the impression of facing a multitude of stories, in reality there are just two or three stories –the rise and fall of Estrella Rodríguez, an imposing mulatto bolero singer of humble origins, interwoven with the collective story of

Arsenio Cué, Códac, Eribó, Bustrófedon and their female friends/love interests Vivian,

Laura and others– that are repeated throughout the text, ―altered by the different voices‖.

However, the apparent simplicity of this formula does not reflect the complexity of the book itself, which is composed of a collection of vignettes narrated in the first person by a variety of both male and female narrators. A summary of the vignettes that make up the first 200 pages provides an overall account of this variety of ‗voices‘:

1. Prólogo – emcí 2. Los debutantes a. viñeta camión – Laura b. carta Delia Doce – Delia c. conversación de Magalena Crús – Magdalena Cruz d. cuento de Silvestre e. conversación telefónica Livia/Beba – Beba f. cuento – Eribó g. cuento – Cué 3. Ella cantaba boleros 1 – Códac 4. Viñeta psiquiátrica 1 – Laura 5. Ella cantaba boleros 2 – Códac 6. Viñeta psiquiátrica 2 – Laura 7. Ella cantaba boleros 3 – Códac 8. Seseribó – Eribó 9. Ella cantaba boleros 4 – Códac 10. Viñeta psiquiátrica 3 – Laura 11. Ella cantaba boleros 5 – Códac 12. Viñeta psiquiátrica 4 – Laura 13. La casa de los espejos – Cué 14. Viñeta psiquiátrica 5 – Laura 15. Ella cantaba boleros 6 – Códac 16. Viñeta psiquiátrica 6 – Laura 17. Los visitantes a. Historia bastón – traducción de Silvestre b. Cuento bastón – traducción de Rine

92

In addition to the multiplicity of voices created by the use of vignettes, another element adds to the sui generis character of this text53: the recreation of different means of communication, both oral and written. Thus, some of the vignettes take the form of phone conversations, such as the one between Beba Longoria and her friend Livia on page 46:

―¿Livia? Beba, Beba Longoria. La misma. ¿Cómo andas miamiga? Me alegro verdá. Yo, en el duro. No, qué va miamiga, sanita comuna mansanita. A, no hase mucho pero tengo la vos tomade todas maneras. Sì debe ser el sueðo…‖ Others are psychiatric sessions that portray the musings of a female patient: ―Usted se va a reìr. No usted no se va a reír.

Usted no se ríe nunca. Ni se ríe ni llora ni dice nada. Nada más se sienta ahí y toma nota.

¿Sabe lo que dice mi marido? Que usted es Edipo y yo soy la esfinge, pero que yo no pregunto nada porque no me interesan ya las respuestas…‖ (77)

In both cases, the rhythm of the narration presents itself as eminently oral, although they don‘t necessarily create the same effect on the reader. The partial recreations of the psychiatric sessions are usually stream-of-consciousness type monologues that only give us access to the patient‘s perspective, whereas the phone conversation ‗transcripts‘ allow readers to reconstruct a larger part of the communicative act. Moreover, the orality of these vignettes is heightened by the presence of certain orthographic/typographic liberties that aim to reproduce the way these words or clauses are normally uttered in everyday life: ―miamiga‖ and ―comuna‖ instead of ―mi amiga‖ and ―como una‖; ―verdá‖ instead of ―verdad‖. Other vignettes are letters that, despite initial attempts to follow the conventions of the genre (e.g. the formal heading and

53 By this point, it should be rather evident that the term ‗novel‘ does not correspond well to the nature and structure of Tres Tristes Tigres, which is why I prefer to refer to it as ―the text‖. Isabel Alvarez-Borland convincingly argues that it should instead be viewed as a ―short story cycle‖ (Discontinuidad y ruptura 85) in which each story is autonomous but can also be read as part of a larger whole.

93 opening lines: ―mis mayores deseos son…‖), end up resembling the stream-of- consciousness monologues of the psychiatric sessions. The example that follows is Delia

Doce‘s letter to her friend Etelvina, in which she informs the latter of her daughter‘s wrongdoings since she left their small town and came to live with the former in Havana:

Habana Abril 22 de 1953 Querida Estelvina: Mis mayores deseos son que al recibo de ésta te encuentres bien en unión de los tuyos, por acá como siempre ni bien ni mal. Estelvina tu carta me dio lo que se dice un alegrón, no sabes como me gustó resibir carta tuya después de tanto y tanto tiempo sin que nos escribieras. Ya se que tu tienes toda tu razón de estar molesta y estar brava con nosotros, vaya, por todo lo que pasó, y eso, pero en rialidá no fue culpa nuestra si Gloria te se uyó de la casa y vino pacá pa la Habana… (29, emphasis added)

In this case, orality is highlighted by the use of expressions that normally belong exclusively to the realm of spoken language (―lo que se dice‖, ―vaya‖, ―y eso‖), as well as by semi-phonetic spellings of certain words and expressions that could be considered spelling or syntactic mistakes (Estelvina instead of Etelvina, resibir instead of recibir, rialidá instead of realidad, pacá instead of para acá) and which reinforce the will to capture Cuban parole rather than its langue. In addition, besides its significance from a structural standpoint, this vignette brings to light an important theme of the book, namely the dichotomy between city and countryside, two physical spheres that, at the same time, emblematize opposing world views and sets of values. Delia (who nevertheless lives in

Havana) and her friend Etelvina, the respective author and addressee of the letter, embody the traditional values of the countryside (simplicity, hard work) whereas Gloria,

Etelvina‘s daughter, embraces the city and all that it represents: modernity, the pursuit of a materialistic lifestyle, and so on. Later on in the letter, a horrified Delia relays the young woman‘s intentions to become a TV personality and obtain quick success through

94 her good looks rather than through effort and merit:

…[ella] nos dijo que ella no pensaba estudiar ni cosa que se le pareciera… y nos dijo además que ella no iba a pasarse cuatro o cinco años de su vida matándose trabajando por el día y luego teniendo que estudiar por la noche sin salir ni ir a ningún lado y sin divertirse, para luego tener que trabajar como una mula en una oficina y ganar como una pulga… (30)

Three Tricky Tigers

It is thus not hard to imagine that, to this day, this orality of the text accounts for much of the success of the book within the large public. However –and perhaps not surprisingly either-, it also constituted one of the most challenging elements when TTT was translated into other languages. In an article entitled ―Writing as translation: Three Trapped Tigers and a Cobra‖ Suzanne J. Levine, an American translator and one of the contributors to the English version, recalls her experience of bringing the text to life in another language.

Having come into the project relatively late, her job implied mostly complementing the work of British translator Donald Gardner and contributing to give the text a more

―relaxed tone‖. Levine explains:

When I first met Guillermo [Cabrera Infante] in London he was struggling over the beginning sections of the book, particularly passages like Beba Longoria‘s telephone conversation […] I started helping Guillermo out with these sections, and we found that by talking, that is, by reading out loud the spoken sections and by throwing words and phrases around until we found those that sounded the best, we pretty much solved this problem. Naturally, certain things were bound to be ―lost‖: the very Cuban or even Havana slang is unique and can‘t possibly correspond to any one North American jargon. But Guillermo felt that my New York linguistic background was in many ways close in texture to his Havana background54… (269, emphasis in the original)

As was to be expected, much of the original ‗flavor‘ of TTT that resonates with so many

Spanish-speaking readers cannot be exactly replicated in other languages and therefore

54 Likewise, the French translation of TTT was also very problematic, though in that case, the difficulties were mostly due to the rigid nature of this language. See Guibert, p. 22

95 had to be recreated. Another element that has greatly contributed to its success and, at the same time, proved a challenge to translators is humor. The analysis of this aspect of the book has already been sufficiently explored55. Here, I will instead focus on the motivations behind the extensive – and, in some critics‘ opinion, abusive- use of both literary and local humor.

What purpose do the countless puns and word games serve? Beyond the desire to appeal to the reader‘s empathy, how can we explain the presence of myriad paragraphs and entire pages such as the following: ―…y me acordé de Alicia en el Paìs de las

Maravillas y se lo dije al Bustroformidable y él se puso a recrear, a regalar: Alicia en el mar de villas, Alicia en el país que Más Brilla, Alicia en el Cine Maravillas, Avaricia en el paìs de las Malavillas, Malavidas, Mavaricia, Marivia, Malicia, Milicia…‖? (TTT 227)

In a number of interviews, Cabrera Infante has stated that, through humor, he attempts to undermine the solemnity of Latin American literature. As he puts it:

―Preferiría yo que todos consideren al libro solamente como una broma que dura cerca de

500 páginas. La literatura latinoamericana peca de una excesiva seriedad, de solemnidad en ocasiones…‖ (Guibert 29) He has gone as far as to hope that his contribution to literature be remembered as ‗the foundations to a monument to disrespectability‘:

―Quisiera que la vieran… como las bases inestables a un monumento futuro a la irrespetabilidad. ¡Basta ya de vacas sagradas! En la literatura, en la vida, en la política, en la historia, en el lenguaje: que nada humano sea divino‖ (Guibert 46).

To be sure, Cabrera Infante‘s attitude toward literature echoes the linguistic iconoclasm of one of his contemporaries, Puerto Rican author Luis Rafael Sánchez. In an

55 See, for instance, Rodríguez Monegal, who was one of the first to point out the existence of two types of humor in TTT: ―literary‖ and ―local‖ humor.

96 early newspaper column, Sánchez defends the role of literature within Puerto Rican society while, at the same time, advocating a rupture from the national literary tradition.

He accuses his country‘s literary establishment of being phony and stifling, of aspiring to a non-existent and anachronistic standard of Castilian purity, a language of ―soterrada intención clasista y erudición de antología descompaginada con la que se trafica por las academias de arte y ciencias…‖ (quoted in Otero Garabìs pp. 56-57) Both authors belong to a generation of intellectuals from the Spanish Antilles who, by means of subversive literary practices, sought to create what they viewed as a more truthful representation of the societies they live in56.

Delito por bailar el chachachá

A collection of short stories first published in 1995, Delito por bailar el chachachá is an ambitious project that proves deceiving due to its conciseness –100 pages–. An exercise in literary minimalism inspired by musical minimalism, it is composed of a prologue, three short stories (―En el gran ecbñ‖, ―Una mujer que se ahoga‖ and ―Delito por bailar el chachachá‖) and an epilogue. They are all love stories that take place in Havana.

As many of Cabrera Infante‘s works, Delito creates a world in which the Word

–i.e. language– rules. In this case, however, we are far from the extravagant wordplay and excess of TTT. This seemingly simple text is conceived as the literary equivalent of an ostinato, that is, ―la repeticiñn de una serie aparentemente inconclusa de sonidos idénticos que parecen diversos porque la memoria musical olvida‖ (9). Although the

56 Sánchez‘s La guaracha del Macho Camacho (translated into English as Macho Camacho‟s beat) shares many parallels with TTT, both on a thematic and a structural level. For comparative analyses of both texts see for instance the Repeating Island and Nación y ritmo by Juan Otero Garabís. For an excellent historical review of Puerto Rican literature and the ‗generaciñn de los 70‘ to which Sánchez belongs, please refer to Israel Ruiz Cumba‘s Las novelas y crónicas de Edgardo Rodríguez Juliá.

97 stories are autonomous and are intended as modulations or ―digresiones del tono principal‖ (100), they constitute more than a mere compilation of stories: they form what

Alicia Sarmiento considers ―una unidad narrativa singularìsima‖ (162). Moreover, while the main characters are interchangeable (always a couple: a man and a woman whose love affair is dying) and the plots are very similar, there are different rhythms to each fragment. Indeed, as the titles suggest and the epilogue clarifies, these texts aim to evoke specific music genres:

El paso (y el peso) del ritual de la santería en la primera historia, que arrastra consigo a la narración y a los protagonistas, suena o debe sonar en la segunda historia como un bolero, una canción con un ritmo apenas perceptible por la carga literaria de su letra. A la tercera historia la culmina ‗ese ritmo sin igual‘. Es decir el chachachá57 (100).

The beginning of the plot is nearly identical in the first two stories: During a rainy afternoon, a man and a woman, tired lovers whose affair seems to be fading, are having lunch in an empty Havana restaurant. In the first story, they leave the restaurant and attend a santería ritual in Guanabacoa. Following a revelation made to the woman by an old black lady, they decide to go back to Havana and, in the end, the couple separates: she

57 Santería: ―also called Lukumi, a pantheistic religion, originating with the Yoruban/Nigerian people but now found influencing Afro-Caribbean cultures. The music of Santería, or the songs to the gods, involves the batá drums. These are three in number… and played horizontally with both hands on the laps of the sitting musicians… Contrary to practice with modern rumba groups, in which the highest-pitched drum improvises and serves as lead instrument, it is on the iyá that the most diverse sound combinations are played, reflecting the rhythms of the spoken Yoruba language…‖

Bolero: ―Cuban dance derived from the Spanish bolero… The music is frequently arranged with Spanish vocals and a subtle percussion effect, usually implemented with maracas, conga or bongos…The Cuban bolero developed out of previously existing genres such as the danzón and the contradanza [...] In the early twentieth century the Cuban bolero spread all over Latin America, where it was typically played by guitar- based duos, trios, and quartets. Over the course of the thirties, forties, and fifties, however, the Cuban bolero was elaborated into an international Latin style…‖

Chachachá: ―a dance and musical style evolving from the Nuevo Ritmo of the danzón style. Engañadora, by Cuban bandleader and violinist Enrique Jorrin, is generally considered to be the first chachachá, in 1953. As a dance, chachachá became popular in the 1950s and 1960s…‖ All definitions taken from Dolmetsch Online Music Dictionary.

98 leaves him for good. In the second one, they do not attend the ritual because of the heavy rain. Instead, the man tells his lover a story about an American woman who disappeared – was swallowed by a sewer and never found- during a torrential Havana storm. This time, the man stays at the restaurant while, braving the rain, the woman leaves and gets into a cab. The open ending does not make it clear whether their separation is temporary or definitive.

The didactic tone of the epilogue intends to confirm what the reader has sensed from the beginning: not all the rhythms are ‗heard‘ with the same intensity. The musicality of the text is most evident in the first story, ―En el gran ecbñ‖, which includes long paragraphs that imitate the rhythm of a santería ritual both through their syntax and through their content. The first glimpse of the ceremony marks the entrance of the characters into a magical world. As the narrator observes,

había cien o doscientos negros vestidos de blanco de pies a cabeza: camisas blancas y pantalones blancos y medias blancas y la cabeza cubierta con gorros blancos que les hacían parecer un congreso de cocineros de color y las mujeres también estaban vestidas de blanco y entre ellas varias blancas de piel blanca y bailaban en rueda al compás de los tambores […] y el negro de espejuelos negros gritaba olofi y se detenía mientras la palabra sagrada rebotaba contra las paredes y la lluvia y repetía olofi y cantaba luego tendundu kipungulé y esperaba y el coro repetía olofi olofi… (25)

The beat of Afro-Cuban drums reproduced in frenzied sentences that blend into each other without punctuation marks stops being heard in the second story. The cadence here is ‗barely perceptible‘; as the epilogue reminds us, it sounds or should sound like a bolero. The musical element is thus downplayed and makes room for the literary element.

A similar phenomenon occurs in the last part of the third story, which, according to the epilogue, should sound like chachachá, ―ese ritmo sin igual‖.

In the end, whether the reader is actually able to hear the different rhythms or not,

99 it becomes evident that the literary value of Delito does not lie as much in the transposition of musical concepts onto a literary canvas -it is likely not the first time this has been done- as in the incorporation of musical genres that bear strong socio-historical implications. Indeed, while the evocation of these rhythms may only add an ‗exotic flavor‘ to the foreign reader, in the eyes of Cuban readers they bring to mind specific periods within Cuban history, namely the 1950‘s and early 1960‘s58.

The fifties, which saw the peak of bolero‘s popularity and the birth of chachachá, were also the years of Batista‘s dictatorship and –not coincidentally- of the strongest penetration of American influence in the island‘s economic and cultural life. One significant point we should highlight in this regard is the fact that, beside the instances of intertextuality with the world of popular music, we find no direct references to the socio- political situation of the time in the first two stories. There are some allusions: the female protagonist, a theater actress, knows Tennessee Williams plays by heart; the characters of the death-by-drowning story related by the narrator in ―Una mujer que se ahoga‖ are New

Yorkers; the hotel where they stay is designed by an American architect and therefore preferred by American tourists for its elegant brownstone façade. But there isn‘t much else, which is what makes the contrast with the multiple political references that permeate the third narrative so much more powerful.

Cabrera Infante‘s mastery in Delito consists in weaving these texts through very subtle threads that take us in one direction while making us think we‘re going in a

58 This time frame is laid out in the prologue. Here, it is indicated that the first two stories take place during the peak of bolero music (―dos ocurren en el apogeo del bolero‖) and the last one ‗after the fall into the historical abyss‘ (―después de la caìda en el abismo histñrico‖). This last period would correspond to the first years of the Cuban revolution. As for the setting, it is also clearly stated from the beginning and presents no surprises to Cabrera Infante‘s followers: ―La ciudad es siempre la misma. ¿Tengo que decir que se llama La Habana?‖ (10).

100 different direction. For instance, the explicit mention of the Japanese film Rashomon in the first two stories constitutes a misleading clin d‟oeil that wants to make us believe we will be reading the same story being told from different points of view when, in reality, variations are created without ever changing the narrative perspective. Moreover, the supposed ―interchangeability‖ of the characters and ―autonomy‖ of the fragments stated in the prologue also turn out to be textual ruses. As Sarmiento observes, it seems more plausible to read the stories as similar situations involving the same character in different points in time (171). This argument is supported by textual clues such as ―Llovìa todavía‖

(―it was still raining‖) (37) in the second story, or ―Comìa lo mismo que yo…Esta vez los dos tomábamos cerveza, muy frìa‖ (―She was eating the same thing I was eating… This time we were both drinking very cold beer‖) (55) in the third story. While we could theoretically ascribe the presence of these ambiguous elements to the mechanisms of an in medias res narrative, a careful reading unearths the internal connections among the texts. This bond is corroborated in the following paragraph from the last story:

…pensé que una vez [yo] había escrito un cuento que ocurría todo en este restaurant-café-bodega para ricos y que ahora estaba viviendo en el mismo café- restaurant-bodega para la nueva clase y uno que otro rico rezagado y algunos conspiradores de café con leche – y me puse a meditar… sobre el abismo que se abre entre la vida y la literatura, siempre, que es un vacío entre realidades distintas y casi pensé distantes (64, emphasis added).

The preceding quotation is significant for two reasons. First, it is an open reference to some of the socio-political changes that Cuba underwent after the establishment of socialism: the advent of the ‗new class‘, the emigration of a large part of the upper class, and so on. Second, it brings to light the narrator‘s involvement -as a character and/or creator- in the previous narratives, as well as his perspective on life vs. literature. I argue then that the texts of Delito can be viewed as autonomous and interdependent at the same

101 time, since they tend to ‗blend‘ into each other, to become a fusion. As it happens, ―[las] tres historias… se funden o parece que se funden por compartir el mismo espacio al mismo tiempo: un restaurante habanero a fines de los aðos cincuenta…‖ (99, emphasis added). By the end of the third story it is quite patent that, although music is ubiquitous in all the texts, it is still just another fictional element, a pretext of sorts. In my view, music represents a means to overcome the contradiction between reality and fiction mentioned both in the stories and in the prologue:

La literatura repetitiva trata de resolver la contradicción entre progresión y regresión al repetir la narración más de una vez. Se trata de un juego de narraciones que quiere superar la contradicción entre realidad y ficción… el autor se reserva el derecho de ejercer un cierto determinismo narrativo. Las cosas no son, suceden, pero en literatura autoridad viene de autor. (9, emphasis added)

At this point, in order to fully understand what is meant by ‗contradiction between reality and fiction‘, it becomes necessary to take into account the textual and the metatextual. Not only do the three stories blend into one another but also, more importantly, they blur the lines between reality and fiction. In other words, although on several occasions Cabrera Infante disavowed any link to political writing, it is clear that his involvement in the political arena during the first years of the Cuban revolution dramatically marked the course of his personal and professional life. After his forced migration and until the end of his days, writing became his way of making sense of the world he lost; Delito is no exception. Let‘s not forget that this last story was originally written during the time the Cuban author was living in Brussels (1962-1965), working as a cultural attaché for the Castro government. Thus, it constitutes one of his first critiques of the political regime that eventually drove him into exile.

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“Señor juez, señor juez, señor juez, mi delito es por bailar el chachachá”

The preceding lines, which belong to a popular 1956 song, give the book its title and also serve as an epigraph to the third story. They prefigure and ironize the main theme of this last text, namely the repression of artistic and intellectual expression that followed the establishment of the socialist ideology in Cuba. Whereas the beginning of this text presents a similar scene to that of the previous stories (a couple eating in a Havana restaurant), the succeeding events diverge from the initial path. As the woman heads for a theater in order to take part in a Bertolt Brecht play, the protagonist/narrator stays, watching the crowds come and go. During this time, he has two peculiar encounters with officials of the new government: a doctor, recently appointed head of a hospital, who has taken up abortions as his specialty, and a Machiavellian and effeminate superintendent of the arts and letters.

Charged with wit and irony, the passages that relate these visits constitute the climax of the story and reflect the delicate situation of artists and intellectuals who refused to adhere to the Marxist-Leninist conception of the arts, many of whom were forced to leave their country, either temporarily or definitively. This is perfectly illustrated in the exchange between the protagonist and the superintendent, who first tries to co-opt him and then ends up threatening him:

-Tú no representas la única política cultural en la Revoluciñn […] -Yo no represento ninguna política. Mucho menos de ese monstruo mitológico de que tú hablas. [El comisario] tejió una mano con otra y colocó la trama digital sobre la mesa […] -El magazine parece cogerse la cultura revolucionaria para él solito. […] Se referìa a un suplemento literario que editábamos varios amigos y que entonces no era más que un semanario torpe, hecho entre el ocio y el sueño, de madrugada, rápida, chabacanamente y con técnica de aficionados […] al que el

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tiempo convertiría en pieza de convicción histórica. -El magasín se coge toda la cultura para él solo porque la cultura es un todo para él. (86-87, emphasis in the original)

This excerpt represents the crystallization of the fusion of literature and reality. In fact, the leap from fiction to autobiography becomes inevitable: the parallels between ―the magazine‖ and the real-life Lunes de revolución, the publication that Cabrera Infante was in charge of, are all too obvious. However, the idea of a fictionalized self-portrait as a victim of history is tempting but seems too easy. Following Fabienne Bradu, I prefer to view the texts that compose Delito as a three-fold attempt to ―registrar el paso del tiempo, llenar el abismo y recrear esta mezcla de estupor y terquedad que, con la distancia real e imaginaria, a Cabrera le produce el espectáculo de la ruina‖ (45).

The seemingly abrupt bursting in of openly political episodes in this story is symptomatic of a larger phenomenon: clearly, the Cuban writer‘s oeuvre shares some of the ‗schizophrenia‘ of Chamoiseau‘s texts. Although throughout his career, Cabrera‘s writings have generally been characterized by their hybridity (thus making them difficult to categorize in a given genre), one particular genre has been constantly and conspicuously absent from his fictional texts: the political pamphlet. In this case, as

Jacobo Machover recalls in El heraldo de las malas noticias, silence speaks volumes; the deliberate attempt to eliminate politics from literature means that a side has been taken:

Todos los géneros están presentes en todas las novelas, excepto, quizás, el panfleto político, sistemáticamente eliminado en las novelas y en los cuentos, aunque no en todos, aunque el rechazo de lo político pueda significar también una toma de posición frente a un régimen que usa y abusa de la totalidad en la forma de vivir y de pensar de sus ciudadanos. Una escritura no neutraliza a las demás, aunque Guillermo Cabrera Infante intente confundir las pistas…‖ (11)

Indeed, when asked about the political undertones of TTT and Infante‟s Inferno in a 1984 interview, Cabrera swiftly tries to deny it (―Yo no estarìa dispuesto a admitirlo‖), and then

104 concedes that the absence of politics might actually point to its critique: ―La polìtica por ausencia sí. No hay libro más apolítico que Tres tristes tigres‖ (Machover 116). The motivations for this choice remain unclear since, as we know, the absence of political references from his fictional texts never implied a self-imposed silence in the public realm about the situation of his native island. In fact, for more than three decades -and unlike other exiled Cuban writers like Severo Sarduy-, Cabrera was very open in his condemnation of the Castro regime. He published numerous articles in newspapers and magazines from both Latin America and Europe.

The most well-known of these essays first appeared in the Argentine magazine

Primera Plana in 1968 and is now the opening piece of Mea Cuba (1992), a compilation of his political writings. In this fiery text, Cabrera denounces the persecution he and his family were subjected to after his break with the socialist government and talks about the controversy created in Cuba by the publication of TTT. He then decries the subsequent harassment of fellow intellectuals like Heberto Padilla and laments about the virtual destruction of Havana and of its people:

En increíble cabriola hegeliana, Cuba había dado un gran salto adelante –pero había caído atrás. Ahora, en la pobre ropa de la gente, en los automóviles bastardos (excepto, claro, las limusinas oficiales o los raudos Chevrolet de último tipo de la caravana del Premier), en las caras hambreadas, se veía que vivíamos, que éramos el subdesarrollo. El socialismo teóricamente nacionaliza las riquezas. En Cuba, por una extraña perversión de la práctica, se había socializado la miseria (34, emphasis in the original).

Needless to say, this bold stance not only caused him countless troubles throughout his career and ostracized him from (most of) the intellectual community, but gave his books an unexpectedly subversive tone. In the end, Cabrera Infante reiterates that this decision merely responds to a moral obligation: ―Yo no creo en la polìtica. La polìtica es un

105 ejercicio para alcanzar el poder. A mí no me interesa eso. Yo tengo una postura moral con respecto a lo que ocurre en Cuba porque es definitivamente inmoral. Fidel Castro es tan inmoral que llega a ser obsceno. Entonces no hay conciliaciñn…‖ (Machover 131)

In this chapter, I have argued that the term creolization is used by Caribbean writers as a metaphor. Moving beyond its original linguistic denotation, it refers here to a conscious effort of appropriation of a European language to make it reflect an indigenous culture and reality, and to the specific techniques that facilitate this appropriation. I retraced this phenomenon through the examination of texts by Patrick Chamoiseau and

Guillermo Cabrera Infante, authors who have greatly contributed to the shaping of a distinctive, Caribbean voice. By way of this comparison, I hope to have brought to light the parallels that exist between their respective oeuvres and also –necessarily- the aspects in which they differ.

Overall, language plays an essential role in the literary projects of both authors.

Through different channels, they both attempt to revolutionize language within literature.

Just as the language of Chamoiseau‘s texts has been considered ―neither French nor

Creole‖, in the same way Cabrera Infante‘s style is often far from standard Spanish. In fact, he has referred to his own methods as ―actos de terrorismo contra el lenguaje establecido…‖ (Guibert 23) that are not necessarily permissible in everyday speech, let alone allowed by the Real Academia de la Lengua Española.

Similarly, the creolization of language and form are a pre-eminent part of the literary projects of both authors. On a textual level, this manifests itself in a variety of ways: the prevalence of orality, the privileging of hybrid forms, the appeal to different facets of their respective cultures (popular music, storytelling, syncretic religious

106 practices, etc.) For instance, both Solibo Magnifique and Tres Tristes Tigres constitute attempts to preserve a dying world of parole within marginal sectors of society. The former text tries to capture the essence of Creole storytelling, while the latter seeks to preserve the language and atmosphere of Havana‘s pre-revolutionary nightlife. Certainly, these attempts are not necessarily reactions to threats of the same nature: Chamoiseau‘s project is a response to a slow and subtle transformation of Martinican culture and society due to ‗francization‘ or influence from the French métropole. Cabrera Infante‘s enterprise, on the other hand, is a (somewhat indirect) response to an aggressive politico/ideological program undertaken by Fidel Castro‘s regime, which sought to cleanse Cuban society of what they viewed as the pernicious influence of US capitalism.

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CHAPTER THREE The neo-baroque poetics of Severo Sarduy and Édouard Glissant

Cela ne peut signifier qu'une chose : non pas qu'il n'y a pas de route pour en sortir, mais que l'heure est venue d'abandonner toutes les vieilles routes. Aimé Césaire, Lettre à Maurice Thorez

Le monde ne te comprend pas si tu t’enlourdis dans ta voix, si tu ne claironnes pas tes mots avec leur jet d’écume ou le lait des splendeurs ensevelies : pour parler au monde, étrenne une langue d’éclats drossée sur les mers comme une nasse d’argent, Sinon tiens-toi béant dans ton silence et mâche tes mots pour à la fin germer de ta tête un serpent de flammes qui de vrai nouera la terre à ton corps. Édouard Glissant, Malemort

In a 1988 article advocating the need for a redefinition of French Caribbean literary history, J. Michael Dash makes a convincing case that, I argue, also applies to the context of Spanish Caribbean literature59. He recalls that, traditionally, there have been two ways of conceiving literary histories: (a) literature as the by-product of passive reflection of social reality or (b) the chronology of individual talents isolated in time and space. As Wellek and Warren have explained in their Theory of literature,

―most histories of literature… are either social histories, or histories of thought as illustrated in literature, or impressions and judgments on specific works arranged in more or less chronological order‖ (Dash ―World‖ 113).

The shortcomings of the view of literature as a ‗chronology of individual talents‘ are evident, as it tends to reduce literature to a ―series of great men or great works‖, to isolate texts and authors both from other texts and from the shaping forces of external

59 J. Michael Dash, ―The Word and the World‖. Although the study focuses on the French-speaking nations, the author draws examples from English and Spanish-language literature of the region as well. In the closing paragraph, Dash strongly suggests that the implications of the problematic he has examined go beyond French Caribbean writing ―to suggest an important process or mechanism in the Caribbean literary imagination‖ (129). This chapter is an attempt to further that exploration onto the Spanish-speaking islands.

108 reality. The other approach, which sorts out literary periods ―in accordance with political change or in terms of an ideological scenario‖, proves no less problematic: it does not take into account ―the possibility of simultaneity, coexistence or crosscurrents that indicate that the individual imagination cannot be fixed in terms of a neat diachronic model‖ (114). Another issue raised by this perspective is the implied notion of progress that such an approach encourages: in other words, that literature gets better with time.

Instead Dash argues that, in attempting to devise an organizational principle for

Caribbean literature, it might be more useful to ―aim at a ‗poetics‘ rather than a

‗history‘ of the literary experience‖. A poetics of Caribbean writing is especially valuable for the purposes of my analysis in that it provides an ―insight into the relationship between individual artist and collective imagination‖ (114). As I have already pointed out and hope to make clear by the end of my dissertation, this link is one of the keystones of the literature of the region: since the earliest literary attempts, through various –and often diverging- rhetorical strategies, writers have sought and are still constantly searching for the ideal relationship between literary expression and lived experience.

In this struggle between word and world, between art and reality that Caribbean writers face, language is the mediator. The examples analyzed in the text represent different perspectives on the nature of that mediation, they reflect various critiques of the functions of language: ―the Rousseauesque ‗refus‘ of the written word as a decadent trapping of civilization; the Marxist view of language as part of the ideology of ownership and power; the Freudian critique of the language of consciousness,‖

109 among others. Rather than emphasizing ideological differences between writers, Dash focuses on the notion of a poetics; this is to say, ―continuities in rhetorical technique, recurrent themes or the ideology of form that point to an enduring set of preoccupations that evolve in time and are diffused through space within the region‖

(116). In the following two chapters, I will draw on this configuration of a Caribbean poetics as a framework for analyzing the literary production of a group of writers from both French and Spanish-speaking backgrounds.

The present chapter analyzes novels by Severo Sarduy and Édouard Glissant - from Cuba and Martinique, respectively-, authors whose work has been considered ground-breaking because of their subversive treatment of language, among other things. While their texts differ in style and in the scope of topics they deal with, these writers share an affinity for a number of rhetorical techniques such as circularity, fragmentation, accumulation and self-citation, as well as a propensity toward opacity that defies both the reader and the conventions of the genre. In my view, the work of

Sarduy and Glissant emblematizes a neo-baroque aesthetic that has become foremost in Caribbean literature.

I will start by briefly reviewing the main points of Dash‘s Caribbean poetics, which will help us contextualize our object of study. Then, I will analyze the main points of Sarduy‘s reflections on the neo-baroque and a number of his fictional texts, in an attempt to show the symbiotic relationship between art and theory entertained in his oeuvre. Finally, I will explore the novels of Glissant and show how his vision of opacité informs the articulation of his narrative texts. Through this investigation, I seek to demonstrate that both writers felt compelled to reinforce their literary

110 endeavors through essays that would explicate the centrality of this highly experimental neo-baroque poetics in the context of the region.

The fight for a creative equilibrium between Word and World

In Dash‘s view, the chief concern of French Caribbean literature has been the pursuit of a creative equilibrium between art and reality, between Word and World. After the initial trust in the power of the word exhibited by 19th century writers -which resulted in a poetics that valued technical perfection and stylistic restraint, usage over invention-, there has been a conscious attempt to close the distance between these two poles. For the proponents of Indigenism and Negritude60, language was not a simple vehicle but the determining medium for thought and knowledge (120). To them, it was another tool of colonial oppression and could not be trusted blindly. They shared

Rousseau‘s mistrust in the written word and his idealization of the spoken word as the natural condition of language. Thus, they attempted to deconstruct it and create ―a new poetry that valued spokenness, performance, and improvisation over reticence and detachment‖. The work of Léon Damas61, which drew on the use of ―startlingly

60 Born in the late 1920‘s, Indigenism was an artistic movement that promoted a revitalization of Haiti‘s national identity through the exploration of the African-derived culture of its peasant majority. Its main promoters were the young writers of La Revue Indigène, a monthly literary journal led by Jacques Roumain, which ran from July 1927 through February, 1928. The writings of this group were heavily influenced by the folklore studies of Jean Price-Mars, particularly his seminal text Ainsi parla l‟oncle. Among the social forces driving this movement was a desire to resist the cultural and political domination of the U.S. occupation and to fight the ‗collective bovaryism‘ or excessive Francophile tendencies of the Haitian literary establishment of the time. From K. Meehan‘s ―A folio of writing from LRI‖, p. 1377.

61 Léon-Gontran Damas was part of the founding trio of Negritude, together with Aimé Césaire and Léopold Sédar Senghor). Brilliant writer and intellectual who prefigured Fanon‘s ideas in his poems, he was also a passionate anti-militarist and anti-fascist activist. Like Césaire, Damas successfully combined a literary and political career. He actively collaborated in literary journals such as L‟étudiant noir, La Revue du Monde noir and Légitime Défense. Damas followed closely the racial problems in North America and became friends with some of the most important African American writers of the

111 unpoetic language, the exploitation of a creole register and the subversion of high literary and political diction‖ (121), is cited here as the epitome of this viewpoint62.

Concomitant with this vision of a ―world beyond language‖ was the divergent belief that language could be recovered as a tool of revolutionary change (122). This implies a view of language as transparent and utilitarian and resulted in an engagé poetics that favors ―unflinching explicitness and immediate accessibility‖ (123).

Texts such as Joseph Zobel‘s Rue Cases-Nègres constitute a good example of this trend63. For another group of writers, however, literature could not be seen as adjunct to political action: language for them was everything; ―perception of the world was only possible because of mental and imaginative structures‖ (124). Therefore, if change –political or otherwise- in the real world was to take place, it would have to start from within language. Césaire‘s radical poetics, which aimed at a revitalization of Caribbean language, embodies this vision of literature.

The use of certain strategies of inwardness, of ―calculated taciturnity‖ has also played a major role in the Caribbean literary scene. Writers have avoided explicitness in their texts as a form of resistance, at times when dictatorship makes the pursuit of literary accessibility unhealthy (like in Haiti under Duvalier), or when there is a lack time (Langston Hughes, Richard Wright, among others). He played a key role as mediator between Anglophone and Francophone literatures of the Americas. From http://www.lehman.cuny.edu/ile.en.ile/paroles/damas.html , 5/14/08

62 It is worth noting that, as Dash points out, these perspectives on literature are not necessarily limited to one specific historical context: ―[the] main thrust of the poetics of negritude and indigenism remain alive today in the continuing quest for a new ‗oralité‘ in literature, and in the use of folk forms as narrative devices in literature‖ (122). In this sense, the work of writers such as Patrick Chamoiseau comes to mind (see Chapter One).

63 This tendency continued during the 70‘s and 80‘s among Caribbean writers in exile, particularly in works of the Haitian diaspora which, in Dash‘s words, ―display an unchecked hysteria in their reactions to the Duvalier regime‖ (124). This view of literature as social commitment is also prevalent in present-day Cuba; needless to say, it is the only one sanctioned by the island‘s socialist government.

112 of concrete political options (like in the French West Indies after 194664). Moreover, these texts reflect the quest for a discourse that ―responds more imaginatively to the

New World‖, one that can relay the Caribbean experience more adequately than traditional ‗realistic‘ novels (127). The réalisme merveilleux of Jacques-Stephen

Alexis and the novels of Franketienne, Simone Schwarz-Bart and Édouard Glissant – among others– exemplify this particular current. It should be made clear that, beyond obvious differences in the work of these authors, what links them together is their interest in an internal discourse, their reliance on a ―conscious retentiveness‖ that is a form of resistance, of opposition to the loudness and ―overwhelming clarity‖ that often characterizes the world of the oppressor (126).

If, as I argue, the tenets of this ―poetics of the literary experience‖ advocated by

Dash transcend the French-speaking region of the Caribbean, then we must include the fiction of Alejo Carpentier and Severo Sarduy in this category. Surely, an in-depth study of the work of these two authors would show that they bear little in common besides their nation of origin. Yet, their texts do share a conscious attempt to avoid explicitness and an affinity for the exuberance and proliferation of a baroque imagery.

These are the elements that interest me the most in the novels of the latter who, it is well known, was at once an admirer and a stern critic of his predecessor.

Apotheosis of the neo-baroque.

64 In 1946, Martinique and Guadeloupe ceased to exist as French colonies and became an integral part of the French Republic as Overseas Departments (―Départements d‘Outre-Mer‖). This year marked the beginning of an intense process of cultural and economic assimilation to the French way of life that continues to this day, and which is seen as threatening to the subsistence of the Creole language and culture.

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The work of Severo Sarduy, Cuban novelist, poet, playwright and amateur painter, is one of the most original and subversive to have appeared in the context of the Spanish language literature of the last century. Although his first texts are contemporary with the novels of the so-called Latin American Boom, from a stylistic and thematic point of view they are considered posterior to this movement65. Celebrated for their eclecticism, humor and transgressive nature, novels such as De donde son los cantantes and Cobra belong instead in the avant-garde ranks of post-modern literature.

Sarduy was born in Camagüey, Cuba, in 1937. After finishing high school, he moved with his family to Havana in 1958, where he embarked in studies of medicine.

The years spent in the capital were years of intense cultural discoveries and intellectual activities: he came in contact with contemporary painting, started writing literature and art critique and contributed to journals such as Ciclón and Lunes de

Revolución66. He lived the fall of Batista‘s regime and the beginning months of the

Cuban revolution -which he documents in Gestos, his first novel-. During this time of political and cultural effervescence, Sarduy headed Diario Libre‘s literary criticism page and then the magazine Revolución. In 1960, thanks to a one-year scholarship from the Cuban government, he went to Paris to study Art criticism. He studied at the

65 The author himself has been quick to point out what distinguishes his works from that of the ‗Boom‘ writers. In a 1972 interview with Claude Fell, he states that, in the latter, ―l‘écriture est toujours au service d‘une expérience différente d‘elle-même…soit au service d‘une réalité extérieure… soit au service d‘une vie intérieure… soit un mélange des deux…‖ Instead, his novels search to free writing from this subordination. In this sense, they resemble quite closely what, in his mind, constitutes ―le livre à venir‖: ―celui où l‘écriture sera maîtresse d‘elle-même, non aliénée : livre de la multiplicité des langages, de la parodie, de l‘érotisme, du théâtre, du déguisement et de la mort‖. (Fell 1813).

66 Ciclón was a dissident branch of Orígenes, a well-known literary periodical led by José Lezama Lima. Lunes de Revolución (briefly mentioned in Chapter One) was a short-lived and ill-fated magazine led by Cabrera Infante. As we will see, the influence of these two publications and, to a greater extent, that of the former author, played a critical role in the development of Sarduy‘s work.

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École du Louvre and then, when his scholarship ran out, decided to stay in France67,

where he resided until his untimely death due to complications from AIDS, in 1993.

Like Cabrera Infante, Sarduy built most of his literary career away from his

homeland. As it turned out, the Paris intellectual scene of the 60‘s and 70‘s

constituted the perfect breeding ground for his talents. At the heyday of French

structuralism, he became familiar with the theories of Lacan and Levi-Strauss,

attended Barthes‘ seminars and developed an affiliation with Sollers and Kristeva,

members of the Tel Quel team. He got to know the work of post-structuralist thinkers

like Foucault and Derrida. At the same time, his participation as overseer of the

Spanish-language section of the Editions du Seuil made him a central figure in the

circle of Latin American writers living and/or publishing in France. This wealth of

creative and critical thinking informed much of his literary work while providing him

with a rich canvas against which he would articulate his own critical apparatus.

Sarduy‘s oeuvre encompasses various genres. In all, he wrote seven novels, a few

plays and several volumes of poetry. He also published El Cristo de la rue Jacob (a

collection of autobiographical vignettes) and a number of essays on visual arts,

literary theory and the work of other writers, most of which were compiled in a 1987

volume entitled Ensayos generales sobre el barroco68. The difficulty of his texts has

67 Several reasons motivated this decision. On a practical -and personal- level, he had just started his studies. On an intellectual level, he feared the revolution would take an unfavorable turn for artists that held his types of views (as indeed it happened). The debate between figurative vs. abstract art, the question of socially and politically engaged writing had become central very early on. Even before his departure, Sarduy – like many other young intellectuals at the time – had seen himself under a lot of pressure from the authorities to publicly express support for figurative art. Moreover, he suspected the new ideological context would not be any more approving of his sexuality than the conservative society of republican Cuba had been. The subsequent persecution of artists like Reinaldo Arenas and Virgilio Piñera for their homosexuality would tell how wise this decision was in the end.

68 References to all fictional texts will be taken from Sarduy‘s Obra Completa, edited by G. Guerrero

115 earned him a reputation as a ‗writer‘s writer‘ that is not entirely unfounded. However, this degree of complexity should not be taken as an act of mauvaise volonté on the part of the author: beneath it lies an avowed attempt to challenge the reader that is part of José Lezama Lima‘s literary legacy69. The Cuban master‘s claim from La expresión americana that ―sñlo lo difìcil es estimulante‖, his disregard for the obvious and the transparent inform Sarduy‘s fictional writings and, as we know, also play a considerable role in the formulation of his theories on the baroque and neo- baroque, a term coined by him to refer to the work of a number of contemporary artists from South America and the Caribbean.

In Sarduy‘s writings, the baroque aesthetic phenomenon is viewed from a perspective that is radically different from most authors. Contrary to Carpentier –for whom the baroque constitutes a ―return to nature‖-, Sarduy chooses to view it as an

―apotheosis of artifice70‖. In a 1972 interview with Claude Fell, he submits that the traditional acception of the concept refers to ―un retour à la nature – à une nature de préférence désordonnée… La prolifération, l‘étouffement, le festin baroque seraient donc l‘analogue de la forêt amazonienne‖. For him, in contrast, it appears as the result of a process of ‗artificialization‘: ―J‟interprète, au contraire, et pratique le baroque

and F. Wahl. From now on, De donde son los cantantes will be referred to as DSLC.

69 On several occasions, Sarduy reminds his readers that this element is indeed a prerequisite of his writings. In Cobra, for instance, a tongue-in-cheek footnote defies the ‗stupid reader‘ (―tarado lector‖) to abandon the text and go back to the Boom novels, if the reading proves too hard to follow: ―si aun con estas pistas, groseras como postes, no has comprendido que se trata de una metamorfosis del pintor del capìtulo anterior… abandona esta novela y dedícate al templete o a leer las del Boom, que son mucho más claras.‖ (OC 464, emphasis mine)

70 For a clear and concise explanation of Sarduy‘s definition of the baroque and its differences vis-à- vis those of Carpentier and Lezama, see Françoise Moulin Civil, p. 1650.

116 en tant qu‟apothéose de l‟artifice, en tant qu‟ironie et dérision de la nature‖

(Fell1812, emphasis mine).

As we will see, this privileging of the artificial over the natural represents one of the most prominent landmarks of Sarduy‘s own literary landscape. In addition to this defining trait, two mechanisms characterize the works of the original, historical period known as baroque: carnivalization and expenditure or excess. These features are also present in a group of contemporary Latin American works -mostly literary but also visual/plastic-, which he specifically identifies as neo-baroque in his influential essay ―El barroco y el neobarroco71‖. More than mere present-day replicas, these ‗retombées‘ (resurgences) propose a revamping of the historical baroque through parody, adding the humor of our times to the pedagogical nature of the old forms.

Motivated by a will to provide a precise and almost scientific ―operating model‖, this essay contains the main tenets of Sarduy‘s theory of the neo-baroque. Three specific rhetorical devices are put forth as the main catalysts of this ‗artificialization‘: substitution, proliferation and condensation. In a nutshell, substitution is the exchange of one term for another one that is semantically unrelated, and which only makes sense in the specific context in which it is being used (OC 1387-8). Proliferation refers to ―the obliteration of a signifier and its replacement by a chain of signifiers, which progresses metonymically and ends up surrounding the absent signifier, tracing a circular path around it‖ (1389). The process of condensation is described as

―permutation, mirroring, fusion, exchange between the phonetic or graphic elements

71 This essay first appeared in América Latina en su literatura, a 1972 collection of critical texts that has now become seminal in the field of Latin American literary studies.

117 of two of the terms within a signifying chain, clash and condensation that result in a third term that semantically summarizes the first two‖ (1391). Sarduy evokes Cabrera

Infante‘s texts as the most accomplished example of this procedure.

The section that deals with the element of parody underlying neo-baroque texts has an admittedly Bakhtinian slant, drawing on the Russian scholar‘s carnival notions. Two processes are mentioned here: intertextuality and intratextuality.

Intertextuality refers to the incorporation of a ‗foreign‘ text into the text. This incorporation can be direct, evident -in which case it is considered a quotation- or subtle (i.e. a reminiscence). Under the category of intratextuality we find a number of

―textos en filigrana‖ (‗watermark texts‘) that are inserted or woven in, either on a phonetic level (e.g. anagrams, alliterations) or in larger, syntagmatic structures

(periphrasis).

Finally, the concluding section likens the baroque realm to that of the erotic. In

Sarduy‘s view, both areas are defined by overabundance and excess/expenditure (in the sense of the term given by Georges Bataille), and they privilege the playful aspect over the productive one. Baroque texts are thus ―juego, pérdida, desperdicio y placer, es decir, erotismo en tanto que actividad que es siempre puramente lúdica, que no es más que una parodia de la función de reproducción, una transgresión de lo útil, del diálogo ‗natural‘ de los cuerpos‖. Likewise, erotic activities are artificial/cultural -as opposed to natural/biological-; they represent games with no other end than pleasure:

―Como la retórica barroca, el erotismo se presenta como la ruptura total del nivel

118 denotativo, directo y natural del lenguaje –somático-, como la perversión que implica toda metáfora, toda figura‖ (OC 140272).

In ―Nueva Inestabilidad‖ (1987), one of his last texts devoted to the topic, Sarduy points to another element which, in his view, plays a crucial role in the dynamics of the baroque: the ellipsis. This intrepid essay draws links between seemingly unrelated fields of knowledge -cosmology and art-, establishing specific correspondences between the two. In this light, the reign of Galileo‘s theories about the universe in the

16th century (dominated by the concept of circular planetary orbits) coincides with a pre-baroque vision of the arts, while the Keplerian notion of elliptical planetary orbits in the 17th century is reflected in the works of baroque artists such as Caravaggio, El

Greco, Rubens, Velásquez and, in literature, Góngora. In fact, the Cuban author posits the ellipsis, rhetorical counterpart of the ellipse, as founding trope of the baroque movement: ―ahora, la figura maestra no es el círculo, de centro único, irradiante, luminoso y paternal, sino la elipse, que opone a ese foco visible otro igualmente operante, igualmente real, pero obturado, muerto, nocturno, el centro ciego, reverso del Yang germinador del Sol, el ausente‖ (OC 1223).

In this regard, it is not difficult to see the correlation between theory and practice: this elliptical rhetoric is at play in the recurring strategies aimed toward a de- centering of the subject found in much of his fiction, starting with Gestos (published in Mexico in 1963), Sarduy‘s first effort in the novelistic genre. This text recreates the

72 Both as a motif and as a structuring device, the economy of desire constitutes one of the cornerstones of Sarduy‘s fictions. In ―Severo de la rue Jacob‖, François Wahl underscores the pre- eminence of the (male) body and its significance as locus of desire in many of Sarduy‘s texts: ―… on peut induire que le désir, actant essentiel des romans de Severo, y est polymorphe… Il est le plus souvent le moteur de l‘action et, quand il ne l‘est pas, il se retrouve dans les marges‖ (1456). See also Leonor and Justo Ulloa‘s ―La obsesiñn del cuerpo en… Severo Sarduy‖.

119 fall of Batista‘s regime and the start of the Cuban revolution through the story of a young working-class mulata doubling as an actress/singer by night, who is asked to plant a bomb in Havana‘s main electric power plant by her boyfriend, a white young man involved in the clandestine fight against the dictatorship. Influenced by the techniques of the Nouveau Roman – mostly those of Nathalie Sarraute‘s Tropismes-,

Gestos constitutes an attempt to reconstruct Cuban reality based on specific visual/plastic perceptions. Although stylistically different from most of Sarduy‘s production, from a thematic point of view this novel is noteworthy because it outlines some of the topoi that will recur in his later novels: a preeminence of references to painting and other visual arts, the parodization of seminal texts from the Latin

American literary tradition, the de-hierarchization of discourses, a preoccupation to show the heterogeneity of Cuban society, and a critique of ‗high‘ culture.

De donde son los cantantes

In 1967 appeared De donde son los cantantes, Sarduy‘s most emblematic novel. Both humorous and cerebral, this revolutionary text presents a radical questioning of la cubanidad, of what it means to be Cuban. Comprised of three fragments that correspond to the three cultures that make up Cuban society -Spanish, African and

Chinese-, this ―metaphoric synthesis‖ breaks away from nearly every convention of the genre. Characters, for instance, lack the ‗psychological depth‘ of their nineteenth- century predecessors and appear purposely artificial. The reader knows nothing or very little of their ‗past life‘, of the reasons why they end up in the story. More than

‗people‘, these characters –who often come in pairs- are considered functions; this is

120 to say, they only exist in relation to each other and for the purposes of the text. This is the case for Auxilio and Socorro, the transvestites we encounter in ―Curriculum cubense‖, the introductory section of the novel. In addition to the flamboyance of their attire (heavy makeup, feather hats adorned by bells, ribbons and orange nylon hair), their artificiality is highlighted by the theatrical tone of their dialogue:

-!No puedo más! – chilla [Auxilio], y abre un hueco en las migas de pan. -¡Revienta! – es Socorro la que habla-. Sí, revienta, aguanta, muérete, quéjate al estado, quéjate a los dioses, drop dead, cáete abierta en dos como una naranja […]. Conviértete en polvo, en ceniza. Eso querías. Auxilio aparta las mechas. Se asoma, quevediana: -Seré ceniza, mas tendré sentido. Polvo seré, mas polvo enamorado. SOCORRO: Tu me casses les cothurnes! (en français dans le texte). Calla. Yo tampoco puedo más. Sécate esa lágrima. Ten pudor […] -Mírate. Las lágrimas te han hecho un surco en las cinco primeras capas de maquillaje. Evita que lleguen a la piel. Verdad es que para eso haría falta un taladro… La fresa subyacente se está confundiendo con la capa de piña ratón de Max Factor. Cuadriculada estás. Vasarélica. Cantemos: siempre ausente, siempre ausente hace el mal gratuitamente Auxilio, más bien cantando: -Sí, es él. La adivinanza de las adivinanzas. La pregunta de los sesenta y cuatro mil dñlares, la definiciñn del ser… Ésta es la situaciñn: nos hemos quedado y los dioses se fueron… (OC 329-30, emphasis mine)

In addition to the fact that it encapsulates one of the central themes of the novel –the individual‘s quest for meaning in postmodern societies-, the previous passage is remarkable in that it provides an excellent example of one of Sarduy‘s rhetorical strategies: the condensation of multiple levels of meaning into a few lines of text.

Indeed, the superficiality of the protagonists is confounded with their over-the-top cries of existentialist desolation, allusions to baroque authors of the Spanish Siglo de

Oro and twentieth century plastic artists. At the same time, however, the hermetic tone of the dialogue is undermined by references to mundane, un-poetic objects such

121 as a whimsically named cosmetic product.

This subversive tactic is part of a project of de-hierarchization of discourses that is reinforced here by the problematic relationship among the different fragments that make up the novel. Indeed, it is hard for readers to decide which of the parts is supposed to have priority over the others -if at all-, or whether the ―Note‖ section at the end is meant to explain the whole text. Ultimately, this absence of hierarchy in

Sarduy‘s texts does not imply a disregard for meaning, but rather, as Roberto

González Echevarrìa puts it, it‘s as if we searched for meaning ―después de un cataclismo histórico que hubiese borrado todos los sistemas establecidos, todos los cñdigos…y nos empeðásemos en erigir uno nuevo a la maðana siguiente, cuando una luz unánime diera el mismo relieve a restos heterogéneos de las grandes narrativas…‖

(―Plumas‖ 1603)

Another breakpoint from the conventions of the genre (especially of Latin

American novels) is the general absence of genealogy and time. In DSLC –like in most of Sarduy‘s subsequent texts - there are no families, and there is a deliberate attempt to move beyond linear representations of time. From the hyper-modern

Havana of skyscrapers and subways presented in the opening section, the text jumps in time and space through Republican Cuba, to the times of Spain under Muslim rule, then to Columbus‘s voyages to the New World, and so on. As critics have pointed out, the deliberate lack of a figure like the Buendia family of One Hundred Years of

Solitude reflects a will to move away from the presence of a centralizing subject that structures the ultimate meaning of the text.

It would be naïve to try to summarize the ambitious enterprise of DSLC in a few

122 paragraphs. My intention here is rather to situate this text within an overall view of

Sarduy‘s literary project. I will finish by stating that the iconoclastic drive of this text is two-fold. On the one hand, it offers a metaphoric synthesis73 that contrasts with the visions of Cuban culture presented by his masters Lezama and Carpentier. On the other hand, it aims at a deconstruction of the novelistic genre; in Julio Ortega‘s words, this ―anti-novel‖ seeks a ―hollowing out‖ of the genre, ―un vaciado de la novela tradicional en una nueva nivelaciñn del mundo por la palabra‖ (―DSLC‖ 193). This is done by way of a de-mythification of cultural and literary types such as the mulata of

―La Dolores Rondñn‖ and the gallego of ―La entrada de Cristo en La Habana‖. This

―leveling out of the world by the word‖ implies a dual process. While obliterating the traditional conception of the novel, Sarduy sets forth a radical alternative: a text in which language -i.e. writing- is paramount. DSLC is a first step toward that ―livre à venir‖ envisioned by the Cuban author.

Cobra

Considered by many as Sarduy‘s ‗French‘ novel, Cobra -published in 1972- constitutes a second step in this direction, one that takes this supremacy of language to its extreme. Explicitly structuralist, this text incarnates the view of literature exalted by the members of Tel Quel, that of an ontological écriture that ―reflects the art of writing, first and foremost‖74. More than any of the other works, Cobra invites

73 In this sense, DSLC shares the totalizing drive of the Boom novels: they all strive toward a definition of Latin American identity. According to González Echevarría, though, the difference is that in Sarduy‘s work, the ‗solution‘ proposed, i.e. the definition of Cuban culture put forth, is not unifying but multiple. The emphasis is on the juxtaposition of Spanish, Chinese and African cultures, not on their fusion (Plumas 1596-97).

74 It is perhaps not a coincidence that Cobra was Sarduy‘s most popular book in France, hailed by

123 a multiplicity of readings: it tells the story of an eponymous transvestite, star of the burlesque Lyrical Puppet Theater, who seeks physical perfection through a sex- change operation. But it also deals with a motorcycle gang, a sect of Buddhist monks that wander through the drug underbelly of Amsterdam, and an Indian snake that bites its own tail when it is not devouring innocent victims, all of which may or may not represent transformed versions or metamorphoses of the protagonist.

The stakes here are higher than ever before: Cobra is conceived as an all- encompassing structure that contains all texts, including Sarduy‘s prior ones. In addition to the multiple intertextual (literary, pictorial) references that are customary in his works, both the characters and the text of DSLC are summoned. For instance, at one point, while looking for the doctor who is supposed to perform the sex-change operation in Toledo, Spain, the protagonist and his/her cohorts run into Auxilio and

Socorro, who this time appear ―más que textuales, apergaminadas y retñricas: de tan toledanas moras, de tan hispánicas carpetovetñnicas‖ (OC 478). But this drive goes even farther. As Emir Rodrìguez Monegal has noted in ―Sarduy: las metamorfosis del texto‖, the novel -like the snake- is ―un texto que se vuelve sobre sì mismo… para citarse, criticarse, parodiarse, morderse su propio cola, formando una estructura perfectamente circular en cuyo centro sñlo es advertible la ausencia del sujeto‖ (OC

1737). Cobra aspires to contain not only all texts but also itself.

Barthes in Le plaisir du texte as a ―paradise of words‖. For an excellent study of the structuralist stratum of the novel, see S. Jill Levine‘ s ―El discurso como bricolage‖. As for the aesthetic quest of Tel Quel, Sarduy viewed it as coinciding with that of the Spanish baroque tradition. In his conversation with Rodrìguez Monegal, he explained that the members of the French journal ―no pensaban… que el mensaje basta para escribir bien…. Fueron estudiando lo que constituye la literatura: qué organización particular del lenguaje… qué retñrica. Y es en ese punto que las búsquedas de Tel Quel […] coinciden con toda la tradición española. Luego Sollers y sus amigos llegaron a pensar la escritura, cuando parece decir otra cosa, si es verdaderamente escritura, lo primero que refleja es eso, precisamente eso: el acto de escribir, con sus estructuras propias y su dimensión según creo ontológica‖. (OC 1809)

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Examples of this process of self-citation and self-parody flourish within the pages of the novel, creating a game of mirrors that perplexes even the most cunning reader.

For instance, in the opening paragraphs, the narrator confides that, for La Señora (the protagonist‘s pimp/manager), ―Cobra era su logro mejor, su ‗pata de conejo‘. A pesar de los pies y de la sombra…, la preferìa a todas las otras muðecas, terminadas o en proceso‖ (OC 429, emphasis mine). The passage seemingly refers to the protagonist, but it might just as well be talking about the text itself, since both of them constitute products, manufactured goods. What is more, entire paragraphs recur, sometimes identical in form, other times slightly altered; in all cases, the meaning is transformed as the text blends into the new context75.

In the end, as Rodríguez Monegal points out, the circularity of the text brings to light one key factor in Sarduy‘s project of dismantling the status quo of the genre: the absence of the subject. This deficiency is rendered more palpable by a constant questioning of the authority of the narrative voice and of literature itself. For example, at one point, la Señora -one of the characters- ridicules the narrator over the fact that literature still needs topics: ―Ah, porque la literatura aún necesita temas…‖

In light of this comment, the latter is forced to restore order by threatening to take her

75 For instance, toward the end of the first part, Cobra (the transvestite) is described as follows: ―Cobra aparece en el fondo del coche [de metro], de pie contra la pared de lata, pájaro clavado contra un espejo. Está maquillada con violencia, la boca de ramajes pintada. Las órbitas son negras y plateadas de alúmina…‖ (OC 497, emphasis in the original). A few pages later, when the reader assumes that Cobra is now a ‗blouson noir‘ novice, a member of a motorcycle gang, virtually the same text reappears, with a few minor adjustments: ―Junto a la entrada del metro apareciñ una mujer asustada. Llevaba un sombrero rojo cuyos cordones, cayendo hasta una capa negra, del rostro ocultaban las flores de oro. Estaba maquillada con violencia, la boca de ramajes pintada. Las órbitas eran negras y plateadas de alúmina…‖ (OC 510) While the italics of the first paragraph did not seem conspicuous during the first reading, by the time I reached the second ―version‖ it was clear that they had been placed there as a warning sign, cautioning us of the slippery road ahead. The myriad possibilities raised by this new configuration (who is this woman? Is it possible that both Cobras from the first and second part find themselves in the same space at the same time?) support Sarduy‘s claim that language cannot be subjected to conform a unique system of coherent meaning.

125 out of the story: ―Cállese o la saco del capìtulo‖ (OC 440). Finally, a series of statements on the nature of writing provide conflicting versions that ultimately invalidate any attempt to arrive at any one definition of what writing is:

―La escritura es el arte de la elipsis: en vano señalaríamos que de todas las agendas era la de Cobra la más frondosa‖…; ―[la] escritura es el arte de la digresión. Hablemos pues de un olor a hachìs…‖; ―[la] escritura es el arte de recrear la realidad. Respetémoslo. No ha llegado el artífice himalayo, como se dijo, alhajadito y pestiferante, sino con un recién planchado y viril traje cruzado…‖; ―No. La escritura es el arte de restituir la Historia‖ (430-32).

It would not be too audacious to claim that, through this literary tour de force, the

Cuban author finally achieves his purpose of rocking the foundations of the Latin

American novel: rather than relying on strong, believable characters, a specific chronology or an all-mighty narrator, the authority of Cobra rests solely on the status given to language. It is this liberating act that leads to the creation of a truly autonomous text or, as one review puts it, ―un libro ‗divino‘ que es su propio héroe, trama y sujeto: obra de las palabras‖ (Christ 141).

Maitreya

In spite of their apparent arbitrariness, the texts that make up Cobra can be read as stops in an allegorical journey from West to East. This being the case, we would have to agree that Maitreya (1978) constitutes its ‗inverted double‘, a sort of allegorical pilgrimage from East to West. The novel begins in the mountains of Tibet, with the death of a Buddhist lama and the announcement of his imminent reincarnation somewhere in Sri Lanka. This news, which coincides with the invasion of Tibet by the Chinese Red Army, sets his followers in motion. Upon their arrival, however, the

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Leng sisters –new avatars of the Auxilio/Socorro pair and guardians of the alleged reincarnation- refuse to consign the boy to the monastery and flee to the sea. Once in

Colombo, the sisters start a new cult and exploit the young Buddha until he gets tired of the situation and decides to leave the world for good by attaining nirvana. The second part of the text continues its westward trajectory: the locus of the action is now Sagua la Grande, Cuba, where la Divina and la Tremenda, young twin sisters, are worshipped as ‗live goddesses‘ for their healing powers. When they reach puberty, these powers disappear and they are forced to sing for a living. The rest of the story follows the twins and other characters in exile in various western cities:

Miami, Paris and New York, among others.

In La Ruta de Severo Sarduy, González Echevarría proposes this text as part of

Sarduy‘s process of ―recuperation of Cuba‖. According to him, this takes place through the recovery of Lezama‘s masterful novel Paradiso or, more specifically, of

Luis Leng, one of its (marginal) characters. In my view, this recuperation is also evident, on a much more visible level, in the return of an openly Cuban thematic: for instance, references to the Cuban revolution and the choice of the town of Sagua la

Grande as one of the settings where the action takes place. On a general level, many of the topoi of previous texts re-emerge in Maitreya, namely the presence of sects as alternative social configurations, a self-questioning of the text and a privileging of the theatrical and the artificial. While in Paris, for instance, la Tremenda works in a bar performing opera pieces by Wagner, dressed as a ―sick flower‖, her hips corseted by

―a fresh green calyx‖, her skirt ―populated by withered weeds and nuanced fabric petals‖ (OC 650). The kitsch décor of the place complements the singer‘s costume:

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Detrás del bar, sobre volutas coloniales y cristales azules ensamblados en colas de pavo real, láminas de oro, brillaban los penachos de tres palmas. Chupaban la savia de los troncos orquídeas a la luz de la luna. En una fuente gris, de piedra vieja, con juegos de agua iluminados, entre flamencos de plata, chapuceaban, y luego se escurrían aleteando, verdosos patos de plumillas irisadas en el cuello y pico naranja… Arecas sintéticas, de un verde ecuatorial siempre fresco, con gotas de rocío y hasta moscardones tornasolados, remataban el tropical look (OC 651).

As in the past, characters go in and out of scene in complete disregard of any rules of realism. In one case, instead of bothering to provide a plausible transition for la

Tremenda‘s departure from Cuba, the text leads us to imagine a powerful hand picking up the botero-esque protagonist by the collar and throwing her into her new surroundings: ―La Tremenda aterrizñ, o más bien quedñ zambullida en una piscina, frente a una iglesia de la Caridad, en las afueras de Miami, entre delfines que la recibieron con gritos indignados‖ (OC 634). All things considered, in spite of its title and of the apparent significance of religion throughout the novel76, Maitreya portrays a world in which nothing is sacred, where even spirituality is second-rate: after the young Buddha‘s death -which had been announced as taking place ―después de los resultados del fútbol‖ (OC 618)-, his disciples end up fighting over his relics and vandalizing his home. This text also marks a shift toward a more traditional narrative form which references specific historical events such as the invasion of Tibet by the

Chinese army, the Cuban revolution and the Islamist revolution in Iran.

I do not intend to provide an exhaustive analysis of all of Sarduy‘s fiction, or to give a comprehensive rendering of his views on the baroque and neo-baroque.

Instead, I aim to shed some light on the symbiotic relationship between literary texts and theoretical reflection within his oeuvre, in an attempt to elucidate his position vis-

76 As Sarduy observed in a 1978 interview, Maitreya is the future bodhisattva in the Buddhist tradition, the one that is still to come (Torres 1821).

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à-vis the role of experimentation in Caribbean literature. As I hope to show, Sarduy felt compelled to reinforce his literary endeavors through essays that would explicate the centrality of this neo-baroque poetics in the context of Caribbean and Latin

American literary and visual arts.

Through the decades, the evolution of his writing inevitably leads to a reshaping of his theoretical views. After all, we should not forget that Sarduy was an active enthusiast of the telquelian concept of écriture as proposed by Julia Kristeva, i.e. writing as a ―process of self-knowledge which writer and reader mother together as they unravel the text77‖. As his career as a writer evolves, so do the readings and re- readings of his personal classics and, therefore, his views on the notion of neo- baroque. Thus, the elliptical and hermetic baroque of the early years is later redefined as a ‗fractal baroque‘ and slowly changes into a ‗baroque redressé‘ (Moulin Civil

1677-1678) that seems to have shed some of its curves and curls. In a 1985 interview with Julio Ortega, he confessed that ―…con el paso del tiempo, el barroco me aparece cada vez más como un enderezamiento, es decir, como la canalización de la dispersa energía manierista en la aparente simetría contrarreformista; Lezama se va acercando cada vez más al Siglo de Oro, al clasicismo‖ (Ortega ―Severo‖ 1826).

Colibrí

This ‗straightening‘ of the baroque text is perhaps best illustrated in Colibrí, Sarduy‘s

1984 novel. Marking the shift to a more linear narration, this text also represents a

77 Quoted in Prieto, 269-70.

129 literary homecoming for two reasons: it is a return to the motherland78 and a return to an American context. The story starts out in La Casona -located near a river in an unnamed Latin American country-, a mixture of bar and emporium that caters to rich homosexuals and drug users, staging fake wrestling matches among young good- looking men from the area. Colibrí, the protagonist, is a blond and handsome young man, almost a teenager, who comes from the neighboring jungle. After he wins his first fight against an obese Japanese client, Colibrí becomes a sort of celebrity, the most coveted of the wrestlers. However, La Regenta -―the regent‖, the madam of the place- has fallen in love with him, so he decides to run away.

Most of the action in the novel consists in the ensuing chase. In his attempt to escape the Regenta‘s henchmen, the protagonist goes to the city, where –of all possible trades- he makes a living as a painter of trained fleas. When they eventually find him, they confine him for a while but he runs off again, going deep into the jungle. There, he meets his persecutors once more: this time, they become his allies.

Finally, the whole group goes back to La Casona. The circularity of the story manifests itself when Colibrí overturns his former boss and, showing newly acquired leadership skills, sets to restore the place to its former glory.

78 In the Ortega interview previously mentioned, Sarduy refers to this novel as a ―regreso simbñlico al paìs natal‖, an attempt to exorcise the demons of exile: ―…en mì también la escritura es terapéutica: escribo para curarme de algo. Del exilio, en este caso‖. Although the story takes place in a larger, Latin American rather than Cuban setting, a number of elements reinforce this idea of a return: ―los colores…, el uso y abuso de un lenguaje insular, la intervenciñn, como personaje importante, de mi padre, el hecho de que haya dedicado ese libro a mi hermano textual –Roberto González Echevarría-, y finalmente la reconstitución del espacio cubano, de los jardines invisibles, hacen de ese ejercicio un retorno‖ (Ortega ―Severo‖ 1823).

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From the opening paragraphs, the text reveals its parodic nature. Colibrí

constitutes a patent revisiting of the novelas de la tierra of the early 20th century79. In

addition to the setting, some of the characters evoke aspects of that literary subgenre:

la Regenta is an avatar of the strong-willed Doña Bárbara; the protagonist himself

comes from the jungle and is sometimes referred to as ―El Dorado‖. Furthermore, as

is to be expected, the presence of nature is overpowering. However, in this novel the

relationship between man and nature is problematic, and the dualistic tone of the

original texts disappears. On the one hand, the proverbial exuberance of the

continent‘s landscape still plays a major role: when Colibrí and his rival first flee the

scene of the fight, they are soon faced with ―un olor de corteza podrida, de tuberosas

blancas y de musgo, el calor cernido de la maðana‖ coming from the marsh. They

head into the wilderness, beyond giant ferns that hide an awe-inspiring world: ―las

ramas húmedas, de grandes hojas algodonosas y planas, que apartaban a su paso y

volvían a cerrarse con un chasquido salivoso, lastimaban los cuerpos desnudos y los

marcaban con estrías de un líquido gomoso y lácteo‖ (OC 707).

On the other hand, a system of animal metaphors complements and, at the same

time, subverts this mighty force. First, the protagonist‘s nickname is rather

transparent in its evocation of a hummingbird (―colibrì‖, ―zun-zún‖) a bird native to

79 Novela de la tierra, or novela criollista (regionalist novels): A host of Latin American novels written in the first decades of the 20th century… The most notable were three by authors who acquired prominent places in Latin American literary history: Don Segundo Sombra (1926) by Ricardo Güiraldes, Doña Bárbara (1929) by Rómulo Gallegos, and La vorágine (1924) by José Eustasio Rivera. They are set in rural contexts and depict man's struggle to tame nature and make it subservient and bountiful. Each describes toil within a given national industry: Doña Bárbara and Don Segundo Sombra depict cattle ranching in the Venezuelan and Argentine plains (the llano and the pampa, respectively), and La vorágine describes rubber prospecting in the Colombian jungle. The mighty struggle against nature reaches transcendental proportions and in all cases approaches allegory and myth: man against nature, civilization against barbarism, good against evil… The regionalist novel dramatized the Latin American quest to define its culture as deriving from yet antagonistic to the continent's natural forces. From "Latin American literature." Encyclopædia Britannica Online. 24 June 2008 .

131 all American sub-continents. The clients of the bar are referred to as whales

(―ballenas‖, ―cetáceos‖, ―moby dicks‖), while the employees are smuggling sharks

(―tiburones traficantes‖), dealer dolphins (―delfines distribuidores‖) or ubiquitous freshwater dolphins (―ubicuas toninas‖). Furthermore, a glossary of hunting terms adds to the animal topos. At the beginning of the story, the young men that work in

La Casona are called hunters (―cazadores‖) due to their role within the fictitious universe of the establishment. When the main character escapes, they become real hunters chasing a prey and this metaphor begins to dominate the text. As a result, nature reveals itself as ―a code penetrated by desire‖ (Ruta 241) in which everyone craves for something: someone‘s body, power, control, revenge.

In a review that links the structures of Colibrí to the ideas proposed by Sarduy in

La simulación, Adriana Méndez Rodenas declares that, in this case, the parodic drive is such that the model is not just criticized, it is assimilated and mobilized: ―No se trata ya de un impulso parñdico que ataca a los modelos precedentes del ‗alto realismo‘. Más bien, el texto de Colibrí se confunde con su parodia… [La novela] es una página en préstamo de la novela de la tierra, pero escrita al revés‖ (Quoted in

Ruta 240-241). Yet it could be said that, to a certain extent, all of his novels are parodies of other texts. In my opinion, the uniqueness of Colibrí lies elsewhere: here, the self-questioning of the text takes on a new, clearly autobiographical dimension that is unprecedented within the Sarduyan corpus. In a secondary storyline, the narrator sees himself stripped of his story by the choreographers of La Casona, working on behalf of la Regenta. Apart from the outrageousness of this subplot, many elements evoke aspects of Sarduy‘s life. The setting, for example, ―un patio colonial

132 camagüeyano, con tinajones gusarapientos‖ (OC 745), corresponds to images of his childhood home depicted in a number of interviews. Similarly, as the narrator questions the stylistic choices made by the choreographers in their re-writing of the story, they insult him using a Cuban term the author has used in real life to describe himself80. Finally, the narrator‘s father –who identifies himself as a man of the

Sarduy family- comes to help his son get over the trauma of the stolen story, but ends up chastising him for trying to burn the manuscript:

Mi padre (viene desaforado, corriendo a lo largo del pasillo encalado…: -¡Válgame Dios! […] -¡Habrase visto! –continúa- ¡Otra vez quemando papeles! ¡Qué manía la tuya, chico! No pierdes ya bastante tiempo escribiéndolos; después les das candela… Y mira –concluye, al regresar al pasillo blanco-: voy a hablarte sonante y cantante. Ya tú eres un hombre y de los Sarduy, hasta ahora, no ha habido ningún pájaro. Y yo no quiero que nadie me señale en la calle. Así es que ahora mismo vas a quemar también esas cuatro mierdas81… (OC 765, emphasis mine)

The tone of this passage contradicts the apparent lightness of the second storyline: clearly, in the father‘s eyes, his son‘s homosexuality only aggravates his poor career choice, which was already a source of dishonor. This episode is symptomatic of an overarching phenomenon within the text: under a surface of playfulness and eroticism, Colibrí conceals a darker side. For the first time, Sarduy ventures sharing painful personal issues. The writer who, until then, had made a point to efface himself from his fictions, now feels compelled not only to ‗exorcize family demons‘ caused

80 They call him ―guachinanga calva‖. The term guachinango refers to Cubans of mixed white- Chinese blood, or who have Asian features (such as Sarduy). Interestingly, in this case it is used in the feminine form, common practice within the homosexual community, which adds to the autobiographical tone of the story. 81 In this case, the word ―pájaro‖ is a Latin American euphemism for ―male homosexual‖. Let‘s not forget that the protagonist himself embodies both connotations of the term. He receives his nickname for his agility and grace, which resemble that of the bird, but is also gay. The ―cuatro mierdas‖ the father refers to are Sarduy‘s four novels prior to this one.

133 by his sexual lifestyle but to address a growing concern in his everyday life: the spread of AIDS and his fear of contamination.

Indeed, during the nineteen eighties, Sarduy sees a number of friends fall ill and die victims of this disease. The violence of the ravage clearly affects him, and the possibility of contagion begins to worry him. This apprehension seeps through the text, but it does not transpire until the final section, in which images of decadence and disease become the overriding motif. The textual signs start to proliferate in the section entitled ―The White Monkey‖, in which Colibrì and his rival-turned-lover are picked up by a crew of monkey smugglers going downriver. The old, dilapidated boat is described as ―un asilo fluvial para hombres y simios‖. The wharf where they stop to eat along the way is rotten and unstable; the dark and shattered counter where food is displayed is defenseless against ―la humedad enfermiza y el mosquero‖, and the prostitutes the men meet there are likened to ―una plaga de libélulas nacaradas‖ (784, emphasis mine).

Then, after a night of sex and heavy drinking, the crew goes back to the boat and wakes up surrounded by a swarm of blood-thirsty mosquitoes that has the effect of a lethal plague: ―una miasma purulenta, una bruma pegajosa y pútrida… devoraba impune los cuerpos en letargo de los grumetes, dejándolos sajados, enconados‖. The symptoms of the resulting infection closely resemble those endured by AIDS patients:

―En las axilas, en los ganglios de las axilas, alfilerazos; en los ojos, un dolor, en el fondo. La boca blanca, reseca, llena de un polvo amargo. La piel ardiendo… No lograban moverse… Iban amarillando, enflaqueciendo, hasta quedar en la piel y el hueso… (787)

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Consonant with the principles of the neo-baroque, the illness that decimates the characters remains unnamed, ―un mal obscuro, sin nombre‖. Nevertheless, a careful reading demonstrates that, ultimately, Sarduy‘s obsession with AIDS is directly inscribed in the text. As Leonor and Justo Ulloa have observed in ―Funciñn del fragmento en Colibrí‖, a conversation between the protagonist and his Japanese lover toward the end of the boat episode masks the English and Spanish/French acronyms of the deadly disease (279-280). Realizing they are also going to die if they stay on board, they decide to escape:

-Aquí sí que se acaba todo –susurró al Japonés. -Inútil sería continuar –respondió el Sanote. -Debemos de abandonar a estos escrofulosos. -Sí. Y en seguida. […] Se tiraron al agua Colibrí y el Chinote. Intentaron nadar hasta la orilla. Derecho, siempre derecho, braceando con fuerza. A ver si llegan…

Given the autobiographical tone of the text, the attempt to demarcate a line between the protagonist and the plague –which is restricted to the physical space of the boat- shows a clear purpose: in this fictitious universe, Sarduy/Colibrí is not the vulnerable one, it is ―the others‖, the ones who have already succumbed to the virus and have to be separated from the rest of the world until their end comes (Ulloa 280).

Ultimately, Colibrí is a pessimistic novel that extends the radical questioning of the Latin American literary tradition started in DSLC but also –and perhaps more importantly- puts forth a critique of the Sarduyan literary corpus per se. For instance, in addition to the comments made by the narrator‘s father, in which he refers to his son‘s first novels as ―cuatro mierdas‖, a number of footnotes cast a doubt on the

135 author‘s approach to literature. Following a long digression that narrates how, after his escape from La casona, Colibrí ends up as a painter of trained fleas, a fictitious editor‘s note openly derides the author‘s privileging of the formal aspects of a story in detriment of its content, then scolds him for wasting the reader‘s money: ―… y el distraído autor de estas páginas, tan atento a los valores formales y tan indiferente al relato, como si los lectores pagaran, y al precio que están los libros, para oír una musicanga más. Nota del editor‖ (OC 726) In spite of their playful tone, these observations subtly undermine the apparent assuredness of his literary principles.

This pessimistic trend continues and sees its culmination in Sarduy‘s last two texts. In sharp contrast with the (often deceiving) humor that characterizes its predecessors, Cocuyo (1990) is an earnest coming-of-age story in which many of the rhetorical strategies typical of the Sarduyan style are put aside. The simplicity of this moving text sets it apart from his previous novels. In fact, it could be argued that it should not even be categorized as neo-baroque, as the author himself admits in a 1993 interview with Gustavo Guerrero82. As the years go by and tragedies like AIDS take place, his reservations vis-à-vis the power of writing as a means of making sense of the world become increasingly palpable. While Cocuyo -the protagonist- hopes that learning to write will allow him to ―put things in order‖ and make them ―appear and disappear in all their thickness‖ (888), Sarduy doubts this is even possible, and knows that the time of the baroque, as he had first conceived it, has passed:

82 Speaking about the change of focus operated in his last texts, Sarduy concedes that the ‗question of language‘ is no longer the main preoccupation: ―El ‗problema del lenguaje‘… sigue estando allì…, pero sñlo en la superficie, como una envoltura […]. De modo que, si es cierto que en el barroco el sujeto se elide completamente en beneficio de la proliferación, en este sentido, Cocuyo no es un libro barroco. Importa el sujeto, la vida de ese niño y adolescente víctima de la organización o de la crueldad creada por el mundo de los adultos‖ (Guerrero 1835).

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Le baroque […] implique une euphorie […]. Or, les temps sont venus où cette euphorie n‘est plus de mise […]. Je ne pouvais donc plus maintenir cette apothéose ou, comme dit Lezama Lima, ce zénith du signifiant, de la parodie. Il a chu, comme le reste du réel. Je n‘assiste aujourd‘hui qu‘à sa chute, à son ‗déchoir‘. C‘en est tout à fait fini du baroque de l‘or, de l‘incandescence (Quoted in Moulin Civil 1678).

Pájaros de la playa

Sarduy‘s last novel was published a few months after his death in June of 1993. Set in an unnamed island, this text interweaves three stories that follow a more or less linear progression. The first one concerns a group of young people confined in sanatorium due to a deadly disease that is only referred to as ―el mal‖. The second one is the story of Siempreviva, an older female patient, who may or may not be afflicted by the disease. The third one, shorter than but complementary to the first two subplots, takes the form of a diary written by ―el cosmñlogo‖, also a patient of the hospital.

Similar to the closing night of a show that has run for many years, a number of familiar characters make one last appearance in Pájaros: Auxilio and Socorro return as nurses; Isidro and Caimán - corrupt doctors in Cocuyo - are now Caballo and

Caimán, a doctor and a medicine man, respectively. Likewise, habitual themes such as the presence of sects and game of doubles play an important structuring role.

However, the tone of the narration greatly differs from that of the first novels. Even the narrator‘s direct appeals to the reader, which in the past have been characterized by their irony and humor, now echo the gravity of the situation:

El encuentro del Caballo y el saurio no se produjo de inmediato, como de seguro espera, deformado por testimonios policíacos, el impaciente lector. En los relatos [a diferencia de la vida real] puede lo pésimo postergarse, diferirse lo ingrato y hasta anularse, por más congruente que parezca, el desenlace final… (OC 932)

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This work constitutes a rather transparent allegory of the AIDS epidemic of the 80s and 90s. Although the word is never explicitly mentioned, all descriptions of the characters and their symptoms point in that direction; patients are not ―cachectic, yellowish and toothless old people‖ but rather ―young ones prematurely withered by the lack of strength, suddenly stricken by the disease‖ (OC 920). The behaviors exhibited by those afflicted by ―el mal‖ also coincide with those of early victims of the HIV virus:

Algunos se insurgen contra todo, hasta contra ellos mismos, descartan las posologìas prescritas y la voluntad divina. Destruyen, blasfeman… Los hay que, en su desasosiego, tratan de inocular a los sanos la lepra perniciosa: ‗No me quiero ir solo‘, éste es su lema. Otros se ensimisman, se amurallan en un mutismo inapelable, afásicos inanes empantanados en una somnolencia bobalicona, como la de los místicos. Algo, sin embargo, aúna a ensimismados y ululantes: la obsesión del peso, el pánico a desencarnar en vida, víctimas de esa irreversible fusión muscular cuya etiología es un enigma: el mal en sí mismo, o los paliativos y placebos con que trata de retardarse su progresión (OC 941).

Unlike Sarduy‘s early novels, which seemed to avoid transparency at all costs, the message of Pájaros could not be clearer. Like Colibrí before it, this is an ‗activist text‘ in the sense that it ―transgresses the rules in order to provoke a reaction‖ (Ulloa

281). The re-semantization of AIDS identified by Guillermina De Ferrari in

―Enfermedad, cuerpo y utopìa‖ constitutes one instance of such transgression. In her article, the author argues that, by using ―el mal‖ to refer to the disease, Sarduy adds the ethical connotation of the term to the biological one: in Spanish, ―mal” denotes both ―illness‖ and ―evil‖. Thus, it is the disease that is inmoral, not the sick person.

Moreover, the diseased are depicted as prematurely aged children, therefore ―los enfermos son inocentes como niðos, mientras que es la enfermedad la que corrompe‖

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(230). In my view, this strategy is intended to offset part of the guilt and moral stigma associated with the virus during the first decades after its discovery.

Still, nothing can be done to override the imminence of death. The body, constantly reminded of its own mortality by increasingly painful and debilitating symptoms, has been transformed from object of erotic desire in the author‘s early novels to object of concern and scientific analysis (Ulloa ―Obsesiñn‖ 1641). Thus the subject, once pushed aside by a proliferation of language and images, now returns to the forefront, though only temporarily and as a channel for what is to come –death-, the ultimate transcendence of the subject: ―Adiestrarse a no ser. Fusionar con eso‖

(OC 1004). The ―straightening‖ of the baroque text that had started a couple of novels earlier is here more evident than ever. In Pájaros, Sarduy dares to make more or less direct references to the socio-political situation of Cuba: the sanatorium that houses the patients is clearly modeled after the system implemented by the socialist government during the AIDS epidemic of the late eighties and early nineties83.

Un bâtisseur de langage

Édouard Glissant is one of the most influential Caribbean intellectuals of our time; his prolific oeuvre encompasses a wide range of genres: poetry, theater, fiction, essays.

First recognized as an accomplished poet and novelist, nowadays he is also considered a major theorist both in the context of Caribbean and post-colonial studies.

Yet initially his work went largely unnoticed or perhaps purposely ignored: the ideas he proposed seemed to go against the tide of thought of negritude and surrealism,

83 For details on this point, cf. De Ferrari‘s article.

139 dominant movements at the time. As time has gone by, however, critics have begun to appreciate the scope of his intellectual enterprise: the widespread acceptance and use of many of his concepts are a testament to this. The critical reflection on

Martinican society presented in Le discours antillais (1981), in which Glissant elaborates such key notions as opacité and détour84, has continued to evolve and has gone beyond geographical boundaries to include the Caribbean region as a whole and its relationship with the American continent. Lately, he has built on his ponderings on the creolization process as a means to explain the complex social, political and cultural changes taking place on a planetary scale in the era of globalization.

Glissant was born in Sainte-Marie, Martinique, in 1928. He went to high school at the Lycée Schoelcher in Fort-de-France. During this time, he was indirectly exposed to the influence of Césaire‘s teachings, who had returned home in 1939 and taken up a post in Modern Languages at that institution. In 1946, as Martinique was entering the process of departmentalization he would later deplore, he left the Caribbean to pursue studies of philosophy at the Sorbonne and ethnology at the Musée de l‘Homme in Paris, France. While in France Glissant, like Sarduy a decade or so later, was affected by the phenomenological movement, the ‗new novelists‘ and a general questioning of Sartrean existentialism which, naturally, had implications on the political and literary realms. His relationship with Barthes, Sollers and the avant- garde circles of Paris helped him ―rethink the ideal of authority, comprehension and

84 Some of these concepts had already been introduced in 1969‘s L‟intention poétique, a book of essays that marked the emergence of Glissant as a major literary and cultural theorist. The main preoccupation of this text is the ―demystification of the individual self or creative genius‖ and the need to ―emphasize group consciousness‖. As Michael Dash observes in his excellent book-long study on the work of Glissant, this concern is ―as much a reaction against Césaire‘s politics of personality as an attempt to theorise an ideal relationship between artist and community‖ (Dash EG 94).

140 totalization in terms of participation, involvement and interdependence‖ (Dash EG 9).

These years accentuated differences between Glissant and other French Caribbean writers like René Depestre and Frantz Fanon, who advocated and practiced a type of littérature engagée that was heavily influenced by Sartrean and Marxist views.

As his interest in politics grew, Glissant decided to become involved in concrete political action85. With his friend Paul Niger, he founded the ‗Front Antillo-

Guyanais‘, a group that called for the decolonization of the French Departments and their integration into the Caribbean region. The group was split by De Gaulle in 1961 and Glissant was forbidden to leave France. He returned to Martinique in 1965.

There, he established the Institut Martiniquais d‟Études and Acoma, a journal for humanistic studies. From 1982 to 1988, he directed the Courrier de l‟Unesco in Paris.

In 2006, he was entrusted by French president Jacques Chirac to lead a cultural center devoted to the history of the slave trade. He now divides his time between

Martinique, Paris and New York, where he has been visiting professor at CUNY since 1995.

As stated at the beginning of the chapter, I chose to establish a dialogue between the novels of Glissant and Sarduy because, in spite of the obvious differences in the topics they treat, in the authors‘ personal parcours and in the socio-political realities of their respective countries, their works display a common will to avoid transparency which is translated into what has come to be known as a neo-baroque poetics. In the case of Glissant, this desire is fueled by the notion of opacité (‗opacity‘), a term he first proposed in the context of his exploration of Martinican identity and its

85 The French political scene of the late fifties and early sixties was one of constant turmoil, as the increasingly heated debate on decolonization eventually led to the independence of many African nations, and the crisis in Algeria turned into a full-blown war.

141 problematic relationship with France. Initially formulated as part of a model in which cultures could maintain their diversity while relating with one another, opacity refers to the cultural specificity of a people, ―la densité irréductible de l‘autre‖ (Discours antillais 245). For Glissant, opacity operates at all levels of human relationships, as the ‗Other‘ can be an entire community or a single person. As a logical corollary, the literary realm also plays a part in the equation:

Le texte littéraire est par fonction, et contradictoirement, producteur d‘opacité… La pratique d‟un texte littéraire figure ainsi une opposition entre deux opacités, celle irréductible de ce texte, quand même il s‘agirait du plus bénin sonnet, et celle toujours en mouvement de l‟auteur ou d‟un lecteur. Il arrive que ce dernier prenne littéralement conscience de cette opposition, auquel cas il dit que le texte est ‗difficile‘ (Poétique de la relation 129, emphasis mine).

In other words, a literary text will never be completely transparent: part of its meaning will inevitably remain hidden to the reader, and this area of ‗darkness‘ will be larger if the reader and the text belong to different cultures. As we will see, this call for the preservation of ―particular opacities‖ constitutes one of Glissant‘s responses to what he views as the threat posed by the universalizing tendencies of

Western humanism86. In this section of the chapter, I will concentrate on a number of novels that illustrate how the notion of opacity informs Glissant‘s work, and its role in the articulation of his neo-baroque poetics.

86 Glissant‘s ideas on this issue, which constitutes one of the cornerstones of his thought, are summarized in a 1992 interview conducted by Michael Dash in Jamaica: ―I believe that up to now the world had been controlled by the Western vision of history, of time which was that we were all moving towards a kind of ultimate perfection of humanism and Western rationality. We can now see that this is not the case, that Western humanism can lead to massive disorder and also that many civilisations that were not on the great world scene, as Césaire once said, are now there and we can be in contact with them. We finally have realised that the West had always proposed to us models for identity which I classify as ‗single-root-identity‘. We also see the damage caused by this notion of identity. Fundamentalism, ultra-nationalism, forms of racism, etc., are all phenomena promoted by this conception of ‗single-root-identity‘…‖ (Dash ―Interview‖ 19).

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La Lézarde

Glissant‘s first novel was published in Paris in 1958 and awarded the Prix Renaudot the same year. Set in 1945 Martinique, it tells the story of a group of young political activists and their involvement in a series of events before a major election. Led by

Mathieu, the group decides they must get rid of Garin, a local hired killer. However, since everyone in town knows them, they choose to bring Thaël, an outsider coming from the mountains, to do the job. In the end, the different experiences they undergo produce ―a ripening of individual awareness, whether political, emotional, or spiritual87‖ that is emblematized by the river that gives the novel its title. As Michael

Dash aptly points out:

In its course down from the mountains through the oppressive plains to fuse eventually with the open sea, the river represents a fertile insight into the continuum of Caribbean experience. In various ways the river‘s journey is repeated in the lives of the characters as they go from innocent beginnings to a painful state of knowing (EG 62).

The text received critical praise, but it was not necessarily understood by readers when it first came out. Because of its emphasis on the importance of consciousness and the marked absence of everyday domestic details, La Lézarde was thought to be a

Caribbean version of a nouveau roman. More recently, some critics have come to see it as an ―important generic crossroads‖ that marks Glissant‘s crossing over from poetry to fiction88 (Dash EG 60). For us, this text is noteworthy as it prefigures the critique of the novelistic genre that will be at the heart of his subsequent literary enterprise. Toward the end of the story, as the narrator –an unidentified young man

87 This explains the title choice for the English translation (―The Ripening‖). 88 By 1958, Glissant had already published several volumes of poetry: Un champ d‟îles, La terre inquiète, and Les Indes: poème de l‟une et l‟autre terre. It should also be mentioned that he has never stopped cultivating this genre, although there again –like in his prose- his works tend to adopt hybrid forms.

143 who becomes part of the ‗gang‘- is given the task of recreating in written form the events that have just taken place, his friends advise him on what form this account should adopt. For instance, Mathieu says he should write a story, but steer away from anecdotal details:

Fais une histoire… Pas l‘histoire avec nous, ce n‘est pas intéressant. Pas les détails, Thaël a raison, nous les connaissons, nous. Fais un livre avec la chaleur, toute la chaleur. Celle qui te fait saoul, celle qui te rend nostalgique… Et le soleil, on ne sait s‘il faut pleurer ou crier. Le bon soleil maître des chairs. Notre protecteur éternel. Fais-le avec la monotonie, les jours qui tombent, les voix pareilles, la nuit sans fin (Lézarde 224).

These suggestions prove revealing insofar as they provide subtle signs of what will become key elements in Glissant‘s writing; for instance, another member of the group thinks the book should be written ―comme un témoignage‖ that would let readers get both sides of the issue, including the characters‘ ―sottises‖. For Thaël, it should be

‗slow‘, ―comme une rivière… [c]omme la Lézarde… Avec des bonds et des détours, des pauses, des coulées…‖ (Lézarde 224, emphasis mine). Indeed, the poetic evocations of burning sun and heat and the image of a river-shaped story with ―leaps and detours‖ all point to the blurring of literary genres and the sinuosity that dominate his later texts.

The critique of the novelistic genre conceptualized in Glissant‘s theoretical writings specifically targets the realistic tradition. In his view, as a technique inherited from the West, realism constitutes an ill-suited vehicle to relay the Caribbean experience. In Le discours antillais, he states that ―[le] réalisme occidental n‘est pas une technique ‗à plat‘, hors profondeur, mais le devient quand il est adopté sans critique par nos écrivains…‖ (198). He then commends Jacques Stephen Alexis for having understood the need to ―ne pas utiliser sans détour les techniques du réalisme‖

144 when he developed his theory of réalisme merveilleux in Haitian literature. For

Glissant, the ‗festooned‘ nature of Garcìa Marquez‘s style in One Hundred Years of

Solitude represents another successful example of this initiative to go beyond the limits of Western realism.

Le quatrième siècle

In his novels, this will to find alternatives to realism as a means to express the

Caribbean experience manifests itself in a deliberate attempt to subvert the temporal linearity that was characteristic of the genre until the beginning of the twentieth century89. Le quatrième siècle (1964), for example, a sort of ‗prequel‘ to Glissant‘s first novel, takes constant ―leaps and detours‖ in time. Set in the 1940s, the story follows Mathieu –whom readers had already met in La Lézarde- in his attempt to retrace the (hi)story of two rival families: The Béluses (to which he belongs) and the

Longoués. It goes back in time four generations, to the arrival of the families‘ ancestors on a slave ship, and closes with the events developed in La Lézarde. The narration goes back and forth between past and present, as Mathieu is forced to rely on the serpentine style of Papa Longoué -an old quimboiseur who is also the last member of the Longoué clan- as his main source of information.

Having been schooled by the French education system, the protagonist‘s Cartesian mind often struggles with the apparent arbitrariness of his informant‘s speech.

Mathieu‘s cultural alienation also inevitably shapes his views on what little he knows

89 Glissant views this as a common –in fact, obsessive- theme among writers of the Americas, who share a ―tortured sense of time‖, a deep desire to shed light on ―a chronology that has become obscure, when it is not completely effaced for all kinds of reasons, especially colonial ones‖ (Caribbean Discourse 144).

145 of the history of his people. When Papa Longoué describes the arrival of the Rose-

Marie, the slave ship that brought the progenitors of the two clans, and the fight that erupts between them, the young man is clearly dissatisfied with this portrayal of the events. He cannot believe that there might have existed some rivalry between the men before they crossed the sea, and thinks the circumstances of the arrival are ―too calm‖. Instead, he would rather have heard about ―la séance de fouet ; voir le maître d‘équipage choisir avec soin un instrument efficace mais sans risques… ; puis… les deux esclaves ligotés au mât dos contre dos, en sorte que le deuxième reçoit comme un écho des coups assenés à l‘autre…‖ (QS 34-5).

The main character‘s Manichean view of the world leads him to imagine these events as episodes of full-blown violence between victims and executioners, between the oppressed and their oppressors. For the old man, on the contrary, nothing is ever as simple as it might first appear: life, indeed, is full of grey areas. When Mathieu had first approached him, hoping he could help make sense of the past, papa Longoué had hesitated. Then, in his particular idiom -―ce langage inappréciable, tout en manières et en répétitions…, ce parler qui convenait si bien à l‘épaisseur du jour, au poids de la chaleur, de la lente mémoire‖-, he had hinted that past and present are intimately and inextricably linked. The loss of his own son renders this truth painfully evident:

Ils sont sots, par là-bas en bas. Ils disent : ‗Ce qui est passé est bien passé.‘ Mais tout ce qui passe dans les bois est gardé au fond du bois ! C‘est pour autant que je marche dans les bois, sans descendre. Parce que je regarde du côté de mon père, et mon fils est parti. Celui qui dit : ‗le passé‘, il dit : ‗Bonjour mon père.‘ Or regarde la vie, celui dont le fils est parti. Il ne peut plus dire : ‗Bonjour mon fils.‘ Et mon fils est parti (QS 15-6).

Longoué‘s words exemplify one of the détour tactics90 favored by French West

90 For an in-depth explanation of this notion, see ―Le retour et le détour‖, in DA, pp. 28-36.

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Indians but also, more importantly, they draw attention to a central topos in the

Glissantian corpus of the seventies and eighties: the discontinuity between past and present and its ramifications for Martinican society. This issue, analyzed in depth from sociological and psychoanalytical perspectives in his Discours antillais, constitutes a pivotal element in the architecture of La case du commandeur, published the same year (1981).

La case du commandeur

Glissant‘s fourth novel opens and closes with the story of Marie Celat (also known as

Mycéa), one of the political activists from La Lézarde. Starting with the protagonist‘s birth, the text goes back in time generation by generation in order to retrace the history of the Celat family. Unlike the Longoués and the Béluses –to whom they are distantly related-, the Celats do not have a historically identifiable progenitor, only an indeterminate slave ancestor whose name, Odono, has somehow been passed on and now haunts Mycéa and her father Pythagore. The uncertainty of origin of the heroine‘s family is echoed in a number of missing or unknown parents that populate the text and create a vacuum, ―un trou du passé‖ that has a paralyzing effect on all characters. ―Lacking any anchorage in the past and in the landscape that surrounds them‖, Richard Burton observes, the characters of La case du commandeur are

―devoid of real personal substance and, as such, are locked in themselves, unable to establish sustaining relationships with each other‖ (―Comment‖ 310).

The opening and closing sections of the novel parody newspaper articles relating the case of a woman who suffers a mental breakdown after a series of personal

147 tragedies. By the end, it is made clear that this person is Mycéa, and that the tragedies referred to are the deaths of her two sons within months of each other. The ‗official‘ account provided in these sections masks the real reasons behind Mycéa‘s madness for, ultimately, these events are only the catalyst. In truth, her psychic deterioration is progressively brought about by the ―multiple imbalances that have disrupted

Martinican life since departmentalization‖ (Burton ―Comment‖ 309). These changes, which affect all levels of society, are likened to a gangrene that threatens its very existence. Toward the end of the text, a gloomy image summarizes these economic, political and cultural disruptions: as Papa Longoué lies in his deathbed, Mathieu and

Mycéa realize that the quimboiseur‘s passing marks the end of ―le temps des

Plantations‖ and the advent of ―les agents de la fonction publique, les voitures à credit, la Lézarde tel un filet de boue au long de la piste d‘atterrissage‖ (CC 191).

It should be made clear that Glissant does not intend by any means to glorify the plantation era of Martinican history. However -and this is only one instance in which his will to transcend the dualistic and simplistic nature of anti-colonialist writing is made evident-, he does set out to show that, far from accomplishing its original goal of rectifying inequalities, departmentalization actually intensified the process of assimilation that slowly turned a formerly traditional yet viable Caribbean economy into what he views as an unproductive, dependent consumer society. The worst consequences of this degradation manifest themselves in what he calls the ―délire verbal coutumier‖, the neurosis that affects Martinicans as a whole, of which Mycéa‘s case (or ―délire verbal de théâtralisation‖) represents but an extreme version91.

91 The distortions introduced by integral assimilation operate simultaneously on the economic, political, social, cultural and psychological levels. The grandes lignes of this complex issue, which

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In this sense, the parodic newspaper fragments are an effective tool that highlights the contrast between the madwoman‘s discourse and the one employed by the collectivity. Whereas the latter appears at first to be the discourse of ‗reason‘, of common sense, we soon discover that in reality, the overabundance of official titles and technical terms (―la Commission ad hoc du Conseil général‖; ―M. le chargé de mission‖; ―la maladie mentale‖) and the elision of direct geographical references plainly hide a reality that everyone tries to deny: the fact that Martinique is not

France92. In Glissant‘s view, this phenomenon is particularly worrying as it is made invisible by a consensus among the members of the collectivity.

Mycéa‘s discourse, on the other hand, is disturbing because it dramatically points to this truth that everyone else tries to suppress. Where the vast majority of the people is amnesiac or in denial about the past, the protagonist lives in a ―tourment d‘histoire‖ as she carries with her the memories of a brutally painful collective experience: ―Et un jour elle cria que nous avions depuis toujours tué nos enfants, que les mères les

étouffaient à la naissance, que les frères trafiquaient les frères‖. The fact of being form the substance of Glissant‘s Discours antillais, can be summarized as follows: ―(a) The destruction of the local traditional economy, based on agriculture, and its replacement by means of goods imported from Europe. (b) The loss of local control over local affairs on a political level. (c) A decrease in population, as more and more people leave for France in search of jobs; the emergence of a new middle class, based in the public sector, increasingly geared toward a mimetic French lifestyle. (d) The slow death of the traditional Creole culture by way of increasing exoticization and lack of a raison d‟être. (e) Martinicans no longer produce a culture, but consume the culture of others. (f) Bereft of… material and cultural resources on which to fall back, Martinicans are condemned to live increasingly inauthentic and superficial lives, in which deep insecurities coexist with manic extroversion and in which competitiveness and an increasing disposition toward violence are more and more apparent. In extreme cases, the psycho-cultural dislocations induced by assimilation are held by Glissant to lead directly to the kinds of mental alienation described in Malemort and La case du commandeur‖ (Burton 307).

92 As Dominique Chancé observes in her Poétique baroque de la Caraïbe, this ―discours idéologique pervers‖ or ―discours social convenu‖ (171) seeks to erase the specificity of Martinique right from the start, when the text makes the point that the issues of mental illness in question are ―ni plus ni moins ceux qu‘on recontre en Métropole. La maladie mentale… frappe partout, de la même façon‖ (CC 243). Moreover, neither political entity is referred to directly, always by conspicuous euphemisms such as ―notre Département‖, ―DOM‖, ―Métropole‖ and ―l‘Hexagone‖.

149 pushed to confront some of the horrors that happened during the times of slavery proves too much for the everyday person: ―C‘était plus que le voisinage n‘en pouvait supporter‖ (CC 224). As long as Mycéa‘s delirium seems harmless, ―fait de malheur qui déborde‖, neighbors are relatively sympathetic to her condition, but when it adopts what they perceive as an accusing tone, they decide to alert the authorities and have her confined.

In this state of things it follows that if, as we said before, individuals are ―locked in themselves‖, unable to relate to each other, culturally and psychologically unprotected against life, the possibility of a collective identity is denied. This impossibility is announced from the very beginning of the novel, when an unidentified narrator seems to mock Mycéa‘s father for grieving the lack of a sense of community:

Pythagore Celat claironnait tout un bruit à propos de ―nous‖, sans qu‘un quelconque devine ce que cela voulait dire. Nous qui ne devions peut-être jamais jamais former, final de compte, ce corps unique par quoi nous commencerions d‟entrer dans notre empan de terre ou dans la mer violette alentour… ; qui avions de si folles manières de paraître disséminés ; qui roulions nos moi l‟un contre l‟autre sans jamais venir à entabler dans cette ceinture d‟îles… (CC 15, emphasis mine).

Although this issue of a lack of collective identity for Martinicans is far from being resolved in Glissant‘s fiction (or in reality, for that matter), the utterly pessimistic vein of his works seems to wear off in the 1990s. This problème des origines and the

―dread of time‖ become less prominent, and readers start to encounter characters that have a more positive outlook on life, who no longer see themselves as defenseless victims. For instance, the avatar of Mathieu Béluse that appears in 1997‘s Traité du

Tout-Monde –a hybrid text, mixture of essay, poem and fiction- displays a much more

150 optimistic disposition toward the chaotic nature of time in the Caribbean when he claims:

…L‘éclat des temps tout comme les éclats du temps n‘égarent pas, dans nos pays. Nous avions su qu‘on peut vivre non pas hors du temps mais sans lui, du moins sans le besoin de le mettre en ligne réglée ou de le repartir en divisions inaltérables. Le temps qui passe n‘était pas perdu, il s‘était simplement démuni de la vie (et pourtant nous nous souvenions de tout, dans un désordre d‘apparences) et la vie explosait non pas hors mais en travers du temps, en ces rameutements de soleil ou de pluie, de carême ou de rivière débordée… (TTM 43).

This change of tone can be related to the time Glissant spent abroad during the eighties and nineties, first in Paris as editor-in-chief of Le Courrier de l‟Unesco, then in the US and other countries as visiting professor. These were very stimulating years that brought him great satisfaction, as he discovered ideas that caused a shift in the direction of his intellectual enterprise. The deleuzian concept of the rhizome, for instance, facilitated the development of his reflections on atavistic versus composite cultures, which oppose a totalizing ‗single-root-identity‘ (identité-racine) to a more tolerant ‗rhizome-identity‘ (identité-rhizome)93. All of these notions put an emphasis on diversity and cross-cultural relating, and transcend the nationalistic scope that had been at the center of Glissant‘s oeuvre until then. Evidently, the tragic outcome of ethnic conflicts worldwide and the failure of both communist regimes and nationalistic projects born out of the decolonization process provide an opportunity to rethink the effectiveness of the existing models and to propose new ones. Even though the Martinican situation is still a major concern for the author, his more recent work seems to indicate that the time has come to join a larger cause. The speech he delivered at the Carrefour des littératures européennes in 1997 exhorted fellow

93 These and other related notions are discussed in Poétique de la relation (1990), Introduction à une poétique du divers (1995) and Traité du Tout-Monde (1997)

151 writers to do likewise:

…là où les systèmes et les idéologies ont défailli, et sans aucunement renoncer au refus ou au combat que tu dois mener dans ton lieu particulier, prolongeons au loin l‟imaginaire, par un infini éclatement et une répétition à l‘infini des thèmes du métissage, du multilinguisme, de la créolisation (TTM 18, emphasis mine).

Les affres de l‟histoire

This call to ―prolonger au loin l‘imaginaire‖ highlights another key element of

Glissant‘s intellectual enterprise. The creative thrust or ‗poetic intention‘ constitutes a powerful tool in the negotiation of what he has called the ―impossible nature of history, its discontinuity‖ in the Caribbean (Dash ―Interview‖ 18). In this respect, his project joins a long line of writers like Derek Walcott and Alejo Carpentier, whose works represent ―profound meditations on the discontinuity of time, on the futility of going back in time, of reconstructing history‖. Like other postcolonial writers, they attempt to help heal the wounds of their societies, to forge a sense of collective identity through a rewriting of ―history with a capital H‖, of the ―linear history promoted by the West‖. As Glissant explained in 1991,

[the] convergence of the history of all people today on the earth pushes us toward new conceptions of history which are no longer monolithic and linear, which no longer have a purpose or final goal. We are faced with the great adventure of the juxtaposition of all histories coming together today but none of which is valued more highly than any other (Dash ―Interview‖ 18).

In his fictional texts, this ‗juxtaposition of histories‘ implies the consideration of the perspective(s) of both the oppressed and the makers of the region‘s official history.

For example, Tout-Monde, published in 1993, portrays several stories narrated by different voices while making use of the temporal ‗leaps and detours‘ technique present in nearly all of Glissant‘s earlier novels. Thus, the story of Mathieu Béluse‘s

152 travels through Italy and France alternates with accounts of Longoué‘s death(s), the story of Oriamé -an African princess that could have been the source of discord between the Béluse and Longoué ancestors-, and episodes of the lives of plantation owners Laroche and Senglis. In one of the sections concerning the latter characters, the text shows a keen awareness of its transgressive nature, when the narrator introduces an ironic disclaimer:

Et puisqu‘il est des personnes qui croient seulement au temps qu‘on suit tout droitement, et elles protestent quand un épisode d‘il y a cent ans tombe dans une histoire qui ne viendra que demain, et elles crient qu‘elles n‘y comprennent rien – que ce conte-là déblatère vraiment, - il faut… préciser à leur intention que Laroche… avait, quelques jours auparavant, donné la chasse à ce nègre marron dont tout le monde parlait…Et si ces mêmes personnes protestent que ‗avant 1789‘ n‘est pas une information bien franche, qu‘il y a là provocation de la part du conteur… coulons alors dans la commodité d‘un ‗nous‘ collectif, qui autorise et protège… (TM 63)

The preceding passage brings to light another parallel between the literary projects of

Glissant and Sarduy: in both cases, the de-hierarchization of discourses plays a central role. For the former author –as for his colleague-, the critique of the novelistic genre involves a questioning of the authority of the writer. While this had been an implicit goal since the days of La lézarde, in ―Le roman des Amériques‖ Glissant openly calls for a ‗demythification‘ of the authorial figure in favor of a communal voice: ―L‘auteur doit être démythifié; oui parce qu‘il doit être intégré à une décision commune. Le nous devient le lieu du système génératif, et le vrai sujet‖ (DA 258).

This decision constitutes a reaction against the paternalistic impulse that underlies much of Caribbean writing, which -consciously or not- often claims a right to speak for the voiceless, on behalf of them94.

94 In this respect, Césaire‘s well-known ‗profession de foi‘ from his Cahier d‟un retour au pays natal -―ma bouche sera la bouche des malheurs qui n‘ont point de bouche‖- constitutes a perfect example

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As we have seen, this desire to downplay the authority of the writer motivates the coexistence of a multiplicity of narrative voices in most of his novels. In Mahagony

(1987), however, Glissant takes this questioning of the narrative voice to a new level.

Here, in addition to the multiple stories and points of view, Mathieu -once again one of the main characters- openly rebels against the narrator. First, he criticizes him for warping and simplifying his personality: ―Encore je ne savais pas qu‘un raconteur d‘histoires – ce chroniqueur – m‘allait prendre bientôt (l‘image qu‘il avait de moi) pour personnage de ses récits, me conférant une exemplarité dont j‘étais loin d‘approcher la mécanique simplicité‖ (MH 18).

Then, frustrated by the narrator‘s baroque style and by what he sees as a lack of rigorousness, the protagonist attempts to take over the reins of the narration and to produce his own account of the events, one that would counter the ―maelstrom‖ where he has been included: ―personnage de livre, mais libéré de tout préalable d‘écriture, commençais-je de rêver au récit que je pourrais un jour opposer à la masse de temps éperdu, ce maëlstrom où on m‘avait inclus‖ (26). By setting the narrator‘s tale straight -―dosant son travail par mes mises au point et par une chronologie sévèrement étudiée‖-, Mathieu tries to make sense of the past and the present, to find a ―ligne de terre rouge‖ and an ―emmêlement d‘un cri et d‘une écriture‖ (29).

Nevertheless, this task proves a difficult and, ultimately, pointless one. A few years after his literary coup d‟état, Mathieu finds himself in charge of the narration of

Tout-Monde. This time, he is the one who is accused of mixing up dates, of not being able to keep a precise chronology and a ‗straight‘ view of the events he is narrating.

An episode in which he gets confused between the dates of his own birthday and that

(Dash EG pp. 4-5).

154 of his dead brother Paul underscores the futility of the documentary style of historical novels when applied to the realities of the French Antilles. Finally, in Traité du Tout-

Monde, Glissant‘s alter ego seems to have come to terms with the fact that it is precisely –and paradoxically- this maelstrom, this ―tourbillon de temps‖ that more adequately translates the complexities of Caribbean experience:

…prenons garde que notre récit ne s‘embarrasse peut-être de ce fil qui a, pour nous, été tissé. Ne mordons pas à cette ligne. Les récits du monde courent en ronde, ils ne suivent pas la ligne… Ils dévalent en tous sens. Tournez avec eux !... Ce que vous appelleriez nos récits, ho! c‘est s‘il se trouve de longues respirations sans début ni fin, où les temps s‘enroulent. Les temps diffractés. Nos récits sont des mélopées, des traités de joyeux parler, et des cartes de géographie, et de plaisantes prophéties, qui n‘ont pas souci d‘être vérifiées (TTM 61-2).

Glissant‘s critique of the novel can be taken one step further as, on several occasions, the Martinican writer has advocated the need to think beyond the limits of literary genres. In Traité du Tout-Monde, he questions the validity of the narrative form as the standard format for contemporary writing: ―Dans cet état nouveau de littérature, l‘ancienne et si féconde division en genres littéraires ne constitue peut-être plus loi. Qu‘est-ce que le roman et qu‘est-ce que le poème ? Nous ne croyons plus que le récit est la forme naturelle de l‘écriture‖ (121). In his view, poetry is the only art that holds the power to truly go ―beyond appearances‖ and encourages writers to blur genres, to create ―des poèmes qui sont des essais, des essais qui sont des romans, des romans qui sont des poèmes95‖ (Gauvin 20).

95 While discussing differences between prose and poetry in a 1992 interview, Glissant commented: ―dans l‘exercice de la prose, pour ce qui est de nos littératures, les écrivains croient trop facilement que la description du réel rend compte du réel... Ce n‘est pas vrai du tout. Ils ne rendent absolument pas compte de la réalité ; la réalité est autre chose que cette apparence. Or, la poésie est jusqu‘ici le seul art qui peut aller réellement derrière les apparences. Je crois que c‘est là une de nos vocations… [Nous] essayons de défaire les genres précisément parce que nous sentons que les rôles qui ont été impartis à ces genres dans la littérature occidentale ne conviennent plus à notre investigation du réel, mais qui est aussi une investigation de l‘imaginaire, des profondeurs, du non-dit…‖ (Gauvin 20)

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The quest for an idiom

When we peruse Glissant‘s oeuvre, it soon becomes evident that the subversion of literary genres has been instrumental in his quest to establish a langage, a particular idiom that constitutes a more appropriate means of expression for a collectivity.

Inextricably linked to language, an idiom specifically refers to a ―structured and conscious series of attitudes toward the language used by a given community96‖. One of the fundamental claims of Le discours antillais is that, regardless of their language of expression, Caribbean authors share an idiom: ―Derek Walcott pervertit la langue anglaise autant que Nicolás Guillén effile l‘espagnole, tout autant que V.S. Naipaul affirme en le niant le pays qu‘il explore. Il m‘importe peu qu‘ils ne parlent pas le créole ; nous parlons, sous des espèces différentes, le même langage‖ (DA 182).

Too numerous and complex to analyze in detail in this chapter, the constitutive elements of this Caribbean idiom are, for the most part, those present in a number of texts that have been characterized as neo-baroque: circularity, fragmentation, accumulation, repetition, proliferation, and self-citation. In this sense, there is little doubt that Malemort (1975) embodies this neo-baroque paradigm within Glissant‘s

œuvre. Set in Martinique, this highly experimental novel introduces the protagonist trinity of Dlan, Médellus and Silacier -often seen as inseparable-, as well as other characters who, together, emblematize various facets of the socio-psychological phenomenon identified by Glissant as ―délire verbal‖ that is also -as we mentioned earlier- one of the central themes of La case du commandeur.

96 ―J‘appelle ici langage une série structurée et consciente d‘attitudes face à (de relations ou de complicités avec, de réactions à l‘encontre de) la langue qu‘une collectivité pratique, que cette langue soit maternelle… ou menacée, ou partagée, ou optative, ou imposée‖ (DA 321).

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The fragmentary nature of Malemort is emphasized from the very beginning. The book is divided into three parts: ―Péripeties‖, ―Datations‖ and ―Parlers‖. The first part provides one-line summaries of the different events that are developed in the second part, but the function of the former only becomes clear after reading the latter. The last section contains a glossary of Creole terms and expressions. The thirteen chapters of ―Datations‖ constitute the bulk of the text, covering three main historical periods that are not presented in chronological order, as is the writer‘s usual approach; these periods are 1939-48, 1958-60 and 1973-74. The narrative structure mirrors that of the novel as a whole. Thus, we find that the style varies greatly from one chapter to the next and often within a single chapter: long sentences with many commas and parentheses but no periods alternate with short, choppy sentences, and sometimes isolated phrases or single words.

The complexity of Malemort‘s style is patent: its disconnected structure, its unorthodox syntax, its opaque language, and its use of Creole terms and expressions make for a demanding text that tends to scare readers away as it requires a lot from them. For instance, the identities of the protagonists are deliberately blended together so that, at first, it is not clear whether the text is referring to one person or several people. The one-line summary that introduces them reads ―Dlan Médellus Silacier combattent le cochon de Colentroc‖ (MM 11), without commas or any other type of punctuation mark separating their names. Likewise, the highly poetic language is also mystifying; in the chapter that recreates the episode mentioned above, the beast and the three men are described in terms that evoke natural phenomena, rather than a chase to stop an animal from creating havoc:

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Rouge! ah rouge la lune, et le soleil tombé sur la terre en grondement et cataracte avec soudain réincarné dans son délire et absolu le cochon volcanique pilotant de loin ces trois versants, pentes ou à-pics, par où il imposait, plus que par son corporel magma, la royauté de carnaval dont il affolait l‘alentour. Sa pente alerte, ronde, où la stupéfaction et le souci se disputaient des laves molles et épaisses (c‘était Dlan) ; cette autre, nette, sombre, où les blocs tombaient avec l‘aplomb de la nuit (Silacier) ; et encore le prudent et quand même furieux versant (Médellus) où un grand vent de paroles semblait ouvrir l‘espace pour le feu qui allait suivre… (27-28)

As in other neo-baroque texts, a number of events and characters from previous novels reappear. However, due to the cryptic structure of the text, even readers familiar with Glissant‘s work have a hard time following the narration. Yet these challenges are not gratuitous. Let‘s not forget Glissant‘s reiterated call for a right to opacity:

Il faut accepter l‘opacité de l‘autre, l‘opacité de l‘autre n‘est pas menaçante si on accepte cette idée qu‘il peut être lui-même, qu‘il peut avoir des choses que je ne comprends pas… mais que je peux vivre à côté travailler avec… apprécier la beauté avec…. C‘est un peu le sens de l‘Esthétique : je peux apprécier l‘œuvre d‘art, sa beauté sans comprendre ce que l‘artiste a voulu montrer; l‘œuvre d‘art peut plaire sans que je puisse expliquer ce que l‘auteur a voulu faire (« La poétique d‘Edouard Glissant » 32).

In this respect, I echo Elinor Miller‘s view in ―Narrative Techniques in Edouard

Glissant‘s Malemort‖ that the style of the novel, with all its difficulties, is an integral part of the writer‘s intention; its unconventionalities are indeed ―in accord with and express the infinite variety of the land and its people‖ (226). In the cultural desert that departmentalized Martinique has become, the faint traces of history that had been recuperated seem to have been forever lost; thus, the heritage of Longoué, the first maroon –here referred to as ―le Négateur‖- makes very little sense for a people who cannot even remember his name:

…sous trois plants de bois sans feuilles, dans deux filets d‘eau en boue et détritus, sur l‘unique rase pelée terrasse qui est l‘île, l‘envasement de la trace par

158

où le Négateur, le Marron primordial, non pas le premier peut-être mais à coup sûr le plus raide et rêche, descendit pour connaître le pays et enlever sa compagne. Pour quoi faire, disent-ils – désassemblés – le passé quel passé, Négateur quel négateur, qui vient qui est né c‘est le même, qu‘est-ce que c‘est un pays de quoi, de blancs de mulâtres d‘indiens, c‘est un pays d‘hommes tout court (Malemort 189).

Moreover, the shifting recurrences of the first-person plural recreate the fragility of a collective identity on the verge of disappearing. Thus, in some chapters nous refers to

―all who are part of the land‘. In this case, as Miller observes, not everyone is included: ―There is no question that some characters belong outside: the whites, whether planters or bourgeois (békés), are not a part of ‗nous‘, nor are the militia, guards or police, of whatever color‖ (Miller 226). In other chapters, the first-person plural adopts a pan-Caribbean scope or, on the contrary, a very personal tone, such as in the section that reminisces on a group of local high school teachers. Here, the nous alludes to the students and marks generational as well as ideological gaps. The reflections on the cultural alienation of those teachers become more poignant when the students realize that there is no real difference between ‗us‘ and ‗them‘:

Je prépare le concours d‘agrégation, disait [Monsieur Lannec]. Ils sont durs, vous savez. Il hochait la tête, admirant qu‘il faille tant d‘efforts pour obtenir la sanction du savoir. Il prenait à témoin ses anciens élèves. Nous. Nous qui passions effarouchés à côté de ce drame, ne sachant pas qu‘il était le nôtre (Malemort 164).

As I mentioned before, one of the pivotal elements of Malemort is the mise en scène of the various aspects of verbal delirium that, in Glissant‘s view, affects Martinican society. In addition to chapters that portray the extreme version or ―délire verbal de théâtralisation‖ through the voices of the protagonists, we find several occurrences of

―délire verbal coutumier‖. The fifth chapter, for example, presents a sadly comical illustration of a very specific form: the discours du mulâtre. In these pages monsieur

159

Lesprit, one of the characters, receives a very peculiar challenge: to try to win the seat of City Hall secretary. Then, the person who presented the challenge –identified only as ‗le docteur‘-, goes on a proud declamation about the (sometimes fraudulent) history of electoral victories of the ruling mulatto class:

Chantez chantez messieurs la cohorte qui sut conquérir et garder le Haut Registre ! ... Voici la lutte entre barbarie et civilisation… La puissance de tutelle nous convie à ce combat… Il s‘agissait que ce droit incontestable, moral pour tout dire, fût érigé en droit civil, officiel en un mot. Nous combattîmes. Nous combattîmes pour l‘obtenir. Du premier d‘entre nous qui y parvint, chantez chantez messieurs, vous admirez l‘altier portrait dans la galerie de notre salle de délibérations. C‘est le premier des maires de notre cité qu‘un peu de nuit ait ombré, oh si peu, mais enfin on ne peut nier que le voici : homme de couleur pour la première fois assis au haut du Conseil municipal, il ouvre la lignée de nos édiles messieurs ô écoutez le Chant (72-73).

The preceding lines are just an excerpt of a long, flowery speech given during a game of dominoes. The pomposity and exaggerated ‗Frenchness‘ of the doctor‘s language are representative of what Glissant has characterized as ―le baroque colonial antillais‖. This strategy of overcompensation is one of the symptoms of the usure collective that threatens to wipe out Martinican culture97. Paradoxically, the gain of material well-being results in the accelerated –and perhaps irreversible- loss of cultural vitality: ―Nous n‘en finissons pas de disparaître, victimes d‘un frottement de

97 In ―L‘état des choses‖, Glissant illustrates the cultural conundrum of contemporary Martinique through the barometer of language. As a result of the multiple economic and cultural changes brought about by departmentalization, popular culture –and therefore the Creole language- finds itself in a process of degeneration. This makes matters worse for the already complicated diglossic reality of the island. On the one hand, French is becoming more and more ‗standardized‘; on the other hand, Creole is exposed to the double threat of becoming both ‗folklorized‘ (as it is no longer a creative, ‗productive‘ language) and ‗banalized‘ (as it undergoes the transition from an oral to a written language). The upshot of this situation is that ―l‘usage ‗non responsable‘ du français et l‘usage ‗évidé‘ du créole se rejoignent dans une même déperdition, dont le locuteur martiniquais est le lieu tragique et inconscient‖ (DA 174).

160 mondes… Exemple banal de liquidation par l‘absurde, dans l‘horrible sans horreur d‘une colonisation réussie‖ (DA 15).

For Glissant, this situation translates in the impossibility of a free, ‗natural poetic‘ for Martinican people. Intellectuals are thus compelled to develop a forced poetic or

‗counter-poetic‘, a type of détour that will hopefully, someday, open the path to a liberated poetic98. As a means to negotiate the insoupçonné tourment between Creole and French, Glissant proposes to ―développer un cri… en parole qui le continue‖ (DA

245). Malemort constitutes the most fervent expression of this cry for a Martinican idiom. Although the difficulty of this effort to ―chanter l‘histoire‖ and ―tenter aussi la façon d‘un langage‖ is all too evident, our writer decides to take the risk:

Le monde ne te comprend pas si tu t‘enlourdis dans ta voix, si tu ne claironnes pas tes mots avec leur jet d‘écume ou le lait des splendeurs ensevelies : pour parler au monde, étrenne une langue d‘éclats drossée sur les mers comme une nasse d‘argent, Sinon tiens-toi béant dans ton silence et mâche tes mots pour à la fin germer de ta tête un serpent de flammes qui de vrai nouera la terre à ton corps (69).

Final considerations

I would now like to briefly return to the notion of a ―colonial baroque‖ that we mentioned earlier. In his essay ―Émigrés, enfants d‘émigrés‖, Glissant talks about overabundance and exaggeration as elements of a type of baroque that has two distinct manifestations in the Americas: an architectural one in Latin America, and one that concerns the use of the French language in the Antilles. Although they both attempt to reaffirm the hispanité and francité of their respective regions, the latter

98 ―J‘appelle poétique libre, ou naturelle, toute tension collective vers une expression, et qui ne s‘oppose à elle-même ni au niveau de ce qu‘elle veut exprimer ni au niveau du langage qu‘elle met en œuvre… J‘appelle poétique forcée, ou contrainte, toute tension collective vers une expression qui, se posant, s‘oppose du même coup le manque par quoi elle devient impossible, non en tant que tension, toujours présente, mais en tant qu‘expression, jamais accomplie‖ (DA 236).

161 version is seen as tragic for its lack of creativity, for being the mark of an emptiness:

―Le ‗grotesque créole‘ peut ainsi être là (en Amérique Latine) une force de réaction et ici (en Martinique, ou pour les Martiniquais vivant en France) la flamboyance d‘un vide‖ (DA 75).

Directly opposed to this tendency is the neo-baroque approach to literature that we have identified and analyzed in the works of Sarduy and Glissant. In this case, the proliferation and hyperbole are motivated by a will to subvert the status quo of language in their search for a Caribbean idiom. To be sure, their projects obey different logics: albeit their overriding opacity, Glissant‘s fictional texts remain more political than Sarduy‘s. The latter‘s reluctance to attempt any formulation of a political critique in his novels can easily be justified by the ferocity of Fidel Castro‘s regime in persecuting its detractors and their families99. The political situation of

Martinique is, as we know, radically different and allows for the type of enterprise pursued by Glissant and other intellectuals.

I would like to suggest that the ideological and aesthetic connections between these two authors are just as important as their divergences. In an article written for the edition of Sarduy‘s complete works, François Wahl reiterates the Cuban writer‘s view of writing not as a ‗transparent mirror‘ but rather as a ―diagonale créatrice‖

(Wahl 1469). The same assertion can certainly be made about the Martinican intellectual‘s approach to literature. Finally, besides a number of other (fortuitous?) connections – a keen interest in the visual arts, the reliance on scientific models as

99 González Echeverría has observed that, although his position vis-à-vis the policies of the Cuban government was well-known among his friends and acquaintances, Sarduy made it a point to never publicly oppose it, as he was afraid this could bring retaliation on his family, most of whom stayed in Cuba. Apparently, toward the end of his life he regretted his decision (OC 1588-9).

162 starting points for the development of their aesthetic theories -, we should not overlook the fact that both authors were painfully aware of the limitations of literature in the accomplishment of changes on a concrete level. Such frustration is manifest in one of Sarduy‘s latest texts:

Próximo de la cincuentena, y con más de un cuarto de siglo de textos trabajados por el gris y el exilio, voy creyendo que la escritura no sirve para nada inmediato, que las repercusiones o la impalpable cámara de eco que crea un libro se pierden en una lejanía difusa, o en la memoria de un lector ausente que nunca encontraremos… Creo, eso sì, que lo escrito surge en un momento dado y para un interlocutor dado, que justifica lo efìmero de un instante… (El Cristo de la rue Jacob, 95).

Glissant‘s distrust of the written word was just as marked. Present in a lesser or greater degree throughout his oeuvre, this concern resurfaces toward the end of

Mahagony: ―À la croisée des vents, le bruit des voix accompagne les signes écrits; disposés en procession pathétique sur la cosse et le parchemin ; le dessin gagne encore. Mais qui parle, c‘est l‘écho infinissable de ces voix‖ (230). The hope of these authors is that the readers of these ―livres à venir‖ will become more and more numerous, and that they will be attentive enough to hear the voices hidden behind the exuberance of their narratives.

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CHAPTER FOUR The twilight persona of carnival narratives

Todo aquel que piense Que la vida es desigual Tiene que saber que no es así Que la vida es una hermosura Hay que vivirla

Todo aquel que piense Que está solo y que está mal Tiene que saber que no es así Que en la vida no hay nadie solo Y siempre hay alguien

Ay, no hay que llorar, Que la vida es un carnaval Y es más bello vivir cantando Oh oh oh ay, no hay que llorar Que la vida es un carnaval Y las penas se van cantando…

Celia Cruz, La vida es un carnaval

The second and third chapters of this dissertation focused on two phenomena that concern experimentation in French and Spanish Caribbean literatures, mostly from a linguistic point of view. However, as I delved into the analysis of those rhetorical techniques, I came to the realization that, in their efforts to create a unique idiom, writers of the region do not solely rely on linguistic/rhetorical tools. They also engage the use of key topoï such as the figure of the mulatto and that of the writer. While it is true that some of these themes are not unique to the literature of the area -indeed, the presence of a writer as character or narrator of a story can hardly be considered a

Caribbean phenomenon-, it is no less true that the treatment of this figure in novels such as Maryse Condé‘s Traversée de la mangrove or Reinaldo Arenas‘ El color del

164 verano differs greatly from the ones we could find in, say, nineteenth-century French literature. These characters emblematize what J. Michael Dash has called the

―twilight persona‖, a complex, contradictory figure prevalent in works from the

Caribbean literary scene that will be at the heart of my discussion.

According to Dash, this twilight persona, often identified with the poet‘s persona, is the ―synthesis of all contradictions, master of the crossroads‖, a deceiving being whose ―fragile exterior conceals enormous power‖ (―The World and The Word‖ 128).

He evokes Aimé Césaire‘s Une tempête as possibly the first instance in which this literary figure can be consciously recognized. This 1969 adaptation of William

Shakespeare‘s play serves a very specific purpose that is defined from the outset: as the subtitle indicates, it is conceived as an ―adaptation pour un théâtre nègre‖. While the story remains –for the most part- faithful to the original, one important variation is introduced: Ariel is portrayed as a mulatto slave, and Caliban as a black slave. Now, before we go on to explore Ariel‘s representation as an incarnation of the twilight persona, it will be necessary to make a few observations on the figure of Caliban.

Contemporaneous with Césaire‘s play, a number of works by Caribbean writers and academics appeared in the late 1960s, contributing to the appropriation of the

Caliban figure as a symbol for Latin America and the Caribbean. In an openly subversive move, these authors chose to cast a positive light on the originally deformed and quasi-barbarian character, turning him into an emblem of open rebellion. One of the most familiar and influential of these works is Roberto

Fernández Retamar‘s essay Calibán: Apuntes sobre la cultura en nuestra América, in which he proudly declares Caliban as ―our symbol‖ (―nuestro sìmbolo‖). As the

165

Cuban author claims,

Esto es algo que vemos con particular nitidez los mestizos que habitamos estas mismas islas donde vivió Caliban: Próspero invadió las islas, mató a nuestros ancestros, esclavizó a Caliban y le enseñó su idioma para entenderse con él: ¿Qué otra cosa puede hacer Caliban sino utilizar el mismo idioma para maldecir, para desear que caiga sobre él la ‗roja plaga‘? No conozco otra metáfora más acertada de nuestra situación cultural, de nuestra realidad (42-43)

In my opinion, it is this emphasis on what I call the appropriation of the oppressor‟s language that has made him such an appealing trope for intellectuals from Caribbean societies as, to this day, many of these countries still struggle to negotiate this ambiguous legacy of the colonial era. Indeed, Caliban has no other language but the one Prospero taught him, and he uses it in turn to decry all the atrocities he has been subjected to. In responding to his master‘s claim that he should be grateful for having received the ―gift of education‖, Caliban vehemently objects:

…Tu ne m‘a rien appris du tout. Sauf, bien sûr à baragouiner ton langage pour comprendre tes ordres : couper du bois, laver la vaisselle, pécher le poisson, planter les légumes, parce que tu es bien trop fainéant pour le faire. Quant à ta science, est-ce que tu me l‘as jamais apprise, toi ? Tu t‘en es bien gardé ! Ta science, tu la gardes égoïstement pour toi tout seul… (Une tempête 25).

His outspokenness thus seemed like an appropriate vehicle for the contestation of the status quo. Yet, as history has shown, this approach has proven futile or -at the very least- limiting in many respects. In the various but equally fragile socio-political realities of the Caribbean island-nations, Caliban‘s open combativeness and naiveté restrict his possibilities as an agent of change. In truth, this path may have led to an ideological ‗cul-de-sac‘100. This being the case, the question arises: if Caliban has

100 As I hope to have shown in chapter two, the neo-baroque texts of Sarduy and Glissant present one alternative to this impasse. Faced with the impossibility/futility of adopting a discourse of outspokenness, these writers opt instead for strategies of opacity and artificialization.

166 exhausted language, who can then embody the ―manifestation of the literary voice in the Caribbean?‖ (―The World and The Word‖ 128)

This is where the possibility opened by Césaire‘s representation of Ariel comes into play. While seemingly keeping the original character‘s compliancy, the contemporary incarnation of the enslaved spirit shows he has a mind of his own: he constantly questions his master‘s actions and the motivations behind them. After setting up the storm that caused the shipwreck at the beginning of the story, Ariel expresses his disgust toward this wrongdoing: ―Je vous ai obéi, mais pourquoi le cacher, la mort au cœur. C‘était pitié de voir sombrer ce grand vaisseau plein de vie‖ (Une tempête 22). Interestingly, Prospero dismisses these feelings as a reaction typical of intellectuals: ―Allons bon! Ta crise! C‘est toujours comme ça avec les intellectuels!...‖ (idem)

Ariel‘s outlook is very different from Caliban‘s; he wants to break out of servitude, but does not believe in violence. When the latter takes this as a sign of cowardice and submission, Ariel replies: ―Ni violence, ni soumission. Comprends- moi bien. C‘est Prospero qu‘il faut changer. Troubler sa sérénité jusqu‘à ce qu‘il reconnaisse enfin l‘existence de sa propre injustice et qu‘il y mette un terme‖ (Une tempête 37). This attitude stands in sharp contrast to Caliban‘s belligerence, revealing a capacity for reflection that comes from what Dash describes as Ariel‘s ―fallenness‖.

In the end, this ―tainted, androgynous creature‖ (―The World and The Word‖ 128) that represents the ―terrible condition of knowing in the New World‖ earns his freedom, while his brother in chains stays trapped in his traumatic union with

Prospero.

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Césaire‘s Ariel is but one personification of the twilight persona that prevails in many contemporary Caribbean texts. It is the starting point of our discussion, which will concentrate on the twilight persona that thrives in carnival narratives. As Dash has suggested, ―…it is in the liberating laughter of the community that Ariel is most at home. A laughter of change and renewal‖ (129). Associated with the Bakhtinian notion of carnival spirit, this type of laughter is characterized by a ―linguistic vitality, an irreverent inventiveness‖ and an ―imaginative exorcism‖ (idem).

Over the course of the last forty years, increasing numbers of writers from the area have turned to carnival as a powerful metaphor for the aspirations and realities of their societies. They all seem to agree with Antonio Benìtez Rojo‘s premise that this socio-cultural practice is the one that ―best expresses the strategies that the people of the Caribbean have for speaking at once of themselves and their relation with the world, with history, with tradition, with nature, with God‖ (―Caribbean Culture‖ 203).

In this respect, Benìtez Rojo‘s argument seems to echo the one put forth by Dash, who claims that, ―for the twilight artist‖, the liberating mechanism of carnival narratives can ―reanimate his imagination and have a revitalizing effect on the relationship between word and world in the Caribbean‖. In his view, ―[t]he Carnival narrative becomes a method for symbolically uniting upper and lower strata, mind and body, the purposeful and the irreverent‖ (129).

Drawing on the analysis of carnival culture proposed by Mikhail Bakhtin in

Rabelais and His World, the present chapter focuses on two groups of fictional texts.

In the first group, carnival is either the subject or an important structuring device in the architecture of the novel. The second group concerns texts that are not necessarily

168 set during Carnival, but are still inhabited by a carnival spirit, i.e. they draw on/refer to other practices of popular culture, privilege a rhetoric of grotesque realism or are highly parodic in nature.

Three concepts of his theories on the carnivalesque will be of key importance for this chapter. The first one concerns the cathartic function of carnival. In Rabelais‘ time, Bakhtin argues, the ‗official‘ feasts -whether sponsored by the state, the Church or the feudal authorities- ―sanctioned the existing pattern of things and reinforced it‖; carnival, on the contrary, ―celebrated temporary liberation from the prevailing truth and from the established order; it marked the suspension of all hierarchical rank, privileges, norms, and prohibitions‖ (Rabelais 10).

The second one refers to the processes of degradation that often facilitate the reversal of roles that takes place during carnival; i.e. ―the lowering of all that is high, spiritual, ideal, abstract‖. Degradation here is seen as a ―transfer to the material level, to the sphere of earth and body in their indissoluble unity‖ (Rabelais 19). These processes in turn belong to the realm of grotesque realism, defined by Bakhtin as a peculiar aesthetic concept characteristic of Renaissance folk culture in which ―the material bodily principle… is offered in its all-popular festive and utopian aspect. The cosmic, social, and bodily elements are given here as an indivisible whole. And this whole is gay and gracious‖ (Rabelais 19).

At this juncture, I would like to clarify that my reliance on Bakhtin‘s views will be limited to the concepts outlined above. As tempting as it may sound, the Russian scholar‘s ideas cannot be applied to the study of Caribbean literatures in an uncritical manner; to do so would easily lead us into an anachronistic reading that might also

169 overlook vital cultural specificities. In Masking and Power: Carnival and Popular

Culture in the Caribbean, Gerard Aching warns us against this danger. He cites the example of a study on the uses of carnival and the grotesque in the contemporary

Caribbean novel, whose goals are not dissimilar to the ones I propose in this chapter.

As Aching points out, the author fails to contextualize how ―the public spectacles that these tropes attempt to capture through language divide Caribbean communities internally along class and other lines‖. This failure causes her to end up referring to

―undifferentiated entities such as ‗the people‘ or ‗the ever-changing body of the people‘…, a habit for which Bakhtin himself has been repeatedly criticized‖ (11-12).

The subversive nature of carnival narratives

The object of Aching‘s criticism is Lizabeth Paravisini-Gebert‘s ―Writers Playin‘

Mas‘: Carnival and The Grotesque…‖ Even with the faults identified above, this article contains insightful observations, such as highlighting differences between the

European and Caribbean versions of this practice: ―Despite its many similarities to the European carnival, the Caribbean carnival is not a European-inspired nature festival, but rather a celebration rooted in the experience of slavery and the commemoration of emancipation‖ (Paravisini 216). The particularities of the various

Antillean rituals cited by the author are fascinating, but not relevant to my study of carnival narratives. What we will retain is the fact that, beyond this thematic divergence between the European and Caribbean varieties, the symbolic function of carnival remains the same in both cases: the reversal of roles that takes place in these rituals fosters a (temporary) subversion of the social order, which gives the popular

170 masses an opportunity to ventilate their frustrations vis-à-vis their position in the system. Certainly, this reversal of power is only temporary, but its liberating effect should not be underestimated: it is definitely a factor that governments and the ruling classes have taken into account since carnival became an essential part of the cultural life of some of these countries101.

Numerous contemporary works written by authors from the Caribbean refer to the carnival in an explicit way. Nicolás Guillén‘s poem ―Sensemayá: Canto para matar una culebra‖ (1934); Derek Walcott‘s dramatic epic Drums and Colours (1958);

Alejo Carpentier‘s novel Concierto barroco (1974); Earl Lovelace‘s The Dragon

Can‟t Dance (1979) and Ina Césaire‘s play Mémoires d‟isles (1985) are but a few examples of this literary trend that sets to exploit the symbolic richness of this popular ritual. I would now like to analyze two of those texts: the novels Hadriana dans tous mes rêves, by René Depestre (Haiti) and El color del verano, by Reinaldo

Arenas (Cuba).

101 Aching urges readers to abandon the romanticized view of masks and masking practices as ―pre- or even anti-modern expressions of folkloric innocence and festive abandon‖ (3). If -as he claims, following Nestor Garcìa Canclini‘s assertions regarding contemporary Latin America- peasant and traditional cultures no longer constitute most of popular culture and ‗the popular‘ is no longer the monopoly of the popular sectors, it becomes evident that Caribbean carnivals and other such popular festivals ―are not simply modern phenomena with certain ‗traditional vestiges‘‖. In fact, they have turned into ―highly contested, representational sites of national and regional cultural identities‖. In places like Trinidad and Tobago, local governments promote these types of festivals in order to attract tourist dollars, but they also find themselves in a duplicitous role: on the one hand, they ―facilitate ‗national culture‘ for foreign consumption‖ (4); on the other hand, they must also ―[scrutinize, control and police] public spaces where manifestations of that culture are exhibited‖ (idem).

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Hadriana dans tous mes rêves

First published in France in 1988, Hadriana is René Depestre‘s second novel102. Set

in Jacmel in 1938, it tells the story of the apparent death, zombification, and wake of

Hadriana Siloé, a young and beautiful white woman worshipped by the people of the

town as their ‗beloved fairy‘. Hadriana is stricken by death on the day of her

wedding; then, her body becomes the involuntary center of attention of a

party/carnival that had been planned in celebration of her union to Hector Danoze.

The story is narrated by Patrick, a close friend of Hadriana‘s, who is secretly in love

with her.

In keeping with the cathartic function of carnival, the party –first described as a

―bacchanale publique‖- is intended to give people of Jacmel an opportunity for some

much-deserved distraction after a series of calamities of various origins: ―Après le

cyclone Bethsabée, la chute du prix du café sur le marché mondial, la terreur exercée

sur les hymens par un extravagant papillon des bois, la disparition récente de

Germaine Villaret-Joyeuse, ces noces mixtes viennent opportunément donner à

Jacmel l‘occasion de rythmer de nouveau sa vie dans la danse et la fantaisie‖ (37).

Although it would be logical to think that the death of the bride would entail the

cancelation of the festivities, in reality it ends up accelerating them, due to a series of

102 Born in Jacmel, Haiti in 1926, René Depestre is a renowned poet, novelist and essayist who was also a fervent communist activist for many years. During the early years of his literary career, he co-founded La ruche, a weekly magazine, and was among the leaders of the student revolutionary movement that helped oust president Élie Lescot. Sent into exile by the military government that soon took over, he went to Paris, where he pursued studies of letters and political science at the Sorbonne. He participated in the decolonization movements of the 1950s and, as a result, was kicked out of France. He lived in Prague, Cuba, Argentina, Brazil and Chile, before temporarily settling in Cuba after the fall of Batista. He was actively involved in the revolutionary process during the1960s. Disillusioned by the evolution of the Castro regime, he broke ties and went back to France in 1978, where he has been living and working since.

172 misunderstandings. First, when Maître Homaire – one of the members of the wedding party- carries Hadriana‘s body out of the church in his arms, the awaiting crowd takes this as an ‗impromptu original de la cérémonie‖ (48) and starts cheering. Then, just before they arrive at the parents‘ house, a second round of cheer erupts (―Voici les mariés! Vive les mariés!‖), setting off the music and accidently inaugurating the celebration. The result is a tableau that seems to enact carnival‘s dynamics of life and death, destruction and renewal in an eerily literal sense:

A ces cris les musiciens et les tambourinaires de Titus Paradou, déjà à pied d‘œuvre, ouvrirent le carnaval de 1938 sur un air très entraînant de rabordaille* [danse rapide de carnaval]. Aussitôt un groupe de jeunes filles et de garçons masqués se mirent à danser, en file, à deux longueurs d‘avance de l‘avocat et de la morte. Se tenant par la taille et tortillant des hanches, ils changèrent la déroute du cortège nuptial en un monôme délirant de gaité jusqu‘à la porte du manoir (48).

Amidst this confusion, a passionate battle ensues between two traditionally opposing forces of Haitian society: Catholic religion and vaudou beliefs, ―frères ennemis qui se disputèrent âprement le corps et l‘âme de la jeune fille‖ (53). A heated debate attempts to establish the course of action that should be followed regarding two key issues: What should be done about the herds of people crowding around the Siloé mansion, who have not stopped singing and dancing? Should they be allowed to change the Christian ritual of death into a time of pagan celebration (―fête caraïbe‖)?

Furthermore: where should the body be exposed? This latter point is resolved rather quickly, as everyone agrees that the wake should take place on the town square, ―sous les arbres centenaires de l‘allée des Amoureux‖, as it suits a ―virgin bride‖ (idem).

The choice of which type of ritual should be observed proves trickier, as there are no clear-cut divisions between socio-economic level and religious preference: the fact that the young woman‘s parents are originally French and belong to the upper class

173 does not exclude them from acknowledging vaudou rituals, if not as a ‗true‘ religion, at least as an integral part of Haitian culture. When they hear speculation that their daughter‘s death might have been caused by an evil moth that has been raping women throughout the town, they attribute this to the many stories that constitute the

―romancero funèbre d‘Haïti‖:

Malgré leurs fortes attaches catholiques, [les parents] avaient trouvé naturel que l‘enfance d‘Hadriana fût illuminée par les contes époustouflants que les servantes noires lui murmuraient à l‘office ou dans le secret de sa chambre. [Ils pensèrent que] à sa mort, les Jacméliens, qui l‘aimaient et l‘admiraient comme une fée, l‘intégrèrent, le soir même, au répertoire des fables du pays, dans une fantastique histoire… (Hadriana 51)

As if the debate were not tense enough, the delicate matter of the bride‘s virginity is brought to the forefront. Tradition mandates that a girl who dies a virgin must be deflowered before being buried, so that the baka (evil spirit working on behalf of a sorcerer) does not have the opportunity to do so, which would put her soul in peril for this ‗ultimate journey‘. The prickly decision of choosing an adequate candidate for this task is interrupted when father Naélo, the town‘s priest, announces that the wake will take place following the rules of the Catholic faith and that the carnival shall be called off. In the end, however, this resolution is overruled. After a long period of argumentation by the two rival camps, the chief of police –with the approval of the bride and groom‘s families- determines that the festivities must go on as planned.

The underlying message of these scenes is clear: Although in theory, the adherence to vaudou beliefs is viewed as characteristic of the lower and/or rural classes, in reality it permeates all sectors of Haitian society. As is to be expected, the

Catholic priests, nuns and some members of the community (labeled by the narrator‘s mother as religious ―bigots‖) oppose the carnival on moral grounds: father Naélo

174 dubs it ―une explosion de paganisme‖ that would forever compromise the salvation of the young woman‘s soul. Another person warns that the carnival groups would not be able to just limit themselves to sing and dance ―decently‖ in honor of Hadriana; in her eyes, the ―excès orgiaques du vaudou‖ would surely follow (65). In contrast, a significant part of the community rises to defend the validity of vaudou practices. A number of eminent members of Jacmel join their voices to proclaim that ―well- executed banda‖ dance103 constitutes ―the most beautiful form of prayer invented by men and women‖ and that ―le charme d‘Haïti devant Dieu tient dans le fait que les hanches, les reins, les fesses, les organes intimes interviennent dans les mouvements

élevés de l‘âme comme autant de forces motrices de rédemption‖ (Hadriana 66).

In my opinion, what makes this a powerful novel is the intimate link drawn between carnival and vaudou practices, which constitute an integral part of Haitian culture. This connection is echoed in Depestre‘s Ainsi parle le fleuve noir (1998), a book of essays that explore the twofold contribution of Africans to the rise of Western civilization and to the making of the cultures of the Americas. ―La foi des Haïtiens‖ is a brief yet compelling account of the genesis and development of vaudou religion.

The author evokes the fusion of African and Christian elements, which not only includes the integration of catholic saints and sacraments but also of the Gregorian calendar as the time frame that regiments vaudou activities:

Comme les cérémonies ne pouvaient à l‘origine se célébrer que les jours où les esclaves ne travaillaient pas, le calendrier grégorien détermine le temps du vaudou. Le cadre temporel du catholicisme est accepté. Les grandes fêtes patronales sont devenues celles des loa. Elles sont souvent plus fréquentées par des vaudouisants que par des catholiques… (Ainsi, 55)

103 Banda: ―danse rapide qui mime en même temps les gestes de la mort et de la copulation‖ (Hadriana 211).

175

Depestre states that vaudou‘s syncretic nature implies the assimilation of cultural elements that go beyond the realm of religion. In his view, the secular customs of the

French colony, in their various manifestations, also contributed to the creolization of the African gods: ―les coutumes et les danses de la cour, les traditions militaires

(parades de drapeaux, défilés, revues, des régiments envoyés par la métropole pour le maintien de l‘ordre colonial), les manifestations folkloriques de diverses provinces du royaume de France‖ (Ainsi, 58). These elements are also present in the novel‘s carnival scenes, transformed by the parodic impulse that motivates this ritual. When

Patrick -the narrator- ventures out to the town square, he meets a fascinating and heterogeneous crowd comprised of costume bands that mimic pregnant women, werewolves, ―faux-morts‖, Caribs, Arawaks, pirates, queens, emperors, soldiers, nobles and ―tontons-macoutes104‖. The bugle call soon marks the beginning of the event, an extraordinary fusion of dance, music, and military rituals:

… le clairon de la retraite aux flambeaux retentit au coin nord de la place. Les gendarmes du commandant Armantus y pénétraient au pas de course. Aux approches de la foule, ils adoptèrent le pas cadencé. Torses nus, la torche à bout de bras, ils étaient tous déguisés en nègres marrons à turbans […] Encouragés par les clairons, les musiciens du carnaval, sans crier gare, réveillèrent les esprits libertins des tambours radas. Le vaudou étouffa aussitôt la marche militaire comme un coq en flammes les cris d‘une poule en fuite. Sur-le-champ, faux nègres marrons et gens masqués de la place s‘abandonnèrent à un extraordinaire jeu d‘épaules et de reins, les genoux légèrement pliés, en projetant en avant, avec vigueur, la tête et le tronc (Hadriana 68).

The ceremonies continue through the night and end with the funeral and burial of

Hadriana‘s body. The people of Jacmel barely have time to recover from the tumultuous emotions experienced when, upon his return from school the next day,

104 The figure of the infamous military police created under François Duvalier‘s regime is here relegated to the ―less spectacular‖ rank of carnival characters, the animal kingdom, alongside pigs, orangutans, bulls, sharks and leopards (Hadriana 63).

176

Patrick hears the news that ―Nana‖ has disappeared from her tomb. It is soon determined that the young woman has been a victim of what town authorities call a

―ritual crime‖; in other words, a typical case of ‗zombification‘. The narrator‘s uncle

–who is a lawyer and a zombie expert- explains that Hadriana was likely turned into a zombie by ingesting a vegetable poison that lowered her vital functions to the point that she was declared clinically dead. Hours after her burial, the sorcerer who planned the kidnapping took her out of her grave, probably with the intention of using her as a slave of some sort, since zombies are deprived of their soul (or ―petit bon ange‖) but maintain their physical strength (―gros bon ange‖) (102-104).

This seemingly fantastic version of the facts is confirmed later on in the text.

Forty years later, Patrick -now a literature professor living in Jamaica- is reunited with Hadriana, who walks into one of his lectures on ―le réel merveilleux américain‖.

The last third of the novel retraces -from the female protagonist‘s point of view- the story of her zombification, abduction and eventual escape. Their encounter proves doubly fortunate: it brings about the beginning of a happy life of mutual love and it provides the resolution to the mystery that had haunted the narrator for decades.

The choice of the subject of Patrick‘s course is, manifestly, far from fortuitous.

Since the early days of his career, Depestre has expressed an affinity for that aesthetic trend conceptualized in Alejo Carpentier‘s ―De lo real maravilloso Americano‖ and in

Jacques-Stephen Alexis‘ ―le réalisme merveilleux des Haïtiens105‖. For these writers, the numerous literary manifestations of this réel merveilleux in the Americas translate

105 Carpentier, Alejo. ―De lo real maravilloso Americano‖ (1948) and Alexis, Jacques-Stephen. ―Du réalisme merveilleux des Haïtiens‖ (1956).

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la folle démesure de la vie et des relations humaines consécutives à trois siècles d‘esclavage et de colonisation. Aux facteurs religieux d‘‗illumination inhabituelle‘ de l‘histoire, se sont ajoutés, mêlant l‘horrible et le merveilleux, le mythique et le personnel, l‘érotique et le métaphysique, l‘historique et le fantastique, les événements qui, dans l‘ordre social et politique, ont marqué la scène insulaire et continentale de notre région (Métier 113).

However, we should not consider this as a purely intellectual reaction to a set of historical circumstances. The réel merveilleux of Caribbean literature is the artistic reflection of an amplification of the categories of reality that took place in very concrete ways, in opposition to the excesses of the colonial system106. Perhaps the most telling example evoked by Depestre is that of vaudou, conceived here as a response to the dehumanization imposed by the slave trade:

[Les] institutions elles-mêmes de l‘esclavage relevaient du fantastique. Qu‘est-ce que la plantation coloniale sinon un lieu d‘élevage des hommes africains changés en bétail conformément aux règlements du Code noir ? Et qu‘est-ce que le vaudou sinon la réponse religieuse, non moins fantastique, des têtes de bétail noir qui continuaient néanmoins, dans la servitude, à faire un usage créateur de leurs facultés d‘êtres humains… (Métier 144, emphasis in the original)

Paravisini-Gebert claims that Depestre‘s novel ―empties Haitian history of its content‖ (226). In her view, the author uses the story of the young woman as the

―point of departure for a somewhat peculiar meditation on Haiti‘s history that seeks to deny the very significance of the devastating chronicle of the Haitian people‘s historical fate through its subordination to the narrator‘s single-minded quest for erotic fulfillment with Hadriana‖ (idem). This reading of the text appears skewed because it plainly ignores the literary tradition to which it belongs: Depestre‘s

106 In his essay, Carpentier repeatedly emphasizes the importance of ―the real‖ as the source from which the marvelous emanates in the Americas: ―…lo maravilloso comienza a serlo de manera inequívoca cuando surge de una inesperada alteración de la realidad (el milagro), de una relación privilegiada de la realidad…, de una ampliación de las escalas y categorías de la realidad, percibidas con particular intensidad en virtud de una exaltaciñn del espìritu que lo conduce a un modo de ‗estado lìmite‘‖ (114, emphasis mine).

178 recourse to vaudou and zombies obeys the rhetoric of le réel merveilleux. In my opinion, rather than emptying Haitian history of its content, the novel problematizes it by posing it as an absurd ―jeu de masques‖. The mingling of characters from different historical periods that engage in eccentric activities highlights the tragedy of a nation whose ―mémoire historique‖ is ―brouillée jusqu‘à la derision107‖ (Hadriana 62):

Simon Bolivar… était engagé, tout nu, dans un zagzag épique avec la chair solennelle et barbare de Pauline Bonaparte, tandis que Toussaint Louverture, en tenue de gouverneur de Saint-Domingue, tirait l‘oreille pour rire au général Victor-Emmanuel Leclerc[…] Le roi Christophe, en visite officielle à Versailles, faisait majestueusement les cent pas, bras dessus bras dessous avec l‘épouse du roi Charles X…Dans un salon voisin, le président Alexandre Pétion, métis et républicain, embrassait… les cuisses prodigieusement lyriques de la toute jeune Madame Récamier (62)

I suggest that in Hadriana dans tous mes rêves, carnival functions as a sort of

‗weaving loom‘ –to borrow an image employed elsewhere by the author- that brings together the multiple manifestations of Haitian culture. The presence of carnival both as a theme and as a metaphor sets an ideal stage in which Depestre‘s érotisme solaire flourishes. Germaine Villaret-Joyeuse -godmother to both Patrick and Hadriana-, for example, is known for her prodigious ―coups de reins‖, which are said to have caused the end of her first two marriages, as the unfortunate husbands were not physically able to withstand her sexual prowess: ―La nuit de son premier mariage on ramena son

107 In a 1992 interview, Lucienne Serrano evoked Edouard Glissant‘s thoughts on the historical importance of Haiti for the French Antilles: ―Haïti garde une force née de la mémoire historique dont tous les Antillais auront besoin un jour‖. While agreeing with his Martinican colleague, Depestre deemed it necessary to nuance this statement: ―pour l‘instant, cette ‗mémoire historique‘ tourne à vide. Les gens sont prisonniers de cette mémoire à double tranchant: nous avons été les premiers Noirs de l‘histoire moderne –et les seuls- à nous libérer du système colonial, les armes à la main… Nos ancêtres eurent la force de changer les échos de la Révolution Française de 1789 en dynamisme historique… Il y a aujourd‘hui un discours haïtien qui, très éloigné du vigoureux discours antillais à la Glissant, rabâche, sur le mode délirant, les épisodes du ‗jacobinisme noir‘, après les trente ans de ‗négritude totalitaire‘ que Papa Doc, et sa bande de tontons-macoutes, ont cruellement infligé aux Haïtiens. Il s‘agit là d‘une véritable défiguration de la mémoire historique à laquelle se réfère Édouard. Pour retrouver l‘esprit d‘émancipation qui a sorti Haïti de l‘esclavage, le pays a besoin d‘un train de réformes décisives…‖ (Métier à métisser 177)

179 conjoint sur une civière, accablé d‘une double fracture du bassin […] Le second mari,

à son tour, fut admis à l‘hôpital Saint-Michel avec plusieurs côtes de brisées‖ (30-31).

Indeed, in many of Depestre‘s texts, the sexuality of characters -both male and female- tends to be unbridled and exuberant, devoid of the sense of guilt traditionally imposed by the Christian morality. This element can be traced back to the ―côté païen et solaire‖ of what the Haitian author has identified as his ―Caribbean temperament‖, which informs his particular vision of le réel merveilleux. In ―Vive l‘érotisme solaire!‖, an essay from his 1998 book Le métier à métisser, he explains that ―[aux]

Caraïbes, le réel merveilleux américain… irrigue également les choses tendrement ensoleillées de la sexualité. Comme les dieux y font librement l‘amour, le plaisir des couples donne lieu à une cérémonie païenne, vécue sans angoisse ni remords religieux…‖ (125)

In Hadriana, the fantastic side of this érotisme solaire takes on a grotesque tone, represented in the giant-penis moth that has allegedly raped many of the women of

Jacmel. The story of how this monstrous insect came into existence is told at the beginning of the novel. In the opening scene, which describes the funerary procession for Germaine Villaret-Joyeuse, this animal plays a minor role: it is part of the décor that the now-deceased had requested on her deathbed. However, it soon acquires a life of its own, thanks to Scylla Syllabaire‘s ‗version of the facts‘. According to the town‘s hairdresser, the hawkmoth (―sphinx‖) is in reality Balthazar Granchiré, a young man that lost his human condition as punishment for his lasciviousness. After seducing his adoptive father‘s favorite concubine, Granchiré was transformed into this particularly gloomy type of insect. As part of the curse, his penis would continue

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to grow, gaining mythical yet terrifying characteristics: ―enroulé en spirale avec des

dents de scie, ce maudit ressort d‘horloge marquera dans la chair de ses proies un

temps de délices que chacune au moment de le savourer voudrait garder pour toute

l‘éternité‖ (27).

In my view, the presence of such a figure points to a problematic aspect of the

Depestrian universe: the prevalence of a male-dominated, phallocentric discourse108.

It is true that, for the most part –it has to be said- female characters in his texts are not

relegated to passive sexual roles. It is also true that, in the novel, some of the women

that encounter the winged phallus supposedly derive unimaginable amounts of

pleasure: lo and behold Mme Villaret-Joyeuse‘s decision to take the moth with her to

her ‗final destination‘. And yet, the violence present in some of these passages makes

it difficult for a female readership to empathize with their textual counterparts. After

all, it is hard for women to conceive the idea of a ―pleasurable rape‖ by a mythical

creature that is ―plus sanguinaire que la mante religieuse‖, who goes abruptly from

―la douceur du colibri à la férocité du tigre du Bengale‖ (27) and ravages virginal

teenage girls, leaving them ―dans l‘effroi, avec du sang partout, sauvagement

dépucelées‖ (28).

108 In his article ―Jouissances carnavalesques: représentations de la sexualité‖, Thomas Spear analyzes representations of sexuality in texts by Depestre and other French-Caribbean authors. In his view, novels like Hadriana tend to glorify rather than question male physical ‗superiority‘ and are thus examples of an often humorous ―phallocratie débordante‖ (139-140) common in the literature of the region. Ultimately, Spear links the exaggerated images of masculine sexuality present in many of these texts to an implicit and deep-rooted sense of heterosexuality often reinforced by strong homophobia (141). Pressed to comment on the ―hésitation homosexuelle‖ that underlies his Éros dans un train chinois, Depestre himself has confessed that he tends to view homosexuality as a ―déviation culturelle‖, an ―éco-système érotique‖. He adds that he does not condemn it, but concedes that he may still have cultural/ideological ‗blinkers‘ regarding the subject: ―Peut-être, à cet égard, j‘ai les œillères du ‗macho‘ que je n‘ai pas fini de dompter en moi…‖ (Métier 163).

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El color del verano

A strikingly different type of carnival is the focal point of Reinaldo Arenas‘ El color

del verano109 (1991). Published posthumously, this is the fourth text of his

Pentagonía, a series of five novels which Arenas described as ―the history of my fury

and my love‖ and a ―metaphor for my country‖ (Color of Summer 227). Celestino

antes del alba, the first book in the series, narrates the childhood of the poet/narrator

in a primitive and a-historic milieu. The cycle continues with El palacio de las

blanquísimas mofetas, in which the narrator‘s adolescence coincides with the years of

the Batista tyranny and its eventual demise. Otra vez el mar, its central work, follows

the protagonist in his involvement with the Cuban revolutionary process from 1958

until 1970. El color del verano, set in the final months of the 20th century, depicts the

adventures of a decrepit, senile dictator and the underground life of a generation of

torn apart, eroticized and degraded young people who nevertheless resist oppression.

El asalto, closing text of the pentalogy, takes place in a dystopian future when men

and women have been dehumanized by the pressures of a totalitarian state110.

El color del verano shares the experimental nature of many of Arenas‘ works,

and it is by far the most Rabelaisian. Set in an island that is at times nameless, at

109 Reinaldo Arenas was a prolific Cuban poet, novelist and essayist. He was born in the countryside of the Oriente province in 1943, and spent his childhood years in the city of Holguín. He moved to Havana in 1963, where he pursued studies of letters and philosophy without completing a degree. An early sympathizer of the 1959 revolution, his writings and openly gay lifestyle soon brought him into conflict with the communist regime. In 1973, he was sent to jail for ‗ideological deviation‘ and for publishing without the government‘s permission; he survived by helping inmates write letters for their wives and lovers. His attempts to escape and to smuggle his work out of prison cost him severe punishment and additional time in captivity. Arenas was released in 1976 and fled to the US in 1980, as part of the Mariel boatlift. He lived in Miami for some time and then moved to New York. In 1987, he was diagnosed with AIDS, but continued to write and speak out against the Cuban government. Overpowered by the disease, Arenas committed suicide by taking an overdose of drugs and alcohol in December of 1990.

110 The English titles of the Pentagonía texts are: Singing from the Well (1987), The Palace of the White Skunks (1990), Farewell to the Sea (1986), The Color of Summer (2000) and The Assault (1994).

182 times openly identified as Cuba, the novel interweaves several stories centered on a lavish carnival planned by Fifo, a ruthless and despotic dictator, to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of his coming into power. Highly satirical, hyperbolic yet utterly honest, this text represents much more than a denunciation of the brutality of the

Castro regime against homosexuals during the 1970s. It is also, as Andrew Hurley - translator of the English version- has put it, a painful exploration of the ―crushingly asymmetrical relationship between Power (whether political, social, religious, family, or, in the New Social Order, all of those at once) and the Individual, that person who does not want to live the way his society or his religion or his family says he should live until he‘s experimented with living the way he‘s drawn to live‖ (Color of

Summer 411).

It is difficult to summarize this novel, partly because there isn‘t just one story. In addition, its structure -as Arenas points out in his ―foreword‖, located halfway into the narration- is not linear but ―circular‖, ―cyclonic‖. Carnival is thus the ―vortex‖ of this text, the ―eye‖ toward which ―all vectors whirl‖ (Color of Summer 228). The festivities that form the carnival per se are significant from the point of view of the plot, but the carnivalesque impulse that underlies the novel is not limited to this thematic element. As we will see, even its language and syntax are motivated by a will to transgress, to challenge the rules of the established order.

The opening section, fashioned as a playlet, quickly sets the tone of the text. In this ―light comedy in one act (of repudiation)‖, Fifo has ordered the resuscitation of

Gertrudis Gómez de Avellaneda, José Martí and José Lezama Lima -three of the most important figures in the literary history of Cuba- to add luster to his cultural gala. The

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problems start when Avellaneda will not allow herself to be used to legitimate Fifo

and tries to escape to Key West in a small fishing boat. As a result, Fifo stages an act

of repudiation toward Avellaneda, and this is where the action starts. What follows is

a witty farce that brings into play all the stars of Cuban literature (both in Cuba and

abroad) and the entirety of Fifo‘s entourage; most names have been slightly altered

but are still easily recognizable (―Nicolás Guillotina‖, ―Halisia Jalonzo‖), while

others remain unchanged (Virgilio Piñera, Julián del Casal)111.

Pressured by Fifo‘s midgets, a number of these artists get up on the Havana

Malecón to try to persuade the poetess to come back to shore. Some do it half-

heartedly; others end up openly endorsing her flight. Simultaneously, another crowd

starts gathering in Key West -Avellaneda‘s supposed destination-; they cheer and

make up plans to honor the illustrious Cuban figure upon her arrival. What I find

noteworthy in the apparent chaos of this text is that these dialogues are all in verse,

brilliant pastiches which incorporate, in italics, lines from the works of these authors.

For instance, the first words of Avellaneda‘s plea as she is getting onto her boat are:

¡Perla del mar! ¡Estrella de Occidente! Me marcho ahora mismo aunque me parta un diente de perro. Ni siquiera tu brillante cielo La noche cubre con su opaco velo.

These words parody one of her most famous poems, whose original lines are:

¡Perla del mar! ¡Estrella de Occidente! ¡Hermosa Cuba! Tu brillante cielo, la noche cubre con su opaco velo como cubre el dolor mi triste frente (El color del verano 15).

111 ―Nicolás Guillotina‖ is Nicolás Guillén, poet (advocate of ‗poesìa negra‘) who served as president of the Unión Nacional de Escritores Cubanos. ―Halisia Jalonzo‖ refers to Alicia Alonso, prima ballerina, choreographer and director of the Ballet Nacional de Cuba. Virgilio Piñera was a poet, playwright, fiction writer and friend of Reinaldo Arenas. He was also persecuted by the Castro regime for his homosexuality. Julián del Casal was a 19th century poet who influenced Ruben Darío and Latin American modernismo.

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The absurdity of the situation escalates as the ‗play‘ metamorphoses into a world- wide televised event, symbolized by a gigantic screen that appears at the back of the stage. In this new format, Avellaneda‘s lengthy speech must be cut short to conform to the laws of the medium. The show host is forced to announce: ―Lo sentimos muchísimo, pero ni la BBC de Londres, ni Radio Francia ni todas las cadenas publicitarias que en este momento están transmitiendo este espectáculo pueden difundir ese largo poema que le restaría eficacia al programa y lo convertiría en una desmesura lìrica…‖ (Color del verano 31).

The broadcast is thus momentarily suspended to make room for some ―very appealing and important commercials‖ (―algunos comerciales muy atractivos y de suma importancia‖) which, in continuing with the deriding impulse of the overall text, advertise a milkshake product. The name of the product (―Avellanela‖) constitutes a play on words based on the poetess‘ last name: ―¡Un nuevo producto ha salido al mercado! ¡El batido AVELLANELA! ¡Ese sí que es la candela! ¡Hecho con avena, avellana, canela y nela! ¡Algo que ahora mismo debe probar! ¡Poetice su paladar!

¡Tome batidos AVELLANELA!...‖ (Color del verano 31).

Among other things, this section highlights the previously unprecedented role that international media has played in the unfolding of events within the Cuban revolution. More importantly, though, it emphasizes -in a highly dramatic manner- the spectacular nature of modern carnival as observed by Laurent Jenny in ―Le discours du Carnaval‖. In his article, which analyzes carnival themes in a number of works by Raymond Roussel, Jenny explores this concept as cultural manifestation but also as rhetorical technique (of ‗carnivalization‘). He sees modern-day carnival as the

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final product of a process of ‗spectacularization‘; ―une situation spectaculaire‖, a

show in which participants interact and communicate but no longer in the ―free and

familiar‖ way described by Bakhtin (Jenny 20-21).

After the first section, readers come across a number of vignettes that alternate

with the festivities for the celebration of Fifo‘s half a century in power112: escapades

and misadventures of several gay men in and around Havana, episodes in the life of a

female painter, tongue-twisters dedicated to public personalities, fragments of the

author‘s trips to the countryside to visit his mother, etc. An essential element of the

novel is the portrayal of an underground homosexual world that, the author was

convinced, would otherwise ―surely never appear in any newspaper or journal in the

world, much less in Cuba‖ (Color of Summer 228).

In these scenes, we will see, the images are graphic and in-your-face, as is the

language employed by many of the characters, whose grammatical gender is often

unstable, and who refer to themselves and to one another as ―pansies‖ (―pájaros‖),

―faggots‖ (―maricones‖), ―locas‖, and ―queens‖. In this respect, it will be useful to

note that both images and language are embedded in the aesthetic that Bakhtin called

grotesque realism. Its components, in Arenas‘ work, are as powerful as they were in

Rabelais‘: laughter, ―mockery/parody/degradation‖, behavior that transgresses official

norms and dogma, ―expressed in frank talk of sexual acts, body parts, and bodily

functions‖ (Color of Summer 411).

112 As will soon become evident, nothing is taken seriously in this novel. Even historical dates are jumbled up. The narrator makes us aware of a fact that a simple mathematical operation would confirm: that the fifty years are really only forty (1959-1999), ―[c]incuenta aðos que en realidad son cuarenta, aumentados por [Fifo] en diez más, pues él ama por encima de todos los números redondos y la publicidad…‖ (64)

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Stylistically, El color del verano bears similarities with writings by other Cuban writers such as Severo Sarduy and Guillermo Cabrera Infante. For instance, the strategies of self-citation / intertextuality that we find in texts like Cobra and Colibrí are also present here. On several occasions, reference is made to the writing and re- writing of the novel. As one of the characters laments about his lonely existence as the only ―true top‖ in a world ―full of pansies‖, he sees la Tétrica Mofeta (the writer‘s queer avatar) in one of the out-of-the-way corners of Havana‘s Parque Central,

―reescribiendo una vez más su novela perdida, El color del verano‖ (66). Later on, when the latter engages in wild sex with a macho cop on a beach reserved for tourists, the text makes a casual reappearance: ―El policía se despojó en un santiamén del calzoncillo verde y de la pistola y siguió poseyendo a la Tétrica quien poseída también por el deliro lanzó lejos de sí la pistola y su propia mochila de la cual salió el manuscrito empapado de su novela El color del verano...‖ (86)

The questioning of the authorial voice characteristic of Sarduy‘s novels also plays a part in Arenas‘ work. The reader –who, like the narrator, is assumed to be gay- is not spared either. In preparation for the ―foreword‖ that appears halfway through the narration, the reader is swiftly dismissed, while the author receives no better treatment:

¡Niña! Saca tus manitas contaminadas y olorosas a pinga de este libro sacro que la autora, la loca regia, va ahora mismo a escribir su prólogo. Sí, querida, a estas alturas, a más de la mitad de la novela, al pájaro se le ha ocurrido que el libro necesita un prólogo, y sin más, como loca de atar, aquí mismo lo escribe y lo estampa. Así que huye, pájara, hasta que el prólogo esté terminado y puedas leerlo (246)

This critique of the authority of the narrator constitutes one of the pillars of Arenas‘ literary project, which aims at a radical re-thinking of the novelistic genre from

187 multiple angles113. Another stylistic element that raises interesting parallels with the work of some of his compatriots is the juxtaposition of genres and media and its resulting effect within the novel. Indeed, the inclusion of vignettes that mimic various literary genres (letters, poems, plays), as well as media (TV and radio), create a sense of polyphony reminiscent of Cabrera Infante‘s Tres Tristes Tigres. Thus, in addition to the main narrator who gives the account of Fifo‘s carnival, readers hear the

‗voices‘ of the ‗queens‘ who cruise the beaches and parks of Havana, a female painter who struggles to find materials to paint with, and the different personalities that make up the figure of the author: Reinaldo, Gabriel and Skunk in a Funk (to which we will return shortly).

But the similarities end there. Unlike either of his fellow writers, Arenas was very outspoken in his disapproval of the Castro regime, and this view played a central role in his fiction. Cabrera Infante, it is well known, was also adamantly against it, but only reflected it in his fiction in veiled terms. He considered himself an ―apolitical writer‖; most of his political pieces, which were originally published in newspapers and magazines throughout the world, are now compiled in a book of essays entitled

Mea Cuba. As for Sarduy, his opposition was not a secret to his friends and relatives, but he made a conscious decision to never make a public statement about it, let alone

113 In a 1987 interview conducted by Francisco Soto in New York, Arenas spoke about the subversive spirit that underlies all of his novels, beyond the specific language and theme that one given work may adopt: ―Yo creo que una novela tiene que ser un texto, desde el punto de vista lingüístico y estructural, novedoso y hasta cierto punto contradictorio y conflictivo que debe ofrecer múltiples e incesantes interpretaciones. Pero las contradicciones y las inquietudes que yo me planteo ahora son más numerosas. No sólo ya cuestiono el tiempo y la estructura de la novela, sino que también me cuestiono a mí mismo como autor. En mis últimas novelas el autor no sólo desaparece, sino que es atacado e insultado violentamente por los personajes […] El autor ya no es dueño ni de la vida ni del destino de sus personajes: tampoco es dueño de su destino ni de nada. El autor en realidad ya no existe.‖ (Soto 50-51, emphasis mine)

188 incorporate it in his literature. As I mentioned in Chapter Two, the only of his works that makes allusions to the sociopolitical situation in Cuba is Pájaros de la playa, his last novel, where the sanatorium that houses the sick protagonists echoes the institutions and policies set up by the socialist government in the early nineties in response to the AIDS epidemic.

Arenas‘ writing, on the contrary, is conceived first and foremost as a place where the political and the personal are inextricably linked. In the Soto interview mentioned above, the author specifies the reasons that draw him to fiction writing: ―A mì me interesan fundamentalmente dos cosas en el mundo de la narrativa. Uno, es la exploración de mi vida personal, de las experiencias personales, de mis sufrimientos, de mis propias tragedias. Y dos, el mundo histórico. Llevar esa historia a un plano completamente de ficción. Interpretar la historia como quizás la vio la gente que la padeciñ‖ (Soto 47). In his eyes, since his personal experience was so dramatically marked by the events that shaped the cultural and political history of his country, it is only natural that they would also have a deep impact on his writing114.

The episodes that retrace the author‘s years of imprisonment provide a compelling illustration of this intersection of literature, life and politics. Soon after his arrival in

El Morro Castle -a Havana jail that dates back to colonial times-, la Tétrica Mofeta manages to earn a living by writing letters to the wives and lovers of fellow inmates.

Since these services are not performed free of charge -―por cada carta, cobraba dos y

114 To be fair, we should concede that intolerance toward homosexuals was not a new ‗government policy‘ implemented with the advent of communism. Gay people in Cuba (especially gay men) were also persecuted and jailed during the Batista years. Their supposed abnormality was first seen as ‗indecent‘, then as ‗anti-revolutionary‘ behavior. One significant difference between the two regimes was the creation and implementation of ‗re-education camps‘ by the Castro government. The harsh experiences undergone by Arenas in one of these camps constitute the subject of his novel Arturo, la estrella más brillante (1984), translated into English as The Brightest Star (1989).

189 hasta cinco cigarros‖ (321)-, the prisoner amasses a ―small fortune‖ that he exchanges for writing materials. He succeeds in re-writing his novel and tries to smuggle it out, but is caught by prison guards. After threats of extended jail time and ―accidental death‖, la Tétrica Mofeta is finally coerced into writing a retraction in which she declares herself guilty of treason, counterrevolutionary thoughts and deeds, perversion, and uncleanness, while at the same time praising ―la gentileza, nobleza y grandeza‖ of the lieutenant who was in charge of her case and going into minute detail over ―las bondades y el genio de Fifo‖. The closing lines of this statement express the writer‘s vows of rehabilitation: ‗Desde hoy en adelante me haré un hombre y me convertiré en un hijo digno de esta revolución maravillosa‖ (325).

I would now like to briefly address the representations of sexuality in the novel, for they constitute a category deeply embedded in the aesthetic of grotesque realism referred to earlier. It is perhaps not surprising that the underground homosexual world depicted here focuses almost obsessively on the ―lower bodily stratum‖: images of phalluses, dicks, penises, dildos, pricks, virilities, gigantic latrines, urination, acts of penetration, impaling, humping, screwing, even mechanical intercourse between two buses populate the text. For this oppressed, marginalized and persecuted minority, scapegoat of a totalitarian regime, sex represents ―una tabla de salvaciñn y escape inmediatos‖, part of an overall attitude of ―no tomar nada en serio para poder seguir sobreviviendo‖ (249).

The liberating power of sex works as a lifebuoy even in the direst of situations. As the lieutenant in charge of la Tétrica Mofeta‘s case urges her to desist from writing novels by threatening to have some common prisoner strangle her and make it look

190 like an incident of personal revenge between prisoners, our protagonist cannot help but bring sex into the picture: ―Pero la loca no pudo recapacitar durante ese corto tiempo [cinco minutos]. ¿Cómo lo iba a hacer, si el magnífico teniente se paseaba ante ella siempre apretándose sus abultados genitales y el sexo que parecían querer estallar?‖ (325). When the officer demands that a decision be made, she replies: ―es algo fabuloso‖, while staring at the lieutenant‘s ―bulging bulge‖. Before he can recover from his surprise, (s)he adds:

…es realmente maravilloso que el gobierno revolucionario haya enviado una persona tan noble como usted para que converse conmigo y que usted hasta me haya dado tiempo para pensar y hasta una oportunidad (así lo espero) para rectificar y retractarme de todos los delitos. Por favor, deme unas hojas de papel y un lápiz (325).

Once the infamous statement is written, the prisoner volunteers to burn the novel‘s manuscript and heads back to his gallery, squeezing the officer‘s hand and kissing it on his way out, to which the former responds by giving a little shudder of repugnance. The laughter provoked by the derision and self-mockery present in this passage is, as all carnivalesque humor, ambivalent. It both destroys and revives; the obliteration of the writer‘s work only pushes him to start anew: he traded all the cigarettes he had left for blank paper and ―comenzó a reescribir la historia de su novela‖ (326).

The other sectors of this highly policed society would not normally use sex as an escape valve. But the world of El color del verano, let‘s not forget, revolves around the carnival organized by Fifo. The established order of things thus finds itself reversed, ―à l‘envers‖, like in the Rabelaisian texts analyzed by Bakhtin. Since the hierarchy of sexual practices does not escape the carnival logic of the mundus

191 inversus115, homosexuality -usually a ‗marginal‘ practice relegated to the periphery of society- overturns heterosexuality and, at least for the time of the festivities, comes to occupy the center, becomes ―the rule‖. The myriad outlandish twists and turns of the story bring as a result the outing of most artists and intellectuals, but also of most members of Fifo‘s entourage, starting with ―Raúl Kastro‖, his brother, and ending with the ―genius/tyrant‖ himself, depicted as a conflicted being stirred by three opposing forces: the desire to ―be a real man, a heterosexual‖, the wish to ―be a surly bull macho and screw other machos‖ and the reality of being ―a queen, the very queenliest of queens…‖ (Color of summer 378).

Ultimately, in this world where homosexuality is the rule, the adoption of a specific role (i.e. passive vs. active) will become a decisive factor. Thus, the different varieties of ―tops‖ and ―fags‖ identified in the novel comprise a highly developed taxonomy that, I argue, has more to do with power than it does with sexual preferences. The various modes of erotic behavior stand here as a metaphor for the asymmetrical relationship between power and the individual earlier evoked by

Andrew Hurley, translator of the English version of the novel.

Furthermore, these grotesque representations of sexuality raise questions on larger ethical issues like honesty and integrity. Thus, for instance, the true tragedy of the closet queen (―loca tapada‖) is the fact that she absolutely denies being a queen (―se niega rotundamente a ser loca‖) and lives in terror, ―vive aterrorizada temiendo que le tiendan alguna trampa fálica‖ (Color del verano 394). All in all, this loss of integrity in the sexual realm is symptomatic of a generalized phenomenon of moral decay that,

115 Jorge Olivares‘ ―Carnival and the Novel: Reinaldo Arenas‘ El palacio de las blanquísimas mofetas‖ studies the concept of Carnival in the second volume of Arenas‘ Pentagonía. He refers to this topos of the mundus inversus (―upside-down world‖) as a fundamental part of the carnivalesque aesthetic.

192 in Arenas‘ view, affects Cuban society. One of the culminating events of Fifo‘s carnival is a tour of his ―Garden of Computers‖, a science-fiction-like site that houses hundreds of machines nourished by denunciations (―delaciones‖) and

―backstabbings‖ from common citizens. When the demonstration of the wonders of the ―system of betrayals‖ begins, the computers clamor for sustenance, while a fevered mob of informants storms the garden:

…Sabìan que tenìan que presentar su informe lo más rápidamente posible, antes de que otros presentasen otros informes contra ellos […] Mujeres desesperadas presentaban informes contra sus esposos; los esposos delataban a sus hijos y a sus mujeres y a los maridos de sus mujeres y también a sus propios maridos. Cientos de profesores delataban a sus alumnos; miles de alumnos delataban a sus profesores… (400-401)

As illustrated in the preceding quotation, this chapter openly criticizes the system of surveillance by civilian committees implemented by the Cuban government, which monitored the everyday lives of members of the community and encouraged/required the denunciation of any behavior that could be perceived as ―antirevolutionary‖.

Above all, it deplores the corroding effect of such practices on the moral fabric of an oppressed population forced to resort to the lowest of human impulses for survival.

One last point that requires our attention is that of the protagonist‘s multiple personalities. At first, readers are not sure if ―Gabriel‖, ―Reinaldo‖, and ―la Tétrica

Mofeta‖ refer to one person or several people. However, it soon becomes evident that these constitute different avatars of the same character throughout the text. In my opinion, they are the personification of that twilight persona I had evoked at the beginning of the chapter. A conflicted, vulnerable yet resilient figure, this character is forced to lead multiple lives that show or hide different sides of his personality according to the people he is with. For his mother, he is still Gabriel, dutifully

193 masculine son; for those who read what he writes but can hardly ever publish, he is

Reinaldo. Finally, he confesses, ―para el resto de mis amigos con los cuales de vez en cuando me escapo para ser yo totalmente, soy la Tétrica Mofeta‖ (101).

In this fragmented existence, the only unifying principle seems to come from literature. It is indeed through writing that the protagonist manages to ―tocar una autenticidad que el mundo le [niega]‖ (110). Although at various points in his life he decides he must ―optar entre la novela que era su propia vida y la felicidad de los demás‖, between ―su propia, querida, prohibida vida y la vida de los seres queridos‖

(110), in the end he cannot renounce writing, for it is the only thing that gives fundamental meaning to his life.

The writer as twilight persona

We could view this tragic, tri-part character as a singular and very specific case, the literary rendering of a persecuted author‘s life of suffering. However, it is my contention that this portrayal of authorial figures as problematic and conflicted beings is not an isolated occurrence but rather, as stated at the beginning of the chapter, a recurrent topos in the literatures of the French and Spanish-speaking islands of the

Caribbean. In Chamoiseau‘s Solibo Magnifique –a novel that, significantly, is set during the last hours of Carnival–, the narrator refuses the allegedly grandiose title of writer, preferring to view himself as a ―marqueur de paroles‖, a transcriber of words that, instead of standing out, just blends in with the crowd. Reminiscing about his first encounters with Solibo, one of Martinique‘s last Creole storytellers, the narrator underscores his attempt to make himself literally and metaphorically invisible in the

194 eco-system of Fort-de-France‘s vegetable market: ―pour me dissimuler, je rendais quelques menus services de-ci, de-là, charroi d‘ordures, nettoyage de légumes, recherche de pièces de cinq centimes indispensables à la souplesse rituelle du marchandage des prix116‖ (43).

Trilogie tropicale

In Raphaël Confiant‘s Trilogie tropicale we find another interesting incarnation of the author as twilight persona. The short novels that comprise this series retrace the adventures of a trio of characters: Abel, the narrator (a Martiniquan homme de lettres), Anna-Maria de la Huerta, a mestiza bombshell from Santo Domingo that our protagonist loves/lusts, and their friend, mathematician Victor Saint-Martineau. The caustic criticisms made by the self-proclaimed ―écriveur à la notoriété interplanétaire‖

(Savane 7) spare nobody: intellectuals, blacks, mulattos, women, even the revered figure of Aimé Césaire -―Amadeus César‖- and his ideology of négritude. For instance, during a conversation with a character that is only referred to as

―l‘Archéologue départemental‖, Abel mockingly laments on the fact that he, unlike his illustrious friend, cannot willingly suppress perspiration, while thinking to himself: ―faut dire que cet état de grâce est un privilège des adeptes de la négritude, laquelle n‘est, comme chacun sait, que la manière noire d‘être blanc‖ (Bassin 41).

116 Likewise, Mathieu, protagonist of Glissant‘s Mahagony, rejects the portrait that the novel‘s chroniqueur draws of him and decides to ‗set things straight‘ by writing his own version of the story, only to find himself in an impasse, overwhelmed and silenced by the ―maelstrom of stories‖. This apparent sense of self-doubt stands in sharp contrast with an earlier generation of authorial figures who seemed confident in their assumed role of ‗giving voice to the voiceless‘. As Dominique Chancé observes in L‟auteur en souffrance, numerous writers from the French Antilles represent themselves ―sous les traits de personnages maladroits, bricoleurs et nomades qui se mêlent à la foule babillarde, sans faire entendre clairement leur propre discours‖ (2).

195

The narrator‘s apparent hostility toward this central figure of Martiniquan society is partly related to the overwhelming influence of the aesthetics of negritude on the

Caribbean literary scene. Paradoxically, the rich intellectual legacy left by Aimé

Césaire appears to have weighed a great deal on the following generations of francophone Antillean writers. In Lettres créoles, Chamoiseau and Confiant explain the situation in these terms: ―La grande ombre du fromager césairien semble étouffer, depuis les années 60, toute velléité poétique antillaise qui ne soit pas la périphrase du

Cahier d‟un retour au pays natal‖ (181). For over two decades, they add, the francophone poetry of the area seemed ―frappée de stupeur alors que sa consœur créolophone est en pleine expansion‖. I suggest that a similar state of paralysis affected the representation of authorial figures in narrative texts. The portrayal of problematic, twilight characters like Abel would thus constitute a reaction against the césairian image of the writer as ―patriot and martyr117‖.

The harshness displayed by our hero is not reserved to the founding father of negritude. In fact, Abel does not show any more mercy toward the intellectual class as a whole, going so far as to advocate for the creation of an ―association internationale pour l‘euthanasie intellectuelle‖ that would eliminate ―tous les auteurs, penseurs, scribouillards et autres pisse-copies qui auront été convaincus, par un tribunal neutre et indépendant, d‘inutilité publique et de dangerosité pour l‘équilibre mental des élites‖ (Bassin 12). The irreverent tone of Bassin des ouragans, the first

117 Readers familiar with Confiant‘s controversial text Aimé Césaire: une traversée paradoxale du siècle know that his relationship with the ―Nègre fondamental‖ is an ambiguous, conflicted one. In this book, as in countless interviews and articles, Confiant professes his admiration for Césaire‘s literature and for the invaluable contribution of his particular vision of negritude. On the other hand (and this is a gross summary of the extended reflection presented in the book), he puts forth a harsh critique of the man on two separate accounts: (1) Césaire‘s perceived rejection of Creole as language of literary expression; (2) the discrepancy between his writings and his politics.

196 text, is carried throughout the trilogy and is announced rather early when, commenting on his friend Saint-Martineau‘s reputation as a ‗ladies‘ man‘, Abel describes the former‘s apartment as a ―culbutoire, ou bien sa garçonnière comme on dirait en français de France sur lequel, ô très sainte Académie, je chie solennellement,

était fort vaste‖ (11).

As narrator of the story, Abel repeatedly defends his right to forge neologisms and to use local terms or créolismes: ―ici on ajoute un ‗l‘ [au verbe chavirer], alors nous emmerdez pas, hein?‖ (21). Moreover, he gladly undertakes the task of satirizing the supposed problematic relationship with the French language, which -as we know- has been a major preoccupation for several generations of French Antillean writers. When his friend the archaeologist asks for his help by way of the expression ―Viens m‘aider au lieu de bayer aux corneilles‖, Abel ponders over the inadequacy of an image that refers to a type of bird which does not exist in the Caribbean, and adds:

Ah ! Quelle sacré tonnerre de misère que d‘être contraint et forcé d‘utiliser une langue d‘emprunt ! On se sent presque aussi gauche que le beauf qui loue un smoking pour aller dîner chez Maxim‘s avec bobonne à l‘occasion de leurs noces d‘argent (Bassin 59-60).

It soon becomes evident that Abel is a twilight persona par excellence, a polemic figure that is constantly looking for trouble. He is labeled as a misogynist for claiming at a public lecture that, during the plantation era, female slaves were not as badly mistreated as male ones, because they had the possibility of offering their bodies to the white master and thus be exempted of the hard work of the cane fields

(Baignoire 25). In reality, much of this seemingly reactionary way of thinking can be attributed to a sense of impatience vis-à-vis certain aspects of the Martiniquan ethos, such as the contempt that, in his eyes, modern-day women of the island show for their

197 male counterparts. When, a few pages later, our hero‘s friends accuse him of being a misanthrope, he defends himself by adding a nuance to this term. Abel stipulates he is only a ―mismartinicanthrope‖ and proceeds to list some of the objects of his hatred:

Je hais les Nègres à cravate et à bel français. Je hais les Négresses à cheveux-l‘État. Je hais les Mulâtres à Mercédès et piscine. Je hais les Békés à villa les pieds dans l‘eau (Baignoire 31-32)

While we should avoid the all too common mistake of automatically equating the figure of the narrator with that of the actual author, the resemblances between Abel‘ s sardonic view of the world and Confiant‘s temperament as it transpires in interviews and writings are too striking to be dismissed. It would not be too bold to view this

écriveur as an alter ego of the enfant terrible of the créolité movement. Through the voice of his textual double, Confiant shows a keen awareness of the literary traditions that precede him, and makes an attempt to mark a distance between his own writing style and that of the different ‗schools‘. For example, in relating the story of Man

Didine, a woman who reputedly had nine daughters from nine different fathers, Abel feels the need to add the following disclaimer: ―Loin de moi la tentation de verser dans le réalisme merveilleux à la haïtienne où le moindre héros possède huit paires de couilles ou dans le baroque sud-américain pour épater les distingués critiques littéraires de la Rive gauche. Ni – horreur et damnation ! – dans le réalisme socialiste puisqu‘il s‘est effondré bien avant le mur de Berlin‖ (Bassin 54-55).

How can we explain this necessity to demarcate himself? In ―Écrire l‘écrivain:

Créolité et spécularité‖, Lydie Moudileno explores the representation of writerly figures in a number of literary works from the French Caribbean. In referring to

Condé‘s La vie scélérate and Confiant‘s Le nègre et l‟amiral, Moudileno claims that,

198 through their main characters, these authors attempt to reformulate the figure of the writer, in a process that rejects one model and, at the same time, proposes other approaches to the genre (197). While concurring with Moudileno‘s argument, I would add that, in the case of Confiant, the alternative model he proposes is very much in line with the Rabelaisian tradition of carnivalesque texts. Thus, we find that parody, a central element in most of the works I have studied throughout this chapter, also thrives in the novels of Confiant‘s trilogy. It targets a variety of genres and discourses, ranging from the standardized and somewhat artificial language of television to the ultra-specialized lingo of academics. For instance, the pomposity and arrogance of certain intellectual milieux is hilariously illustrated in the words of

Dagobert-Philippe Buridan, who lectures his friends while having a drink at a café:

Il n‘y a pas de frontière entre le français et le créole, messieurs ! Seuls les fondamentalistes du basilecte se permettent d‘affirmer qu‘on peut dégager un noyau dur dans le créole. Pour moi, il s‘agit d‘une seule et même langue, une macrolangue, dirais-je, dont les bornes sont floues. Ce qui est important est ce qui se passe au milieu. (Baignoire 16)

In 1989 Chamoiseau, Confiant, and their friend Jean Bernabé, a renowned linguist, published the now famous literary manifesto Éloge de la créolité. In this text, they highlight the importance of orality as one of the necessary ingredients for the literary expression of Creole culture. Indeed, as evidenced in the work of Chamoiseau,

Simone Schwarz-Bart and others, this is a prevalent element in the writings of many

Antillean writers, regardless of whether they adhere to the precepts of the créolité movement or not. Yet, in his fictional texts, Confiant does not seem to share this propensity; in fact, at times readers get the impression that this too is turned into an

199 object of satire. The sacrosanct status that orality seems to have acquired in the literature of the region is skillfully subverted in passages like this:

Et alors, mesdames et messieurs de la compagnie, est-ce que la cour dort ? Non, la cour ne dort pas ! Eh ben, écouteurs qui m‘écoutez, lecteurs qui me lisez, voyeurs qui me voyez, je vous annonce qu‘à cet instant précis, moi, le maître de la Parole ancestrale venue des fins fonds de notre mère l‘Afrique (la Martinique est l‘unique pays au monde à avoir été conçu par deux mères : la mère patrie hexagonale et celle que je viens d‘évoquer), je vous annonce très solennellement qu‘à l‘instar de Descartes, j‘ai enfin découvert, en ce jour de l‘an de grâce 1992, la vérité vraie du nègre des Amériques : Coïto ergo sum ! (Savane 11)

The paragraph begins as an innocuous monologue in which the narrator seemingly borrows rhetorical strategies from the repertoire of Creole storytelling: the conteur or conteuse usually asks ―est-ce que la cour dort?‖, and the audience is expected to reply

―Non, la cour ne dort pas!‖. However, readers quickly realize the satirical intention behind Abel‘s method. He declares himself ―maître de la Parole‖ -with a capital ―P‖-, but then proceeds to insert an ironic digression about the oxymoronic nature of

Martinique. Finally, the announcement that concludes this section achieves the inversion of hierarchies typical of grotesque realism. It is safe to say that, by proclaiming his ―Coïto ergo sum!‖, Abel aims at the degradation of a two-fold target: the idealized techniques of oral storytelling and one of the basic tenets of Cartesian philosophy.

This carnivalesque epiphany is also significant because it bears synecdochic value for the representations of sexuality in the Trilogie tropicale and in Confiant‘s œuvre as a whole. Indeed, eroticism is a pervasive element in the lives of many of his characters: they often engage in sexual intercourse, fantasize about it, or covet other characters. In this sense, they appear to conform to a pattern identified by Thomas

Spear in ―Jouissances carnavalesques‖. For Spear, many Antillean authors -either

200 consciously or unconsciously- frequently succumb to the stereotypical image of

Africans as overwhelmingly sexual beings; very few attempt to question it (137). I am tempted to concur that this pattern is also reproduced in the trilogy insofar as, in one rare moment of gravity, the narrator himself concedes that ―l‘intégralité de tous les instants de la vie du nègre sur cette île… est imbibée jusqu‘à la moelle des yeux de sexualité sauvage‖ (Savane 13). And yet, I argue, the fact that Abel qualifies this wild sexuality as ―seul recours contre la désespérance qui l‘accable et le sentiment de son inutilité parfaite au regard de la marche de l‘univers‖ becomes a redeeming factor.

Here, sexuality is presented as a means through which everyday Martinicans escape an absurd and –for that reason- daunting reality. The striking resemblance between

Abel‘s reflections and those made by the narrator of El color del verano earlier in this chapter cannot go unnoticed: in both cases, unbridled sexualities are evoked as means to escape hopeless, desperate realities118.

However, what I find perplexing about this specific aspect of the novels is the contrast between the narrator‘s sexual behavior and that of the rest of the characters, including the other two protagonists. Readers know from the start that Saint-

Martineau has the reputation of a womanizer; they are also informed of Anna-Maria‘s numerous amorous adventures. In addition, it does not take them very long to become physically involved with each other, as the narrator reproachingly reminds his longtime friend: ―Quand je revins au salon avec deux verres de vodka dans une main et un jus de corossol dans l‘autre, vous vous étiez déjà si tellement entremêlés que je

118 It would be interesting to investigate whether this use of unbridled sexualities as ―diversion tactics‖ is in fact a key theme of these carnival narratives. While typifying the aesthetics of grotesque realism that characterizes many of these texts, the heterosexual hyper-macho of Depestre‘s work, the voracious homosexual of Arenas‘s and the fabulously lascivious characters of Confiant all seem to be pointing to a broader issue; unfortunately, I have not been able to single it out.

201 ne distinguais plus ton corps du sien. Je voulus attendre sur le balcon, prendre mon mal en patience…‖ (Bassin 26)

On the contrary, although Abel constantly expresses sexual desire for women in general, these thoughts rarely become actions. Moreover, his love for Anna-Maria remains unrealized in the sense that their relationship never surpasses the platonic level; indeed, our hero laments that his beloved never allows him to ―pénétrer dans la citadelle de [sa] virginité‖ (Bassin 76). At the end of the first novel, things take a decidedly strange turn when, right in the middle of a ferocious hurricane, Anna-Maria makes it understood that she loves him too and that, in fact, she wants to bear his child, though not through ―cette gymnastique datant de ces temps reculés où l‘homme n‘était pas encore tout à fait descendu du singe‖: she would like to procreate via artificial insemination. This bizarre scene comes to an abrupt end when, having survived the forces of nature, our protagonist realizes he has lost the ring he had been saving for the occasion and, to add insult to injury, Anna-Maria has literally moved on, leaving him behind.

In this hyper-sexual universe, Abel‘s atypical behavior makes readers wonder:

Should we interpret his celibacy as a metaphor for something else? Is it plausible that it would point to a quest of a different nature? The closing pages of La savane des pétrifications suggest that this could be the case. In the second volume of the series,

Martinique has fallen prey to a mysterious natural phenomenon that has progressively turned everything -people, cars, animals, buildings- into stone and statues into living beings. Only the narrator and his allies have escaped this fate. Seeking a way to reverse the definitive and imminent ‗petrification‘ of the island, our heroes realize

202 that the television sets in all houses have somehow continued to work, so they decide to destroy them, as they must be at the root of the problem. Eventually -in the purest tradition of Hollywood films-, this produces ―un court-circuit à l‘échelle du pays entier‖ (Savane 90) that miraculously ends the tragedy.

In this episode, Confiant‘s protagonist reveals once again the essence of a twilight character. Unlike the mythical figures of earlier generations, Abel is not a model to follow, and he does not claim to speak on behalf of his people. In fact, his misanthropic nature pushes him to disassociate himself from his peers. Nevertheless, he cannot ignore society‘s call in the midst of this surrealistic catastrophe, so he decides to intervene. Moreover, the biting cynicism that characterizes him throughout these texts is intended as a wake-up call of sorts, a denunciation of the cultural and ideological paralysis brought about by material prosperity.

I must underscore the role of humor and irony as Confiant‘s most loyal weapons in this Trilogie tropicale. As Laurent Sabbah remarks in his postface to La savane, the Martiniquan author condemns the intellectual and cultural ―petrification‖ of his society, but he does not propose any solutions; he is a writer, not a ―médecin humanitaire tendance Samu social‖ (Savane 96). His limits are clearly established: through writing, he exposes, criticizes, pokes fun, ridicules. He has definitely taken a side, that of laughter and farce. While the questions raised in his texts are serious and the debates sometimes dramatic, Sabbah explains, Confiant ―ne les prend jamais au sérieux. C‘est peut-être cette insouciance littéraire mâtinée d‘une grande dose de cynisme qui rend l‘homme, l‘écrivain et le personnage attachant, donnant à son texte une dimension surréaliste‖ (Savane 97).

203

In Confiant‘s oeuvre, this refusal to take anything too seriously starts with the ability to make fun of himself and of his own ideological/aesthetic affiliations.

Throughout the texts, Abel repeatedly alludes to his cowardice and irascible temperament, which he attributes to his racial configuration. Similarly, he mocks the créolistes‟ penchant for expressions only found in old forms of standard French, as well as the portrayal of ‗petites gens‘ privileged in their texts. This is echoed in the thoughts of a character that is a French professor and specialist of ―black literature‖:

Tous ces Ti Sonson, Ti Georges, Man Ida ou Mamzelle Adelise… lui donnaient la nausée. Au moins avec la négritude, on avait affaire à des géants de l‘humanité : Toussaint-Louverture ou Patrice Lumumba, par exemple. Eh oui, tout fout le camp, mon bon monsieur ! L‘éducation, le respect d‘autrui, l‘amitié, l‘amour. Ne demeure, hélas, que la canaillerie ! (Savane 43)

As is often the case when dealing with irony, things are more complicated than they seem. On the surface, the preceding passage derides the créolité texts for their somewhat programmatic views; a closer look of these lines, however, reveals another layer of meaning carrying a criticism of the ‗commodification‘ of literature as an object of study. For this character -a European scholar-, the stability of semantic categories in negritude provided a safe zone that no longer exists in the ―mangroves déroutantes de la créolité‖ (Savane 41); as a matter of fact, ―[quand] les nègres se proclamaient nègres, écrivaient nègre… Garnier nageait dans le bonheur le plus parfait. Mais tout cessa d‘aller pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes lorsqu‘une bande d‘hurluberlus à peine quadragénaires décréta qu‘en plus d‘être nègres, ils

étaient blancs, amérindiens, indous, chinois et levantins‖ (idem).

The liberating power of humor constitutes a literary device that more and more

Caribbean writers have begun to employ; witness the works of Cabrera Infante,

204

Sarduy, Arenas and Confiant. It is true that the realities they describe and criticize are quite dissimilar; in fact, some of them are at opposite extremes of the spectrum of predicaments that afflict post-colonial societies. Although they belong to different periods of Cuban history, the socio-political events depicted in the texts of the

Spanish-speaking authors are, as a rule, inherently dramatic. Those portrayed in the

Trilogie tropicale, on the other hand, are ostensibly less urgent. As Confiant remarked in a 1994 interview, the departmentalization of Martinique and Guadeloupe has brought about a level of economic prosperity and a concomitant though paradoxical state of indolence and cultural alienation. Hence, their present ―isn‘t tragic like Rwanda‘s or Haiti‘s –no one is dying of hunger in Martinique‖. ―Our situation‖, he adds, ―[is not] pathetic or dramatic. It is rather comic and absurd119‖.

The absurdity of the situation, as Chamoiseau observes in his postface to La baignoire de Joséphine, is emblematized in Abel, ―personnage kafkaïen, fou à force de lucidité‖ (Baignoire 107). His laughter, akin to that of Creole storytellers, bears echoes of pain, death, and anguish. For him, like for the other twilight characters we have explored in this chapter, laughter ―ne fonctionne pas à contre-emploi, mais dans l‘exacerbation d‘une lucidité aiguë, d‘un vouloir terrible, d‘une conscience pleine dégagée des brumes de l‘illusion‖ (Baignoire 106).

―Moi, qui avais horreur des chabins…‖ : the question of race

In the first chapter of this dissertation, I evoked the question of race as one of the grandes lignes of Caribbean literatures in French and Spanish. As I mentioned, the tensions produced by the forced intermingling of ethnic groups constitute an

119 Quoted in Price, Richard and Sally, ―Shadowboxing in the Mangrove‖, p. 16.

205 inescapable topos that assumes multiple guises. In certain texts, it is portrayed as part of the painful legacy of colonialism, an insurmountable obstacle that Caribbean societies must learn to live with. In other texts –perhaps more recent ones–, it adopts ironic or even playful undertones, as authors prefer to shed a more humorous light on an issue that was, for the longest time, treated in mostly solemn terms.

In Confiant‘s trilogy, the narrator –a self-described chabin– constantly ironizes on the highly complex racial taxonomy of Martiniquan society and the pervasive stereotypes that go along with it. For instance, after being insulted by another driver on the highway for moving too slow, Abel becomes infuriated; he scrutinizes his reaction with a racial microscope of sorts: ―mes globules chabins ne firent qu‘un tour dans mes veines tandis que mon sang blanc et mon sang noir tentaient de les calmer

(et que mon sang chinois se poilait dans son coin)‖ (Baignoire 33). Likewise, the alleged eeriness of this ethnic sub-type is confirmed by the protagonist himself, as he concedes: ―Moi qui ne me regardais jamais dans une glace, ayant horreur des chabins, je fus obligé de supporter ma tête, plus pâle qu‘un tréponème, qui se refléta subitement dans la baie vitrée d‘un appartement…‖ (Baignoire 42).

El entierro de Cortijo

Though not a mulatto himself, the narrator of Edgardo Rodrìguez Juliá‘s El entierro de Cortijo seemingly shares Abel‘s detachment toward racial relations. This chronicle, translated into English as Cortijo‟s Wake, gives a vivid description of the funeral of legendary Puerto Rican musician Rafael Cortijo. The resounding success of this book since its publication in 1983 is partly due to its subject matter: in addition to

206 the intrinsic attraction that the world of popular music carries, the revolutionary figure of Cortijo looms especially large in Puerto Rican musical culture. As Juan

Flores explains in his introduction to the bilingual edition of the text, his music modernized the traditional vernacular forms of bomba and plena120 and at the same time ―forcefully reestablished their African and working-class roots, drawing on sources from early in the century and infusing modern-day ‗salsa‘ in its formative period of the 1970s…‖ (2). But the implications of this achievement by far surpass the realm of music. Cortijo, Flores suggests, ―challenged long dominant and elitist,

Eurocentric assumptions about Puerto Rican music and openly defied the paternalism with which such ‗folk‘ expression is customarily treated, when he thrust the expressive ways of poor black folk onto the center stage of national culture‖ (idem).

I should perhaps clarify that, beyond its powerful portrayal of a fascinating sub- culture, my particular interest in this text resides in the dynamics created by the juxtaposition of two main characters: the subject of the chronicle (a black musician) and its narrator (a white writer). In reality, as critics have mentioned, Cortijo‟s Wake focuses as much on the life, death and legacy of Rafael Cortijo as on the narrator‘s encounter with the predominantly black, working-class world that surrounded him.

Coming from a white, middle-class background, the narrator, who bears the same

120 Bomba: Afro-Puerto Rican dance and songs traditionally associated with plantation workers. One or two large wooden drum(s) covered with goatskin called the bomba, which accompanied this music, explain the dance's name. Plena: an Afro-Puerto Rican folk song and dance style played on the 10- stringed cuatro, güiro and panderetas (tambourines), with satyrical lyrics or those making social or political statements. Plena blends elements from Puerto Ricans' wide cultural backgrounds, including music that the Taíno tribes may have used during their ceremonies. From Dolmetsch Online Music Dictionary. April 2, 2009. http://www.dolmetsch.com/musictheorydefs.htm

207 name as the author, personifies the complexities of the twilight characters we have been analyzing in this chapter121.

One of the first things readers come across in this text is the narrator‘s awareness of his status as a social outsider. RJ arrives to the musician‘s neighborhood in a taxi, which he had decided to take instead of driving his own car due to the ill reputation of the area: ―Los cuentos son terribles: la Providencia de Lloréns es ámbito de eso que los marxistas clasifican bajo el signo de lumpen; mi madre pequeño-burguesa hablaría de títeres…‖ (87). While he does not adhere to the use of either term, the narrator is perfectly conscious of the fact that both of them have to do with fear of the other

(―[el] miedo al otro‖), and is forced to acknowledge the power of class prejudice as well as his own paranoia:

Traspasar ese corredor mítico de violencia es casi asegurarse una cañona a manos de algún teco de bejuco desesperado. Mi pana, ese lenguaje es como la cifra de una distancia insalvable entre mi condición y la de ellos. Mano, esto de la lucha de clases sí que va en serio (88, emphasis in the original)

If the narrator‘s social background makes him feel like an outsider, his physical features turn him into a veritable cultural foreigner in Cortijo‘s turf. Everything in his being cries out that he does not belong there, that he is different from the inhabitants of these projects. From his ―perfil decimonñnico mallorquìn‖ and Corsica-style handlebar mustache to his ―white chubby face‖ and glasses, RJ knows that his presence in this place cannot go unnoticed. Hence, his participation as chronicler of

Cortijo‘s funeral will likely not be as objective as he had first thought. Once the categories of ―they‖ versus ―me‖ have been established, RJ realizes that just as he can

121 In an effort to avoid tiresome reiteration, I will sometimes refer to this character as ―RJ‖ (from the initials of the author‘s last name) although, being a first-person narrative, his name is directly evoked only once in the text.

208 read them, they are also able to read him. In fact, he suspects, ―ya me tienen leído: ese tiene cara de mamao…‖ (88)

As the chronicle develops, the narrator‘s account of the event reveals its problematic nature. On the one hand, he appears to be aiming for a certain level of objectivity; he maintains that the class displacement undergone by his family during his high school years has provided him with an ―individualismo feroz y una vocación solitaria que trata a todas las tribus con igual ironía‖ (90). This attitude is at play in his reflections on the rise of ―Cortijo y Su Combo‖ and their subsequent impact on the popular music scene of Puerto Rico. Back in the 1950s, these men brought along a new social presence, that of a restless mulatto population made possible by the social mobility generated by Muðoz‘s development program122. In the narrator‘s eyes,

La plena proletaria de Canario, la del barrio y el arrabal, se convierte en música del caserío. Para esa nueva música surge un nuevo medio: la televisión se convierte en el foco de luz que destaca no sólo una nueva fisonomía musical, sino también una amenazante presencia social. El blanquitismo de los grandes clubes sociales y los salones de baile tiene que haber temblado ante esta nueva agrupación formada casi exclusivamente por negros. Y además, la combinación de música y baile, ¡qué cafrería! Y lo peor, no usan papeles para tocar, no se ajustan a la formalidad musical de la orquesta de salón. ¡Qué horror!... (99)

An equally ironic tone is present in some of JR‘s descriptions of the members of this community, those he refers to as ―pueblo pueblo‖, ―mi pueblo puertorriqueðo en su diversidad más contradictoria‖ (91). There is, for example, the ―tìtere‖ (―hoodlum‖) with his Champions and overalls, who is wearing dark shades and a muscle-tight red

T-shirt over which dangles ―el amasijo de collares, los detentes de la santería cocola,

122 During the 1950s Puerto Rico experienced rapid industrialization, due in large part to governor Luis Muðoz Marìn‘s Operaciñn Manos a la Obra ("Operation Bootstrap"). This was an offshoot of Franklin Delano Roosevelt's New Deal, which aimed to transform Puerto Rico's economy from agriculture- based to manufacturing-based. A large number of housing development projects were built during those years, including the Lloréns projects, where Cortijo grew up and lived most of life.

209 que a Obatalá encomiendo mi espíritu y si todas las ochas [orishas] permanecen conmigo entonces no habrá jodiendas, galán…‖ (92). Later, at Cortijo‘s grave, he observes a ―blanquito‖ (―white guy‖) with dark sunglasses, a jockey cap, reddish beard and a ―pandereta‖ (tambourine) ―stuffed under his armpit‖. According to his speculations, the guy was

[c]riado con los Beatles luego se interesó en el cine, y papi pagó la inútil carrera en México; entonces comenzó a los veinticinco un voyage philosophique por toda Europa cuyo destino último sería trabajar como apuntador en alguna película de Fellini; al quedarse ante los portones de la Tierra Prometida Cinecittá decidió abandonar para siempre el celuloide, y entonces, de regreso a Puerto Rico […] descubriñ el rumbñn de la esquina […], las panderetas de plenero, ―Maquinolandera,‖ y ya no fue el mismo […], comenzñ a bregar con su cabeza mano y descubriñ su verdadera vocaciñn de conguero… (130-131)

And yet, at certain points his narration takes on an almost haughty tenor that exposes his patrician roots and self-confessed prejudices, which also inform his chronicle: ―el filtro del cronista es la memoria, la personal y la colectiva, también los prejuicios,

¿por qué no?‖ (91). As the funeral procession makes its way toward the cemetery, the crowd grows larger and larger, and the scene becomes more chaotic. By the time they make it to the place where the body will be buried, it becomes evident that the funeral has ―lost its focus‖; curiosity has overcome the mourning, and the unruly mob must be reminded that ―esto no es un pari‖ (―this is not a party‖), that the family just wants to bury Rafael Cortijo in peace. In my view, RJ‘s comments on the crowd‘s attitude abandon the apparent detachment of his previous observations; instead, they represent a sincere condemnation of this type of behavior: ―Asusta ver en este pueblo el desmadre, la confusión en el comportamiento, esa inclinación a no asumir la conducta debida a la ocasiñn que nos ocupa…‖ (130).

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El entierro de Cortijo bears significant differences from some of the texts

analyzed in this chapter: here, parody does not play a major role, and we do not find

representations of sexuality conforming to the aesthetics of grotesque realism.

Nevertheless, it could be argued that a carnivalesque impulse takes over in the last

part of the chronicle. First of all, the mourning musicians plan to end the funeral ―con

un rumbón sobre la tumba‖ (131). Instead of grieving over the passing of the cultural

icon, the masses prefer to celebrate his musical legacy, and thus to privilege the

positive aspect of the inextricable cycle of life and death:

Los muchachos tienen razón: los muertos no pueden dejarse solos por mucho tiempo. Si no hacemos ese primer esfuerzo inmediatamente después del entierro, ya no resucitarán […] Los muchachos saben eso, y por ello afincan el paso de plena sobre la tapia aún húmeda, para que la muerte no prevalezca…‖ (136).

Second, the appearance of an unexpected figure leads to a temporary reversal of

social hierarchies. Indeed, as the end of the funeral approaches, the narrator becomes

aware of a ―seigniorial‖ presence: that of Rafael Hernández Colñn, white politician

and former governor of the island. The motivations behind his attendance are not

clear; giving him the benefit of the doubt, RJ speculates that he may be there simply

to ―compenetrarse con el rumboso dolor pueblerino sin asumir un papel protagónico

en la despedida de duelo‖ (127).

At any rate, whether the politician has come to pay his respects or for some

ulterior political motive, he does not get the opportunity to make a farewell speech.

The honor of the final sermon is given to Luis Ambrosio de Jesús, PNP representative

of Loíza and cousin of the deceased123. ―A él, y sólo a él‖, notes the narrator, ―le

123 Four main parties dominate the political scene in Puerto Rico. From oldest to ‗youngest‘: the PPD (Partido Popular Democrático) seeks to maintain the island‘s ―association‖ status as a commonwealth. The PIP (Partido Independentista Puertorriqueño) seeks independence; the PNP (Partido Nuevo Progresista)

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corresponde despedir el duelo de un hombre que pertenecía a los míos, a la familia, a

mi gente, la gente de los caseríos. Este entierro nos pertenece dice Ambrosio; Cortijo

no ha muerto en vano si se trata de mantener a Rafael Hernández Colón fuera de un

baile que no le pertenece‖ (132). True to the subversive spirit of the carnivalesque,

the black masses decide to break the ―deferential system of the patrician world‖ and

ignore the man, symbol of the ruling class: ―La presencia de Hernández Colón [...] no

obliga; no hay razón para que suba aquí a despedir el duelo de un músico cuyas

ejecutorias quizás le resultan un poco borrosas. ¡Esto es nuestro!‖ (133). In this

context, racial and cultural affinities take precedence over ideological nuances:

...si la ideología asimilista del representante no tan ilustre de Loíza no agrada al blanquito de Ponce, pues que se largue. ¿Pero Orvil Miller no había dicho por la radio que Cortijo era independentista? No importa, aquí sólo estamos hermanados por la piel y la rumba, por el sabrosón jaleo de la plena que los Verdejos y los Cepedas sacaron de la bomba cuando el abuelo de Hernández Colón prefería los Nocturnos de Chopin (133).

Ultimately, the complex, contradictory nature of the protagonist/chronicler mirrors

the predicament of his society as a whole. As he is perched on the wall of a gravesite,

watching the culminating moments of the funeral, a black man grabs onto his arm in

order to climb up alongside him. This ―show of familiarity‖ gives him a feeling of

consolation that makes him rethink the whole situation: ―Quizás no soy yo tan

distinto a él, quizás toda congregación es simplemente una utopía que ensaya su

espacio futuro. Quizás, quizás, pero ¿qué es la igualdad perfecta?‖ (135)

The singular events depicted in El entierro de Cortijo raise a fundamental

question: Is it still possible to believe in the viability of the literary myth of the

seeks statehood, and the PPR (Puerto Ricans for Puerto Rico) claims it seeks to address the island‘s problems from a status-neutral platform.

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―Puerto Rican family‖, or is it more realistic to view it as a ―land of many tribes124‖

(―paìs de muchas tribus‖) (133)? By highlighting the racial and socio-economic tensions that underlie Puerto Rican society, Rodrìguez Juliá‘s chronicle suggests that the choice of a political future –whether it be assimilation, association or independence vis-à-vis the United States– cannot be made without taking into account these key issues that lie at the core of this Caribbean nation‘s identity.

The reading I propose of RJ as a twilight figure –i.e. in this case, of a character fraught by his racial identity– also begs the larger question of the way in which race figures in many of these carnival narratives. In this respect, it will be useful to return to Aching‘s analysis of carnival in Masking and Power. This study sets out to

―examine relationships between observers and masked subjects in an effort to comprehend how masks and masking activities in the contemporary Caribbean mediate social relations both within and outside carnival‖ (2). In doing so, Aching problematizes the bakhtinian view of carnival practices, as he aims to ―present a case for the critical evaluation of masking as tactical activities that go beyond romanticized notions of masks and masking practices as pre- or even antimodern expressions of folkloric innocence and festive abandon‖ (3, emphasis mine). The author accurately points to the ―growing privatization of popular cultural forms and

124 We should keep in mind that Rodrìguez Juliá belongs to what is known as ―la generaciñn de los 70‖ of Puerto Rican literature. As Israel Ruiz Cumba points out in Las novelas y crónicas de Edgardo Rodríguez Juliá, one of the main goals of this group has been the re-evaluation and re-writing of the debate on national identity, starting from the premise that ―the national‖ is an artificial construct and not a neutral and objective ―fact‖, as it had been historically conceived. In other words, these writers are consciously opposed to a literary tradition that, until then, would define the Puerto Rican nation as a ―great family‖, one in which narrative authority was never questioned (2). In this respect, the ―generaciñn de los 70‖ is aligned with the larger context of Latin American postmodern aesthetics: many of their texts exhibit a will to question the narrative authority and privilege pastiche techniques. At the same time, they attempt to incorporate popular culture, orality and multilingualism ―para articular discursivamente la diferencia, lo marginal y toda suerte de otredades‖ (14-15).

213 practices‖ as an indicator of the necessity to ―transcend the romanticized views of masks and masking‖ (3).

This conceptualization of carnival and other cultural practices as no longer being

―the monopoly of the popular sectors‖ (3) is evident in El entierro de Cortijo. Its narrator, as we know, is a white member of the Puerto Rican middle class, who can be considered both as an ―observer‖ and a ―masked subject‖ in his account of the popular musician‘s funeral. As a matter of fact, RJ‘s position in his own story constantly oscillates between alienation and identification vis-à-vis the ―pueblo pueblo‖. At times there is a clear sense of ―me‖ versus ―them‖, whereas other times he seems to identify with the (mostly black) crowd.

The ambivalence fostered by the use of free indirect speech renders these passages all the more interesting; although the claim that Cortijo‘s burial ―belongs to us‖ is first ascribed to the politician cousin of the deceased, RJ then builds upon it by adding that, in the end, political beliefs do not matter: ―aquí sólo estamos hermanados por la piel y la rumba‖ (133). Seeing as the color of his ―piel‖ (skin) is clearly different from that of the rest of the crowd, it follows that the narrator‘s identification with the lower classes of Puerto Rican society is strengthened by the power of popular music (―la rumba‖). This link is made more apparent by the contrast established between RJ and the (also white) politician Hernández Colón, who is described as having ―murky‖ memories of Cortijo‘s musical trajectory for spending much of his youth in the U.S., and whose ancestors ―favored the Nocturnes of

Chopin‖ over the ―delicious swing of the plena‖ (69).

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Final considerations

Through the close readings of this chapter, I hope to have demonstrated the prevalence of a carnivalesque aesthetic in a growing number of fictional texts from the French and Spanish-speaking areas of the Caribbean. In lieu of a conclusion, I will briefly point out two of the ways in which these works negate the opposition between medieval and modern-day carnivals proposed by Mikhail Bakhtin. First, he claims that the medieval carnival ―is far distant from the negative and formal parody of modern times. Folk humor denies, but it revives and renews at the same time‖

(Rabelais 11). While this assessment may be true of other modern or postmodern literary traditions, I believe that Caribbean narratives, like those of Rabelais and his time, exploit the ambivalent nature of carnival laughter, a laughter that is ―gay and triumphant and at the same time mocking, deriding‖ (12).

Moreover, the complex, ambiguous characters that thrive in these texts willingly participate of this festive humor, thus challenging Bakhtin‘s assertion that the pure satire of modern times is inherently negative: ―The satirist whose laughter is negative places himself above the object of his mockery, he is opposed to it‖ (12). Instead, the twilight personae of these carnival narratives make fun of everything and everyone, including themselves. For them, humor and irony constitute the ultimate resource, perhaps the only way to confront the problematic realities of their post-colonial societies.

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CONCLUSION

In this dissertation, I argued that there is a unique Caribbean literary space that transcends linguistic barriers. I showed that, through various approaches to writing –often experimental ones–, authors from the French and Spanish Antilles pursue a common goal: the creation of a distinctively Caribbean idiom. Some of them attempt this by borrowing and adapting rhetorical strategies from the realm of orality (e.g. Cabrera

Infante in Tres Tristes Tigres, Chamoiseau in Solibo Magnifique); others by exploiting the creative potential of a carnivalesque aesthetic (Arenas in El color del verano; Confiant in his Trilogie Tropicale). It is worth adding that, in many cases, the choice of any given approach is determined as much by socio-political circumstances –which inevitably affect the conditions of literary production– as it is by the artist‘s personal preference. In this sense, the neo-baroque undertakings of Sarduy and Glissant in the 1970s are noteworthy: novels like Cobra and Malemort constitute products of highly dissimilar realities125 that, nevertheless, share a striking number of stylistic commonalities.

I hope it is evident by now that these socio-political forces not only influence the course of an individual writer‘s career, they can also shape the literary path of an entire country. The overwhelming diversity of the region forces us to concede that, although there exist many points of convergence between the literary traditions of the French and

Spanish Caribbean, every Antillean nation faces particular challenges that get carried on

125 In the 1970s, Glissant‘s rhetoric of opacity was mainly a response to the cultural impasse that, in his view, Martinique was undergoing at the time, brought about by departmentalization and its forces of assimilation. On the other hand, Sarduy‘s aesthetic of artificialization can be seen as a reaction to the settling of Cuba‘s socialist regime into a totalitarian state. Having said this, we cannot ignore another factor that played a decisive role in the intellectual formation of both writers: the influence of the phenomenological movement and the general questioning of Sartrean existentialism that took place in France in the 60s and 70s.

216 to the realm of the imaginary. The consideration of these challenges raises a number of questions that I will briefly evoke here as a way to conclude without seeking to actually

‗close the subject‘. For example, the current status of Puerto Rico as ―estado libre asociado‖ under the tutelage of the United States constitutes a source of tension not only on a socio-political level, but also from a linguistic and artistic point of view. How do

Puerto Rican writers face the pervasive influence of the English language and, on a more general level, of U.S. culture? How is this influence reflected in contemporary Puerto

Rican novels? What are some of the stylistic strategies used in these texts?

Another interesting case is that of the francophone Antilles, which –to this day– remain primarily diglossic societies. For the longest time, the choice of French or Creole as languages of aesthetic expression was not a question intellectuals would ask themselves. During colonial times and long after that, the matter was quite simple: being a writer would necessarily imply writing in French, as Creole was considered a ―patois‖, a bastardized by-product of slavery times. Nowadays, the situation has changed. Creole has slowly started to gain recognition as a language in its own right and is now seen as a valid means of artistic expression.

A result of this is the emergence of a growing corpus of literary texts written in

Creole. In Haiti, Creole is now the language of the majority, and indeed for most Haitians it is the only one they know, since French has become a privilege of the elite. In

Martinique and Guadeloupe, on the contrary, bilingualism is becoming the norm and

Creole, while still alive, seems to be undergoing a process of standardization. How do these and other conditions affect the development of a literary establishment in this language? What real impact can literary texts written in Creole have in a country like

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Haiti, where illiteracy is still rampant? Are the prospects for literature in Creole any better in Martinique and Guadeloupe, where the advent of economic prosperity appears to have brought about a concomitant decrease in the vitality of Creole culture?

The last issue I will mention here is one that haunts the societies of the French and

Spanish Antilles alike: the question of exile. In the last fifty years, the Caribbean region has seen a number of political and economic crises that have forced hundreds of thousands of people to leave their countries indefinitely. Writers and intellectuals have been among the most affected by this migratory wave, since in many cases their lives have been directly threatened due to the contents of their writings. It is thus worth asking: how has exile impacted their writing and their approach to literature in general? Is it possible to talk about ―Caribbean‖ literature if a writer has lived in Montreal, New York or Paris for the last twenty years? To complicate things even more, what happens when the language spoken in the new home country is different from his/her own? The various linguistic and rhetorical strategies employed by writers from the Caribbean diaspora (e.g. texts in ―Spanglish‖ and bilingual poetry, among others) undoubtedly open up a whole new field of creative possibilities that is only beginning to be explored. I look forward to investigating whether these emerging issues put into question the thesis of a Caribbean idiom or, on the contrary, make it broader, richer.

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