lunes, 1 de mayo de 2023

sábado, 29 de abril de 2023


Warlock (The Library of America, 2020)
by Oakley Hall
USA, 1958

"Is not the history of the world no more than a record of violence and death cut in stone?"
(Warlock, 1067)

A McCarthy era novel about frontier justice in the early 1880s American southwest (the town of Warlock seeming to be an only thinly disguised approximation of Tombstone, AZ) that interrogates America's long infatuation with vigilantism and bloodlust, our penchant for building up and tearing down heroes, and the tension between lawlessness and state overreach in the name of putting down "disorder."  Sort of a strange batch of concerns for a tome which in other respects can be enjoyed as a juicy, compulsively readable page-turner, but I guess Hall (1920-2008) knew what he was doing when he set out to write about the shit that'd hit the fan once renowned gunslinger Clay Blaisedell was installed as acting Marshal by a Citizens' Committee to bring peace to the growing but government-less town plagued by badmen, road agents and "Cowboys who have an especial craving to ride a horse into a saloon" (569) among other scourges.  Sometimes hailed as a proto-Cormac McCarthy era "revisionist western," a comparison that does justice to both authors even if the term "revisionist western" strikes me as inherently dodgy when applied to fiction rather than history, I get what people mean by that even though Warlock's charms seem more rooted in traditional storytelling (plot over language, for example) than the later novelist's.  Still, Blaisedell's successes, as measured by the # of dead bodies of men who mostly deserved what they got but accompanied by the loss of life of others who were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time, eventually frustrates much of the fickle townsfolk to the point that even a nominal supporter, the shopkeeper Henry Holmes Goodpasture, is moved to lament in his journal that "The earth is an ugly place, senseless, brutal, cruel, and ruthlessly bent only upon the destruction of men's souls.  The God of the Old Testament rules a world not worth His trouble, and He is more violent, more jealous, more terrible with the years.  We are only those poor, bare, forked animals Lear saw upon his dismal heath, in pursuit of death, pursued by death" (839).  A McCarthyesque sentiment, no?  As is this pronouncement from the exasperated, drunken Judge Holloway: "People don't matter a damn.  Men are like corn growing.  The sun burns them up and the rain washes them out and the winter freezes them, and the cavalry tramps them down, but somehow they keep growing.  And none of it matters a damn so long as the whisky holds out" (1011).  A fine, fine read.

Oakley Hall and his wife Barbara in 1985
(photographer unknown)
I read Warlock in the LOA anthology The Western: Four Classic Novels of the 1940s and 50s (New York: The Library of America, 2020, 581-1079).

domingo, 9 de abril de 2023

The Golem

The Golem [Der Golem] (Dedalus, 2020)
by Gustav Meyrink [translated from the German by Mike Mitchell]
Austria-Hungary, 1915

Borges called The Golem "admirablemente visual" ["admirably visual"] in style and "un libro único" ["a unique book"].  Karl Kraus famously lampooned Meyrink's body of work as combining "Buddhism with a dislike for the infantry."  Closer to home, Amateur Reader (Tom) has said that Meyrink was "semi-obscure, semi-difficult, obviously not a first-rate writer but easily worth a look or two or three."  What could I possibly add to the discussion after those three titans of book talk have weighed in?  I'll give it a try by noting that The Golem is nominally the story of one Herr Athanasius Parnath, an amnesiac and/or just plain mad gemcutter living in and working out of Prague's old Jewish ghetto, and a man who may be the doppelgänger of both the frame story narrator of the novel as a whole and the murderous Golem himself (note: the antics move to the beat of their own dream logic here).  While at times confusing and, what's worse, a horrorless, occultist horror novel in a way, the dated weirdness of the work makes it easy enough to embrace even today.  I loved, for example, the expressionist descriptions of the people and the places in the ghetto as well as its sights and sounds.  Parnath at one point claims to finally understand "the innermost nature of the mysterious creatures that live around me," suggesting that they "drift through life with no will of their own, animated by an invisible, magnetic current, just like the bridal bouquet floating past in the filthy water of the gutter."  For a follow-up, he adds that "I felt as if the houses were staring down at me with malicious expressions full of nameless spite: the doors were black, gaping mouths in which the tongues had rotted away, throats which might at any moment give out a piercing cry, so piercing and full of hate that it would strike fear to the very roots of our soul" (45-46).  Of course, the image of "a tinkling sound from the piano, as if a rat were running along the keys" (66) was also a nice audiovisual touch.  In addition to the pre-The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari-like visual shenanigans,  I was also tickled by Meyrink's pulp sensibilities both w/r/t the references to ghetto slang ("In their jargon [a 'Freemason'] was a name for a man who had sexual relations with schoolgirls but whose connections with the police render him immune to the legal consequences" [47]) and the random, proto-Arltian descriptions ("He was stretched on the rack of the deathly hush in the tavern") and dialogue ("You can recognise scum by their sentimentality") (76 & 205) as well as the Baudelaire- and Lautréamont-like encomium to a murderer and suicide which climaxes with the declaration that "the poisonous autumn crocus is a thousand times more beautiful and noble than the useful chive" (238).  Hugo Steiner-Prag, an artist who knew the real-life Jewish quarter in Prague before it was demolished and did the illustrations for the first editions of Meyrink's Golem, was to have written a non-opium dream chronicle of the Ghetto but it was left unfinished at his death.  What a bland and colorless pity.

Gustav Meyrink (1868-1932)

lunes, 3 de abril de 2023



Mapocho (Eterna Cadencia Editora, 2019)
por Nona Fernández Silanes
Chile, 2002

La Rucia y el Indio son hermanos que, después de haber vivido en el extranjero por muchos años, regresan a Chile después de la muerte de la madre.  Al llegar a Santiago, la Rucia deambula por la ciudad en busca de su hermano --el plan: reunirse para tirar las cenizas de la madre en el río Mapocho, "su río" y "su ciudad" según el Indio (16) pero un "conjunto de mojones y basura" según otro tipo (41)-- y se queda en la casa de su infancia ahora casi en ruinas en un barrio ahora casi irreconocible también.  Fausto, un historiador que entre sorbos de whisky afirma que "los muertos viven" y que "él puede verlos" y que uno "puede tocarlos, hablarles y hasta consolarlos si se le acercan a llorar" (107), se encuentra con la Rucia al entierro de sus propios hijos al cementerio, donde las vidas de las dos se cruzan y un panorama de la historia chilena empieza a aclararse en un mundo fantasmal parecido a lo de Pedro Páramo de Rulfo.  Qué estupenda novela esta.  Supondría, por ejemplo, que es un reto de un alto grado de dificultad escribir algo realista en el que personajes muertos hablan de "morir y no saberlo" (130) o se quejan a la Virgen que "los vivos y los muertos se nos están mezclando y tú sabes que eso no es bueno.  Caminan por las mismas calles, rezan en las mismas iglesias, algunos hasta conversan entre ellos sin respetar los límites divinos.  Ya nadie entiende nada aquí abajo, es una verdadera casa de putas" (200).  Yo también me imagino que no pudo haber sido fácil lidiar con las falsedades y las mentiras particular a la historia oficial de Chile en una breve obra de ficción, pero Fernández (Santiago de Chile, 1971), que en el epílogo de 2018 describe la génesis de Mapocho como una foto de tres cadáveres encontrados "tirados en la orilla del río" en septiembre de 1973 (231), tiene éxito más allá de todas las expectativas con la ferocidad y la rabia de su prosa  --"La mentira tiene alas y vuela como un buitre, ronda sobre la carroña y se alimenta de los que no saben, los que no ven o no quieren ver" (171); "La mentira respira, huele, chilla, vive como un ratón del Mapocho alimentándose de la mierda, contaminando, expandiendo la enfermedad, pudriéndolo todo, creando más mentira, mintiendo sobre mintiendo, enredando, confundiendo, cahuineando" (172).  Inquietante al enésimo grado pero un golazo estilísticamente y temáticamente hablando.

Nona Fernández Silanes

sábado, 1 de abril de 2023

Gli italiani


domingo, 26 de marzo de 2023

Vita Nuova

Vita Nuova (Penguin Classics, 2022)
by Dante Alighieri [translated from the Italian by Virginia Jewiss in a dual language edition with parallel text]
Florence, c. 1292-1295

Enigmatic but somehow super interesting libello of poems and prose commentary ("somehow" because the prosimetrum format invites readers--at least readers in translation--to focus on the internal architecture of the work, its narrative arc, the would be autobiography contained within it, its author's poetic coming of age story, essentially everything but Dante's poetry in deference to his prose).  I'll certainly have my work cut out for me if I ever read it again!  For now, though, I think it'll be enough to mention a handful of things that stood out to me.  As Virginia Jewiss conveniently points out in her introduction, "The essential, unsettling claim of the Vita Nuova is this: Beatrice, a real woman from Florence, is also a miracle, a disruptive, divine force who intervenes in [Dante's] life, causing him to think, to write, and to love in new ways.  And, miracle that she is, she continues to do so after she dies, disrupting even the finality of death" (viii).  The potential sacrilege of this conceit aside, the way Dante chooses to approach it in the context of traditional love poetry is jarring in the extreme.  In Chapter 3, for example, he shares a vision in which a "lordly figure" persuades the dream version of Beatrice, described as "naked save for a loosely wrapped crimson cloth," to eat Dante's "burning" heart before ascending to heaven with her.  Even accepting the lordly figure as the personification of Love and allowing leeway for the poet to operate freely in the symbolic realm, the impact of the imagery still seems almost Book of Revelation visionary to me--not at all what was expected.  As odd as the combination of religious and love poetry here can be at times, though, the Vita Nuova also provides ample evidence that Dante knew how to up the ante.  In Chapter 7, he explains that he wrote a sonnet in which his intent was to "call on Love's faithful with the words of the prophet Jeremiah, 'O vos omnes qui transitis per viam, attendite e videte si est dolor sicut dolor meus,' and to beg them to listen to me."  The allusion, which Jewiss attributes to Lamentations 1:12 and translates as "All you who pass along the way, stay here a while, and see if there be any sorrow like unto my sorrow" (21), is a fine example of Dante's intertextual dexterity insofar as the translation of the verse into his sonnet ("You who journey on the path of Love,/stay here a while and see/if there be any grief as great as mine" ["O voi che per la via d'Amor passate,/attendete e guardate/s'egli è dolore alcun, quanto 'l mio, grave"]) foreshadows the lovesick poet's illness-inspired dream in Chapter 23 where presentiments of Beatrice's death find "strange and horrible faces" telling Dante that "you are dead" while "birds in flight fell dead from the sky, and the earth quaked" as an apocalyptic preliminary to the canzone that follows.  When Beatrice later does die within the timeline of the work as recounted in Chapter 28, Dante claims that a Lamentations 1:1 allusion he had just written into his canzone ("Quomodo sedet sola civitas plena populo!  facti est quasi vidua domina gentium" [Jewiss: "How lonely sits the city that was full of people!  How like a widow has she become!"]) was interrupted by the announcement of her death.  He then expresses his grief in first prose and then poetry equally powerfully: "Once she had departed from this world, the entire city was like a widow, stripped of all her dignity" ["Poi che fue partita da questo secolo, rimase tutta la sopradetta cittade quasi vedova dispogliata da ogni dignitade"] (Chapter 30); "These eyes, which weep in pity for my heart/have shed so many mournful, plaintive tears/they ache with sorrow but can cry no more" ["Li occhi dolenti per pietà del core/hanno di lagrimar sofferta pena,/sí che per vinti son rimasi omai"] (Chapter 31).  The poet's emotions, almost palpable to a reader even several hundred years after they were set down in writing, require no gloss but form a strange kind of coda to the famous earlier Chapter 25 in which Dante verses on the differences between the Latin poets and the vernacular poets and how the recent rise of vernacular poetry in Provençal and Italian, "the languages of oc and of sì," was due in Italy at least to the fact that "the first to begin writing poetry in the vernacular was moved by the desire to make his words understood by a woman who found Latin verses hard to understand."  Wild.

La visione: Dante e Beatrice
(Ary Scheffer, 1845)

domingo, 19 de marzo de 2023

Los sorrentinos

Los sorrentinos (Sigilo, 2022)
por Virginia Higa
Argentina, 2018

"El Chiche Vespolini era el menor de cinco hermanos, dos varones y dos mujeres.  Su verdadero nombre era Argentino, pero le decían así porque de chico era tan lindo y simpático que se había convertido en 'el chiche de sus hermanas'.  Los Vespolini se habían instalado en Mar del Plata a principios de 1900 y siempre habían tenido hoteles y restaurantes.  De su familia el Chiche había heredado la Trattoria Napolitana: el primer restaurante en el mundo en servir sorrentinos".

Así empieza Los sorrentinos, de Virginia Higa (Bahía Blanca, 1983), una novela divertida basada en un retrato de familia convertido en ficción al estilo de Natalia Ginzburg o algo así (tengo entendido que el Chiche era el tío bisabuelo de nuestra autora).  Si no está claro dónde se encuentra la línea entre la realidad y la ficción dentro de la novela, me da igual porque me gustó la filosofía culinaria del Chiche (dos máximas suyas: "Cada pasta tiene su personalidad" y "La cocina del sur de Italia es la unión perfecta entre lo alto y lo popular" [12 y 52]) tanto como el excéntrico elenco de personajes (por ejemplo, el primo Ernesto, de ragazzo casi adoptado por un tal Máximo Gorki durante una visita a Italia, solía lamentar "Yo podría haber sido un bolchevique" durante las sobremesas familiares [35]) además del sentido de humor de varias personas vinculadas con o la familia o la trattoria ("Las cocineras y las camareras decían que Valdemar era buen mozo, 'un churrasco'.  Carmela no estaba de acuerdo: 'Para churrasco le sobra un poco de grasa'" [124-125]).  Por su parte, Higa demuestra un toque ligero alternando entre lo anecdótico y el lado nostálgico de las cosas.  También me interesó el léxico familiar de los Vespolini ("Entre ellos hablaban en lengua napolitana" [32]) y la manera en que el asunto de la "italianidad" de todos estos marplatenses podría expresarse en insultos ("¡Catrosha, no digas papocchias!" [74]) o preguntas sencillas ("¿Te acordás de cuando éramos imperio?  ¡Qué grande era el emperador Augusto!" [19]) con igual facilidad.  Genial.

Virginia Higa
(foto: Bernardino Avila)

lunes, 13 de marzo de 2023

Melmoth the Wanderer

Melmoth the Wanderer (Oxford University Press, 2008)
by Charles Maturin
Ireland, 1820

Melmoth the Wanderer, the sprawling 500-plus page Gothic classic that threatened to bore me into submission at times before its next level weirdness eventually won the day, was finally crossed off my TBR list late last week.  What a fucked-up novel!  A series of nested tales about the tempter-like title character who's made some sort of a pact with evil to add 150 years of life to his span of time on earth until/unless he can find another victim to buy out his contract--a supernatural Ponzi scheme of sorts--the novel is splayed out on an oversized canvas rife with colorful anticlericalism, settings which include Inquisition jail cells and ruined monasteries, a malevolent sense of humor, unwanted arranged marriages ("I will first be the bride of the grave" [374]), even an unexpected love story or two.  I almost forgot to mention its mean streak.  At its gentlest, the anticlericalism takes the form of one narrator's ribbing of an indolent priest for his yawning response to the apparent abduction of a bride to be in the bourgeois Spanish household he's assigned to.  First Fra Jose asks for some wine "to slake the intolerable thirst caused by my anxiety for the welfare of your family."  Then, in a follow-up worthy of Eça de Queirós, he adds: "It were not amiss, daughter...if a few slices of ham, or some poignant sausages, accompanied the wine--it might, as it were, abate the deleterious effects of that abominable liquor, which I never drink but on emergencies like these" (506).  Poignant sausages, a delicious archaism!  For another splash of anticlericalism which leads to a quaff of a more potent sort of humor, one need only revisit the chapter where a man condemned by the Inquisition shrieks in horror--what he refers to as "the only human sound ever heard within the walls of the Inquisition" (239)--only to be saved by a fire that breaks out where he's being held shortly afterward.  The spiritual punchline, such as it is, comes with the comment that all the appeals to the saints to help prevent the catastrophe went unheeded: "Their exclamations were so loud and earnest, that really the saints must have been deaf, or must have felt a particular predilection for a conflagration, not to attend to them" (241).  Another interesting example of the work's malevolent sense of humor is that even nature seems to be troubled by the presence of the Wanderer.  At a key moment late in the novel while Melmoth is finishing off one character in the dead of night, the text tells us that "the wave groaned [and] the dark hill groaned in answer, like murderers exchanging their stilled and midnight whispers over their work of blood--and all was silent" (391). Of course, the novel's mean streak, seemingly so ahead of its time, is really something else.  It often comes in the person of the title character whose "superhuman misanthropy" (303) makes him a spiritual ancestor of the shapeshifting villain in Lautréamont's 1868-69 Maldoror.  "Beauty was a flower he looked on only to scorn," we are told, "and touched only to wither" (360).  Attempting to woo the innocent Immalee, for example, Melmoth makes an extended comparison between the music of the spheres and the suffering that awaits millions of humans in his fevered imagination.  "Dream of the music of those living orbs turning on their axis of fire for ever and ever," Melmoth exults, "and ever singing as they shine, like your brethren the Christians, who had the honour to illuminate Nero's garden in Rome on a rejoicing night."  Immalee, ill at ease with the allusion to ancient Christians as human torches: "You make me tremble!"  Melmoth, undeterred: "The eternal roar of a sea of fire makes a profound bass to the chorus of millions of singers in torture!" (351).  At other times, the mean streak surfaces when Melmoth is only a lurking presence to the action.  There's a story late in the novel in which a family becomes so down on its luck that it's reduced to famine.  One child considers prostituting herself to help feed the family, another sells his blood to the point where he's on the verge of death.  The novel's multiple narrators, keen on making comparisons between their descriptions and works of figurative art, seize the moment to explain how Everhard "lay, as Ines approached his bed, in a kind of corse-like beauty, to which the light of the moon gave an effect that would have rendered the figure worthy the pencil of a Murillo, a Rosa, or any of those painters, who, inspired by the genius of suffering, delight in representing the most exquisite of human forms in the extremity of human agony."  This description, suffice it to say, isn't over the top enough for our sadistic narrator who proceeds to compare the now blue-lipped Everhard to "a St Bartholomew flayed, with his skin hanging about him in graceful drapery--a St Laurence, broiled on a gridiron, and exhibiting his finely-formed anatomy on its bars, while naked slaves are blowing the coals beneath it" to hammer home the point that "the snow-white limbs of Everhard were extended as if for the inspection of a sculptor, and moveless, as if they were indeed what they resembled, in hue and symmetry, those of a marble statue" (421-422).  Maturin, you had me at "corse-like beauty"!  Anyway, next level weirdness indeed but thank the deity figure that I finally made time for all these "criminals of the imagination" (250) as "the clock of eternity is about to strike" (540).

Charles Maturin (1780-1824)

domingo, 5 de marzo de 2023

domingo, 26 de febrero de 2023

La sed

La sed (Blatt & Ríos, 2020)
por Marina Yuszczuk
Argentina, 2020

La literatura vampiresca no es lo mío, pero me gustó este page-turner sangriento sobre una vampira suelta en la Buenos Aires decimonónica y otra mujer solitaria (¿un interés amoroso?  ¿solo otra víctima?) en la actual capital cuyos caminos se encuentran en la segunda mitad de la novela.  Basta decir que, entre algunas escenas saturadas con charcos de sangre y otras dedicadas al "vómito negro" y el "gran cementerio de putrefacción" que era Buenos Aires en el tiempo de la fiebre amarilla (64), Yuszczuk se aprovecha de su tema para desatar una serie de llamativas descripciones sobre la melancolía (en un momento, se nota "una tristeza infinita, como un lago" en los ojos de la criatura de la noche principal [255]), el paso del tiempo ("Quizás la perfección para ocultar la muerte sea la victoria más contundente de este siglo" [66]) y las tumbas y bóvedas del imperio de la muerte ("Este es el cementerio más antiguo de la ciudad, y el único que conserva para la muerte la elegancia de otra época.  Un sueño de mármol hecho con dinero, el de las familias ricas.  Solo los que podían comprar su derecho a la poesía de la muerte están acá; para los otros, las fosas comunes o las piedras desnudas que sellaron definitivamente su insignificancia sobre la tierra" [12]).  Un libro copado, más estilo La condesa sangriente que el gótico en cuanto a su retrato de la violencia, pero quizás lo más memorable por una sensibilidad perfumada con una gravedad inesperada y desesperada.

Marina Yuszczuk
(foto: Anita Bugni)

sábado, 18 de febrero de 2023

The Tempest

The Tempest (W.W. Norton, 2019)
by William Shakespeare [edited by Peter Hulme and William H. Sherman]
England, c. 1610

I hadn't read any Shakespeare in about 20 years so I thought it was time for a reboot.  While maybe a little bit more of a mixed bag entertainment-wise than I'd remembered, The Tempest didn't really disappoint in spite of a non-canonical dull stretch or two.  I was secretly tickled, for example, to be reminded right off the bat just what a coarse, crass fellow the Greatest Writer in the English Language could be.  I mean, he doesn't even get out of Act 1, Scene 1 before the "honest old councillor" Gonzalo opines that the boatswain of the sinking ship that's going down probably won't die from drowning even "though the ship were no stronger than a nutshell and as leaky as an unstanched wench" (1.1.41-43).  Oof, a vivid but not necessarily the most "family-friendly" image!  Similarly, Antonio, "the usurping Duke of Milan," whose unlawful moves against his brother Prospero, "the right duke of Milan," have set the romance's whole shipwreck + magic + revenge machinations in motion, also doesn't wait long before exclaiming that he wishes that same ill-regarded mariner "mightst lie drowning the washing of ten tides!" (1.1.52-53)--what the notes to my edition helpfully explain as "an exaggerated form of the sentence passed on pirates, who were hanged on the shore at low-water mark and left there until three tides had flowed" (6).  Wow, King James' England is in the house!  Culture and civilization are in the eye of the beholder, of course, and in this light one of the most interesting/least superficial things about The Tempest for me this time around was coming to grips with how cleverly the play's events unfold at a crossroads between the dream or magical world of the action, itself influenced by classical literature at times, and the modern world contemporaneous with the writing of the play.  A few words about the "man-monster" Caliban (3.2.11) should help explain what I mean.  Although Caliban is said to have been "hag-born" of the witch Sycorax (1.2.283), he lives in perpetual fear of Prospero because Prospero's magic powers are greater than those of Caliban's own god Setebos (1.2.372).  Setebos, the editors of the Norton edition explain, was "a devil of the Patagonian natives, according to Richard Eden's 1555 translation of Antonio Pigafetta's account of Magellan's circumnavigatory expedition" (19).  Caliban, who is elsewhere feared as somebody with connections to "devils...savages and men of Ind" (2.2.54-56) at a time when the people of England were laying out coins to see "a dead Indian" for the novelty of the spectacle (2.2.31), is hence a link to the New World of the Age of Discovery just as surely as Prospero's "Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves" speech in 5.1.33-50 textually riffs on a Medea incantation from Ovid's Metamorphoses.  Shakespeare, not too shabby a playwright for a guy not above an uncouth reference to an unmarried woman's "virgin-knot" (4.1.15) nor a syphilis joke or two!

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

domingo, 12 de febrero de 2023

El día que apagaron la luz

El día que apagaron la luz (Seix Barral, 2019)
por Camila Fabbri
Argentina, 2019

Camila Fabbri, una estudiante de 15 años en aquel entonces con la que su madre describió como una "cara de ocho" (25), fue a un recital de la banda de rock Callejeros en diciembre de 2004 al boliche República Cromañón en el barrio de Once de Buenos Aires.  La siguiente noche, estalló un incendio al local provocando una tragedia que dejó 194 muertos y casi 1500 heridos.  El día que apagaron la luz, una especie de novela de no ficción o, quizás mejor dicho, un collage dedicado a los eventos quince años más tarde, combina una crónica en primera persona por parte de Fabbri con entrevistas con y testimonios de varios sobrevivientes y/o miembros de la familia de los víctimas, mensajitos y texts tomados de WhatsApp y Facebook Messenger, y cosas por el estilo.  Una lectura desgarradora.  Un padre, médico de profesión, que llegó a Cromañón para recoger a sus dos hijas que habían escapado del boliche, después entró al lugar para salvar vidas si posible: "Lo que vi no me lo olvido más: ahí arriba como una presencia en el techo, vi una nube negra muy fina y larga.  Parecía de cemento o de alquitrán.  No se movía, no era vaporosa.  Parecía pintada con material, como una señal de tránsito o algo del más allá.  Yo no creo en los fantasmas, pero esa nube parecía hablar"(143).  Paradójicamente dado que el libro debe haber sido enormemente difícil de escribir, Fabbri misma hace hincapié en el trauma y la angustia de esa noche infernal sin tener pelos en la lengua.  A la espera de noticias de seres queridos que iban a ir al concierto, resulta que una amiga de Fabbri miraba la pared "con la vista perdida" durante gran parte de la noche.  Añade Fabbri: "La mañana del 31 de diciembre en Buenos Aires muchas personas no han dormido y están buscando, como zombies recién convertidos, el cuerpo humano que les corresponde" (89).  La misma amiga, cuyo novio y mejor amigo murieron esa misma noche, asistió al velorio del primero dentro de poco.  La autora nota que el llanto de la chica se convertió en mutismo a la casa funeraria cuando ella comprendió que lo que encontró en el cajón no era su novio sino "era solo un cuerpo.  La esencia --o el movimiento-- se habían retirado.  Esta idea la contuvo.  Para quien la mirara de lejos", Fabbri puntualiza, "era una imagen ilegal: una quinceañera sola mirando de cerca a su novio recostado dentro de una caja de madera" (92).  ¿Difícil de escribir todo esto?  Difícil de pensarlo y de leerlo también pero con su enfoque coral, Fabbri incluso introduce una suerte de autocrítica al compartir este comentario desaprobador de un conocido: "Yo no sé para qué querés que te cuente qué estaba haciendo esa noche.  Me parece morboso y no le interesa a nadie.  No entiendo qué querés hacer con esto y tampoco me importa" (153-154).  Dejo la última palabra, más comprensiva, a otra amiga de Fabbri: "A los quince años no pensás en la muerte.  De repente, tuvimos que pensarla.  Éramos muy chicas para entender" (69).

Camila Fabbri

viernes, 3 de febrero de 2023

Nos richesses

Nos richesses (Points, 2021)
par Kaouther Adimi
France, 2017

Edmond Charlot, un personnage historique, avait vingt et un ans quand ouvrit la librairie de prêt et maison d'édition Les Vraies Richesses dans Alger en 1936.  Ryad, un personnage fictif, a vingt ans quand il arrive à Alger en 2017 pour vider l'endroit de l'ancienne librairie de tous les livres et les meubles.  << Détruire une librairie, c'est un travail, ça? >> lui demande un vieil homme du quartier.  Combinant un carnet imaginé d'Edmond Charlot avec une narration à la troisième personne et de temps en temps même à la première personne du pluriel, Kaouther Adimi (née à Alger en 1986 mais qui maintenant vit à Paris) réussit à recréer un monde situé au 2 bis de la rue Hamani, ex-rue Charras, Alger avec histoires qui se croisent, des brèves apparitions de Camus, de Giono, et de Mouloud Feraoun entre autres, tout raconté avec beaucoup de chaleur.  La voix de Charlot est une des clés du succès du roman quant à sa représentation d'une vie consacrée à la littérature: << Reçu hier une lettre de Jean Giono !  Giono le grand.  >> on lit dans le journal de 9 mai 1936.  << Je lui avais écrit sans trop d'espoir pour lui demander l'autorisation d'appeler la librairie Les Vraies Richesses en référence à son récit qui m'avait ébloui et où il nous enjoint à revenir aux vraies richesses que sont la terre, le soleil, les ruisseaux, et finalement aussi la littérature (qu'est-ce qui peut-être plus important que la terre et la littérature ?).  J'ai failli déchirer la lettre en l'ouvrant.  Fébrilité.  J'ai répété à Jean Pane ce qu'il nous répond: 'Vous pouvez bien évidemment utiliser ce titre.  Il ne m'appartient pas.'  >>  Le rève de Charlot, ce de créer << avant tout un lieu pour les amis qui aiment la littérature et la Méditerranée >> (36-37), naturellement est entré en conflit avec l'histoire du siècle, qu'Adimi décrit en passages sur les massacres de Sétif, du 8 mai 1945, et d'Algériens à Paris, du 17 octobre 1961; en souvenirs sur la décennie noire quand, selon un personnage, << ces monstres >> du terrorisme << débarquaient dans les villages et tuaient hommes, femmes et enfants...  Imagine le courage des journalistes à cette époque.  Ils ont tout subi: les assassinats, les bombes, les menaces, les enlèvements, l'exil, les reproches... mais chaque jour, ils étaient à leur poste de travail.  Pour des gens comme nous qui n'avions pas d'autres moyens de comprendre ce qui se passait, c'était important >> (129-130); et avec tendresse pour l'idéalisme d'un libraire-éditeur qui a cru, comme l'inscription sur la vitrine de son magasin, qu'Un homme qui lit en vaut deux.  J'ai été très ému par ce récit.

Kaouther Adimi