Monday, October 4, 2010

Luder's Sayings

Almost certainly the best-loved writer in his native Peru, Julio Ramón Ribeyro (1929-1994) was a superb storyteller whose work has not yet been widely published in English translation. Some of his books are exceedingly hard to find even in Peru. Dichos de Luder ("Luder's Sayings"), for example, a collection of aphorisms, appeared in the late nineteen-eighties in a single printing of five hundred copies, 250 of which, in lieu of an advance on royalties, went to Ribeyro himself. A form of censorship, the censorship of the market, prevents the book from being reissued. And yet, Dichos de Luder circulates widely: as with samizdat in the old days of the Soviet Union, dirty copies pass from hand to hand. The entire book is posted on the web. There are even excerpts from English translations of the book on blogs kept by Ribeyro's admirers from around the world: 

Luder's Sayings
Julio Ramón Ribeyro

    "I've found out that in German your name, added to certain suffixes, means stupid, lazy, braggart—"
    "Doesn't surprise me," says Luder. "I've always believed in the prophetic character of names."


    "I've never been insulted, persecuted, injured, or exiled," says Luder. "I must therefore be a wretch."


    "When Balzac goes into description mode," observes a friend, "he can spend forty pages describing in detail every sofa, every painting, every curtain, every lamp of a drawing room."
    "I know," says Luder. "That's why I don't go into the drawing room. I go down the hall."


    "An excellent book," says Luder, "can be an aggregate of banal sentences, just as a succession of brilliant sentences doesn't necessarily make an excellent book. In literature, oddly, the whole is not the sum of the parts."


    "Those who know me," says Luder, "know that when I denigrate myself, it's so that they will praise me. But what they don't know is that when I praise myself, it's so that they will immediately tell me how right I am."

    "I'm like a third-division player," complains Luder. "I scored my best goals on a dusty field in the slums in front of four drunk fans who don't remember anything."


    He is shown an article mentioning all the writers of his generation but him. 
    "I escaped the round-up," says Luder.


    "All my work is an indictment of life," says Luder. "I've done nothing to better the human condition. If my books survive it will be because of the perversity of my readers."


    "Doesn't it bother you to have written for thirty years and achieved such little renown?" Luder is asked. 
    "Of course. I'd like to write thirty more years and become completely unknown."  


    "Today I have awoken feeling particularly optimistic," says Luder. "I think I'm finally going to be able to write my epitaph."


    "Whenever someone starts by telling me, 'I'm going to be frank with you,' the hair on the back of my neck stands on end," says Luder. "I imagine I'm going to have to face some brutal truth. Pleasant as it is to live in fragile self-deceit."


    People ask him why he sometimes gets drunk in low-class bars. 
    "As a precaution," says Luder. "It happens that I occasionally wake up with the vague satisfaction that I'm becoming a respectable person."


    Luder walks quickly by a beggar who is holding his right hand out plaintively.
    "Pig!" shouts the beggar.
    Luder stops and goes back with a coin, smiling.
    "I was just waiting for you to call me by my name."


    "Nothing moves me more than men who cry," says Luder. "Our cowardice has made us think of weeping as something for insignificant women. When only the brave cry: Homer's heroes, for example."  


    "Literature is imposture," says Luder. "Not for nothing does it have all those rhymes."  

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Panait Istrati and César Vallejo

The Romanian Istrati found a receptive audience for his work in Latin America, above all in Peru. His work was reviewed and in some cases published in Spanish translation in José Carlos Mariátegui’s influential journal Amauta. He is mentioned in Martín Adán’s La casa de cartón

Istrati and the poet Vallejo coincided in Paris in the late nineteen-twenties and the early nineteen-thirties, but it’s unclear if they ever met; in any case, Vallejo, like many Peruvians, was an early admirer of Istrati. In a 1926 article in the Trujillo paper El Norte, Vallejo writes: “Panait Istrati, that brilliant vagabond who has crossed every border and learned every language.”

But when Istrati next appears in an article by Vallejo it is after Istrati’s publication of his denunciation of the Soviet regime. In a piece called “Emotional Politics and Scientific Politics,” Vallejo, deeply disappointed, reacts with the bitterness and resentment of a jilted lover: 

Panait Istrati’s latest and sudden reflex—his rabid attack on the Soviet, which, up to now, he has always praised equally rabidly—doesn’t surprise me. Panait Istrati has always been an instinctive creature. He thinks and acts reflexively. He is easily influenced and his observations and judgments are subjective. Bergson has taken possession of him, leaving no room for the disciplines and methods of thought. I have called his attack on the Soviet a “reflex,” as the entire life and work of the strange Romanian have never been anything but “reflexes.” He experienced the personal changes of fortune that serve as the constant theme of his work—“the usual story of bandits,” as Barbusse calls it—from the bulb of the spinal cord down. He attempted suicide for purely medullar reasons. […] Of a sudden he became a writer. Later, opening his eyes to the universal panorama of our times, he found that the country that best suited his rebellious and long-suffering character was Russia, and likewise, from one day to the next, he became the overeager and hyperbolic eulogizer of Moscow.

So there is nothing more logical than that he should now become indignant that his friend Russakov had a run-in with a Bolshevik woman and lost his apartment and that, for this reason, he should suddenly insult the revolution, no longer seeing in the proletarian State anything but disasters, crimes, abominations; behind the slightest and most trivial Soviet happenings and circumstances are now, for Istrati, hiding and throbbing the cruelest horrors of history…

The author of Kyra Kyralina is free to use the “reflex” method to his heart’s content in his personal life and in his literature. But he is not free to use it in politics, an area that requires a less animal and more human, less emotional and more intellectual, temper. In everything Istrati writes about politics, there is, inevitably, high praise or invective. He knows neither soundness nor justice, which arise from the facts of objective reality rather than from arbitrary subjective tricks. People of Istrati’s ilk are miles and miles from Marxist psychology, according to which our notion of social and economic reality should be rational, rigorously scientific, and independent of our sentimental whims.

In politics, as in everything, Panait Istrati is but a sentimental man, and, as a result, he changes, contradicts himself, or deviates as he pleases, depending on his ultra-individualistic impressions. […] Where the rich were being shot because they exploited the poor, as in Russia, Istrati delivered his greatest eulogies. But if one day he least expects it a good friend of his gets into a dispute with a Bolshevik woman and gets moved out of his apartment—losing in both the dispute and the move—Istrati, very much despite himself, must read a sentence against his beloved Soviet. For Istrati, in a country that is trying sincerely and practically to establish democracy, it’s inconceivable for there to be a catfight or—better to distribute rooms to those who need them—for this or that fellow to be inconvenienced in a more or less questionable way. As of the Russakov affaire, everything excellent about the Soviets becomes a hellish ignominy. Generalization is a typically reactionary mania and indulgence.

Most men go about things as Panait Istrati does, and base their political behavior on mawkishness. Hence, they cannot manage to take part effectively in the organization and workings of the State, and democracy is impossible. They do not want to believe that history is made not with mawkishness—tears or smiles—but with intelligent acts grounded in objective and implacable reality and in a scientific and global perspective on life.
Istrati’s friend Russakov, the man who was inconvenienced “in more or less questionable fashion” (he lost his apartment and members of his immediate family were deported to Siberia) is the father-in-law of Victor Serge, one of the three authors of Vers l’autre flamme, the book, signed Istrati alone, that excites Vallejo’s wrath and makes of Istrati, as volume editor Linda Lê puts it, “the whipping boy of the entire French Left.”

Later Latin American writers are more forgiving of Istrati’s apostasy than is Vallejo. In Diary of Andrés Fava, for example, Cortázar writes: “I’m sitting in Plaza Once—not Plaza Miserere—and I’m reading Panait Istrati, not Jean Genet, whom I am reading.”

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Panait Istrati in English

Panait (or Panaït) Istrati, once well known to European readers for his tales and short novels of vagabondage and adventure, fell out of favor with his Marxist champions--among them Henri Barbusse, the well known author of the World War I novel Under Fire and the French Nobel laureate Romain Rolland--after he published an early denunciation of the Bolshevik regime. At one point during the sixteen-month stay in the Soviet Union in the late nineteen-twenties that would lead to Istrati's denunciation, Russia Unveiled (written with Victor Serge and Boris Sourvarine), and his ultimate isolation, a Soviet official responded to one of Istrati's observations with the old saw "you can't make an omelette without breaking eggs." "I see the broken eggs," legend has Istrati responding, "but where's this omelette of yours?"

Barbusse and others (including the Peruvians César Vallejo and, to some extent, the essayist José Carlos Mariátegui) subsequently vilified Istrati, calling him, often in the pages of L'Humanité, the daily paper of the French Communist Party, then aligned with Stalin, a "bourgeois turncoat" and worse. Istrati, sick and friendless, was forced to leave France for his native Romania, where, still relatively young, he died in a Bucharest sanatorium.

But in the few years between his return to Romania and his death, Istrati, now highly disillusioned, managed to write several more books. It is translations of several of these darker tales (beginning with The Sponge Diver) that Fario has begun making available for eReaders). Likewise newly translated--and for the first time--are the tale "Bakâr" and the short novels Mediterranean (Sunrise) and The Thüringer House, the latter the tale of a young servant, Adrien Zograffi, who comes of age both politically and sexually in a bourgeois household headed by rich grain merchants. Here, Adrien describes Lina, a frequent visitor to the Thüringer kitchen and childhood friend of Anna, the mistress of the house, she herself a former maid who had married her employer:
Lina was beaten and loved by someone she didn’t love because, leaving her Aleco one day, she had married a rich tavern-keeper from outside the city who satisfied all her whims but was very strict when it came to love. He spent all day at his counter, but he kept an eye on his wife’s windows and had a shotgun by his side. And as soon as he saw a man in the street who seemed to be looking too hard at those windows, he would raise the rifle and simply take a shot at him, though he aimed only for his legs and his weapon was loaded only with dust shot. Then, going back to the accomplice, he would grab her by the hair and drag her across the courtyard to the wine storeroom, where he would lock her up, without food or bed, for twenty-four hours. It was inevitable. But just as inevitable and regular, despite the thousands of precautions of her husband, was the revenge taken by Lina, who would suddenly disappear for an entire week, abandon herself to mad debauchery with lovers, and return one fine morning at dawn, escorted by a gypsy musician playing a slide trombone loud enough to bring all the suburb-dwellers out into the street. Lina was oblivious. Serious, slightly drunk, a geranium bloom over her ear and a cigarette in her lips, she would move forward like a queen, trailed by the gypsy, who, his eyes popping out of his head, was blowing hard enough on his trombone to raise the dead.
“No, Madame Charlotte, it’s not the same,” she said sadly.
Of all Anna’s friends, Lina was the only one who envied her nothing, apart from her beauty.