Table of Contents I. Literature and Revolution II. Portrait and Self portrait: The Hispano-american Novel Confronted with Society III. "Der Zauberberg" in the Literature of Latin America IV. Miguel Angel Asturias, Novelist of the Old and the New Worlds V. Alejo Carpentier: Magic Realism VI. Rayuela: or, Order out of Chaos VII. Cesar Vallejo: The Mestizo Masks VIII. Parra anti Parra IX. Anti-literature X. Antipoetry Chapter 1 - Literature and Revolution Each time with greater insistence, and suggesting a certain aggressiveness of tone, I have heard at university forums and in meetings of writers, questions that seek to establish the authenticity of experimentation, innovation and the revolutionary dynamism of existing Hispano-american narrative. Of these questions I remain with the simplest and, for me, most directly revelatory: who among the vanguard novelists of today are those who open roads, who are genuinely revolutionary and representative of a new style? This question, to my way of thinking, assumes a series of key premises already present, directly or indirectly, in the taste of those students and critics who are reluctant to entertain cats as tigers. Such premises are: 1) During a period of our social history in which profound revolutionary changes are imposed with axiomatic necessity, we have seen that some forms of artistic expression, in a process of reaction when confronted by bourgeois reality, entered into crisis when they attempted to create the image of a new reality. 2) The exponents of these forms to which I refer used with abundance, efficiency and boldness, technical instruments already tested, in the conviction that if they had been useful in the midst of a social crisis fifty years ago, they could be so again if astutely manipulated. 3) It is evident that, by themselves, the technical instruments of the great cultural renovation at the end of the 19th century and the beginning of the 20th do not suffice to create a revolutionary art after 1950. 4) It is entirely possible for a writer to appear today bearing advanced techniques and be a retrained, decadent reactionary. 5) Revolutionary techniques in art are the product of a revolutionary conception of the world. They exist and prove their worth solely in the measure that they affect and change society and the artist in their most intimate and authentic reality. Naturally, I depart from the premise that the writers alluded to in my initial question are revolutionaries in political terms who believe in depicting in some manner our era of social changes through their literary work. If one of them were to confess himself interested exclusively in the interior play of his aesthetic adventure, to the exclusion of all social connotation, kept in orbit by the ingenuity of its own mechanism and the equilibrium of its air currents, our discussion would not touch him and he could look at us very remotely with the silent and obscure comfort that the infinite space offers. On the other hand, a writer who lives the revolution from inside will not be able to avoid, if he is sincere, asking himself how his work operates in the new social organization and what is expected from him within the dynamism of the revolution. And now, if this writer represents an old art in the service of the revolution I imagine that he puts his work beneath a searchlight and examines it carefully; he dismantles notebooks, detaches pages, isolates sentences; he strikes words and makes them ring like coins; he looks at his hands; he remains a long time silent; he shows his anguish, now that no one observes it. He asks, what have I created? Then, the searchlight turns into a mirror and, in front of it, the writer begins to undress. It is a cruel "strip-tease." It will be part of a public chronicle. Because our hero has stepped onto the stage. One sees the inner tubes of lard that hang from his chest like three or four large rings, vast, buoyant, expanding from the navel and surmounting, like a soft informal coat, some loose and insecure legs. He raises his arms in a gesture of modesty, but his arms have forgotten this gesture and, instead, blot the sky with a dense and grotesque gelatin. He turns with authority. He makes a full turn on his little axis of white feet, without callouses. A glance at his back reminds one of an ancient photo of some tropical volcano among the clouds. He has been a dance step of another era; now he is rigid, graceless, sick. Nevertheless, in its bottomless fattiness that the mirror reflects, this body unfolds, or multiplies; at no point is it nothing or limited, nor is it composed solely of forms - in addition, colors and sounds are added, such that, in an instant, the image takes control of its own disordered liberty, dominates it and easily breaks from the orbit that would have contained it. The writer then takes his notebook and performs a thorough self-criticism, a splendid, turbulent and bloody operation that serves to redeem a generation, a bath in the good liquid for the baptism of bullets. In this self-questioning he feels and knows that he is not alone; in novels, essays, poems and theatre pieces he and his companions wash themselves, refresh themselves, fumigate themselves, burn their clothing and expose their flesh to the waiting examination of the absolutists and impatients who constitute their public. Traditional impressionist criticism retires ashamed and disconcerted before this process of self-recrimination. It does not understand the superimposed images, the multiple expositions, the from the confessional echoes of voices that emerge. It yields to a deviation from that structuralism which, to get to the root of the passions, separates, orders, classifies, focuses and projects the constitutive elements of the mechanical apparatus of the literary work, in the hope that the author, like God, will be present in each part of his creation and, if he will not allow being photographed, at least will allow his breath to be felt among the fingers of the critic. For a work closed into its own particularistic system of images, symbols and voices, nothing is better than a custodial manipulator of keys, but not of fantasies, a wise night watchman who patrols familiar corridors, upstairs and down, jealously noting the hour so as to prove that, despite all the provocations, he never left the building, always respected his contract. Thus, a work that attains to no other reality than that of its content, that activates itself of itself and for itself, finds acceptance in a critique that is aware of its alienation as an essential condition of the work's existence and, perhaps, of its future existence. Nor does it presume originality, either. On the contrary, it hopes to represent in an historical development the layered planes of Kafka, shall we say for example, or the hermetic current of Joyce, the simultaneity of Faulkner, and on to the chaotic particularism of Gombrowicz. Not to do these things would be its perdition. To do them in excess clarifies the road. And from there to the affection of this critical system for the authors who handle literature like a barrage of combining forces, hitherto invisible. Another type of creator, one who through the translucence of his work wants to see how he has touched the world, will view these observations with sadness. He will consider the effort to discover the programming of a novel with one's disdain towards an adult who insists on participating in the play of a child. But he will abandon this pampered insanity without remorse. Rejecting it, he himself will look for his own keys, or will wait for another creator to illuminate them. Therefore when structuralism bears critical fruit in Latin American literature it will be because it has come to a halt, by its own weight and according to its own flight, at the hands of novelists or poets. The super-technicians of the existing Hispano-american novel are seen to be each time more aligned with an advanced critique, aggressive and implacable, that recognizes no sanctity in the play of rhetoric. They are obliged to defend themselves and this they do with brilliance in their labyrinthine plaza of combat; throwing on the scales the extent to which literature has served in past confrontations between decadence and revolution; emptying the mausoleums of their classical antiquity and recharging their batteries from the statues; pasturing with gluttony at the mangers of the medieval stable, of Victorian realism, of the leafleteers and Gothic romanticism; sacking with a passion now Melville, now Joyce, now Kafka, now Faulkner, now Hesse, now Gombrowicz, now Camus, now Lowry, now Nabokov, now Grass and, when the reserves are used up, Mailer and Burroughs. In this desperate attempt to swallow everything for self-actualization the fibers tighten and, literally speaking, forces of laziness are expelled; they fill their receptacles, load their catapults, amass silver and defiantly resist the frontal attack that is already on its way. Nevertheless, the contest is unequal. The receptacle is a dish of sand; the catapult is a boomerang; the silver is only paper money. Their days are counted. But we see another case: that of the artist who in his work has defined a style of life and, socially, has identified with it; for whom the act of creation is a transmutation of life to the transcendent order of aesthetic reality, and who in this act tries to give an image of the decisive conflict which has been his confrontation with the world. He knows that recourse to technique, and the overall richness of tradition, are no more than tools and marvelous keys with which he goes along opening doors known and unknown, and when these keys no longer work he forges others in keeping with his anxiety and urgency of discovery. This man puts his artist's destiny on the balance which will weigh the greatness of his adventure in the world which wishes to judge, change, dissolve; in the splendor of the unique image where there burns, perhaps, the tragic nobility of his fiasco. Confronting society this man reflects, fights, creates. Suddenly, in a university salon a voice is raised and, unmistakably, shouts to him: "The revolution isn't made with poems." Neruda, for example, answers saying that Commander Guevara, making the revolution in Bolivia, in addition to rifle, bullets, machete, medicine and technical books, carried with him some poems from Canto General which he had copied by hand, and other original poems of his own. I have thought about this reply, in its deceptive simplicity, in the complex of personal factors that it hides. One could believe that it redeems Guevara, but does not justify Neruda; nevertheless, in 1970, at age 66, when all the world venerates him and heap honors at his feet, and his "Isla Negra" softens and settles and shines with the effulgence of a monument, Neruda does not hesitate to accept the mandate of his party, the Communist, that proclaims him the candidate for the Presidency of the Republic; he leaves on campaign, traverses Chile, enters political battle with vigor, in a disciplined and total presentation. Yes, I already know, an election struggle is not the same as a guerrilla. But then, the shout at the university was badly conceived and expressed. It should have stated: "Revolution is not made with elections." Because with poetry, it is accomplished. Neruda, among others, proves this. What is essential are not the activities of devotion or protest, but the undeniable fact that those activities are the immediate and obvious expression of a genuinely revolutionary poetry. A poem such as that which Neruda dedicates to the United Fruit Company, for example, is not an exclamation, it is an integral element of a work of art that, through the years, has gone stripping man, moving barriers, discovering cities, reshaping history, lighting secret passages, uncovering bodies, dethroning myths, disinterring, arming, approaching, causing to touch, wound and conceal unities which, at last, give us a sense of who we were, are and can be in our american reality. Neruda's poetry functions within a revolutionary conception of the world; that is why it responds to political circumstance with the same fire and the same power as to a supreme historical occasion; the exclamation is, in truth, a vision, in which the elements of a philosophical conception and of an aesthetic expression, are unified, realized and harmonized. Otherwise, I think upon the political activities of writers such as Bosch, Sabato, Roa Bastos, Vinas and Revueltas, and think that they represent very much the value as exclamation of an aesthetic position. The importance of their action should be underlined according to its two motives: first, because if we were to believe the criticisms fruitlessly associated with the narrative movement of the last years, there does not exist a revolutionary tradition (in the sense of experimental, innovative, transcendent) in the Latin American novel; second, because if we accept the relevance of this tradition already in the generations of the twenties and of the forties the position of the writers of today who do represent a true change in our literature, not only is insufficient to return them to their ascendancy, but also enriches and debilitates them. Let us try, then, to respond to the basic question of this essay interesting ourselves in that of essence and permanence that the Latin American novel shows in its revolutionary suggestions, clarifying from the beginning that we are not considering an ascendant movement, nor do we posit a criterion of "super-effect," but attempting simply to test the ebb and flow within the reality of a world in crisis and the literary forms that attempt to express it. On an immediate plane the differences between a novelist of regionalism of the first half of the 20th century and a novelist of mid-century are evident. Nevertheless, beyond the initial impression, those differences begin to lose in significance. Fine points aside, the student should be warned that many factors have changed in name, but not intent; their function, at bottom, is the same, even if the mobility of the real environment imposes upon them a continual adaptation, it is worth adding, of useful diversification. Which could be, then, the distinctive factors for establishing with some precision the line of creatively revolutionary development in the Latin American novel of the 20th century? I refer to factors that, at first sight, differentiate but which, judged thoroughly, unite. Among various I choose three: technique, language and stance of the narrator. To consider the first of these factors let us focus upon the work of two novelists separated by more than forty years of age: Romulo Gallegos and Mario Vargas Llosa. If anyone tells us with a certain truth that it is impossible to conceive the plains and the city of Vargas Llosa without the plains and the city of Gallegos, we could express our agreement, but adding immediately: they are the same, and they are not. Obviously, Gallegos' realism (that of his generation) is direct and descriptive; it is formulative. Its expression acquires historical grandeur in the perfection of a pictorial technique: that of tile fresco mural. The realism of Vargas Llosa (and that of his generation as well) is indirect: with him one approaches reality by its interstices, not by its panoramic surface; one looks for the sense and the aesthetic order throughout the chaos that surrounds us. To the reality through the action, could be the motto of a technique such as that of Vargas Llosa. I have here a novelist who eliminates the motivation of the word and the explicative transition; he uses, instead, a technique that is characteristic of the film. But, while the film traditionally validated itself with clever symbols to allude to reality (the leaves of a calendar fly off indicating the passage of time; a train is used and goes through diverse cities to suggest space), in the technique of Vargas Llosa, whose antecedents are found in Joyce and Faulkner, one scene is not followed by another; the scenes are simultaneous, the product of a photo montage, of double, triple and multiple exposition. The reality of a novelist like Gallegos stands in front of the reader; that of Vargas Llosa unfolds. The difference is not one of authenticity, but or technique in their presentation. The documentary worth of both is equally incontestable. It is necessary to add the following to the novelists of the Mexican Revolution, as to those of the Russian Revolution or the Spanish Civil War (and didn't the same occur to the chroniclers of the Conquest?) the urgency of testifying impelled them to a technique that applies today to the documentary- novel, that is to say and following the cinematographic terminology, they used the form of the "documentary of large horizon." Their reality, to not be episodic ceases to be specific, personal, novelistic. Of interest to note is that the direct forerunners of Gallegos, and those of Azuela, had efficacy as much literary as social precisely because of their indifference to demonstration. From a literary point of view, it is even more fascinating to consider how techniques such as simultaneity of scenes with its verbal counterpart, the interior monologue, were already used in novels such as El satiro by Vicente Huidobro and, some years later in narratives by Onetti, Asturias and Carpentier. These and other novelists of the decades of the twenties and the thirties developed what is called the open novel which in Spain, furthermore had its proponents in Azorin and Baroja. If by examining the use of techniques one can ascertain an evolutionary line, accepting some instances as non-characteristic anticipations, by examining language, the second distinctive factor, this line is difficult to identify. There is no room for doubt that the use of language is the factor most profoundly specific to the contemporary Latin American narrative: the act of creation has again become a magical use of the word; to name, not to describe, once again constitutes the power that gives life. The language of realism of the 19th century and of regionalism of the 20th fulfilled its function to the extent that it reconstructed in the literary work a world that it offered through typical forms, of concrete, immediate signification and of predicted duration. The cities in this realism had, additionally, an animating meaning and a social connotation over and above the overall human relation of the passive individual. Neither the man nor the part of the world was what gave significance to a novel of Naturalism, for example, but rather the total problematic and its characteristic social mark. Between the language, the problematic and that milieu there existed a geometrical dependence. Certain passions demanded certain words, just like certain kinds of passages required certain kinds of exclamations; in Latin America the result was an eloquent rhetoric of the country and of the city, a type of realistic epic of high graphic power, but of scant interior dynamism; a very limited viaduct for torrents of uncontrollable force. For another thing, this essentially descriptive language was paradoxically the basic condition of a serious distortion of reality: because words such as prairie, mountain, river, plain, acquired a fixed conceptual value within a rhetoric which, backhandedly, assigned them a human meaning in accord with what they considered the Latin American problem. Such that, for years, one could see in those syllables nothing but forces of a supernatural machine inimical to man; or spaces where hibernated images of a tradition which should have recanted for social ends. A use of language destined to show us a real world, ended in covering and mooting this world beneath an unreal decoration. The spoken language of the regionalist novel at once converted --perhaps at its inception--into a literary recourse that was to function harmoniously with the descriptive rhetoric: it was necessary to establish categories and cause the cleric, the owner, the "campesino," the indian and the worker to speak in typical, pure idioms that were the phonetic remedy of a speech whose reality no longer is supplied in fixed molds and whose essence is change. The primary mission of the anti-rhetorical narrator was, then, to try to re-create the living language, to re-discover the primary usages and meanings, to drastically reduce the slackness of this language that, as Cortazar says in Rayuela (1), arrives to us already falsified and ruined by its ignoble coupling with a reality which is also false; it was to search out this intimate, unmanageable relation, with the world that surrounds us, as Vallejo had already done, completely, arduously, tragically, in his poetry of brief affirmations. To call things by their name so that they return to life and again have the sense of our reality.(2) When language was given over into this basic condition of truth an unawaited effect was produced: what was real vibrated poetically, a new tension appeared in the Latin American novel, set intrinsically in the language; a tension that we had been used to recognizing in certain poetry (Huidobro, Neruda, Vallejo, De Rokha, Paz) but not in prose; high tension that expands in power to a narrative torrent and maintains the pressure in its tumultuous movement; a tension which conditions the pellucid, "Brief on the Blind" of Ernesto Sabato, and is the key to the mythologizing in the stories end novels of Rulfo and Arguedas, and that transmutes into magic the class consciousness and objectivity of Garcia Marquez. Nevertheless, one who tries to simulate this tension by filling his language with metaphors and lyrical explosions, runs an enormous danger; because it is not the result of an outside pressure, but of an intimate, indivisible unity, in which language and action exchange their dynamic power, in their upsetting movement beneath the deceiving surface. There is a poetic density which seems to be an essential condition of the tension to which I refer and which is not a product of the voice only, but also of the meaning in it and its genius of communication. However in the most specific functional plane--that of concretion--, narrative speech changed its orientation, its structure and its power of symbolic progression. Since then, it applies to reality neither as a mold which should condition it to make it recognizable, nor as a metaphoric charge which must artificially move reality from outside. The language, like reality itself, exists within the action. It does not try to pursue a story by loading it with the meanings that traditionally functioned in accord with a preconceived chronology; nor does it try to bring in this story marginally. Act and word, in whatever plane of time they occur, co-exist in all the simultaneity, the imprecision, the anachronistic quality, the visionary revelation, of our knowledge and our experience of reality. This is the kind of language that already in Huidobro (El satiro, Tres inmensas novelas, Cagliostro), Asturias (Hombres de maiz), Carpentier (Los pasos perdidos, El reino de este mundo, El acoso), established a complex of multiple meanings within the most objective reality, inducing the critic to speak of a Latin American magic realism. It is the liberated language that allows Lezama Lima to create a baroque personal world on the inside of another baroque historical world, It is the language of the psychological ambiguity laden with passion of Onetti; the language of measured, bourgeois absurdism of Juan Emar; that of the national amalgam and metaphysical contrast of Marechal; that of the existential crisis and the romantic vision of Sabato. In no other Latin American narrative work does that language perform a miracle of communication so subtle yet, at the same time, so complex, as in that of Rulfo and Garcia Marquez. In one case, that of Rulfo, the most simple, precise and ordinary language, without dilation nor obvious transitions, nor a visible transmutation, transports reality, with all its beings and all its things, to a level of absolute mystery. In the other, that of Garcia Marquez, the magical unreality of an historical vision is identified to such a degree with the classical form of narrative discourse, that madness and fantasy become filled with order while order shines with the lights of chaos. Their use of language has made of Rulfo and Garcia Marquez supreme creators of myths. It remains to be said, in conclusion, that while it is difficult to ascertain a precise line of evolution in the new narrative language, for this line sometimes advances by leaps, that poetic tension was already present in Huidobro, as was mythic power in Asturias and Carpentier, and creative dissolution in Juan Emar. Furthermore, tragic prophecy is the counterpart of the objectification in Onetti, and action as a symbol of the last and desperate effort at communication, is the true expression of Sabato. We will examine, finally, the activity of the narrator. The attention of the readers, particularly if they are young and militant, is called to the apoliticism that is signaled in the narrative of authors like Cortazar, Garcia Marquez or Vargas Llosa. Confronted with the strong and obvious social realism of the writers of the thirties and the forties--I am thinking of Icaza, Aguilera Malta, Nicomedes Guzman, Jose Revueltas--, in the new novel one notes a resistance to politically allusive literature, a shrinking before its programs, a mistrust of accusations and messages. By contrast, then, the present narrative seems aesthetic, where the other was political; transcendent, and the other episodic. In this impression there is, we would say, a simple optical illusion. Neither was the realism of the thirties and forties superficial and ephemeral, nor is today's novel marginal to the social. Beneath the symbolic structure of the indianist novel, for example, hides a genuine human drama, a silent and bitter struggle; its unfolding is the classic assault on the barriers which delimit man within a society stripped of supernatural attributes. The narrative of today breaks the barriers; by examining them, the novelist goes deeper: he violates the social structure, observes the fall of ethical values of individuals who act beneath the weight of an existential anguish; he does not judge, but inquires; he leaves a testimony laden with sentiments of piety and toughness; or well enough, in the face of desperation, closes his own door. He re-activates the omniscience of the ancient narrator, but without assuming the role of a mirror which reflects all men and the entire reality. On the contrary, he knows that he is one mirror among infinite mirrors. The image that he seeks is hidden in his own stupor. The novelist multiplies his person, not only his point of view. He has no need to coincide with the narrator, nor is it necessary that he make his own the rational material of his story. He is not a manipulator of personages orchestrated to express his ideas; he is an individual among innumerable beings and things that ask something of him. He imagines them, then, to give them form, inserted in them, suspecting that in the process he also gives form to himself and that the sense of this form, is the sense of his life and of his comprehension of reality. Thus the contradictions of Sabato are explained and the negotiations of Borges, the distance of Garcia Marquez and the tragic alienation of Arguedas are to be understood. For another part, perhaps there is no message in contemporary Latin American literature of greater social significance than the narrative without time, without slogans, without programs, of Juan Rulfo. In his work, like in that of Roa Bastos and that of the above Arguedas, a profound social conscience manifests itself beyond the poor divisions invented by the political efficients. They see man among men, and identify him with nature in its historical pilgrimage. They never fall into the trap of easy abstraction: the more real, plain and direct the image of those men of Mexico, of Paraguay or of Peru, the more profound and complex is the resulting symbolic projection of their drama. We return to our original assumptions and draw some conclusions. In the first place, I think it is absurd to deny the existence of an evolutionary line in the Latin American novel, even considering those of its elements most characteristic of the periods of experimentation. The great novelists of regionalism and of neo-regionalism skilfully used the techniques that certain criticism pretends to "discover" in the work of recent narrators. Secondly, it is evident that the use of such techniques has validity and aesthetic transcendence only when it responds to a genuine individual expressive need. The novel that depends for its existence totally upon its technical apparatus commits a fundamental mistake; it appears already muted in its organs of creation, its inhumanity makes it sterile, its brilliance is a reflection of itself only and, in this isolation, it will not tarry in extinguishing itself. Thirdly, I insist that certain forms of expression perfectly valid in the anti-rhetorical and anti-bourgeois movement of the 192O's, are less trenchant now and, far from being useful to the Latin American narrative, vitiate it and tend to enclose it as one would a precious dry cow; it is not by artificial respiration applied to Surrealism, nor by a forced restoration of the baroque, nor with shots of English to american Spanish, nor by the adaptation of the cinematographic libretto to the novel, that our prose narrative has begun to put its mark on contemporary literature. Writers such as Arguedas, Rulfo, Arreola, Sabato, Roa Bastos, Garcia Marquez and others attest to the fact that with a language which is tense, direct, magical, of a popular root and aggressively anti-rhetorical, plus the ideological field of the period of crisis that we live, and with the desperate action of the individual looking or among statues, shadows, affidavits and obvious ruins the image which could have been his and that they took from him, patiently repeating the tale in a continual process of error and correction, with partial identification and intending a total vision, while the "criollo" bourgeoisie move our people on the narrow concourse of sub-development with the illusion, the harmonic and the compass of the advanced powers, and we surprise the world with our intense and fulsome march around our own selves, open or closed, with laughter or at pains, pacified or wild, white, indian or mixed, argument aside, it is possible to write new narrative and move and occupy a humanity disconcerted by our long silence. In the fourth place, we should respond with sincerity to the direct questions that are asked the writer about his function in the Latin American revolution. It does not suffice to turn one's shoulders from the impatient activists who affirm, "the writer will have to leave his pen and take up the rifle." We shall have to record for them, for example that Commander Guevara leaves testimony in his diary of having expelled from the guerrillas those whom he saw as not soldier material, but did feel would serve the revolution on other fronts. Does not the writer create the revolution when he writes, if he lives in the world he conceives? Should he also participate as a militant in the daily political activities? Is it possible that the revolution would have to put art and science temporarily in suspense while the years of armed combat occur? No, undoubtedly not. These questions are from a puerile absolutism, as are too the exertions of fanatic activism. We all know the ongoing value to the Cuban revolution that the loyalties of Sartre, Genet, Graham Green, Matta, Jean Luc Godard, Susan Sontag and Cortazar has had. This does not treat individuals who have abandoned art for the guerrillas. In each one of them one appreciates an act of conscience, the public acceptance of a political responsibility, without diminishment whatever of the aesthetic integrity of their creative work, The revolution benefits more from the greatness of their works than from all the declarations, manifestos and proclamations of the functionaries of propaganda. Up to now we refer to cases which do not admit argument; this deals with writers and artists of firm and clear revolutionary activity. Different is the problem of the intimate relation which exists between a writer's revolutionary work and his position, apolitical or frankly bourgeois or even conservatively reactionary. We discard the case of those who changed strategically throughout the years: a John dos Passos or a John Steinbeck in the United States. Nor are there further mysteries in the rightism of a Borges who dedicates the first sample of his translation of Whitman to Richard Nixon and writes a poem to celebrate Texan patriotism at "El Alamo"; neither in his great work nor in his pathetic life does he forget for an instant the fundamental unreality of his place in the world. The problem is aggravated if one tries to understand the duality of writers who have been blessed souls in an upper or middle class purgatory and in their work were sowers of anarchism, inspirers of violence, inciters to open revolt in the dominion of art. I already mentioned two illustrious visionaries in the renovation of the Spanish novel: Baroja, the quiet, rugged, wintry shepherd or baker, and Azorin, wax and porcelain old-timer among the flowers of his Iberian villa. They and Valle-Inclan plant their incredible time-bomb and do not even await the result; it suffices them to know that there is in the future earth a hot springs for them to warm their feet. What is to be done with then, the revolutionary analyst will ask? What is to be done with the landlord poets, the minister-and ambassador-novelists, and the extremist clerks who guarantee the literature of barbarism and of imperialism? Can one write the revolution while he lives the status quo? Unquestionably, one can live very well and write very badly. Is not this, rather the contrary: to live very badly and write very well; to live a contradiction, a renunciation, a moral and material misery, according to custom and, in some secret manner which intrigues and perhaps offends, to venture afloat in works where not only the individual is redeemed, although burdened, but also too humanity. It is possible that Genet is repugnant to certain people, yet they do not resist the temptation to touch him, forgetting that the admonition of Whitman (He who touches this book, touches me) had a symbolic sense only. So then, if we speak of styles of literature which are, in truth, styles of life, we would do well to realize that, the more a life is identified with a creative work, the greater will be the possibility that both will reflect something limited about man: his ambition to know and to do, and the tragic awareness of his finiteness; his inexplicable grandeur in the midst of his paltry insignificance. The ideological coincidence of a vital activity end an aesthetic creation always will be an object of admiration, perhaps because of the dramatic difficulties that it entails. In the United States there is actually a strange, mute, end bloody civil war being fought. I think that the literature of the patriarchs of the Beat generation, Kerouac and Ginsberg especially, like that of the Black militants, Le Roy Jones and Eldridge Cleaver, and that of Chicano youth such as Victor Hernandez Cruz, expresses this civil war in its political and racial problematic and, conferring artistic beauty upon it, is the authentic literature of a revolution. What can we in Latin America offer as an expression of the existing social crisis? In its militant aspect and with an aesthetic significance still to be determined, it could be the new anti-poetry which explodes--one cannot use another term for it--today in El Salvador and tomorrow in Argentina or Peru or Colombia or Chile; it could be a form of total narrative which centers in Mexico, Cuba or Venezuela or an essay form in which criticism is managed within a violently autobiographic sense, or university theatre ferocious against the bourgeois and absurd with brilliance. Whatever it be, it is of full importance not to sustain that literature only as an enchanted lantern in hand; behind, above, and beneath its shadows and its lights, are manifested other shadows and other lights. To recognize them is a decisive act for obtaining the true local composition of contemporary Latin American literature. We say, therefore, that the genuine revolutionary writers seem united atop schools and literary epochs due to a condition common to them: they all have given an image or transcendent vision in their works of the reality they knew and that touched them, not a mere fragment of it, and in that image or in that appearance resides their concept of the world as much as testimony of their intent to affect that reality in turn. This their condition, to my judgment, assists in discerning the true and the false among revolutionary literature; at last it permits discarding the bold but sterile technical wizardry, aids in recognizing the pathetic archivist of an old art that turns circles in the air knowing it is destined for loss, and finally guides us upon an art of the harmonization activity of use of necessary technique, the instrument of language expressed in action and the creative function that promises the, for him, supreme use of the word. In that task of distinguishing I see little part for the engines of militancy, authentic as they are. They shall have their denotation in the social conduct of the writer, yet do not have the truth of his work's attainments. The writer whom interests us makes his own revolution and he does this in his artwork, with his work, i.e. with his life.(3) Notes 1 Buenos Aires: Sudamericana, 1963, p.500. 2 Cf. Posdata, Mexico City: Siglo XXI, 1970, where Octavlo Paz says: Whenever a society corrodes, the first to become infected is the language. The critique of society, in consequence, commences with grammar and with the re-establishment of meanings. The new literature, poetry as much as the novel, began with being simultaneously a reflection upon the language and an attempt to invent another language: A system of transparencies to provoke the appearance of reality. To realize this proposition it was indispensable to clean the language and extirpate the accretion of official rhetoric... (pp. 76 + 77). 3 Cortazar says: "one of the most acute Latin American problems is that more than ever we are in need of the Che Guevaras of the language, the revolutionaries of literature, more than the literati of the revolution." ("Nuevos aires" 2, 1970, p.36).