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 3 - "Der Zauberberg" in the Literature of Latin America It is not my intention in this essay to follow like a detective the influence of an author or of a work upon the body of Latin American narrative. My objective is more modest and, for that reason, more precise. With reference to a particular problem of comparative literature I would wish to sketch the development of a theme which, turned into a myth by a master of German neo-romanticism, rigorous and firmly distinct, like an aesthetic mold, passes to other authors and other works picking up the essence of varied philosophies. The theme to which I allude is the integration of man, nature and time in the symbol of the magic mountain. Thus understood, the mountain ceases to be mere surrounding to become an active agent of ideas and passions; it intervenes in the destiny of man; it approves or it denies him, it provokes him, it saves or it condemns him, from the heights it witnesses his crises, his efforts and anguish, disintegrating his ongoing misery in the ashes of time. "Der Zauberberg": this Thomas Mann called it. The "magic mountain" as aesthetic symbol has existed throughout history mysteriously expressing revelations of diverse peoples and cultures. There were magic mountains in the biblical literature of the Sinai, from whose flanks the law of the Hebrew people emerged in letters of fire, and the Ararat which arose from the depths of the divine ire so that humanity would disembark, in terror, from the Universal Flood. A magic mountain was the classical Olympus and also the circles, the levels and terraces of the metaphysical promontory of Dante. The Himalayas were and continue to be magic mountains, as with the volcanic summits of the Mayan "Popol-Vuh." "Der Zauberberg," as a literary, novelistic, philosophical, religious or poetic formula, appears and re-appears in the golden ages of western literature, in romanticism and in modern realism. In the 20th century and from the American hemisphere it is seen under the guises of Kilimanjaro and of Machu-Picchu. The mountain comes to symbolize a conception of the world through experiences in which the intellectual passion and the erotic secretly combine, physical heroism with metaphysical terror, social conscience with the dark currents of instinct. The initiate will easily recognize this symbolization in nature. Whoever has had supreme revelation reduces the vital experience to certain basic concepts and a small number of hallucinatory intuitions that permit him to define his own condition in terms as much physical as spiritual. In "Der Zauberberg" these ideas and intuitions refer essentially to a concept of Time and, on a second plane, to the conflict between humanism and materialism. The magic mountain permits one to confer upon the experiences of the hero a transcendental sense: the adaptation to the schedule of the Swiss sanatorium becomes a subjectivist theory of Time, the triumph over sickness a sensualist doctrine of behavior and intimate nature of matter, and the loving embrace to a practical exaltation of the temporal in the face of the metaphysical. Before assuming a mythological power in our modern literature, the Latin American mountain was an instrument of destruction. In the regionalist novel, the mountain-- like the plains and the ocean--dominates man and hits him with an individual sorrow. That is to say, it becomes personified not to integrate itself into the progressive dynamism of a civilization, but instead to unite with the diabolic power that threatens and destroys it. The mountain of an eminent writer of the past century, for example, the Colombian Tomas Carrasquilla, is never separate from the land; it is true that its roots are confused with those of man, but they fuse at the surface of daily life or at the bottom of a pedestrian nostalgia. The mountain there fills an aesthetic function in the measure that it complements the immediate action of man, not his creative activity on a universal plane. The mountain of the Chilean Mariano Latorre, like that of Ricardo Leon or Jose Maria Pereda, is a synthesis of concrete values projected in a local tradition. These are mountains without summit; more properly, they are roads on the mountain. They belong to a literary tradition that resonates in the agricultural, in the social and in the historical. One cannot say that tradition has completely disappeared, but it is possible to affirm that at the middle of the 20th century our mountain, as an aesthetic factor, already corresponded to mythic symbols of contemporary humanity. Examples abound in the novel and poetry. Works such as El Mundo es Ancho y Ajeno by Ciro Alegria, Los Peregrinos Inmoviles by Gregorio Lopez y Fuentes, Hombres de Maiz by Miguel Angel Asturias, Los Rios Profundos by Jose Pilaria Arguedas, Hijo de Ladron by Manuel Rojas, are essentially narratives in which the mountain exercises magical powers. It will be surprising to mention Manuel Rojas in this respect, but Aniceto Hevia, the protagonist in "Hijo de Ladron," traverses the ranges to discover in the common man and in the worker's task the seeds of fraternity; in the alpine steppe and lowlands, in the frozen tents of the nomadic encampment, in the market place and in the train station, in the Andean shelter as much as upon the open road, in the soldiers' barracks and on the banks of the Rio Blanco and the Aconcagua, there hides a simple and lyrical apparatus of symbols, like the lights of a starry illumination. From the emotion of tenderness, of solidarity and respect toward man, Rojas extracts a norm of life and a definition of the human condition. That his mountain range is also a magical power is proved, in part, by his theory of the invisible wound, set down in Hijo de Ladron and directly related to the idea of illness characteristic of Thomas Mann and of German romantic literature.(1) In the novel of Lopez y Fuentes the indian moves the length of the river and onto the highlands re-living and recreating the history of man and that Mexican plateau that had been a road for porters or revolutionaries soon becomes a pathway of symbols and myths. The route is laid out since ancient times; the questions allude to cosmogonies and religions, to ethical values, to roots that weigh upon man like chains. The marks of time are disfigured. The indian goes to the mountain where his experience will unite the primordial to the final causes. It deals with revelations beneath a lyric splendor: the man faces the reality of his impotence and abandonment, fashions a stone god and carries it with him, begins to get answers from it, but the god weighs greatly and circles with its creator among the passes. The tribe penetrates the mountain and discovers the anti-pilgrimage of its pilgrimage. Nothing has moved; in the newly won freedom hides treason, war, another slavery. The bell that sounds the alarm, safeguard from the avalanche, is no more than a deceit. While the young heroes prepare for the wedding, the unmoving pilgrims once again ready their lances, their shields, their stone knives and the mountain offers its high ledges so that the sacrifice will begin again.(2) "El Mundo es Ancho y Ajeno" is a book that shows marked ideological concomitants with Der Zauberberg. The Peruvian sierra conceived as a world apart in which the tragedy of the indian becomes a symbol of the injustice, of the solitude and of the physical and moral anguish of modern humanity, Ciro Alegria puts it to work around a unique axis, from which the themes of social inequality, Peasant solidarity, heroic sacrifice, disorganization and fatality, turn like minor mechanisms. This axis, as in the work of Thomas Mann, is that of time. It is obvious that Ciro Alegria paraphrases Mann in his speculations about the nature of time. In them we are led to understand that he arrived at the magic concept of the Andean mountain through a wise and deep consideration of the nature of memories and of their adaptation to a slow rhythm, a rhythm that corresponds to the technique used by Mann in his novel. That technique is a direct consequence of a subjectivist doctrine of time; Ciro Alegria also thus understands it and interprets it in this way. These concomitants should be examined without a desire to give disproportionate importance to the establishment of a case of literary influence, but better to indicate how a philosophical idea which gives birth to an aesthetic formula in European literature serves a Latin American writer for expressing a characteristic experience of his land and his epoch. Ciro Alegria is a novelist who works fundamentally from the ground of memories. His works are evocations in the strictest sense of the word and function on the strength of stimulating one resurrection after another which, cumulatively, produce a deceptive effect or movement. Essentially, they are static. Within them, time does not pass: it is an abstraction composed of the spiritual experience that is comprised of beings, objects and pieces. In the foreword of The Magic Mountain one reads things like these: This story, we say, belongs to the long ago; is already, so to speak, covered with historic mold, and unquestionably to be presented in the tense best suited to a narrative out of the depth of the past. That should be no drawback to a story, but rather the reverse. Since histories must be in the past, then the more past the better, it would seem for them in their character as histories, and for him, the teller of them, rounding wizard of times gone by. With this story, moreover, it stands as it does to-day with human beings, not least among them writers of tales; it is far older than its years; its age may not be measured by length or days, nor the weight of time on its head reckoned, by the rising or setting of suns. In a word, the degree of its antiquity has noways to do with the passage of time in which statement the author intentionally touches upon the strange and questionable double nature of that riddling element.(3) Compare those words with these others by Ciro Alegria in "El Mundo es Ancho y Ajeno": Days pass, new days come.... We admire the natural wisdom of those popular story tellers who, to separate events, between one item and another in their narrative, interpolate the grand and spacious words: days pass, new days come.... That is what is time. Time acquires much meaning when it passes over a deed prosperous or unprosperous, in any case noteworthy. There accumulate at the side or, better, in front of the occurrence, tasks and problems, projects and dreams, nothings that are the fabric of the minutes, fortunes and misfortunes, in sum: days. Days that have passed, days yet to come. Then the prosperous or unprosperous deed, faced with time, which is to say, with the daily reality of life, assumes its true significance, but it always remains behind, always further behind, in the hard grip of the past. And if it is true that life often turns one's eyes back toward the past, bespeaking a natural impulse of the heart toward what it had loved, and in order to extract a useful lesson from the experience of humanity or to heighten its glory with what was noble, it is also true that the same life is affirmed in the present and is 'nurtured by the hope of its prolongation, or rather, in the projected unfolding of its destiny. After the demise of Pascuala, then, time advanced. And we too shall say: days pass, new days come....(4) It is not merely a coincidence in tone that we point to here. It is something deeper. The Peruvian writer, like Thomas Mann, captured the sense of universality of his story in its sense of permanence, that is to say, he integrated space and time. The chronological imprecision which characterizes El Mundo es Ancho y Ajeno is an aesthetic element. Throughout a speculation about time and of the fusion of man with the mountain as a symbol of immutability, Ciro Alegria, the same as Thomas Mann, projects the drama of his characters upon an image of humanity. His story grows, then, from an individual conception of eternity until it arrives at the limits of the collective experience. This phenomenon of sublimation occurs in consequence of the liberating action that the mountain exercises upon the spirit of man. The indians of this novel are surprising in their spirituality; it is because they live within the superior influence of a magic mountain. The coldness of the moon has touched them, just as Hans Castorp was transformed by the assault of the snow. The story of the exodus from Rumi is the story of man's eternal exodus: the world being alien and not being owner of one's own self, man keeps moving in a perpetual exile and remains alone in the continuity or his downfall. Thus too move the indians of Lopez y Fuentes. Thus the young warriors of Thomas Mann are uprooted. But in the attitude with which the writer contemplates that departure rests the crucial difference that exists between the message of Thomas Mann and that of Ciro Alegria and other Latin American novelists. Not to call attention to that difference would be lamentable. Thomas Mann leaves his hero without bitterness, perhaps with a little piety, but in no way shamefully. He disassociates from him.(5) Ciro Alegria, on the other hand, identifies with the indigenous community of his narrative and shares in its persecution and its exile. Thomas Mann has manipulated his symbols with the key of his irony; the Peruvian, with the key of his genuine sentimentalism. Thomas Mann, in possession or his role as magician and interpreter of the mysteries of the mountain, is present throughout the entire story, commenting in the first person upon the actions of his characters, the development of the plot, even the technique of his novel. Like the Spanish novelists of the picaresque and the English Victorians, he requires a role for his own voice and he fulfills it with gusto and without hesitation. Ciro Alegria follows him in part.(6) But irony is not the device which suits him, nor is it the authentic tonality of his voice. A lyric poet, it does not embarrass him to empathize with his little heroes; on the contrary, it overflows at each step; he dreams with his shepherds, sings with his flute and string players, he rebels and suffers with his peons. Whereas Mann breaks, in the end, the spell of the mountain and remains untouched beside the apparatus of his transcendent spectacle the Peruvian novelist never can liberate himself from his fable, and goes on making impact with the desolation of his people, decrepit and defeated on the vast icy plateau. A biographical note could be offered here to accentuate this difference of attitudes. I do not know in what circumstances Thomas Mann conceived his grandiose epic. In a personal letter that I guard like a relic, he spoke of his novel as a super-romantic work of his youth.(7) I thought I could still detect irony in such an affirmation. He was an experimenter and as such did not fail to deal with the conflicts that agitated his characters. From the margin of his work he manipulated the strings like an illusionist of the Renaissance. Ciro Alegria, for his part, conceived and wrote El Mundo es Ancho y Ajeno in very peculiar circumstances not a little dramatic. Romantic, Thomas Mann would have said. Between the years 1935 and 1940 Ciro Alegria was confined to the sanitarium El Peral, in the vicinity of Santiago. He suffered from tuberculosis and had submitted to a rest cure. La Montana Magica was then a best seller. It was read and discussed in all the intellectual circles. I can imagine Ciro Alegria, to whom his friends Manuel Rojas, Enrique Espinoza, Gonzalez Vera, Cesar Cecchi brought books, horizontal and still, reading and assimilating the prose of Thomas Mann, identifying with the characters of the Swiss sanatorium, living--and in this case the word need not be taken metaphorically--the great experience of Time as it bore on his particular case. The routine of Hens and Joachim is his own, precisely; like them, he gets up, he rests, he takes his temperature, reads, eats, then rests.... The faces of doctors and nurses blur like astral forms in the midst of X-rays, injections and blankets. He eats and he rests; reclines and reads. His life takes on the slow rhythm that the leader directs with a thermometer. In the evening he lingers like Castorp, alone beneath the stars, savoring the shadows that come to him from the mountains; the airy figures of the Chilean poplars disappear, the mountain winds breathe and the transfiguration effortlessly takes place. We have here the Peruvian plains, the solitude, the rocky Peaks where the pastoral family learns of its damnation; there are the thatched huts, the lake surrounded by rocks, the caves that shelter the voice of the fugitive and the council of the thief. Above it all one sees the myth of a village advancing from the fog and, little by little, acquiring humanity. They are the indigenous commoners who he knew in his adolescence and to whose tragic destiny he already alluded in "Los Perros Hambrientos." The fable takes shape: it shall be a message of re-vindication of the indian, a gigantic work, dense, solid, epic, with a rich treasure of customs and folkloric legends, with an idea of liberty sounding at the base by way of a single hapless unfortunate. This novel already had its style, that is, its form and its mythological apparatus: it was the style of Der Zauberberg. Ciro Alegria, already an inhabitant of the high altitudes, had only to enter the magic circle and his indians, breathing the rarefied air of an eternal present, affixed the statuary of myth upon the pedestal of the sierra. Miguel Angel Asturias, exploring the mysteries of Hispano-american experience, concerned with reconstructing the Mayan-Quechuan cosmogonies through poetic images and later applying them, like transparencies, to the existing reality of Guatemala, often refers to the magical, defining and resolving sense of the mountain. The most impressive example of this search and of the literary rendition he gives it is to be found in two episodes, the fourth and the fifth, of his novel, Hombres de Maiz. Let us say here that Asturias does not center upon symbols and allegories, like Lopez y Fuentes, nor on anecdotes and philosophic commentaries, like Ciro Alegria. To know, Asturias returns to pre-historic myths; to define reality, he accepts the pre-logical relations of the magical and, to project his knowledge, he uses images, principally auditory--repetition, incantation, basic values of nouns-that will create a resonant ambit where the Guatemalan of the 20th century can seek the reflection of his own soul. The episodes to which I refer are those of Blind Goyo Yic and Maria Tecun, and of Correo-Coyote. In the first of these episodes is presented the case of the woman who abandons her man, flees into the mountains, is changed into stone and weighs down her lover, who chases her, to the end. The mountain exercises a double power: it punishes the betrayal, but in the punishment it gives the punished the permanence of myth, which is the perfect and eternal function of her crime. Elsewhere, it returns the man's sight to him, it opens his eyes for him to discover his abyss and fall into it under the weight of his secret. The second episode is of a more essential kind: in the search for the woman, Niche Aquino discovers his demon, unites with it in the flesh, and in the body of a coyote finds the road to Xibalba, the subterranean world where man learns the secrets of the beyond. The Pass in the mountain is here the key to final knowledge, a true gateway, a magical power that touches man in an instant and converts him into light so that he will go to occupy his place among the shadows. Whoever doubts the existence of this gateway should go to Peten, search in Tikal and identify in the rocks the women and the men who lost and found their way. Asturias' novel makes me think of another, by Jose Maria Arguedas, Los Rios Profundos, whose leitmotif is the secret mythological life of the Cuzco highlands. The mountain of Arguedas is a witch. His is a most delicate operation in which the myths do not have direct effects but rather remain hidden like human forms in the shadows, and talk or simply dream inside the rocks, in the walls, in the bells, in the rivers and the animals. A child listens to them. It is not a miracle of communication, nor the vision seen in a campfire. The action of the mountain is now slow and cumulative: phenomenon of atmospheres, of instants and contacts. One could say that if a revelation is produced, it is the effect of ecstatic contemplation or of meditation; but, on the whole, the secret is also revealed in the pass from one Andean region to another, in one plaza or another, at the churches, the markets, the shortcuts, upon the lunar plateaus, sometimes on the run, because the idea of the journey requires swiftness: to learn to live when the little hero detaches from his father's side. I shall cite some sentences I wrote some time ago about this novel to give a clearer base to this idea: ...that which could be a catalogue of churches, of town squares, of decorated walls and ruins, comes to live independently; the stones speak, the patios tremble, the ancient kitchens of Cuzco glow with gold, the bells call from mountain to mountain across the shimmering valleys and rivers, the men kneel, the women cry, and a child--the child that Arguedas was and whom he carries in his shadows--embraces his father and sweetly suffers with the native fantasies that eternally surround evening in the mountains.... Arguedas first spoke Quiches and later, already grown, he learned Spanish. Something strange, fascinating in its complex aesthetic and linguistic significance, occurred in the process: as if, his Spanish idiom came to him filled with living sounds, with quick spirits who, upon touching the words, awaken all kinds of magic reverberations. Arguedas says 'muro,' says 'aguila,' says 'piedras,' says 'angeles' and what we hear is a material world in unexpected action, reaching out toward us, as if wishing to tell us of a secret soul, imprisoned, pained, anxious to be rescued.(8) A brief example will suffice to illustrate how the young hero searches in the mountain for the source of essential powers. Challenged to fight by a fearsome enemy in the school, he senses that his will slackens, he knows that he will be badly treated by the pack who consider him a "foreigner," so then he goes to the god of the mountain requesting valor and strength. His invocation is abrupt, irrational in the circumstances, but fatally assured: At night, at rosary, I wished to confess myself and I could not. Shame tied my tongue and thoughts. Then, while I trembled with shame, the image of Apu K'arwarasu came to my memory like lightning. I spoke to him, the way the scholars of my native region prayed, when they had to battle or compete in races and in tests of bravery. -Only you, Apu and the Markask'a!, I told him. Apu K'arwarasu, to you I shall dedicate my fight! Send me your emissary to watch over me, to cheer me from on high. So by kicks, swine, to the rear, to your hungry dog ribs, to your violin neck! Whatever! I am an indian, an indian miner! Nakak! I began to take spirit, to lift my courage, directing myself to the great mountain in the same way that the indians of my region worshiped it, before throwing themselves into the plaza against the brave bulls, condors overhead. K'arwarasu is the Apu, the regional god of my native territory. It has three snow-covered summits that rise above a mountain chain of black rock. Various lakes surround them in which live herons with pink plumage. The falcon is the symbol of K'arwarasu. The indians say that in the days before Easter a bird of fire emerges from the highest summit and hunts the condors, that it breaks their backs, makes them moan and humiliates them. In brilliant flight, it flashes over the fields, past the livestock farms, and then disappears into the snow. The indians invoke K'arwarasu only in the greatest dangers. They need only pronounce his name and the fear of dying vanishes.(9) And the boy goes to the fight. The child who hears words in the walls of Cuzco, who cries in silence glued to doors and columns and looks for signs of the golden bell in the frozen skies of the plateau, is transformed: he has become a man in the dialogue with the mountain and, tranquil and unafraid, he awaits the decisive tests. A similar idea of metamorphosis in the mountains but this time not among myths, but rather in the realm of Catholic symbology, appears in the poetic work of Gabriela Mistral and, more particularly, in the poem entitled, "The Flight." I shall quote two stanzas: O Mother, in a dream I traverse tarnished landscapes: a black mountain turning endlessly to reach the other mountain; and in the next you seem to be, but always another round mountain is there, to obstruct the way to the mountain of your joy and my joy. And sometimes not hills ahead, not inner thoughts, nor breath can find you: you have fled with the mountain snow you have submitted to the black rocks. And you send me sarcastic voices from three points, and I break in pain, for my body is one, which you gave me, and you are the water with a hundred eyes, and are the landscape of a thousand arms, never again what lovers are: a living breast upon a living breast, bronze figures softening with cries.(10) The mother-mountain-mother chain has a secret meaning. In "The Flight," Gabriela Mistral expresses a fundamental idea: she carries and always will carry the mother within her, like a fatal affliction. It will be a weight within her that is tender and painful at the same time. These two sentiments do not achieve integration. The image of the mother keeps escaping, calling her, moving away. Upon following it, she thinks that she will cross one mountain to find another and another until infinity. In one moment she sees her dissolve like snow on the mountain and, then, the mother appears transformed into a symbol of that identity--of the person and the native land--which Gabriela Mistral tortuously pursues throughout her entire life.(11) The magic here is essentially lyrical and the mountain is its form: a superimposed symbol to suggest the transience and the permanence of life in circles that call to us, lose us, accelerate and overwhelm us in the divine persecution. If in El Mundo es Ancho y Ajeno, a symphonic novel, the Zauberberg is an extended, spacious, intermittent theme, in the hands of a poet it can gain the force of immediate revelation, the tone of a sudden exaltation, the sense of a transcendental vision: this is the case with the poem, "Heights of Machu Picchu" by Pablo Neruda. At first sight it could be thought that we are confronted with a traditional theme of romanticism: the poet in exile with his melancholy burden of national memories and his defeated judgment in the name of a lost liberty; we think of Heredia singing to Niagara with voices evoking other sublime terrors, those of Byron, or Schiller, of Goethe. But gradually we recognize in Neruda's poem the light which by now is familiar to us: the splendor of the magical revelation when it comes from the heart of the mountain. An essentially lyric poet, for whom knowledge should derive from a subconscious immersion in reality and the terms of its definition are a leading chain of images, a descriptive and baroque poet, who when not imperative and visionary becomes dialectical again, he uncovers his images, grouping and arranging them, and with thorough lucidity proceeds to clearly define certain basic keys for the destiny of man in his tragic movement through history. The mountain has, then, for Neruda the same power of supreme revelation that it had for Mann, in equal transcendent tone, but without the doomed imminence which is prolonged in The Magic Mountain, turning it into a mortal trance. Neruda, inspired as by a slow fever, close to the lights of the summit, feeling, not knowing, the mysterious propulsion of the mystical experience, reflects upon man's destiny: What was man? Where in his ongoing conversation among the stores and the whistles, in which of his metallic movements could be found indestructible, imperishable life?(12) Neruda examines the torsion springs of history, and his conclusions, beyond his bedazzlement by nature, affirm an immediate reality and his intuition of an inflexible physical order. The tone of the poem is anguished at first; obsessed by the memory of political persecution, Neruda insists upon reproducing his agitation in the static forms that surround him. In what follows, he gives himself over to a metaphysical sadness, to a consciousness of his solitude and an examination of mortality. What is fatality in the routine of man? A wreath of daily dyings, the leaves that the tree loses in no order: The self like corn stores itself in the bottomless granary of lost deeds, of miserable events, from one to seven, and to eight, and not one fatality, yet instead many deaths came to each, every day a little demise, powder, worm, lamp that is extinguished in the suburban mud, a small dying with thick wings...(13) I could not love in each being a tree with its little autumn on one's back (the extinction of a thousand leaves) all the false deaths and the resurrections without homeland, without abyss...(14) The initial discomfort resolves into a dynamic confrontation with life. The poet is in front of Machu-Picchu, the stone fortress, indestructible crown of the Inca. He contemplates the ruins and on a plane combining classic nostalgia with the firmness of his implacable materialism, he reviews the Carpe Diem theme, and adds: Today the empty air no longer cries, no longer knows your feet of clay, has forgotten your vessels that filtered the sky... You no longer exist, hands of spider, frail strands, tangled cloth; what you were has fallen: customs, syllables spent, masks of brilliant light. Only a permanence of stone and word; the city like a cup was lifted in the hands of all, living and not, the silenced, sustained by the silent, a wall, from brimming life to impact of stone petals, the permanent rose, the mooring: this Andean reef of glacial colonies.(15) He discharges his lyrical dynamism and describes mystically, that is to say, by naming. More than eighty lyrical epithets comprise the ninth section of the poem, his litany to Machu-Picchu. The fundamental question can be seen approaching, probing between the lines, ritualistically leading to the root of the matter. What was this man who inhabited that rock in the sky? What became of him? Stone within stone, the man, where was he? Air within air, the man, where was he? Time within time, the man, where was he? ...I ask you, salt of the roadway, show me your implements, let me, structures, trace with a twig the network of stone, mount all the stairways of the air into the emptiness, scrape inner organs until the man is touched.(16) Then there emerges an apocalyptic vision: that was an empire built on blood, hunger, punishment. The solitude is suddenly filled with phantastic forms, the river with voices, the hills with archers, the roads with moving shapes. Machu-Picchu, you put stones on the stone, and at the base, rags? Coal upon coal, and at the bottom tears? Fire in the gold, and within, the red trembling portion of blood? Return to me the slave you buried! (17) He implores that slave to arise from his granite tomb and to be incarnated in his poet's voice and magician's blood. Juan Stonecutter, son of Wiracocha, Juan Coldfood, son of the green star, Juan the Barefoot, grandson of turquoise, rise to be born with me, brother.(18) The Andean Zauberberg has yielded its secret. It had been a fleeting vision. The poet quickly re-integrates with the militant ranks, hurriedly, as if descending from heights where the air became impossible to breathe; he takes the weapons that are his, his armor, his dialectic. The resolution of the poem, nevertheless, has clearly left its comet's mark in the sky: the legacy to history is a lesson written in rock and its custodians can lift up one more time and renew their destiny of struggle without end. Notes 1 Cf. F. Alegria, "Manuel Rojas: trascendantalismo en la novels chilena," in Literatura Chilena del Siglo XX, Zig-Zag, Santiago, 1967, pp.205-32. 2 The student will find a more detailed analysis of Los Peregrinos Inmoviles in my Historia de la Novels Hispanoamericana, 3d ed., Ediciones De Andrea, Mexico City, 1966, pp.165-67. 3 The Magic Mountain, Lowe-Porter translation, Knopf, New York, 1968, p. v. 4 El Mundo es Ancho y Ajeno, Diana, Mexico City, 1949, p.53. See also pp. 3 and 391, and compare then with the speculations of Thomas Mann concerning time in Der Zauberberg, Berlin, 1924, pp. 80, 89, 90, 91, 452, 713 and 714. 5 La Montana Magica, 2d ed., Diana, Mexico City, 1957, pp.843-44. 6 El Mundo es Ancho y Ajeno, op. cit., pp. 30-31, 42-43, 245. 7 Thomas Mann says to me in his letter: "My impression of your book (Ensayo sobre Cinco Temas de Thomas Mann, Funes, El Salvador, 1949) is that of an unusually fine analysis of the chief motives of my novel - this arch-romantic book that is, at the same time, a sort of farewell to romanticism, although its irony makes this moral renunciation of the romantic a little doubtful again." 8 Historia de la Novela Hispanoamericana, op. cit., p. 273. 9 Los Rios Profundos, Ed. Losada, 1958, p.88. 10 Tala, Ed. Losada, 1947, pp.11-12. 11 Cf. F. Alegria, Genio y Figura de Gabriela Mistral, Eudeba, Buenos Aires, pp. 105-06. 12 Canto General, Ediciones Oceano, Mexico City, 1950, pp. 41-42. 13 Ibid., p.42. 14 Ibid., p.43. 15 Ibid., pp.46-47. 16 Ibid., pp.51-52. 17 Ibid., p.52. 18 Ibid., p.54.