I’ve had to retreat to Saturna Island to defeat the supremely long and complex “I the Supreme”. Dozens of cups of tea; more than a couple complaints to anyone who would listen; and half a hi-lighter later, I have triumphed. Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Hesse and Calvino are counted among my favourite authors. Thus, it can be said that complex plots, philosophical ramblings, blurred realism and shear length are not literary qualities that I avoid. Having said this, I can say unequivocally that I found “I the Supreme” to be too long, that is to say that its length detracted from its supremacy. The chaotic and mystical diatribes that issue forth from the Dictator’s Pen grow tiresome after 430 pages, although there is much brilliance interposed between such highly (un)literal passages. This is a book that could have been written in 200 pages without losing its brilliance, and in my opinion would have increased it in fact. Did dear Bastos not have an editor? The book is “richly textured”, as one reviewer puts it; like many sumptuous Parisian desserts thrown together, but with a single flavour dominating the overflowing dish so that it makes it hard to pick out the other delicious flavours. Ok. Now that I have thoroughly complained about the layer of the cake that is too thick for my liking, let me get to the richness that lies above and below.
“I the Supreme” is a book about language. Mortality, politics, gender, and religion are important themes, but they are all embedded in language. It is simultaneously about the slippage of meaning and the permanence of language. The Dictator himself writes/dictates constantly and continually invokes various written works from the western canon dating back to Plato, yet curses scribes of all sorts and his own in particular. He berates Patino incessantly for his inability to capture His dictation. He demands exact copies of his speech, but also the recording of the meaning behind the words. In a political sense absolute power flows from The Supreme, but he admits to fooling himself at the end of the book. No power is absolute, because of the unavoidable slippage from the exact meaning of each of his orders as they are received; the slippage between the literal and figural, the sign and the signified. The Dictator himself is constantly remaking and re-working words in dizzying displays of word play. His thoughts are rife with illusions and allusions (the Orange Tree, mystical eggs and talking dead dogs). Ultimately, The Supreme still exists as a historical character because of language, both written and oral, but not in the way he would have liked, despite all of his writing. He is proof that regardless of the power that is invested in an individual, they are unable to fully mould their surroundings to their likings because they lack the language to truly express their desires.
Monday, February 25, 2008
"I The Supreme": First Half
I didn’t see “I the Supreme” coming, was doubly surprised. First, hefting it in my hand a couple weeks ago in the book store, and then reading the first couple pages. This is the greatest book in the history of Latin American literature according to the professor; the most complex book I have ever read; and coincidently the book on which I have to write a comprehensive Wikipedia article. Where to begin?
Some random thoughts on a book composed of the (random?) rememberings and documents of hundreds of individuals follows....
This story is enjoyable from a number of nerdly perspectives. It is rife with philosophical and political reflections so much so that I found myself taking notes without thinking that correspond to my “History of Western Political Thought Course”. The continual (and disparaging) references The Supreme makes to Buenos Aires brings to mind Fecundo. As he mentions Fecundo, Rosas and Rivadavia I can imagine Sarmiento’s story unfolding on the periphery of that of Bastos. The book is also jarringly funny sometimes, as The Dictator takes the piss out of everyone and anyone he can lay his tongue on.
Since there is only The Dictator in this novel - he is either speaking, writing or occasionally being spoken to – his character is the novel. But is he a protagonist? Coming from a liberal democratic area of the world, the “dictator” title attached to the character of Dr. Francia should be enough to clearly answer that he is not. I would argue, however, that he is. The Supreme is a tragic protagonist, who becomes lost in his own intention/vision, and a victim of his own lack of humanity.
He does not lust after power, but assumes power in the midst of an anarchic vacuum and at the request of the other Paraguayan leaders. The Dictator goes on to firmly establish Paraguay’s independence and ensure stability for his entire reign. Education is made free and Indians are given the status of citizens. His downfall is his own paranoia, his inability to delegate and groom leaders around him. He becomes lost in a labyrinth of suspicion, deathly afraid of the international anarchy that surrounds the borders of his country and of all that he cannot directly control within his own country.
In some ways he brings to mind Fidel Castro, a leader whose own verbosity and revolutionary zeal is almost unparalleled. Like “The Supreme” Castro had Cuba sealed from foreigners for a long stretch of time to prevent moral contamination, in addition to suffering from further isolating trade embargos. Castro’s despotic power within Cuba was justified and perhaps warranted by internal threats stoked by external powers. Both of these men were liberators and raised the standard of living and education, in ways that only a person with a strong vision and a stronger hand could. Both held onto power until they no longer were physically (mentally?) capable. Castro’s legacy is yet to be determined, and will likely be less damaging than Dr. Francia’s, but the similarities remain.
Some random thoughts on a book composed of the (random?) rememberings and documents of hundreds of individuals follows....
This story is enjoyable from a number of nerdly perspectives. It is rife with philosophical and political reflections so much so that I found myself taking notes without thinking that correspond to my “History of Western Political Thought Course”. The continual (and disparaging) references The Supreme makes to Buenos Aires brings to mind Fecundo. As he mentions Fecundo, Rosas and Rivadavia I can imagine Sarmiento’s story unfolding on the periphery of that of Bastos. The book is also jarringly funny sometimes, as The Dictator takes the piss out of everyone and anyone he can lay his tongue on.
Since there is only The Dictator in this novel - he is either speaking, writing or occasionally being spoken to – his character is the novel. But is he a protagonist? Coming from a liberal democratic area of the world, the “dictator” title attached to the character of Dr. Francia should be enough to clearly answer that he is not. I would argue, however, that he is. The Supreme is a tragic protagonist, who becomes lost in his own intention/vision, and a victim of his own lack of humanity.
He does not lust after power, but assumes power in the midst of an anarchic vacuum and at the request of the other Paraguayan leaders. The Dictator goes on to firmly establish Paraguay’s independence and ensure stability for his entire reign. Education is made free and Indians are given the status of citizens. His downfall is his own paranoia, his inability to delegate and groom leaders around him. He becomes lost in a labyrinth of suspicion, deathly afraid of the international anarchy that surrounds the borders of his country and of all that he cannot directly control within his own country.
In some ways he brings to mind Fidel Castro, a leader whose own verbosity and revolutionary zeal is almost unparalleled. Like “The Supreme” Castro had Cuba sealed from foreigners for a long stretch of time to prevent moral contamination, in addition to suffering from further isolating trade embargos. Castro’s despotic power within Cuba was justified and perhaps warranted by internal threats stoked by external powers. Both of these men were liberators and raised the standard of living and education, in ways that only a person with a strong vision and a stronger hand could. Both held onto power until they no longer were physically (mentally?) capable. Castro’s legacy is yet to be determined, and will likely be less damaging than Dr. Francia’s, but the similarities remain.
Monday, February 4, 2008
The President: Second Half
The President is a book almost without redemption. On Saturday I woke up and read about a women being forced to work with ulcerating chemicals while listening to the cries of her starving child, who dies at her breasts unable to drink because of the chemical that coats them. On Sunday I went to bed having read the last half of the book and proceeded to have the most disturbing dreams and restless sleep I can remember. The image of Fedina entombing her baby in her body, clinging to her dead baby who has begun to rot in the midst of a brothel is simultaneously so tender and brutal. That image will stick in my mind for a long time. Maybe this is the redeeming moment of the book. It is only among among Dona Chon's prostitutes, among women, that we find an outpouring of humanity; humans acting compassionately together. The concern of the prostitutes and the lavish funeral and wake that are given to Fedina's son is a question mark that remains at the end of The President.
When I say that there is no redemption in this book it is because nothing good happens to anyone good. Camilla ends up heart broken and half crazy, perhaps the concubine of the President. Fedina is rewarded for trying to save General Canales with the death of her son. Angel who is "as beautiful and wicked as Satan" does not live up to this oft repeated line. He saves the Zany, Camilla, General Canales and later major Farfan. While it is true that only the former was selfless in that the others were motivated by his desire to save Camilla from her death, it is my belief that there are few truly selfless acts in the world. Much of what we do to help others is self-gratifying in some way. My point? Angel is the story's protagonist, and moved by love he does not live up to his description as Satan. His good deeds, his metamorphosis from the President's errand boy to a compassionate citizen of the republic is rewarded with a brutal death sentence carried out by a man he saved.
When I say that there is no redemption in this book it is because nothing good happens to anyone good. Camilla ends up heart broken and half crazy, perhaps the concubine of the President. Fedina is rewarded for trying to save General Canales with the death of her son. Angel who is "as beautiful and wicked as Satan" does not live up to this oft repeated line. He saves the Zany, Camilla, General Canales and later major Farfan. While it is true that only the former was selfless in that the others were motivated by his desire to save Camilla from her death, it is my belief that there are few truly selfless acts in the world. Much of what we do to help others is self-gratifying in some way. My point? Angel is the story's protagonist, and moved by love he does not live up to his description as Satan. His good deeds, his metamorphosis from the President's errand boy to a compassionate citizen of the republic is rewarded with a brutal death sentence carried out by a man he saved.
The President: First Half
The President is a phenomenally complex and ever changing narration. Asturias' style brings to mind Herman Hesse' Steppenwolfe as the focus moves back and forth between a realistic, gritty and detailed account of reality to a world of feelings and fantastic figurative language. In spite of such quick changes from the realistic to the fantastic, and from narrative to verse, the the novel makes two things clear very quickly: this is a world that has come unhinged and is also a place that has suffered from oppression for a long time.
The "specter of death" that hangs over the cradle of Fedina's son; the laughing of the children at the violence and tears of Don Benjamin's puppet; the public urinals that weep for the death of Zany; the secret police being "spotted" as the career of the future. All of these descriptions are to be found at the beginning of book, and though they are more subtle than the individual acts violence that occur, they speak of a society that is permeated with violence and underpinned by a kind of hopeless grief.
The President is a book about a dictator, but Asturias wants us to know immediately that this is not a world of military order, but of chaos; it is a world that has come unhinged. The very first page is an unforgettable description of the “confraternity of a dunghill” on the Cathedral porch. The beggars that are described are apparently only half human as they lack many human faculties and certainly have none of the camaraderie one might expect in a group of humans who know each other. The second chapter, The Flight of Zany, is an intimate introduction to the insane as the reader is led through back allies screaming "Mother!!". Only somewhat less out of control are the children that stream through the streets on the Holiday that occurs in following chapters, fighting, stealing and torturing insects as they go on. With such insanity around him, Angel’s transition from smooth protagonist to troubled and frenzied lover on pages 141/142 is somehow less of a shock. The fit of desperate and insane rage which finally results in his death is almost foretold through the interspersion of such episodes and details throughout the first part of the book.
The "specter of death" that hangs over the cradle of Fedina's son; the laughing of the children at the violence and tears of Don Benjamin's puppet; the public urinals that weep for the death of Zany; the secret police being "spotted" as the career of the future. All of these descriptions are to be found at the beginning of book, and though they are more subtle than the individual acts violence that occur, they speak of a society that is permeated with violence and underpinned by a kind of hopeless grief.
The President is a book about a dictator, but Asturias wants us to know immediately that this is not a world of military order, but of chaos; it is a world that has come unhinged. The very first page is an unforgettable description of the “confraternity of a dunghill” on the Cathedral porch. The beggars that are described are apparently only half human as they lack many human faculties and certainly have none of the camaraderie one might expect in a group of humans who know each other. The second chapter, The Flight of Zany, is an intimate introduction to the insane as the reader is led through back allies screaming "Mother!!". Only somewhat less out of control are the children that stream through the streets on the Holiday that occurs in following chapters, fighting, stealing and torturing insects as they go on. With such insanity around him, Angel’s transition from smooth protagonist to troubled and frenzied lover on pages 141/142 is somehow less of a shock. The fit of desperate and insane rage which finally results in his death is almost foretold through the interspersion of such episodes and details throughout the first part of the book.
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