The Boom novels, with their formal and linguistic experiments, their intellectualism, and their impersonal tendencies, could seemingly not be farther from the testimonial narrative's emphasis on simplicity, populism, and individual experience. However, both modes shared one key trait: a strong rejection of sentimental or amorous themes.
The Boom clearly sidelined the exploration and portrayal of human feelings in favor of a vast novelistic project some critics have characterized as the creation of a totalizing metaphor of Spanish America. Sentimentalism seemingly had no place in novels whose primary aims were to transplant the traits of avant-garde narrative into the Spanish American milieu and to confront the enigmas and perplexities of the continent's cultural identity. However, there soon arose in the late sixties and throughout the seventies a new group of younger writers who have come to be known as the "Post-Boom.
All of these authors have tended to reject the massive narratives of the "total novel" and have instead engaged in a critique of the ideological principles of that modality from various perspectives, ranging from the extreme avant-garde in the works of Arenas, Sarduy, and more recently, Diamela Eltit to that of more conventional narrative forms such as the testimonial novel, the new historical novel, detective fiction, and what I would call the new sentimental novel. Amongst this somewhat confusing variety of narrative approaches, the two most influential and long-lasting, in my view, have been the testimonial and the sentimental narratives.
Testimonial narrative predominated from the late sixties through the early eighties, driven by the revolutionary fervor and the political struggles taking place in Spanish America, including events such as the right-wing coup against Salvador Allende in Chile, Argentina's "dirty war," the civil war in El Salvador, and the Sandinista revolution in Nicaragua.
Nevertheless, today the testimonial genre has entered a decline. As George M.
Gugelberger points out, testimonial narrative "clearly seems to have lost the energy to significantly alter institutional discourses. The critical discourse focused on testimonio is moving on to other topics. The icon has been unmasked as another fetish" In my view, the critical "unmasking" of testimonio is a result and not the cause of the gradual loss of importance suffered by the testimonial genre by the end of the s.
By then, testimonial narrative began to be displaced by a wide range of sentimental and amorous narratives whose popularity grew as Spanish America was undergoing processes of political "redemocratization" and economic "globalization" encouraged by the neoliberal policies then in vogue.
With the end of the Cold War, the fall of the Soviet Union, and the loss of interest in the revolutionary option, there arose in Spanish America a concern with healing and rebuilding of not only conflict-ravaged political and economic systems but also entire communities as well as individual souls.
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It should be pointed out immediately that this "return to love" is not an exclusively Spanish American phenomenon. A similar tendency has occurred in other Western countries. For instance, in France during the s and s a wide variety of writers and theorists published works that proclaimed and often exemplified a return to the sentimental language of lovers: A Lover's Discourse by Roland Barthes, The Post Card by Jacques Derrida, Elemental Passions by Luce Irigaray, Tales of Love by Julia Kristeva, and The Wisdom of Love by Alain Finkielraut, among others.
The newly democratic Spain of the post-Franco years also experienced an increase in narrative works that exalted subjectivity and sentimentalism above the simplifications of political ideologies. In the United States, critic Wendy Steiner has observed "a shift in taste toward a kind of fiction that was pioneered by contemporary women writers" and has remarked that "if the post-modern period opened with metafictional fireworks, it closes with the extraordinary commonplace of love" Among the many examples that could be cited are recent works by two important authors linked to the political left and the artistic avant-garde in this country: the Neo-Romantic novel The Volcano Lovers by the late Susan Sontag and the book of essays by bell hooks, All About Love: New Visions Undoubtedly, the turn toward love in the Post-Boom novelists has been motivated by a variety of factors.
To the sociopolitical ones I have mentioned there may also be added the rapid growth in the Spanish American reading public and the desire of both authors and publishers to produce more accessible and readable works. Significantly, the Post-Boom gave prominence, perhaps for the first time in Spanish American literary history, to female novelists, from the Chileans Allende and Serrano to the Mexicans Poniatowska and Mastretta, among others. Another factor more linked to aesthetic considerations may be the one given by Barthes as a rationale for his own turn toward sentimentalism in A Lover's Discourse : the wish to carry out a "transgression of transgression.
Love and sentimentality had become embarrassing, almost obscene notions for the modern tradition. The return to them would thus be a new sort of violation of the dominant aesthetic codes. This is certainly what the Post-Boom narratives do with regard to their precursors in the Boom and the testimonial narrative. Barthes's example serves additionally as a reminder that this return to sentimentalism is not limited to heterosexual desire, but is also strongly indebted to a neoplatonic tradition that encompasses homosexual love. Although heterosexuality seems to prevail among the characters and situations of the new Spanish American sentimental novels, homosexuality is by no means rejected as a legitimate form of love.
Consonant with these novels' frequent critique of machismo, all varieties of love are treated with respect. To the social, market, and aesthetic motives for the turn to sentimentalism yet another one may be added, of a philosophical nature: It is the ethical questioning of the relation between writing and violence. As I have argued elsewhere, there is in Western literature a pervasive tendency toward what I have called "graphophobia," that is, the fear and distrust of the written word Killer Books and ff.
This attitude arises, in my view, from an ancient linkage between writing and violence. The age-old association of writing with power, with control, and with the idea of the figurative "cutting" or mutilation of the body has led many writers to reflect on the apparent complicity between writing and evil.
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In turn, the historical circumstances of the arrival of alphabetical writing to the Americas in the midst of the violent conquest and colonization of the New World have made the bond between writing and violence somewhat more visible in Spanish America than in other places. Such reflections have led in turn to attempts to "redeem" literature from its associations with violence. Ironically, two of the texts that signal most tellingly the beginning of the new sentimental narrative in Spanish America—Miguel Barnet's Rachel's Song and Elena Poniatowska's Dear Diego —were written by two authors who are also credited with giving rise to the contemporary Spanish American testimonial narrative.
However, before discussing the origins of the new sentimental novel in these two works, it is necessary to explain what I mean by "sentimental" and to reflect at some length about the link between love and writing presupposed by this new narrative. To understand the nature of literary sentimentalism one must turn to literary history, and in particular to the vogue for sentimentalism that occurred in late-eighteenth-century European narrative.
Nevertheless, the ideological background of these works is quite different from that of the eighteenth-century works that bear the same name, and their resemblance is mostly due to their shared use of the themes and the rhetoric of courtly love. The aesthetics of eighteenth-century sentimentalism are largely based on the moral philosophy of British thinkers as diverse as Thomas Hobbes, Adam Smith, the Earl of Shaftesbury, and David Hume. For Hobbes in his Leviathan and Smith in The Wealth of Nations , humanity is irremediably fallen and sinful, and self-centeredness and the desire for power are the principal forces that move people in their daily affairs.
Conversely, Shaftesbury and Hume believe that human beings have an inner moral sense by means of which they organize their perceptions of the outside world. It is this moral sense which produces a natural tendency toward benevolence, philanthropy, and social harmony. Eighteenth-century sentimental narrative dramatizes the clash between these two visions of humanity by means of the struggle of its benevolent, virtuous, and sensible protagonists in the mold of Shaftesbury and Hume with a self-centered, scheming, and utilitarian society like that seen by Hobbes and Smith.
Notions such as that of Freud's unconscious are, of course, alien to eighteenth-century sentimental fiction. In its characters' psyche nothing is hidden, and that which is not expressed does not exist. Thus, not only do sentimental protagonists openly express their emotions, but they do so in an exemplary way, as models of virtue and goodness.
They often suffer the blows of an indifferent or hostile society, and their suffering is displayed as a lesson in humane sensibility and a moral imperative to be compassionate. The typical sentimental protagonist—whether male or female—is most often represented as a fragile, friendly, and trusting individual. Their story is usually set in a context of family and affective relations that are characterized by their instability.
Although they may be wayward and lonely individuals, sentimental protagonists are not antisocial beings. To the contrary, they are always in search of love and compassion. They therefore place the highest possible value on whatever few ties of affection they have been able to establish, be they of kinship, love, or friendship. In economic matters, whether by aristocratic scruples or by ideological conviction, sentimental protagonists are anticapitalists. When they have money, they give it away to their friends or spend it on humanitarian works; when they do not, they retire to live in the country, to cultivate their garden like Voltaire's Candide.
Needless to say, although eighteenth-century sentimentalism requires bodily expression by means of tears, trembling, laughter, and so on, sexual passion is usually avoided as it generates emotions that are too wrenching—such as jealousy—that can act against the feelings of sympathy and benevolence. The language of eighteenth-century sensibility seeks to avoid irony at all costs, since it aims to provoke in the reader the same emotions it portrays.
This explains its tendency to describe in minute detail the characters' feelings and the gestures that accompany them. This tendency often creates an extreme and involuntarily humorous disparity between bodily gestures, which are usually instantaneous and fleeting, and the torrent of words with which the narrator attempts to describe them. Exclamation signs, parentheses, textual lacunae, and typographical aberrations of various sorts are among the many resources used by sentimental authors in their attempt to supplement the insufficiency of writing to convey feelings: recall, for example, Tristram Shandy 's use of black and marbled pages , In general, the trope of anacoluthon predominates in the rhetoric of sentimental fiction.
Richard Lanham defines it: "Ending a sentence with a different grammatical structure from that with which it began. Both a vice and a device to demonstrate emotion and, Dupriez reminds us, an affair of conversation rather than written utterance" Anacoluthon, says Barthes in his essay on Chateaubriand, "is simultaneously a rupture in sentence structure and the starting point of a new meaning. It is to begin anew when one has not yet finished" "Chateaubriand" By means of this trope the narrator flirts with incoherence and brings in digression and narrative perspectivism with the aim of drawing the reader into the complexities of the sentimental situation.
A good twentieth-century example, as well as a fine description of the trope, is evidenced in the meditations of Pedro Balbuena, the protagonist of Bryce Echenique's second novel, Tantas veces Pedro :. When feelings remain, the story never ends. Whatever the outcome may be, the story never ends. My stories, Sophie, my own stories seem to be always giving me new energy and they even begin again and they end again, it all depends to whom you're telling them or who asks you to tell them, or the state you're in when you start telling them to yourself again.
The use of anacoluthon in the sentimental novel's discourse leads us to one of the fundamental ideological problems of this type of fiction, which was first explicitly manifested in the eighteenth-century sentimental narratives. Michael Bell defines the problem thus in Sentimentalism, Ethics, and the Culture of Feeling : "The circular logic of eighteenth-century sentiment is that, even as it used fictional means, it constantly sought to deny the category of the fictional" Sentimental novels were fictions, and they were received as such by their readers; nevertheless, an important part of their attractiveness lay in the belief that these novels produced real feelings in their readers, or at least placed them in contact with a true emotional experience.
As Bell points out, in the English tradition of the sentimental novel there was a strong tendency to insist on the "truth" of the feelings that were fictionally represented in novels and to reflect on how those feelings could be converted, in the reader's mind, into a posture of moral sympathy or emotional identification Nevertheless, the eighteenth-century debates about the importance of feelings in public life, about the difference between sentimentalism and sentiment, and about sentimental fiction's effectiveness in provoking benevolent actions by its readers, took a new turn during the mid-nineteenth century, when authors such as Charles Dickens began to deal with the ontology of feelings in a new way.
As Bell observes:. Rather than being entangled in literalistic views of moral psychology, as was the case with the initial understanding of sentiment, nineteenth-century writers could see its forms and rhetoric not just as an outdated but as a largely literary fashion, or more precisely as a set of emotional tropes ambiguously placed between psychological mechanisms and literary conventions. Hence, without necessarily resolving the intrinsic antinomies of moral sentimentalism, they could see it with a different kind of detachment and turn its now familiar tropes into an analytic means of insight into the elusiveness of moral feeling.
Above all, Dickens' quite overt sense of fiction, and his play of humour, highlight the unwittingly fictive and rhetorical nature of sentiment itself. Moreover, these and other writers also find in the sentimentalism of popular culture and the mass media a widely shared code that makes it easier to communicate with their readers. It is clear, however, that although sentimental fiction usually centers on love, not all sentimental narratives deal with amorous feelings in the same way.
At least since the mid-nineteenth century, there have been narratives that deal with love in an ironic fashion.
These narratives—from Stendhal's The Red and the Black to Flaubert's A Sentimental Education in its version —seek to avoid the codified sentimental gestures I have just described, although the analysis of passionate feelings continues to be their primary concern. The new sentimental narrative in Spanish America, as will be seen throughout this book, wavers between these two extremes: an eighteenth-century-style sentimentalism motivated by "philanthropic" impulses to use an eighteenth-century term and an ironic though no less subjective view of the effects of amorous passion.
Barthes's observations about the rhetoric of sentimentalism lead also toward more general questions about the relationship between love and language whether spoken or written in the discourse of sentimental narrative. We are so used to thinking about love as one of the archthemes of literature, almost as an end in itself, that it is difficult to conceive that amorous topics could be vehicles for other, no less fundamental concerns of literary writing.
Nevertheless, this is indeed what happens in a good number of works from the modern and postmodern literary tradition. As one example among many, one might recall the use of love as a symbol for the union between Spirit and Nature in Romantic philosophy and poetry, as studied by M.
Abrams in Natural Supernaturalism Looking back at the classical tradition, the dialogues of Plato, particularly Phaedrus and the Symposium , insistently connect discussion about the essence of love with language and writing. In the modern and postmodern periods there is an increasingly intense return to this pairing of love and communication. For argument's sake, I would like to make a rather sweeping statement: All amorous writing presupposes that love and language including written language are fundamentally linked, and that both depend on one another in order to exist.
In fact, the link between love and systems of representation has become a commonplace notion in works dealing with love in a variety of disciplines. In the social sciences, for example, sociologist Niklas Luhmann's book Love as Passion: The Codification of Intimacy studies love as "a generalized symbolic medium of communication" 18 , while anthropologist William Jankowiak, in his introduction to the anthology Romantic Passion: A Universal Experience? It is based on the intense feelings for another, feelings of immense and complex psychological depth that need to be cultivated and renewed.
It is an intimacy most readily observed. From a psychoanalytical perspective, Julia Kristeva observes in Tales of Love that "love has become the privileged literary space of the passion of signs constituted by their literary condensation and polyvalence" 18 , and Judith Butler, in her essay "Desire," points out that "desire is always to some degree displaced in and by language" Imitation does not aim to simplify but to complicate erotic play, thus accentuating its nature as a form of representation.
Man imitates the complexity of animal sexuality and reproduces its amusing, terrible, or ferocious gestures because he wishes to return to the natural state. At the same time, that imitation is a game, a form of theater. Man wants to go out of himself—to be always outside his self. Man wants to be a lion, an eagle, an octopus, an ant, a mocking bird. We miss the creative import of such imitation if we do not realize that it is a metaphor: man wants to be a lion without ceasing to be man.
That is to say: he wants to be a man but he behaves like a lion. The word like —an image by comparison—implies both the distance between the two terms, man and lion, as well as the will to abolish them. The word like is the erotic game itself, the cypher of eroticism. In many of the recent Spanish American sentimental novels, the link between love and writing is often clearly mediated by eroticism conceived as a code, as a system of signs and signals.
Love arises in these narrations from communication by means of erotic signs that may at first be nonverbal but that move quickly to the sphere of spoken or written language. Writing in many of these contemporary sentimental novels appears not as a simple palliative for the absence of the loved one, but as an activity that shares in the visual, sensorial nature of eroticism: it is another form of erotic gesturing. My understanding of writing coincides in general with that proposed by the late Jacques Derrida in works such as Of Grammatology and Dissemination , which views the act of writing as a differential activity in time as well as space.
To elaborate further at this point seems superfluous, since this is already such a familiar notion. Instead, I believe it is more important to explain the view of love that serves as my point of departure for this book. This view focuses less on the ontology of love a question that is still, and will probably continue to be, debated and debatable than on a typology of amorous experience which has led to the formulation of two opposing concepts of love in the Western tradition. This, in turn, is nourished by obscure religious sources—among others, the Manichaean and Catharist sects—for whom love was a way to achieve transcendence by freeing the soul of its fleshly prison and imbuing it with the "infinite desire" to unite with the divinity This "divinization" of love as eros by the troubadours tends to glorify passion, that is, the suffering produced by amorous desire, since it is through suffering that the soul is freed from the flesh in order to be united with the divine.
This is a fundamentally egotistic conception of love, since the mystical union can only occur between the individual soul and God. The love object, the beloved, fulfills in eros only an instrumental function; it is simply a means to achieve union with the divinity. Obstacles to the lovers' amorous union play a paradoxical role in the economy of eros, since the greater these impediments are, the greater the suffering, and the greater also is the spiritual purification that is the ultimate goal of the lovers Nevertheless, for De Rougemont the notion of love as eros has always existed in a tense relationship with another concept of love, that of Christian agape.
In this concept, through the incarnation of Christ the spirit descends into matter and becomes one with it, mixing the material with the spiritual, the human with the divine Love as agape is opposed to the passion of eros, since its ultimate goal is achieving the communion of the faithful, the love of neighbors, instead of the individual soul's union with God. Bringing heaven down to earth, agape also discards the idea of suffering as a means of reaching transcendence, since it assumes that contact with the divinity is a gift that God freely gives to humanity.
The model for agape is the institution of marriage, the link between two beings who love each other equally, without one being superior to the other If we consider eros and agape as metaphors of two kinds of writing, we see then that eros is associated with a notion of writing and, by extension, of reading as an arduous and oppressive activity that is linked to suffering and is afflicted by disjunction, distance, and violence.
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Writing and reading, in this view, are moved by the perpetually excited as well as perpetually impeded desire of achieving transcendence whether of intellect or spirit, it matters little. Writing and reading would be in this sense profoundly passionate activities, with a passion moved by the promise that at the end transcendence will be reached as union with a collective or universal knowledge.
On the other hand, the idea of writing as agape emphasizes the communicative aspects of reading and writing and regards the text as a successful mediator and link between writers and readers. Agape does not see writing as problematical or only to a lesser extent and underscores instead those elements that simplify the search for the text's meaning: the evocation of orality, acceptance of the conventions of literary genre, personification, and verisimilitude, among many others. The text's meaning is easily—almost didactically—discovered. Reading and writing then become instances of the atemporal experience of "happy love" which, as De Rougemont points out, "has no history" 15 , and is a joyful state of grace in which writers and readers share the experience as equals.
In an essay that paved the way for the revalorization of sentimentalism by today's literary criticism, "Sentimental Power: Uncle Tom's Cabin and the Politics of Literary History" , Jane P. Tompkins, like Barthes in A Lover's Discourse , attacks the modernist or avant-garde notion of literature, for which "works whose stated purpose is to influence the course of history, and which therefore employ a language that is not only unique but common and accessible to everyone, do not qualify as works of art" Tompkins 84; Tompkins's italics.
Instead, Tompkins proposes that "the work of the sentimental writers is complex and significant in ways other than those which characterize the established masterpieces" She further adds that, to understand the power these fictions had in their time, today's readers must "set aside some familiar categories for evaluating fiction—stylistic intricacy, psychological subtlety, epistemological complexity—and to see the sentimental novel, not as an artifice of eternity answerable to certain formal criteria and to certain psychological and philosophical concerns, but as a political enterprise, halfway between sermon and social theory, that both codifies and attempts to mold the values of its time" Tompkins's comments about a nineteenth-century U.
The contemporary Spanish American writers' interest in sentimentalism, rather than stemming from an egotism or self-centeredness that turns its back on the world, arises instead from the desire to keep making visible the connection between narrative fiction and its sociohistoric and cultural circumstances. In particular, the tension between eros and agape found in this new narrative may also be understood as a debate between two different concepts of writing's social function. That debate is visible from the start in two of the main texts that I consider to be at the origins of the new Spanish American sentimental narrative: Rachel's Song and Dear Diego.
As we shall see, Barnet and Poniatowska dismantle in their respective works the referentiality, the truth-claims, and the ethical Manichaeanism of testimonial narrative. It is not by chance that the protagonists of these two works are associated with written language in Rachel's case, with a variety of theatrical and poetic texts, and in Quiela's with the letters she writes to Diego as well as with visual forms of representation such as theater and painting.
These works also openly explore Octavio Paz's view of eroticism as a system of signs, as a kind of proto-art, but, most importantly, they put to the test the transgressive capacity of sentimentalism, as Barthes conceives it, as well as Tompkins's notion of "sentimental power. No less important is the fact that there had also taken place, from to , a harsh repressive campaign against Cuban homosexuals. In the literary sphere, some of the most significant and experimental works of postrevolutionary Cuban literature had already been published, including Carpentier's El siglo de las luces Explosion in a Cathedral, , Lezama Lima's Paradiso , Arenas's Celestino antes del alba Celestino Before Dawn, , Sarduy's De donde son los cantantes Where the Singers Are From, , and Cabrera Infante's Tres tristes tigres.
Biography of a Runaway Slave had been quickly exalted as the prototype of the "new" revolutionary literature, which showed a less nostalgic attitude toward the immediate prerevolutionary past than some of the previously mentioned works and aspired to rewrite Cuban history from a revolutionary perspective by offering "the history of people without history.
Some statements by Barnet made it seem as if this work would be the beginning of a series of testimonial novels in which Barnet would present, in Fernando Ortiz's phrase, "the human elements of Cubanness," that is, a gallery of "social types" representing the various strata of Cuban culture: the blacks, Spaniards, Chinese, and women.
However, in practice the projected series immediately changed course with the publication of Rachel's Song , a work that exceeds Barnet's original anthropological or ethnographic scheme. Rather than examining the life of a "typical" Cuban woman if there were such a thing , the work centers on the life story of a chorus girl from a notorious vaudeville theater in Havana named El Alhambra.
Moreover, as Andrew Bush points out, "while Rachel is white, her Hungarian mother and German father leave her a racial curiosity in Cuba, and. Rachel's own work as a chorus girl and singer not only underscores her atypical nature, but also distances her from the testimonial genre's truth-claims, linking her instead to the dubious and labyrinthine milieu of the theater. If the identity of the narrator in Biography of a Runaway Slave is already problematical, in Rachel it turns into a Borgesian abyss of reflected images, symbolized in the text by the recurrent metaphor of the mirror to which I will return later.
Furthermore, as Barnet indicates in his prologue to the text, "Rachel" is not a "real," unique, existing individual as Esteban Montejo was, but is in fact a composite character based on interviews with various chorus girls who worked at the Alhambra Rachel 9. The work also breaks with Runaway Slave 's first-person monologue by incorporating other voices that often explicitly comment on or reply to her statements. In this sense, although compared to the Boom novels Rachel's Song is easier to read, compared to Runaway Slave it is a more formally complex text.
Partly due to this greater formal complexity, most critics have regarded Rachel's Song as a more unequivocally "literary" text than Biography of a Runaway Slave. However, the most profound break between Rachel's Song and the model of testimonial narrative embodied in Biography of a Runaway Slave lies precisely in the former's emphasis on sentiment. This emphasis can be seen not only in Rachel's overt reflections on this issue "Caruso cried, and all of Cuba cried along with him—that's how sentimental my country is," but in her own personality and in the often melodramatic circumstances she experiences.
And this happens in spite of Barnet's attempts to distance his text ironically from the figure of Rachel by means of the critical comments voiced by other characters in the book that interrupt Rachel's monologues like the chorus in a Greek tragedy—among them, Esteban Montejo himself The database is a work in progress and it will continue to be updated and modified over time.
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