Tropics of History Cuba Imagined

Tropics of History
TROPICS OF HISTORY
Cuba Imagined
ALAN WEST
BERGIN & GARVEY

Westport, Connecticut • London
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
West, Alan, 1953–

Tropics of history : Cuba imagined / Alan West.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index.
ISBN 0–89789–338–7 (alk. paper)
1. Cuban literature—20th century—History and criticism.
2. Cuba—In literature. 3. Literature and history—Cuba. 4. Cuba—
History. I. Title.
PQ7378.W4 1997
860.9′97291′0904—dc21 96–47628
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available.
Copyright  1997 by Alan West
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be
reproduced, by any process or technique, without
the express written consent of the publisher.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 96–47628
ISBN: 0–89789–338–7
First published in 1997
Bergin & Garvey, 88 Post Road West, Westport, CT 06881
An imprint of Greenwood Publishing Group, Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
The paper used in this book complies with the

Permanent Paper Standard issued by the National
Information Standards Organization (Z39.48–1984).
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Copyright Acknowledgments
The author and the publisher are grateful to the following for granting
permission to reprint from their materials:
Passages from Nancy Morejón’s poems “Ana Mendieta” and “Before a Mirror”
(Summer 1994, pp. 618–22); Lourdes Casal’s “For Anna Veldford” (Summer
1994, pp. 415–16); and Dulce María Loynaz’s “Eternity” (translations by Davide
Frye) appear courtesy of The Michigan Quarterly Review.
Translations by Alan West from Dulce María Loynaz in These Are Not Sweet Girls,
edited by Marjorie Agosín (1994), appear courtesy of White Pine Press.
Excerpts taken from the works of Dulce María Loynaz appear courtesy of Dulce
María Loynaz.
Excerpts taken from the works of Nancy Morejón appear courtesy of Nancy
Morejón.
Translations by Kathleen Weaver of Nancy Morejón’s “Amo a mi Amo,” “Piedra
Pulida,” “Madre,” “Los ojos de Elegguá,” and “Elogio de Nieves Fresneda,” in
Where the Island Sleeps Like a Wing by Nancy Morejón, appear courtesy of Black
Scholar Press.
Excerpts from Alan West’s historical essays on Cuba printed in the CD-ROM
“American Journey: The Hispanic American Experience” appear courtesy of
Primary Source Media, Inc.
Translations by Alan West of Elías Miguel Muñoz’s “Vaticinios” appear courtesy
of Elías Miguel Muñoz.
Contents
A Suggestion for the Reader ix
Acknowledgments xi
Introduction Tropics of History: Cuba Imagined 1
One Nancy Morejón: Poet of Cultural Crossroads 13

The Stone and Its Images 16
Two Alejo Carpentier: Symphonist of History’s Emblems 35

History as Stepping Razor: Tragedy and Revolution in
Explosion in a Cathedral 37
Three Virgilio Piñera: History to the Bone 55

History and Its Doubles: The Master–Slave Dialectic, or
What Happens When Hegel Meets the Keystone Cops 58
Four Dulce María Loynaz: Cuba’s Living History 85

The House Where the Nation Dreams 88
Five José Lezama Lima: The Re-Enchantment of the Wor(l)d 107

Dragons and Theurgy: Lezama’s Images of History 110
viii CONTENTS
Six Severo Sarduy: Histories as Desire 139

Cross-Dressing as Transculturation 141
Seven Paradigms Lost: The Manigua of Meaning 163
Coda Living Tropes, Living Hopes 181
Appendix Cuban History: An Overview 187
Bibliography 201
Index 211
A Suggestion for the Reader
If you have little or no prior knowledge of Cuba before reading this book,
I strongly recommend reading the Appendix first, since it is a basic outline
of Cuban history from pre-Columbian times to the present. Even readers
somewhat familiar with Cuban history should find it helpful in refreshing
their memories. The Appendix, however, is no substitute for more complete
studies on Cuban history, and following the Appendix there is a list of
selected readings so that readers can pursue lengthier, more detailed, and
complete studies on the subject.
Each chapter on individual writers begins with an introduction that
gives an overall evaluation of the author and places him or her within the
wider context of Cuban literature and history. This should be helpful to the
reader, particularly where a small part of the author’s work is discussed, as
is the case with Alejo Carpentier, Virgilio Piñera, José Lezama Lima, and
Severo Sarduy.
Acknowledgments
This book owes a debt of gratitude to Hayden White, who in turn is equally
indebted to Vico and Kenneth Burke. His books Tropics of Discourse (which
contains a chapter on Vico called “Tropics of History”) and Metahistory: The
Historical Imagination in Nineteenth Century Europe have been valuable in
helping me understand the rhetorical strategies underlying the narratives
of history. Vico, Burke, and White have been equally important in bringing
clarity to some of my readings of José Lezama Lima (none of them, espe-
cially Vico, has read Lezama), whose highly metaphorical historical essay
La expresión americana has shaped this book in many unexpected ways.
Perhaps my greatest debt is to Antonio Benítez Rojo and his work The
Repeating Island. Even if I have not quoted extensively from it, the audacity
and scope of its imagining and questioning have made this book possible.
César Salgado was extremely helpful in making some ideas take on greater
shape. I am grateful to Pío Serrano for providing valuable information on
the Nancy Morejón chapter.
Finally, I am grateful to Ester Shapiro, who has been a loving and
rigorous editor and an extraordinary companion. With her inimitable Cu-
ban chutzpah, she has stimulated the creative and critical faculties that have
made this book become a reality.
INTRODUCTION
Tropics of History: Cuba Imagined
History is the most dangerous product evolved from the chemistry of

the intellect. Its properties are well known. It causes dreams, it intoxi-
cates whole peoples, gives them false memories, quickens their reflexes,
keeps their old wounds open, torments them in their repose, leads them
into delusions either of grandeur or persecution, and makes nations
bitter, arrogant, insufferable, and vain.
History will justify anything. It teaches precisely nothing, for it con-
tains everything and furnishes examples of everything.
— Paul Valéry
We comfort ourselves by reliving memories of protection. Something
closed must retain our memories, while leaving them their original
values as images. Memories of the outside world will never have the
same tonality as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we
add to our store of dreams. We are never real historians, but always
near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of
poetry that was lost.
— Gaston Bachelard
Cuba and its history are continuously being imagined. Both from within
and afar, by its own people and by interested foreigners, the island has
exercised a fascination that spans continents and centuries. Abetted by its
strategic geographical location, Cuba has been at different times a focal
point for Europe, North America, Africa, and Asia. The island has been a
magnet for conquerors, profiteers, dreamers, and artists. This kind of
2 TROPICS OF HISTORY
attraction is combustible material, so eloquently expressed by Carlos Fran-

qui, who says that “Cuba is an island of immigrants and emigrés. In
constant movement and danger. Coveted by the great powers. Invaded by
buccaneers and pirates. Occupied by Spaniards, Britons, North Americans.
An island of sugar and tobacco, of misery and slavery: rebellion itself”
(Brenner et al., 1989, p. xxxv). Franqui, himself a Castroite revolutionary
turned critic of fidelismo, goes on to add that in that rebellious spirit there
is a willingness to take on great challenges: “Cuba is an adventure without
fear of the unexpected, the magical, the impossible, of the unknown” (ibid.,
p. xxxiii).
The unexpected derives precisely from Franqui’s migrant island descrip-
tion. The dynamic tensions of Cuban history as an immigrant nation are a
grounding for that rebelliousness. Perhaps the very rootlessness of the
immigrant, who has given up a measure of security for the ultimate act of
imagination, reinventing the self in a new land, is a stimulus for different
kinds of defiance. Not all, of course, immigrated freely, as was the case with
Africans or Chinese indentured laborers in the nineteenth century; how-
ever, this makes their experience acquire a double-leveled resistance. If we
accept Franqui’s definition, Cuba, far from being a melting pot, is an
alchemist’s forge: the transmutation of elements (race, culture, nature, and
myth) that becomes a transcultured identity, an exploration of the Cuban
historical unconscious with its deepest fears, images, and dreams.
This rebellious spirit has sought out the island’s independence, be it in
economic, political, or cultural terms. That these three factors are inextrica-
bly linked was perhaps best expressed by José Martí when he said that there
would be no Latin American culture without Latin America. What he meant
was that an entity with a shared political vision, economy, and language
had to exist before a truly Latin American identity could flourish. The words
are equally applicable to Cuba: only its political and economic inde-
pendence could allow Cubans to claim their own culture. Martí well under-
stood the cost of imperial imagery imposed on the island from outside.
From other shores, the island has been imagined and expressed in a series
of more familiar discourses with a plethora of images: Pearl of the Antilles,
tropical paradise, whorehouse of the Caribbean, Cuba as gold mine, cane
field (slave trade), military outpost (strategic location/geopolitical pawn),
tourist haven/exotic folkloric locale (flesh depot, fun in the sun, shed your
inhibitions), investment opportunity (source of cheap labor), showcase for
third world liberation movements (under USSR aegis), or revolutionary
menace/terrorist haven (as U.S. nightmare). Cuba’s images of “otherness”
come from outside observers or covetous foreign powers. What happens
when we look at Cuba from within, as imagined by its own best poetic
historians? A fountain of images will gush forth, perhaps not as obvious,
contesting many of these more well-known yet exploitative and constrain-
ing images.
CUBA IMAGINED 3
Martí’s quest for sovereignty at every level was inclusive. His national-
ism embraced an internationalist perspective which artfully mixed in the
ideas, cosmologies, religions, science, and art of Latin America, Europe,
North America, Africa, and Asia. In his vivid poetic parlance he has set a
standard for all Cuban writers, the poet-warrior, one which will probably
never again be embodied in one person. For Martí, creating a free nation
meant you had to act like a soldier and imagine as a writer.
To construct a nation implies a narrative (na[rra]tion) of what is being
built, and usually the narrative is an epic tale. Epics depict heroic deeds,
conquests, victorious wars. Their heroes can be human or divine, but even
when human they must perform divine deeds. They are the foundational
tales or myths of a nation or a culture, and these narratives are central(izing)
definitions of a country or a people. Homi Bhabha reminds us that nation
building involves a “syntax of forgetting.” The written sentence of nation
narrative is a way of sentencing other histories to oblivion. The formulaic
aspect of epic/nation narrative requires suppressing many aspects of a
country’s history: not only complex political forces but also its class divi-
sions, racial divides, or sexual differences. Cuban poet and narrator Ro-
lando Sánchez Mejías, rejecting formulaic heroism, echoes his own doubts
by saying his work does not form part of the “epico-sentimental guild” that
characterizes much Cuban writing. Poets and writers speak to the hidden
nation—a truly independent clause?—that the “syntax of forgetting”
would sentence to silence.
Martí’s greatness derived from his ability to offer an image or dream of
nationhood that wholly embraced a complex, multidimensional people and
body politic. His death (1895) before the nominal achievement of inde-
pendence (1902) no doubt helped make his subsequent iconization an even
more potent rallying point. By welding together an empowering political
discourse with an imaginative poetics, Martí founded a unique kind of
subjectivity, as well as a more inclusive definition of nationhood. Martí
viewed politics as an art form, poetry as a kind of Edenic adventure
naming/creating the world. His generosity of spirit viewed the human
subject as a crossroads engaged in an Emersonian cosmic dialogue. Poetry
as an aesthetic creative language is a nonmanipulative corrective to the
desiring, acquisitive, pragmatic exhortation of politics and science. Poetry’s
way of thinking avails itself of relatedness, ethical questioning with no
ready-made answers, and a knowledge derived from wonder, and steers
away from the realm of utility, moral certitude, and narrow cognition. Elias
Canetti said, “There should be a description of the way thoughts grow
between people.” For Martí this desire to express not only the “hope of
thought,” but the thought of hope, is perfectly embodied in the inclusive-
ness of his thinking as it grows between people in an impassioned friend-
ship from which imagination, ethics, and nationhood are collaboratively
built. Martí’s inclusiveness was expressed in these words: “not [wanting]
to be a soldier in only one side of a battle.” Moreover, these traits create

conditions for intersubjectivity (of vulnerability and giving) which allow
Martí and his conversational partners (readers) to overcome internalized
modes of domination creatively, in both the literary and political fields.
The “island of the unexpected” has produced both the first mulatto
cosmonaut and almost nuclear armageddon. The magical has brought forth
Santería and the poetry of José Lezama Lima. The impossible has been
incarnated by both José Martí at a sublime level and by an array of
politicians at the level of Grand Guignol. The headlong rush into the
unknown often confounds our received notions about human conduct or
what is possible in the realm of action and thought. Categories become
fuzzy, definitions elusive: it becomes too difficult to discern when the
rumba ends and the funeral march begins (or is it the other way around?).
In Cuba’s recent history, liberation and terror become intertwined, offering
a situation which is both entangling and stupefying. In fighting adversity,
acts of selflessness can literally become acts of suicide. In the thick of harsh
and often brutal reversals, heroism can become meaningless. To understand
some of these feats of historical imagination, this book explores different
dimensions of the island’s “sociocultural imaginary,” that is, the myths,
narratives, discourses, or fictions that constitute the foundational symbols
of Cuban identity.
This book provides a look at Cuba’s history through the minds and
images of some of its most perspicacious writers and artists. The artistic
realm offers us a distinctive way of understanding both present and latent
meanings of Cuban reality and history. The greater freedom in the aesthetic
realm means that fiction, myth, folktales, popular music, and poetry can be
brought to bear on the historical as a “dialogue between intentional sub-
jects,” as originating thought. And like Wilson Harris, I agree that “a
philosophy of history may well lie buried in the arts of the imagination.”
The rationales for the selections are as varied as the authors, but a
common thread unites them all: an audacious willingness to produce
images which take us beyond past and current dead-ends of historical
discourse. In the meaning they attach to Cuban history through their
various tropes, they question or subvert the images expressed by both
imperial outsiders and totalizing insiders. Through the prism of race,
gender, sexuality, power relationships, and notions of heroism, they fashion
their own “animistic counterpoint,” as Lezama said, speaking to the kind
of ingenuity needed to follow and interpret history, Latin American or
Cuban. Some of the authors are considered “canonical,” like Alejo Carpen-
tier (and Lezama to a lesser degree), or champions of “postmodernism”
(Severo Sarduy). Still others have been scandalously ignored outside of
Cuba (Virgilio Piñera). All six writers selected for this book achieve their
own distinctively Cuban tropes by both deep immersion and skeptical
emergence from the island’s history, a “homecoming through otherness.”
CUBA IMAGINED 5
While some of the authors spent a great deal of their adult lives outside
Cuba (Sarduy, Piñera, Carpentier), and others literally never left the island
(Lezama Lima), all six in their own way have come to understand Cuba
intimately from “afar.” The way these writers manage their closeness and
distance from the island, in itself, is used tacitly or overtly to question
notions central to Cuban nationhood and identity.
The authors’ comprehension of the island’s history is crafted through
metaphor and image. The title Tropics of History: Cuba Imagined offers an
examination of this tropical isle’s tropes of history. The sources of these
tropes are many, but to assist the reader we can distinguish four main areas:
history (Cuban and otherwise); religious/mystical thought (or its antithe-
sis, atheism, Marxism); literature (both Cuban and world); and landscape.
The sources are refracted through a poetic and personal memory, through
which, as Gaston Bachelard’s words at the beginning of this book suggest,
we make a house in history. By virtue of being poetic and personal, memory
functions not as a vehicle for nostalgia but by exploring the past through
constructed images that free us from the constraints of past and present.
The image, as in Lezama, is not a representation (an effect) but a generative
matrix. It is both original and originating. But more important, we need to
recognize that tropes are not merely artistic fantasies, not just products of
strong-willed creators, pure individualistic expressiveness. Tropes are an
intersubjective phenomenology tied to collective reality, with a lived histo-
ricity. As Richard Kearney says of Bachelard: “This phenomenological
emphasis on the originality of images leads in turn to the discovery of their
trans-subjectivity. Unlike Sartre, who saw the intentional uniqueness of each
image as implying self-enclosure, Bachelard marvelled at the mystery that
the image can be both unique to the originating consciousness, and yet
common to different subjects. . . . For Bachelard the image was revealed as a
world of dialogue between intentional subjects” (Kearney, 1991, p. 92).
Maybe the image is that hope of thought (Canetti, Martí) growing between
people, which in history is positioned from race/gender/class. This gen-
erative phenomenology of the image will allow us to explore themes such
as anti- or post-colonialism, revolution, independence, and national iden-
tity as the distinctive domain where each writer as an individual expresses
his or her common ground with Cuban history. All of the writers in this
book have lived or are still living with a direct and personal contact with
the Cuban Revolution. In many cases the work discussed does not directly
deal with the Cuban Revolution (as with Lezama, Dulce María Loynaz, and
Piñera), but nonetheless, what these authors have to say eventually inter-
sects with post–1959 events on the island. For all the writers in this volume,
history is not some remote object of study or a kind of intellectual protein
consumed to pump up the muscles of curiosity. History is a lived experience
that shapes a writer’s thoughts and art, but equally history is fashioned
through the artist’s work by virtue of its own interpretations, by the
meanings it suggests which speak to the hopes, dreams, and frustrations of

a nation’s course in time.
Cuba’s history is extraordinary in so many ways, but just its more recent
past is convulsive enough. First, there is dictatorship under Fulgencio
Batista and armed struggle through a popular guerrilla movement (1952–
59). The revolution (1959) led to the creation of the first socialist country in
the western hemisphere (1961–present), Cuba’s becoming a major player in
the cold war, and the October Missile Crisis (1962) that almost brought a
nuclear showdown between the United States and the USSR. Just before
that, the United States had invaded the island at the Bay of Pigs (1961).
Cuba’s revolutionary enthusiasm transcended its national borders, leading
to involvement in African liberation struggles (1975–89). The dramatic
ideological tensions of building a socialist/communist society produced
the Mariel Exodus (1980) and most recently the Rafter Crisis of 1994. (See
the Appendix for a historical narrative.) Any one of these events highlights
issues of sovereignty, superpower politics, the image of Cuba as a player
on a Caribbean, continental, or world stage. Why has Cuba played this large
role? As we said before, its geopolitical reality has kept it as a crossroads
(and sometimes battleground) where major powers converge. As the largest
Caribbean island it has developed a lively, transcultured society, having
been blessed with extraordinary talents such as poet/soldier/politician
José Martí, anthropologist/writer Fernando Ortiz, poet/novelist/essayist
José Lezama Lima, painter Wifredo Lam, bassist/composer Israel “Cachao”
López, and pianist/composer Ernesto Lecuona. This transcultured society
is a product of those convergences. And, more recently, Cuba took on a
“mini-superpower” status of its own (when it was funded by the USSR),
which further highlighted the nature of North-South power relationships.
Cuba’s recent history could be presented in a more dramatic, if not
biblical vein: a small, poor, third world country (David) stands up to a
superpower nation (Goliath), with ensuing miscomprehension from both
parties. This scenario has been documented and analyzed by historians,
political scientists, and policy analysts (see the suggested readings list
following the Appendix), and it is not my intention to repeat their efforts.
Instead, I will explore images of the island generated by its writers as they
struggle with the same forces that shape Cuba’s history. Many metaphors
will issue forth in the chapters of this book, none of which can be called a
central or guiding image with greater importance or “truth” than the others.
Cuba’s history, particularly since 1959, has been marked by having one (and
only one) interpretation of its history (Marxian), with the accompanying
suppression of dissident historical poetics toward an overriding central
political goal of building a classless society. If these essays are to have any
merit, they must contribute to a plurality of interpretations about its history,
without exclusions. The Marxist project is neither completely rejected nor
accepted, since it has important things to say about social justice, inequality,
CUBA IMAGINED 7
and power that are central to all aspects of Cuban history. Interpretation has
an ethical dimension (as does the imagination) and is a recognition of a
contested terrain, the shape and meaning of Cuban history, which will
acquire its truest expression through plurality. That Cuba’s history is still
(and will be) contested terrain should not be so surprising, given that the
French are still discussing the relative merits of Danton, Robespierre, and
their revolution some two hundred years after its occurrence and demise.
The following chapters make a case for different authors and thinkers as to
why their metaphors offer thought-provoking images that make us want
to explore their work or thinking more thoroughly, and through that
exploration arrive at a more complex view of Cuban history.
How are tropes useful in understanding this complexity? Through meta-
phor we see thought striving to bring together two seemingly disparate
elements, a unity-in-difference which is extremely helpful in understanding
history, a discipline fraught (and fought) with many contradictions, aims at
odds with each other, and bewildering if not murderous passions. This
implies seeing metaphor as fundamentally conceptual and not linguistic.
Metaphors and images are not just tricks or embellishments of speech, but
are integral to consciousness and knowledge. They are crucial elements of
speculative thought, in the Hegelian sense, of something positive that can
unite opposites (like the poetic imagination) by transcending the merely
sensory toward understanding. Speculative thought through metaphor
will be present throughout this book, as a way of making the history of
Cuba reveal its latent images.
A Hegelian tension between layers of meaning characterizes the use of
the word image as well. In German, bild is the word used for image, with
other associated meanings of portrait, illustration, idea, symbol, repre-
sentation, metaphor. Used in certain compound words, it can mean sculp-
tor, hieroglyph, or the face of a coin. The verb bilden means to form, shape,
cultivate, educate, or fashion, from where bildung (education, culture)
comes. Images and metaphor are (in)formative; they help shape, represent,
and configure the movements of history. They contain, by definition, dy-
namic forces of tension and reconciliation. The tropic inventiveness of
Cuba’s artists and writers helps us to understand or demystify certain
“foundational symbols of Cuban identity,” or offers alternative tropes.
Hegel’s integrative act of interpretation (speculative thought, imagistic
thinking) underlies Paul Ricoeur’s analysis of metaphor. Ricoeur points
out, “It is the conflict between these two interpretations [literal and figura-
tive] that sustains the metaphor.” Ricoeur says that there is an absurdity
involved here if we see it from the point of view of literal meaning, but it is
surpassed as the “conflict of interpretations” is worked through and
worked out. “Thus a metaphor does not exist in itself, but in and through
an interpretation. The metaphorical interpretation presupposes a literal
interpretation which self-destructs in a significant contradiction. It is this
process of self-destruction or transformation which imposes a sort of twist

on the words, an extension of meaning thanks to which we can make sense
where a literal interpretation would be literally nonsensical” (Ricoeur, 1976,
p. 50).
This self-destruction, or transformation, is part of the movement of
metaphor already suggested etymologically (meta-phora). Metaphor’s
movement or displacement of meaning from one signification to another,
or its ability to borrow meaning from one domain of “original belonging”
to a new one, might allow it to be best understood as personal and historical
problem-solving. This movement mirrors not only the movement of
thought, but suggests other kinds of movements and displacements in
Cuban history: migrations, exiles, the pendulum of political movements
and allegiances, the rhythms of Cuban nature and culture (and not just its
music), the counterpoint of event and context. The movements, rhythms,
and migrations of Cuban metaphorical discourse are nurtured by sources
other than the historical.
The religious sources of the tropes are varied, ranging from Catholicism
and Santería to Taoism, Buddhism, and Sufism. In none of the authors to
be discussed will any of these beliefs be presented in an orthodox fashion,
that is, merely offering the content of religious beliefs or systems. These
sources’ ability to evoke the sacred, the power of its imagery, work them-
selves into the writings and thoughts with eloquent persuasiveness, as is
the case with Lezama, Sarduy, Nancy Morejón, and Loynaz. Religion serves
as a ground for seeing the origins of Cuban history, as a lively conversant
with the secular and the social, as a combustive element in the crafting of
personal or collective narratives, and as a key factor in defining the shifting
parameters of Cuban identity.
The literary-philosophical sources are too vast to be discussed here, but
will come up in each chapter. They range from Cuban writers and historians
(José Martí, Fernando Ortiz, Julián del Casal, Juan Clemente Zenea, Nicolás
Guillén, Manuel Moreno Fraginals) and Latin American intellectuals, all the
way to Heraclitus, Heidegger, Samuel Beckett, James Joyce, and Thomas
Mann. The international sources are made to function in a Cuban context,
often with remarkable ease and humor, adding a new beat or voice to a
vastly complex Cuban chorus. They nourish the Cuban imagination, espe-
cially if we remember Bachelard’s definition: “Imagination is the faculty of
forming images, which go beyond reality, which sing reality.”
Landscape is a crossroads of nature, culture, myth, and history. We will
be seeing the island from within and from afar, as homeland and myth, from
the point of view of the traveler who achieves “a homecoming through
otherness,” as well as the homebound writer who turns a garden into an
entire world. Other writers examine the island’s beauty as a source of peace,
a spiritual source, an affirmation of national sovereignty, or as creatively
powerful as culture itself. All the writers draw on these four sources—
CUBA IMAGINED 9
history, religion, literature, and landscape—to fashion their tropes, trying

to sing reality, or history.
This book works at two metaphoric levels which are often indistinguish-
able. One level is the artists’ and writers’ own work, where they fashion
their own figurative language from the ashes of literalness (absurdity),
creating new metaphors with which to understand Cuban history. The
second level is the reworking or deconstruction of previous authors and
metaphors. Severo Sarduy is a vibrant example of both levels: his neo-ba-
roque aesthetic and language have yielded unique metaphors, which I have
grouped under the rubric of “cross-dressing as transculturation.” At the
second level, though, Sarduy’s work implies an engagement (as expansion,
refutation, reworking) with previous authors such as José Lezama Lima,
Alejo Carpentier, and Fernando Ortiz, all of whom explored issues of Cuban
national identity from exceptionally different perspectives.
The authors discussed in this book have created important metaphors
which have generated significant insight into Cuba’s history. They are not
glib, flashy images which titillate and then fade away, but are constantly
recreating that tension so crucial to good metaphor. That is, the tension
which constantly creates its own meaning, by virtue of the “conflict of
interpretation,” so that when these new metaphors are used to comment on
the foundational symbols, they find the latter often coming up short. If you
prefer, these symbols have become “dead metaphors.”
Symbols bear an affinity with metaphor but create no “semantic imper-
tinence” between the primary (literal) meaning and the secondary (figura-
tive) meaning. The figurative significance happens through the literal
meaning, as the meaning between many (Ricoeur). It is more “bound” than
metaphor, usually forging a direct link to cosmic/natural forces, as when
Cuba is referred to as the Pearl of the Antilles or the land of royal palms.
Metaphor, being more “bound” to discourse, is freer and more inventive,
but perhaps without the lasting power that potent symbols have (flags,
anthems, certain images). This has led some to say that metaphors die, while
symbols become transformed.
After the Cuban Revolution, for example, to be considered a “Cuban”
you had to reside on the island. Those who left were considered counter-
revolutionary. Implicit in this label is a symbol about personal identity and
worth, one’s patriotism, as well as one’s ideological commitment, given a
final touch by geography. The United States’ hostility to the Cuban Revo-
lution, its various attempts to assassinate its leaders, as well as the royal
welcome it offered any Cuban who wanted to emigrate, exarcebated those
feelings and identities. This “patriotic” symbol was manipulated with great
skill and passion by the Cuban Revolution, most notably by its ruler, Fidel
Castro. However, as the following chapters will reveal, many Cuban
authors and artists have questioned the limitations and legitimacy of such
a narrowly defined viewpoint, expressed more directly in Sarduy, Cuban-
American authors, and Morejón, or indirectly as is the case with Lezama

and Piñera. Despite a wearing down of this “patriotic symbol” and recent
political events, this emblem of national identity still holds an enormous
emotional resonance for many Cubans.
If language works as symbolic action, then the relationship between
metaphor and history becomes more coherent and Ricoeur’s observations
ring even truer: “A metaphor tells us something new about reality” or about
“the capacity of language to open up new worlds.” If we follow Ricoeur,
then words are not just talk or merely descriptive tags which aspire to
photographic verisimilitude, but also shape, define, and create reality and
history; not ex nihilo, but based in history, myth, lived experience, where
meaning is explored, contested, and revised by different agents (e.g.,
classes, institutions, individuals, the media). A frightening example of this
ability of language to shape reality is racist or anti-Semitic propaganda,
which through stereotyping, slander, euphemism, and outright lying, can
systematically deny the humanity and rights of entire groups of people.
George Orwell’s “newspeak” is another well-known example.
Opening up new worlds with language or metaphor requires both the
creativity and the courage of imagination. This is a book about the poetics
of the Cuban historical imagination, keeping in mind the ancient meaning
of poiesis: to act, to produce, to make, to create. To make or do, one must
make decisions, weigh consequences, face limitations or obstacles, which
entails seeing the imagination’s functions as not merely having the power
to create fantasies. What unites many of the concerns of the writers dis-
cussed in this book is what Richard Kearney called the ethical powers of
the imagination: the utopian, the empathic, and the testimonial (discussed
in the final chapter). None of this implies that the artists/authors are
“moralists” in the pejorative sense of the word. Quite the contrary, they are
all concerned with justice and nationhood, but in distinctive ways that
bypass the certainties of ideology and engage their readers with great verve,
wit, and intelligence. As they share their doubts and their self-assertiveness
with equal passion, they create the shared exploratory dialogic space within
which the reader can construct her or his own ethics of imagination.
Our most common way of understanding history is as narrative, as the
biography of a nation. Severo Sarduy’s From Cuba with a Song is probably
the only work discussed which offers a wide panoramic sweep of Cuban
history, albeit in a highly parodic and entirely unorthodox form. Sarduy’s
narrative interrupts itself, contradicts itself, questioning the epistemologi-
cal validity of narrative as a way of comprehending history or of making it
coherent. The other works discussed are more bound by specific historical
eras or moments, with the exception of Lezama Lima, whose La expresión
americana speaks more directly to Latin American history over four centu-
ries. However, Lezama’s essay still sheds much insight on Cuban history.
The others offer a small slice of Cuban history, bringing it under intense
CUBA IMAGINED 11
scrutiny, suggesting that the neat flow of events must be stopped and
magnified so as to be better understood and appreciated. If we were to use
a corporeal image reminiscent of Orphic myth, we could say that these
explorations are the limbs of a body that need to be detached before the
body can become whole again.
In the following chapters we will witness the figurative act of tolerance,
voices that imagine Cuba in many inclusive ways, by “creating the imagi-
native province where no one owns the truth and everyone has the right to
be understood” (Milan Kundera). This imaginative province will conjure
up metaphors that pertain to the following: national identity and personal
identity as seen through class, race, and sexual difference (Sarduy, More-
jón); gender roles (Loynaz, Morejón, Sarduy, Piñera); national liberation and
anti-imperialism (Carpentier); modernity/postmodernity; the production
of historical meaning (Sarduy, Carpentier, Lezama); religious or sacred
dimensions of lived experience (Lezama, Loynaz); notions of power and
political control (Piñera); and the manipulation of images and symbols for
the purpose of domination (Piñera, Morejón). The voices of these writers
are original, not preachy, and avoid rigid didacticism, even though they
express strongly held views, political and otherwise.
This tolerance might seem confusing, if only because it recognizes that
the past is neither an unassailable fortress with one entrance or a comforting
place of repose under a shady tree. Through art the dead are made to speak
again, and they are likely to tell us things that are perplexing, what we don’t
want to hear. Or, if a narrative explanation is preferred, it means that either
a different story is to be told, or the same story with a different plot and
characters. The art of memory, of recollection, will always yield more than
we expected, perhaps in the spirit of these words of Elias Canetti: “The past
grows in all directions through its depiction. Wouldn’t the same hold for
history? Or is historiography reductive, in contrast to memory accumulated
and shaped?” This accumulation and shaping is the bildung, the gallery of
images, the formation of history through images, and the power of those
images to shape history.
Many of the issues, themes or tropes discussed here will lend credence
to the words of Paul Valéry. History does cause dreams, and often the
dreams do turn into nightmares. But that does not mean that dreams are to
be avoided or are without meaning. History does indeed “intoxicate whole
peoples and give them false memories,” the most brutal example in our
century being the Third Reich or Kampuchea under Pol Pot. But history is
impossible without memory, especially if we consider history a people’s
memory. The “delusions of grandeur or persecution” that make nations
“bitter, arrogant, insufferable, and vain” can be brought into perspective
thanks to history. The temporal distance inherent in historical discourse
allows us to look at those passions, if not with total objectivity, at least with
a measure of compassion and, if need be, irony. We must distinguish
between history as an organizing narrative of political mobilization and

history as personal counternarrative that interprets past events without the
primary purpose being political action. This does not mean that the latter
definition cannot inform or motivate political action, since the writing of
history is neither disinterested nor innocent; but its primary function is not
to become an instrument of control, ideological or otherwise.
There is a saying attributed to Epictetus that “it is not deeds that shock
humanity, but the words describing them.” This statement offers a eulogy
to the power and conscience of words. At the same time one has to admit
that certain horrors are impossible to put into words (torture, genocide,
mass repression, and slaughter). It is a cliché to say that these atrocities are
“unspeakable acts,” for several reasons: they defy definition, they are meant
to silence and intimidate, and their only language is death. And yet words,
those most human of creations, are one of the few bridges that allow us to
see, remember, create a shared and lived history. Butchers rarely document
their atrocities; it is through the words of Rigoberta Menchú, Primo Levy,
Jacobo Timmerman, and many others that the true horror of deeds is known
to the world, but the shock is no less real to the protagonists who suffered
if the story is not told.
There are other events that do not shock humanity, either in deed or
word. Some are on a grand scale; others are quite humble and modest—
gestures of defiance, hope, solidarity, or compassion. It is a cautious hope,
evocative of these words: “Only one thing is incontrovertible: the course of
history defies prediction. It remains open at every point. No one acts
according to its inner logic, because no one knows it. Probably this logic
doesn’t even exist. If that is the case, then history, in its openness, is always
subject to influence; it is so to speak, always in our hands. Perhaps our
hands are too weak to accomplish anything. But since we don’t even know
that for sure, we should at least try” (Canetti, 1994, p. 213).
The authors selected for this book, with their bare hands, offer their
readers an interpretative framework for Cuba’s history. For Cuban readers
on the island, these writers offer a lost self that had been banished in the
pursuit of a dream; for Cubans in exile a rediscovery of a legacy that is still
new, controversial, and fresh. For U.S. readers, in a land where “the syntax
of forgetting” is structured as the amnesia of acculturation (versus the
historical memory of transculturation), these authors bring forth a historical
self-knowledge through the “other.” Through image and word, memory
and dream, our tropes hand us understanding, if not hope.
ONE
Nancy Morejón: Poet of Cultural

Crossroads
Nancy Morejón is the human and poetic embodiment of the word

transculturation. Firmly rooted in the hybridity of her mulatto family,
nourished by Spanish and African ancestries, Morejón is a keen ob-
server of Havana street life, with all its rhythms and nuances. Her life
and work are also closely intertwined with the course of the Cuban
Revolution. Born in 1944, she was fifteen when the Cuban Revolution
triumphed, but in many ways she is a “child” of that social upheaval.
Her first book of poems, Mutismos (Silences), was published in 1962,
soon followed by Amor, ciudad atribuida (Love, Attributed City) in 1964.
She studied French language and literature at the University of Havana
and is a specialist in Francophone literature of the Caribbean. She has
translated the work of Aimé Cesaire (Martinique), Jacques Roumain
(Haiti), and René Depestre (Haiti) from French to Spanish.
Richard trajo su flauta (1967; Richard Brought His Flute) was her third
book of poetry. Morejón’s next book of poems, Parajes de una época
(1979; Parameters of an Epoch), took twelve years to appear, though
she did a testimonial book co-authored with Carmen Gonce in 1971,
Lengua de pájaro, as well as editing a volume of criticism on the work of
Nicolás Guillén in 1974 (Recopilación de textos sobre Nicolás Guillén).
Morejón was wrongly associated with a group of poets from El Puente
(The Bridge), from the literary magazine Ediciones el Puente. They had
invited U.S. poet Allen Ginsberg to the island, but Ginsberg’s open
expression of gayness (he publicly declared he’d like to sleep with Che
Guevara) earned him an invitation to leave as quickly as possible. From
that moment on, the poets and artists of El Puente were considered
ideologically suspect. Some of the members of the group, such as José
Mario and Pío Serrano (1941– ), eventually left Cuba. Others, such as
Miguel Barnet and Luis Rogelio Nogueras, stayed on. But various
authors from the group, in the post-1968 ideological hardening within
Cuba, were marginalized from cultural life, most significantly in not
having their own creative work published. Morejón was obviously
affected by not having her poetry published, but with the waning of a
hard-line policy by the late 1970s, her Parajes de una época finally
appeared, with poems (in some cases) that were nearly a decade old.
In 1982 she published a book-length study of the work of Cuba’s
“national poet” called Nación y mestizaje en Nicolás Guillén (Nation and
Mestizaje in the Work of Nicolás Guillén).
Since then Morejón’s work has been published often: Octubre impre-
scindible (1983; Essential October); Cuaderno de Granada (1984; Grenada
Notebook); and Piedra pulida (1986; Polished Stone), one of her best
books and a source for many translations of her work. Most recently
Paisaje célebre (1993; Famed Landscape) was published in Venezuela,
after having won the finalist award in the Pérez Bonalde International
Poetry Prize.
Over the years, Morejón has worked with Casa de las Américas as
a journalist, theater critic, and more recently with the Pablo Milanés
Foundation, which was the first cultural organization formed after the
revolution not directly financed or administered by the Cuban state.
However, the foundation closed in June 1995 because of problems with
the Ministry of Culture, which had placed many material obstacles to
the publishing of its magazine Proposiciones, as well as the overall
functioning of the foundation.
Morejón’s poetry has shown different interests that have a close
relationship with the recent history of Cuba. In the 1960s and 1970s her
themes often ran to the political, with well-known poems such as
“Mujer Negra” (Black Woman), “Freedom Now,” and “Manzano de
Oakland” (Apple Tree in Oakland), this last poem dedicated to Angela
Davis. Fortunately, it was political poetry that never forgot it was
poetry, that is, it never used the language of poetry in a one-dimen-
sional, crudely didactic way. Certain political or social themes are
grappled with in Piedra pulida but are linked more to issues of gender
and are found mostly in the last third of the book. Her Paisaje célebre,
which brings together poems from 1987 to 1992, raises such themes in
a very indirect fashion, if at all. This should not be surprising, since by
the mid-1980s Cuban literature had drifted away from overtly social
commentary and/or exhortation. This was partly due to a certain
stability of the Cuban Revolution, which by 1984 was a quarter of a
century old, and was in part a rejection of a socially committed aesthetic
of the 1970s which had had a deadening effect on literary culture. It has
often been called the “gray decade of Cuban letters.” Morejón, whose
poetry kept an intense lyrical element even when it drew on historical
or political subjects, was able to evolve in a calm or measured way,
avoiding sudden turns or crises that beset other authors.
NANCY MOREJÓN 15
Nancy Morejón’s poetry and persona are direct, vibrant, and inti-
mate. She is able to capture the minute details of everyday life and
imbue them with the light of the Caribbean, yet filtered through her
poetic and historical sensibility. Drawing on her life growing up in a
working-class Havana family, imbibing the country’s rich history,
myth, and Afro-Cuban beliefs, Morejón’s work is inspired by diverse
literary traditions, as well as oral and folk cultures: “I believe in the oral
tradition as a loving source of dispersed identities spread out among
territories and seas of the Gulf. My own literary creations have drawn
from that oral tradition.” In Morejón’s embracing of that orality, we
sense a reverent listener attuned to Cuba’s living culture, a poet who
is popular and erudite, funny and philosophical, feminist and free-
wheeling.
THE STONE AND ITS IMAGES
Roads are like dreams, their invitation to journey filled with the lusty air of
freedom, but also with wonderfully strange and sometimes dark auguries.
A crossroads both centers outdoor space in a system of coordinates and yet
opens up onto vastness, the universe. A kind of expansive optimism over-
powers one as it did Walt Whitman: “Afoot and lighthearted I take to the
open road, /Healthy, free, the world before me, /The long brown path
before me leading wherever I choose” (Whitman, 1902, p. 177). But roads
have a long history, secrets, hidden paths: “You road I enter upon and look
around, I believe you are not all that is here, /I believe that much unseen is
also here” (Whitman, 1950, p. 178). In Cuba, roads and crossroads must
begin with the Afro-Cuban orisha (deity) Elegguá. Elegguá is the begin-
ning—not the beginning of creation, but the point of departure of an
imaginative faith that is one of the main sources of Cuban culture and
history.
Nancy Morejón’s poem “Los ojos de Elegguá” (The Eyes of Elegguá) is
a rich reworking of Cuban transcultured identity. The author recalls seeing
the eyes of Elegguá at nighttime. Morejón recalls it dancing, like all the
Santería orishas: “bursting out in shrieks /Elegguá leaps /imagines songs
/grazes space with a copper dagger” (Morejón, 1985, p. 67). Elegguá is the
orisha of destiny and of crossroads, and so is the orisha invoked before all
others, because he is the messenger of all the gods. Elegguá is also vitally
linked to the unexpected, twists of fate, and death. In part this is due to his
story, or pattakí. One day he found a coconut (obi) in the road giving off a
blinding light from its three eyes. He picked it up and took it home to his
mother and father. But the eyes didn’t shine (in another version of the tale,
the eyes kept shining behind the door, but it was forgotten). He threw the
coconut behind a door. Three days later he died. Soon disaster hit the
kingdom, and finally they looked for the obi behind the door; it was empty
and crawling with bugs. In its place they put an otá, a sacred stone, which
is the origin of Elegguá, and that is why it is said, “The dead one gave birth
to the saint.” Morejón is evoking this pattakí with the eyes for a reason: she
is hoping to enlist his all-seeing capabilities. Because of this, Elegguá is
known as the personification of justice, and by knowing what is best for
humankind, he symbolizes perfect balance in nature. But the poem has an
Elegguá who might be needing the powers of Olofi to keep his orientation.
This is not so strange since Olofi is the personification of the Creator and
his forces. According to one of the pattakís, it was Olofi who created the
orishas by projecting his aché (power, energy) into the otanes or stones. Still,
there is a moment if not of doubt, at least of precaution: the last stanza
begins, “If Elegguá’s eyes were to return /they would come crossing the
NANCY MOREJÓN 17
vigorous river /where the gods drew off in the distance, where there used
to be fish” (ibid., p. 67). Morejón’s poem seems to be caught between belief
and the power of aché: is it the eyes of Elegguá that give her faith, or is it the
faith that makes her see Elegguá’s eyes? Possibly a little of both, because to
see things along the dark road of life, there’s nothing better than to have
Elegguá’s eyes lighting the way, as if you were being protected by the orisha’s
headlights.
Though Morejón makes no overt references to Catholic saints, Elegguá’s
Christian counterpart is St. Anthony of Padua. The orisha is also linked to
St. Martin of Porres and El Niño de Atocha. An orisha has many caminos
(roads) or avatars, sometimes twenty, thirty, or more. St. Anthony was
noted for performing miracles and was a charismatic preacher. It is said that
he even delivered a sermon to fish, who listened in rapt attention. He is
often represented with the child Jesus in his arms, which explains his
association with Elegguá, who is often presented as mischievous and
playful, like a child. St. Martin of Porres is perhaps more consistent with
Cuban culture. St. Martin is the saint of racial harmony and social justice,
since he was so committed to helping the poor and particularly slaves. He
was a mulatto who had been rejected by his white father.
El Niño de Atocha goes back to the time when Spain was still occupied
by the Moors, who were holding many Christian prisoners in what the
Spaniards call the War of Reconquest. In the town of Atocha a child was
sent in with food (bread and water) for a few prisoners, and yet was able to
feed hundreds. According to legend, it was Christ himself that had ap-
peared in the form of a child, in order to provide the prisoners with material
and spiritual nourishment.
It is also possible to read certain historical references being made here,
although they are indirect. Elegguá’s colors are red and black, which are
also the colors of the July 26th Movement led by Fidel Castro. Elegguá is a
warrior and is considered the first in a trio of holy warriors that also
includes Ogún and Ochosi. Again, Cuba since 1959 has often espoused a
self-definition of itself as a guerrilla society, traits that include warrior
values such as courage, determination, skill, and strength. Furthermore, the
Niño de Atocha’s day is January 1st, the New Year, which is also the date
of the triumph of the Cuban Revolution (1959). Should we stretch things
further by pointing out that one of Cuba’s “sacred warriors of inde-
pendence,” Antonio Maceo (born on June 14), was named for St. Anthony
(June 13)? Che Guevara, born on the same date as Maceo, might be consid-
ered one of the “sacred warriors of the Cuban Revolution.” Whether
Morejón had these allusions in mind or not when she wrote the poem is not
the point. What is significant is how her poetry draws on different tradi-
tions, histories, literatures, and images to fashion a uniquely Cuban work.
They are part of the many caminos (roads, avatars) that feed her work,
evoking Whitman’s “the world before me,” the “much unseen,” and “the
long brown road before me leading wherever I choose.”
In a brief poem to Elegguá, Morejón has brought together a true example
of Cuban transculturation: a Yoruba orisha, symbol of destiny, chance, and
justice, merges with the power of faith and miracles (St. Anthony), racial
harmony and social justice (St. Martin of Porres), and the total nourishment
of El Niño de Atocha. Time, mestizaje, social justice, fate, faith, and utopian
fulfillment (through faith and revolution) come together in the vigorous
imagery of this powerful poem.
In a poem dedicated to Nieves Fresneda, an extraordinarily gifted dancer
in the Cuban folkloric tradition who died in 1981, the author builds on the
images of another orisha, Yemayá. With consummate skill, Morejón brings
together history and myth, invoking the powers of fertility and the imagi-
nation. Yemayá is one of the principle orishas, goddess of the ocean, fertility,
and life that Fresneda often danced in her performances.
Elegy for Nieves Fresneda

Like a flying fish: Nieves Fresneda.
Sea waves, galley slaves
blue algae petals
close over her days and hours
reborn at her feet.
A whisper of Benin
bore her to the depth of this land.
There dwelt
her snakes,
her circles,
her shells,
her petticoats,
seeking out the brush,
blazing paths
toward Olokún.
Her ocean feet
finally,
were lodes of salt,
perpetual flickering feet,
aloft like moons for Yemayá.
And in space,
later,
over the sea foam
Nieves
whirling over the sea,
Nieves
deep in immemorial
NANCY MOREJÓN 19
song of dream
Nieves
in Cuban seas
Nieves.
(Morejón, 1985, p. 69; trans. Weaver)
Morejón begins with a concrete image of Nieves that both unites her to her
Yemayá but still retains her individuality. The first verse begins with “like
a flying fish,” and seems to be inspired by Manuel Mendive’s floating
Santería-based figures. This verse not only refers to her dancing ability but
already brings her into the realm of Yemayá, for in Yoruba, Yeyeomo eja
means “the Mother whose children are the fish.” The verse ends with her
whole name, as if to underline her uniqueness as a human being.
After establishing a mythic but individual presence, Morejón immedi-
ately gives historical weight to the first images. With sea waves she men-
tions galley slaves and then “A whisper of Benin” that brings her to the
depths of Cuba. The beauty of the Yoruba cosmology is grafted onto the
deep pain of historical reality: slavery. The author makes one more historical
reference in the poem when she says “seeking out the brush” ( buscando la
manigua). Manigua is a Taíno (indigenous) word referring to a place with
dense vegetation, consisting of shrubs, bushes, lianas; a kind of natural
profusion of confusion. Curiously, it also refers to illegal card games, dice,
and other forms of gambling. Taking advantage of both profusion and
confusion, many slaves escaped into the manigua to begin a new life
(gambling with freedom?), free from the oppressive eyes of their masters.
In the nineteenth century, the expression coger la manigua (take to the
manigua) meant to take up arms against Spain and join the revolution for
independence.
Morejón deftly builds a transition from the manigua that goes to Olokún
with the verse “blazing paths.” It looks back at the manigua and goes toward
the depths of the ocean, where Olokún, one of the major orishas, is to be
found. Olokún is a mysterious and powerful orisha. Her energy can be
destructive, which is why it is said that Obatalá had her tied to the bottom
of the ocean. Olokún’s image is presented as a woman (or siren) with arms
outstretched, one holding a snake, the other a mask. She is also visualized
as a hermaphrodite. Olokún is the frightening mix of the origin (the ocean
floor, and of Yemayá), the generative principle, and the awesome power of
wrath and destructiveness. All the orishas, and particularly Yemayá, must
make sure that she is treated with the utmost respect.
The final part of the poem focuses on Nieves attaining an almost mythic
presence or substance, dancing over the water. The water imagery is central
to Morejón’s poetics, and this poem in particular draws on the many
resonances of water, as we have seen. The Atlantic passage, fertility, and the
source of life, which is part of the Afro-Cuban (Santería) tradition, derived
from Western and Yoruba beliefs. Undoubtedly other images come to mind:
purity, the waters of the feminine and of reverie (Bachelard). Feminist critics
point out that water is synonymous with women’s eroticism, as it is
concerned with a blurring of rigid boundaries of hierarchy and gender, just
as water runs over, flooding distinctions with a kind of plenitude (Ostriker,
1986). Water’s mysterious depth and infinity, its movement, its enveloping
“warmth” and strangeness, bring it close to a dream state. Morejón’s poem
conjures up these forces.
Fresneda dancing over the waves maintains both the flow of water (since
she is dancing Yemayá’s steps) as well as the lightness of air. More impor-
tant, both air and water convey the sense of movement, which is a key
ingredient of the imagination. “We always think of the imagination as the
faculty that forms images. On the contrary, it deforms what we perceive; it is,
above all, the faculty that frees us from immediate images and changes them.
If there is no change, or unexpected fusion of images, there is no imagina-
tion; there is no imaginative act. If the image that is present does not make
us think of one that is absent, if an image does not determine an abun-
dance—an explosion—of unusual images, then there is no imagination”
(Bachelard, 1988, p. 1). This creates both a mobility of images and, to borrow
a well-known phrase, an “invitation to the voyage,” or, as Bachelard says:
“Perceiving and imagining are as antithetical as presence and absence. To
imagine is to absent oneself, to launch out toward a new life” (ibid., p. 3).
Morejón echoes this play of absences and presences in her poem, through
both the content (the past, Olokún, Fresneda herself who has died) and the
rhythms and pacing of the words, which stream toward the reader in little
waves. For Helene Cixous, poetry means traveling on foot: “Walking,
dancing, pleasure: these accompany the poetic act. . . . So perhaps dreaming
and writing have to do with traversing the forest, journeying through the
world, using all available means of transport, using your body as a form of
transport” (Cixous, 1991, p. 63). Why is the imagination a voyage, a move-
ment of images? Because it entails a kind of pursuit: of a transformation of
the real, traveling to the manigua of meaning, the domain of the imaginary.
In a recent talk, Morejón spoke of García Lorca’s definition of poetry as
“penetrating a jungle at night in order to hunt precious animals, otherwise
known as words” (Morejón, 1995b). This magical and perilous hunting
expedition will have the author equating dancing and writing: “dancing
with the feet, with ideas, with words, and need I add that one must also be
able to dance with the pen—that one must learn how to write?” (Nietzsche,
1990, p. 76). In this dance, Morejón choreographs the juncture of myth,
history, and the imagination of the artist.
The author has spoken eloquently about the gestation of poems such as
“Elegguá’s Eyes” and “Elegy for Nieves Fresneda” as being the humble
Havana neighborhood she grew up in. Her statement is worth quoting at
length because it offers the “lived experience” of historical and mythical
themes:
NANCY MOREJÓN 21
I was born and raised in a Havana neighborhood known as Los Sitios, where
I learned early on to relate to my city—a constant theme in my poems. Life
put me in touch with songs and rhythms which were of an anonymous
character, this being the essential root of its power. Voices in the late morning
would bring a sad melody, evoking the death of a loved one. They were the
moving coros de clave (chorus with clave rhythm), so much part of Havana, so
eroded by the dust of roads and seas, since that singing had been passed on
from mouth to mouth, coming from faraway lands. It was a wandering music
and we had no idea if it was from a patio in Andalucía or a museke from
Luanda. Truly it was a kind of combustible magic, whose smoke rose from
the plaza Antón Recio all the way to the corners of Peñalver and Manrique.
My childhood was marked by these nomadic musicians who went from
neighborhood to neighborhood sharing their music generously, out of the
simple pleasure of making themselves happy or to brighten up the threadbare
night of poverty-stricken neighbors.
There I heard ancient rumbas performed with the hands and muscles
(making the sound of drums) of those rumberos who never needed a percus-
sion instrument. These were the rumbas de cajón (rumbas played on a box).
The beats or strokes—hand against hand, hands against the chest or legs,
filled with a blessed, loving African energy, would validate the flamenco spirit
which lay dormant in the rhythms of the nation. The sounding of those rumbas
were born of those skins and improvised instruments played to accompany
the ñáñigo diablitos (little devils of the Abakuá religion) or íremes that appeared
on the street on Three Kings Day or during funeral ceremonies. The energy
of those sounds throbs in poems of mine like “Elegy for Nieves Fresneda,”
“The Eyes of Elegguá,” among others. (Morejón, 1995b)
The author’s reference to the rumba is important because it is a central

element in Cuban popular culture. As her remembrance states, they were
(and are) fairly spontaneous and celebratory moments. People gather in the
streets, some with instruments or boxes, the singing begins (often with call
and response), and people begin to dance, forming a chain of feeling from
the feet up. Unlike the music of Santería, the rumba’s Afro-Cuban roots are
not religious. It is important to recall that the influence of the rumba on
Morejón’s poetry is not a mimetic one. She does not try to imitate it
rhythmically but instead incorporate “the energy of those sounds.” And, of
course, the poems, despite the freewheeling, spontaneous feel they might
have, are anything but improvised.
“The monte (bush, thicket, brush), the sea become an integral part of
mythic poetry. In the Caribbean, there is always a voyage, always a ship”
(Morejón, 1995a). These poles form the title of her poem “Montes y mares,”
from Piedra pulida (Polished Stone). El monte and the sea: two geographic
spaces marked by nature and history. But in this long poem, Morejón is
more allusive, using a continuous metaphoric stream that expands the
mystery it seems to offer us. She plays with the reader, giving clues that slip
away, like an elusive lover. At first reading, it seems like a love poem, and
there is no reason to abandon this view. But greater delights await the
reader. In the second stanza she mentions the eyes of someone that cause
great peace, eyes that are “the legitimate children of this song” (Morejón,
1986, p. 66). Quickly she begins a “new scene”: “The crops return to source.
It is the time /of the peacock. What slowness in supplication. /A woodcut-
ter breathes /the hollow of the valleys /And you take me away with those
eyes of unscathed water / to the monte” (p. 66). What is the time of the
peacock? Morejón seems to be indicating a profound temporal change, even
sacred. The peacock, of course, has a long association with immortality,
longevity, resurrection, as well as love. (Could this be an oblique reference
to St.-Pol-Roux’s “Le Paon” [The Peacock]?) The peacock’s feather is the
sign of St. Barbara, the supplication referred to (preces in Spanish) are
entreaties to God. In Santería, St. Barbara is syncretized as Changó, who is
often shown with a hatchet or ax, like the woodcutter. The poet is not
affixing labels, however; it is still the magic of love being awakened in
someone that is being described. But Morejón is taking the mystery and
wonder of love and linking them up to a wider net of meaning: nature,
religious sentiment (Christian and Afro-Cuban), the mesmerizing eyes that
enchant or bewitch, plus going to el monte.
The poem’s use of language is curious, combining rich, sensual details
with words that, if not arcane, are still not very common. They are by no
means disruptive or out of place, but they have a glow that is reminiscent
of a precious stone, this no small feat in a poem brimming with luminous
images. The words have a strong Castilian ring to them, which contrasts
with the island nature of the poem (sea, sand, coral). It helps contribute to
a certain lively tension that the poem has throughout, giving it a strange
atmosphere. There is an almost lazy drift of images, followed by vigorous
brushstrokes and energetic tableaux. It even evokes previous poems by
Morejón: “mar de nostalgia como mares poblándose” (“sea of nostalgia like
seas being peopled”) brings to mind the verse “el agua sin fin de la
memoria” (“the endless water of memory”) from “Nubario,” as well as her
poem about the movie “Solaris.” Despite the shafts of light that fall on many
passages, there is a feel of a “sombre, voluptuous dream,” which is how
Debussy’s Pelléas et Mélisande has been described. This might seem far-
fetched, but it is not, and the end of the poem even sounds like Mélisande
talking: “and an inspired enigma throws me into your arms /so as to live
with you in a star.” Debussy and Maeterlinck (whose play the opera is based
on) were both enthralled by the work of Edgar Allan Poe.
And it is Poe that Morejón quotes in a recent talk about her own poetry,
titled simply “Poetics.” After discussing García Lorca’s metaphor of hunt-
ing words like precious animals in a jungle at night, she turns to the master
of the macabre tale.
NANCY MOREJÓN 23
The other concept of poetry or of composing poetry to which I’m close to, is,
strangely enough, that of Edgar Allan Poe. I say strangely because he’s so
apparently distant from me in terms of language, race, gender, and social
milieu, and yet, his brief and extraordinary essay that accompanies his
famous poem “The Raven” moves me. It’s not by chance that Poe entitled
these reflections “The Philosophy of Composition,” whose pedagogical lumi-
nosity should serve as the guide for all teaching on the writing vocation. I was
able to distinguish two phenomena he mentions as integral to my own
creativity: the originality that flows from ecstasy as well as a unique sense of
the beautiful. According to Poe: “Most writers, poets in especial (sic), prefer
having it understood that they compose by a species of fine frenzy, an ecstatic
intuition.” Later he adds the following: “The point, I mean, that beauty is the
sole legitimate province of the poem ( . . . ) My first object, as usual, was
originality.” (Morejón, 1995b)
This apparently surprising admission is not so striking, as we shall see. It

is important to recall what Poe meant by beauty as being something that
transcends the physical, echoing perhaps Plato in this regard. “That pleas-
ure which is at once the most intense, the most elevating, and the most pure,
is, I believe, found in the contemplation of the beautiful. When, indeed, men
speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an
effect—they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of soul—
not of intellect, or of heart—upon which I have commented, and which is
experienced in consequence of ‘contemplating the beautiful’ ” (Poe in
Bradley, et al., 1967, p. 890). The key word in Poe’s definition is effect, and
how he distinguishes it from a quality, a distinction which is crucial for
Morejón as well. Beauty is not just a proportioned array of attractive traits
and shapes, but a state of resonance between people induced by the power
of imagery and rhythm, by the flow of events and words capable of eliciting
the movement of the imagination, “the elevation of the soul.” Poe’s choice
of the word ecstasy is even more revealing, as it literally means to be out of
the body. Perhaps that is the greatest tension, then, that lies in the poem
“Montes y mares.” On the one hand, it is most definitely a poem about the
body and the senses, yet as it progresses, it seeks to transcend them, stake
out the “province of beauty.” As it does, it draws a perimeter, a map of
chasms, perhaps exemplifying the words of Simone Weil: “Distance is the
soul of beauty.”
Morejón’s historical understanding and insight, as well as her generosity,
are poignantly evident from these observations on Poe. In the same essay,
“The Philosophy of Composition,” Poe speaks about the importance of
melancholy as a universally poetic state that can move readers or listeners.
Nothing is better for inducing melancholy than death, but for Poe death
must be linked to beauty: “The death, then, of a beautiful woman is,
unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world—and equally is it
beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved
lover” (Poe in Bradley et al., 1967, p. 892). Morejón, inspired by Poe’s

insight, creates her own image of the beautiful, which, of course, does not
mean that the death of a beautiful woman cannot be a poetic topic, nor its
effectiveness diminished by writing it from the point of view of a bereaved
lover. Her sympathy for Poe is not naive, nor does her critical stance make
her unable to see his important contributions to aesthetic theory. This is not
a trivial point since at different moments during the Cuban Revolution (and
in our own literary-ideological wars), a certain one-dimensional Marxist
cultural theory would either ignore crucial elements of an author’s work
(like the religious dimension of César Vallejo’s poetry) or dismiss the work
on political grounds (Paz, Sarduy, Borges, Cabrera Infante, Arenas).
In another poem from Piedra pulida called “Mundos” (Worlds), Morejón
seems to be carrying on a conversation with Dulce María Loynaz. As in the
latter’s Ultimos días de una casa (1958), both are centered on images of a house
or home. But the younger poet’s version is radically different; its optimism,
though tempered, radiates throughout the poem. The comparison brings
out what the Cuban Revolution meant for two different women: one older,
upper class, white, and professional; the other young, black, and working
class. Though I make a direct historical reference here, it is not as overt in
the poem, but nonetheless, this history underlies its imagery. This said, the
reader must proceed with caution since this is not an openly political poem,
at least not in a partisan sense.
The poem’s principal refrain is “Mi casa es un gran barco” (“My house
is a grand ship”); perhaps “venerable vessel” would give it the more exalted
image that gran barco implies. It is also a suggestive metaphor for the island
itself, in expressing the desire to go away and return, of a “homecoming
through otherness” (discussed further in Chapter 5 on Lezama). Every
stanza of the poem begins repeating this verse, and stanza 6 repeats it again
within the body of that section. So what does the author tell us about her
“ark"? Morejón begins with an apparent contradiction: the house is a ship,
but it does not want to embark on its journey; its masts and riggings become
roots. It ends with three powerful and vexing verses: “can I say the sea /
watched over by the son / or by the fetid gold of the ransacked galleon?”
The image is deliriously baroque, as if some all-seeing Polyphemus was
ready to devour the sea. But the delirium is reigned in by the historical
reference: “the fetid gold of the ransacked galleon.” The act of theft and
violence makes it doubly fetid: colonial plunder and pirates pillaging. The
gold described as fetid adds a psychoanalytic layer to its meaning as well
(money as filth or excrement).
The second stanza maintains the ocular elements that the poem begins
with, ending with “Oh the furtive eyes of the mortal past.” Here the author
seems to establish the closest of affinities with Loynaz’s poem, but in
Morejón the shadow of the past is not the anchor of the poem, as is the case
with Loynaz. Morejón’s barco/casa is like a sponge that seeks to absorb
NANCY MOREJÓN 25
everything: “Old world that I love, /new world that I love, /worlds, worlds
the two, my worlds: /Oh the sacred tortoises; /ah the algae /ah the name
of the coastal woman /anchored in the center of the world.” Loynaz’s poem
is one of loneliness, silence, solitude, and dark forebodings; Morejón,
despite retrieving certain dark moments of the past, displays an optimism
about the future which is entirely absent from Loynaz.
The house/vessel is almost free of demons because she has threatened
them into retreat, she wants a house where “good fortune reigns supreme.”
In the last stanza, she reiterates the ship or house as something that protects
her and ends: “I live in my ship live /sheltered from thunder and lightning
/My house is that grand ship [venerable vessel] /I say /over the golden
island /in which I will die” (Morejón, 1986, p. 108). The sheltering images
of the house are not merely an inward phenomenon or a place to flee the
outside world; in Morejón’s house they are the starting point to embrace
the world, to meet it head on. This is most evident in the stanza where she
refers to a slave who tells her, “Vamos a andar” (Let us stride together) and
“we both plant our legs in the earth /like unscathed tree trunks, like built
nests /embracing beneath the tempest” (Morejón, 1986, p. 107). Right after
this she says, “I think of the time of polished stone,” which is the title of the
book, an image taken up again in the final poem, also called “Piedra pulida”
(Polished Stone).
This last poem is brief and worth quoting in its entirety:
A new book,
a new day,
another brand-new city
more summers, more flowers,
that perpetual sea,
and I, now,
on polished stone,
I search for your lips,
for your eyes.
The mood of this poem is even more upbeat than the previous one, but it
retains a sense of longing, of renewed desire. Stones have a strong cosmic
resonance, as we saw in discussing “The Eyes of Elegguá.” The otá or otán
(sacred stone) is where an orisha’s aché is gathered in the Afro-Cuban
tradition. Their solidity has always been associated with immortality, im-
perishability, the indestructible element of ultimate reality. But Morejón
goes a little farther, since polished stone, aside from evoking an archaeologi-
cal term (neolithic age), also denotes something worked on, perfected,
changed, or transformed, like the poem or the aesthetic object, which can
also be polished but must be made to endure. The ending of the poem
reinforces this view, recalling the famous “stones that speak” from which
the divine oracle at Delphi would issue forth. Morejón’s poem also seems
to evoke that extraordinary interview of Lezama Lima where he says: “I
remember that phrase by Nietzsche: ‘Wherever there’s a stone there will be
an image’ ” (CILCA, 1971, p. 70). And yet Morejón delivers the lines with
the intimacy that one would use in addressing a lover. The mere nine verses
achieve a synthesis of wonder, hymn to simple pleasures, self-reflexive
meditation, and love poem.
While in much of Morejón’s work race and gender are implicit sources
of resonance, they also appear more overtly in her images. Two poems in
particular illustrate this more explicitly gendered and racial historical view:
“Amo a mi amo” (I Love My Master) and “Mujer negra” (Black Woman).
“I Love My Master,” also from Piedra pulida (p. 100), is steeped in history,
and the poet puts herself in the shoes of a black woman slave talking about
her master. It is constructed as a paradigmatic situation, since neither the
master nor the slave is named as an individual. Morejón’s poem is laced
with enormous irony which begins from the first verse. Unfortunately, the
English does not retain the richness of the Spanish “Amo a mi amo,” which
feels like a palindrome. The echo effect further underlines the irony between
the verb amar (love) and the noun amo (master). Love is in this context an
act of submission. Morejón’s poem deftly exploits all the contradictions of
the situation: “I love his roving pirate’s feet /that have pillaged foreign
lands. /[ . . . ] he strummed his vihuela [ancient guitar] and /melodious
couplets soared, /as though from Manrique’s throat. /I longed to hear a
marímbula sound. /I love his fine red mouth, /that speaks words I can’t
understand. /The language I speak to him /still isn’t his own” (Morejón,
1985, p. 75). The body, music, language, everything reflects the colonial and
slave relationship, but the poem deals with gender-specific oppression as
well. Morejón’s poem has close affinities with Adrienne Rich’s analysis of
male power over women, that range from the denial of sexuality to exploi-
tation of labor, to objectification and stifling of creativity and knowledge-
seeking; but her approach is always embedded in a Cuban or Caribbean
perspective.
Morejón has the slave questioning her plight: “What’s he going to say to
me? /Why do I live in this hole not fit for a bat? / Why do I wait on him
hand and foot? / Where does he go in his lavish coach /drawn by horses
that are luckier than me?” (Morejón, 1985, pp. 75–77). And further, she
dreams of rebellion, of freedom: “I love my master but every night /When
I cross the blossoming path to the canefield / the secret place of our acts of
love, /I see myself knife in hand, /flaying him like an innocent animal /”
(ibid., p. 77). But the ending of the poem leaves the female slave at a
crossroads. Of course one’s sympathies are with the slave’s yearning for
freedom, but the poet has the dream of freedom rudely interrupted: “Be-
witched drumbeats /now drown his cries, his sufferings. /The bells of the
sugar-mill call . . .” (ibid., p. 77). This is the bell that calls the slaves back to
NANCY MOREJÓN 27
work. Will the dream become a reality? Will she heed the calling of the bells
or become a cimarrona (runaway slave)? Morejón does not take the easy way
out by producing an obvious outcome: she leaves it up to the reader to
imagine. Despite the ironic nature of the poem, the frequent “I loves” of the
slave should be taken seriously: they indicate an identification and/or love
of the master which is commonplace in the oppressor/oppressed relation.
Of course, it is a twisted love, deformed by male domination and (self)-de-
valuation of women, but the author significantly chooses to make it have
weight within the overall context of the historical situation depicted. More-
jón seems to be issuing a warning: liberation from oppression does not
mean that the past vanishes. It is a long process, an ongoing dialogue with
the forces of the past, and if we ignore it, we continue to run the risk of
bringing it back, sometimes in even deadlier forms.
In “Mujer negra” (Black Woman), Morejón revisits history again, but
in a much more rebellious spirit. Although there are references to the
Middle Passage, to back-breaking work and injustice, the poem focuses
on the resistance to the iniquities of race and class. It even draws a
historical affinity between Maceo and the Cuban revolutionaries of the
nineteenth century and the July 26th Movement led by Fidel Castro’s
guerrilla army. And it ends with considerable optimism concerning the
goals and achievements of the Cuban Revolution, with great enthusiasm
about the future. Despite the rational and thought-out nature of the
poem, the poet reminds us that writing a poem is not the same as
documentary history or the elaboration of a political manifesto. Speak-
ing of this poem, she says:
Writing, however, is an act of absolute irrationality. A perfect example of this

is found in my poem “Mujer negra” (“Black Woman”), so well-known and
received by my readers. I remember perfectly that I was sleeping and was
awakened by the image of a black woman behind the bars of the small
common room which I shared with my parents. She was an ample woman
and wouldn’t let me sleep. I looked at her quite intently, wanting her to let
me keep sleeping, until she went away. The next morning the first thing that
came into my mind was the memory of that image. The black woman returned
and dictated the poem to me. I struggled a lot with the end. It wasn’t easy
finding it because the “I” of that woman was an epic “we,” which was all
mixed up with my personal experience of living in Cuba in the 1970s.
(Morejón, 1995b)
In this same University of Missouri presentation, Morejón recognizes

that her contribution to Cuban letters resides in the fact that she is a woman
and black. As a woman she quotes Virginia Woolf’s “We think back through
our mothers, if we are women.” She always begins her poetry readings with
the same poem, “Madre” (Mother), from Piedra pulida (1986):
My mother had no patio garden

but rocky islands
floating in delicate corals
under the sun.
Her eyes mirrored no clear-edged branch
but countless garrottes.
What days, when she ran barefoot
on the lime of the orphanages
and didn’t know how to laugh
and she couldn’t even look at the horizon.
She had no ivory-inlaid bedroom,
no drawing room with wicker chairs
and none of that hushed tropical stained-glass.
My mother had the handkerchief and the song
to cradle my body’s deepest faith,
and hold,
banished queen—
She gave us her hands, like precious stones,
before the cold remains of the enemy.
This extraordinary poem, heartfelt and tender, is also hard as nails. There
is no sentimentality at any moment, but instead a spirited and quiet heroism
that is nothing less than inspirational. Morejón comments on this poem:
“Virginia Woolf lived convinced that behind each woman writer fluttered
the ghost of her mother. I’m no exception to this. So it’s not just that my
mother is a symbol of my poetry because she engendered me, but because,
without any resources, she raised me, she gave me an education, she
instilled in me the longing for independence, and she showed me forms of
refinement to which I am still grateful” (Morejón, 1995b). Clearly her mother
has taught the author much about life, a life in the New World, quite different
from the mothers and daughters of Virginia Woolf’s imagination, yet still
recognizing a womanly solidarity in a world run by men. In an interview she
explains: “Women also have a special vision that is born of pain, and pain
smartens one up a great deal” (Behar and Suárez, 1994, p. 629).
Morejón clearly admits that her specificity as a writer derives from being
a woman and black, but she interjects a note of caution: “This doesn’t mean
I’m a strident feminist. I don’t tend to be strident about anything” (Behar
and Suárez, 1994, pp. 628–29). Morejón’s feminism is not dogmatic; it is
transcultured, where there is room for Yemayá and Kristeva, Poe and García
Lorca, Woolf and Angela Davis. It is born from the loving and stern example
of her mother, given impulse by her friendship with Cuban artists like Ana
Mendieta, and nurtured by the inclusiveneess of a host of women who have
tried to build bridges between the island and its diasporic community
(Lourdes Casal, Ruth Behar). Morejón’s words must also be understood in
the Cuban context of a revolutionary society under assault from a powerful
NANCY MOREJÓN 29
adversary, where ideological debate is often strident. Because of her forma-

tion within the Cuban Revolution, Morejón uses political consciousness for
its liberating possibilities, while being careful of the doors that ideology can
close on the creative process. For example, if someone chooses to leave Cuba
and emigrate to the United States, they are called a counterrevolutionary at
best, a gusano (worm) or escoria (scum, dregs) at worst. Now, gusano is a
loaded word in Cuba: the epithet is not only a personal insult but calls into
question a whole series of other attributes. The motive does not have to be
overtly political (family reunification, desire to travel, work, or study);
leaving cannot be an individual choice, but a political statement tantamount
to treason. It means you have abandoned your patriotic duty to defend the
Cuban Revolution, and by extension the sacred territory of the Cuban nation.
From one moment to the next you become an outlaw to cubanidad, or
Cubanness. This example might be considered exceptional, but it really is not:
the nature of different types of ideological stridency permeates the Cuban
system that runs through its politics, education, sexuality, and culture.
Morejón is equally cautious about issues of race. Though she points out
her blackness as a factor that has shaped her political and cultural sensibil-
ity, she is keenly aware of how that can be used against her, either because
of racism, trivialization, superficial exoticism, and tokenism: “Race in the
Caribbean has been a fountain of events, a catalyst, an incentive, an act of
faith, and more often than not, a narcotic. But if closed in on itself, racial
attitudes, negritude can become a dead end. Nicolás Guillén addressed this
admirably when he said, ‘It’s like trying to find a black cat in a dark room.’
Or Wole Soyinka, who with a certain irony, speaks of tigers defending their
tiger-tude” (Morejón, 1995a). Morejón in this regard practices and embodies
a transculturated aesthetic. In this she is indebted to Fernando Ortiz (1881–
1969) and Nicolás Guillén (1902–89), two Cuban authors who sought to
explore the racial, economic, religious, and cultural complexities of Cuban
identity as a unique amalgam of European, African, Chinese, and other
ethnicities.
For Morejón the concept of transculturation does imply mestizaje (racial
mixing), but it is not necessarily the only or even the most important
component, ultimately. It involves a dynamic interaction at every level:
food, dress, music, folklore, religious belief (Santería), and community
interaction. “Transculturation signifies constant interaction, transmutation
between two or more cultural components whose unconscious end is the
creation of a third cultural whole—that is, culture—new and independent,
although its bases, its roots, rest on preceding elements. The reciprocal
influence is determining. No element is superimposed on the other; on the
contrary, each one becomes a third entity. One remains immutable. All
change and grow in a give and take which engenders a new texture”
(Morejón in Pérez Sarduy and Stubbs, 1993, p. 229). These new textures are
what we have discussed in Morejón’s poetry; not only in the poems with
obvious Afro-Cuban themes like “The Eyes of Élegguá” and “Elegy to

Nieves Fresneda,” but in ones that seem more “universal,” like “Montes y
mares,” “Mundos,” or “Polished Stone” or in “city” poems like “Amor,
ciudad atribuida.” But like any good Caribbean poet, Morejón appropriates
and transforms all the traditions when she creates her verses. She goes from
the world of the orishas to quoting Paul Eluard or Rilke; she draws on
Cuban authors like Martí, Lezama, or Eliseo Diego, and on Havana street
scenes. When she describes the ocean, she casts her net even wider, evoking
popular ballads or songs, Rimbaud, as well as Yoruba and Greek mythol-
ogy. Perhaps, because “there is always a ship, always a voyage,” as the
author says, the Caribbean is always adding new layers of culture, meaning,
and identity. By being the crossroads of so many interests and cultures
(European, indigenous, African, and Asian), every work of art is also an
epic, a journey, a new cosmology, a creation myth. Maybe this is what Alejo
Carpentier meant when he said, “America is a long way from having
exhausted its mythologies.” Transculturation always implies an unfinished
subject, something constantly evolving, changing, adding new elements,
witnessing new births, and so in the realm of culture it calls for renewed
attempts at new definitions. Each new definition becomes a creation myth.
Some new textures to her own work are seen in her most recent book,
Paisaje célebre (1993; Famed Landscape). This short book of poems is more
philosophical and rueful than her previous work, with a greater concern
expressed about time and the nature of absence. The author’s personal
circumstances changed: she traveled, several times to the United States. A
rarity among Cuban families, Morejón’s family had all remained in Cuba
after the revolution. She had never directly lived (or suffered) the experi-
ence of being almost totally cut off from family. By traveling to the United
States and having to take letters back or by meeting Cuban-Americans like
Lourdes Casal, Ana Mendieta, Sonia Rivera, and others, who traveled to
Cuba exploring their own personal and political turmoil, Morejón has been
able to witness one of the saddest dimensions of Cuban family life, one of
the many human tolls of the revolution.
Paisaje célebre has at least three poems that deal with this issue specifi-
cally: “A Chronicle That Swoons before the Immigrant Tree,” “Before a
Mirror,” and “Ana Mendieta.” “Before a Mirror” is dedicated to Sonia
Rivera Valdés, a Cuban-born professor at York College. It is a hauntingly
beautiful poem about how the city you were born in continues to pursue
you no matter how far away you are. Its phantasmatic presence is more real
than all the shapes and cities that surround you. The poem ends:
Wherever you might move

you’ll hear the same streetcry every morning,
be on the same boat crossing the same route,
the route of eternal emigrants.
NANCY MOREJÓN 31
Nothing will put you in place, anywhere.

Though you scavenge the world over,
from castle to castle,
from market to market,
this will always be the city of your phantoms.
You will have spent your life rather fruitlessly
and when you are an old woman
before a mirror, as in Cinderella,
you will smile half-sadly
and in your dry pupils
will be two faithful rocks
and a resonant corner of your city.
(trans. David Frye in Behar and Suárez, 1994, p. 622)
The structure of the poem is built around looking into a mirror: that of
an exile looking at new cities and countries, trying to see if they will mirror
their reality or identity. Naturally, there is a frustration, because that reflec-
tion is interfered with by the very disruption and displacement of exile. As
the poem says: “No other country, no other city is possible” (Behar and
Suárez, 1994, p. 621). The poem is in dialogue with another poem by
Lourdes Casal entitled “For Ana Veldford,” from her book Palabras juntan
revolución (1981). Casal, a writer-scholar, was one of the first Cubans in exile
who attempted to build bridges to her homeland, where she had lived the
first twenty-odd years of her life. As evidenced in this poem, it was no easy
task:
This is why I will always remain on the margins,

a stranger among the stones,
even beneath the friendly sun of this summer’s day,
just as I will remain forever a foreigner,
even when I return to the city of my childhood
I carry this marginality, immune to all turning back,
too habanera to be newyorkina,
too newyorkina to be
—even to become again—
anything else.
This (n)either (n)or dynamic is not strange to exile reality, and it has been a
constant preoccupation of Cuban exile writers such as Cristina García, Elías
Miguel Muñoz, José Kozer, and many others. However, it is refreshing to
see it taken up by a poet “from the other side,” that is, a writer still living
in Cuba. But even more important is that Morejón avoids the stereotyped
“revolutionary” view that they are uprooted Cubans who are on their way
to becoming deracinated Anglos with an accent. The Cuban cultural estab-
lishment did not even view this literature as Cuban for many years; this has
changed, but more out of political opportunism than anything else. Morejón
sees this writing and its concerns as important to Cuban literature because
it forms part of a Cuban reality, even if it is not confined to the physical
geography of the island.
In “Ana Mendieta” (1948–85), Morejón offers a heartfelt remembrance
of the Cuban artist exiled in the United States, who met a terrible death
when she fell from the thirty-fourth floor of her apartment building. Many
claim she was shoved by her artist husband, Carl André, but he was
acquitted. Mendieta emigrated at thirteen, living for five years in an or-
phanage, an experience that marked her for life. In 1980 she returned to
Cuba and began making a series of rupestrian sculptures in the rock
formations of Jaruco. Before that she had been doing “earth sculptures,”
silhouettes of her body imprinted on soil, similar to the corpse drawings
she had done even earlier (all this work was documented in photos or
videos). At the risk of simplifying, it was clear that Mendieta’s art had a
strong link to her search for identity, that rock, earth, and soil were literally
dug into in order to affirm her identity, to combat the sense of displacement
and uprootedness. Morejón admirably deals with these themes in the poem.
She begins the poem in New York, where Mendieta lived: “Ana was fragile
as lightning in the sky. /She was the most fragile girl in Manhattan.” Soon
after, she mentions her awful demise: “Ana cast into space. Ana, our lady
of despair, /yourself sculpted in the hostile cement of Broadway. /A desert,
like the desert /you found in the orphanages, /a desert, yellow and gray,
reaches you /and holds you tight, through the air.” (trans. D. Frye in Behar
and Suárez, 1994, p. 618). But the entire rest of the poem is dedicated to
images of flying, floating, birds, and kites, as if to suggest that Ana’s art, the
most terrestrial of work, actually defied gravity, and, of course, death.
Morejón, consistent with that imagery, ends the poem in like fashion, with
a splendid mood of reconciliation, of Ana returning not only to earth but
also returning to her homeland. In her journey she was able to recuperate
her lost country and childhood.
Ana, gliding like a kite

[...]
Your silhouettes, sleepy, calm,
tip up the multicolored kite
which flees Iowa, skirting indigenous cypresses,
and comes to rest on the sure clouds
of the mountains of Jaruco, in whose humid land
you have been reborn again, wrapped in a celestial moss
that dominates the rock and caves of the place,
yours now, more than ever.
Morejón, as can be seen from this brief view of her work, is a poet with
a vast and powerful range of themes and modes of expression. As she
NANCY MOREJÓN 33
herself has expressed it: “There’s no poetics of Nancy Morejón as such, but
several of them. The ones that I’m aware of have been forged over forty
years. What’s important for you to know is that I started to be abducted by
poetry since I was nine” (Morejón, 1995b). The opening poem of Paisaje
célebre offers a glimpse of the nature of that abduction. It begins with a
simple description: “To see the fall of Icarus from a harbor of /blues and
greens of Alamar.” The second stanza is cryptic, speaking of “a misan-
thrope wearing a hood” and a “small man, by himself, toiling above fruit
trees /until he joins a rainbow in the sky.” The poem ends with a reference
to painting and then Icarus again.
That little man

is a relative of Brueghel, the Elder, dear brother,
who paints the solitude of the soul
surrounded by splendid laborers.
It’s dusk and I need the wings of Icarus.
(trans. Alan West, in Morejón, 1993, p. 11)
Morejón is taking the famed (celebrated) landscape and examining its

exalted and praised history. First she situates it in a mythic landscape by
beginning with the fall of Icarus, along with the blue-greens of the harbor
or sea. Even the word Alamar is an interesting choice. At a pedestrian level,
it is a reference to a modern housing project about twenty minutes from
Havana, near the sea, where Morejón lives. But the name itself is made up
of ala and mar (wing and sea), which works as a kind of indirect refrain of
Icarus.
The second stanza seems a bit more mysterious, particularly with its
“hooded misanthrope.” Visually one thinks of Zurbarán’s monks, but the
idea behind it seems a throwback to medieval theology or the iniquities of
the inquisition. The following image of the little man plowing above fruit
trees and water seems like one of the flying figures of Mendive, part winged
horse or cow, part fish, and part human. Only in the third stanza is the
reference brought back to something more familiar: Brueghel the Elder.
Although the final references evoke his paintings that have dozens of
figures, such as “The Netherland Proverbs” or “The Battle between Car-
naval and Lent,” there is a painting attributed to him called “Landscape
with the Fall of Icarus” (c. 1555). It is a curious work, with a green sea,
someone plowing in the foreground, with a shepherd further below as one’s
sight goes down rightward toward the ocean. Near a ship there are two legs,
sticking out of the water, as if capturing the moment of impact of Icarus’s
body hitting the water. It is sundown. You have to strain to see the two legs
and only the brightly lit sky hints at Icarus’s travail. Everything else in the
painting seems like a quiet landscape, very matter-of-fact.
Morejón’s ending has a Promethean ring to it. Despite Icarus’s failure,

she wants the wings back to attempt the flight into the unknown, reminis-
cent of Paul Claudel when he said: “We lack wings, but we always have
enough strength to fall.” What are these wings for Morejón? The wings of
freedom and creation, those of eros, or the four wings of Cronus? Maybe
the wings that allow us to “deform what we perceive” (imagination), as we
saw with Bachelard when discussing the poem “Elegy for Nieves Fres-
neda.” In twelve verses the poet has brought together a vast web of images
and cultures to bear on a beautiful Caribbean sundown, in a magnificent
abduction of the reader.
It would be inaccurate to say that Paisaje célebre synthesizes all of Nancy
Morejón’s political, historical, and aesthetic concerns. But it does reveal an
extraordinary amount about history, aesthetics, and politics through the
voice of a masterful poet. In Paisaje célebre, as in her poetic oeuvre in general,
Nancy Morejón weaves together nature, politics, myth, creation, and per-
sonal testimony so adroitly that they gleam like “the precious stones that
are her mother’s hands,” like the sacred stones that contain an orisha’s aché,
the rough-edged rock of history, or the polished stone of poetry.
Note
A version of this essay was published in Studies in Twentieth Century Literature
20, no. 1 (Winter 1996): 181–205.
TWO
Alejo Carpentier: Symphonist of

History’s Emblems
Alejo Carpentier (1904–80), one of the great Latin American novelists

of the twentieth century, was born in Havana of a French father and a
Russian mother. He grew up bilingually (French and Spanish) and from
an early age showed a voracious appetite for reading, as well as a keen
interest in music, architecture, philosophy, and art. He was politically
active against the Machado dictatorship, for which he was thrown in
jail. When he was released he went to Paris (1928–39), where he became
familiar with the French avant-garde scene and the surrealists, be-
friending the likes of Robert Desnos, André Breton, Picasso, Varese, and
Braque. Carpentier returned to Cuba, but in 1945 he moved to Caracas,
where he lived until the triumph of the Cuban Revolution (1959). He
was involved in several cultural endeavors, until 1966, when he was
named minister for cultural affairs at the Cuban embassy in Paris, a
position he held until his death. Carpentier won many awards, but the
most important was the Cervantes Literary Prize in 1978.
Many of Carpentier’s novels are considered classics, such as The
Kingdom of This World (1949; trans. 1957), The Chase (1956; trans. 1990),
Explosion in a Cathedral (1962; trans. 1962), and Reasons of State (1974;
trans. 1976). His erudition, baroque language, and heady mix of poli-
tics, philosophy, myth, and history are an exhilarating challenge for any
reader. Though not the first person to use the term, Carpentier made
the phrase realismo mágico (magical or marvelous realism) stick. It grew
out of his research in Haiti for his first successful novel, El reino de este
mundo (The Kingdom of This World). In the novel’s preface, Carpentier
speaks about magical realism as a style of writing that was founded in
history and the beliefs of local peoples rather than a literary imposition
(or embellishment) grafted onto indigenous cultures. In Spanish, the

term evokes many associations: strangeness, unpredictability, amaze-
ment. And because magical realism—unlike Surrealism, in his view—
originated in the people’s faith and daily experience of reality, he
believed it could inspire them to social action, to seek freedom.
Whatever the successes of these political ambitions for his work, and
however diluted and imprecise the term has become, Carpentier’s
influence on the Latin American novel and on the generation that came
after him has been immense. His erudite, richly textured, and discursive
novels made their mark on writers as varied as García Márquez,
Fuentes, Vargas Llosa, Cortázar, and Valenzuela. Only Borges (short
story) and Neruda (poetry) can claim a similar stature and influence in
Latin America.
Carpentier was a tireless essayist and writer of chronicles and an
excellent researcher/writer on music. His book La música en Cuba (1946;
Music in Cuba) is still much used and quoted, and his three-volume Esa
música que llevo dentro (That Music within My Soul) brings together his
music articles from the Caracas daily El Nacional (for which he wrote
during fourteen years) as well as other articles and essays on Latin
American and classical music. But as in his fiction he proposes a fierce,
incendiary dialogue between the cultures of Europe and Latin America.
Only in his next-to-last major novel did Carpentier openly write
about the Cuban Revolution in a fictional context (La consagración de la
primavera (1978; The Consecration of Spring), which has not been
translated and has received mixed reviews. Whatever reservations
Carpentier might have had about the Cuban Revolution, he never made
them known, either in his novels or in public statements. Some later
writers (born after the revolution) see Carpentier as an “official writer”
because he was much admired and given prizes by the Cuban state. But
that would be too simplistic a view of the matter, as we shall see in our
discussion of Carpentier’s view of revolution in Explosion in a Cathedral.
To his credit, even in La consagración de la primavera, he presents the
revolution as a process, as something unfinished, and as a complex,
evolving phenomena, not a terrestrial paradise.
Throughout his mature work, Carpentier sought to elucidate a Latin
American perspective on history’s complexities and horrors. He be-
lieved that an epic scope was crucial for a twentieth-century novelist.
As he said in a lecture in 1967: “To concern yourself with this world,
this tiny world, this enormous world, is the task of novelists nowadays.
To understand it, with people who struggle, and criticize it, exalt it,
paint it, love it, try and have it make sense, try and talk to it, talk about
it, to show it, to show in its innermost depths, the errors, the grandeur,
the misery.” There are few writers of any time who were able to do this
with the passion, intelligence, and rigor of Alejo Carpentier.
HISTORY AS STEPPING RAZOR: TRAGEDY AND
REVOLUTION IN EXPLOSION IN A CATHEDRAL
Alejo Carpentier’s fifth novel, El siglo de las luces (1962; Explosion in a

Cathedral, 1963) is a work of immense scope. Set against the backdrop of the
French Revolution, it begins in Havana, goes to Haiti, France, Spain, Guade-
loupe, French Guyana, and ends in Spain at the time of the Napoleonic
invasion. It features wars, revolutions, jailings, exile, torrid love affairs,
scenes of great natural beauty, and rousing philosophical and political
discussions. More broadly, it speaks to the issue of violence and social
change, with important insights on twentieth-century revolutions.
Carpentier was fascinated with history. Explosion in a Cathedral is an
elaborate, sometimes dense exploration of the historical impact of the
French Revolution on the Caribbean. Through a human, emotional, and
historical triangle, Carpentier examines the relationship between art and
politics. In a rich, allegorically baroque style, the Cuban novelist traces the
lives of Víctor Hugues, a French entrepreneur and revolutionary, two
Cuban cousins, Esteban and Sofía (and her brother Carlos). Over time
Hugues betrays ideals he had earlier espoused. Sofía, after falling in love
with Hugues, abandons him and links up with her cousin Esteban, who,
through an act of sacrifice (being jailed) allows Sofía, the true revolutionary
of the novel, to escape. Esteban, as an artistic soul, is withdrawn enough
from (and disillusioned with) history to have little direct impact, but
through his actions in relation to Sofía, he can influence the forces of human
emancipation.
Explosion in a Cathedral is probably Carpentier’s greatest novel, and it
certainly helped put the Latin American novel on the world map before the
so-called boom of the mid- to late 1960s. Its interweaving of revolutionary
politics, exquisite descriptions of place, emotional turmoil, philosophical
musings, and collisions between ideals and stark realities are breathtaking.
Though Carpentier seems to stand in the tradition of Balzac, Stendhal, and
above all Tolstoy, his modernist and avant-garde leanings give the novel a
heterogeneous mix that distance it remarkably from nineteenth-century
realism or epics.
At first sight, Explosion in a Cathedral is provocative: it causes confusion,
irritation, or consternation. In the text we find a combination of elements,
genres, and styles. Carpentier goes from minute descriptions with baroque
arabesques, to chronicle, exhilarating epic, reflective essay, and the ample
freedom of novelistic discourse. At times we find ourselves in an adventure
novel, at other times in a romance, later in a Caribbean Bildungsroman, and
further on we are immersed in a philosophical rumination with traits that
belong to the essay or historical research; the author quickly shifts gears
and parodies the gothic or romantic novel. The underlying ideological
context conjoins the Cabala, freemasonry, Marxism, psychoanalysis, exis-
tentialism, the Sublime, and eighteenth-century revolutionary thought. The
characters are often unbelievable, the temporal leaps even more so, and the
narrative turnarounds are disconcerting. Despite the careful structuring of
his novels (using musical or architectural models), Carpentier’s fiction fans
out in many directions, elusive, always pushing its formal construction to
the breaking point.
One of those centripetal elements in Explosion in a Cathedral is the tension
between political praxis and utopia. Carpentier heightens that tension
using the notion of tragedy and theatricality in order to explore the histori-
cal phenomenon of revolution.
The novel, with a wealth of detail, describes the French Revolution and
its repercussions in the New World as tragedy. But what do we mean by the
word tragedy? It has been defined traditionally as a gesture of great courage
condemned to defeat. This gesture usually is played out on a large scale; it
normally is something beyond the everyday, and since its perspective is so
extreme, it seems to go beyond history (which is why Nietzsche crucially
links myth and tragedy). The rhythm of tragedy is the rhythm of sacrifice.
Through the suffering of the protagonist, the tragic hero, there is a disinte-
gration that ends in death. However, death is not just a personal act, but a
means to cleanse others or a collective, be it a society or a smaller grouping
or community (Williams, 1966, p. 156).
In Explosion in a Cathedral some of these elements of the classical defini-
tion of the term apply, but other factors make it necessary to introduce new
concepts in order to make the notion of tragedy more complete. The very
evolution of the words tragedy and revolution brought about two things: they
were viewed as antithetical and as being apart from society. This second
point might seem puzzling, but if we look into the history of the words, the
apparent paradox will be cleared up.
According to Raymond Williams, Renaissance tragedy or drama (four-
teenth–sixteenth centuries) secularized tragedy by predicating tragic action
not as a metaphysical fault within a mythical structure, but belonging more
to a character’s behavior within a moral scheme. The hero, otherwise a good
and dignified person, commits a moral error. The human weakness of the
protagonist and his or her subsequent “fall” would elicit compassion or pity
in the spectator. Suffering was thus a consequence of error, and happiness
was the execution of virtue. The problem with this framework, Williams
points out, is not that it is superficial, but that morality is conceived in static
terms, and, more than a case of redemption (classic drama), tragedy’s
resolution becomes more of an adjustment in order to return to the natural
and moral order of things.
ALEJO CARPENTIER 39
With the triumph of liberal ideas (eighteenth–nineteenth centuries), the

issue of individual human values versus the social system becomes central.
Liberalism slowly erodes the concept of a permanent and inalterable hu-
man nature, and it equally questions a static social order linked to a divine
scheme of things. With greater clarity and vigor, the possibility of changing
a society is palpable, something a revolution puts into relief dramatically.
Liberalism, with its faith in change, progress, and social transformation,
distances itself even further from tragedy, where altering the prevailing
order is inconceivable.
Romanticism (1780–1840), on the other hand, pushes individual will and
human-as-creator-of-self to an extreme. But when Romanticism propounds
this will within the context of a criticism of society or out of a desire to build
a new social order, there are several blind spots in its conception: the
Romantics viewed society’s hostility toward the individual with such great
concern that their critique of society fell prey to a kind of nihilism. Since for
the Romantics the idea of revolution is a total, totalizing, and sublime act,
it paradoxically contributed to the idea of revolution as being separate from
society. The Romantics saw society as the alienating consequence of reason.
It would be unjust, however, to say they were anti-reason. What they
criticized was the following: “The alienation of reason from all other
activities of man, changed reason from activity to a mechanism, and society
from a human process to a machine” (Williams, 1966, p. 72). In their failure
to revolutionize all of life, the Romantics alienated themselves in a kind of
irrationalism that led them to seek refuge in love, art, and nature. In
Carpentier’s novel, Esteban’s character follows this trajectory of aesthetic
refuge. (However, he is able to break away from this kind of alienation when
he “sacrifices” his own freedom of movement so Sofía can flee to Cayenne;
chap. 41.) For the Romantics, seeking refuge in art and nature further closed
the circle, which Williams lucidly summarizes: “Before we could not recog-
nize tragedy as social crisis; now, commonly we cannot recognize social
crisis as tragedy” (ibid., p. 77).
With the bankruptcy of liberalism we are faced with two bleak alterna-
tives: first, revolution has been reduced to an impersonal and mechanical
process outside of human control. Second, individual rebellion, guided by
an ideology of social transformation and the construction of a new order,
was futile since human beings were irreparably passionate, irrational, and
destructive. In terms of social action, only two paths seemed desirable:
modernization, that is, an evolutionary process which differentiated change
from the question of values, or flight toward a personal, apolitical, nonsocial
liberation.
Carpentier, however, from the vantage point of the shattering experi-
ences of twentieth-century revolutions, is able to bring together tragedy and
revolution. In Explosion in a Cathedral, revolution is put forth as tragedy,
which had been seen as removed from social thought, defeatist, irrational,
and unable to understand social contradictions. But more significantly,

Carpentier captures the inner workings of a colonial society’s abjection and
subjugation, along with its longings for freedom. This kind of society,
afflicted by slavery or racial exclusion, poverty, dependency on the Spanish
crown, divided by social rivalries and political fragmentation, will express
its utopian yearnings in a complex and contradictory fashion. Again, Wil-
liams underlines key themes for our understanding of the social dimensions
of tragedy:
The idea of the “total redemption of humanity” has the ultimate cast of
resolution and order, but in the real world its perspective is inescapably tragic.
It is born in pity and terror: in the perception of a radical disorder in which
the humanity of some men is denied and by the fact that the idea of humanity
itself is denied. It is born in the actual suffering of real men thus exposed, and
in all of its consequences of this suffering: degeneration, brutalisation, fear,
hatred, envy. It is born in an experience of evil made the more intolerable by
the conviction that it is not inevitable, but is the result of particular actions
and choices.
And if it is tragic in its origins—in the existence of a disorder that cannot
but move and involve—it is equally tragic in its action, in that it is not against
gods or inanimate things that its impulse struggles, nor against mere institu-
tions and social forms, but against other men. This, throughout, has been the
area of silence, in the development of the idea. What is properly called
utopianism, or revolutionary romanticism, is the suppression or dilution of
this inevitable fact. . . .
We have still to attend to the whole action, and to see actual liberation as
part of the same process as the terror which appalls us. I do not mean that
liberation cancels the terror; I only mean that they are connected and that this
connection is tragic. (Williams, 1966, pp. 77, 82)
Carpentier refuses to be part of this “revolutionary romanticism.” No

matter how strongly he believed in the importance and impact of the French
Revolution, he does not flee its harsh realities: the ideological hardening,
the cult of the supreme being, the mass executions, the exiles and jailings,
the errors committed in cultural policy, and the ideological regressions
(ultimate restoration of slavery). For social thinkers, as has been pointed
out, revolution cannot be tragic because it would be a cause for disenchant-
ment, disillusionment, and defeatism. For a revolutionary, the revolution is
something constructive, liberating, the road to the future. Revolution can
be described only in epic terms, and to achieve an epic dimension, social
upheaval must be viewed a little more abstractly, with a certain social
determinism. It is precisely the collison of epic and tragic views that is
witnessed in chapter 36 when Esteban argues with Sofía, Carlos, and Jorge
about his bitter personal experiences that have soured his revolutionary
zeal. Sofía eloquently defends the revolution with the following statement:
ALEJO CARPENTIER 41
One could not live without a political ideal; the happiness of a whole people
could not be achieved at the first attempt; . . . perhaps he had been the victim
of an exaggerated idealism; she admitted that the excesses of the Revolution
were deplorable, but great human victories could not be achieved without
pain and sacrifice. To sum up: nothing big could be done in this world without
blood being shed. (Carpentier, 1963, p. 262)
Esteban lashes back lucidly: “It’s the pious believers like you, the deluded,
the devourers of humanitarian pamphlets, the Calvinists of the Idea, who
erect guillotines” (ibid., p. 262). Esteban sees only tragedy (in the traditional
sense); Sofía, true to the epic spirit, sees blood as the sweat of revolutionary
freedom.
The most extreme example of the epic orientation is Víctor Hugues, the
exemplary man of action and prime mover in the novel. Hugues’s political
will is so potent that he is capable of roundly negating reality, as is the case
with the death of Robespierre: he hangs onto Jacobin doctrine, and, without
missing a step, tries to promote the revolution in the New World. The
tragedy of Víctor Hugues is his entrapment in the mirage of ideology and
power. Even when he is cognizant of this later on, with Esteban (chap. 28),
he continues impetuously without knowing how to stop, not unlike Mac-
beth. Hugues sees society and the revolution as machines, as Hobbes would
say. He is only an instrument in the hands of the great force of revolutionary
power. He admits as much to Sofía much later, when in Cayenne (French
Guyana): “I’m like those automata who play chess, walk, play the fife or
beat the drum when they’re wound up. There was only one role I hadn’t
played, a blind man. I’m playing that now” (ibid., p. 333).
Hugues is touching on a fundamental problem of political language and
its usefulness in trying to bring about change. Political discourse is exhor-
tative; it needs to initiate or motivate action, and in revolutionary times,
language is closely allied with forces that are not easily controlled: power
and violence. Even when this language speaks of virtue, reason, honor, and
the common good, it must face social forces that will energetically oppose
revolutionary ideas. Roland Barthes said that the Stalinist universe defined
everything in terms of Good and Evil, that every word uttered implied
naming a value (Barthes, 1973, p. 31). The distance between naming and
judgment was nil, and therefore all thought became tautological. Carpen-
tier describes a similar situation in the novel. In other words, those who are
not with the revolution are counterrevolutionaries, and if you are an enemy
of the revolutionary order, you could be sent to the guillotine (or to a work
camp, reeducation center, prison). Jean Starobinski, in a book about the
French Revolution, describes the hallucinatory spiral which ends in this
kind of dementia:
In its attempt to lend principles the force that makes them effective, language
lets itself be annexed by the violence it sought to tame. Without losing any
of its brilliance, the limpid speech of principle became the trenchant words of
action. It was no longer compared with the innocent transparency of crystal
but with the cutting edge of steel. To expound the source of the law was no
longer enough; now those who opposed it had to be punished. Obviously,
there was a risk that this sort of language would wear itself out in an
ever-mounting tide of austere vehemence, anathema, and unrelenting ab-
straction. (Starobinski, 1982, p. 60)
This escalation of verbal vehemence in political language confronts

opposing forces in a death struggle, often literally. The same bloody reality
makes the rhetorical sources used take on the declamatory power of theater.
The revolution is a stage, the Gran teatro del mundo (The Great Theater of the
World, a play by Calderón de la Barca), where the liberating dream of reason
and utopia collides with the course of history, made of flesh-and-blood men
and women who suffer, struggle, and die. Images linking theater and
politics have been longstanding for various reasons: many great tragic
works have political themes; drama or comedy often deals with individual-
collective conflicts; issues of motivation, will, moral agency, and action have
close analogies to the world of politics; or, conversely, political discourse
has imitated theatrical conventions. But most significant is that revolution-
aries see language as symbolic action, intimately linked to ideology. As
Ricoeur says, any group or society needs to “give itself an image of itself,
to ’play itself’ in the theatrical sense of the word, to put itself at issue and
on stage” (Ricoeur, 1991, p. 182). This collective symbol making is how a
society constructs a narrative of itself. In revolutionary times a new script
is written and enacted, often in the heat of bloody confrontation. The
players are new or different: the ruled are now the rulers; the despised have
become heroes. “The time is out of joint,” Hamlet would say. This theater
of revolution is constant throughout Carpentier’s novel.
The theatrical space Carpentier constructs is achieved through several
devices and discourses. In them he wields historical references, art (painting
and drawing), philosophical, and rhetorical strategies, which go toward
“building the set.” This is done in a variety of ways: first by references to
theater made by the author, directly, indirectly, or by the characters; but also
by the use of emblems so dear to baroque theatrical practice. Another
baroque device is used in the description of the guillotine that begins the
novel, which functions as a kind of ironic loa (a short verse panegyric that
was a kind of prologue to a long drama). Carpentier is extremely deft in
handling recognition and reversal (anagnorisis), a frequent technique in the
world of theater. Building on the long history of religious and metaphysical
theater in the Spanish tradition, Carpentier uses words, particularly nouns,
with capital letters, for certain roles or concepts, which is similar to their
use in autos sacramentales (allegorical or religious plays). The novel’s use of
allegory in a historical context highlights the signifying levels of the work,
and shows its own inner workings, its mise-en-scène. By drawing attention
ALEJO CARPENTIER 43
to the “theatricality” of its meaning, Explosion in a Cathedral also shows how

political language acquires the configuration of theatrical spectacle, con-
verging on vehemence, manipulation, or tautology.
The allusions to theater are plentiful in the novel and begin with Víctor
Hugues, who arrives at Sofía’s house like a kind of Don Giovanni, except
that his initial seduction is at an intellectual and political level. Later, of
course, it will be amorous and sexual, at least with Sofía. Don Giovanni
(1787), Mozart’s opera, begins with the death of the Commendatore, Donna
Anna’s father, similar to the death of Sofía’s father in the novel. In 1787
Mozart’s father also died. Víctor Hugues, like Don Giovanni, is a figure of
the Enlightenment: “But the original and still famous story identified him
clearly enough as an atheist and blasphemer, and by the 18th century
opinions such as his were taken as signs not only of revolt but of rational
and self-justifying revolt. Don Giovanni has clearly concurred in the en-
lightenment’s multiple parricide; and, being a man of the enlightenment,
he believes himself in the right and refuses to repent when the statue of the
Commendatore threatens him with hell” (Brophy, 1988, p. 83). When
Hugues takes over their home (by ideological assault) and finds certain
clothes in the wardrobes, they dress up representing different figures of
antiquity: Mucius Scaevola, Caius Gracchus, Demosthenes, Inez de Castro,
Juana la Loca (chap. 4, pp. 36–37). Unconsciously they (Esteban, his cousin
Sofía, her brother Carlos) start to “rehearse” their entry onto the historical
stage, which, evidently, will be more alienating and less playful than the
farcical skits they enact with Hugues. Further on in the novel (chap. 6, p.
52), Hugues actually performs different scenes from the life of Lycurgus,
the great innovator of the Spartan legal system (Díaz-Plaja, 1960, p. 165).
Right away he begins creating a political auto sacramental with characters
such as the Nobility, the Church, the Navy, the Judiciary, and Diplomacy
(chap. 6, p. 52). In any case, these scenes take on a savagely ironic premo-
nition, since they are pale simulacra of the bloody events from which they
will later suffer.
Víctor Hugues, almost at the end of the novel, defeated and depleted by
the forces of history, confesses the following to Sofía: “I thought I was
controlling my own destiny, they—the people who always make and
unmake us—have made me take so many parts that I no longer know which
one I should be playing. I’ve put on so many costumes I no longer know
which is the right one. . . . Baker, trader, mason, anti-mason, Jacobin, mili-
tary hero, rebel, prisoner, absolved by the men who killed the man that
made me, Agent of the Directory, Agent of the Consulate . . .” (chap. 46,
p. 333). All of history’s costumes (he sounds like a retired diva reminiscing,
but without a hint of nostalgia), all of the different roles apportioned, have
left him without a hint of authenticity. A few pages later, when they put
slices of bloody veal on him to cure him of the Egyptian disease, Sofía
reminds Hugues that he looks like Oedipus, a parricide from ancient
tragedy (ibid., p. 334). Hugues not only evokes Oedipus, but surely Saturn
devouring his son, quite consistent with the references to Goya throughout
the text. And like Don Giovanni, he will sink into the depths without
repenting.
The guillotine forms one of the theatrical foundations of the novel, and
Carpentier sets the stage ingeniously and with lush detail in chapter 21,
when the beheading machine is first used in public. The people gather
around it in a kind of festive mood to witness a spectacle:
They had never seen a theater open to all, and, for this reason, the people were
now discovering the essence of Tragedy. Fate was present among them, its
blade waiting, with inexorable punctuality, for those who had been ill-ad-
vised enough to turn their arms against the town. And the spirit of the Chorus
was active in every spectator, as strophes and anti-strophes, occurrences and
apostrophes were bandied across the stage. (chap. 21, p. 150)
This public, open-air theater, with its bloody tragedy, provokes a reaction:
of wanting to shake off the terror and death, and, as a result, another
spectacle is created, the public ceremony or carnaval. Later, the guillotine
goes on the road, from town to town, like a traveling theater company (ibid.,
p. 153). When it arrives in a town it centralizes life around its awesome
destructiveness, even to the point of being the axis of economic activity (p.
151), as if it were an emblem on the stage of a baroque drama. In Calderón
de la Barca’s El gran teatro del mundo (1633), there are two emblematic globes
on stage: on one is the author seated on a throne; on the other, an emblem
with two doors on which are painted a crib and a tomb, respectively.
(Carpentier’s other baroque source for “the world as stage” image [aside
from Shakespeare, of course] is Lope de Vega’s Lo fingido verdadero.) The
guillotine announces the birth of a new world, incarnate in two documents:
the Declaration of the Rights of Man and the Constitution of 1793. But it
also announces judgment, ideological vehemence, and blood. It is this
conjunction of the good bathed in blood that makes Robespierre’s words
comprehensible: “Virtue without Terror is impotent; Terror without Virtue
is malignant.”
Theater and guillotine are paired up from the start, in a chilling, two-page
description that begins the novel. It could be likened to an ironic loa, which
traditionally has been defined as a brief piece or poem presented before the
main play of the evening. Usually it was a panegyric extolling the virtues
of an illustrious person or an august event, and it was meant to grab the
audience’s attention. Its two functions were to establish a relationship
between the performers and the public and to “highlight the fictitious
nature of the upcoming dramatic representation” (Rodríguez and Tordera,
1983, p. 32). Carpentier, with this loa, sets the tone for one of the principal
themes of the novel: the apotheosis of political reason and its murderous
consequences. Furthermore, he also draws attention to the allegorical dis-
ALEJO CARPENTIER 45
course which he will employ in his novel as a means with which to meditate
on history (more will be said about allegory later on). And by placing this
narrative fragment out of chronological order—if he had followed a strict
realist approach, the loa would go just before the beginning of chapter
17—Carpentier underlines the materiality of the writing process and his
own insertion into the text as author (again, echoing the beginning of El
gran teatro del mundo). The novelist accentuates a technique, a method, that
he has adopted from the dramatic and lyric literature of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries—the emblem. In Explosion in a Cathedral, the guillo-
tine as emblem is counterposed to another emblem: the seashell that Este-
ban admires, conjuring up images of the Sublime (chap. 24).
The birth of the emblem in literature is usually attributed to the publica-
tion in 1531 of Andrea Alciato’s Emblematum liber (Alciato, 1985). The
influence of emblems on the literary arts was immense, and its visual,
didactic strengths were highly valued by preachers and teachers (Daly,
1979). In his study of Alciato, critic S. Sebastián defines the emblem as
follows:
If in the origins of culture, letter and image went together, the sixteenth
century fostered a dialectic between the two, creating the illusion of corre-
spondences that also appealed to the traditional harmonic reationship be-
tween microcosms and macrocosms. The internal harmony of the emblem is
established between its components. The emblema triplex . . . is distinguished
from other icono-verbal forms by virtue of its three differentiated parts: (1)
the inscriptio or motto, which is the emblem’s title; (2) the pictura or symbolic
image; and (3) the subscriptio, a statement or epigram at the foot of the image.
Alciato and other, later emblematists conceived the image as the body, and
the texts as the soul of the emblem; therefore, any attempt at clarification or
analysis of the emblem must take into account its representation (res picta)
and its formulation (res significans). (Alciato, 1985, pp. 8–9)
In Carpentier’s case the subscriptio is not always directly related to the

pictura, or the relationship is expressed indirectly in the very text of the
novel. The important thing is that the author does establish a relationship
between literature and painting, representation and signification, image
and idea. Carpentier is able to achieve this with great skill and subtlety,
using a modern (novelistic) emblematic construction.
In Explosion in a Cathedral there are various clusters of emblems. Two
already mentioned are the guillotine and the seashell. If we turn to Alciato,
we find “El término” (emblem 157), which symbolizes death. The inscrip-
tion says Nulli cedo (I yield before no one), an apt description of the
guillotine or of Hugues’s political positions if there ever was one. The “El
término” emblem represents an obstacle for men, the day that cannot be
changed, the prearranged time of fate, in which the last things judge what
came before. There are two emblems that use the shell, both relating to
Esteban: the emblem that reads “Acquiring immortality by the study of

letters” (132) and another called “Sudden terror” (122). These relate to
Esteban’s artistic nature and his being witness to the Revolutionary Terror
in France. These are not only analogies between Alciato’s work and Car-
pentier’s novel, but bring into relief the influence or relationship between
emblem and literature, as well as how the text puts into practice its own
theatricality through the emblem.
The other emblematic clusters in the novel are the epigraphs taken from
Goya’s Los desastres de la guerra (The Disasters of War), the painting Explosion
in a Cathedral by Desiderio Monsú (François Nomé), and a painting by Goya,
perhaps his best-known work, May 3, 1808. The latter, though never men-
tioned overtly, is the subtext of the last chapter. Carpentier refers to Goya
twelve times, always in key chapters. At times, the Goya quotation, the
drawing it is associated with, and the novel’s chapter are complementary.
Such is the case with Los estragos de la guerra (Devastations of War), which
blends perfectly with chapter 17 of the novel and describes the cruel battle
with the English in order to recapture the island of Guadeloupe for the
French. But on other occasions such symmetry is not found (chap. 24, with
the shell, linked up with Desastre 16, “Se aprovechan”—they take advan-
tage). Goya’s Disaster 16 shows Spanish soldiers stripping French soldiers
of their uniforms and materiel. Maybe Carpentier, with a certain malevolent
humor, is alluding to what Esteban had told Hugues in chapter 17 when he
said: “Beware of the intoxication of the uniform!” Maybe the chapter with
the shell (the wonders and sublimity of nature) is an indirect “undressing”
of Hugues, at a symbolic level (Nature vs. Society).
The important point is that the “emblems” frame key moments in the
novel, drawing attention to the process of how history is (re)presented
within the novel’s discourse. To begin, The Disasters of War alludes to events
in Spain’s history that occur after the death of Esteban and Sofía, so there
is a kind of temporal cut (incision) in the chronological flow of the narration,
a tableau that stops or slows down the action, inciting one to think across
different historical moments.
The emblems bear an affinity with Diderot’s theatrical aesthetic. For the
French philosopher, theater had to forget words and accede immediately to
the image, and proceed from truth to evidence, from reason to rapture (de
Azúa, 1983, pp. 236–47). Visual (and mute) signification is what predomi-
nates, and the minimal element is the tableau: “One unforeseen incident that
occurs in the action and changes the state of the characters is a theatrical jolt
(coup de théâtre). A scenic composition, so natural and authentic, which is
faithfully executed by a painter, which I would like on canvas, is the
painting (tableau)” (ibid., p. 236). In other words, Diderot devalues the coup
de théâtre and substitutes for it a mute and natural gesture, a signifying
emblem. De Azúa further draws out the pictorial emphasis in Diderot:
“Personally, I think that, if a dramatic work were well staged, the set would
ALEJO CARPENTIER 47
offer the spectator real paintings (tableaux) as favorable to a painter as the

action allows” (ibid., p. 237). For Diderot, then, drama would be a succes-
sion of highly emotional tableaux, which elicit this emotion through an
ability to present stirring emblems. Carpentier, through the use of the Goya
drawings, achieves a similar result, but inversely, in that he uses the verbal
element (the subscriptio, if you will) to bring out the visual (tableau or
pictura), which is impossible to present literally in the novel. Diderot favors
the tableau at the expense of the verbal or discursive. (Diderot also recog-
nizes the narrative relevance of the tableau and that the difference between
the dramatic and the narrative tableau is one of degree. The former, the
novel, “follows the gesture and pantomime in all of its details”; the latter
[a work of theater] “only lets a word drop on the run.”)
The most radical example of the use of the tableau is a scene where Víctor
Hugues is in his office, with a painting of Robespierre hanging on the wall.
Here everything comes together: the image (of power, the will of the
people), the social role of Hugues (including his uniform), and the petrifi-
cation of political language. The utopian impulse has hardened into ideol-
ogy, an ideology transformed into formula or judgment. It has become so
abstract that it freezes history; ideology has turned into ahistorical ritual,
an image of its own dissolution. It is the tableau of the revolution exhausted
by its fury of blood, even while it still promises a new future.
Carpentier uses the tableau (and the coup de théâtre) in order to construct
his pictorial scenes, his living and thinking emblems, verbal feasts which
shimmer; but the way scenes are articulated, with the use of anachronisms,
his baroquely chiseled images, his humor and irony, the relationship be-
tween emblem and narration, call into question the issue of representation
(of history, ideas, revolution) to the point where the author turns his
language into spectacle. This language takes on a corporeal density; it
begins to perform the discourse, to make the text gesture, to become a
tableau. This gesture and performance point to the work’s different levels,
particularly the examination of history through the use of allegory.
Many have commented on the use of allegory in Carpentier’s work, but
most of the discussion has been limited to finding out the “hidden mes-
sages” of this allegorical discourse. What has generally been left unsaid is
the nature of allegorical discourse and how it is used to demystify historical
narration (González Echevarría, 1983, pp. 60–65).
“We have allegory when the events of a narrative obviously and continu-
ously refer to another simultaneous structure of events or ideas, whether
historical events, moral or philosophical ideas, or natural phenomena”
(Preminger, 1974, p. 12). The emphasis here is on the obvious and the
continuous, with an implicit rigidity, abstraction, and, at times, difficulty. It
is counterposed to the symbol, which is the perfect fusion of signifier and
signified, the particular and the general, and is the result of a direct,
instantaneous perception.
As González Echevarría points out, following Paul de Man, allegory

connotes a temporal dimension, something outside of itself and “from the
point of view of the individual, it always says more than it pretends to, or
only a part of what is meant; it is a kind of surplus value of signification, in
which the individual has no control over the surplus, outside of and not
belonging to him” (González-Echevarría, 1983, p. 61).
Allegory, then, is a mode of literary discourse which recognizes the
impossibility of that perfect fusion of the empirical and the eternal and thus
demystifies the symbolic relationship by underlining the separation be-
tween the two levels. The union of the two levels (empirical and eternal) is
possible for only a moment, against a backdrop of nonassociation, making
the union even more arbitrary; allegory makes this connection a self-con-
scious, questioning process. Allegorical meaning exhibits a metonymic
movement; it is goaded on by a ferocious displacement mechanism in a
kind of looting of the empirical (Eagleton, 1981). Terry Eagleton quotes
Walter Benjamin’s The Origin of German Tragic Drama: “In the context of
allegory, the image is only a signature, only the monogram of essence, not
the essence itself in a mask” (Benjamin, 1977, p. 214). The emblematic image
of baroque drama points to a crucial feature: the passage from classical to
baroque tragedy, which also marks the shift from myth to history. This
historical realignment is even truer if we accept Lezama Lima’s baroque
aesthetics of rebellion as a baroque of Counter-Conquest (as opposed to the
European baroque of Counter-Reformation).
In Explosion in a Cathedral, Carpentier manipulates allegory with a su-
preme and ironic mastery. At the same time that he “describes” the French
Revolution, the first great bourgeois revolution, he evokes many other
events: the theatricality of political discourse, its impact on the Romantic
movement, its degeneration which leads to the invasion of Spain (which,
in turn, precipitates Latin American independence struggles), analogies
with Stalinism and the literary feuds that centered around the Brecht-
Lukacs debates. Going back in time, the French Revolution adopted a
neo-classical model in order to dress up its actions as a continuation of those
“great and enduring aspirations” of Greek and Roman antiquity. The
revolution enacted a mise-en-scène of this classicism armed with the ideas
of Jean-Jacques Rousseau; the revolutionaries used the emblems of antiq-
uity to hide perhaps the true poverty of the social content of their ideas, as
Eagleton has suggested, following the lead of Marx’s 18th Brumaire of Louis
Bonaparte (Eagleton, 1990, p. 213). Carpentier, whether visually, theatrically,
even operatically, shuffles about discourses, concepts, ideas, images, em-
blems, piecing together a profound meditation about history and moder-
nity.
Most notably, Carpentier rejects any kind of linearity in history. The
notion that history can be narrated with a kind of luminous transparency
collapses in this novel, as does the essentialist trap of history having a
ALEJO CARPENTIER 49
subject. Through allegory Carpentier shows that this vision is idealist,

presupposing a close relationship between signifier and signified. Allegory
in Carpentier “stages” interpretation; it makes language function with all
its arbitrariness and makes the signifying process a spectacle, a theater
where the most abject and sublime coalesce in that tragedy which is
revolution. The only utopia, Carpentier seems to be saying, is language
itself. Every utopia is a dream, but it is a dream that beckons to be put into
practice. To accomplish that, the dream must confront the true nature of
power. And in that war between utopia and power, reason and terror, praxis
and representation, Carpentier constructs his verbal edifice, where words
will not fall into a vacuum.
This last sentence refers not only to the quotation that begins the novel,
but to Carpentier’s own words about Explosion in a Cathedral. The book
commences with the following words from the Zohar: “Words do not fall
into a vacuum.” This quotation from an ancient cabalistic text might have
more recent and Cuban connotations as well. José Martí once said,
“Trincheras de palabras valen más que trincheras de piedras” (“Trenches
made of words are better than those of stone”). All of this is consistent with
what Carpentier said about the novel in an interview: “The underlying
principle of the book? It could be summed up in this phrase: Human beings
might weaken and give up, but ideas follow their own path and finally are
put into practice” (Carpentier, 1989, p. 52). Again, this seems to resonate
with Julio Antonio Mella’s phrase, “Hasta después de muertos somos
útiles” (“Even in death we are useful”). Mella, a founder of the Cuban
Communist Party (1925), assassinated before his twenty-sixth birthday, in
both life and thought had his prophetic optimism redeemed by Fidel Castro
and the Cuban Revolution, according to Carpentier.
While the French Revolution drew on antiquity, twentieth-century revo-
lutions seem to draw on the French example, with its use of language such
as right and left, Jacobins, terror, and the will of the people. Carpentier,
however, wrote his novel between 1956 and 1958, while he was living in
Venezuela, so it is difficult to impute to him a roman à clef about the Cuban
Revolution, even though the novel was not published until 1962, apparently
with some substantial modifications to the 1958 version. The writing and
rewriting process of the novel reveals the historical density of Caribbean
reality. No doubt many references in the novel allude to the Bolshevik
Revolution, and Víctor Hugues’s megalomania is unequivocally reminis-
cent of Stalin’s. The period of the novel’s gestation was an extraordinarily
difficult moment in the history of the communist movement, with the
Soviet invasion of Hungary as well as the famous speech of Khrushchev to
the twentieth Party Congress (both in 1956) denouncing the abuses of the
Stalin era.
Despite the savage history of many revolutions, Carpentier was not
totally inimical to their contributions to humanity, and he went to great
pains to indicate that his novel did not have in mind the revolutionary
transformation of his native Cuba. Here are his words in an interview
published in 1983 (after his death):
I’m not in agreement with the statement that says I have a “Saturnian” concept
of history. And I differ from the idea that no revolution has delivered on its
promises. If, in a certain way, the French Revolution failed, I couldn’t, histori-
cally speaking, show great optimism towards it. History is what it is, and can’t
be any other way. But in reference to revolutions in general, it’s enough for
me to see the results of the Cuban Revolution, its great achievements, the
magnificent changes it has brought about in the life of my compatriots, so that
I become aware that not all revolutions have to defraud those who have made
it. (Carpentier, 1989, p. 54)
These words might seem quaint and ironic to many at this stage in Cuba’s
history (reflecting how rapidly things shift), but they must be understood
within a certain context (before 1980), when Cuba was living in greater
economic prosperity and with certain social gains (health, education, close
to zero unemployment) that had universally been achieved.
Carpentier’s “method” of trying to represent revolution is a vast in-
tertextual drama placed and performed on the stage of history. It is a
conversation with Greek tragedy, baroque theater, Spanish painting and
history, Caribbean voodoo, French politics and thought, African-based
religions, German aesthetic theory and philosophy, and Cuban historians.
This intoxicating dialogue with the dead, the living (and the future) could
be called transcultured historiography. Like Severo Sarduy’s idea of retom-
bée, sometimes the echo precedes the voice. This approach to history re-
quires the determination of an archivist, the rigorous logic of a scientist, the
insight of a philosopher, the creative architectonics of a composer, and the
imagination of a poet. Perhaps this explains Carpentier’s generous mixing
of genres under the novelistic umbrella. Antillean (Cuban) realities require
a fluid, inclusive manner, aspiring to the liquid alchemy characteristic of
the Caribbean Sea.
But although we cannot attribute to Carpentier, or to his novel, a view
of the Cuban Revolution, his interpretive and historical approach in the
novel can invite such thoughts in current readers. Indeed, Carpentier’s
method of moving across vast stretches of time (from the Zohar to Stalin,
from Goya to Brecht, from Rousseau to Lenin) incites those very associa-
tions. The idea is not so simple, though, because it is not just a question of
linking up Robespierre or Saint-Just with, say, Fidel Castro, or perhaps
Esteban with Lezama Lima. That could be a fruitful and interesting exercise,
but Carpentier had larger issues in mind, such as the role of violence in
revolutionary change, or the idea of beginning anew by transforming a
society from the bottom up, or the relationship between freedom and
necessity.
ALEJO CARPENTIER 51
The hope for a new beginning, a new society, has driven revolutionaries
for the last two centuries. The French Revolution went so far as changing
the calendar, giving different names to the months. In Cuba one constantly
hears “antes” and “después” (before and after), with the implicit under-
standing that it refers to the revolution. It is as if Cuba became another
country on January 1, 1959. To a certain extent this is true; the revolution
made a radical break with the past in terms of class relations, unemploy-
ment, racism, education, health, and economic policy, not to mention a vast
reorientation of its foreign policy. But this newness harks back to biblical
times, with the Judeo-Christian messianistic impulse. But differently, it was
not a divine act which would interrupt and give a new course to secular
history, but instead an act (or acts) of men and women that would give
history a new dimension, and society a new set of rules, defined by freedom.
It is as if the revolutionary process had tried to abolish or wipe away
society’s original sin by seeking a new start and attempting to build a
utopian future. This new start must reckon, however, with the so-called
“social question.”
Hannah Arendt, in her incisive book of essays On Revolution, has traced
the inner tension of revolutionary movements since the French Revolution.
She defines as crucial the conflict between freedom and necessity, defining
the latter as a social issue (and, of course, economic, as well). Moreover, the
step from freedom to necessity becomes a crucial element in the valoration
of the necessity of violence. Says Arendt: “Thus the role of revolution was
no longer to liberate men from the oppression of their fellow men, let alone
to found freedom, but to liberate the life process of society from the fetters
of scarcity so that it could swell into a stream of abundance. Not freedom
but abundance became now the aim of revolution” (Arendt, 1990, p. 64). To
“liberate the life process,” at least in the Marxist revolutionary tradition,
means the violent overthrow of a corrupt and shallow society, because that
society will not change peacefully nor give up its privileges without a fight.
Alain Touraine adds that Marx believed in the liberation of nature, that a
classless society would be the triumph (or return) of nature (Touraine, 1995,
pp. 80–81). But this comes about through “an obsession with totality” which
does not “make allowance for the appearance within civil society of the
social actor” (ibid., p. 82). Liberating the life process leads to the corruption
or elimination of civil society, a destructive feature for any society.
Curiously, though, violence, despite its relationship to revolutions and
historical events, falls outside of politics, in the strict sense. If, as Aristotle
said, humans are political beings endowed with human speech (and both
are necessary to transact politics), violence is the exhaustion of the political,
the reign of silence. As a result, a revolutionary justification for violence
must expend time (and words) to invade or cover this silence: “a theory of
revolution, therefore, can only deal with the justification of violence
because this justification constitutes its political limitation; if instead, it
arrives at a glorification or justification of violence as such, it is no longer

political but antipolitical” (Arendt, 1990, p. 19). Carpentier’s novel treads
this line of the justification of violence for political ends, always keeping in
mind, perhaps, Saint-Just’s remark, “Nothing resembles virtue so much as
a great crime.” Not surprisingly, Carpentier has the ship that brings the
guillotine to the New World accompanied by a written document of great
political significance: the Declaration of the Rights of Man.
Once, however, the idea of necessity is established—be it history, the
indivisible will of the people, the glory of the invincible Reich, the will of
God, the dictates of the class struggle, or the engine of progress—the
groundwork is laid on which it becomes possible to commit enormous
crimes with impunity draped in the cloak of virtue. There has scarcely been
a revolution in this century that has not followed this pattern to a greater
or lesser extent. Does this invalidate the political and economic importance
of revolution? According to Carpentier, no. The end of his novel bears this
out. The French Revolution has run its course and failed. The bourgeoisie
has put its faith in Napoleon, who subsequently invades Spain, and by this
action enables the Latin American independence movements to advance
and eventually defeat Spanish colonialism in the Americas (except for Cuba
and Puerto Rico). Esteban and Sofía die in the streets of Madrid defending
the sovereignty of Spain, even though the most “progressive” political force
in this battle are the French. In history, Carpentier seems to tell us, ideas
triumph in indirect, often unexpected ways.
It will take many years for historical analysts to sort out the triumphs
and reversals of revolutions in the Caribbean. In recent history there have
been only two: Cuba and Grenada. The latter was destroyed by those who
put necessity before freedom, crushing the new and innovative government
of Maurice Bishop and the New Jewel Movement by giving the U.S.
government a flimsy pretext for direct military intervention. Cuba’s social
experiment has lasted thirty-six years, battered and struggling. One could
say, with reasonable certainty, that the Cuban Revolution has failed. To
make that claim is not a simple statement: it does not mean that the last
thirty-six years of Cuban history are meaningless. The nature of what was
achieved and what has failed is by no means an open and shut case: it will
require all the intertextual skill and imaginative insight that Carpentier
brought to Explosion in a Cathedral to sort out lucidly. To a degree, then, it is
not “over,” and Carpentier’s allegorical method, with its distantiation
(temporal and otherwise), suggests that “the monogram of essence” that
Benjamin spoke of will continue to be reinscribed, contested, become an
evolving palimpsest of images.
For two generations now Cuba has represented the hope of the down-
trodden in many parts of the world. Yet in its attention to necessity over
freedom, it reveals severe weaknesses which are compounded in its current
economic crisis. Arendt has said that compassion for the poor has led to
ALEJO CARPENTIER 53
pity, and “Pity, taken as the spring of virtue, has proved to possess a greater
capacity for cruelty than cruelty itself” (ibid., p. 89). Behind the selfless
devotion to “the people” can lie a vicious inclination to persecute. The
problem with this pity is its boundlessness, Arendt says of Robespierre, so
“that the evil of his virtue was that it did not accept any limitations” (ibid.,
p. 90). This limitless nature of revolution, its words and deeds, its vicious
virtue, its passion for freedom and justice, do not fall into a vacuum. They
continue to beset our century’s dreams, no matter how skeptical postmod-
ernists may be of these “grand narrative” schemes. They form the emblems
of Carpentier’s theater of history that have haunted the twentieth century
with passionate hope and bloody intolerance, revealing that if man is “a
tattered coat upon a stick” (Yeats), from its meager threads are woven the
opposites “with which there is no progress: attraction and repulsion, reason
and energy, love and hate . . . [so] necessary for human existence.”
THREE
Virgilio Piñera: History to the Bone
Virgilio Piñera (1912–1979) was born in Cárdenas, Cuba. He is not only

one of the major writers to come out of Cuba, but Latin America as well.
His work has unjustly been neglected, except for a handful of Cuban,
Puerto Rican, and Argentinian writers/critics. His early reputation was
made in theater with Electra Garrigó (1943), Jesús (1948), and Falsa alarma
(1948), the latter two being the first works of absurdist theater and
precursors to Beckett, Ionesco, and others. Had he been living in Paris
at the time (1940s), he might be a staple of the college literary reading
lists. Equally gifted as a short story writer, novelist, and poet, Piñera
published four collections of stories, three novels, and three books of
poems, as well as having written thirty plays. Piñera’s oeuvre empha-
sizes the fate of the human body as a focal point for the relationships
between power, discourse, and sexuality. By placing the body in ex-
treme situations (death, mutilation, sacrifice, bondage), Piñera, with a
deadpan candidness, speaks of domination, the formation of gender,
socialization, and the forging (and foibles) of consciousness. Piñera’s
language, pared-down, even colloquial, is laced with wit and irony. His
Cuentos fríos (1956; Cold Tales, 1988) are gems of the genre as they expose
social conformity, human perfidy, poverty, and political rigidity with
stark, uncompromising humor. His major novel, La carne de René (1952;
René’s Flesh, 1989), lays bare all the structures of domination in society:
school, family, church, political movements, magnified and distorted
through the prism of flesh. Pequeñas maniobras (Small Maneuvers), from
1963, is the story of Sebastián, told as a picaresque novel in reverse, with
the protagonist descending the social scale, displaying an ever-increas-
ing ability to humiliate himself. Presiones y diamantes (1967; Pressures
and Diamonds), his last novel, is a kind of science fiction novel, a cross
between Camus’s The Plague and Godard’s Alphaville.
Some of his other significant plays are Aire Frío (1958), a family satire;
La boda (1957), a savage look at marriage; El no (1965); and a pas-de-deux
about fear and death, Dos viejos pánicos (1968), winner of the Casa de
las Américas Award. The latter, despite the award, was not performed
in Cuba until 1990.
Piñera spent the better part of twelve years in Argentina (1946–58),
with trips backs to Cuba either to collaborate on the staging of his plays
or for personal reasons. Though he published in Orígenes magazine, he
was never considered part of the group’s inner circle like José Lezama
Lima, Cintio Vitier, Eliseo Diego, Fina García Marruz, Julián Orbón, and
Angel Gaztelu. He was a close friend of José Rodríguez Feo, the
magazine’s financial backer, who eventually broke with them to form
his own magazine, Ciclón. Piñera was one of the chief editors and
contributors to Ciclón, whose tone was more belligerent and willing to
take on issues (Sade, homosexuality, political commitment) than
Orígenes, which its Catholicism (even if unorthodox) was less reluctant
to deal with.
Piñera returned to Cuba shortly before the revolution and stayed on
afterwards. He was put in charge of Ediciones R, a government-created
publishing firm, which also brought out his Collected Works of Theater,
(Teatro completo), featuring seven of his plays. Despite the revolution’s
recognition of his importance as a literary figure and dramatist, signs
of strain were evident early on. In the famous meeting held with Cuban
intellectuals in June 1961, in which Fidel Castro took part, Piñera stood
up at one point and said, “I’m scared. I don’t know why, but I’m scared.”
His fears were confirmed a few months later when he was jailed for one
night in a government crackdown on prostitution and homosexuality.
Nonetheless, Piñera stayed in his job and continued to be published
during the 1960s.
The hardening cultural atmosphere around the Padilla affair ad-
versely affected Piñera, as it did Lezama, and for the last ten years of
his life (1969–79) he was not published on the island. Younger writers,
gay or not, were told to avoid him, as he was viewed as “ideologically
suspect.” By 1987 a kind of “rehabilitation” had taken place, and several
books of his works (stories, plays, and poems) have been published
posthumously.
Piñera was unswerving in his view of the world as well as in his
literary style. His absurdism, dark humor, and scathing criticism of
hypocrisy and grandiosity were applied to all: young and old, conser-
vative and radical, low lifes and aristocrats, believers and atheists.
Many writers after the revolution (some with the best of intentions and
voluntarily, others out of fear or opportunism) tried to write more
popular literature, making it accessible to the masses. Not Piñera.
Perhaps that is why currently he (and Lezama) are viewed by the young
generations of Cuban artists and writers as inspirational not only as
extraordinary artists, but as human beings of unparalleled dignity,
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 57
honesty, and integrity. Piñera was unique in Cuban letters: his outra-
geous imagination was at the same time vicious, funny, and implacable.
But out of the ashes of desolation, there is an ethical core to his writing
that deeply examines Cuban society with ruthless insight.
HISTORY AND ITS DOUBLES:
THE MASTER–S LAVE DIALECTIC, OR WHAT
HAPPENS WHEN HEGEL MEETS THE
KEYSTONE COPS
History is haunted by its doubles, by specters that assail the identity of the
social, questioning the illusory ideals of collective (or individual) happi-
ness. These phantoms would turn history as epic or tragedy into opera
buffa, letting us know that outside the polis we become gods or beasts.
These spectres are memory, whose figurative energy erodes oblivion; the
body, marked by persecution disrupting the placid narrative of ideology;
and flesh-and-blood specters like servants and slaves who threaten to
become masters. And there is always the specter of the Other, always poised
to steal our enjoyment (jouissance), always beyond pleasure, haunting our
gratification: apparition, dream, shadows, imitations, a source of dread and
horror. For Epicureans, specters were images or semblances that emanated
from the corporeal. Virgilio Piñera, in a kind of Epicurean fury, showed us
how the body and its specters were the sight, the spectacle of history in all
its foldings and unfoldings. Few writers took on these doubles with such
ferocious irony as he did. Piñera was one of the most scathing political
satirists the island of Cuba has ever had, and the human and social calami-
ties his art depicted were beyond anything being written at the time (1940s
and 1950s). Remarkably, his work has acquired a prophetic tone in being
able to anticipate many of the political trends or phenomena that would
later become so evident or obvious: the fabrications of image-obsessed,
sound-bite politics, the brittle absurdity of Soviet Communism, the element
of desire and enjoyment (jouissance) that underlies different ideologies, the
visibility-invisibility of power relationships, the packaging and marketing
distortions of commodity politics.
“El Muñeco” (“The Dummy”) is one of the author’s longer stories and
is a bizarre, if not hilarious, mix of political satire, science fiction, slapstick,
cloak-and-dagger comedy of errors, and fantasy. It was written over a
period of ten years (1944–54) and was included in his Cuentos fríos (Editorial
Losada, Buenos Aires) of 1956. This short story collection was translated
into English as Cold Tales (hereafter CT) in 1988. This ten-year period, in
which the author lived in Buenos Aires, was marked by important, some-
times unspeakable, events: the Holocaust, an enormous Jewish and Nazi
Central European immigration to Argentina, the atomic bomb, the first
stages of the cold war, the hydrogen bomb, the Perón regime in Argentina
(1946–55), the Arbenz government in Guatemala overthrown by a CIA coup
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 59
in 1954, the Slansky trials in Czechoslovakia, the first accounts of the

Gulags. In Cuba, the Batista coup (1952) was followed by the July 26th
Movement’s attack on the Moncada barracks a year later. This backdrop of
bewildering and unsettling events might have made the story seem tenta-
tive to its author. Its long gestation period was well worth the wait.
“The Dummy” begins with the narrator stating: “One clarification before
I begin: I am nothing more than an inventor of mechanical devices” ( CT, p.
79). This inventor of mechanical devices, Jonatán Fernández, is concerned
with the fate of the president of the country. Why? He notices the president’s
gestures are becoming robotic, the skin rubbery, the look in his eye turning
to a fixed, glassy stare. The brain is beginning to soften. Because he takes
part in so many public functions and ceremonies, his authenticity has been
drained by another force, what the narrator calls dummification.
How to solve this intractable problem? Jonatán first considers an old
literary trick—the creation of an alter ego. He rejects this on several
grounds, partly due to the fact that such a creation could take a life of its
own and usurp power from the “real” president, so to speak. (More on this
later.) Finally, the solution would consist of having the president not appear
in public but have in his place someone identical to him. At this point in the
narrative Jonatán (the narrator) does not offer details as to how this will
happen. But he resolves to meet the president in person so as to confide his
plan to him. This is no easy task, however.
Luckily, the narrator meets up with Juan, a Communist Party member
whose group has regular, if ceremonial, access to the president. The arrange-
ments are made so that he will accompany a party delegation having a
meeting with the president. On his own he arranges an intricate plan to
meet with the president alone. When he shakes the president’s hand, the
latter is able to see that the narrator’s smile is the mirror image of his own.
This disturbs him momentarily. Jonatán will use the official meeting as a
cover to slip away and change into a butler’s uniform and sneak unnoticed
into the president’s secret chamber. Upon entering the dark room he hears
a woman’s voice ask, “Is that you, Perucho?” At first he pretends to be the
cat, but the woman, a call girl, catches on. She complains about the lack of
service (they don’t feed her, just supply her with martinis) and the long
waits; finally, fed up, she departs. Jonatán is relieved, but before he can
completely change into the butler’s uniform, the president barges in. Smell-
ing the perfume of the departed demi-mondaine, he gets excited and starts
chasing after Jonatán, who as a last resort turns on the light.
Jonatán explains his presence and then puts forth the president’s prob-
lem. After some initial skepticism, the president warms up to Jonatán’s
ideas. It is mid-October and if nothing is done, the president will turn into
a dummy by December. It shows in the pigmentation of his skin and in the
eyes, where the “dummy’s gaze” leaves him staring at something endlessly
without even blinking. To stop the dummification process, Jonatán claims
that one must “extract the dummy with the dummy.” The president is
displeased, claiming that doubles are dangerous because they begin as
servants and end up as masters (CT, p. 103).
Jonatán insists that he will work by analogy, by building a doll (or
dummy) which will become extinguished instead of the president. It will
be made of rubber, will execute the president’s famous smile, have a
clockwork mechanism for the eyes which will stare for one minute and then
move on for the next minute, plus certain devices for speaking and body
movements. To ensure accuracy of representation, even a twitching left
shoulder will be included, since the president behaves that way while
attending church functions.
Convinced, the president gives the order to begin working on the project
right away, since he wants the dummy to be ready in nine days for the
celebration of his third accession to power. Despite his excitement, the
president also issues a warning: if the plan is successful, Jonatán will be a
national hero; if not, the president himself will kill him with his own bare
hands (CT, p. 106).
After several days there is a final test which Piñera describes as follows:
“The likeness was so astonishing that the President, thinking the dummy
was the President, began to give orders that he himself be expelled from the
makeshift workshop. The rubber dummy worked so effectively that it
caused a dangerous confusion: the President insulted and slapped himself,
foamed at the mouth, called himself an impostor, a bad patriot, a traitor,
and may other things” ( CT, pp. 108–9). The president has been seduced by
the striking authenticity of the dummy, a further reminder of how dummi-
fied he has become. The narrator fears the worst, but fortunately the
incident is forgotten and they proceed to the mechanical test. It is a success,
but again it almost ends in failure.
Finally, the day arrives for the dummy to make its true appearance. The
government explains to the people that the dummy will be part of the
anniversary celebration. The dummy appears at a balcony that overlooks
an enormous plaza, but the throngs are remarkably silent. They think it is
the president and demand that the dummy be brought out. The president
comes out and the masses hail him by saying, “There’s the dummy! There’s
the dummy!” ( CT, p. 111).
After this incident, cabinet ministers, advisors, and top military brass
also insist on having their own dummies. Soon the practice is extended to
all members of the government and eventually to teachers. Piñera closes
with the following: “In the end, the people whose dummies were multiply-
ing rapidly over the face of the earth retreated to those mysterious places,
the toy stores. There, registered and classified by competent employees,
wrapped in cellophane and set out on multicolored cardboard boxes, they
stupidly waited to be chosen by a child and torn limb from limb at the hands
of innocence” ( CT, p. 112).
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 61
Piñera’s story is a complex portrait of technology out of control, and as

such echoes Mary Shelley’s great work Frankenstein (1818). This theme runs
through many works of fiction since that of Shelley, not to mention its
importance in the genre of science fiction. Aside from Shelley in the nine-
teenth century, there is Poe’s “The Chess Player,” E.T.A. Hoffman’s “The
Sand Man” and “Automata,” Hawthorne’s “The Artist of the Beautiful,”
Samuel Butler’s novel Erewhon, and the early work of H. G. Wells. In the
twentieth century, the examples are too numerous to list—from E. M.
Forster to Aldous Huxley, from Alfred Jarry to Sam Shepard, from Theodor
Sturgeon and Isaac Asimov to Stanislaw Lem. However, the Piñera story’s
parodic, slapstick quality distances it from Shelley’s masterpiece, being
more a mix of Dr. Caligari and Buster Keaton.
Jonatán’s double of the president has some of the qualities of a robot in
being a mechanical device, but its similarity to the original would put it
closer to an android. (The fact that it is a rubber dummy gives it a fantastic,
almost buffoonish air.) The robot or android partakes of two worlds, the
mechanical and the human. As Jean Baudrillard says, it is a perfect synthesis
of functionality and anthropomorphism (Baudrillard, 1981, p. 137). It is at
the same time symbolic of both and substitutive of both. As machine, an
android is expected to work with great efficiency and productivity and, of
course, not tire out or need food and sleep like humans do. In Piñera’s story
this technical competence takes on a political dimension. This is not new.
For centuries political thinkers have been trying to develop a techné for the
organizing and functioning of society. Piñera’s story is more concerned with
the manipulation of signs and symbols of power as a means to perpetuate
rule.
The state and/or society have been likened to a machine for centuries,
from Hobbes to Marx. This metaphor is intimately linked, in Western
discourse, with certain views concerning nature and technology, most
notably with the need to have autonomy from and mastery over nature. As
Langdon Winner has pointed out:
Our thinking about technology, however, seems inextricably bound to a single

conception of the manner in which power is used—the style of absolute
mastery, the despotic, one-way control of the master over the slave. Other
notions central to the historical discussion of political power—membership,
participation and authority founded on consent—seem to have no relevance
in this sphere. In our traditional ways of thinking, the concept of mastery and
the master-slave metaphor are the dominant ways of describing man’s rela-
tionship to nature, as well as to the implements of technology. (Winner, 1979,
p. 20)
The equivalence of slave and machine was underlined by Aristotle in the

Politics. More than two centuries later, Norbert Wiener, one of the pioneers
of cybernetics, would say: “Let us remember that the automatic machine,
whatever we think of any feelings it may have or may not have, is the precise
economic equivalent of slave labor” (Wolfe, 1979, p. 152). Jonatán’s efforts
are clearly within the domain of political authority and domination. After
all, the goal of the dummy is to continue the president’s rule without
annihilating him as a human being, since the problem with offering yourself
as a fake is that you become precisely that. The outcome of his experiment
is a mixed success, to be sure.
Piñera’s “The Dummy” touches on crucial elements of the master-slave
relationship, not only in terms of technology and politics, but also in a
Hegelian sense. In discussing Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit, I will rely on
Alexandre Kojeve’s lectures (Kojeve, 1991), followed by a psychoanalytic
updating of the Hegelian paradigm by Jessica Benjamin (Benjamin, 1988).
For Hegel, his search began with the quest for Absolute Knowledge,
something that is possible through Universal Self-Consciousness. How do
human beings acquire self-consciousness? It begins with desire. Hegel
distinguishes two kinds of desire, however. One is animal desire, directed
at satisfying biological needs, and this produces a natural being. What
makes a desire truly human and social is the fact that the desire be the object
of another’s desire toward the same object. This object does not necessarily
have to be food. It can be biologically useless, as in the case of a medal, a
flag, a coveted symbol. For human history to exist, then, there must be a
multiplicity of desires, which will eventually lead to recognition of human
subjects by other human subjects. What does recognition entail for Hegel?
In an initial dyad we have two individuals struggling to be acknow-
ledged, and it is a fight to the death in order to establish a situation of
independence and mastery. In a desire they both share, each person wants
to impose their desire, so that they will be recognized.
In other words, man’s humanity “comes to light” only if he risks his (animal)
life for the sake of his human Desire. It is in and by this risk that it “comes to
light,” i.e., is shown, demonstrated, verified, and gives proofs of being
essentially different from the animal, natural reality. And that is why to speak
of the origin of Self-Consciousness is necessarily to speak of the risk of life
(for an essentially nonvital end). (Kojeve, 1991, p. 7)
The extremity of this situation poses a problem: the struggle for recog-
nition will result in the death of one of the protagonists of the dyad. You
cannot be recognized unless your adversary survives. This means that two
fundamentally different human behaviors are at work, that of the master
and that of the slave. During the fight for recognition, the adversary who
becomes the slave fears the other and death enough to sacrifice his or her
desire and satisfy the desire of the other (master). S/he must recognize the
other without being recognized in return. Therefore, human beings, even
in their nascent state, are never just “humans” but masters or slaves. They
are constituted by autonomous and independent existences. So, “to speak
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 63
of the origin of Self-Consciousness is necessarily to speak of the ‘autonomy

and dependence of Self-Consciousness, of Mastery and Slavery’ ” (Kojeve,
1991, p. 9).
History for Hegel consists in the dialectical overcoming of both master
and slave. The master has achieved recognition and thereby elevates him
or herself above nature by having the slave work for him/her. But this is a
trap. The recognition is one-sided, since the master is being recognized by
an “animal” or a “thing.” This is not true recognition, since the master wants
to be recognized by another human, a historical subject. If satisfaction is to
be measured in recognition by other humans, then the master is never
satisfied. To be truly recognized, then, the slave must cease to be a slave.
The slave, on the other hand, is also unsatisfied and wants to become an
autonomous and free person, meaning that s/he will struggle toward
achieving recognition by a free historical subject.
The movement of history will never come from the master. As Kojeve
has pointed out: “The Master is fixed in his Mastery. He cannot go beyond
himself, change, progress. He must conquer—and become Master or pre-
serve himself as such—or die. He can be killed; he cannot be transformed,
educated. He has risked his life to be Master. Therefore, Mastery is the
supreme value for him, beyond which he cannot go” (Kojeve, 1991, p. 9).
The slave, however, is change, transformation, education, because s/he
wants to overcome the slave condition and be free. How does the slave
achieve this, if the master wants to continue exercising his/her mastery?
Hegel says that it is through work that the slave becomes master of nature,
that s/he transcends the merely biological. The slave represses his instinct
(for mastery and recognition) in relation to an idea or a concept, and by
doing so engages in a specifically human activity, or work. Work negates
both nature and the slave’s nature by transforming both, and “to be able to
transform the natural given in relation to a nonnatural ideal is to possess a
technique. And the idea that engenders a technique is a scientific idea, a
scientific concept. Finally, to possess scientific concepts is to be endowed
with Understanding, Verstand, the faculty of abstract notions. Under-
standing, abstract thought, science, technique, the arts—all these have their
origin in the enforced work of the Slave” (Kojeve, 1991, p. 48).
Up to now, our exposition deals with what Hegel referred to as the pagan
state and its relationships. Before refining these notions further and discuss-
ing Jessica Benjamin’s analysis of domination, it might be pertinent to turn
to a play Piñera wrote around the time he finished “The Dummy.” It is called
Los siervos (The Serfs) and was published only in Ciclón magazine (Piñera,
1955b). The play is a tongue-in-cheek glance at Hegel’s master-slave para-
digm, but applied to the communist world. It takes place in Russia at some
point in the future when the entire planet has gone communist. Nikita
Smirnov, the philosopher of the Party, has openly declared himself to be a
serf and has published this statement in the Party newspaper, Pravda.
Orloff, the prime minister, is baffled and states, “Dialectically, such a thing
is impossible . . . and yet” (Piñera, 1955b, p. 9).
Kirianin, an army general, wants to have him disappear; Orloff wisely
says he is against creating martyrs. Instead he wants Nikita’s plea to go
unnoticed. Piñera plays with Hegel’s notion of recognition in a triple sense.
The first is the most obvious, the recognition factor in setting up the
master-slave dialectic. The second is a parody of the first, in that Nikita
wants to be recognized as a slave, or serf. That recognition is, pardon the
expression, a red herring, since being a slave in the Hegelian sense is not
being recognized, it is to be considered an animal or a thing. This contra-
diction becomes clearer within the wider context of the play. Since the
action takes place in a future communist society, there are no masters and
slaves, but that precisely is Nikita’s point. He sees serfs and masters
everywhere, but no one will admit it. His agenda is to denounce the
deception of concealed exploitation and servitude under the masquerade
of equality.
Kirianin, Orloff, and Fiodor (the Party secretary) agree to ignore Nikita’s
manifesto and stick to matters of form, but are unsuccessful. When finally
confronted with his new cause, Nikita falls to his knees and begins kissing
their feet. Orloff reacts quickly. He orders Kirianin and Fiodor to kneel
down and offer their rears to be kicked by Nikita. Orloff’s prescription to
force Nikita to become a master is pure slapstick—the Keystone Cops (or
maybe the Commissar Cops) meet Hegel in trying to bend the dialectic into
an unrecognizable shape. Orloff’s scheme fails, ending the first act.
In Act Two, Piñera begins with Stepachenko, a spy, arriving at Nikita’s
house. He has read Nikita’s piece in Pravda and wants to become his master.
Nikita agrees, but lays down three conditions: (1) he won’t serve a White
Russian disguised as a Red Russian; (2) he has to be kicked in the rear; and
(3) he must be turned over to the executioner if he rebels. And yet Nikita
cautions that a serf who rebels is no longer a serf, but instead becomes a
rebel. Again, we can see Hegel’s vision of history being sardonically out-
lined. Work and finally rebellion are the motors of history. Rebellion would
be the case of the slave attaining true self-consciousness through an act of
liberation (recognition by the Other).
In the following scene, the plot becomes more complicated with the
arrival of Adamov, a master from the Ural Mountains. He is deeply trou-
bled, since he lords over four hundred serfs and is concerned that Nikita’s
audacity will blow his cover. He wants to buy Nikita from Stepachenko in
order to punish him and intimidate his serfs into not going public. Reluctant
at first, Stepachenko gives in, since this will ultimately signify Nikita’s
beheading. He and Nikita have an important dialogue in which the dialectic
of history is laid out. The master-slave condition is established with the fear
of death as the cornerstone of that dynamic. The second phase, according
to Nikita, is the serf in rebellion. It is followed by the third, which is the serf
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 65
decapitated. The fourth phase is that of the master decapitated. The dia-
logue ends as follows:
Stepachenko: “Do you mean that the serf can triumph?”

Nikita: “The serf can become a lord, and the lord can become a serf.”
Stepachenko: “That’s most amusing.”
Nikita: “Yes, my lord, it’s most amusing. It’s the eternal return.”
Stepachenko (putting on his hat): “You get lost in high-sounding phrases, Nikita. Be
careful that those great words don’t make you lose your head.” (Exits)
Nikita (touching his head): “Your time’s up, head.” (Touches his rear end). “Dear
rear, your time’s up.” (Piñera, 1955b, pp. 24–25)
Piñera deftly satirizes Hegel continuously, and through his wordplay of

head and body not only makes references to Christian theology but humor-
ously and incisively brings to light the important link that Hegel made
between death and self-consciousness. Nikita’s rebellion is both an acknow-
ledgment of this fact (he will achieve recognition or even become a master)
and its dismissal: only the roles will be reversed in a false movement of
history. Perhaps death being our ultimate master is what he is rebelling
against, knowing well that his actions will lead him to his own demise.
Nikita choosing death (through sacrifice) is his way of defeating death and
ceasing to be a serf, because thousands of others follow his example in
declaring themselves serfs, allowing the truth to be declared openly. Hans-
Georg Gadamer has eloquently pointed out the analogy of death as master:
Unquestionably, the experience of death is the experience of an ultimate

dependency in our existence, which the latter in its being-for-self immediately
resists. This alien master, who is master over everything, thus stands for
everything alien on which our own self-consciousness is dependent. In this
sense every cancellation of such an alien reality—and even if it be only a
skilled cancellation of the existent form of things—is a liberation of our own
self-consciousness. (Gadamer, 1976, p. 71)
But the heroism displayed is shot through with irony, and it anticipates
a later story, “The One Who Came to Save Me” (1967), where the main
character also tries to defeat death by choosing death. Before his execution
Nikita is questioned as to why he has risen against the state, and he replies,
“So as to fall.” When asked why he wants to fall, he responds, “So as to rise
up.” Subsequent questions come up with the same answers, as if he were
aping with his words some metaphysical yoyo of history. The eternal return
is history as “a narrative of misery” (Samuel Johnson), the class struggle as
a pie fight.
Returning to “The Dummy,” we find Piñera recurring to Hegelian con-
cepts, but more subtly. The narrator, Jonatán Fernández, is in a constant
struggle for recognition by the president. After viewing the president

during several newsreels, he resolves to rescue him. He imagines being on
a first-name basis with the first executive, to the legitimizing importance of
the president’s smile, described as both an approval and the “equivalent to
an order of imprisonment, to exile, to a death sentence” ( CT, p. 82). All the
elements of the Hegelian schema are there: to be able to call the president
by his first name, the will to serve the master, and the knowledge of death
hanging over his mission should it fail.
This ability or propensity to risk his life is manifested shortly afterwards.
Jonatán recalls that it is the president’s duty to visit citizens injured by a car
in which the president was riding. Sure enough, Jonatán is run over by the
presidential vehicle and taken to the hospital with a double fracture. With
his legs in casts placed upwards, hanging by weights, he demands to see
the president. After repeated efforts to no avail, a presidential aide informs
Jonatán that more than a thousand people a year are run over by the
presidential limo and tells him to be patient since he will spend over a
month in the hospital. Jonatán’s search for recognition becomes a labyrin-
thine tale of identity (his own, the president’s), one that is almost an allegory
of the construction of political personas.
This identity is structured in an “empire of the gaze,” to borrow a term
from Michel Foucault. Let us recall that the president’s visibility is a
ubiquitous yet inaccessible reminder of his power. Jonatán sees him in the
newsreels, and later in the street he spots a poster. Many other scenes in the
story are structured around looking or being looked at. This is the oppor-
tunity, however, to distinguish between the look and the gaze. Freud gave
great importance to the active (voyeurism) and passive (exhibitionism)
forms of scopophilia, or the drive to look. For him it was part of a human
being’s development with direct links to the desire for mastery (physical
activity) and knowledge (mental activity).
The eye sees from one point, focusing on a person or an object. This is
the look, and its association with voyeurism was powerfully articulated by
Sartre in Being and Nothingness. “For Sartre, the look is fundamentally
objectifying: by means of the look the subject is capable of being trans-
formed into an object, reduced from a self-conscious subject, a being-for-it-
self, to a being-in-itself and for-others. The look can induce in the subject a
sense of unmitigated shame at his/her being” (Lacan, 1981, p. 84). Sartre
does allow for the look to be reciprocal, so that the person being looked at
becomes a subject by looking at the first subject. The gaze, on the other hand,
is said to be the “presence of others,” although it is not reducible to a single
viewer or even an assemblage of viewers. According to Lacan, it triumphs
over the look (Silverman, 1992, p. 130). “What this crucial passage from
[Lacan’s] Four Fundamental Concepts suggests is that if the gaze always
exceeds the look, the look might also be said to exceed the gaze—to carry
a libidinal supplement which relegates it, in turn, to a scopic subordination.
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 67
The gaze, in other words, remains outside desire, the look stubbornly
within” (ibid.). Lacan defines the gaze in terms of lack: “You grasp the
ambiguity of what is at issue when we speak of the scopic drive. The gaze
is the object lost and suddenly refound in the conflagration of shame, by
the introduction of the other. . . . What one looks at is what cannot be seen”
(Lacan, 1981, p. 182).
Jonatán oscillates between the look and the gaze. When he first sees the
president in the movie theater, he is somewhat the voyeur. He seems to be
within the look, in the world of desire: desire for recognition, desire for power,
and desire that borders on erotic ecstasy. But in fact several things indicate that
his viewing of the president is not quite so simple. His identification with the
president is so intense that he describes certain things that bother him as being
“torture.” When Jonatán saw the poster he burst into tears. Piñera states the
paradox with precision: Jonatán’s looking is his empathetic recognition (not a
Sartrean objectifying look) of the president’s dilemma as a public figure. This
emotional recognition is contradicted by the impersonality of the situation
encouraged by the medium—we think we know our celebrities. Further on,
when he meets the president in person, his smile replicates that of the chief
executive. Jonatán’s astonishment is his perception of a lack within the presi-
dent. His authority, his aura, is being usurped by the dummy. His own lack is
the desire-as-recognition, to be acknowledged by the president. Jonatán wants
to create an intimacy of mutual recognition, rather than the false exploitative
intimacy of the movie star image.
These lacks are ensnared by the gaze, more specifically the gaze of power,
and here we follow Foucault, who gives the concept of the gaze a historical
dimension. In his Discipline and Punish, he describes the gaze in terms of a
visibility of the power relationship in society. More traditionally power was
exhibited as spectacle, where the powerless passively watched; as they
looked they inserted themselves into the realm of the gaze. Since the
nineteenth century, there has been a shift, where the subject/citizen is
brought out into the open, scrutinized, analyzed.
Traditionally, power was what was seen, what was shown and what was
manifested and, paradoxically, found the principle of its force in the move-
ment by which it deployed that force. Those on whom it was exercised could
remain in the shade; they received light only from that portion of power that
was conceded to them, or from the reflection of it that for a moment they
carried. Disciplinary power, on the other hand, is exercised through its
invisibility; at the same time it imposes on those whom it subjects a principle
of compulsory visibility. In discipline, it is the subjects who have to be seen.
Their visibility assures the hold of the power that is exercised over them.
(Foucault, 1977, p. 187; emphasis added)
If we take a historical example like Nazism, it clearly employed both

methods with enormous verve and cruelty. The use of the media, the staging
of rallies with dazzling light effects, the careful manipulation of political

ritual through the use of symbols, uniforms, mass mobilizations, and the
Führer’s speeches, would be examples of the traditional approach, albeit
within more modern methods. The Third Reich’s mania for documenting,
recording, testing, examining, and making its citizenry visible to the point
of paranoia would exemplify the disciplinary approach outlined by Fou-
cault.
In “The Dummy” we are not dealing with a fascist regime. Given Piñera’s
Buenos Aires years, the society depicted in the story is probably a mix of
Perón’s Argentina and prerevolutionary Cuba. It is not entirely undemo-
cratic (there is a communist opposition), but at the same time the society
has a charismatic leader as its president. The evocative power of the story
makes its analysis of power hold for Latin American dictatorships (charis-
matic caudillos), as well for the modern personality cults under totalitarian
regimes. Either or both readings make it relevant to recent Cuban history.
The communist opposition, however, has been diminished, by virtue of its
recognition and legitimacy. As in the story, it is just another harmless
dignitary delegation. They are no longer rebels. Keeping this in mind, it is
important to examine at length Piñera’s depiction of communists in “The
Dummy.”
Piñera, seeing the Marxist-Leninist path taken by the Cuban Revolution
by 1961, decided not to provoke the authorities again. (He had been jailed
briefly [one night] in 1961 for being a homosexual.) In his 1964 edition of
the Cuentos completos (Complete Stories), forty-four stories were included,
but not “The Dummy.” Obviously, a play as mordant as Los siervos (The
Serfs) did not stand a chance of being republished after 1959. “The Dummy”
has some barbed criticism of communists voiced through the character
Juan, a Party member. He is not a major protagonist in the story (although
he has influence in making crucial things happen), nor can the narrative be
construed to be exclusively anti-communist. From the previous commen-
tary, one sees that the story is quite critical of the political world in general,
and specifically in how politics is constructed as spectacle (theater, ritual,
lurid drama).
Jonatán approaches Juan because he needs to talk in person to the
president of the country. Through the Party, Juan can facilitate at least
meeting the president as a part of a delegation. To make the offer “binding,”
Jonatán offers Juan a bribe of $2,000, a hefty sum forty years ago. Upon
hearing the offer, he “became so flexible, turned so relative, orthodoxy
receded from him, that for a moment I was afraid that Juan would end up
losing all consistency whatsoever. The mental stretch was so extreme that
his feet were touching his head” ( CT, p. 88). This merely culminates what
Piñera had written a few pages earlier when the narrator (Jonatán) declares
that he wants to become a Party member, although Juan can detect that it
is not out of principle: “If he hadn’t been a perfect communist, he would
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 69
have thought the plan I was sketching out in mente during his brief conver-
sation was the most impractical thing imaginable. I say this because I saw
in his eyes the typical psychology characteristic of all communists. That is,
I saw relativity and orthodoxy” ( CT, pp. 86–87). Piñera ends the passage
with a viciously sardonic reference to Juan’s expression going from a smile
to a grimace. It is not difficult to find in the two passages quoted here, and
in other references made in the story, that Piñera had some of the history of
the prerevolutionary Cuban communists in mind.
Founded in August 1925, the Cuban Communist Party (CP) has had
some extraordinary figures among its members: Julio Antonio Mella, Rubén
Martínez Villena, Nicolás Guillén, Juan Marinello, Manuel Navarro Luna,
and Carlos Rafael Rodríguez, to name only a few. During its first decade or
so, it functioned illegally or semi-clandestinely. Its newspaper, Hoy, began
publishing legally in May 1938. In exchange for its support of Batista (who
was not in office at the time but still a major power broker), the Cuban CP
was legalized on September 13, 1938, and was allowed to have a major
influence in the trade union movement. Batista publicly stated his praise:
“The Communist Party, as in Mexico, the United States, and France, is
officially recognized, and Communism, as a legal force and not as a source
of disorder, has become a factor in promoting democratic formulas”
(Thomas, 1973, p. 928). Communists were members of the legislature, and
some held government positions in certain ministries, usually the Ministry
of Labor. During Grau San Martín’s administration (1944–48), communists
continued to be members of the loyal opposition, with perhaps more
emphasis on the adjective rather than the noun.
When Batista engineered his coup in 1952, the Cuban CP did not imme-
diately denounce it, due in part to its relationship with the colonel and
ex-president (1940–44) and because of the apathy, corruption, and political
gangsterism under Grau (1944–48) and Prío Socarrás, president from 1948
to 1952. Batista was equally tactful and did not dismiss communists
working in the Ministry of Labor or close down Hoy. A year later, however,
things changed, and by November 10, 1953, the Party was outlawed.
Even then, communists were not persecuted as mercilessly as members
of the nascent July 26th Movement headed by a young lawyer by the
name of Fidel Castro.
The Cuban CP’s initial reaction to the attack on the Moncada Barracks
on July 26, 1953, is well known: it thought it to be an act of foolish
adventurism and “putschist” in nature. Fidel’s view was equally dismis-
sive, though as the July 26th Movement grew stronger and more popular,
the two forces began to discuss points in common.
Many Latin American communist parties were criticized in the 1960s for
attitudes and practices similar to their Cuban counterparts: they had be-
come “reformist,” “revisionist,” too legalistic, pragmatic, and bourgeois. In
short, they had lost their revolutionary and utopian edge. It is these aspects
that Piñera dwells on in “The Dummy.”
If in “The Dummy” Piñera sees the CP as ineffectual, later world events
will make him more alarmed. In 1953, a then little-known Polish writer
published a book called The Captive Mind. It was a searing indictment of
Stalinist rule in postwar Poland, written by Czeslaw Milosz, who was later
to win the Nobel Prize in 1980. It is possible that Piñera read the book in
English; what is certain is that he did review the Spanish-language edition
of the book and it was published in the July 1956 issue of Ciclón. Piñera’s
review is incisive and balanced. He does not side with Milosz against the
communists or vice versa: he claims all that to be a sideshow. What disturbs
him the most is that the book deals with human beings in terms of death
instead of life. Piñera lashes out against ideological imperatives:
What does it matter that the ultimate explanation of these cruel acts be the
birth of a better world, or that the Russians justify their acts with their famous
motto: “Those who are not with us are against us”? None of that has the
slightest importance faced with the proven fact of a “will to slaughter”; it
seems that for humankind it is more profitable to kill rather than live with
one’s neighbor, and it also seems that as humankind progresses through
history, that will to kill becomes more imperious and—more horrible still!—
more mechanical. (Piñera, 1956, p. 65)
Piñera is quick to point out that the Russians and/or communists have no
patent on that “will to slaughter.” He steers the reader to another article, in
the same issue of Ciclón, in which Miguel Angel Asturias speaks of similar
atrocities being committed in Guatemala, under the guise of freedom and
the defense of private property. Piñera cautions that it is not only in the East
where humans are conceived in terms of death. The article ends as follows:
“Undoubtedly, East and West are in agreement on one essential point;
despite their differences and terrible antagonisms, in short, when it comes
to their concept of life, East and West shake hands and march arm in arm
in their concept of death” (ibid., p. 66). This should make it clear that to try
and paint Piñera as a knee-jerk anti-communist is a misleading and unfruit-
ful endeavor. Piñera was someone with a visceral dislike of all cant, rhetoric,
and ideological posturing. He saw these features present in most societies
and was equally critical of them, regardless of whether they represented
capitalist or communist values.
Returning to the representation of power in the narrative, we see how
the story depicts both kinds of power manifestations as defined by Fou-
cault, the traditional and the disciplinary. Indeed, it is crammed with
incidents that point to the visibility of meaning and power. Aside from the
previously mentioned beginning in the movie theater (“those on whom it
[power] was exercised could remain in the shade”) and seeing the poster of
the president in the street, there are other crucial moments. Toward the
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 71
beginning, and while he weighs options to solve the president’s dilemma,

the narrator sees himself in the mirror and lets out a strangled cry, thinking
he has saved the president. Quickly, however, he realizes he has succumbed
to the notion of the double and the alter ego, which he finds too gimmicky
or ineffectual. He then goes on to lay out seven reasons why he rejected the
idea, some very logical, some hilarious. All of them have to do with
strategies of representation that would affect either the visibility or legiti-
macy of the president’s power. In addition, there is an implicit critique of
the double in literature, especially when it is used as a gimmick.
Following Lacan’s definition of “the imaginary,” we can see the mirror
stage informing many aspects of the story (Lacan, 1977, pp. 1–7). The
imaginary is where the self recognizes itself as other in the mirror. The self
sees a specular image of its body as a totality, represented as a stable,
unitary, coherent corpus. It leads to a formation of the ego seen as an illusory
representation, as a source and focus of alienation. The relationship is a
dyadic one, and it works through the mechanism of projection and identi-
fication, not unlike the experience of watching films. But, as Lacan points
out, this image in the mirror is a misrecognition (méconaissance), because the
self is not a unitary construct but is sundered by desire and lack.
We see this misrecognition in the narrator not only in the literal sense
(when he looks at himself in the mirror) but throughout the story. He joins
the Communist Party, even though he is not a communist. From being a
communist he becomes a servant. When surprised by the demi-mondaine,
he meows like a cat, and when she leaves and the president comes in, he is
mistaken for a woman. Finally, he becomes “himself” when he confronts
the president and convinces him to go along with his de-dummification
plan. But even there his fate and identity are ambiguous: if he, as an inventor
and scientist of sorts, succeeds, he will be a hero. If not, the president will
strangle him with his own hands. Part of this is Jonatán’s picaresque
cleverness in trying on different masks as he ascends the sociopolitical
ladder to reach the president. But it is also consistent with a kind of empty
self buffeted by the “gaze of power” and nonrecognition which subject him.
Remember his opening statement: “I am nothing more than an inventor of
mechanical devices.”
One of the key moments in the story involves a “mirroring effect.” When
Jonatán, as part of the delegation, meets the president, he smiles to him in
exactly the same fashion. Piñera describes a game of dueling smiles with a
dizzying mirrorlike effect that both seduces and terrifies the narrator. He
realizes the president knows that he is not a communist and feels a current
of tension; for the first time someone has been able to duplicate the presi-
dent’s smile.
Piñera’s description of the scene beautifully (and buffoonishly) depicts
an identification-projection mechanism that is highly revelatory about
identity and power. Jonatán has offered a simulacrum of the president’s
own identity to shock him into recognition. Curiously, the president’s

recognition of himself in the Other (Jonatán) also produces the insight that
Jonatán is not who he appears to be, that is, a Party member. However, he
stubbornly repeats what he assumes is an essential part of his identity: his
smile. His anger at someone appropriating and using “his” smile is sub-
sumed under repetition, making the smile contiguous with gestures of
protocol. A person’s smile is a defining, unique aspect of his or her person-
ality. But even that has become overcome by “dummification,” as Jonatán
tells him later on, when they have their face-to-face conversation. Piñera’s
merciless critique of political identity is unambiguous. To create a public
persona is to fashion an image of oneself for others, again echoing the
Lacanian imaginary. This illusory construct is not an intrapsychic phenome-
non only, but a political one as well. It is telling that others have used the
concept of the Lacanian imaginary as a way of discussing ideology and how
it works on the human subject, since it can be likened to misrecognitions
about class, gender, race, and nation. The smile constitutes part of the
political ego. This political ego is also the embodiment (literally, as well) of
power. In his narrative, Piñera shows what happens when the political ego
is submitted to the “empire of the gaze”: complete self-alienation, or, in the
story’s language, dummification. Politics and authenticity are incompat-
ible.
This inauthenticity at the service of power always conceals (partially, or
more completely) a potential for violence and dismay. Later on, when a first
version of the dummy is created, the president slaps and insults himself,
accuses himself of being an impostor, a traitor. What greater example of the
confusion and misrecognition produced by the imaginary, or of the in-
authenticity of the political ego? Of course, the solution (creating a rubber
dummy) only compounds the problem. In his The System of Objects, Jean
Baudrillard tells a story from the eighteenth century about an illusionist
who built a human automaton, an exact replica of its creator. The automa-
ton’s gestures were fluid, natural, to the point where it was impossible to
tell them apart. This caused great consternation among the public. To
compensate, the illusionist began to gesture mechanically and appear
disheveled. So, in order not to cause anguish, it was preferable to have a
man behave like a machine and vice versa (Baudrillard, 1981, p. 62).
This poignant, if not alarming, example of the ominous consequences of
technology and society is a crucial concern in the story. Machines are
constructed to reproduce human labor; an automaton pushes that mimetic
function to an extreme, by imitating movement, gesture, and expression (?).
The implacable progress of technology can eventually be a substitute for a
more organic, natural world, replacing it with an entirely fabricated one. If
the simulacrum is so precise as well as productive and capable of organizing
reality, then it is humans who become abstract. In Lewis Mumford’s words:
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 73
“The machine leads towards an elimination of functions that ends in

paralysis” (in Baudrillard, 1981, p. 63).
Its insidious effects produce discontinuities, fragmentation, a kind of
generalized disorientation, similar to what the eighteenth-century illusion-
ist had to do to keep his act going. “ Humans have to yield to incoherence because
of the coherence of their structural projection. Faced with the functional object,
humans become dysfunctional, irrational and subjective, an empty form
open to all kinds of functionalist myths, to the phantasmagoric projections
linked to that astonishing efficiency of the world” (ibid., p. 63). What does
Baudrillard mean by a functionalist myth? By giving in to this technological
splendor, by investing so much energy (psychic as well) in its signs, they
(objects, gadgets, machines) take on the power that magic had in archaic
societies. Progress, then, is the myth of modernity, a functionalist myth.
Myth, as a psychic map of society, in its capacity to offer a bridge between
reality (social and individual) and the needs of the system, can be exploited
for social manipulation as easily as ideology. One of ideology’s roles is to
make dysfunctions of the social order seem natural (class antagonisms,
certain forms of political power, gender inequalities, and so on), which it
achieves through persuasion, explanation, distortion, or by omission. In
bourgeois society, ideological discourse tries to eliminate any reference to
class domination, and equally deny that it connives with power; therefore,
since the state exists for the benefit of all society, it is not an oppressive
mechanism. Part of its discourse, then, is its constant definition of itself as
scientific, or what proponents of Critical Theory would call “instrumental
reason.”
In bourgeois ideology Poulantzas holds, this dissembling power takes a

specific form: the concealment of political interests behind the mask of
science. The end-of-ideology thinkers, who applauded the supposed transi-
tion from a “metaphysical” to a “technological” rationality, are thus simply
endorsing what was endemic in bourgeois ideology all along. Such ideolo-
gies, so Poulantzas argues, are notable for their lack of appeal to the sacred
or transcendental; instead they ask to be accepted as a body of scientific
techniques. (Eagleton, 1991, p. 154)
Piñera, ever conscious of these dangers, plays out this structure of domina-
tion to the fullest. The dummies begin to take over and are increasingly in
demand: they become more “real” than the real thing. The president begins
to sleep in a cardboard box, and eventually the humans all wind up in boxes
in toy stores. What began as a liberating gesture (to free the president from
official duties, to cure his dummification, to make more free time for him)
turns into its grotesque reversal. The dummy, as political plaything in order
to substitute and distract the masses, becomes the embodiment of power.
The president, who was supposed to have more time to play (enjoy life,
recover his “true” self), winds up as a thing-of-play. Piñera has skillfully
offered his critique of the “functionalist myth,” humorously depicting the

“elimination of functions that end in paralysis.” Ministers and functionaries
become toys.
Returning to the issue of inauthenticity and power in the passage from
the story previously cited, we see how this functions at a symbolic level, in
a duel of smiles (“It is evident he can’t admit such a thing; the fight is on”),
which is reminiscent of the Hegelian battle for recognition (truly a life-and-
death struggle). The president’s smile (it is more like a grimace) is not only
a reaffirmation of his identity, albeit one based on a misrecognition but
equally a signature of his political ego by also being a visual reminder of
his power as ruler.
As societies evolve, the master-slave relationship changes, is trans-
formed. In the bourgeois society in which Hegel lived, there were members
of the bourgeoisie (who are no longer masters), proletarians, peasants,
merchants, civil servants (who are no longer slaves), and intellectuals (who
are neither). But that does not mean that relations of domination had
disappeared; on the contrary. Historically speaking, for example, feudalism
constructs relationships closer to the purer master-slave paradigm. In pre-
capitalist societies it is the relationship between people that is fetishized.
This is what happens between the king and his subjects: he is given royal
treatment because the king, in himself, outside of the social relationship
with his subjects, is a king. Being a king becomes a “natural” property of
the man and is buttressed, of course, by the notion of divine right. Domi-
nation is legitimized, then, by the fetishization of human relationships.
Capitalist societies create a market in which free people exchange labor,
ideas, commodities. They are not bound by a contract of servitude. What is
fetishized is the commodity, where, as Marx said, “a relation between men
assumes the form of a relationship between things” ( Capital, vol. 1). Domi-
nation is disguised by commodity culture: everyone is free and equal before
the law to buy and sell goods, to purchase or sell their labor. But “with the
establishment of bourgeois society, the relations of domination and servi-
tude are repressed: formally, we are apparently concerned with free subjects
whose interpersonal relations are discharged of all fetishism; the repressed
truth—that of the persistence of domination and servitude—emerges in a
symptom which subverts the ideological appearance of equality, freedom
and so on” (Zizek, 1989, p. 26). Hegel was aware of those shifting patterns
of domination, and what “The Dummy” illuminates here is the more subtle
areas of his thoughts on intersubjectivity.
For intersubjective relations to take place, or what Hegel called Universal
Self-Consciousness, three steps have to be taken: (1) desire, (2) recognition,
and (3) reason (universal self-consciousness). There is an important mo-
ment in the process of being dominated which has an educational, forma-
tive dimension and is instrumental in creating the conditions for freedom:
the ability to master, delay, or not satisfy desire. “What matters about the
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 75
education of servitude is not the breaking of self-will, but the dawning

conviction that what is important for self-worth is not the gratification of
desire but the dignity of formally free agency. Thus being recognized
consists not in the domination of another self-consciousness, but in the
mutual relation of different self-consciousnesses who identify their dignity
with the freedom they have in common” (Hegel in Wood, 1990, pp. 88–89).
For Hegel, then, this universal self-consciousness is the key ingredient in
establishing an ethical life, it is “ ‘the form of consciousness of the substance
of every essential spirituality, whether of family, fatherland, state, or all
virtues—love, friendship, courage, honor, fame’ “ (ibid., p. 89). Still, there
are persons who insist on dominating others. According to Hegel, that
should be viewed as a failure, because that person misrecognizes himself
or has constructed an inauthentic self and a misguided sense of self-cer-
tainty. What causes that inadequate self to develop?
Jessica Benjamin, in her insightful analysis of domination, sums it up as
follows: “Briefly stated, domination and submission result from a break-
down of the necessary tension between self-assertion and mutual recogni-
tion that allows self and other to meet as sovereign equals” (Benjamin, 1988,
p. 12). She stresses the mutuality that is involved in the recognition process
as the child is raised. A parent who gives in to a child increases feelings of
omnipotence that only the child exists. “The child who feels that others are
extensions of himself must constantly fear the emptiness and loss of con-
nection that result from this fearful power” (ibid., p. 35). This kind of person
will flee that emptiness by wanting to dominate others.
Conversely, if a parent is too strict, a child will feel that independence
has a high psychic price. Freedom will imply a rejection by the parent,
thereby becoming synonymous with loneliness. If a child wants approval,
the child will have to abandon its will and submit to the parent, who looms
omnipotent in the child’s mind. This kind of person will seek to be domi-
nated in order not to feel empty.
“The decisive problem remains recognizing the other,” argues Benjamin,
and that means discovering the other (ibid., p. 40). Here she relies on the
work of D. K. Winnicott, who believed “that one of the most important
elements in feeling authentic was the recognition of an outside reality that
is not one’s own projection, the experience of contacting other minds” (ibid.,
p. 37). Winnicott, in his essay “The Use of an Object and Relating through
Identifications,” paradoxically states that in order to “use” an object, it must
first be “destroyed” (Winnicott, 1971). Some clarifications are in order: first,
when the word object is used, it refers to humans; second, use does not mean
to instrumentalize, take advantage of, or exploit. In Winnicott’s terminol-
ogy, it means a shared reality with another person, to benefit creatively from
that person, and thus implies recognizing the Other (object) as an inde-
pendent self-consciousness.
How does “using” an object imply, then, that it must be destroyed? For
that to happen, a subject must view the object (person, the Other) as external
and not a projection of one’s own subjectivity, therefore, this would not be
someone going through the Lacanian imaginary phase. But somehow that
externality must be assimilated, but not consumed or annihilated.
Winnicott explains that the recognition of the other involves the paradoxical
process in which the object is in fantasy always being destroyed. The idea that
to place the other outside, in reality, always involves destruction, has often
been a source of puzzlement. Intuitively, though, one senses that it is quite
simple. Winnicott is saying that the object must be destroyed inside in order
that we know it to have survived outside; thus we can recognize it as not
subject to our mental control. This relation of destruction and survival is a
reformulation of and solution to Hegel’s paradox: in the struggle for recog-
nition each subject must stake his life, must struggle to negate the other—and
woe if he succeeds. For if I completely negate the other, he does not exist; and
if he does not survive, he is not there to recognize me. But to find this out, I
must try to exert this control, try to negate his independence. To find out that
he exists, I must wish myself absolute and all alone—then, as it were, upon
opening my eyes, I may discover that the other is still there. (Benjamin, 1988,
p. 38)
Recognition, then, following Benjamin and Winnicott (through or in the

shadow of Hegel), is a dialectic of the construction of the self that has
profound implications ontologically, psychically, socially, and intersubjec-
tively. Indeed, Benjamin speaks of a kind of pleasure in being with the other,
which has been insufficiently acknowledged in Freudian theory (with an
emphasis on drives) and ego psychology (with its focus on autonomy as
the goal of the individuation process). Even with all the fakery that goes on
in the story, there is recognition between Jonatán and the president, and the
possibility of an ethical situation, if only the president’s dummification
were not so advanced.
It is not hard to see in Winnicott’s idea of “destruction” the Hegelian term
Aufheben, which in English translates as sublation. In German, the term has
three simultaneous meanings: (1) to raise, hold up, elevate; (2) to annul,
abolish, destroy, cancel, suspend; and (3) to keep, serve, preserve (Inwood,
1992, pp. 283–85). Hegel’s concept of negation in the dialectic does not mean
a complete canceling or destruction of an object (human or otherwise), but
a movement that incorporates and preserves the negated object or being. The
new level achieved (the elevation) is not one of total harmony (Hegel’s
dialectic is not a blender which obliterates difference) but one where con-
tradiction is maintained in a tense mutuality.
This dialectic is ironically enacted in Jonatán’s effort to be hit by the
presidential car so as to make himself visible in the “empire of the gaze.”
We have already seen how this fits into a Hegelian recognition schema.
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 77
What was left unsaid was that he pushed the negative so far so as to have
it go all the way through to the positive. He has reenacted the original
moment of the master-slave in order to serve the state. By declaring his
servitude, he is setting up the possibility to be recognized, not unlike Party
philosopher Nikita Smirnov in The Serfs. Even though his effort fails, it gives
us a glimpse of the internal complexity of Piñera’s characters, how they are
divided against themselves, that is, how the master-slave dialectic works
as internal, intrapsychic phenomenon as well.
Piñera accentuates this with the use of the double, thereby reinterpreting
(as well as inverting, parodying) certain concerns of the Enlightenment and
Cartesian traditions that deal with mastery and reason. That the master-
slave dichotomy was not only visible in society (between different agents
or players) but also within the individual ego can be glossed from some of
the following thinkers.
Montesquieu: “Man is composed of the two substances, each of which, in its flux and
reflux, imposes and suffers domination.”
Hume: “Reason is the slave of the passions.”
Kant: “Man needs a master.”
Rousseau: “He who is a master cannot be free.” (Kelly in MacIntyre, 1972, pp. 205–7)
Kant’s statement should be understood in a personal as well as a public

sense, and for an individual, the master would be reason. It was Descartes,
however, with his radical dualism (mind-body) and fetishization of
thought, who helped to give ideological shape to the mechanistic world-
view in the area of politics. He ardently preached that science and philoso-
phy would enable humans to become “the lords and possessors of nature”
(Descartes in Mumford, 1970, p. 78). His detached, “thinking reed,” the
philosopher, had its counterpart in the autocratic baroque prince, who,
breaking tradition and custom, would command obedience and lay down
the law. The cogito of philosophy had an ally in political absolutism, with
its most eloquent expression being Thomas Hobbes’s Leviathan (1651).
If the monarch was to be the head of society, then the masses were literally
the body. Since they both viewed the human body as a machine or a “statue
made of earth” (Descartes), the art of government was a mechanics, a
technics of how to make the machine run smoothly. It is not surprising,
therefore, that Hobbes and Descartes had a fascination with automata. The
parallels between these seventeenth-century thinkers and Piñera’s president
are striking: his insistence on protecting the embodiment of power, the use
of a single will to direct society, the belief in technocratic solutions. Piñera
shows, however, that Descartes’s radical dualism and its political corollary
are false. It is the construction of a political ego (inauthenticity) that creates
symptoms in the president’s body, and, of course, trying to “extract the
dummy with the dummy” only compounds the nature of the problem.
There is an ethical dimension to this problem, which Foucault pointed

out in “On the Genealogy of Ethics: An Overview of Work in Progress.”
Toward the end of the interview he speaks of Descartes and his significance
in terms of the search for truth, the ethics of selfhood, and the nature of
science.
Descartes, I think, broke with this when he said “To accede to truth, it suffices
that I be any subject which can see what is evident.”. . . The relationship to
the self no longer needs to be ascetic to get into relation to the truth. It suffices
that the relationship to the self reveals to me the obvious truth of what I see
for me to apprehend that truth definitively. Thus, I can be immoral and know the
truth. I believe that is an idea which, more or less explicitly, was rejected by
all previous culture. Before Descartes, one could not be impure, immoral, and
know the truth. With Descartes, direct evidence is enough. After Descartes,
we have a nonascetic subject of knowledge. This change makes possible the
institutionalization of modern science. (Foucault, 1984, pp. 371–72; emphasis
added)
For Piñera, as was true for Foucault, the body of power and the body of
knowledge are identical. The disinterested pursuit of truth is a fiction.
Piñera is aware of certain historical precedents in dealing with the body
of power and its representation in the ruler. When the president’s secret
advisor suggests that the dummy could be a wax figure, Jonatán dismisses
him by saying, “Wax is post mortem material; wax captures an historic
moment of the hero and immobilizes him there in history; the wax
dummy . . . is a funereal dummy: it has nothing to do with the terrible
vitality of the rubber dummies” ( CT, pp. 107–108). Piñera is referring to the
practice carried out with Roman emperors, who had two bodies: a human
one and a divine one. In fact, two burials/cremations were enacted: one
with the ossa (bones) culminating in the creation of a sepulcrum, and the
second with the imago, which resulted in the templum (Dupont, 1989, p. 403).
The imago was a wax mask of the deceased, and this wax dummy was laid
out for a week and given a yellow pallor to symbolize the sickness. Doctors
came every day and pronounced the dummy sicker and sicker as the week
wore on. Slaves were beside the figure to swat away flies, since the imago
was supposed to stink (ibid., p. 404). While the ossa went into the earth, the
imago went up to the sky, in order to consecrate the emperor as a god, since
the Romans did not believe in the immortality of the soul.
Piñera, drawing on this tradition, has Jonatán seem to avoid it by creating
a rubber dummy, but in reality he has tried to create a sublime body (one
that will not deteriorate or lose value), an imago, one that will not be
destroyed and “incarnate” the power of the president. But as Dupont
reminds us, the imago is not a reproduction, an image of the deceased; it is
a part of the body of the deceased. It stands in a metonymic relation to the
emperor, whereas Jonatán has created a replica of the actual, living presi-
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 79
dent. Except that the “living” president has become so “dummified” that
his dummy is more real than he is. Jonatán has created a simulacrum, or copy,
not an imago. Only the copy is left since the original has become an effigy.
Piñera drives this point home by having the cardinal mention that the
Inquisition had pioneered all these techniques. He is referring to the prac-
tice of burning heretics in effigy when they could not be apprehended
(Hroch and Skybova, 1990, pp. 149–50). In his crucial confrontation with
the president, Jonatán makes this process clear to the first executive. He tells
him that his case is different from that of a film star because a movie actor
allegedly never represents him/herself, but other personae. So, in contract-
ing a dummy, it is always of someone else and not of oneself. Jonatán
compares this dummification to icing on a cake. He continues: “You are no
longer President of our country, but dummy President of our country. I
think the difference is profound, not in degree but in substance. And the
consequences: always fatal” ( CT, p. 100)
Pinera’s fascination with doubles was not limited to “The Dummy.” It is
a central theme in La carne de René (René’s Flesh), his vivid and horrifying
account of the political body and one of the most unforgettable treatments
of desire and power in Latin American literature. In Un fogonazo (hereafter
UF), there is a story titled “El Otro Yo” (The Other Me), written in 1976. A
Mr. X, who has just turned fifty, decides to make a replica of himself. Unlike
the “The Dummy,” the narrative takes place in the future where the technol-
ogy is available, and X has the financial resources to create another self. No
sooner done, they both go out on the street “identical as two drops of water”
(Piñera, 1987, p. 57). A rivalry begins between the human X and the mechani-
cal X, since the latter has no signs on his skin of having aged. Mr. X realizes
that the mechanical X will outlive him. This point is made in a more
uncomfortable manner at a party, when the theme of death arises in conver-
sation. After the hostess, Elena, makes a flippant remark, the mechanical X
says: “I feel sorry for him. He doesn’t have much time left” ( UF, p. 60).
Mr. X resolves to destroy the mechanical X. Not with his own hands, but
by pulling out the technological plug. When he presents his request to the
technologists, they reply as follows: “We never destroy what we create. Our
creations are indestructible. You will die; he will remain, and with him, in
a certain fashion, you will. When several generations have gone by, no one
will remember that he is mechanical, and, therefore, no one will remember
you. He will remain in the infinite succession of time, always the same, and
always representing you with an overwhelmingly superhuman dignity and
beauty” ( UF, p. 60). Mr. X, furious, feels trapped. He is aware that death
awaits him, like all humans, but he is particularly enraged at the fact that
he can not inflict death “on the only thing he hated, the mechanical X, the
immortal, insufferable, and infallible alter ego” ( UF, p. 60).
On his deathbed Mr. X tries to convince the mechanical X to switch places
long enough so people will think it is the mechanical X who has died (then
they will switch back). The mechanical X realizes the futility of this flimsy
gesture and tells Mr. X that dying is bad enough; why invite ridicule as well?
By then, however, Mr. X has died.
Days later, the mechanical X has an accident in which a radioactive
substance stains his skin, so that he now looks like the deceased X. Rumors
fly that it was the mechanical X who had died. Although the scientists were
chuckling in private, it was public opinion that won out. Piñera then ends
the story with: “For the mechanical X, there was no other choice than to admit
defeat: it was Mr. X who was immortal in the eyes of all. We could surmise
Mr. X’s joy in thinking that radioactivity had become his ally” ( UF, p. 62).
While Mr. X never gives a reason for wanting to construct a double, the
progression of the story gives us important clues. In short, there is a desire
for immortality (and a fear of aging) reminiscent of Oscar Wilde’s The
Picture of Dorian Gray. Having children is perhaps too indirect a method,
and, besides, they too must die. An automaton is, of course, a device that
would defy both entropy and decay and death as well. In this sense it
embodies the great paradox of all technology: while we constantly build
and create things that are faster, stronger, smarter, more efficient, and that
make life easier, technology cannot escape that most singular and contin-
gent of events in our lives, death. The scientists in the story do not even
want to face the issue of death, insisting that what is created will go on
forever. As in “The Dummy,” Piñera sees the fragility in technological
solutions. Radioactivity has become a source of revenge for Mr. X. He has
outwitted death, but like the climbers in “The Fall,” the narrator in “The
Face,” and many other of his characters, it is a pyhrric victory. It is interest-
ing that the victory of immortality in “El Otro Yo” is won through a
recognition of a community of people: his friends and neighbors. Similarly,
it is the masses in “The Dummy” who do not have dummies made of
themselves. Humans are the ones who confer immortality, not technology,
nor the imperatives of any kind of system.
When Piñera has the real dummies retire to the toy stores at the end of
the story, he seems to be echoing some of the concerns that Heinrich Kleist
had in his essay “On the Marionette Theatre” (Kleist, 1989). Marionettes,
according to Kleist, have a grace or perfection in their movements because
they have only one center of gravity. Symbolically, they represent beings
with a purity and innocence that allow them to respond naturally to divine
guidance. They are almost weightless and barely touch the floor. Men,
however, are rooted in the earth and are clumsy. Their self-consciousness
means they are divided souls, that they belong to two worlds, and man’s
intellectual faculties are incapable of restoring wholeness to the human
soul. The only way to achieve that, Kleist suggests, is to pass through the
infinite and link up again with the divine: “grace likewise reappears when
knowledge has passed through the infinite, so that it appears purest simul-
taneously in the human body that has either none at all or else inifinite
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 81
consciousness—that is, in the puppet or in the god” (ibid., p. 420). The

children going to the stores to buy toys (i.e., of people who have succumbed
to dummification) is both a bit of poetic justice and frightening, signifying
an end to innocence. It brings to mind the little girl with the dolls of Nazi
leaders who wanders through the set of Hans-Jürgen Syberberg’s film
Hitler: A Film from Germany. In Piñera’s universe, the characters are often
puppets, but without a center of gravity, without divine guidance. Their
passage through infinity is more like a Petrouchka wobbling through the
debris and fragments of history.
There is a gender aspect to Piñera’s authenticity which will make our
view of his treatment of power, truth, ethics, and domination a little more
complete. In an autobiographical text, Piñera openly admits his homosexu-
ality: “By the time I had the required age so that thought wasn’t merely a
translation of spouting nonsense and agitating one’s arms, I became aware
of three things sufficiently unclean that I would never be able to cleanse
myself of ever. I learned that I was poor, a homosexual, and that I liked
Art. . . . Of course, I couldn’t know at that age what would be the upshot of
these three Gorgons: misery, homosexuality, and art, was a frightening
nothingness” (Piñera, 1990, pp. 23, 25). Piñera’s art was a showdown with
these three Gorgons, with his deadpan wit and total dedication to literature.
As we shall see, he built his own ethical response to inaunthenticity and
domination from the depths of these Gorgons.
It might be germane to turn to Jonathan Dollimore’s study on homosexu-
ality, which attempts to answer why it is socially marginal but symbolically
central in Western culture. The issue of authenticity is paramount for
homosexual writers, he says. In that struggle for authenticity (and recogni-
tion), he distinguishes between two approaches that writers have taken,
which he calls transgressive aesthetics and transgressive ethics. The former he
attributes to Oscar Wilde, the latter to André Gide. Wilde’s critique of
society is what he calls anti-essentialist in privileging difference, artifice,
and insincerity as being more important than essence, authenticity, and
depth (Gide). Here is Dollimore’s chart (1991, p. 15):
Wilde (transgressive aesthetics) Gide (transgressive ethics)

surface depth
lying truth
change stasis
difference essence
persona/role essential self
abnormal normal
insincerity sincerity
style/artifice authenticity
facetious serious
narcissism maturity
Now, Piñera, unlike Wilde or Gide, does not openly address the fact of
his homosexuality in his own fiction. He does openly speak of it (but not
about himself) in an article on Emilio Ballagas in Ciclón (Piñera, 1955a). First,
he criticizes those who would avoid the issue of Ballagas’s sexuality: “If the
French write about Gide taking his homosexuality into account; if the
British do the same with Wilde, I don’t see why we Cubans can’t speak of
Ballagas as a homosexual. Or do the French and British have exclusive
rights on the subject?” (ibid., p. 42). But then Piñera criticizes those who
tried to make Ballagas’s homosexuality a rallying banner and who later
chastised him for having married and fathered a child. He defends the
individuality of the gay writer to interpret his homosexuality as he sees fit.
Some will see it as a sport, others as a necessary evil, or as psychological
disorder and seek psychiatric help. (Ballagas, according to Piñera, likened
it to original sin.)
With Piñera, it will not be a case of finding veiled references to his
homosexuality in his fiction, as if his work were merely a sexual roman à
clef, but more of understanding the homosexual as an outlaw in the area of
gender as someone who has the creative freedom to question more radically
what it means to be a man. This questioning takes place within strategies
of domination and submission; and the homosexual writer puts into place
a “transgressive reinscription” (Dollimore) that contests these mechanisms
of domination, exclusion, discrimination. Piñera’s ethical stance has the
transgressive features that characterized both Gide and Wilde, although his
humor, his probing of personas, his embracing of the abnormal would seem
to put him closer to Wilde. A pair of quotations from each author helps
underline these similarities. Compare Wilde’s “What was paradox to me in
the sphere of thought, perversity became to me in the sphere of passion” to
Jonatán’s comment in “The Dummy”: “I confess that the slightest abnor-
mality excites me so much.” Piñera, like both Gide and Wilde, was made
more aware of different kinds of oppression (class, race, gender) by his
specific oppression as a homosexual in Cuba. Through his writing, he will
turn that oppression around by offering “perverse” solutions.
These solutions are part of what I have referred to elsewhere as an “ethics
of redemptive failure” (West, 1994). In understanding Piñera’s ethics of
redemptive failure, like Levinas, we start from the vulnerability of the body:
its hunger, pain, fears. The body as biological entity can become the symp-
tom of power relationships; the docile body wanted for social control
becomes a springboard for the imagination (doubles, becoming-animal);
the social roles within the family become inverted, questioning ethics at
large, or the social body. Or the body as psychosexual construct becomes
an arena of transgression and sacrifice. These constant transformations,
overlappings, disruptions are where Piñera puts into relief the Hegelian
blind spot of ultimate mastery, of wanting to incorporate into the movement
of the Spirit every manifestation of negativity. But even this mastery is
VIRGILIO PIÑERA 83
contaminated by slave logic and is ultimately a failure. Piñera’s redemptive

failure (in rejecting the failure of lordship-type mastery) is his willingness
for sacrifice, his daring in going to the extreme, touching the limits of
sovereignty, where he can exercise his dominio propio, his authenticity.
But authenticity and dominio propio have a price. Listen to the words of
André Gide: “The borrowed truths are the ones to which one clings most,
and all the more so since they remain foreign to our intimate self. It takes
much more precaution to deliver one’s own message, much more boldness
and prudence, than to sign up with and add one’s voice to an already
existing party” (Gide in Dollimore, 1991, p. 39). Being a homosexual struc-
tures your identity so that it wages a constant battle against exclusion,
silence, or outright hostility. In his book, Dollimore traces the long history
of Christian theology that associates homosexuality with perversion, and
perversion with error. And error, of course, is a type of failure. Again, from
the depths of “failure,” Piñera is fierce in showing that gender and desire
are socially constructed. This implies, though, that they can be changed,
and it is from this authenticity of sexual difference that Piñera’s ethics,
starting from the body, go to the social and come back to the body. It is not
a matter of making the body a symbol, a privileged signifier, or the site of
origin. But by recognizing its vulnerability, the fact that it can be con-
structed, its role in the definition of self, and the body’s stubborn historicity,
Piñera’s critique takes on a positive role.
Piñera’s ethics of redemptive failure is a piercing and disturbing medi-
tation on domination, power, sexuality, and gender. Anguishing and bereft
of comfort as his universe may be, it does not lapse into a facile despair.
Beneath the calamity, Piñera resounds with a “No!” like his characters,
which is not mere negativity or denial: in a world so thoroughly marked by
coldness, lunacy, and perfidy, it becomes a stark affirmation of dignity and
sanity.
In works like “The Dummy,” The Serfs, or René’s Flesh, the author deflates
the egocrats and lofty pretenses of those who proclaim freedom while
enslaving millions. Cuban political discourse and its utopian impulses have
often slipped into hyperbole and grandiosity, offering fertile ground for
megalomaniacs. Piñera, from within the “empire of the gaze,” the realm of
power, be it social and/or familial, questions all the patterns of power we
take for granted: parents over children, state or ruler over the nation/peo-
ple, men over women, heterosexuality over homosexuality, commerce over
art, obedience over rebellion, God over man. In a world still fascinated by
the erotics of power and domination, Virgilio Piñera reminds us that it is
from the body that the ethical is possible, even though it must be sought
and made to flourish in a landscape of specters and disaster.
FOUR
Dulce María Loynaz: Cuba’s Living

History
Dulce María Loynaz has been called “la grande dame” of Cuban letters.
It is a label that conjures up someone sipping tea in a palatial residence,
surrounded by statues of nymphs and big mahogany furniture. To a
degree, that image is accurate, but it does not tell the whole story. Born
in 1902, Loynaz’s life and literary career span almost the entire twenti-
eth century: her work is one of quiet but enduring revelations, written
in a finely chiseled, transparent poetry or prose. Loynaz comes from
the Independence aristocracy: her great uncle was Ignacio Agramonte
(1842–73), her father was Enrique Loynaz y Castillo (1871–1963), who
fought in the Spanish-Cuban-American War (1895–98) and was made
a general. His comrades in arms included Antonio Maceo, José Martí
and Máximo Gómez, three national heroes.
Loynaz’s upbringing was unusual. She did not receive formal edu-
cational training until she went to law school; she passed the bar exam
in 1927. She and her brothers and sisters were tutored in a variety of
subjects, and her mother, María de las Mercedes Muñoz Sañudo, was
a solid pianist and singer who taught them much about music. The
exposure to an artistic upbringing was significant not only for Dulce
María, but also for her brother Enrique, a notable poet, her sister Flor,
a poet and visual artist, and her other brother, Carlos Manuel, also a
poet. Enrique Loynaz did publish work during his lifetime; Flor and
Carlos Manuel’s verses remain unpublished to date.
Despite her admirable prose production, Loynaz is known as a poet.
Her literary career began early: at the age of ten she published a poem
in the newspaper La Nación. She later wrote journalistic pieces for the
same publication. Her first book of poems, Versos, 1920–1938 , was
published in Havana in 1938. It was followed by Juegos de agua (1947;

Play of Water), Poemas sin nombre (1953; Poems with No Name), Carta
de amor al Rey Tut-Ank-Amen (1953; Love Letter to King Tutankhamen),
and Ultimos días de una casa (1958; Last Days of a House). Obra lírica,
which contains her collected poetry up to the mid-1950s, was published
in 1955. All of these books of poems were published in Spain. In 1984,
Poesías escogidas (Selected Poetry) was published in Cuba, as was Poemas
naúfragos (1991; Shipwrecked Poems) and Bestiarium (1991; Bestiary).
The latter two books contain mostly poetry not included in other books
or older works. Bestiarium, for example, was written in the early 1920s.
Finally, in 1993, Poesías completas (Complete Poetry), her entire poetic
oeuvre, was published in Cuba.
Loynaz’s prose consists of three books: Jardín (1951), called by the
author a lyrical novel; Un verano en Tenerife (1958; A Summer in Ten-
erife), a travel book written about her long visits to the Canary Islands;
and Ensayos literarios (1993; Literary Essays), a collection of essays and
talks. Among the literary topics covered in this book are the poetry of
Julián del Casal; the Cuban influences in Latin American modernismo,
Félix Varela, García Lorca, Gabriela Mistral, Delmira Agustini; and the
work of her brother, poet Enrique Loynaz. It also contains an important
essay called “Mi poesía: autocrítica” (My Poetry: A Self-Critical Ap-
praisal), from 1950, which is an excellent overview of her artistic views,
a definition of her poetics.
The Loynaz home was a true cultural hub, and many distinguished
foreign writers including Federico García Lorca, Juan Ramón Jiménez,
and Gabriela Mistral would stay at their home when visiting Cuba.
Despite this, Loynaz is a loner, and her work does not fall into a school
or a movement. In an interview she said that for a writer there’s
“nothing more dangerous than to establish a school.” Clearly, there are
influences she readily admits to: Tagore (in her early verses), St. John
of the Cross, St. Augustine, Martí, Quevedo, Azorín, the French Sym-
bolists and Parnassians, and Gabriela Mistral. Cuban writers that have
shaped her work are Zenea, Avellaneda, Martí, and Julián del Casal,
whom she read at the age of nine. I would add four Spanish poets:
Antonio Machado, Juan Ramón Jiménez, and, to a lesser extent, Jorge
Guillén and Miguel de Unamuno. Though she shared the Orígenes
group’s Catholicism, her poetry was published in their magazine only
once (no. 33, 1953).
Over the years she has slowly been recognized, beginning with the
Orden Carlos Manuel de Céspedes (1947, Cuba) and the Orden Alfonso
X El Sabio (1947, Spain) to the more recent National Prize in Literature
(1987), the Orden Félix Varela (1987), and the Alejo Carpentier Medal
in 1983. But it was the Cervantes Prize in 1992, the most prestigious in
the Spanish-speaking literary world, that brought her international
renown and has led to re-editions of her poetry and prose, as well as
considerably more critical attention.
In 1959 she became more of a loner, withdrawing from all literary
life, and stopped writing poetry. She continued to give talks, write
DULCE MARÍA LOYNAZ 87
essays, and journalistic pieces, however. The Royal Academy of the

Spanish Language, Cuban Affiliate, meets at her house and she is the
president. The changes brought about by the Cuban Revolution signi-
fied an end to the world she grew up in and wrote about. She remained
at the margin of political debates in Cuba and was basically ignored for
two decades. In the 1980s, as the Cuban literary climate opened up and
began to respond to less ideologically charged criteria, her work began
to be revalued and appreciated. Then came awards, editions of her
work, more attention, and finally the Cervantes Prize. She has won
practically every major literary and cultural award given by the Cuban
state and yet remains aloof from “the revolutionary project,” as Cubans
call it. Loynaz has received her due recognition without having to make
a Faustian deal with the state and its cultural institutions. Without
making a fuss, in a quiet, but grittily determined way, she has carved
out her own independent space. Despite her lofty social background,
she is, by virtue of her family, a living part of Cuban history and its
family of rebels. Because of this she is virtually untouchable. When
queried about why she bothered to remain in Cuba, when the revolu-
tion meant the destruction of her life as she knew it, Loynaz replied:
“The daughter of an Independence War general does not abandon her
country.” Her presence—exacting, honest, delicately lyrical, fiercely
personal and visionary— has been an important contribution to Cuban
culture.
THE HOUSE WHERE THE NATION DREAMS
That Dulce María Loynaz was awarded the Cervantes Prize in 1992 surprised
many. Thankfully, it gave the Spanish-speaking world (one hopes that trans-
lations will follow) an opportunity to rediscover an underappreciated, rare
talent. Eugenio Montale’s Nobel Prize of 1975 falls into a similar category.
Loynaz is an institution in Cuba, in part due to her longevity (she recently died
at age 94), but also because her work has a quality that has stood the test of
time. The work’s deceptive simplicity has a beguiling effect on the reader. You
need to reread her constantly and go past what seems like plain literal-mind-
edness, a trait she also shares with Montale. In a literary world obsessed with
writing and publishing as much as you can, where the sheer output seems to
be the barometer, replacing talent and depth, Dulce María Loynaz is a refresh-
ing change of pace. In a writing career that spans eight decades, her complete
oeuvre consists of one novel, one “travel” book, a collection of essays, and
several books of poetry that fit into one not very large volume. With consider-
able concentration and energy, her work could be read in a week, which does
not mean that it should, because going hastily through her exquisitely crafted
poetry will not yield its truest pleasures.
Loynaz began writing poetry early, as is evident from the title of her first
book, Versos, 1920–1938 , which brings together about ninety poems written
over almost two decades. Not all of them have the same brilliance and depth
as “Eternidad” (Eternity), “La mujer de humo” (The Woman of Smoke),
“Certeza” (Certainty), or “Tiempo” (Time); but even the early poems show
a remarkable maturity in handling image, sound, and feeling. Versos already
contains the constants of her later work: the nature of love, the love of
nature, solitude, and a religious consciousness that at times borders on the
mystical, but is equally indebted to Unamuno and Kierkegaard.
Loynaz admirably captures the age-old tussle in philosophy between
worldly and otherworldly thinkers. The latter—from Plato to St. Augustine,
from Plotinus to Pascal—have made the familiar argument that the chaos
and flux of the world, the endless and infinite parade of sensations and
passions, will not allow us to see the good and the true to attain lasting
knowledge. At the same time Loynaz seems to latch onto any number of
things—a shell, a look, a flower, the sea—and find in their contours,
radiance, color and shape, an eternity of feelings and insight.
One of her early poems, “Eternidad” (“Eternity”), deals precisely with
the issue of the eternal as opposed to earthbound finitude.
In my garden roses unfold
but I will give you none:
no roses, for tomorrow . . .
tomorrow they will be gone.
In my garden there are birds

singing crystal lays.
I will not give them to you,
they have wings to fly away.
In my garden labor bees
in their fine beehive.
the sweetness of a moment . . .
to you I will not give!
For you, the infinite
or nothing; the immortal
or this mute sadness that
you will never understand. . . .
This sadness without name
of having naught to give
to one who wears upon the brow
signs of eternity . . .
Leave, then, leave my garden . . .
Do not touch the rose:
the things that are to die
should not be touched by you.
(Trans. David Frye)
Loynaz touches on many key topics of literature that stretch back to the
Middle Ages and beyond. But principally she deals with the impermanence
of the physical world, a familiar theme in medieval and especially baroque
literature. At first, it is not clear to whom the poetic voice is addressing itself,
all the more intriguing in that the first three stanzas are punctuated by three
negations: the “I will not gives” (roses, birds, bees). In the fourth stanza,
with the use of words like “infinite” and “immortal,” it becomes a little
clearer, and in the next (fifth) stanza, the poet establishes unequivocally that
the “dialogue” is with God. Though Loynaz treats the deity with respect, it
is not mere servitude; her resolute tone establishes her own moral auton-
omy. In fact, she issues a warning: if s/he touches things in the garden,
somehow God will be tainted by the temporal and disastrously fall under
the corrupting influences of the mortal and the finite.
Slyly, Loynaz is reworking the Edenic myth of the fall, which she but-
tresses with many images of Christian iconography: the rose, the garden, the
bee, and the bird. The rose, of course, is a highly charged and rich symbol in
our culture, being at the same time something that represents heavenly
perfection and earthly passion. In Loynaz’s poem the roses unfold as mys-
tery, beauty, and grace, but are equally tinged with a short-lived voluptuous-
ness and sensuality. The rose is associated with fertility, beauty, and creation
as well as virginity. White roses, which evoke innocence and purity, are
linked to the Virgin Mary. Their thorns signify pain, blood, and martyrdom.
The bird and its lovely song is equally steeped in Christian mythology,
referring to transcendence, the soul, the spirit, the ability to soar into the
heavens, and the imagination. Loynaz does not specify what kind of birds
are in her garden. Interestingly, though, she uses their flight to connote
transience and impermanence, as well as their traditional meaning (soul,
spirit). Their song is part of all the delights of the senses that the poet
enumerates in the poem: sight (rose, birds), smell (rose), touch or taste
(bees), and sound (the birds).
The bees are also highly charged with meaning in Christian theology and
art: they are immortality, rebirth, purity, industriousness, and order. Mes-
sengers to the world of the spirits, their honey is an offering to the gods.
Bees are equated with Christian vigilance and zeal since it is believed they
never sleep. Like birds they can symbolize the soul entering heaven as they
fly. Again Loynaz stresses their temporal dimension: “the sweetness of the
moment.”
One of the most oft-repeated words in the poem is garden. In both
Western and Eastern traditions the garden has been linked with Paradise,
the Garden of Eden being a prime example. Enclosed gardens have long
been the symbol of the Virgin Mary (feminine protective principle and
virginity). More important, the garden is also the symbol of the soul, where
nature, tamed and ordered, is analogous to the spirit or the soul bringing
passions and chaotic emotions under control. Gardens are a refuge from the
world, both in terms of a spiritual haven and, conversely, as sources of
delight and pleasure. Let us not forget the Roman de la rose, which is a vast
eulogy of these pleasures of feasting, love, and communal bathing, using
the garden as focal point.
Loynaz, however, takes the Garden of Eden story and, instead of the
downfall of man and woman, fashions it into a kind of warning to God. The
Garden of Delights is so seductive that even God, despite his (her) omnipo-
tence, can fall prey to its enchantments. God’s corruption would be to
become finite and mortal, to submit to the ravages of time. This passage of
time will cause much anguish and be the subject of many of her poems.
Here it is cause for sadness, and one cannot help but think of the Renais-
sance and baroque fascination with melancholy, which Loynaz’s early
verses seem to share.
In a poem such as “Eternity,” Loynaz’s use of the garden synthesizes
certain concerns, expressed in a religious language that is rooted in Chris-
tian traditions. The garden will reappear in other poems and later become
the subject and title of her only novel, Jardín (Garden), which will be
discussed further on in terms of her idea of nationhood and which will
provide the opportunity to discuss issues of race, gender, and class. But it
also lets us see how Loynaz constructs her own authorial voice, its dialogi-
cal structure, that often shares similarities with mystic writers such as St.
Teresa and St. John of the Cross. Despite those affinities, Loynaz’s poetry is
not mystical in the sense that it is exclusively concerned with the ineffable
union with a transcendent being or deity. In fact, she draws on the mystical
tradition, but often within the context of earthly love and sensuality, bring-
ing out the tensions that mystical poetry insinuates.
This should not be surprising since mystical literature borrowed heavily
from traditions of courtly love and chivalry (de Rougemont, 1983). This
mystical exaltation of love derives from two major sources: (1) eros and
agape, and (2) the two different strands in mysticism: unitive and autono-
mous or “bridal.” We understand eros as a kind of infinite desire, a divine
delirium, which not only encompasses the corporeal, but also a greater
striving, a transcendence into heavenly bliss. Plato described this yearning
as a kind of enthusiasm (which literally means to be possessed by a deity).
This divine indwelling, which leads to the light and union with the divine,
means being free of the body. Platonism’s dark view of the body (tomb of
the soul) comes from Gnostic, Orphic, and Zoroastrian sources, a perspec-
tive that will be further developed and refined by Christian thought.
Loynaz’s early poetry clearly draws on Platonic precedents, but encom-
passes the multiple dimensions involved: eros as sexual passion, friend-
ship, filial duty, love of beauty, and love of wisdom. Loynaz is drawn to that
more mystical eros in a poem called “Siempre, amor” (Always, Love).
Always, love . . . beyond all flight,
all bile, all thought;
beyond men
distance and time.
Always, love:
At the hour in which the body
frees itself from its shadow . . . And at the hour
in which the shadow goes imbibing the body . . .
Always, love . . . (And these two words shipwrecked
between soul and flesh hammered against the wind!)
(Trans. Alan West)
The poem plays on several ambiguities, one being the “Siempre, amor” of
the title, which is repeated four times during the poem. On the one hand,
the author might be addressing a specific lover or loved one, although “mi
amor” would be more accurate in that context (hence the ambiguity). The
other possibility is that Loynaz is talking to love (eros) itself, somewhat
echoing the Tristan and Iseult myth of being in love with love. The siempre
(always) can also mean forever, a kind of eternity which much of the
imagery of the poem undercuts with images of putrefaction, death, and
temporality. But the love being addressed is one that transcends this finite-
ness, the eros of divine love and wisdom. And maybe Loynaz’s use of
shadows is an indirect reference to Gabriela Mistral’s “Decalogue of the
Artist.” Number 1 says “You shall love beauty, which is the shadow of God
over the universe” (Mistral, 1971, p. 37).
Loynaz is equally indebted to the notion of agape, or Christian love, as

originally expressed in the Ten Commandments. Agape is concerned with
neighborliness, with the ethical dilemmas posed by others. Despite its
association with divine matters, it is concerned with this world. It shows a
reverence and loyalty to other humans for being who and what they are.
Poems like “Profesión de fe,” “Amor es . . . ,” and “El amor de la leprosa”
show this ethical love of agape. Here again, Mistral’s number 7 from her
decalogue synthesizes this type of love and how it relates to art: “The beauty
you create shall be known as compassion and shall console the hearts of
men” (Mistral, 1971, p. 37).
Both eros and agape have a place within mystical thought. Denis de
Rougemont sees two main currents within mysticism: one he calls the
unitive, “which aims at a complete fusion of the soul with the divine. The
second stream may be called epithalamian mysticism, which aims at the
marriage of a soul to God, and which therefore implicitly maintains an
essential distinction between creature and Creator” (de Rougemont, 1983,
p. 153). I prefer the term autonomous or bridal for the second current. Loynaz
uses both currents to express the sometimes violent movements of her soul.
Unitive mysticism builds on passion, a “sweet cauterizing” that sears the
desiring subject. De Rougemont says that unitive mysticism, which enter-
tains the possibility of divine love (the felicitous union between God and soul)
implies that human love, being a pale reflection of its divine counterpart, will
lead to unhappiness. Conversely, bridal mysticism assumes a divine unhappi-
ness—because the fusion is not possible or complete—but a certain happiness
within the limits of human love. Loynaz’s poetry dwells considerably on states
of unhappiness, and words like sadness recur in her poetic imagery.
Juegos de agua (1947) could be translated literally as “Water Play,” but I
prefer “Play of Water” for two reasons. First, it captures the spirit of the
playfulness as something spontaneous, not controllable or given to chance.
But more important is the meaning of action, motion causing an effect, as
in the play of light on water. This second definition evokes texture and
nuance, and Loynaz’s play of water seems to be written on (or in) water as
well. She divides the book into three main categories: “Agua de mar” (Sea
Water), “Agua de río” (River Water), and “Agua perdida” (Lost Water).
Once again Loynaz takes on images with powerful universal meanings. She
draws on most of them: water as the source of existence, fertility, as liquid light,
as renewal (baptism), flux of the world, and of time. She also draws on the
darker, more somber aspect of water, as in the poem “Isla” (Island).
Surrounded by sea everywhere,

I’m an island rooted to the stalk of the winds . . .
No one listens to my voice if I pray or scream:
I could fly or sink . . . I could, at times,
bite my own tail as a sign of the Infinite.
I’m earth sundered in pieces . . . There are moments
in which the water blinds me, makes me cowardly,

in which water is death where I float . . .
But open to the tides and cyclones
I weld into the sea a root of shattered breast.
I grow from the sea and from it die . . . I rise up
to entwine myself in knots unbound . . . !
I’m devoured by a sea beaten by archangels’s
wings without heaven, shipwrecked!
(Trans. Alan West)
There is a kind of Promethean battle going on here, often repeated in her

verses, echoed in many poems where she struggles with the unhappiness
of love, the devastations of solitude, the anguish of yearning for eternity
and unperishable beauty in a world that decays. In one of her early poems,
“Geography,” she says, “An island is /an absence of water surrounded /by
water: An absence of /love surrounded by /love.” In “Island,” she builds
on that earlier poem, making the absence total. Love, however, seems to
have disappeared from this poem, except in the diminished form of ship-
wrecked angels without sky or heaven. Cielo in Spanish has the double
meaning of sky and heaven. Loynaz, in this poem and throughout the book,
will fashion her own geography, her own sea, her own cosmology in her
play of water.
In the second section, “River Water,” Loynaz compares herself to the
river in a short poem which is closer to an autobiographical aphorism. The
entire poem reads as follows: “I will be like the river, plunging headlong,
and crashing, and leaping and writhing (contorting) . . . But it gets to the
sea!” Here and in other poems of this section one can detect echoes of José
Martí’s Versos sencillos, where he speaks of brooks, streams, and rivers
in the mountains. In another poem, “Embrace,” the river becomes a lover,
but Loynaz’s erotic imagery is again tinged with a kind of Wagnerian
gloom.
Today I’ve felt the

whole river in my arms . . . I’ve felt it
in my arms, trembling and alive
like the body of a green man . . .
This morning the river has been
mine: I lifted it out of its ancient
river bed . . . And I took it to heart!
The river weighed greatly . . . The river,
pained, palpitated from being
wrenched apart . . .—Cold fever
of the water . . . : It left a bitter taste
in my mouth, of love and death . . .
(Trans. Alan West in Agosín, 1994, p. 43)
Given its length, perhaps its liquid dolefulness should be likened to a

Schubert lieder, but what is striking about the poem is the startling image
of her lifting a river out of its river bed, wrenching it from its “body.” And
in the imagery of the poem there is an undercurrent of possessiveness made
all the more futile by its own strength, since that strength proves to be
destructive.
Even when describing a more tranquil scene, Loynaz seems to be observing
a lurking threat. “El remanso” (The Calm/Pool) starts off in a kind of peaceful
and pastoral mode, with water imagery providing a soothing repose.
The tired river took shelter in the shade

of sweet trees, of the serene
trees that do not need to run . . .
And it stayed there in a bend.
The calm, already there. A bit of root
ties it to the shore of its soul:
As it reflects light and shadows
it sleeps, having a dream without distances . . .
It’s noon: A dove drifts
by the blue sky . . .
The river is so still
that the hawk, hidden in the branches
momentarily doesn’t know
where it will sink its claw:
into the fine bird of the air
or into the bird, finer still, of the water . . .
(Trans. Alan West in Agosín, 1994, p. 44)
Loynaz uses the stillness of water as a mirror, emphatically shown by the

hawk’s confusion. Her references to light and shadows and the soul, as well
as the illusory aspect of a reflection, almost read like a reworking of the
Platonic myth of the cave; the hawk’s preying instinct, if we want to take
our allegorical pitch further up the scale, could be interpreted as an image
of desire.
The water images are multiple: at the beginning of the poem the river is
tired and looks for shade under the trees. It is a simple but effective image:
the river has been working too hard, with a barely concealed reference to
time. Then the river becomes quiet, an invitation to meditation in the newly
found silence, since its music has been temporarily stopped. And finally, as
mentioned before, there is the image of the river as mirror. In a mere sixteen
verses, Loynaz has taken a seemingly innocuous midday scene where water
comes to a rest, with a hawk in the trees, and has turned it into a moving,
meditative piece that reflects on time, nature, and desire.
In “Almendares” her tone turns a little more elegiac. It is graceful, full of
musical allusions, and sensual. She describes the river’s color as “pallid and
dark /—Color of tropical women.” She compares it to the Amazon and the
Nile, and while it has neither the horizons of the former, nor the mysteries
of the latter, its beauty still compares favorably to both. The poem ends with
“I wouldn’t say it’s the most beautiful river . . . But it is my river, my country,
my blood!” Consistent with the general theme of her book, Loynaz seems
to evoke pre-Columbian as well as Egyptian-Babylonian river cultures of
the past. The latter apparently influenced Thales of Miletus’s thinking:
water as arche, as primary substance, which Loynaz, in her book, echoes
through her use of aquatic imagery. Water as primary, universal substance
is overlaid by Loynaz’s pantheism, which here takes on a patriotic flavor,
but it is an intimate patriotism, far from the bristling of swords and shouts
on the battlefield.
More typical of the book are some of her shorter poems, such as “La fuga
inútil” (Futile Flight), “El espejo” (The Mirror), “La nieve” (Snow), and “La
nube” (The Cloud). Three of them are so short they can be quoted in their
entirety.
Futile Flight, Futile Fugue

The water of the river goes fleeing from itself:
it is afraid of its eternity.
Snow
Snow is water
tired of running . . .
Snow is water
detained an instant—water at a point
Water emptied of time and distance.
The Cloud
Cloud, journey of water through the sky
Cloud, cradle for child-water,
rocking itself in the air pierced
by birds . . .
Cloud, heavenly infancy of rain.
(Trans. Alan West in Agosín, 1994, pp. 46–47)
Loynaz is without a doubt a poet who can take the infinite textures of
nature—in this case water in its different incarnations—and make them into
insightful meditations on time, creation, and memory. In “Futile Flight,
Futile Fugue,” the title in Spanish is “La Fuga inútil.” Fuga means to flee,
but it is also the word for the musical term fugue. In that play of meanings,
echoing the play of water of the whole book, Loynaz has set up her own
counterpoint: movement (time, melody) versus eternity (stasis, silence).
The fugue not only answers (echoing the subject in a different key) but also
presents countersubjects that comment on or contest the original “melody.”
This is achieved with a kind of reverence which Mistral’s decalogue,

number 10, registers pointedly: “Each act of creation shall leave you hum-
ble, for it is never as great as your dream and always inferior to that most
marvelous dream of God which is Nature” (Mistral, 1971, p. 37). Each one
of these brief poems is not only a “marvelous dream” but a self-appraisal
(of the poet) in the act of creation.
Loynaz’s next book, Poemas sin nombre (1953), is quite different from
Juegos de agua (1947). The language is rendered in a poetic prose, often a
sentence long. The poems, 124 in all, are numbered with roman numerals.
Their aphoristic and sometimes philosophical nature remind one of
Tagore’s Lover’s Gift, Crossing, and Stray Birds, but the voice is unmistakably
that of Loynaz. The poems have a more desolate feeling than her previous
work, as, for example, poem XIII: “You have wings and I don’t: with your
butterfly wings you play in the air, while I learn the sadness of all the roads
of the earth.” There are moments of great loneliness, but somehow Loynaz’s
solitude seems a haven, perhaps even the sacred space where she can create.
(Emerson considered solitude a stern friend, a place where inspiration
could thrive.) Still, poem VII seems unsettling: “Many things were given to
me in this world: only pure solitude is entirely mine.” A few pages later, in
poem XXX, we read the following: “Solitude, solitude, so sought after,
dreamed of . . . I love you so much, that I’m sometimes afraid that God will
punish me some day by filling my life with you.” If loneliness can be
interpreted as a homesickness for God, then poem XXX expresses the fear
of a really cruel God. Poem XCVI might give us a better clue to under-
standing her solitude. In it she says: “I won’t exchange my solitude for a
little bit of love. For a lot of love, yes. But a great deal of love is also
solitude . . . Let it be spoken by the olive trees of Gethsemane!!” Given
Loynaz’s Franciscan spirit, however, maybe her solitude is closer to
Nietzsche when he said, “[Solitude] makes us tougher toward ourselves
and tender toward others: in both ways it improves our character.”
Three poems deal directly with poetry, all within the last fifteen of the
collection. In poem CXI, she speaks about distilling her poetic voice, reduc-
ing it to the essentials. But maybe she went too far: “I’ve been stripping the
bark of my poetry so much, that I got to the seed without savoring the pulp.”
This harks back to a talk she gave three years before, in 1950, called “My
Poetry: A Self-Critical Appraisal,” in which she argues for a poetry that
should not be too adorned, too obscure: on the contrary, it must be direct,
precise, agile. Loynaz is not arguing for a simplistic type of verse or one
stripped of ambiguity, neither of which are evident in her own work. She
adds two other important points about how she conceives her poetics: one,
poetry is a kind of movement, a passage from one reality to another. It is
not a goal, which is always unknown, but the arrow spiraling from the
visible to the invisible, from the world around us to that which transcends
our normal senses. The second is poetry’s need for a vertical expansion, as
if it were a tree: “Poetry must equally have an instinct for heights. . . .

Having its roots in the soil doesn’t impede a tree’s growth; on the contrary,
it nourishes that effort, it sustains it in its impulse, it creates the base for
projecting upwards. Poetry, like trees, is born from the earth, and draws
sustenance from the earth, but once born, it doesn’t seem appropriate that
it go about like pigs, plunged in mud” (Loynaz, 1993, p. 139). From there
she goes on to speak of the poetry tree growing upwards as requiring a clear,
direct expression and language.
From the above it should be clear that Loynaz is not calling for a “pure
poetry” or an “ivory tower” approach to art, even though the nature of her
poetic language seems close to that of “pure poetry.” Her directness, inti-
mate tone, and use of everyday words indicate that she is far from obscure.
Her poetic universe speaks of love, solitude, and nature with a disarming
simplicity. But this simplicity is not to be confused with simple-mindedness,
bucolic affectation, or sentimentality.
In poem CXXI, Loynaz’s definition of poetry is more unruly than usual.
In a frank, hungering voice she says: “Poetry, divine and savage beast . . .
When will I be able to mark your flanks with my branding iron!” It is
difficult to reconcile this image with the previously mentioned tree image
going upwards into the sublime. Maybe nourishing the verticality of the
tree implies the “taming of the beast,” be it horse, pig, or whatever. It is
consistent with what Loynaz says about poetry being “that passage toward
an unknown goal.” The divinity and savagery she mentions is to a certain
extent beyond human control, and her poetry has exemplified the not
always gentle wrestling with subhuman and suprahuman forces.
All of these forces are evoked in the last poem, CXXIV, one of the most
heartfelt homages to the island of Cuba ever written. It is a paradisical poem
from beginning to end. It extols the ocean, the birds, all of the natural
wonders of the island, in a language that borders on the rapturous and
mystical. Were it not for the fact that the poem was written by an accom-
plished poet, skilled in handling metaphor and image, it would almost be
an embarrassment. It borders dangerously on the sentimental, but it bears
mentioning because the utopian dimension of the island has been a recur-
rent topic in Cuban literature, expressed in varying voices by the likes of
José Martí, Heredia, Guillén, and Lezama Lima, and as a counterutopia or
dystopia by Virgilio Piñera and Reinaldo Arenas. Interestingly, though, this
idyllic ending of Poemas sin nombre will be followed by a much more somber
portrait in Ultimos días de una casa (1958; Last Days of a House).
The entire book is just one poem, her longest, some 521 verses long, and
was originally published as a thirty-one–page volume in Madrid, including
a preface by Antonio Oliver Belmás. In this last book of poems, published
months before the triumph of the Cuban Revolution (1959), Loynaz takes
stock of her life. It is a harsh poem with an ominous beginning: “I don’t
know why it formed—it’s been days now—/this strange silence: / a silence
without profile, without thorns, / penetrating me like muted water. /Like

a tide up in the air by the moon /the silence covers me slowly.” Some critics
and commentators see Ultimos días de una casa as a prophetic work that was
able to foresee how Loynaz’s genteel world was going to be shattered by a
violent revolution. She has not written another book of poems since 1958,
although previously unpublished work has come out in book form in 1990
and 1991. And, of course, she has continued to write and publish essays and
journalistic work—but no poetry. She claimed that she was too old to keep
writing the kind of poetry she had been creating all her life and that the total
change that took over Cuba would make her work seem dated. No doubt
her poetic sensibility was not the stuff for guerrilla poetry and Marxist-Len-
inist aestheticians, so she quietly shut the doors of her house and kept
working and living quietly.
Ultimos días de una casa begins with that “strange silence” already men-
tioned. Why strange? Several stanzas later the author gives us a partial
answer. She compares the current silence to that of the past: “But the silence
was different then: / it was silence with a human flavor.” Somehow the
silence that engulfs her is impersonal and is tied to the loss of her house.
The author undoubtedly sees the forces of history in the widest sense of the
word: mechanization of work, a massification of architectural structures,
and a bureaucratization of social life. (Perhaps this explains the image she
uses later in the poem, saying that “life is a treadmill of illusions.”) This
lack of union between the house and the person who lives in it is likened
to a kind of death, both of the house and of its inhabitants. For Loynaz the
house is her axis mundi, a sacred space, if you will. A house is imbued with
a cosmological purpose. Mircea Eliade has written convincingly about this:
“Habitations are not lightly changed, for it is not easy to abandon one’s
world. The house is not an object, a ‘machine to live in’; it is the universe that
man constructs for himself by imitating the paradigmatic creation of the gods, the
cosmogony. Every construction and every inauguration of a new building
are in some measure equivalent to a new beginning, a new life” (Eliade,
1976, p. 27).
In this poem Loynaz describes the details of that small cosmogony: the
furniture, the light and shadow in the different rooms, the people who lived
in it. She even compares the imprints and marks left by pieces of furniture
to wounds on a body. Even before this description she has already equated
herself with the house: “soy ya una casa vieja” “(I am already an old
house”). Later she will say, “I feel myself already a sick house /a leprous
house.” The decaying metaphors are barely held back by reminiscences of
a Nochebuena (Christmas Eve) when she was eight years old.
Bachelard has spoken of the importance houses have in terms of mem-
ory: “We comfort ourselves by reliving memories of protection. Something
closed must retain our memories, while leaving them their original value
as images. Memories of the outside world will never have the same tonality
as those of home and, by recalling these memories, we add to our store of

dreams; we are never real historians, but always near poets, and our
emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression of poetry that was lost”
(Bachelard, 1970, p. 6). Loynaz’s poem is indeed the kind of memory that
has the “protective tonality” of which Bachelard speaks, but not enough to
shelter her from the hard reality of her dispossession: “Life is always /a
door stubbornly closed /in the face of our anguish.”
In speaking of the anchoring nature of the house, Bachelard says that
it also serves or protects the daydreamer, that it allows the dreamer “to
dream in peace.” The structure of Loynaz’s poem is like a daydream: it
focuses on some detail, then drifts away, latching onto something else,
and so on. Suddenly the author gains “consciousness” again and begins
another memory, exploring another corner of the house. “Memories of
dreams, however, which only poetic meditation can help us recapture,
are more confused, less clearly drawn. The great function of poetry is to
give us back the situations of our dreams. The house we were born in is
more than the embodiment of a home, it is also an embodiment of
dreams. Each one of its nooks and corners was a resting place for
daydreaming. And often this resting place particularized the daydream.
Our habits of a particular daydream were acquired there” (Bachelard,
1970, p. 15). As the poem progresses the reveries keep coming up against
the dark foreboding and silence that began the poem. Toward the end, it
almost seems as if the whole poem has been a dream. This theme of being
asleep and waking up from dreaming is not unusual in Loynaz’s work. In
Jardín, her only published novel, the protagonist, Bárbara, is compared to
Sleeping Beauty, and the author also borrows from Calderón’s La vida es
sueño (Life Is a Dream). Here is the final part of Loynaz’s “Last Days of a
House”:
I have slept and I awaken . . . Or I haven’t awakened

and it’s still the lacerating dream,
the shoreless anguish and death in pieces.
I have slept and I woke up inside out,
on the other side of the nightmare,
where the nightmare is unmoveable,
unyielding reality.
I have slept and I awaken. Who awakens?
I feel severed from myself,
sucked in by a
monstrous concave mirror.
I feel without feeling and knowing myself,
scattered entrails, unhinged skeleton,
and the other dream I was dreaming, thrashed.
Something swarms over me,
something hurts terribly

and I don’t know where.
What buzzards bite into my head?
From what beast is the fang that tears my flesh?
What moonfish buries into my side?
Now I swallow the truth whole!
It is men, men who
harm me with their weapons.
men I mothered
without birthing, wife without
fulfillment of the flesh, sister without brothers,
daughter without rebelliousness.
It is the men and only them,
made of better clay than mine,
whose greed was greater
than the need to hold on to me.
I was sold at last,
because I became so worthy in their accounts,
that I was of no worth for their tenderness.
And if for tenderness I’m unworthy, then I’m worth nothing . . .
And it’s time to die.
(Trans. Alan West in Agosín, 1994, pp. 42–43)
The ending of this extraordinary poem is replete with images of persecution

and alienation. Some of them border on the gothic, with a vampiristic touch:
“sucked in by a monstrous concave mirror,” buzzards biting away, fangs
tearing flesh. This devouring is counteracted by another ingesting image:
“Now I swallow the truth whole!” But all these images are consistent with
the equation established between herself and the house. She gives it a
narrative boosting when she says: “what I am telling is not a story; /it is an
upright history, /which is my history /it is an honest life that I’ve lived, /
a certain style the world is losing.” The poet directly takes on history with
a capital “H” and her own history, which is, of course, part of Cuban history.
Another kind of history, perhaps, but still important, the kind that never
makes it into the history books. If she were writing in English, she would
probably say it is “her/story,” which actually plays on the meaning in
Spanish as well: historia can mean history as well as story, narration, tale.
Few poets have captured the beauty and importance of the home as
emotional center, sacred space, cosmological model that holds chaos at bay,
as the locus for memory and dream as in this poem. The house, the home,
is the privileged space of the imagination. But the imagination is always
turned toward the future, not toward the past. Loynaz’s poem, despite its
rather dire ending, is not a literal death but a crucial moment of renewal or
resurrection. In Ultimos días de una casa, it is the power of the imagination
that can reconcile memory and history, dream and wakefulness, sacred and
profane space. Again, Bachelard: “Imagination has the integrating powers

of the tree. It is root and branch. It lives between earth and sky. Imagination
lives in the earth and in the wind. The imaginative tree is imperceptibly the
cosmological tree, the tree which summarizes a universe, which makes a
universe” (Bachelard as quoted in Kearney, 1991, p. 94). For Dulce María
Loynaz, the imaginative tree is the tree of poetry. Its root is the living history
of Cuba as seen through her heart, its branch and leaves, the turbulent
formation of Cuban nationalism that often goes back to the resting corners
of its past to revive its dreams of independence.
Loynaz began writing the novel Jardín (Garden) in 1928 when she was
twenty-six. Typical of her patient and careful writing methods, it took her
seven years to complete. It took another sixteen years for her to publish the
novel, at the end of 1951, in Madrid. Reviews were extremely positive (see
Simón, 1991). As opposed to her book of poems, Poemas sin nombre (1953),
which she called an ascetic book, Loynaz classified her novel as “sensuous,
baroque, languorous.” It is an unusual novel that lingers on details with
exquisite poetic insight, but is remarkably slight on psychological informa-
tion, except for the main character Bárbara. Some critics have pointed out
the affinities with the work of Marcel Proust, but just about any work of
fiction that dwells on the past or is imbued with the intricacies of memory
is inevitably called Proustian. Perhaps opera is closer to home, particularly
the way it stops the “action” and suddenly a soprano sings an enchanting
aria. And Jardín specifically recalls Wagner, who, more than anyone, was
able to dilate a detail languorously into an entire scene or a whole act. There
is a further similarity to Wagner: the ability to turn the plot of a fairy tale
into high art.
Loynaz addresses the very nature of her novel in her “Prelude,” written
in 1935. Here are the first few sentences: “This is the monotonous and
incoherent story of a woman and a garden. There is no time or space, as in
the theories of Einstein. The garden and the woman are in any longitude of
the planet—of great curvature or of more tension, and placed at any
latitude—higher or lower—of the circumference of time. There are lots of
roses. It isn’t, thank God, a human novel. It might not even be a novel”
(Loynaz, 1993d, p. 7). Despite some of the disclaimers, Jardín is a novel, even
if an unorthodox one. But perhaps that is of less interest since the novel’s
definition in our century has become increasingly more elastic. Several
critics have pointed out the cinematographic techniques of the novel,
particularly the use of flashbacks, which Loynaz has admitted to in inter-
views (Simón, 1991, pp. 55–56). This cinematic quality led Luis Buñuel to
express interest in filming it, but the project never came to fruition.
The other point that might need explaining is Loynaz’s comment that “It
isn’t a human novel.” The author does not imply with this statement that
the novel describes a world devoid of human virtue or that the narrator is
some reptilian incarnation of evil, but that the characters are closer to
archetypes than the norms of nineteenth-century realism. In the “Prelude,”

Loynaz says she could have called the main character Psyche instead of
Bárbara, that the “Symbol [is] the only school, only manifestation that still
excites me, and, perhaps the only one I could aspire to” (Loynaz, 1993d,
p. 8). Loynaz’s understanding of symbol is not a crude one-to-one relation-
ship between certain people, objects, or natural phenomena and a given
trait, but more the exploration of psychic states that are common to all souls.
The novel can be divided into two parts, roughly speaking. In the first,
the main character, Bárbara, reminisces about her family’s past by looking
at certain portraits and photos. One of the most intriguing family members
is her great grandmother, also called Bárbara, who, it was rumored, died by
being poisoned or by committing suicide. Bárbara lives alone in the house;
the only other person is a black servant named Laura. In this first part (chap.
5), Loynaz also has a gloss of the Sleeping Beauty legend. Eventually,
Bárbara discovers a small pavilion in the overrun garden that contains
letters of her great grandmother. Vicariously, she relives her dead relative’s
love affair by reading the intense and romantic letters. The letters, however,
end, albeit with a dark and ominous tone that suggest an unhappy conclu-
sion to this nineteenth-century love tale.
The second part of the novel is shorter than the first and begins with a
seaman she meets on the beach who enchants her sufficiently for her to
abandon her garden. They sail away on his boat to Europe, where they live,
get married, and have children. They live through the war, and, though no
countries are named, it is clear that World War I is being described. Soon
after the war, yearning for her garden, Bárbara decides to go back to the
island. Since she arrives at night, a fisherman helps her find her way. There
is both a sense of relief and foreboding as she makes her way back to the
garden. Unfortunately, one of the walls crumbles and kills her.
From this simplified plot overview, there are some evident parallels to
her later poem Ultimos días de una casa, not least of which is the linkage of
house, garden, and nation. For critic Ileana Rodríguez, the novel “draws a
transparent picture of national deterioration” (Rodríguez, 1994, p. 103).
Loynaz has frequently employed garden metaphors in her poetry, as in
“Eternidad” (discussed at the beginning of this chapter) and in poem CXXIV
of Poemas sin nombre. In most of these circumstances, the garden had
positive connotations, but in Jardín it is more ambiguous, if not downright
negative. The author and critics have pointed out that the garden is often
opposed to the sea in the novel, as evidenced in the quotation from Jules
Michelet that begins Part 4: “There, face to face, the eternal enemies: Man
and Nature, Earth and Sea.” I concur with this analysis, but would point
out that the sea is often associated with images of death, particularly in the
beginning.
Despite the tantalizing descriptions, and the sensuality of the natural
surroundings, Bárbara is in a kind of prison, albeit densely foliated. In her
book Un verano en Tenerife (1958), Loynaz has a truly suggestive passage that
applies equally to Jardín: “I read somewhere, I don’t remember exactly, that
the worse prisons are those raised next to the sea. Because the sea, similar
to Tantalus, offers the prisoner the broadest of horizons, and because of the
indominable nature of the waves, is continually reminding one of the idea
of freedom” (Roberto Friol quoting Loynaz in Simón, 1991, p. 530). Though
we should not lose sight of the fact that Loynaz is here speaking of another
island, the Canary Islands, the quote is applicable to her novel, as critic
Roberto Friol has suggested. The garden is an island within an island, and
it is a prison. In this regard, the allusion to Sleeping Beauty is appropriate,
but so is the protagonist’s name. St. Barbara was a Christian martyr locked
up in a tower by her father, a prisoner of male rage. The garden is gender
defined. Bárbara is the garden, a theme that is constant throughout the
novel.
Fina García Marruz has keenly observed that Loynaz has striven to give
a new spatial metaphor in her fiction: “One speaks of the selva [jungle] by
José Eustasio Rivera, of the pampa in Don Segundo Sombra, of the plains in
Doña Bárbara, of the Great Savannah in Alejo Carpentier, but none of it is
related to Jardín from our Dulce María Loynaz. And could it not be stated,
from the very beginning, there is a common link of centering space, of
nature—our American nature—and the subsequent histories, not like a
background scenario, but like a rooting theme?” (Simón, 1991, p. 549; trans.
in Rodríguez, 1994, p. 103). Of course, these other works have been written
by male writers and the selva, the pampa, the plains, and the Great Savannah
are all outdoors, in the great wilderness, where a different kind of history
takes place. Loynaz seems to point toward an alternative historical space
that is not part of the four B’s of male narrative history: the barracks, the
battlefield, the bar, and the brothel. But Loynaz does it by turning intimate
biography into myth and, ultimately, into history.
Despite the mythical quality of the narrative, the garden itself has a
history. It stores part of the family history that Bárbara discovers in the
pavilion, the love letters that she will breathlessly pore over. By going to the
past and reading those letters, Bárbara is already marking a certain distance,
from both that very past and its stifling gender roles, with its rapacious
rhetoric of love. The letters she reads are written by a man roughly a
hundred years earlier than the action of the novel: her (and the reader’s)
reading of these letters introduces a critical dimension to the plot and to its
central character.
The letters are important because they will mark the passage between
the Edenic part of the novel, where Bárbara is restricted to the garden,
protected from the outside, and the moment where she goes out into the
world, or “the fall.” She sails off with her newfound love, and they go to
the United States and Europe, though mostly the latter. Loynaz is unequivo-
cal in how important this is in terms of Bárbara’s freedom. It is a significant
gain for her, but not enough. She finds life in Europe cold and indifferent,
and long way before Milan Kundera, Loynaz has a marvelous chapter
called “Prisa” (Being in a Hurry), which is really about the virtues of
slower-paced living. Curiously, though, the novel has some Futurist mo-
ments when Loynaz describes the beauty of machines in terms that could
only be described as ecstatic. The war, however, drives her back to the
garden, but it is not exactly a triumphant return.
The novel begins with Bárbara looking through the iron bars of the
garden watching automobiles go by. She walks through the garden and sees
the moon peeking over the top of the house. Then the moon begins descend-
ing and crashes at Bárbara’s feet, its splinters flying by her face. She picks
up its pieces, wraps it in a shawl, and then buries it in the ground and plants
the branch of an almond tree over it. It is a perfect symbolic portrait of
Bárbara at the beginning, with powerful religious connotations. Aside from
the obvious garden, there is the almond and the moon. The almond is
symbolic of virginity, the self-productive principle and also sweetness,
charm, and delicacy. It also represents divine favor and approval, as well
as the purity of the Virgin. Many portraits of the Virgin are enclosed in
almond-shaped figures (the vesica piscis, or mandorla). It hardly needs re-
minding that the moon represents feminine power, but also the rhythm of
cyclic time, the universal becoming; its different phases signify perpetual
renewal and enlightenment.
The end of the novel has Bárbara in the dark accompanied by a fisherman
who shows her the way back to the garden. Here, however, Loynaz begins
to transform the Christian symbolism or iconography (including that of the
fisherman). The moon is out, of course, but unlike St. Barbara, the protago-
nist ironically dies from precisely what the saint is supposed to protect us
from: sudden death and falling objects (and lightning). Bárbara’s death is
sad, but it is not tragic. The wall of the garden helped separate her intimate,
sacred space from the outer, profane space of the world. The fact that it
crumbles could mean that their mutual exclusivity was not a healthy thing,
perhaps symbolized by the protagonist’s “sacrifice.” Speaking of Tristan
und Isolde (Wagner’s opera), Joseph Kerman said it was not a tragedy but a
religious drama. By this he means that the work’s “fundamental sense is of
a progress towards a state of illumination which transcends yearning and
pain” (Kerman, 1956, p. 195). He further adds that three other factors should
be present: “that the nature of the experience be properly religious; that this
experience is the main matter of the [work]; and the religious experience is
projected in a dramatic form” (Kerman, ibid.) Jardín meets these criteria
admirably. The novel’s rhythm has an inexorable pace that leads to Bár-
bara’s death, but her death has a certain ascent that makes it an ironic
religious drama in the form of a novel.
Why ironic? Aside from the previously mentioned reversal of the St.
Barbara legend, there is the final page of the novel. After her death, workers
from the Iron Workers Union are digging through the debris of the garden
and find a concave, but round metal disc. It is the moon that Bárbara
interred at the beginning. The worker picks it up, thinking that if he cleans
it up he can use it as a plate, but decides against it and throws it away. It is
as if at the end of Tristan und Isolde, with the lovers still embracing, the
stagehands began walking on the set to clean up for the next performance.
And yet . . . the last line of the novel reads: “Bárbara, from behind, from
above, from below, everywhere, always . . . , places her pallid face against
the iron bars . . .” Loynaz, 1993d, p. 247).
None of this necessarily invalidates seeing Jardín as a “transparent
picture of national deterioration,” but more important is how Loynaz has
remained true to her tropes. Despite the garden crumbling and killing her
protagonist, the garden’s iconic importance remains, not just as a Garden
of Eden image, but as alternative historical space that values the gar-
den/women’s lives as historically important and necessary. But even be-
yond that is the steadfastness of her character to return to the garden
(home/nation) and stick it out, no matter what. In this the name of the
character is well chosen: St. Barbara’s faith was so great that she risked her
life. It was her father who beheaded her, but he was subsequently struck by
lightning, which is why St. Barbara is eventually syncretized with Changó
in Santería. This steadfastness is seen in Dulce María Loynaz’s life (she
never left her home in Cuba, even though there were plenty of reasons for
her to do so) and her work. Each word stakes out a plant, flower, or tree in
the battered and unforgotten garden of Cuba’s history. Like quiet warriors,
they preserve the garden with the sturdiest of roots. This garden houses the
secrets and treasures of the country: its yearnings for independence, its
strivings to establish a unique culture, its hopes for overcoming the violence
of class warfare. It is the house where the nation dreams.
FIVE
José Lezama Lima: The

Re-Enchantment of the Wor(l)d
“He is the only one among us that can organize discourse as if it were
a medieval hunt.” These words of Cintio Vitier on the writing of José
Lezama Lima evoke rich, densely figured tapestries, with animals,
unicorns, lush vegetation, vivid colors: such was the verbal wizardry
of this extraordinary poet. José Lezama Lima (1910–76) was one of the
key figures of Cuban literary life in this century. Starting with the
publication of one of the most startling poems published in the Spanish
language, “La muerte de Narciso” (1937), Lezama was a constant
presence in Cuban letters for almost the next forty years, as well as an
unusual kind of compass for current writers and artists. Whether in the
form of essays, poems, articles, or narrative fiction, everything he wrote
had an unmistakable poetic enchantment to it.
Lezama founded several magazines, but it was Orígenes (1944–56)
that was the most influential of all, and not only in Cuba. Octavio Paz
called it “the best magazine in the Spanish language.” It published forty
issues and sponsored the publication of twenty-three books; it opened
its pages to the finest of local and international talent. Among the
Cubans were Cintio Vitier, Eliseo Diego, Fina García Marruz, Gastón
Baquero, Lorenzo García Vega, Lydia Cabrera, Virgilio Piñera, and
Angel Gaztelu. With excellent translations, they published Valéry,
Joyce, Eliot, Wallace Stevens, Spender, Virginia Woolf, Camus, Heideg-
ger, and others. Its covers were designed by distinguished artists such
as Wifredo Lam, René Portocarrero, Mariano Rodríguez, Rufino
Tamayo, and José Clemente Orozco.
Long-deserved recognition came with Lezama’s novel Paradiso
(1966; trans. 1974), which caused considerable controversy when it first
came out because of the homoerotic scenes in chapter 8. Allegedly, it

was the intervention of Fidel Castro himself that allowed the book to
be distributed. Paradiso is a family saga rich in symbolism, and also a
parable of creation and salvation. According to Lezama, this is possible
through the poetic image, for he believed that poetry was a form of
knowledge, a way to arrive at truth—human, cosmic, or divine. This
was anchored in his Catholicism, which drew on St. Augustine, Pascal,
St. Anselm, Nicholas of Cusa, St. Paul, the Gnostics, as well as the Cuban
revolutionary José Martí. Lezama was equally versed in pre-Socratic
philosophy, Taoism, pre-Columbian mythologies, and the Egyptian
Book of the Dead. Curiously, Lezama’s roaming intellectual passions
were reigned in by his physical immobility. He left his native Cuba only
twice. In part this was due to his inordinate fear of travel, brought about
by his father’s death abroad when Lezama was just a boy.
After the revolution, Lezama held important positions in the Cuban
cultural bureaucracy, but after the controversy around Paradiso, things
changed. Due to the more restrictive cultural policy implemented after
poet Heberto Padilla was imprisoned (1971), Lezama was marginalized
and not published for six years, from 1970 to 1976, the year he died.
Letters published after his death by his sister Eloísa indicate that he was
often invited abroad but denied visas by the Cuban goverment, which
believed he would defect. But soon after his death, in 1977, his posthu-
mous work was published in Cuba, notably the book of poems Frag-
mentos a su imán (1977) and the novel Oppiano Licario (1977). It was
followed by a collection of prose pieces and essays under the title of
Imagen y posibilidad (1981) and Fascinación de la memoria (1993), which
includes talks, short essays, letters, and other unpublished materials.
His work continues to spawn a generation of critics and interpreters
that is beginning to rival the Joyce “industry.”
Interest in Lezama takes on an urgency in Cuba since the collapse of
Communism in Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union: Cubans are
avidly reviewing their own past. Whereas Marx and Lenin were the
authors to quote, now it is Cuban writers and thinkers from the nine-
teenth and twentieth centuries: Martí, Luz, Fernando Ortiz, Levi Mar-
rero, Moreno Fraginals, Lezama, Carpentier, and others. Lezama and
Orígenes offer several things to Cubans looking for alternatives: a look
at a plurality of philosophical traditions (from St. Augustine to Heideg-
ger, conversing with Afro-Cuban traditions) and political thought
(from Plato to Habermas); a more nuanced look at the relationships
between state power and intellectuals; and the ethical stance of the
person who creates within a concrete historical reality. In a recent and
popular film, Fresa y chocolate (Strawberry and Chocolate), Lezama’s
ethical resilience and integrity was a subtle but constant presence.
Perhaps the generosity and joy of his vision is captured in these words
about Goethe, equally applicable to Lezama: “As Nietzsche said: ‘He
does not negate anymore.’ His attitude was basically affirmative with-
out entirely becoming serene, let alone saintly.” To Max Weber’s “dis-
enchantment of the world,” Lezama responds with a re-enchantment,
JOSÉ LEZAMA LIMA 109
so poignantly expressed in a poem: “The violet sea longs for the birth
of the gods/since to be born here is an ineffable celebration.” Lezama
combines in these few words the importance of nature in establishing
a cosmic and mythological presence that seems to equate Cubanness
with the continuous birth of something miraculous. The medieval hunt
has become a creation myth, a numinous sign, the world opening in
our hands.
DRAGONS AND THEURGY: LEZAMA’S IMAGES
OF HISTORY
“I am ravished by being able to see words like fish in a waterfall.” There is

a confluence of grace, magic, nature, and time in this brief sentence that
aptly summarizes José Lezama Lima’s concerns as a writer. But more than
a writer, Lezama was an entire tradition, a realm of literature unto himself.
I echo with these words what Borges said of Quevedo, but it is even truer
of Lezama. Despite his reputation as a “difficult writer,” he has, through his
poetry, his two novels, and his dense, serpentine essays, had a profound
effect on Latin American literature. The ripple effect, the generative power
of his words and thinking, has proved an ample ground from which other
writers can draw sustenance, if not inspiration. In the case of Cuba, writers
like Severo Sarduy and Reinaldo Arenas owe a huge debt to Lezama. So do
novelists like Carlos Fuentes, Mario Vargas Llosa and Edgardo Rodríguez
Juliá, short story writer Julio Cortázar, poets like David Huerta, and many
young Cuban verse makers of the 1980s and 1990s.
Lezama’s reputation derives mainly from two sources: his poetry and
Paradiso (1966; Eng. trans. 1974 by Gregory Rabassa), one of the most
extraordinary Latin American novels of the last half century. However,
much less attention has been paid to his essays, none of which has ever been
translated into English. One of his seminal books of essays is La expresión
americana (1957), a verbal and conceptually rich brew that meditates on the
nature of what is truly American, culturally speaking.1 Most take Lezama
to mean Latin America when he uses the term American, but in fact he
mentions Melville, Whitman, and Emerson, which gives his definition an
inclusiveness that was rare in the 1950s on either side of the border. The
book originated in five talks he gave at the Centro de Altos Estudios del
Instituto Nacional de la Cultura (Center for Advanced Studies of the
National Institute of Culture) in January 1957.
In these talks, Lezama speaks to a theory of Latin American culture, in
his inimitable poetic voice, establishing analogies across vast amounts of
time and place. In one segment of three pages, for example, he goes from
the Popol Vuh and pre-Columbian Mexican chants to the hunting of uni-
corns, to asides on maps and gardens, Columbus, Marco Polo, and Kubla
Khan (featuring a marvelous story about music before doing battle), to
William Henry Hudson and a dig at Hegel’s anti-Catholicism. Lezama
looks at history through metaphor, or even better, tries to conjure up
different metaphors of history, what he called ”las eras imaginarias” (imagi-
nary eras). In this he was close to the ideas of Giambattista Vico, which will
be discussed further on.
Lezama was not traveling on new terrain: there were many precedents
for these types of reflections, such as Pedro Henríquez Ureña’s Seis ensayos
en busca de nuestra expresión (1928); Alfonso Reyes in Visión de Anáhuac (1917),
La Ultima Tule (1942), or Letras de la Nueva España (1946); Mariano Picón-
Salas in his De la conquista a la independencia (1944); and Radiografía de la
pampa (1933) by Ezequiel Martínez Estrada. In Cuba the most significant
precedent would have been Fernando Ortiz’s work, especially his Con-
trapunteo cubano del tabaco y el azúcar (1940; Cuban Counterpoint, 1947/1995).
Lezama’s originality lies in the way he interprets myth and history, the
particular weight and ethos of his baroque aesthetic, and the ethical dimen-
sions of the historical figures he highlights such as Fray Servando Teresa de
Mier, Simón Rodríguez, and José Martí. In his search for “la expresión
americana,” Lezama topologically describes it as “an open gnostic space”
(“un espacio gnóstico abierto”). But before we turn to “imaginary eras” and
“open gnostic spaces,” we need to examine some of the terms Lezama uses
to speak about the cultural hybridity of Latin America.
When Lezama refers to “la expresión americana,” he is not trying to
derive an “essence” of the American, an ontological grounding that would
lend itself to a kind of nationalist or even continental expression of either
spirit or character. Lezama, despite his poetic and mythological bent, is very
much a historicist who did not believe in the static nature of lo americano.
For Lezama it means trying to configure a historical narrative of the
American imagination. Narrative is used in a free and playful sense, since
the way Lezama fashions his historical narratives, as we shall see, is a heady
mix of commentary on paintings, philosophical musings, florid poetic
descriptions, careful textual commentary, and suggestive metaphor. They
are closer to fiction than what would normally be acceptable for standard
historiographical prose. For Lezama the imagination has not only an aes-
thetic weight, but a philosophical, religious, and ethical dimension with
deep resonance for the understanding of history. Central to this under-
standing of history is the ability to produce and recollect images, which
implies that the imagination is an ideal instrument in the creation of
knowledge. Lezama would understand la expresión americana,” then, to be
a speculative journey of becoming that seeks to understand poetically and
reenact Latin American cultural production as immersed in a still living
historical imagination. (I use words with Hegelian and Platonic resonances
to set the stage for their elaboration further on.)
Julio Ortega, among others, has pointed out that Lezama uses a “fictional
treatment of the tradition, its free use as a form of language. Tradition is
seen as a changing present and the critical perspective as instrument which
reorders that dialogue” (Ortega, 1991, p. 245). Lezama treats the Western
tradition as another culture, not the culture, and by doing so he clearly is in
the spirit of Borges. It is important to keep this in mind as we examine the
beginning of Lezama’s essay, since its discussion of European painting and
the I Ching seem to place its concerns at a great remove from Latin American
history. But in these first few pages Lezama offers us a glimpse of his
approach to history, which he describes as an “animistic counterpoint.” Like
Hegel’s dialectic, it is a method that is not a method, “but a name for
ingenuity, for ingenious activity itself, which takes a continually varying
shape depending on the content before it . . . struggling [with] the limitation
of the image, the production of the unseen” (Verene, 1985, p. 11).
Lezama begins by speaking of the difficulty of historical sense and vision
precisely because the meaning of history consists in “the production of the
unseen.” Cleverly, and with great dialogical skill, Lezama brings together
examples of visual representation: five paintings from the Middle Ages and
early Renaissance. It is as if Lezama were saying let us travel to the heart of
the visible to make the invisible shine forth. The five works of art are:
September by the Limbourg brothers (finished by Jean Colombe), a manu-
script illumination from the early fifteenth century; The Corn Harvest by
Brueghel (1565); The Last Judgment (in which Chancellor Rolin is depicted;
1443–51) by Rogier Van der Weyden; The Madonna with Chancellor Rolin by
Jan van Eyck (1435/37); and Guidoriccio da Fogliano on Horseback by Simone
Martini (1328).
First Lezama compares September with the Brueghel painting, principally
because of what they depict: peasants working in the fields. But in drawing
the two together there is a historical distance that must be accounted for. In
the illuminated manuscript there is still a strong hierarchical relationship
manifested by the castle and its dominance over the lives of those working
in the fields. The height of the castle piercing into the heavens only rein-
forces the importance of the bond between lord and serf. But in its use of
color and disposition of form, there is a certain magic to the scene, under-
girded by the links between the human, the natural, the social, and the
divine. The Brueghel painting, The Corn Harvest, already indicates a world
not governed by feudal lords but of nascent capitalism. The town is far in
the distance; a church is closer, partially obstructed by a tree and other
vegetation. It is August: among the heat and intense labor, some peasants
are having refreshments or reposing; others are still working. The suste-
nance provided by the harvest underlines the rich depiction of nature. As
Lezama points out, the former (September) is marked by a kind of magic
spell, the latter by “the cantabile of its own joy” (p. 50). Without skipping a
beat, Lezama moves on to two different portraits of Chancellor Rolin. The
Van Eyck (with the Virgin) is the earlier of the two and an extraordinary
work that handles space with consummate skill. The Van der Weyden is a
more austere portrait, with dark colors, and Rolin looks more like a monk,
not like the powerful and wealthy man he was. In contrast, the Van Eyck
painting is sumptuous with lush color and is a vivid portrayal of the
temporal power of the earthbound recognizing the infinite power of the
divine. For Lezama, the key element is the baby Jesus, which gives the
painting a kind of joyful luminescence, with a light that penetrates the

chancellor, even if there are no outward manifestations of this “piercing.”
This light, says Lezama, “modifies him and gives him a new life” (p. 51).
Finally, Lezama eases in to the Martini painting. A rider on horseback
(Guidoriccio da Fogliano) dominates the painting, flanked on either side by
castles in the background. The rider and his horse tower in comparison in
a weird but believable display of perspective, accentuating the play be-
tween history and myth. Lezama links up the castle of September to the
similar structures in the Martini painting, claiming that the latter is the
opening up of the doors of the medieval castle, compared shortly after to
the soul leaving the body, drawn from one of the images of the I Ching.
Even a cursory glance at these paintings calls up a series of associations
and raises questions about what Lezama chose to emphasize in them.
Lezama has a strong hellenizing streak in his outlook. Are the two paintings
that feature peasants an indirect nod to Werner Jaeger’s Paideia?
Homer’s poetry brings out one fundamental fact: that all culture starts with
the creation of an aristocratic ideal, shaped by deliberate cultivation of the
qualities appropriate to a nobleman and a hero. Hesiod shows us the second
basis of civilization—work. The later Greeks recognized this when they gave
his didactic poem the title of Works and Days. Heroism is shown, and virtues
of lasting value are developed, not only in the knight’s duel with the enemy,
but in the quiet, incessant battle of the worker against the elements and the
hard earth. It is not for nothing that Greece was the cradle of a civilization
which places work high among the virtues. (Jaeger, 1945, p. 57)
Whatever the motivation, these themes will come up during the rest of the
essay, whether Lezama is discussing the Popol Vuh, the gauchos in Argentina,
the corridos in México, or the importance of rural life and nature as part of
Latin American culture.
Other questions persist: why did Lezama make no reference to the
historical circumstances of the Martini painting? It was commissioned to
celebrate a series of castles captured (and previously lost) by Siena and has
an undeniably civic and political purpose—the “heraldic pose” of the horse
reinforces this civic message by the juxtaposition of animal and landscape.
Or why didn’t he choose Van der Weyden’s St. Luke Drawing the Virgin,
visually almost a mirror image of the Van Eyck, and which it obviously has
paid hommage to? Or, sticking to the figure of the chancellor, why isn’t there
more about Rolin as historical figure or icon? Lezama’s analysis (and
omissions) reveal much about his historical “method.” His approach to
history shows a remarkable indifference to the facts and, like Spengler, is
more attuned to metaphor or to a startling image which can capture both
commonality and difference, sometimes stretched over what looks like a
temporal abyss. Even the most obvious is up for grabs, and Wilde’s chal-
lenge undergirds his comments: “The mystery of the world is the visible,
not the invisible.”
More than a baroque fascination with painting and écriture, Lezama is
providing both a model and critique of representation and how it embodies
the historical. Later we will discuss the role of images in recollection
(Hegel), but for the moment let us explore the ontology of painting. Before
photography, visual documentation of the historical centered on painting
(or sculpture). Painting’s ability to capture the likeness of the human figure
(or objects) is legendary: thus we have paintings of battles, famous scenes,
coronations, funerals, portraits of kings, nobility, thinkers, and other artists,
as well as still lifes, landscapes, and the like. Religious painting has often
been able to capture the relationship between the human and the divine, as
in Van Eyck’s The Madonna with Chancellor Rolin. Lezama is astute in his
choice of the five paintings because they exhibit a wide range in the sense
of depicting nature, peasants at work, worldly power and politics, the
supernatural, humans, animals, vegetation, and even angels. There are
moments which gather the cosmic rhythms of the earth, flashes of the
divine, the flow of time, and the humble movements of humans at work.
And yet this great power of resemblance makes Lezama want to tease
out the age-old distinction between seeing and knowing, not only a gradual
unveiling of the invisible, but a radical examination of what is in the visible.
In this sense Lezama agrees more with the philosopher Maurice Merleau-
Ponty, who thought that painting expresses what exists, than with Sartre
(who said that painting expresses what does not exist). Given Lezama’s
Catholicism, one cannot help thinking of the ancient polemic with the
Iconoclasts, arguing over the import of divine, natural, and artificial im-
ages. Lezama obviously would not side with the Iconoclasts, but would
instead agree that archetypal images are a product of the mind, images of
the mind which brought them forth. And “for this reason Philo calls the
Logos, which is the pleroma of Forms, the Image of God, which in turn is
the archetype of all else: as God is the Father of the Image, the Image is the
pattern of other beings” (Sheldon-Williams in Armstrong, 1970, pp. 506–7).
Lezama would agree with Philo’s statement, since it pertains to the truth-
fulness of representation. Vico’s statement about the truth was probably not
far from his mind: “Divine truth is a solid image like a statue; human truth
is a monogram or a surface image like a painting” (Vico, 1988, p. 46).
Lezama’s poetic exploration of history is a conversation between the statue
and the painting in the spirit of Plotinus, who said: “The wisdom of the
gods and of the blessed immortals cannot be expressed in words, but only
by beautiful images” (as quoted in Huyghe, 1962, p. 4).
Painting as representation bears on representation in history. Lezama is
not a realist in matters painterly or historic. His understanding of history
comes by way of poetry and the ability to generate images and metaphors.
It is the imago’s participation in history, he argues, that can bring about an
era imaginaria, an imaginary era. Although he makes brief reference to it in

La expresión americana, he returns to it several times in his writings of the
late 1950s and 1960s. What exactly did Lezama mean by the term? Unlike
Toynbee or Spengler, an imaginary era is not synonymous with a civilization
or society, nor is Lezama interested in explaining them in terms of biological
metaphors (beginning, growth, maturity, decline, disintegration) of why
they arise or disappear. Obviously, if an imaginary era coincides with a
civilization, or if its adherents have state power to be able to shape a society,
the imaginary era stands a greater chance of surviving, as was the case with
ancient Egypt. But Lezama also refers to the term as being a subculture
within a dominant society, like the Orphics or Pythagoreans. An imaginary
era usually takes a long time to coalesce, implying a temporal dimension
that is historical if not millenary, and through this expansive process
achieves an ability to make certain images and fashion a way of thinking.
Both become living metaphors that act in and on history. Is an imaginary
era an archetype? Lezama suggests a relationship between the two, mean-
ing that an archetype, which by definition is not historically bound, be-
comes an imaginary era when it acquires a historical specificity and is
incorporated into the shifting constellation of a concrete historical forma-
tion. An imaginary era would need to recreate and disseminate several
archetypes and bring them under one or a small number of central meta-
phors to be able to constitute an imaginary era. For example, many cultures
have quest or heroic journey archetypes, but different imaginary eras will
imbue them with their own meaning. A Buddhist interpretation will see it
in terms of reincarnation, a Catholic one as a symbol of resurrection.
In La expresión americana, Lezama claims that we must move away from
the so-called modern emphasis on cultures and focus on imaginary eras
instead (p. 58). Why the insistence on the imaginary eras? He clearly was
dissatisfied with modes of historical explanation that were realistic (Aris-
totle), rationalist (Hegel), positivistic (Comte), mechanical (Voltaire), and
materialist (Marx and others). Their cause-effect methodology is too sim-
plistic, one-dimensional, and insufficiently nuanced. Ramón Xirau has
insisted that Lezama, following Plato and Plotinus, was of the tradition that
believed lower realms of reality were to be explained by superior forms.
This implies that the imago (eternal images) cause and give substance to the
personal, the poetic, and the historical. For Lezama, there is no history
without the presence of the numinous. This sacredness gives imaginary eras
a certain continuity for, according to the Cuban poet, an imaginary era never
completely dies out. Its hegemony may end, but certain of its elements are
picked up by future societies or imaginary eras (e.g., certain images of the
Egyptians are retrieved and transformed by Christianity). For Lezama,
Christianity is one of the central imaginary eras, suffusing his analysis of
other imaginary eras.
How does this relate to (Latin) American history? Lezama mentions three
pre-Columbian societies that were imaginary eras: the Incas (Fortresses of
Stone/The Flood), the Aztecs (The Cult of Blood), and the Mayas (perhaps
a combination of the previous two). He even hints at the formation of
possible new imaginary eras in post-Columbian history, centered around
his notion of a baroque Counter-Conquest exemplified by Sor Juana Inés
de la Cruz, the Andean artist/architect Kondori, and the Afro-Brazilian
architect Aleijandinho, or what he calls the era of “infinite possibility”
inaugurated by José Martí, only to be continued by the events of the Cuban
Revolution in 1959. Lezama was tentative here, suggesting that Cuba’s
insurrection might lead eventually to the creation of an imaginary era. It is
doubtful that Lezama would still entertain that thought if he were alive
today.
A step down from the concept of imaginary era is what Lezama called
“great choral groups,” whose importance or ability to create certain asso-
ciations and/or images throw a dazzling light on history. Examples
abound: the retreat of Napoleon’s Army, the Holocaust, the storming of the
Winter Palace. They function as “hypostasized metaphors” and again are
not limited to a simple-minded causality. To a degree, these “great choral
groups” are emblems that might signal the beginning or end of an imagi-
nary era, or of one of its phases. But they are emblems with historical
specificity. They do not have the millennial intricacy of an imaginary era,
but they do contain a lightning-bolt intensity that makes us profoundly
question our most cherished notions. A twentieth-century example will
suffice: after the Final Solution, it is no longer possible to look at trains as
unalloyed tokens of human and scientific progress. With these definitions
in mind, we can return to the paintings and see what more they reveal about
Lezama’s thinking about history.
Is the opening door (soul-body) the only link between five European
paintings and the Chinese I Ching? Lezama gives us the clue in another
essay titled “La biblioteca como dragón” (The Library as Dragon), from
1965, published in a book of essays, La cantidad hechizada (1970). In his essay
about Chinese culture and Taoism, Lezama recalls a saying by Goethe along
the lines of “Whenever a threatening cloud seems to hover over the world,
I obstinately seek refuge in that which is most distant (or remote) from us”
(Lezama, 1971, p. 219). Goethe’s remarks were made in relation to China,
and Lezama picks up the cue and adds that for the Chinese distance or
remoteness is paralleled by the sacred kings who embody that remoteness.
Furthermore, Lezama claims that distance is productive and creative, that
it is an image. It is linked to the rule of Fou Hi, who embodied certain
fertility traits, with a double identity of earthiness, of being a peasant deity,
and a heavenly, more mysterious force. Lezama attributes to the Chinese,
three thousand years before Christ, a separation of the earth and the sky,
and says that its subsequent history is the attempt to bring the earth back
up to the sky by way of an embryonic image (ibid., p. 222). This separation

will also be a constant of Egyptian art, another culture that held particular
fascination for Lezama.
It is precisely this separation of earth and sky, the divine and the human,
which constitute the common theme, so to speak, of the paintings that
Lezama has commented on. This bears a resemblance to Heidegger’s
expression geviert (the fourfold convergence of earth and sky; human and
divine), as well as his frequent references to proximity and remoteness. As
Fred Dallmayr points out: “Heidegger . . . described human Dasein as a
creature of distance or farness, a distance that alone can nurture a true
closeness to things and fellow human beings” (Dallmayr, 1993, p. 200).
Lezama’s lejanía and its Taoist underpinnings are conversant with Heideg-
ger’s observations, which are generally subsumed under a wider rubric of
journeying and homecoming. Heidegger says that “Homecoming is a
transit through otherness” (ibid., p. 161).
Lezama’s historical “methodology,” his imaginary eras, are prime exam-
ples of “homecoming through otherness.” Chinese alchemy, Egyptian
cosmology, Etruscan society, Mayan myths, medieval theology, and Renais-
sance magic are all markers of this road to strangeness, to “foreign-ness,”
not as a way of getting lost or forgetting but as a means of acquiring the
depth and texture necessary to create la expresión americana. We must return
again to Lezama’s dragon. In his essay he links the dragon to that which
resists being pinned down. The word in Spanish is inapresable, with rich
associations ranging from elusive, resistant to capture or domination, to
slippery or even mysterious. Semiotically we could say that inapresable is
polysemy, the rich plurality of meaning and interpretation that underlies
metaphor. Presa is also prey, something you hunt or persecute. Lezama’s
use corresponds to these meanings of not being trapped or imprisoned,
being indomitable.
Of course, the dragon has many possible meanings in Chinese culture:
two facing dragons are a symbol of yin-yang and the terrestrial and celestial
realms, as well as intelligence, spirituality, the power of change and infinity.
But for our purposes, one should especially note its function as a kind of
analogical magnet. The dragon is considered a composite of different
creatures: “His horns resemble those of a stag, his head that of a camel, his
eyes those of a demon, his scales those of a carp, his neck that of a snake,
his belly that of a clam, his claws those of an eagle, his soles those of a tiger,
his ears those of a cow” (Cooper, 1978, p. 56). These are the nine resem-
blances that Wang Fu mentions when speaking of the dragon. Lezama calls
his dragon, or analogical magnet, “animistic counterpoint.”
It is through analogy that Lezama is able to achieve “homecoming
through otherness,” to bring together often disparate eras or cultures, so
that their otherness can dialogue to the point of fashioning a dragon.
Gadamer reminds us that the word symbol in Greek was literally a token of
a house you had been to, an object broken in two that would be rejoined
many years hence in act of recognition and homecoming (Gadamer, 1986,
p. 31). Analogy can work in different ways: through morphology, content,
archetype, function (meaning), or, in Lezama’s case, “animistic counter-
point.” He rejects a morphological account of analogy, indirectly criticizing
Oswald Spengler’s approach. He offers the example of comparing the
shape of a bull’s horn and a Byzantine tiara; one of Spengler’s more famous
morphologies is the comparison between Rembrandt’s browns and
Beethoven’s string quartets. Lezama was certainly sympathetic to
Spengler’s poetic side, but felt that his morphologies were limited to the
more obvious or overtly visible of analogies. Lezama goes one step further:
his “animistic counterpoint” avoids what he calls the barren comparisons
of Spengler, whose objects of comparison remain frozen in their respective
domains. By animism Lezama seeks to give the relationship between two
distant realities (or images) a live and animate “relationship.” The relation-
ship is, in effect, metaphorical, for several reasons. Like any analogy, a
metaphor sets up a field of identity and difference. Second, it is figurative,
in many senses, first by transcending the literal and then having a “pro-
phetic” (Auerbach) quality that “works” in the past, while projecting to-
ward a future point. Third, analogy carries a historical specificity. This is
why Lezama says that what avoids the “frozen-ness” of Spengler’s ap-
proach is the sujeto metafórico, the metaphorical subject. Is this subject a
person, a cogito, a Spinozan substance, or some type of Kantian transcen-
dental ego, a kind of philosophical metasubject? Well, yes and no. At one
level, Lezama is referring to himself and his own particular way of writ-
ing/interpreting history, but at another he seems to be referring to a
method, but it is a methodless method in that it changes according to the
content of what it discusses. It is not a device applied externally to the object
under consideration. It is a synonym for ingenuity, as Donald Verene says
about Hegel’s dialectic. And, as will be discussed later, ingenuity is the
ability to compare, form analogies and metaphors. Metaphor is central to
Lezama’s thought and creation, integral to the narrating and comprehen-
sion of history. As Aristotle reminds us: “But the greatest thing by far is to
be a master of metaphor. It is the one thing that cannot be learnt from others;
and it is also a sign of genius, since a good metaphor implies an intuitive
perception of the similarity in dissimilars” ( Poetics, as quoted in Verene,
1981, p. 173). Metaphor is more conceptual than linguistic, which is why it
can “tell us something new about reality” (Ricoeur).
The metaphorical subject engenders the animistic counterpoint, and it is
by way of counterpoint that we can configure an imaginary era, or more
modestly comprehend the slippery dynamics of history. They (the meta-
phorical subject/animistic counterpoint) bear an uncanny resemblance to
what Merleau-Ponty called “the flesh.” The French philosopher was fond
of quoting Cézanne, who said, “The landscape thinks itself in me and I am
its consciousness.” He was equally fond of Klee’s saying: “In a forest, I have
felt many times over that it was not I who looked at the forest. Some days
I felt that the trees were looking at me, were speaking to me. . . . I was there
listening. . . . I think that the painter must be penetrated by the universe and
not want to penetrate it. . . . I expect to be inwardly submerged, buried.
Perhaps I paint to break out” (Merleau-Ponty, 1964, p. 167). These quota-
tions, aside from indicating the animism that Lezama referred to, will also
be important when we discuss Lezama’s views on nature, specifically as it
relates to “an open gnostic space.”
But they also illustrate Merleau-Ponty’s view of flesh as involving a
reversibility, a chiasmic intertwining which is central to his aesthetic views.
Like Lezama, Merleau-Ponty wanted to steer a course between naturalism
(empiricism) and intellectualism (rationalism) and tried to develop a theory
of artistic creation that would be “a fusion of self and the world, not
imitation of the world as object by the painter as a subject, nor a subjective
projection of the world by the artist’s imagination” (Johnson, 1993, p. 13).
This fusion of the self and the world is not a blurring or total identification
of self and world, but an ongoing dialogue between the two that avoids the
twin dangers of dualism, objectivist or subjectivist. The lessons for history
are clear: to write or think about history cannot seem merely a process
whereby the historian is a subject examining history (the object), nor can it
be entirely the subjective product of the historian’s mind. Otherwise, it
becomes autobiography at best, solipsism at worst. Merleau-Ponty’s bodily
perception, his idea of flesh, can be useful at this point.
Flesh is not just matter, molecules of meat, if you will. In trying to explain
its enigmatic comprehensiveness, Merleau-Ponty says the following: “The
flesh is not matter, is not mind, is not substance. To designate it, we should
need the old term ‘element’ in the sense it was used to speak of water, earth,
air, and fire, that is, in the sense of a general thing, midway between the
spatio-temporal individual and the idea, a sort of incarnate principle that
brings a style of being wherever there is a fragment of being. The flesh is in
this sense an ‘element’ of Being” (Merleau-Ponty, 1968, p. 139). His definition
comes in the context of seeing and painting, where the seer is caught up in
what is being seen, claiming that the body offers a kind of “natural reflec-
tion.” Vision implies that the body is both transparent (a window) and
reflective (a mirror). Galen Johnson sums up the importance of these traits:
“Flesh and reversibility are notions meant to express both envelopment and
distance, the paradox of unity at a distance or sameness with difference,
finding a new ontological way between monism and dualism” (Johnson,
1993, pp. 47–48). Lezama’s ontology, with Christian and Platonic overtones,
also carries pre-Socratic themes as well, echoed by Merleau-Ponty’s defini-
tion of flesh as being an element. Perhaps he had Anaxagoras in mind, who
thought the basic elements were made up of an infinite amount of qualita-
tively different seeds, captured in the suggestive phrase, “I call the world
flesh in order to say that it is a pregnancy of possibilities” (Merleau-Ponty,

1968, p. 250). Lezama brings these same sentiments into a Catholic overview:
“In resurrection, the potens spills forth, exhausting its possibilities. When the
potens acts upon the visible, its derivations are (and act upon) the realm of
physis [nature]; when it develops within (or on) the invisible, it bears us the
prodigious gift of the image of resurrection” (Lezama, 1971, p. 151).
Merleau-Ponty often said that the body was not a thing but a work of
art, and similarly spoke of the work of art as an individual (Merleau-Ponty,
1962, pp. 150–51). Lezama often spoke of poetry, or the poem, as creating a
kind of body. Poetry, for Lezama, was the source for human understanding
and potentiality. In poetry, he said, were the essences expressed by imagi-
nary eras, and “the history of poetry is none other than the study and
expression of imaginary eras” (Lezama, 1971, p. 174).
The quotation from Cézanne and Klee, and the reversibility of Merleau-
Ponty’s definiton of flesh, indicate a common thread: a nondualistic ap-
proach to vision, to perception. This unitive solution is consistent with
Lezama’s, even though his Catholic-Plotinian-baroque outlook brings a
different register to this issue. But there is more: behind these thoughts there
is an inherent metaphorical reality. If, following Kenneth Burke, we can
agree that metaphor is representational (by creating a similarity from
difference) and that it provides a perspective (of A in terms of B, and vice
versa), the previous paragraphs have been describing a metaphorical sub-
ject in the process of creating meaning.
It is the metaphorical subject, according to Lezama, which becomes the
vehicle for ushering forth those new realities, metaphors, as Ricoeur says. This
metaphorical capability plays an important role in the task of remembrance,
and like Vico and Hegel before him, Lezama would agree that memory is
the mother of the muses. Lezama’s dialogue with the past reveals a unique
sensibility and memory that is worth examining more closely. His historical
memory seems to draw on several sources: Heidegger, Plato, Vico, and
Hegel. Heidegger’s use of the word andenken (recollection or remembrance)
indicates not just a return to something finished and over with, but a fertile
meeting ground which speaks to us in an ever-changing historical existence.
Once we are fully attentive to recollection, he [Heidegger] observes, “we

discover that the recollected memory in its return does not stop in the present
in order to serve merely as a substitute for the past. Rather, the recollected
vaults beyond our present and suddenly faces us from the future. From there
it approaches as a still unfulfilled promise, as an unexplored treasure.” Seen
from this vantage, the poet’s greetings are a solicitation for an encounter, more
specifically for a dialogue between two modes of historical being. Far from
aiming at consensus, this dialogue carefully maintains distance between the
partners, where distance does not equal rigid separation but rather a “letting be”
granting open space for self-discovery and indigenous freedom. (Dallmayr, 1993,
p. 153, emphasis added)
While Heidegger’s words are addressing a poem written by Holderlin

(“Andenken”; “Remembrance”), they have a vivid affinity with Lezama’s
poetic historiography. The images or imaginary eras that Lezama “recol-
lects” from the past are recreated and reconfigured to speak again in a new
way, in an “open space of self-discovery,” as “unfulfilled promise” to be
realized in the future.
Vico’s triple classification of memory would seem to encompass
Lezama’s use of the term as well. For Vico it consisted of memoria, fantasia,
and ingegno. By these three terms Vico meant the following: memoria is
remembering, the power of the mind to bring to it something that is not in
the mind. This implies a spatial and temporal faculty in making present
something which is not, and creating a “now” which “has been.” Fantasia
is the ability to alter, represent, imitate; it is the mind’s power to take objects
and shape them into a human form or dimension. This mimetic ability is
not a naive realism, but the vitality of symbolic forms to take sensations or
brute facticity and give them cultural meaning. We will see how this
representation is not a repetition or copying, but a bringing forth of some-
thing concealed, the creation of a “knowledge of essence” (Gadamer).
Ingegno, or ingenuity, refers to the capability of taking things and ordering
them into new or different relationships; it implies forming comparisons,
similes, metaphors, or scientific thinking. All three forms come together to
constitute memory, and, as Vico reminds us, memory is the mother of the
muses (Verene, 1981, pp. 96–127). Vitally linked to this recollective imagi-
nation is the ability to form images, not concepts. Here again Lezama would
be at home with Vico, whose use of the image is rooted in historical reality.
For Lezama, the image is paramount, particularly to his notion of las eras
imaginarias. But in terms of the “recollective imagination,” here are his own
words: “To remember is an act of the spirit, but memory is like a plasma of
the soul, it is always creative, spermatic, because we memorialize from the
roots of the species” (p. 60).
Remembering from “the roots of our species” clearly has Platonic echoes,
particularly his notion of anamnesis, or recollection. Most will recall Plato’s
thoughts on recollection as a predetermined knowledge, which through the
Socratic method are remembered by questioning and prodding. One has
acquired all the knowledge that is necessary, but we forget, and through
anamnesis (recollection) we retrieve it. But it is not quite that simple. It is in
Plato’s Meno where anamnesis is most thoroughly discussed. One section
in particular is often quoted: “All nature is akin, and the soul has learned
everything, so that when a man has recalled a single piece of knowledge—
learned it, in ordinary language—there is no reason why he should not find
out all the rest, if he keeps a stout heart and does not grow weary of the
search, for seeking and learning are in fact nothing but recollection” ( Meno,
81d). Emilio Lledó has made a brilliant and suggestive analysis of this
passage (Lledó, 1990, pp. 119–39). We cannot examine his argument in full
detail here but must be limited to what seems germane to Lezama’s notion
of recollection and how it relates to his historical thinking.
The process of recollection is not merely recapturing a past moment,
intact and exactly how it occurred. It is not going back and recognizing that
which is already known, but is equally a confrontation or a warm encounter
with the unknown. Gadamer, following Plato, observes that in anamnesis
you grasp the essence of what is recollected, not just the contingent ele-
ments, which is why he says: “The joy of recognition is rather the joy of
knowing more than is already familiar” (Gadamer, 1993, p. 114). This is
reminiscent of Heidegger’s comments cited earlier. For Plato “considers all
knowledge of essence to be recognition.” A work of art’s recognition also
produces this knowledge of essences, which is why Aristotle in his Poetics
said: “Poetry, therefore, is more philosophical and more significant than
history, for poetry is more concerned with the universal, and history more
with the individual” (Aristotle, 1968, p. 17). Lezama’s memory produces
that kind of recognition that Plato spoke about, allowing him to reconstruct
imaginary eras, his poetics of history.
Knowledge, then, is not what has passed, but points toward the future.
Lledó underlines two essential points: anamnesis is linked to learning/un-
derstanding (mathenein) and searching (zetein). What this implies is that the
learning-understanding-searching axis is drawn to an unknown. The psy-
che extends itself toward what it does not know, and often the object of our
search is not known. The essence of knowledge comes not so much from
the plenitude of an answer but in the possibilities brought about by ques-
tioning. It is the Socratic method of questioning and response, its dialectic,
that can bring about the speculative nature of consciousness and recollec-
tion.
What is the basis for this recollection? According to Lledó (and Gadamer
as well), it is the logos. It is language which makes dialogue possible, as well
as recollection, because logos is not only enunciation but also reason or cause
(Gadamer, 1991, p. 34). Of course it also means discourse, speech, as well
as narrative, argument, a true account (as opposed to mythos). But for
Lezama, perhaps Heraclitus is closer to the heart, who by definition saw
the logos as the all-pervasive formula of organization which is divine
(nomos). Or better still, the logos can be seen as an active force in the universe,
generative (logoi spermatikoi), material, and associated with fire. This rich
welter of divine, creative, fiery, and erotic associations is consistent with
Lezama’s own views, his own logocentric ethos. Aware of the kind of word
magic that accompanies mythological consciousness, Lezama skillfully
recreates that “magic” when he visits the imaginary eras he is so fond of
(Orphics, ancient Egypt, Taoism). But even when he is not directly address-
ing the issue of imaginary eras, Lezama seems to exemplify George
Steiner’s image of history: “History, in the human sense, is a language net
cast backwards” (cited in Hughes, 1988, p. 1). Following Heidegger above,

we might add that the net is also cast forwards.
Casting the language net is immersion into the logos, a dialogue with self
and others that brings forward utopian dimensions to both the past and the
future. What gets caught in the net is what makes Lezama’s historical
imagination so fruitful: tales of Chinese emperors and Egyptian funerary
practices, snippets of pre-Socratic philosophy, memories of nightfall in the
Caribbean, images that cascade, producing a never-ending sense of wonder.
In a splendid essay on Lezama, Severo Sarduy compares the poet’s lan-
guage as a kind of double of nature that devours reality, or, to put it
differently, it is culture performing a reading of nature. Like an incantation,
the word deciphers, or perhaps reciphers reality (Sarduy, 1970, pp. 62–65).
And with perhaps Picasso in mind, Sarduy says that when Lezama wants
something, he pronounces it. This mythic presence of language should not
seem surprising, since both Christian and non-Christian symbolic forms are
testimony to the power of language, particularly in creation myths. In fact,
Lezama’s verbal prowess is like those “momentary deities” that Ernst
Cassirer speaks about, a flash of the sublime or the sacred that stirs simul-
taneously a feeling of danger, awe, uniqueness, a condensation of feeling,
image, and thought that always, somehow, gets tied in to a larger context.
Lezama’s privileged status for poetry would have him in agreement with
Johann Hamann, who said that “Poetry is the mother tongue of humanity”
(Cassirer, 1953, pp. 34–35). This bears a remarkable resemblance to Vico, but
Lezama’s keen appreciation of Vico goes further than the latter’s notion of
sapienza poetica (poetic wisdom). One of Vico’s great contributions to his-
torical thinking was how important language was to understanding a given
society. If we take a familiar Marxist metaphor of base and superstructure,
Vico would be neither a materialist (base determines or overdetermines the
superstructure) nor an idealist (the contrary). He sees a relationship be-
tween laws, types of reasoning, human nature, and even kinds of writing.
Moreover, he saw the transition from different kinds of societies (from
theocratic to autocratic to democratic) as also revealing transitions in tro-
pological expression (metaphor–metonymy–synechdoche–irony). (See
White, 1978, p. 209 for Vico’s table.)
Vico’s tropological analysis and the use of expressions such as “imagina-
tive universals,” his theories on memory (already discussed), his verum-fac-
tum principal, his belief in Providence coupled with a profound sense of
history and culture (Western and non-Western), are important to Lezama’s
own thinking on history, particularly his eras imaginarias. The following
words by Verene, which are about Vico, can equally apply to Lezama: “Vico’s
ideas constitute a philosophy of recollective universals which generates
philosophical understanding from the image, not the rational category. . . .
This philosophy places the image over the concept, the speech over the
argument, and the mythic divination over the fact” (Verene, 1981, pp. 19, 30).
Despite his essays on his poetic system or imaginary eras and his
voracious philosophical appetite, Lezama never claimed that he was a
systematic philosopher. But his ability to think through combining a series
of startling images and metaphors, his skill in exploring certain myths,
despite their complexity and heterogeneity, do reveal common themes and
concerns in his thinking. But it is a unity that emerges from the sacred,
admirably expressed in the following phrase: “Nothing is incoherent since
everything has a sense of the marvelous” (quoted in Molinero, 1989, p. 101).
This thinking in images brings us to Hegel’s notion of recollection, as
developed in his Phenomenology of Spirit. We have mentioned in the intro-
duction how the word Bild in German (image or picture) is the basis for the
words education, culture, formation, shaping (Bildung). It forms the back-
ground of Hegel’s writing about recollection (Erinnerung). In what follows
we rely on Verene and how he interprets pictorial thinking, recollection, and
the concept in Hegel (Verene, 1985, pp. 1–13).
Why is Erinnerung so important to Hegel? According to Verene, it is the
name given by Hegel for the power of consciousness to have speculative
knowledge of its own activity. As we will see, speculation has no negative
connotations for Hegel; it implies going beyond the merely sensory, and by
doing so makes what was initially subjective, objective. It is like the imagi-
nation in being able to unite very different thoughts and things, but unlike
it, has a conceptual basis. “Here Hegel says that the forms of spirit in their
contingency are history and in their conceptual organization are the science
of the coming into appearance of knowing, and that both together are
conceptual history or recollection” (Verene, 1985, p. 3). Verene shows how
important metaphors and images are to understanding the Phenomenology
of Spirit, for the comprehension of Hegel’s subject itself, which is the
speculative understanding of history, reality, and spirit. Recollection is a
process by which we form images and bring them to our consciousness. It
is “the form through which recollection works” (Ibid., p. 4). There are four
stages of recollection: a first stage in which the subject, overcoming the
mindlessness of nature, remembers a series of self-images. It is followed by
a recognition of recollection’s systematic power, an internalization which
Hegel underlines by hyphenating the word (Er-innerung). This ability to
internalize the image is what makes recollection give way to the possibility
of absolute knowing (third stage). Finally, the fourth stage “is the realization
that recollection in both its sides—in its power to call forth images and in
its power to know them, to organize them into a totality—is conceptualized
history” (ibid., p. 5). Hegel’s mapping out of this process is driven by the
concept, which is where Lezama would part company with him, though it
should be said that concept for Hegel is not some arid intellectual construct,
but something that can gather within its realm the amplitude of experience,
be it empirical, emotional, religious, or spiritual.
Just as in the Phenomenology of Spirit, Lezama does not use metaphors

and images as a way of dazzling the reader, as a rhetorical flourish. They
are integral to defining self-consciousness, and in the context of La expresión
americana, we can understand the proliferation of images as that gallery
which constitutes the formation of Latin American identity and conscious-
ness. If Hegel saw the image as a stepping stone to the concept, Lezama
would already claim that the image contains the conceptual. (To Hegel’s
credit, we should say that he did not view the image as something false on
the way to the “truth” of the concept but as the origin of the concept, which
is recollected in the act of knowing.)
The internalization of the image as a basis for shaping or educating is
consistent with Lezama’s efforts with Orígenes (both the group and the
magazine), often described as a paideia. La expresión americana could be seen
as one attempt at a Latin American Bildungsroman of history. But unlike a
novel, or a more traditional straightforward narrative approach, Lezama’s
poetic and “imaginative universals” are brought out as if marshaling the
vast forces of “large choral groupings” in an incessant conversation of East,
West, Africa, and Latin America, through his “animistic counterpoint.” And
despite Lezama’s erudition and vast dialogue with many different cultures,
he did not equate culture with “high culture.” Proof of this are his substan-
tial analyses of gaucho poetry, of the Mexican corridos, the art of José
Guadalupe Posada and other popular artists or poets during different parts
of La expresión americana.
It would perhaps be stretching it to claim that La expresión americana was
a kind of Latin American Phenomenology of Spirit, if only because of what
we said before: Lezama does not claim to be describing an “essence” of the
Latin American spirit. But both he and Hegel did see spirit as historically
based, not some ethereal substance floating above the world. Spirit and its
development constitute what we know as history. In Lezama’s case, maybe
spirit should be replaced with sujeto metafórico (with some affinity to
Ortega’s vital reason). Unlike his predecessor, Lezama would see the dis-
tinctions Hegel made about original, reflexive, and philosophical history as
too rigid—better to leap from one to the other, taking from original history
its poetic nature, from pragmatic (reflexive) its analogical method, and so
on. By doing so Lezama is able to fashion a unique vision of history, drawing
on the important insights of Plato, Vico, and Hegel about memory and
recollection.
Before discussing Lezama’s idea of “open gnostic space,” we will exam-
ine some more affinities (and differences) between Lezama and Hegel. In
discussing La expresión americana, usually the antagonisms are drawn with
Hegel’s Philosophy of History. But, as we have seen with the Phenomenology
of Spirit, there are other writings that reveal these affinities, which also
include Lectures on Aesthetics, the Philosophy of Right, and some of the earlier
writings. In what follows I make no claim that Lezama was a Hegelian
through and through, even if unconsciously so. The aim is a more modest
one: it is hoped that the convergences (confluences, Lezama might say) in
their thinking will yield new grounds for understanding Lezama, another
twist (or melody?) in the “animistic counterpoint.”
In La expresión americana, Lezama makes rather pointed references to
Hegel and his views on America, engaging Ortega y Gasset on the way.
Many critics have used La expresión americana as a way of pointing out
Lezama as an anti-Hegelian. But as several contemporary thinkers have
shown—Derrida, Adorno, and William Desmond, among others—the
temptation in thinking we have “surpassed” Hegel is illusory at best and
in the case of Lezama, pernicious.
It might seem foolhardy to affirm this, especially when Lezama has
soundly taken Hegel to task in his essay. With reason Lezama criticizes
Hegel’s Eurocentric bias in viewing world history as he does, particularly
his understanding of Africa (as not being part of history), or his dismissal
of the western hemisphere by including it in his geographical review,
thereby defining it as part of nature (but again, not part of history). Lezama
says these mistakes “show a scandalous incomprehension,” and undoubt-
edly the Cuban is correct in pointing out these errors. In a more religious
vein, he criticizes “the closed pessimism of Hegelian Protestantism,” also
pointing out Hegel’s anti-Catholic prejudices in trying to explain Latin
American underdevelopment. Lezama would probably agree with Ortega
in claiming that Hegelian thought contained a “certain blindness to the
future,” expressed with particular vehemence regarding America. Accord-
ing to Ortega y Gasset, the future alarmed Hegel because it represented the
irrational (Ortega, 1981, p. 88). Hegel says that America is the land of the
future and that at some distant time it will become important. Hegel says
the following: “What has taken place in the New World up to the present
time is only an echo of the Old World—the expression of a foreign life; and
as a Land of the Future, it has no interest for us, here, for as regards History,
our concern must be with that which has been and that which is. In regard
to Philosophy, on the other hand, we have to do with that which (strictly
speaking) is neither past nor future, but that which is, which has eternal
existence—with Reason; and that is quite sufficient to occupy us” (Hegel,
1956, p. 87).
Notwithstanding Hegel (and Lezama’s) blind spots, it would be fruitful
to keep in mind Ortega’s metaphor about Hegel: “In his errors, as does the
lion with its powerful bite, he always manages to get in his teeth a big chunk
of the palpitating truth” (Ortega, 1981, p. 88). Let us examine some of
Hegel’s and Lezama’s bites, so we can see where they come together on
issues of history and art.
In his Philosophy of History, Hegel says “the History of the World is
nothing but the development of the Idea of Freedom.” This strikes us as
obvious nowadays, but before the Enlightenment this was not necessarily
the most important barometer for understanding or evaluating the histori-

cal evolution of societies. More important, Hegel saw freedom not just as
an individual’s ability to do what s/he wanted, but intimately linked to
notions of intersubjectivity (recognition of others), justice, the law, and
limits set by society and nature. Freedom internalizes rather than supplants
necessity. In La expresión americana, Lezama deals with several Latin Ameri-
can figures who were key in the independence struggles of the continent:
Fray Servando Teresa de Mier, Simón Rodríguez, José Martí, Sor Juana Inés
de la Cruz. Even when he speaks of people who did not assume an openly
political struggle (as in the cases of Kondori or Aleijandinho), Lezama
embeds them within a rebellious spirit analogous to other types of defiance.
Significantly, Lezama gives a radically poetic thrust to this freedom, by
underlining the aesthetic and ethical dimensions of the New World ba-
roque. For Lezama, the baroque that grew out of Latin America was not
merely a copy of the European baroque, but inevitably marked by its
natural surroundings and social context. It became a hybrid baroque,
incorporating new words, images, and realities. As Lezama says, it was an
art of Counter-Conquest, not of the Counter-Reformation, and ultimately
linked to Enlightenment concerns. The Latin American baroque not only
remakes the classical as well as European baroque in terms of aesthetics.
Through its rebellious search for new forms and hybrid expressions, it
makes a statement about its own identity and reality, its autonomy and
sovereignty in every realm, from the artistic to the political. The Latin
American baroque is one of the signifiers of the continent’s freedom.
Curiously, Lezama focuses on figures that one could say were ultimately
“failures,” in a certain sense, living the ends of their lives poor, unrecog-
nized, killed in battle, or in exile. Even the exception, Fray Servando Teresa
de Mier (1763–1827), spent most of his life in jails or running from the
authorities. But their thought and actions always have a kind of germinative
aspect that is taken up later by other figures or movements. For example,
in the case of Fray Servando, Lezama points out that being persecuted by
the Church does not necessarily draw the priest away from Catholicism,
but in a way makes his religious beliefs more inclusive, that instead of
breaking away from all tradition, Fray Servando enlarges it. Lezama sees
in this kind of adaptability, pluralism, and syncretic thought a quintessen-
tial aspect of American thought and culture.
Both Hegel and Lezama follow Vico in seeing a certain progress to the
historical process, going back from theocratic societies to more democratic
ones by way of aristocratic-monarchical states, and so on. In Hegelian
terms, we could say that the master-slave relationship has become less
onerous, but still part of the turbulent dialectic of history. Both, as Chris-
tians, saw a sacred dimension to history, a kind of providential design,
though they might have differed on how the nature of the divine intervenes
in history. As some critics have pointed out, Lezama, despite his fervent
belief in resurrection and divine causality, does not reject change, nor does
he stray from having a dynamic image of history. For Lezama, history is a
reflection of the image through time, somewhat similar to what Plato said
about time being a moving image of eternity. There is a large component of
the eternal or the absolute in Lezama’s definition of the image, which is
similar but not identical to Hegel’s Absolute Spirit. According to María
Zambrano, it was Hegel who “discovered that history was an inexorable
vicissitude of the spirit.” But spirit changes, evolves, negates, and surpasses
itself, its content is highly historical, and in its philosophical journey arrived
at some not very Christian outcomes: “Reality cannot be nature as created
and made forever, but that other reality which man is the bearer of, of which
the individual is the mask which both expresses and contains it [that other
reality]; a mask which sacrifices itself reciting its part, only to be later
stripped away. His [Hegel’s] Christianity had to conclude in an idea which
is quite un-Christian, so pagan, that the individual is the mask of the logos”
(Zambrano, 1993, p. 14). The tragedy of humankind is not being able to live
without the gods, and in that vein Zambrano concludes that for Hegel
history thus takes the place of the divine.
At the same time, though, both Lezama and Hegel see history as a
theodicy, that is, as a justification of the works of God, understood in a way
that does not oppose faith and reason. Given the follies and absolute
depravities of history, a theodicy tries to explain the nature of evil as
meaningful rather than absurd or senseless. This in turn brings up questions
about necessity and freedom. In Hegel’s words:
Our intellectual striving aims at realizing the conviction that what was
intended by eternal wisdom, is actually accomplished in the domain of the
existent, active Spirit, as well as in that of mere Nature. Our mode of treating
the subject is, in this aspect, a Theodicy—a justification of the ways of God . . .
so that the ill that is found in the World may be comprehended, and the
thinking Spirit reconciled with the fact of the existence of evil. Indeed,
nowhere is such a harmonizing view more pressingly demanded than in
Universal History. (Hegel, 1956, p. 15)
For Hegel, harmonizing the divine or providential with the passions of the
world requires explaining a disjuncture between what men attempt to do
and the ultimate consequences of their actions, a kind of double which
manifests itself within and behind those passions. That double, in Hegel’s
vocabulary, goes by the name of “the cunning of reason,” where transindi-
vidual elements are expressed. Here universal goals and particular inten-
tions meet. Providence becomes in Hegel the cunning of reason, and the
interpretation of Christianity becomes the province of speculative reason.
To speculate is not mere contemplation, seeing, or conjecture, but also by
way of its mystical side it takes us to a mirror metaphor, so dear to Lezama.
In an interview, Lezama linked his faith in resurrection with a specular
trope, which by way of the image can recuperate its lost similarity (with the
Creator): “Image for me is life. In this I have roots back to St. Paul; we see
through mirrors in an image.” Nicholas of Cusa, among others, said that
God could not be known directly, only by his effects (nature, etc.), which
were partial mirrors of the divine. To speculate, then, means to go beyond
the sensorial and arrive at the supernatural. In this regard we can speak of
Lezama’s historical thought (or his poetic system) as being speculative.
Hegel sees speculation as a conceptual process, not necessarily linked to a
mirror metaphor, even though his thoughts on reflection invite that kind of
association. More important is speculation’s ability to (re)unite elements,
things, and concepts which seem opposed or disparate, and, in contrast to
analytic thinking which leads to understanding, speculative thought is
closer to the poetic imagination. However, it goes beyond the poetic by
being conceptual and presupposes the work of understanding. This is close
to the eros cognoscente (erotics of knowing) seen in Lezama’s poetry and
essays. With his baroque theodicy, laced with Platonic echoes, Lezama
defines it as such: “Man strives for God, but man enjoys (savors) all things
in a banquet whose finality is God.”
Speculation as gift of the imagination takes us directly to what Hegel
said about historical writing and aesthetic consciousness. For him, histori-
cal writing was a verbal art, closely linked to poetic expression. Just like
Vico, he characterizes poetry as a form of knowing, with which Lezama
would be in complete agreement. This knowledge is tropological, a meta-
phoric process. Similarly, both would coincide with the ancient Greeks in
seeing a close relationship between poetry, history, and philosophy. The first
philosophers wrote in verse and called their work histories. It is not sur-
prising, then, that the word “history” in Greek comes from the root of the
same word, eidenai (to know by seeing) that is also the root for the philo-
sophical terms form and idea (Gillespie, 1984, pp. 1–4). History is what one
had seen or witnessed, a key concept that early Christianity reworked to its
advantage. For Christians it was crucial to be a witness of the divine, and
it is that witnessing that gave the apostles their subsequent authority as
bearers and transmitters of the new doctrine.
Both Hegel and Lezama would agree with Aristotle in seeing poetry as
more philosophical than history, by virtue of not being encumbered by the
inessentials, allowing it to go to the marrow, to the universal. It draws
humans closer to intelligibility, and as a result Hegel assigns art (along with
religion and philosophy) a special place in the realm of Absolute Spirit. This
does not mean that art is uprooted from history. On the contrary: “Art is
not anti-historical or a-historical. It is rather an imaginative appropriation
of one of the essential strivings of historical man” (Desmond, 1986, p. 61).
Among the characteristics of a work of art relevant to history are, Desmond
says, “its concrete uniting of spirit and sensuousness; its dialectical whole-
ness; its attempts to make present a unification of freedom and necessity
and of individuality and universality; and most especially being marked

by an intrinsic end” (ibid., p. 61).
Poetry is born of a separation between the consciousness of its object
(from which it is separate) and a desire to recreate that lost unity. According
to Hegel, this creates two principal classes of poetry—classical and roman-
tic—the first being universal and objective, the latter particular and subjec-
tive. The tension between the two generates three types of poetic
composition: the epic, the lyric, and the dramatic. The epic is external; it
remains wedded to an empiricism of episodes and deeds. The lyric is
interiorized, constantly changing, limited by its emotiveness. Only dra-
matic poetry is capable of synthesizing the two. As Hayden White has
pointed out: “[Hegel sees] history as the prose form closest in its immediacy
to poetry in general and to the Drama in particular. In fact, Hegel not only
historicized poetry and the Drama, he poeticized and dramatized history
itself” (White, 1974, p. 88).
Given this aesthetic slant, Hegel situates historical writing between
poetry and oratory, although he underlines the fact that historical inscrip-
tion cannot have the freedom of the former, nor the “interest” of the latter.
This intermediate position occupied by history is explained by its having a
poetic form but a prosaic content. Since history is not just laying out events
and dates but an attempt to understand what has happened with a certain
coherence, logic, or meaning, there are two tensions, according to White,
that pursue the imagination of the historian: a critical tension and a poetic
one. The critical dimension implies a selection: there are certain things that
will be suppressed from a narrative, but you cannot invent anything, nor,
of course, add anything new to what happened. The poetic factor means
describing the vitality and uniqueness of what has happened as if the reader
were witnessing them anew, so that their idealness takes shape. From this
to Lezama’s imaginary eras it is not very far. But we need to go a little further
with Hegel before going on with Lezama.
If we ask, “How does Hegel put together the plot of history?” a double
answer would be necessary: as tragedy and as comedy. Following White
we can say that at a microcosmic level Hegel sees and describes history as
tragedy, but at a macrocosmic level it is treated as comedy. In his scheme
White associates the former with a mechanistic mode of argument, a radical
ideological mode, and a global trope of metonymy (of a reductive nature).
For comedy, the mode of argument is organicist, ideologically conservative,
and the global trope is the synecdoche (of an integrative nature). To com-
plicate matters further, White says that Hegel’s thought begins in irony,
since he sees consciousness as a paradox and human existence as contra-
diction (White, 1974, p. 29). Perhaps we are closer to Old Comedy, where
the heroic and the ironic are mixed. Of course, historians can combine
modes of emplotment with a different mode of argument, ideological
implication, and tropes that are not normally associated with it. (White’s
examples indicate such noncorrespondence as with Michelet and

Burckhardt, as does Hegel’s two modes of emplotment, which yield con-
servative and radical implications to his historical viewpoint.)
Hegel’s microcosmic level abounds with examples of tragedy: individu-
als or civilizations that are faced with war, defeat, or extermination; obsta-
cles that frustrate the will of a person or a nation. The tragic agon is not
entirely destructive, of course. In the ashes of desolation, there is always a
kind of epiphany which illuminates the dilemmas of human existence, its
limits. In comedy, of course, there is hope, even triumph (no matter how
temporary), where a reconciliation of forces (natural, social, divine) takes
place. Harmony is established between opposing forces, not by eliminating
one or having one best the other, but by transformation. Hegel’s aufhebung
perhaps captures this tension of opposites that is preserved, taken forth,
annulled, and surpassed, and it echoes the coincidentia oppositorum of Cusa,
a thinker close to Lezama. The tragic perspective is illuminating but spe-
cific, partial; it is caught up with a given culture or civilization. The comic
perspective incorporates that of tragedy because it globally encompasses
the totality of different forces in a dynamic harmony. Comedy is a dialectic
of reconciliation. Some have criticized Hegel’s notion of reconciliation,
alleging that it is conservative, accommodating to the forces that be. But
this is not true; reconciliation seeks to harmonize the terrible divisions in
human society not by accepting the status quo necessarily, but by reconcil-
ing humans with their history as a totality. This happens as the spirit
acquires greater self-consciousness (and freedom), a dialectic within history
that implies a fierce struggle with nature, custom, and convention.
Macrocosmically, Lezama also had a comic vision that sought reconcili-
ation, unitive solutions through the image, a kind of aufhebung where
eternity and resurrection are embodied. “The image as an absolute, the
image that knows itself as image, the image as the last of all possible
histories. . . . The image is the secret cause of history. . . . The image at times
abandons itself to the suspension of its first causality, to attain a total
illumination, where causality disappears to give us a spell of permanence
in its scope, counterpoint or city” (Lezama, 1971, p. 23; 1981, pp. 19 and
104–5).
Both Hegel and Lezama adopt an organicist mode of argument to
elucidate history, that is, within a plurality of dispersed events they seek a
crystallization, an integration which is more important than the sum of its
parts. We saw an example of this integrative conjoining while discussing
Lezama’s analysis of paintings being linked up to the I Ching. An organicist
explanation does not want to establish laws for history, but instead proceeds
by principles or ideas. These principles or ideas create an image or prefigure
the end of a process or a totality, proceeding metaphorically. Tropologically,
the organicist manner recurs to synecdoche, its most notable example being
the microcosm-macrocosm relationship. Lezama clearly uses this figure in
his essays, especially when he relates an image to philosophical discourse

in order to reinforce a point. No doubt the micro/macrocosm continuum is
well suited to the comic vision of Lezama since it establishes a well-defined
causality between the human and the divine, what has been called “the
great chain of being.”
Comedy’s history goes back to Comus, a Greek fertility god whose cult
entailed a ritual springtime procession that represented rebirth, rejuvena-
tion, and resurrection. All three of these R’s are close to Lezama’s vision of
poetry and history. Despite both comedy and tragedy being characterized
by “excess,” one could say that both also explore an alternative reality, one
deeply marked by the imagination. (But not always; often the excess is an
obsession, a neurotic tick, or the exaggeration of a normal trait.) This
imaginative exploration is often the catalyst for reconciliation, and comedy
is the epitome of the reconciliation of social forces, a quiet kind of utopian-
ism. Finally, it is important to remember comedy in terms of how it was
used by Dante in his Divina Commedia. Lezama’s love of Dante was no
secret, evidenced by the title of his great novel Paradiso (1966). Dante’s
masterpiece is an image of reconciliation: worldly, cosmic, theological, and
divine, through redemption and resurrection. E. R. Curtius, another author
much admired by the Cuban, summed up Dante’s work this way: “The
Divina Commedia is at the same time a Comédie Humaine, for which nothing
human is too high or too low. Dante’s poem moves wholly in the transcen-
dent. But it is everywhere penetrated by the breath of history, by the passion
of the present. Timelessness and temporality are not only confronted and
related, they are also merged and so interwoven that the threads are no
longer distinguishable” (Curtius, 1956, p. 366). This could also be said of
much of Lezama’s work.
More common is Lezama’s legendary use of metaphor, whose power of
articulation and ingenuity go to the heart of what art or historiographical
discourse (re)present. Kenneth Burke defines metaphor in terms of perspec-
tive, of understanding one thing by way of another, bearing a striking
resemblance to the way Hegel understands the movement of dialectics.
More important, though, it shows that metaphor is more conceptual than
linguistic, and in Lezama’s case much more so, because his essays and
poetry proceed in long metaphoric chains in order to elaborate a thought
by images. Lezama, in his own Bildung, philosophizes using poetic meta-
phor. In his essay, “Prelude to the Imaginary Eras,” the unconditioned and
causality form the axis of the text; the images and metaphors are rich,
starting with trees and forests, Bacon’s experimenti sortes, a Buddhist sculp-
ture of Apsara, a small mule in a work by Balzac, the quality of the color
blue in paintings by Van Gogh, and a short excursus on a popular saying,
“A Chinese girlfriend brings good luck,” to name only the first in a long
rosary of images.
An example will show how important the figurative is for Lezama, since
its connotations are rhetorical, religious, philosophical, and historical. In “A
partir de la poesía” (Starting from poetry), Lezama speaks of a last imagi-
nary era, that of infinite possibility, incarnate in the figure of José Martí
(1853–95). “Feeling oneself poorer is to penetrate into the unknown, where
the advice of certainty became extinguished, where finding a shaft of light
or a vacillating intuition is paid in kind by death or a primordial desolation.
To be poorer is to be surrounded by the miraculous, to fashion the animism
of each form; it is a form of waiting that becomes creative, born of the
distance between things” (Lezama, 1971, p. 179). This creativity of absence
is like that of death and grief, where restoring the lost plenitude requires
creative imaginative leaps. Memory, or recollection, might be the grieving
of history, but instead of restoring a lost plenitude (an impossibility), it
allows the past to speak (sing?) to us from the vantage point of the future.
Perhaps that explains Lezama’s phrase “death engenders us all anew.”
This description of poorness becoming infinite possibility also reads like
a version of Hegel’s master-slave dialectic. At first, the slave is nothing, and
the master’s initial recognition is not true recognition since it recognizes a
nothingness, or more accurately a nobody. From that nothingness the slave
acquires (self-)consciousness through work and eventually becomes a his-
torical subject. From an initial defeat, there is an eventual defeat of the
master and servitude. In this essay, Martí prefigures the historical events of
the Cuban Revolution; in La expresión americana, Lezama analyzes Martí as
a culminating figure of nineteenth-century libertarian struggles. The figu-
rative element of Martí’s life and thought (as realization or as portent),
central to Lezama’s concept of imaginary eras, forms part of the speculative
economy of the Hegelian term aufhebung (annul, conserve, elevate). And it
shows a strong affinity to figura as employed by Eric Auerbach, whereby
there is a story (literal sense), embodied by a figure which is fulfilled in the
future (veritas). The figura holds the veritas within, veiled, and only its future
realization unfolds the truth. The figura is not a symbol or an allegory; it is
fulfilled in history. Its prophetic value is related to historical interpretation,
which is why Auerbach says, “Real historical figures are to be interpreted
spiritually, but the interpretation points to a carnal, hence, historical fulfill-
ment—for the truth has become history or flesh.” (Auerbach, 1959, p. 34).
Lezama remolds that figurative interpretation, which received its maxi-
mum use in the Middle Ages, and he makes it function within his poetic
system, his imaginary eras, as part of an endless wave of analogies that end
in the image. He allows us to see history as the flesh of truth, from eternity,
which for Lezama was the eyes of faith, for Hegel the eyes of reason, equally
eternal.
One of Lezama’s most important departures from Hegel is captured in
his phrase “an open gnostic space.” On several occasions in La expresión
americana he makes use of the term as a description of America’s unique-
ness. Central to this “definition” is nature, which for Lezama is a formative

part of (Latin) America’s culture. Lezama here shows his preference for
Schelling’s famous saying, “Nature is spirit made visible, and spirit is
nature made invisible.” Nature (visible spirit), says Lezama, loves to dia-
logue with humankind, “and that dialogue between the spirit which reveals
nature and humans, is landscape. . . . And in America, wherever the possi-
bility of landscape bursts forth, there also exists the possibility of culture”
(p. 167). Lezama is generous with details about landscape: corn and pre-
Columbian cultures, chocolate and the baroque, the Romantics and their
exaltation of landscape (from Heredia to the gauchos to Martí and Darío),
and the ombú and ceiba trees, which he calls “historicized trees, with respect-
able leaves, which in the American landscape take on the value of writing,
where a sentence is stated about our destiny” (p. 170). Hojas in Spanish can
mean both leaves and page or folio, which evokes a well-known concept
about the book of nature.
Some critics have pointed out that Lezama drew on the Romantics such
as Novalis to portray nature as a text to be deciphered. This is true, but in
the Western tradition the image extends as far back as the Bible, Silvestris,
St. Bonaventure, Nicholas of Cusa, Montaigne, and Galileo, to name only a
few. It is quite possible that Lezama had in mind Fray Luis de Granada’s
Introducción del símbolo de la fe, where in book 2 this metaphor is expressed
with great vividness and eloquence. Fray Luis’s book, with its rich descrip-
tions of nature, animals, plants, and so forth, written in some of the most
exquisite Spanish prose ever, is ultimately Catholic apolegetics. His evoca-
tions of nature served a moral, theological purpose; nature is alive by virtue
of being “ciphers of transcendence,” to borrow a term from Karl Jaspers.
De Granada was a Renaissance thinker in that he saw the natural order as
an expression of intelligence, but that intelligence was outside of nature, in
the mind of a divine creator who ruled over nature. The ancient Greeks
would attribute that intelligence to nature itself, as a vast living organism
endowed with soul and thought (reason). Lezama is definitely closer to the
Greek view of nature, despite his ideological affinity with Fray Luis de
Granada. Building on the microcosm-macrocosm/tragic-comic images, as
well as Schelling’s statement on nature, Lezama’s historico-natural views
might be summed up in the words of George Santayana: “Everything in
nature is lyrical in its ideal essence, tragic in its fate, and comic in its
existence.”
As Ernst Robert Curtius says, the nature of antiquity is always inhabited,
by either men or gods. Lezama builds from that literary tradition, which is
perhaps why he was fond of quoting Pascal’s saying, “Since true nature is
lost, everything can be nature” (Lezama, 1970, p. 145), which is Lezama’s
way of saying that everything can be culture as well. But in America, “the
open gnostic space” is not only a territorial extension, but a spatial meta-
phor for culture as well, in that it becomes landscape. This does not mean
being a locus amoenis, but an active presence, a transformative, metaphorical

power that significantly defines (and limits) the nature of history and
culture. Perhaps this points to the true meaning of the phrase “nature
abhors a vacuum,” to which could be added, “history abhors disorder or
discontinuity.” For Lezama, nature, through the power of the word, be-
comes culture; history, by embracing the numinous, becomes marvelous.
Many writers have dedicated their work to embodying this important
theme: Carpentier in The Lost Steps and The Kingdom of This World, García
Márquez in One Hundred Years of Solitude, Wilson Harris in the Guiana
Quartet, Neruda in Las alturas de Macchu Picchu, or Sor Juana’s “Primer
Sueño.”
Why does Lezama refer to the spatial/cultural configuration of America
as an open gnostic space (“un espacio gnóstico abierto”)? Why the specific
reference to Gnosticism? First is the syncretic nature of Gnosticism itself. Its
sources are incredibly complex and intertwined: Hellenic, Babylonian,
Egyptian, Iranian, as well as Jewish and Christian. In Fernando Ortiz’s
terminology, it is transcultured; in Lezama’s, it is a kind of “animistic
counterpoint.” Lezama places high value on cultures or artists that can
draw on many different sources and yet still create something unique from
that heterogeneity. He begins the fifth section of La expresión americana
(“Summas crítica de lo Americano”) by making reference to three artists he
greatly admired: Stravinsky, Picasso, and Joyce. All of them, of course, are
known for transforming the most disparate elements, languages, and cul-
tures into extraordinary works of art.
Is there a relationship between Fernando Ortiz’s counterpoint and that
of Lezama? From a chronological perspective, it is clear that Lezama had
read and admired Ortiz’s magnum opus, but he never makes a direct
reference to it in La expresión americana. Like Lezama, Ortiz in his Cuban
Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar uses the two agricultural products as organ-
izing metaphors for Cuban society, culture, and history. Ortiz does have a
much stronger empirical basis than does Lezama, even though he can
willfully interpret facts in ways that might seem capricious to some histo-
rians. Despite this, Ortiz does his homework, drawing on edicts, historical
documents, anthropological findings, scientific studies, economic theory,
and so on, whereas Lezama’s “raw materials” are drawn from literature,
mythology, religion, and poetry, as well as history. Antonio Benítez-Rojo,
for example, sees this work by Ortiz as postmodernist before its time, with
its literary flourishes, its metaphorical logic, and its imaginative use of
historical narrative. Even though his counterpoint is formed by tobacco and
sugar (often radically opposed), his thinking is not marked by polarity, or
by thesis-antithesis types of contradiction. “It’s a question of voices that
come from different centers of emission, from differing moments and
discourses, which coexist beside each other in a complex and critical rela-
tionship, one that it is impossible to clarify entirely” (Benítez-Rojo, 1992,
p. 174.) Obviously this plural, decentered way of thinking is dear to Lezama,

but he draws on a much broader canvas: his eras imaginarias or “great choral
groups” are rarely accompanied by the wealth of empirical detail found in
the work of Ortiz.
Perhaps because of the syncretic nature of Gnosticism there is no central
scripture, issuing forth a plurality of interpretations, even though there are
some common themes and images. It was marked by a sense of noncon-
formism, individualism, creativity, and a fertile imagination (Jonas, 1963, p.
42). Gnostics were eventually accused of being heretics by church authori-
ties, because of their differing interpretations of the Gospels, their herme-
neutic freedom. The parallels with other moments in history (from the
Inquisition to communist purges) are not lost on Lezama. This pluralism is
central to Lezama’s thinking, so aptly captured by poet and Lezama scholar
César Salgado, who says that “he was a Catholic who didn’t believe in
heresy.” Words that no doubt have a social resonance in contemporary Cuba.
Gnosis, of course, is usually translated as knowledge, which is not totally
accurate. It pertains to knowledge from sense perception or experience, but
not scientific knowledge (episteme). For the gnostics, gnosis meant self-
knowledge, and of the universe, to “be transformed through enlightenment
into the actual object of knowledge, overcoming and removing the dichot-
omy between subject and object” (Filoramo, 1990, p. 41). Lezama is playing
on the full range of meanings of gnosis, and how it pertains to the American
landscape, as an important element in the generation of knowledge and
self-knowledge of history and culture. Nature or landscape has a gnostic
dimension; the spatial has a spiritual realm, Lezama would say, in agree-
ment with the gnostics. But unlike them, he would not see the origins of the
universe as an act of ignorance but would agree with gnostic doctrine in
seeing knowledge as an act of redemption. Lezama was not sympathetic to
the anti-cosmic radical dualism of gnostic thought.
Cosmologically speaking, the gnostic view of the world is rather bleak:
“The universe, the domain of the Archons, is like a vast prison whose
innermost dungeon is the earth, the scene of man’s life. Around and above
it the cosmic spheres are ranged like concentric enclosing shells” (Jonas, 1963,
p. 43). The layers of matter in space remove us further and further from God,
the gnostics say; and they also compare the experience of the world in terms
of alienness and exile. It is no wonder that many have pointed out the links
between gnostic thought and existentialism. Clearly, Lezama does not see
the earth or nature in these gnostic terms, which is why his expression must
inevitably take the course it did: “open gnostic space.” Open because op-
posed to the closed nature of gnostic space, but open also because it is a
transcultured and transculturating space, the place where the “metaphorical
subject” can make the “animistic counterpoint” happen.
Giovanni Filoramo points out that there is an Orphic antecedent to
gnostic myth. Lezama wrote one of three essays on imaginary eras on
Orphism; the other two are on Taoism and Egypt (all in Lezama, 1971). And
both are essentially stories of origins of the cosmos, which recall Lezama’s
paraphrase of Nietzsche: he who goes back to the origins will find new
origins. Going to the origins is a germinative act, a new beginning, piecing
together the dismembered body of Orpheus. For Francis Bacon, whom
Lezama read attentively, Orpheus is the paradigm of a new kind of wisdom
or knowledge. With his lyre, he held all of nature in rapt attention. He
conquered through harmony, not through strength, like Hercules (Briggs,
1989, pp. 1–3). This relationship between art (music) nature, and knowledge
perfectly describes Lezama’s phrase about the “open gnostic space.” It is a
space of desire as well, exemplified not only in nature images, but also in
our previous discussion of paintings: “Sight opens all space to desire, but
desire is not satisfied with seeing” (Starobinski in Leppert, 1996, p. 101). For
Lezama, desire is the shadow cast by seeing when it seeks out history. And
what the shadow gathers in the visible, as well as what it un-conceals from
the invisible, forms an an “open gnostic space.”
This space, as noted, is open to different cultures and voices, but not in
a passive way. It is transformative, creative, transculturating, whereby the
imagination takes a utopian dimension, but not in a prescriptive way. This
act of historical imagination is described by Paul Ricoeur:
The imagination has a metaphysical function which cannot be reduced to a

simple projection of vital, unconscious or repressed desires. The imagination
has a prospective and explorative function in regard to the inherent possibili-
ties of man. It is, par excellence, the instituting and the constituting of what is
humanly possible. In imagining his possibilities, man acts as a prophet of his
own existence. We can then begin to understand in what sense we may speak
of a redemption through imagination: by means of dreams of innocence and
reconciliation, hope works to the fullest capacity. In the broad sense of the
word, these images of reconciliation are myths, not in the positivistic sense of
legend or fable, but in the phenomenological sense of religion, in the sense of
a meaningful story of the destiny of the whole human race. Mythos means
word or speech. The imagination, in so far as it has a mytho-poetic function,
is also the seat of profound workings which govern the decisive changes in
our visions of the world. Every real conversion is first a revolution at the level
of our directive images. By changing his imagination, man alters his existence.
(Ricoeur, 1965, pp. 126–127)
Like few writers or thinkers, Lezama truly saw the imagination as an act
of faith, as a kind of primary fire that can warm up and light up the universe,
or at least the island of Cuba, or perhaps as a dragon that can piece together
the sundered elements of its history. Lezama’s optimism was legendary,
always seeking out a positive interpretation of events. In La expresión
americana it shows up time and time again, in the figures of Sor Juana, Simón
Rodríguez, and Fray Servando. Even a troubled thinker like Pascal becomes
a springboard for transformative images. Pascal has been described as
“uneasy, burning, greedy for the absolute.” How unlike Lezama, who
approached the absolute with the innocence of a lamb, lapping at its shores
with a tranquil, sensuous joy.
It is this redemptive nature of the imagination which can bring important
insights into the historical process. No one reads Lezama for an empirically
based understanding of history, but his images and tropes do trigger a series
of paths that can be examined. Imaginary era, a baroque of Counter-Con-
quest, metaphorical subject, animistic counterpoint, great choral groups,
open gnostic space, are all expressions that when explored begin to yield a
way of approaching history, culture, even politics, with a different perspec-
tive, capable of resisting monistic or mechanistic explanations. And should
we think that Lezama’s poetic understanding of history is naive, we would
do well to remember that for Christian thinkers the Book of Daniel exercised
an enormous power over their conception of history for more than fifteen
hundred years. Unbelievably, Daniel’s four stages of history came from the
interpretation of a dream.
Let us return to Lezama’s opening statement: “I am ravished by being
able to see words like fish in a waterfall.” The image of fish brings to mind
several different associations: Christian, alchemical, gnostic, Yoruba, even
Taoist. Fish are linked to fecundity, procreation, the powers of water as origin,
with lunar deities. In Christianity fish are inextricably coupled with baptism,
immortality, and resurrection. It is also a eucharistic food, and the apostles
were called fishers of men, as was Orpheus. For alchemists it is the archane
substance; for the ancient Egyptians it is the phallus of Osiris; for the Chinese,
abundance, wealth, regeneration and harmony. In Afro-Cuban lore, Yemayá
is “the mother whose children are the fish,” the life-giving force.
For Lezama, words have that generative capacity, which is one of the
meanings of poiesis. They are the basic elements of a kind of theurgy, which
is the ability to manipulate the gods through their occult tokens, most often
in natural objects, statues, and so on, based on the notion of cosmic sympa-
thy. As said before, Lezama’s logos are like those “momentary gods,”
especially if we keep in mind what Frye said about Homer, that gods were
ready-made metaphors (Frye, 1983, p. 7). In Lezama’s discourse the blocks
of images shift around, collide, explode, shimmer like gods.
The waters are the amniotic fluid of the imaginary eras. The metaphorical
subject is that fisher of men or words, seeking the realm of the image, the
secret soul of the logos. The waterfall is stopped or transformed by the fish
in animistic counterpoint. The desire born of that longing, the shadow of its
memory, is the dragon of history colliding with and eluding the net of
language.
NOTE
1. References with only a page number apply to Irlemar Chiampi’s superb
critical edition of Lezama’s La expresión americana (1993).
SIX
Severo Sarduy: Histories as Desire
Reading the work of Severo Sarduy is like walking into your favorite
pastry shop: your whole body inhales the intoxicating, delectable
sweetness, then your fingers and tongue take over like hungry serpents.
He was not Cuba’s first gay writer, nor the first Cuban author to deal
with homosexuality. What he managed to do was make his gayness a
celebratory, erotic affirmation, a mix of baroque theater, rumba wiggle,
postmetaphysical philosophy, religious mysticism, all performed as a
kind of writerly “voguing.” Sarduy was born in 1937 in Camagüey,
Cuba, and as a young writer was linked to the iconoclastic writers
around Ciclón magazine such as Virgilio Piñera, José Rodríguez Feo,
Antón Arrufat, and Fayad Jamís. Sarduy went to Paris in 1960 on an art
scholarship and never returned. He was close to the thinkers and
writers of Tel Quel magazine such as Roland Barthes, Jacques Derrida,
Philippe Sollers, and Julia Kristeva and worked for Éditions du Seuil,
where he published the works of the Latin American boom writers such
as Fuentes, García Márquez, and Cortázar. Sarduy was equally brilliant
as novelist, poet, and essayist. His first novel was Gestos (1963), but
Sarduy’s critical success began with De donde son los cantantes (1967;
From Cuba with a Song, 1972, 1994), an unorthodox exploration of Cuban
identity. Sarduy’s work grew more experimental with Cobra (1973; Eng,
trans. 1975, 1995) and Maitreya (1978; Eng. trans. 1987, 1995). He pub-
lished three more novels in his lifetime. Colibrí (1984) is a parody of
jungle novels and of boom writers such as Vargas Llosa, Carpentier, and
Fuentes. Cocuyo (1990) describes the rite of passage of a picaresque,
grotesque child, and Pájaros de playa (1993), an island where a group of
young people are ravaged by a terrible affliction, is Sarduy’s rueful,
poetic, and searing meditation on AIDS, which terminated his life in

1993. His books of essays include Escritos sobre un cuerpo (1969; Eng.
trans. 1989), Barroco (1974), and La simulación (1982). Sarduy was a gifted
poet, publishing Un testigo fugaz y disfrazado (1985) and Epitafios (1994).
His neo-baroque aesthetics were informed by cosmological and scien-
tific models and metaphors. Big Bang (1974), a collection of poems,
includes texts pertaining to astronomy, a subject he dealt with in Nueva
inestabilidad (1987), not to mention Barroco. Sarduy also wrote plays,
collected in Para la voz (1977; For Voice: Four Plays, 1985). His Cristo de la
Rue Jacob (1987; Christ on the Rue Jacob, 1995) is a series of essays and
epiphanies with a strong autobiographical flavor. Sarduy practiced and
preached an erotics of reading/writing, and his rich, elegant, sensuous
prose prompted García Márquez to say that “he wrote in the most
beautiful Spanish of our time.”
A rarity in Cuban intellectual circles, Sarduy never made public
declarations either in favor of or against the Cuban Revolution. His
decision not to return can be interpreted, of course, as expressing an
incompatibility with the post–1959 fidelista regime. But his equally
discrete position of not engaging in anti-communist name-calling and
vituperation like other writers (Cabrera Infante, Arenas, Montaner)
was not based on adherence to Marxism-Leninism, but a reluctance to
embrace the inevitable polarization that has been (and still is) the
Cuban intellectual’s staple for decades: either you are a revolutionary
(left-wing, progressive, anti-capitalist) or a counterrevolutionary
(right-wing, reactionary, bourgeois). Sarduy was consistent in his ap-
proach, and it shows in his fiction, where the issues of identity, ideology,
and even gender are fluid notions. While keenly aware of the ideologi-
cal nature of art and culture, Sarduy was inimical to using political
labels to define a work of art reductively. He let his art do the talking:
a work of witty complexity, poetic flash, spiritual warmth, and plain
outrageousness.
CROSS-DRESSING AS TRANSCULTURATION
“Intercultural dialogue unleashes the demons of history,” says Guillermo

Gómez-Peña, but in the work of Severo Sarduy the demons sing, cross-
dress, and salaciously flirt, breathing the erotic fire of literature. In our
anxiety-ridden climate permeated with the politics of identity, reading
Severo Sarduy is a refreshing, parodic, and bold romp through all the
dis(guises) of our current obsessions with gender, race, multiculturalism,
and historical representation. He decribed his work as neo-baroque, and he
drew inspiration from the work of José Lezama Lima, poststructuralist
thinkers such as Barthes, Derrida, Deleuze, and Bataille, Tantric Buddhism,
the paintings of Wifredo Lam, Botero, and the Spanish Golden Age, and
Cuban popular culture (Santería and music). In Sarduy, language and
image are paramount: his characters change or transform themselves at
random, and plot is secondary or nonexistent—the text is always conscious
of (and undermining) its author(ity).
Most critics have focused on the “deconstructionist” elements of Sar-
duy’s fiction to the detriment of the profoundly Cuban concerns of his
work. Fortunately, three of his novels have been reissued, all exquisitely
translated by Suzanne Jill Levine, where we can observe how Sarduy has
put the idea of transculturation into overdrive. From Cuba with a Song (1967)
is an unorthodox exploration of Cuban identity that features Auxilio (Help)
and Socorro (Mercy), two transvestite prostitutes that embark on a series of
journeys and transformations that raucously examine three ethnicities of
Cuban culture: the Chinese, the African, and the Spanish. Sarduy himself
embodied these ethnicities, as did his compatriot Wifredo Lam (1902–82),
whose art he greatly admired. The novel has four main parts: (1) “Curricu-
lum Cubense”; (2) “By the River of Rose Ashes”; (3) “Dolores Rondón”; and
(4) “The Entry of Christ into Havana,” followed by an important three-page
debunking “Note” at the end.
In “Curriculum Cubense” we meet Auxilio and Socorro (Help and
Mercy), who are looking for God in a self-service grocery store. During the
novel they will be referred to as the Flower Girls, the Ever Present, the
Siamese Twins, the Symmetrical Ones, the Divine Ones, the Thirsty Ones,
the Majas, the Fates. From this enumeration alone we can see the variety of
sources that Sarduy draws upon: Greek and Oriental mythology, Spanish
culture, and Yoruba legend. In Santería, the twins (ibeyes or jimaguas) are
beloved by all the major orishas since they are children (and are the patron
saints of children). They are the children of Oshún and Changó, Yemayá
being their adoptive mother. Known for their playfulness, the ibeyes are the
only orishas known to have defeated the Devil. The Devil had set traps in
the roads and would subsequently eat all humans who fell into them.
Yemayá gave the twins little magic drums. These they played until the Devil
became tired, but as long as they kept drumming, the Devil kept dancing.
This continued until the Devil was exhausted and agreed to withdraw the
traps. Similarly, Auxilio and Socorro play their metaphoric drums, either
by evading the traps of patriarchal and monocultural identity or exhausting
through parody traditional and canonical texts.
In part two, “By the River of Rose Ashes,” Mortal Pérez, a blond Spaniard
who begins the novel as an old general, desperately pursues Lotus Flower,
an actress in a Chinese burlesque opera house in Havana. In this section the
language is highly metaphorical and figurative, in tune with the constant
(un)maskings and carnivallike atmosphere, a saucy parody of Lacan’s
concept of desire. Pérez’s lust turns to murderous rage, as he finally sends
Lotus Flower a watch with blades that will cut her wrists. He moves across
the street from the theater where she performs . . . and waits.
Lotus Flower is also a transvestite, but Mortal Pérez does not seem to
know. Everything he seeks seems to evaporate, an endless procession of
signifiers which seem to echo Lacan’s views on desire and language.
According to Lacan, desire is not biological: “Thus desire is neither appetite
nor satisfaction, nor the demand for love, but the difference which arises
from the subtraction of the first from the second, the phenomenon of their
splitting” (Lacan, 1977, p . 287). Desire, though, is based on a lack that is
never satisfied in the physiological sense. It arises from a splitting of the
subject, in wanting to recover a lost object, the pre-oedipal mother. More
important, this desire cannot be truly spoken. As Judith Butler says: “Desire
then appears as a gap, a discrepancy, an absent signifier and thus only
appears as that which cannot appear. The speaking of desire does not resolve
this negation. Hence, desire is never materialized or concretized through
language, but is indicated through the interstices of language, that is, what
language cannot represent” (Butler, 1987, p. 193). Of course, Pérez desires
Lotus Flower in the appetite sense, but it is precisely this element that
Sarduy parodies, since the Spaniard conflates the two (desire, appetite).
And so Mortal Pérez is constantly chasing a phantasm, which Sarduy
embodies in a gender difference. When Mortal goes to Lotus Flower’s
dressing room, a bald Chinaman wearing a guayabera and slacks, with a
grapefruit on a tray, walks out: the “real” Lotus Flower. Toward the end of
the chapter the narrator asks: “Where do all the objects come from, where
has the preceding scene unfolded?” ( From Cuba with a Song, 1994c, p. 55).
Sarduy, echoing Lacan, would say from that split in the subject who must
constantly try to name his desire and endlessly, metonymically spins out
signifiers to cover over that void. This is driven home by Auxilio and
Socorro, who say to Mortal Pérez in unison: “Ming [Lotus Flower] is pure
absence, she is what she is not. There is no water for your thirst” (ibid., p.
38). This is a perfect expression for desire. If we set up an equation, we could
say that Demand minus Need = Desire. It is the irreducible residue between
SEVERO SARDUY 143
need and demand that also transcends them both. Desire, therefore, can
never be satiated “since it always refers to a repressed text” (Ragland-Sul-
livan, 1987, p. 77). This repressed text is the Other or (M)other, who is the
infant’s primordial originating figure of unconditonal love, total union of
subject and object. Many others will surface in a person’s life, but they will
be signifiers twirling about the repressed text or void. In From Cuba with a
Song, we see various efforts at quelling that void: (1) through transcendence
(Auxilio and Socorro searching for God); (2) through sexual union (Mortal’s
attempts with Lotus Flower); or (3) through power and social positioning
(Dolores with Mortal). All, of course, ultimately fail.
Sarduy also plays on Eurocentric notions of Oriental eroticism, the
exoticism of the Other during this sequence. That this desire is a quaint,
outdated notion is belied by David Cronenberg’s recent film M. Butterfly
(1992/93), about a French diplomat who falls in love with a woman from
the Chinese opera. When he first hears Song Liling performing an aria from
Puccini’s famous opera (set in Japan), he is captivated by her mesmerizing
voice. But soon he enters a world of mistaken identities, sexual bewilder-
ment, political intrigue, betrayal, spying, and ultimately death. The diplo-
mat, appropriately named Gallimard (also the name of an important
publishing firm in France), is unaware that men sing women’s roles in
traditional Chinese opera. He, like Mortal Pérez, has constructed a fantas-
tical object of desire, as well as a model of femininity based on the exotic
other: a docility of character, beautiful, silky clothing, an erotic modesty
with a long tradition, and so on. The amazing thing is that Gallimard falls
for Song Liling (John Lone) during the time of the Cultural Revolution
(1966–76), when the Chinese Communist Party would view all of this
behavior as decadent, bourgeois, as a hangover from a humiliating past.
The film not only depicts sexual duplicity, but political treachery as well.
Gallimard’s lover is also spying for the Chinese government. Oblivious to
this reality, Gallimard lives for the erotic body or the body of desire: fantasy
becomes more real than the “real body.” This comes to a head at the end of
the film, when Gallimard and Song Liling are in a police wagon on the way
to jail. Gallimard has just been tried in court for treason (and Song Liling
for spying), with the added shock of finding out that his lover is “really a
man.” Song strips and offers “himself,” his real body, telling Gallimard to
touch him since it is the same skin. Gallimard refuses, since, as Slavoj Zizek
says, Song Liling is now out of his fantasy frame of desire (Zizek, 1995, p.
107). The real is not only prosaic, but becomes destructive.
This gives rise to guilt, and in Gallimard the guilt becomes so extreme
that it produces a psychotic identification with Butterfly, which he reenacts
in prison (dressing as Cio-Cio-San), ultimately committing suicide. Zizek’s
interpretation is compelling (he even claims the suicide is an ethical choice,
also echoing the original opera), but not entirely satisfactory. One could
equally argue that desire and identification, though related, are not the
same. In our traditional, heterosexist gender roles (male-female), what we

desire (males who seek females and vice versa) is not what we identify with
(males with other males, females with other females). Gallimard has desired
Song Liling because she was a “woman.” When she no longer is, desire has
imploded. As a male he can identify with him/her, but only by becoming
a “woman.” This, however, reinstitutes the fantasy all over again. His
grand finale in the prison is an attempt to make desire and identification
coexist in erotic harmony, but in fact it can only lead to death (Dollimore,
1991, p. 305). In Sarduy’s work, similar forces are at work about identifica-
tion-desire and cross-dressing as transculturation, both of which are vitally
linked to his notion of writing. These themes will be addressed further
when his novel Cobra (1972) is discussed.
The following section (part two), “Dolores Rondón,” is about a Cuban
mulatta of the same name who marries Mortal Pérez, now a senator. He
rises to national prominence, but then is disgraced, as is Dolores, who
returns to the provinces, dying in poverty. A baroque décima is her epitaph,
warning others about the futility of worldly pursuits. (A décima is a poem
composed of ten-verse strophes, octosyllabic or nonosyllabic, that classi-
cally rhymes as follows: a–b–b–a–a–c–c–d–d–c, or with other variants.)
Sarduy’s language is more colloquial, more in tune with the Afro-Cuban
dimensions of this chapter, but suffused with conceits about narrative
discourse and figurative speech. The décima has long peasant roots in the
musical folklore of Cuba, Puerto Rico, and the Dominican Republic. They
deal with a wealth of subjects: country life, the joys and woes of love, or an
exaltation of nature. Décimas form part of music composed for Christmas,
as is the case with the Puerto Rican aguinaldo, or with secular forms of music,
as is the son from Cuba, or música jibara from Puerto Rico. In a controversia,
singers will get together and improvise the décima as they go along. The title
of Sarduy’s novel is a décima from a son composed by Miguel Matamoros,
and is probably the best-known song in Cuba after the “Guantanamera.” It
is these popular roots that Sarduy explores in this section with great humor.
He uses the very verses of the décima about Dolores’s life to structure his
narrative, which means that the chronology of the tale is out of sequence.
The story is fairly straightforward. It narrates the life of a Cuban mulatta
from Camagüey, Dolores Rondón, who seeks fame and social position
through her pursuit of Mortal Pérez, a senator and prominent political
figure. She meets him on the campaign trail, seduces him, and they marry.
Later on, Pérez attracts the ire of the prime minister when he tries to pass
off a Cuban dancer from the provinces as a Hawaiian dancing girl. Accused
of “white slavery, drug smuggling, importing liquor illegally, an attempt
against public morality, traitor to the party, atheist, etc.” (p. 80), Mortal’s
political career abruptly ends and with it, that of Dolores. In telling the tale,
though, Sarduy weaves in the elements of Cuban syncretic religious cul-
SEVERO SARDUY 145
ture, that is, Santería, asides on rhetoric and narrative, plus a savage parody
of Cuban political life of the 1940s and 1950s.
Santería has been described as a syncretic blending of European Catholi-
cism and West African Yoruba philosophico-religious beliefs. In fact, it is an
example of Ortiz’s transculturation. Earlier we spoke of the ibeyes or twins
fatiguing and outwitting the Devil. The term devil already implies transcul-
turation, since the Yoruba pantheon has no orishas (deities) that are solely
the incarnation of evil. Orishas can do good as well as evil. The “Dolores
Rondón” section features many references to orishas such as Ochún,
Obatalá, Ogún, Changó, Elegguá, and Yemayá, aside from the already
mentioned twins. In fact, Dolores’s downfall is attributed to the fact that
she does not render tribute to the orishas as she ascends in social position
and power.
Let us begin with the twins, or ibeyes. As said previously, they are
associated with supernatural forces in many cultures from around the
world. In Central American mythology there are numerous examples of
sacred twins, the best known being Hunaphú and Ixbalanqué from the
Mayan Popol Vuh. In Japan, Izanagi and Izanami are a brother/sister pair,
part of a creation myth, as are Osiris and Isis in Egyptian lore. More
importantly:
Twins are strongly charged with taboo, valencies of interdiction and persua-
sion. Their baffling power lies in their ambiguity and the generative force of
their off-balance bonding, taken . . . as a sure mark of the Sacred. In fact,
nowhere is sacred ambivalence more deeply and vividly embodied than in
the archetype of the twins. This ambivalence is what allows it to operate,
alternately, as a wounding and healing influence, as that which generates
order or disorder as if by caprice. While the modern, rational mind wants to
resolve this terrible inconsistency of the Sacred in a final closure or an
all-encompassing aim, both ancient and aboriginal peoples prefer to accept it
as it is, without looking for a way to bargain ourselves out of the dilemma.
(Lash, 1993, p. 8)
In Sarduy we will see how the inconsistency, the healing and wounding,
the generative ambiguity relate to issues of identity, culture, and writing.
Some places in Africa attribute evil to twins and at one time would kill
twins if borne by humans. But in Yoruba culture they play a positive role,
and in Cuban Santería, the birth of twins is seen as a mark or sign from
heaven. They are often linked to deities of water, also true in other cultures.
For example, the mother of Romulus and Remus, Rhea, was a river goddess,
and Leda, the mother of Castor and Pollux, was a daughter of an ocean god.
In Santería, their adoptive mother was Yemayá, mother of life and of all the
orishas. She owns the waters and represents the sea, primordial source of
life. In alternative renderings of the story of the twins, they are the offspring
of Oshún, orisha of the rivers, Yemayá’s sister. Dolores Rondón at one
moment says, “I am the legitimate daughter of Oshún, queen of the river

and the sky.” This is not so surprising since like Oshún she is sensual and
likes to sing and dance. And it is these traits that draw Mortal under her
spell. Oshún was the orisha who convinced Ogún (the orisha of iron and
blacksmiths) to come out of the forest when he became fed up with killing
and bloodshed. She twirled about with her yellow kerchiefs, smeared
honey on his lips, and, dancing as she went along, drew him out of seclusion.
In similar fashion, Dolores links up with a modern, political buffo version
of Ogún, Mortal Pérez, who was a general in the first part of the novel.
The twins are closely linked to fertility because of their association with
water and the connotation of abundance associated with their conception.
As such, they are equally linked to rain and thunder, which is also not
surprising, since their father is Changó, orisha of thunder (and music). The
representation of the ibeyes (dolls placed on altars) has them dressed in
white with red belts or kerchiefs (red is Changó’s color) (López Valdés, 1985,
p. 141). Other major orishas, such as Olokún, Obatalá, and Abeyí, have
given birth to twins. The emphasis on twins is significant in this chapter
because of Auxilio/Socorro, who are mirrored and parodied by two new
characters, Narrator One and Narrator Two, semiological twins, if you will.
In subsequent works, Sarduy will continue to use doubles and twins: in
Cobra, Cobra and Pup are identical though not the same size, and in
Maitreya, La Divina and La Tremenda are also twins.
The two narrators engage in literary talk and gossip, particularly about
water and a dog. Narrator One talks about a dog, “which is a word, and
throw a pail of boiling water on him, which is the exact sense of the word.
What does the dog do? And what does the word do? And so we have a
dog-word, water-sense: These are the four parts” (Sarduy, 1994c, p. 58).
Narrator Two does not understand, which Narrator One responds to with
a riddle, which is unsolvable. As González Echevarría has pointed out, this
not only refers to linguistic and literary theory, but to Afro-Cuban beliefs.
When a dog shows up at a political rally of Mortal Pérez, everyone shouts
“Water!” As we saw before, water is linked to Oshún (Dolores), Yemayá,
and the twins. Furthermore, a dog is the guardian of Elegguá, the orisha of
the crossroads, who looks over the four cardinal points. Dolores’s tomb-
stone, where the décima is inscribed, is at a crossroads. (Dogs are also used
in sacrifices, particularly to Ogún; they also figure as omens in India as
well.) There’s more: a child born after twins, called Ideú, is known as a
guardian or dog of the twins. In this chapter, Auxilio and Socorro are joined
by a third sister Clemencia (Clemency). González is correct in seeing that
the two Narrators, using a European method of decoding language and
meaning, are unable to capture and understand the Santería code that
underlines these passages.
Obatalá is mentioned several times in this chapter. S/he is the creator of
the earth, sculptor of human beings, and reigns over all things to do with
SEVERO SARDUY 147
the head, both thoughts and dreams. White is his color as he is the orisha
of purity, harmony, and reconciliation. Since all the orishas respect her, she
often mediates in disputes between bickering orishas. Sarduy’s inclusion
of Obatalá completes the four elements since Changó (fire), Oshún-Yemayá-
the twins (water), and Oyá (wind) all figure prominently in this section.
Oyá is linked to the dead and inhabits cemeteries. Since Obatalá wears
white, and Dolores claims to meet her maker wearing Obatalá’s white robes
(aside from the references to Oyá), González Echevarría assumes that white
is linked to death in Santería. This is too narrow an interpretation. There is
nothing in Santería that links Obatalá (or the color white) exclusively with
death. If Dolores is wearing white robes, it is for the same reason that
babalaos (Santería priests) do, because of purity. The twins (or ibeyes) also
wear white. Santería, as a transcultural phenomenon, is too rich and com-
plex to be so statically viewed, more so within a text by Sarduy, where the
transculturation undergoes further metamorphoses, as when Auxilio turns
into Ella Fitzgerald to say her last few lines. Sarduy draws on Afro-Cuban
beliefs, but does not make it the “master signifier” of the chapter. Instead
he plays it off the baroque décima used in epitaphs, poststructuralist theory,
and political discourse, in order to create a rich, polyphonic, and hilarious
buffo representation. Sarduy’s textured “staging” has semiotics, politics,
and the divine crash together, teasing out all the ramifications and layers of
the plot.
Obatalá is also the semi-visible presence behind the last segment of the
book, “The Entry of Christ into Havana.” Many of his/her avatares or
caminos (avatars, paths) relate to the figure of Christ (Olofi is also syncret-
ized as Christ, being the mediator for Oluddumare, the All or godhead
figure). Obatalá is also from the mountains, and the stones placed in tureens
to make offerings to him/her are called oké (de la loma: from the mountains).
This plays nicely into the “Son de la loma” by Matamoros, the guiding
metaphor of much of the novel. In his Igbá-Ibó path, Obatalá is linked to
the all-seeing eye of Providence. This derives from Assyrian-Babylonian
mythology, and by the Middle Ages in Europe it was represented by the
Eye within a triangle. There are many direct and indirect references to eyes
and seeing in this last part embedded within a mystical-baroque visual
culture. Obatalá’s powers are supposed to come from male and female
attributes, which is not unusual in Santería, where many orishas are women
and where avatars of an orisha can be male or female. This is an important
consideration in Sarduy, whose notions of culture and the sacred are closely
enmeshed with his irreverent attitudes toward gender.
Before moving on to this last part of the novel, let us turn to Sarduy’s
parodying of Cuban politics of the 1940s. In one page, he draws on Jakob-
sonian linguistics, Columbus’s diary, classical rhetoric, José Martí, and
Afro-Cuban religious terminology. Written like a play, as different charac-
ters speak, Sarduy adds stage directions in parentheses, usually describing
the emotion or tone of the character. These are often references to opera,
cinematic personages, or popular song. The mix, of course, is incongruous
and jarringly funny and points to several elements in Sarduy’s narrative
style: its lack of realism, its refusal to latch onto fixed identities (either for
the “characters” or in terms of a coherent stable “message”), its ability to be
in constant metamorphosis through code-switching, cross-dressing, and
plain outrageousness.
The final segment, “The Entry of Christ into Havana,” starts in Spain
with Auxilio and Socorro looking for a vanished young lover (Mortal
Pérez). The two return to Cuba, where they are seduced and “Cubanized”
by a mulatto. In Santiago (eastern Cuba) they find a wooden Christ who is
the incarnation of Mortal. They rejuvenate him and take him on a proces-
sion to Havana where a snowstorm has blanketed the city in white. As the
wooden effigy disintegrates, the twins and the crowds are sprayed by
bullets from helicopters. Christ’s entry has at least a double reference: Fidel
Castro’s victory over Batista (1959) and James Ensor’s “Christ Entering
Brussels” (1898), though the ending itself bears an uncanny resemblance to
Buñuel’s Exterminating Angel (1962). Sarduy’s snow imagery could be a
reference to Cuban writers’ fascination with snow, epitomized by Julián
Casal’s (1863–93) book of poems Nieve (Snow).
The hail of bullets and the snow blanketing Havana could be interpreted
in rather apocalyptic terms, of nothingness, of blankness, of death, but I
think that the twins picking up the pieces of the wooden Christ and saving
them in their handkerchiefs is only the beginning of a new cycle of transcul-
turation and transfiguration. Let us not forget that in Islamic mysticism
snow is analogous to sand in being a great unifying peace, which dissolves
the anxieties of existence. And Obatalá, whose color is white, is from the
mountains. In Tibetan Buddhism the mountains with their snow are the
locations of their sacred monasteries (this is more the case in Cobra and
Maitreya). When Fernando Ortiz uses the term transculturation, he says that
deculturation often is the first step, followed by acculturation; these steps
precede a more even give-and-take between cultures. Transculturation is
not some wonderful and smooth synthesis, but a historical process fraught
with conquest, resistance, and bloody class and ethnic conflict. The meeting
of East and West in Sarduy’s work is often violent, disruptive, and calami-
tous. But then there is a suggestive phrase, a proliferation of language and
image that is close to hope, but tempered by a wily aversion to the great
metanarratives. And as a chastened bricoleur, he picks his way through the
shards and ruins of philosophical and religious systems in order to piece
together not a paradise through language but a heterotopic burst of erotic
search and expenditure.
Though Sarduy begins this segment in Spain, it is peppered with refer-
ences to its Arabic past. Sarduy has an entire scene that takes place at the
tenth-century Madinat al-Zahra, a city-medina built by Abd Al-Rahman III.
SEVERO SARDUY 149
But perhaps more significant for Sarduy is the symbolic significance of

Islamic calligraphy, which he treats as the visual embodiment of revelation.
“The letters, words and verses of the Quran are not just elements of a written
language, but beings or personalities for which the calligraphic form is the
physical or visual vessel. Hence the oft quoted saying ‘Calligraphy is the
geometry of the Spirit’ ” (Nasr, 1987, p. 18). This Quranic calligraphy is an
archetype for the cosmos, amply used in architecture, the basis for a sacred
geometry. Sarduy will draw on the written sign as “beings, powers, talis-
mans,” as cosmological components not only in From Cuba with a Song but
with even greater intensity in Cobra and Maitreya, where he will often refer
to this sacred writing as a tattooing of the body, textual or otherwise (see
also Sarduy, 1982, pp. 68–69, on tattooing).
The spiritual life of the word is found in the poetry of the Spanish
mystical poet St. John of the Cross. Spanish mysticism is closely linked to
baroque painting and image-making. In fact, the ascetics and mystics often
spoke of images being able to move (in all senses of the word) people to
want to perform acts of faith. Ignatius of Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises often
employ visual methods and imagining techniques to grasp aspects of the
faith, meditate on Christ’s passion, and lead to spiritual betterment. Curi-
ously, this ascetic re(de)nunciation of the world is combined with a fervent
sensuality. As Emilio Orozco Díaz has said: “The mistrust and disillusion-
ment come not from a negation of the world but, on the contrary, from its
most intense and rushed enjoyment of it, even if shaded by the melancholy
knowledge of fugacity; or by lingering on before it in order to transcend it,
and discover in its concreteness and finitude the presence of spirituality and
infinity” (Orozco Díaz, 1970, pp. 83–84). Sarduy treads along those horizon-
tal and vertical axes of tension that characterize the baroque with consum-
mate artistry. Sarduy will again turn to St. John of the Cross at the end of
his life.
From Cuba with a Song could be considered a long gloss on the son that
the title derives from (“El son de la loma”), unmasking the search for origins
and beginnings of Cuban culture as delusory at best. Here I agree with
González Echevarría (who has taken it from Sarduy’s Barroco) in his appre-
ciation that for Sarduy the origin is a trope, a figure, and often a mistake
(e.g., Columbus thinking he had found the Orient). Writing, and art, then,
dis-figure that origin which tries to explain everything. This is perhaps one
of his most significant differences with Lezama Lima and his concept of “las
eras imaginarias,” particularly in light of the figure and figura as used by
Auerbach (see Chapter 5). This dis-figuring is taken to an unusual extreme
in his next novel.
If Derrida were a Cuban mulatto drag queen writing opera libretti, he
could have written Cobra (1972). Helene Cixous said that Cobra is a “text
twister,” which means it could be seen as a reading and rewriting of many
artistic, literary, and scientific texts: Kepler, Columbus’s diaries, Octavio
Paz’s Conjunctions and Disjunctions (and his poem “Blanco”), Spanish ba-
roque painting, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, Lacan, Derrida, and even his
very own From Cuba with a Song. Long before critics and writers were using
terms like “writing with (or on, from, of) the body,” Sarduy had published
a book of essays called Written on a Body (1969; trans. 1989), in which he
develops an erotics of writing close to Barthes’s Pleasure of the Text. Both that
book and his Barroco (1974) should be read as companions to Cobra, since
both speak eloquently to Sarduy’s aesthetic concerns and his philosophy of
writing or écriture. Salvador Elizondo’s Farabeuf o la crónica del instante (1967)
is also a text that is close to Sarduy’s in terms of valuing the ideographic
nature of the writing process.
Cobra, the main character(?), is incessantly transforming his/her body.
S/he is a transvestite dancer in the Lyric Theater of the Dolls in 1960s Paris,
is also a member of a motorcycle gang, part of a group of Tibetan lamas that
dress like hippies (or vice versa), has a dwarflike image of herself called
Pup (also a reference to astronomy), is also, well . . . you get the idea.
Cobra’s ever-changing body is the metamorphosis of the text, its delirious
language constantly remaking the characters and other texts. Part of this
ongoing process is the constant use of drugs, remedies, poisons, cures,
operations, and so on, all linked to the notion of writing. Many critics have
pointed out the similarities with Jacques Derrida’s essay “Plato’s Phar-
macy” in his book Dissemination (1972; Eng. trans. 1981). Though the book
was published the same year as Sarduy’s novel, “Plato’s Pharmacy” was
published in two parts, in the Parisian magazine Tel Quel in 1968.
Derrida focuses his discussion on Plato’s Phaedrus, performing a close
reading of the words pharmakos, pharmakon, pharmakeus, pharmacia. They
come up in a discussion of writing: the different words, from the same root,
can mean remedy, drug, cure, poison, charm, spell, magician, and scape-
goat. Needless to say, such a rich association of meaning concerning writing
was highly stimulating to Sarduy. But it also refers to makeup and the
painting of the body. Derrida sums it up admirably:
The magic of writing and painting is like a cosmetic concealing the dead under
the appearance of the living. The pharmakon introduces and harbors death. It
makes the corpse presentable, masks it, makes it up, perfumes it with its
essence, as it is said in Aeschylus. Pharmakon is also a word for perfume. A
perfume without essence, as we earlier called it a drug without substance. It
transforms order into ornament, the cosmos into a cosmetic. Death, masks,
makeup, are all part of the festival that subverts the order of the city, its smooth
regulation by the dialectician and the science of being. Plato, as we shall see,
is not long in identifying writing with festivity. And play. A certain festival, a
certain game. (Derrida, 1981, p. 142)
Sarduy is a skilled practitioner of writing as play and from the very

beginning of Cobra we witness a delirious description of the pharmakon as
SEVERO SARDUY 151
makeup, as body painting: Cobra takes six hours to get made up every night
for her show in the Lyric Theater of the Dolls. Mixed in with his/her
routines are quips about writing: “Writing is the art of ellipsis” (1995, p. 5);
“Writing is the art of digression” (p. 6); “Writing is the art of recreating
reality. Let us respect it” (p. 7); “No. Writing is the act of restoring History”
(p. 7); “Writing is the art of disorganizing an order and organizing a
disorder” (p. 9); and “Writing is the art of patchwork” (p. 12). These
numerous statements refer to Sarduy’s own aesthetic (particularly the one
about ellipsis), but also something he questioned all the time (writing is the
art of recreating reality). Sarduy would agree with this last comment if it
does not imply a kind of simple-minded realism, that is, writing as mimetic
device. However, if we read it so that recreating is meant as an act of creating
reality anew through the word, then perhaps the phrase might not seem
ironic. If for the Islamic world calligraphy “provides the external dress for
the Word of God,” Sarduy’s ideographic passion would lead him to dress
up the Void with his incandescent words. Void or emptiness in Buddhism
is not the equivalent of nothing, but a nonduality of perfect gnosis.
In a sense, then, Sarduy claims (and not only here) that writing is a kind
of transvestism. What does this mean? On an almost literal level, it means
that writing is not what it appears to be, that is, it is a kind of linguistic
makeup that hides a certain practice. This would be the equivalent of saying
that writing is a kind of fetishism. Writing is a way of disavowal of a lack
that is constantly affirmed and denied at the same time. In Freudian and
Lacanian theory the lack fetishism tries to conquer is the absence of a
maternal phallus. The child sees that nothingness and as a result makes
substitutes for it, which simultaneously deny and affirm that lack (e.g.,
shoes, raincoats, gloves). Literature fetishizes desire itself (in part because
it uses words, signs that always point to, but are not what they designate,
so it mimics the desiring process), and Sarduy takes this to an impossible
extreme. One could say that “Fetishization functions in analogous fashion
to the process of hysterization: both make a part or a whole of the body a
phallus. They eroticize, even give a genital meaning to non-genital parts of
the body” (Wright, 1992, p. 117). Sarduy eroticizes language, but not in a
phallic or logocentric fashion. In Cobra, this is incarnated in the lead char-
acter’s castration at the hands of Dr. Ktazob.
As Enrique Márquez has pointed out, Cobra’s castration is not such a
bad thing. In fact, the phallus is like an injunction or a prohibition, and
without one Cobra is not marked by a fixed cultural and gender identity,
and thus his sexual gratification is limitless. The erotic movement, or better
yet, erotic figuration, dismantles binary oppositions: “Reality and desire,
taboos and norms, the lived and the expected, the body and its phantasms,
all would be one . . . even the death-desire split would be harmonized and
eliminated” (Márquez, 1991, p. 304). This is further driven home by the fact
that his rival, a female transvestite, Cadillac, has an operation whereby a
penis is grafted on and immediately she begins smoking cigars, swagger-

ing, and acting like a pimp. Márquez further points out that this new
decentered identity allows Cobra to practice all kinds of “perversions”
(from sadomasochism to coprophilia) as if they were sacred events, as in
Tantric feasts.
Sarduy’s Cobra is a hysteric text if we understand the term as Lacan
meant it: as the quintessential question about gender since the hysteric’s
vacillation between being a man and a woman calls into question the
viability of being able to reduce identity to gender. Despite the suffering
and anxiety of the hysteric’s body, the hysteric is not repelled by her body,
but by the attempts to pin it down, to accept what Lacan called the master
signifier. In other words, the hysteric is a rebel, someone who speaks a
certain truth that society, knowledge, patriarchy repress, and “the unsatis-
fied desire converts into a desire for unsatisfaction, a desire to keep our
desire ‘open’ ” (Zizek, 1995, p. 106). This questioning of gender and identity
is crucial to Sarduy’s fiction, and it is no coincidence that many of his
characters not only cross-dress, but actually change sex, adopt different
bodies, or assume new hybrid identities.
Cross-dressing, or tranvestism, does go to the heart of identity issues. In
From Cuba with a Song, we saw how Sarduy questioned stable, fixed defini-
tions of ethnicity, gender, and even class. In Cobra he pushes the limit further
by incorporating Tibetan Buddhism and Tantric practices into the text. The
Eastern or Chinese element was certainly present in From Cuba with a Song,
but it was almost as a backdrop to his parody on desire and the Western
fashion for Oriental erotica. Here the characters—a motorcycle gang made
up of Tundra, Totem, Tiger and Scorpion—perform Tantric rites after hav-
ing killed Cobra. Sarduy’s tranvestism is a metaphor for transculturation
because it resolutely opposes paternalistic, logocentric, and rigid thinking,
especially about culture, gender, and class. In the give-and-take, new tex-
tures are created from preceding ones (Morejón), and transvestism is an
extraordinary example of being other and becoming an(other), at least in
Sarduy.
Many feminists have pointed out that cross-dressing can uphold mascu-
line domination of women by its very celebration of and identification with
women, which also expresses contempt. That is, at the same time that men
are stepping out of their rigid gender roles they are still putting forth images
of women that are ultimately misogynist: women as creatures of disguise
and simulation, frivolity, obsessed with appearance, artificiality, and glam-
our. And beneath the skirts, as one critic put it, “the power-granting penis
remains—what a relief!” (Alisa Solomon in Ferris, 1993, p. 145).
The significance of Sarduy’s work on the reinvention of gender must be
understood in a Latin American context. He is the first writer (aside from
José Donoso’s El lugar sin límites) to make transvestism a central element of
his work in contemporary Latin American fiction. By virtue of that achieve-
SEVERO SARDUY 153
ment, he was a writer that pushed gender issues to the fore. And for Sarduy
it was not merely a matter of characters dressing up in drag; they truly
transform themselves into new beings, demigods, singers, entrepreneurs,
mystics, prostitutes, Buddhists, orishas, poets, hustlers, incarnations of the
Buddha, like the cook Luis Leng in Maitreya, which means the Buddha of
the future. None of the identities, moreover, is exclusive. In Sarduy the drag
queen not only looks and pretends to be someone else but is someone else,
refashioning oneself into a vaster collective self which is at the same time
social, erotic, cosmic, and sacred. In “realistic” drag, the queen is someone
else until the show ends. With Sarduy, the show never ends: there’s no
turning back (or straight, for that matter).
Moreover, Sarduy’s textual practice is one of the most radical attempts
in Caribbean discourse to dismantle the patriarchal, centered voice of a
writer who seeks to impose his authority, by either reinterpreting or creating
his own canon. Often we ask ourselves while reading some of Sarduy’s
more experimental texts: who is narrating or more so, what is narrating?
Whoever or whatever, it affects you viscerally, it goes into your blood-
stream, which brings us back to Derrida’s reading of Plato: writing is magic,
a cure, poison, a cosmetic, or perfume that transforms the dead letter(s) of
tradition (other texts) into a carnival, a dancing theater of passion. For
Sarduy the magic is the way a text can transfigure itself, like a shaman, not
some kind of folksy magical realism. The cure or poison is an altered state,
the handling of a substance that is so potent that it can heal or enfeeble. It
literally can affect the body. The perfume or cosmetic adorns the body
(textual and otherwise) to disguise its demise. Characters dissolve, die, are
reborn, countries and continents are bounded in a couple of sentences,
centuries are traversed in a flash, cultures are crisscrossed and rewritten
with a reckless, poetic jouissance. In a way, Sarduy recreates Caribbean
history on a planetary scale with a sassy charm, so aptly expressed by
Helene Cixous: “ Cobra’s language plays with its words the way a baby plays
with his toes. Are those mine?” (Adams et al., 1974, p. 30).
Sarduy even goes as far as trying to establish a cosmic model for his
baroque, eroto-aesthetics (see Gil and Iturralde, 1991, pp. 337–42, on Sar-
duy’s cosmographic vision). In his book Barroco (1974) he uses the term
retombée to refer to analogies that do not work in the normal chronological
sense, as when the echo precedes the voice. In this regard he speaks of
Galileo’s circle and Kepler’s ellipse as prefiguring the big bang and steady
state models of the universe in the twentieth century. In an interview,
Sarduy said he sought out the baroque through astronomy, not through
the more accepted route of the plastic arts and literature. His vision of the
baroque was different from Lezama’s. Sarduy claims that to be baroque or
neo-baroque was to “threaten, judge, and parody bourgeois economy”
with its rationality, its obsession with saving. “Throw away, expend, burn
away language for sheer pleasure—that’s the baroque’s core notion.” It is
a language that is nonmoralistic, noninformational, and nonutilitarian,

subverting the normal order of things by not falling prey to an economy of
accumulation, consumption, investment.
Platonic cosmology valued the circle as geometric representation of
perfection and divinity. Sarduy says Galileo stayed within that model and
showed great disdain for both figurative and rhetorical language, as well
as anamorphosis (considered a perversion of perspective). Kepler’s revo-
lution changes things considerably: “The master figure is no longer the
circle, with a unique center—radiant, luminous, and paternal—but the
ellipse, which in contrast to this obvious focus adds a second focus, equally
active, equally real, but sealed off, dead, nocturnal, the reverse of the solar
yang, fructifying and absent” (Sarduy, 1974, p. 56). Sarduy then compares
Kepler’s ellipse to Góngora’s use of ellipsis, a key rhetorical device in
baroque poetics. Ellipsis is a figure of speech when parts of meaning (the
signified) are eclipsed, omitted, expelled, or hidden from the symbolic
universe. From here it is not a great leap to see how Kepler’s ellipse and
Freud/Lacan’s decentered subject are linked together: “Because the subject
is decentered, is pulled so to speak bifocally in two different gravitational
directions, that his speech becomes elliptical—that parts of it drop into the
unconscious. The unconscious in Lacan’s conception [is] precisely that part
of the subject’s discourse which, although it regulates the subject’s actions,
is nonetheless not at his disposal: that part which cannot be spoken,
constituted as it is by a ‘failure of translation’ ” (Felman, 1987, pp. 66–67).
Fernand Hallyn has argued differently from Sarduy in observing that
Kepler did not reject the circle, also claiming that Kepler was a mannerist
and not a baroque thinker (see Hallyn, 1993, pp. 203–30). Hallyn also
believes that it is the oxymoron and not the ellipsis that is the tropological
basis of this cosmology. (Sarduy tends to subsume metaphor, synecdoche,
allusion, and metonymy as being part of the “field” of ellipsis.) For our
purposes that is not the most important issue: what is germane is that
Sarduy sees a theory of the subject (Lacan), a theory of the universe (Kepler),
a theory of literature (baroque aesthetics/rhetoric/ Derrida), a theory of
culture (transculturation, cross-dressing), and a theory of history (displace-
ment, anti-logocentrism, and anti-patriarchy) as tropes, and that these
tropes are an integral part of the formation of the Caribbean psyche.
Furthermore, they speak or echo each other through what he has called a
retombée, which is not quite the same as an analogy, in a direct correspon-
dence. There is an oblique, sly, roundabout way that they illuminate each
other, like the moving shafts of light in Caravaggio.
In Cobra, Sarduy goes from cosmic models to sacred texts. One of the
main characters is called Pup, a miniature version of Cobra, or, as the author
put it: Pup = √ 
Cobra (Pup is the square root of Cobra). But Pup is also
known as a white dwarf, an astronomical term that refers to a dying star
(formerly referred to as a “red giant”) with a density of gravity so great that
SEVERO SARDUY 155
even the lightest objects would weigh tons. Eventually, a white dwarf
shatters in a nova or supernova explosion, or it can become a black hole (Gil
and Iturralde, 1991). Sarduy links his characters to these astronomical
phenomena, and through his own tropes or associations (color, makeup)
has them cross-dress. Almost literally he brings the stars down to shimmy
on stage, in a cosmic dance that is rich in sources, from the Elizabethan
theater, to Balinese dance, Spanish Golden age painting (Pup is compared
to Carreño’s truly grotesque portrait of a young girl called La Monstrua), or
the Cuban rumba (Gil and Iturralde, 1991, pp. 339–40). Pup, the dwarf,
might have a Hindu resonance as well. Vishnu became a dwarf to hide or
to trick the demon Bali (Doniger O’Flaherty, 1975, pp. 176–79). Vishnu also
expanded, growing to enormous, even cosmic proportions, again echoing
astronomical phenomena. Sarduy, like most Caribbean artists, when he is
not building on existing myths (radically reworking, dis- and refiguring
them), creates his own.
Despite Sarduy’s aversion to texts with univocal meaning, he constantly
interrogates sacred texts, be they from Afro-Cuban, Tibetan Buddhist,
Koranic-Sufi, or biblical traditions. His transgressive, erotic play with
words and his healthy irreverence could never make him an unquestioning
believer. Lourdes Gil narrates a telling incident, after Sarduy had finished
writing Cobra. He was on a boat in the sacred Ganges River and threw a
copy of Cobra into the river as an offering. The book came back to him.
Undeterred, he threw it back in. Again it returned. This happened several
times, but Cobra “would return like a child afraid to separate from its
father.” Finally, Sarduy found a stone, attached it to Cobra, tossed it in the
water, and it sank into the depths of the Ganges. Gil correctly points out
two important points: first, Sarduy was not intimidated by the first signs of
the book coming back. He kept insisting, which she interprets as a quintes-
sentially Cuban trait, that is, “to try and impose conditions on the gods,” to
rewrite the signs of divine interpretation (Gil, 1994, pp. 213–14). This is close
to the Afro-Cuban traditions, where the orishas are like a family: they bicker
and quarrel, they flirt and pray, they rely on divine intervention as well as
their own wits. Sarduy enters into the sacred but not as an act of surrender,
but one of revelation through rebellion.
Sarduy saw writing in all its corporeal dimensions (as a tattooing of the
body) and as an activity which escapes the (de)formation of the logos. It was
a dance of signs that echoed Nietzsche’s analogue of dancing and writing,
and not surprisingly From Cuba with a Song was translated into French as
Écrit en dansant. The author summed it up admirably in an interview: “The
writer is a material, situated subject and not an ‘inspired’ floating author. As
in the Tibetan mandalas, everything explodes from the genitals and goes
up to the hand. I write naked, and sometimes I dance around looking for
the words, looking for them until my body turns into a language and the
language on the page turns into a body, into something tangible, tactile,
which dances and looks in turn” (Adams et al., 1974, p. 11). Cobra’s Tibetan
dance ends up in the snow-covered Himalayas, precisely where his next
novel, Maitreya, begins.
Maitreya is inscribed as a textual practice of Tantric philosophy, a radical
reappropriation of the Bardo Thodol, or the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Tantric
practices embrace both the sacred and the profane, enmeshing themselves
with the material world, almost grotesquely, as a means of spiritual enlight-
enment (West, 1994d, p. 115). Every act is carnal, shot through with desire,
but equally it is a powerful cosmic symbol that leads toward an abolition
of the world and the flesh, seeing these earthly manifestations as illusory
masquerades of misery. As Octavio Paz says: “For Tantrism the body is a
true double of the universe, which, in turn, is a manifestation of the
diamondlike, incorruptible body of the Buddha” (Paz, 1969, p. 81). The
Tantric subtle body is used as an instrument for meditation or concentra-
tion, gestures known as mudras. Sarduy writes with the body, scattering
signs, a mudra of mutations; these mudras inform or inflate the text with a
language of excess, both iridescent and precise, exemplifying one of
Barthes’s definitions of the pleasure of the text as being “that moment when
my body pursues its own ideas—for my body does not have the same ideas
I do” (Barthes, 1975, p. 17). Sarduy, who often wrote without his clothes on,
believed in an erotics of reading and writing and practiced it to a degree
that borders on unhinged rapture, trying to inscribe the body of perfection
(the Buddha, nirvana) through his own words.
The Tantric tradition sees language as a verbal double of both the body
and the universe, and often it does not even take a whole word: a syllable
alone can become a mantra, a unit of sound that has great religious,
emotional, or magical impact. A mantra is not a concept but a nondiscur-
sive, sonorous fetish that makes the body vibrate and links it to the cosmos.
The bones of the deceased master at the beginning of the novel are like
mantras scattered to the wind, but instead of being a bridge between body
and cosmos, the bones initiate a long series of migrations and transforma-
tions because Maitreya is, above all, a novel about exile.
The exile is set off by an initial limit, death. The demise of the master in
the Tibetan monastery begins as a limit which will be transgressed. There
is a double reference to Lezama here, both as a person (he died while Sarduy
wrote the novel) and as literary catalyst and mentor in that Luis Leng (and
to a lesser extent Juan Izquierdo) are both characters from Paradiso. In
Lezama’s novel, however, they are minor: in Sarduy, Luis Leng, a Cuban
Chinese cook, is central, and even becomes a reincarnation of the Buddha.
And why not? Cooks have become presidents.
Exile can be seen as a limit imposed by revolution, and the novel sports
three major historical convulsions: the Chinese, the Cuban, and the Iranian.
The monks, after a crushed uprising, will flee Tibet and Chinese domina-
tion. The Leng sisters escape through India to Sri Lanka with the new child
SEVERO SARDUY 157
master, the Instructor. They’re joined later by their niece, Iluminada Leng,
who shacks up with El Dulce (Honey Boy). The couple takes a boat from
Colombo (Sri Lanka) to Cuba, where Luis Leng is born. Also born in Saguá
La Grande (a nucleus of the Chinese community in Cuba) are the female
twins La Divina and La Tremenda, of unknown parentage. They are likened
to the ibeyes of Santería (Sts. Cosmas and Damian in Catholicism), the
offspring of Oshún and Changó. They perform miracles and cure the sick
until their first period, when their powers disappear. They become opera
singers, but with the Cuban Revolution they flee to Miami with a dwarf
named Pedacito, who also paints murals. There the twins become fanatical
members of F.F.A., Fist Fuckers of America. When later they go to New York,
one of the twins falls in love with an Iranian chauffeur. They follow the
Iranian to his native land, where La Tremenda and Pedacito run a massage
parlor and S/M emporium. The last stages of the revolution of the mullahs
which would soon overthrow the Shah again causes them to flee, and the
novel ends with La Tremenda, after giving anal birth to a strange creature
with blue hair and webbed feet, starting a new cult in Afghanistan.
Even the physical attributes of characters are varied, Sarduy borrowing
heavily from painting: the monks in the monastery are surrounded by
Tibetan mandalas and gods depicted in Himalayan art; the Leng sisters are
like Kuhn-Weber puppets; the twins are right out of Botero; Pedacito
(modeled after Velázquez dwarfs) paints murals inspired by Wifredo Lam;
the descriptions of the Iranian episodes have the lush, dense details of
Persian miniatures. The loss and displacement of exile is compensated for
by a proliferation of images, new cultural icons and beliefs, succulent,
untried food, uncanny experiences that push limits to their breaking point.
Maitreya is a novel about exile and the dispersion of culture, language,
and belief systems, bereft of any idea of recuperating some kind of totality
or center with which to anchor one’s existence. Despite this, and the novel’s
ambiguous ending, it is not a despairing work. One is left with a sense of
expansion, of a flock of birds waiting to take flight.
Sarduy has taken the anecdote from Lezama and made it a novel, the
displacement of humans due to revolution as a springboard (transmigra-
tion as transformation), of fashioning beings into new selves; he has Tantric
eroticism, Sufi mysticism, and Santería ritual collide into a shimmering,
exploratory tapestry that focuses on the decentering of identity, culture,
time, and place.
It is a stretch to call the people in Sarduy’s fiction characters. Often we
have no physical sense of what they are like; in other instances they are
deformed, monstrous, fantastic, or hybrids. They often sprout doubles; they
vanish or die suddenly; they become transformed into other characters;
they change gender, name, and place in a flash. If Sarduy were an orthodox
believer, we could say that he concurs with Buddhist teachings that insist
on seeing human development as a series of mental states (toward corrup-
tion or enlightenment) not underlined by a sense of unified self, or rather

the self is a necessary illusion on the way to enlightenment. Instead, in
recognizing his unorthodoxies toward virtually everything, it might be
more prudent to say that his “characters” are a place where all of the
signifiers of desire gravitate. They cluster together and then disperse,
moving along with a kind of metonymic breathlessness. Characters, words,
flock together, soar upwards.
Birds appear constantly in his work, in Colibrí (1984), Cobra, Pájaros de la
playa (1993), as well as Maitreya. In many religions or cultures they denote
the soul or the spirit, for example, the simmurgh of Persian and Sufi origin,
a flock of thirty birds that went in quest of inner purity and the supreme
being (Nasr, 1987, pp. 100–105). The simmurgh migrated toward India and
became Garuda, Vishnu’s charger and creature of the higher realms. In
Christianity the dove’s symbolism is a well-known spiritual sign, and in
Guaraní mythology, the spirit of dead shamans speaks to apprentice sha-
mans in their dreams through a hummingbird. Though his writing is
jagged, fragmented, the humor and lightness of expression make Sarduy’s
words ripple and fly (West, 1994d, p. 119).
The soul has always been described in organic models, vitally linked
with the body and its metaphors. Indeed Francis Huxley claims that Plato
likened it to a double of the body, claiming that the soul “was fixed to the
body by a multitude of small nails that made up the totality of the spirit—a
sort of organic crucifixion” (Huxley, 1974, p. 62). This is reminiscent of
Kongo practices, whereby mkisi (sculpted human figures in wood that are
spirit personalities that control a particular activity or function) have nails,
blades driven into them, often to hunt down and haunt a wrongdoer, or, in
more benign cases, to heal (MacGaffey and Harris, 1993, p. 27). Sarduy takes
the nails of the “totality of the spirit” and makes them into syllables,
mantras, in order to pierce the writing body. The nails are traces, mnemonic
devices, which imprint or mark the body (literally) of the author, what
Sarduy called “la arqueología de la piel” (“the archaeology of skin/flesh”).
And it reminds us that the mystic drive is always a spiritualizing of desire,
of being part of the body of Christ, or to “obtain the perfect body [of
Buddha], adorned with signs and graces” (Evans-Wentz, 1960, p. 207).
But unlike Christianity (where the soul departs the body at death), in the
Tibetan Book of the Dead the initiation is to prepare the soul for a descent into
the body, the locus of a new incarnation and life. The disciple attains
mastery over death, sees it as illusion, and soars far from fear. In the words
of Lama Anagarika Govinda: “This illusoriness of death comes from the
identification of the individual with his temporal, transitory form, whether
physical, emotional, or mental, whence arise the mistaken notion that there
exists a personal, separate egohood of one’s own, and the fear of losing it”
(Govinda in Evans-Wentz, 1960, p. lxii).
SEVERO SARDUY 159
Maitreya, with its characters suffering transformations, births, and

deaths, is an exorcism of death, or better yet, a rehearsal for death in that it
implies a denial of just one universe and one life for each human being; it
affirms that death is only an initiation into another form of life. The body
is not a tomb or a slab of flesh, but a creator and vessel for epiphanies that
unchain the imagination. Lezama spoke in similar terms: “Death engenders
us all anew. That infinite possibility which is in death, by becoming visible,
stakes out its perishable space. Non-time, that is, the edenic, the paradisical,
makes us think about life as infinite possibility that arises from death”
(Lezama, 1971).
In his Cristo de la Rue Jacob (1987), one of his most autobiographical works,
Sarduy mentions that the short pieces in the book are what he called
“epiphanies,” a daily occurrence is suddenly linked to the sacred, the
absolute. It is a Joycean term derived from Christianity; others, like Alberto
Ruy Sánchez, call it “a prose of intensities”; Paz, “our ration of eternity”;
Pasolini, “the apparition of the Centaur”; Roland Barthes, “the neutral”
(Ruy Sánchez, 1992, pp. 31–32). With Sarduy, it is important to retrieve an
expression from his essay on the baroque, filigrana, or filigree. His writing
could be referred to as una escritura de epifanías en filigrana, or a writing of
epiphanies in filigree. The Spanish filigrana is from the Latin words filum
and granum, meaning thread and grain. It designates something made with
perfection, subtlety, and delicacy, or a watermark. In Cuba it is also a wild
plant with rough, aromatic leaves (lantana odorata), flowers, and a small,
pineapple-shaped fruit.
Sarduy’s writing, his escritura de epifanías en filgrana (filigree), his finely
wrought arabesques, trace a welter of cultural allusions, heterotopias,
historical tropes. The sheer proliferation makes it gain texture, grow thicker,
and yet the humor, the precision of his language, the supple lightness of the
metaphors give it the purity of line you find in fine etchings. The words hit
splitting wood like the nails driven into the mkisi, as if time were being
sundered by a blade made of shadows (West, 1994d, pp. 120–21).
Sarduy’s notion of writing has an erotic-coroporeal aspect strongly tied
to different traditions, but most notably to Tantrism. Sarduy was fond of
Tantric beliefs and tales, like that of Purusa and Prakriti united in transcen-
dental intercourse, which obviously suggested more earthly variants of
bliss. This is similar to the poetry of Zen master Sengai, whose verses were
laced with mystical allusions, where carnal and cosmic foreplay formed a
whole (see Stevens, 1990, pp. 108, 111–12).
The sexuality in Maitreya has this quality of playfulness to it, but often it
is pure expenditure and rarely is it “fertile.” Ejaculation rarely finds a
womb. The release of sperm in Tantric coitus is often accompanied by the
recitation of a mantra that makes the act a ritual sacrifice where el líquido
feliz (the joyful liquid), as Lezama called it, is amorously offered to the fire
(associated with the feminine). With Sarduy, though, this ritual sacrifice is
ungendered and nonprocreative, and, as in Tantra, a religious violation of

moral strictures. Says Octavio Paz: “Sperm in the Tantric tradition is trans-
muted into a divine substance that ends by becoming immaterial, either
because it is consumed by the fire of sacrifice or by virtue of being trans-
formed into the thought of illumination” (Paz, 1969, p. 91). How different,
say, from Protestantism where it “engenders children, families: it becomes
social and an action to transform the world” (Paz, 1969, p. 91).
But Sarduy takes it further than this. The novel includes several episodes
of fisting, an act that does not include heavy genital contact. In fact, as
Michel Foucault said in an interview: “Physical practices like fist-fucking
are practices that one can call devirilizing, or desexualizing. They are in fact
extraordinary falsifications of pleasure, which one achieves with the aid of a
certain number of instruments, of signs, of symbols, or of drugs such as
poppers and MDA . . . to make of one’s body a place for the production of
extraordinarily polymorphic pleasures, while simultaneously detaching it
from a valorization of the genitalia, and particularly of the male genitalia”
(Miller, 1993, p. 269). The hand is closed, it is a fist, more like a cone, sinking
into the gluteal depths of different characters in the novel. The intensity of
the act is so great that it shatters the self’s notion of itself in sexuality. If one
is on the receiving end, it is an act of total abandonment, of releasing any
control of your body and your pleasure. (Many testimonies clearly state, for
men at least, that during fisting they get neither hard nor aroused in any
usual way.) It is as feminized as a man can get; the rectum is the only “canal”
or source of men’s fantasies of childbirth. In the case of Lady Tremendous,
fisted by the Iranian chauffeur, it is a devirilizing gesture that is also
germinative, since she gives anal birth to a creature, albeit somewhat
deformed (it has blue hair, gigantic earlobes, and webbed feet and hands).
This last characteristic bears an eerie resemblance to nuclear holocaust
mutations, at the same time that it refers to Yoruba traditions, where
webbed feet are a sign that a child has consumed his twin brother in the
womb. Other aspects of the description of the creature seem a composite of
Tibetan and Hindu myhthological figures. After the miraculous birth, the
Iranian disappears, his paternity vanishing with him. The hand or fist in
Sarduy: like nails driven into mkisi, like Plato’s nails of the souls—are they
instruments of ecstasy or torment, illumination or degradation, life or
death? Is it a trick to turn the void into a mirror, bursting with movement,
like the swirling hips and bodies that adorn some Buddhist temples,
literally erotic murals of the universe? Sarduy is suggestive, but offers no
sure answers. He ends the novel with these words: “Embalmed Islamic
twins: thus beneath minarets, lay the dwarf and Lady Tremendous’ anal
son, Koranic saints joined together, buried between oil wells, listening to
the sound of pigeons, their feet ciphered in gold letters. They adopted other
gods, eagles. They indulged in rites until they were bored or stupefied. To
prove the impermanence and the emptiness of everything” (Sarduy, 1995,
SEVERO SARDUY 161
pp. 272–73). It is curious that Sarduy ends the novel in Afghanistan, a sort
of gateway for the Middle East, Asia, and the furthest extensions of Europe.
A year after the novel was completed, the Soviets would invade (1979).
Again, as in many parts of the novel, East meets West, often with cata-
strophic and bloody consequences. Sarduy’s Maitreya is a relentless effort
to sift through the shards of Eastern mysticism and the ideological detritus
of the West. In the karmic tussling of his characters, and through a “prose
of intensities,” Sarduy refashions the void into a vibrant theater of signs.
Already sick with AIDS, close to the end, Sarduy wrote a series of twenty
poetic prose texts called “El estampido de la vacuidad” (The Crash of the
Void) in which he comments on St. John of the Cross. There is a quiet
transparency, of living in a divine light that’s not exempt from a feeling of
loss: “Defended, walled in by silence and solitude. Last hope: not poison
myself with remorse, desires for vengeance, anxiety about what’s left of life
or annihilation, recapitulations, or fear. Take the step forward without a
scenic stage, without pathos. In the most neutral way. Almost with calm”
(Sarduy, 1994a, p. 37). But a few paragraphs later he is in a much more
Buddhist frame of mind: “If there is no atman—being, self, individual,
soul—what can reincarnate after death? If there is no brahman—universal
soul, cosmic consciousness—what do we dissolve into? Once we make the
leap, how do we hear the crash of the void?” (Sarduy, 1994a, p. 38). Sarduy’s
mentor, Lezama, wrote his last poems in this kind of cross between Western
and Eastern mysticism. The last poem of his posthumous collection of
poetry (Fragmentos a su imán) is called “El pabellón del vacío” (The Pavilion
of the Void). Sarduy ends his meditations at home in a kind of domestic
peace or tranquility, with his library, reviewing his life, his exile, his paint-
ings, waiting for death with a quiet acceptance and beauty. You know he
wants to keep writing, but he knows that he is not Sheherezade: the game
is up. But in a way—and all throughout his work—the game was always
up, and many have pointed to his obsession with the mechanisms of writing
and death. Instead of despairing about that relationship, though, Sarduy
turned his obsession into a motive for celebration.
In one of his last poems, seven décimas called “Epitaphs,” Sarduy rhymes
tumba (tomb) with rumba (rumba) (Sarduy 1994b, p. 21). The poem contains
his baroque homoeroticism, the humor and lightness of expression that
make his words ripple and fly, the mystical void of St. John of the Cross and
Buddhism. In those mere ten lines, Sarduy brings together the three ele-
ments of the Koranic letter: the spoken form for the ear (rhyme and rumba),
the written/visual form for the eye, and the spiritual form, whose locus is
the heart. Close to death, as in life, Sarduy rendered the epiphany of the
body luminous, where the pleasure of the void meets the furious fire of the
world, echoing Lezama’s words that death “engenders us all anew.”
SEVEN
Paradigms Lost: The Manigua of

Meaning
This book began by claiming that Cuba and its history are continuously
being imagined both inside and ouside the island, by its own people and
by others. James Hillman speaks of the link between eidola, the world of
image and soul, and the underworld of skia, or shadow. Cuba’s politicians
have imagined it as a sweatshop or as utopia, both equally abstract, shad-
owy. Cuba’s artists have conjured up a magical and ancestral historical
world: ideas, dreams, figurations, representations, recollection. This Orphic
vision is made of specters, too. We think of specters as nonexistent, imma-
terial, chimeric. But just like Wifredo Lam’s figures, landscapes, and totems,
they have a presence that is corporeal, fiery, emerging from earth: appari-
tions of substance, “fleshed out” if you will. Unlike the political imagina-
tion, obsessed with control, order, and exploitation, the artists’ historical
apparitions prepare their entry in unexpected ways, like props pushed out
at the wrong time. Sent off stage, they always come back. For Lezama, it
might be the imago taking root in history, spawning imaginary eras. In
Morejón, it is the stone with its aché. Sarduy’s apparitions are the demons
of history unleashed by transculturation. In the case of Virgilio Piñera, it is
all the serfs coming back to haunt the cozy comfort of the powerful. With
Carpentier, the ghost of utopia and social redemption returns like a shim-
mering lamp. For Dulce María Loynaz, it is the house of time, with its
intimate histories. While the returning specters of these six authors are by
no means exhaustive, hovering close by, as always, is José Martí, that
apotheosized figure of Cuban letters and history, and no doubt the spec-
ter/spectrum of Fernando Ortiz: transculturation with its full range of
colors, thoughts, rhythms, images, modes of production, is a recurring

revenant (or reverie?). And always present, circling in with a swaying
embrace, is Yemayá, as fountain of life and fertility, as well as indomitable
spirit who metes out justice sternly but with fairness.
How has the Cuban Revolution dealt with these visions, dreams, and
specters, the unruly underworld of the artist’s historical imagination?
Despite its centralized state, one-party political system, and definite sense
of what constitutes its national boundaries, Cuba is a diasporic culture. It
has managed to offer its people a narrative of its nationhood based on the
conquest of dignity and social justice, from the mambises of the nineteenth
century to the anti-Machado forces in the 1930s to the July 26th Movement
that overthrew Batista. But in a vast effort to rewrite history, the Cuban
Revolution has instituted a “syntax of forgetting” (see Introduction) that is
costly and dangerous, one that has tried either to banish or domesticate the
specters mentioned. Cuba is not alone in fashioning a totalizing national
narrative, as it has tried to steer a course between utopia and tyranny. The
exile, dispersion, and displacement of more than a million of its citizens has
created a true “other,” those who would undo that syntax, counteracting
oblivion with a tenacious memory that is indispensable for the future
healing of a deeply sundered society. Cuba’s social and cultural imagination
for the the last thirty-six years has been shaped by centripetal and centrifu-
gal forces. The centripetal forces are well known: the establishment of a
revolutionary society where nation, people, and state should be one entity,
an anti-imperialism that demands complete unity and obedience, a class
solidarity that views difference and dissent as treason—in short, a road to
freedom paved with paranoia. The centrifugal forces are not obscure either:
exile, difference (sexual, class), pluralism, and distrust.
But out of these forces that tear Cuba apart or plunge it into the unknown
is the mediating influence of Cuban culture. Cuba’s artistic imagination is
based on human solidarity, not on governmental exhortation or coercion.
Its source of continuity is neither linear and unbroken, on the one hand, nor
frozen in time on the other. Its own contradictory, heterogeneous imagina-
tion is what holds hope for those who see things starkly and polarized
between paranoia and freedom, terror and dream, ideology and utopia. For,
as we shall see, ideology and utopia need each other.
Cuba remains a faded but still persistent mirage of some of our era’s most
cherished and tarnished notions: faith in progress, the goal of a classless
society, the hope of offering greater material comfort for all, the ability of a
society to regulate itself on the precepts of transparency, equality, and
rationality. Every single one of these ideas, however, is taking a beating, and
not only because of the collapse of Communism, particularly since 1989.
Brought up on the dream of the “beautiful totality,” Cuba’s young artists,
fiction writers, poets, and video/filmmakers are risking their political
safety to create new tropes that are critical of the revolution’s image of itself
PARADIGMS LOST 165
and the image it projects to the world. To the notions of a teleological course
in history they speak of plurality and difference, to the hope of greater
material wealth and technical progress they caution that this must be
accomplished soulfully. They do not hesitate to point out that the Cuban
development model is bankrupt. Instead of utopia it is heterotopia, and
when they hear words like transparency, rationality, and equality they react
a bit like Kundera, who warned that the only truly transparent society is a
police state.
If we were to adopt Lezama’s terminology, perhaps we can say that
modernity was (is) an imaginary era. Communism would be the attempt
to take modernity to its ultimate consequences, some would say to the point
of parody. Zygmunt Bauman has made this point with great eloquence and
insight:
The fall of communism was a resounding defeat for the project of total
order—an artificially designed, all-embracing arrangement of human actions
and their setting, one that follows the rules of reason instead of emerging from
diffuse and uncoordinated activities of human agents; it was also the downfall
of the grandiose dream of remaking nature—forcing it to yield ever more of
anything human satisfaction may require, while disregarding or neutralizing
such among its unplanned tendencies as could not be assigned any sensible
human benefit; it demonstrated as well the ultimate frustration of the ambi-
tions of global management, of replacing spontaneity with planning, of a
transparent, monitored, supervised and deliberately shaped order in which
nothing is left to chance and everything derives its meaning and raison d’être
from the vision of a harmonious totality. In short, the fall of communism
signalled the final retreat from the dreams and ambitions of modernity. . . .
With the fall of communism, the ghost of modernity has been exorcised.
(Bauman, 1992, pp. 178, 180)
These words point clearly to the Enlightenment dream gone amok. In many
ways capitalism embodies these same traits, but Western capitalism has
perhaps avoided the extremes of this vision by virtue of having some kind
of political democracy. However, in its third world variants, history has
offered an appalling array of examples that combine the need for control
and planning with environmental degradation, extreme inequalities of
wealth, lack of political freedom, poverty, sexism, and social violence. The
end of the so-called cold war has done little to ameliorate these deplorable
realities.
What are some of the images that characterize that “beautiful totality,”
as it was expressed in earlier and more innocent times? Bauman offers three
metaphors for the nature of the modern state pursuing this goal: (1) a
gardening state; (2) a therapeutic/surgical state; (3) a space-managing state
(ibid., p. 178). I would add two more: (4) a total visibility state; and (5) a
nontemporal state. The gardening state selects “useful plants” and “exter-
minates the useless ones.” This garden metaphor (with perhaps a sly bow
to Voltaire’s Candide) has an agricultural as well as social dimension. De-
spite the goal of remaking nature, the social process is equated with natural
ones. Even today, in our highly technical societies, a supreme compliment
is to say that someone is natural. But just as in nature there are “bad weeds,”
so too in society. Communist experiments with nature as productive unit
have been miserable, and sometimes hilarious. Cuba has been no exception,
even if it has avoided the forced collectivization and famine that took the
lives of millions in the USSR of the 1930s. The “ten million ton harvest”
planned for 1970 failed and caused an enormous disruption of the economy.
Plans to surround Havana with a coffee belt were equally futile, and a plan
to plant trees by the shores to serve as a buffer against hurricanes led to the
severe erosion of the coastline. The cruel ironies of sugar monoculture are
still felt, so admirably summed up by a landowner and economist of the
1940s. The first said, “Without sugar there is no nation”; the second,
“Because of sugar there is no nation” (as cited in Pérez-Stable, 1993, p. 14).
These statements issue a double warning, aside from the obvious point of
the dangers of monoculture: that nature can not be remade to conform to
society, nor can nature be a norm for society. And perhaps a third: if a nation
is like a being, then it is not stable, fixed, and permanent but depends on
dialogue, event, consensus, and interpretation (Vattimo, 1992, p. 11).
In the “therapeutic/surgical model,” a very defined sense of what is
acceptable is established, and deviations from the norm are pathologized,
interpreted as a sickness or a disease. The citizens of a society are at best
viewed as patients who must be tutored by their doctors (the state, the
party) toward good health. As bourgeois society and capitalism are viewed
as a sickness, the population under socialism and eventually Communism
must transcend this ailment. Perhaps this explains socialism’s obsession
with athletic prowess, sports training, healthiness, and cleanliness. Under
(over?) this biological determinism, of course, is an ideological message.
Communism is capable of producing faster, higher-jumping, and better
physical specimens than its capitalist counterparts. Curiously, it seems to
mirror the productivist ethic of capitalism and its ever-growing prolifera-
tion of material goods. But as history showed, even though Communism
was quite successful in producing high-quality athletes, it was clearly
outmatched in the area of consumer goods. In both the remaking of nature
and the building of a “healthy” society, Cubans have rallied around centu-
ries-old calls to duty, heroism, and sacrifice which will be discussed more
in depth when we examine Cuba’s four codes of political discourse.
The space-managing state refers more to landscape and architecture, a
model of creating and distributing space that views territory as a wasteland
to be sculpted by a “unifying, homogenizing principle of harmony” (Bau-
man, 1992, p. 179). A Soviet book from the 1960s describes the NUS (New
Units of Settlement) in terms of grids featuring three complexes: the resi-
PARADIGMS LOST 167
dential, the research, and the industrial (Baburov, 1970). It clearly is an

improvement over the neo-classical Stalinist architecture of previous dec-
ades, but it still reflects the totalizing impulse to order everything: produc-
tion, nature, education, and culture. Cuba made similar experiments in
trying to close the gap between country and city, so central to the philoso-
phy of Communism. In some cases the efforts were successful; in many they
were not, and they came at the expense of letting major cities (Havana,
Santiago, Matanzas, Cienfuegos) decay, in terms of buildings, infrastruc-
ture, and historical edifices.
More important is how Cuban Communism tried to erect a total visibility
state, a transparent society. This transparency has several dimensions. The
first is the visibility of the source of power in a revolutionary society: the
maximum leader. It is easy to regard this fact as an example of mere tyranny
and move on. But the ubiquity (and omnipotence) of the leader serves to
embody the unity of the people, the representation of the general will. For
Fidel as maximum leader, a most significant function is to ensure that the
visibility works both ways. It is not only Cubans who see the leader, but the
leader (party, state, etc.) who sees them. Recall that when Fidel launched
the CDRs (Committees for the Defense of the Revolution), created in the
wake of an attempted coup (and a U.S. economic embargo), he told the
millions assembled that he needed the Cuban people to become the protec-
tors of the revolution, its eyes and ears. This visibility of each citizen, this
transparency of a person’s motives into the public light, creates a kind of a
universality of the confessional mode. Bad weeds and sickness must be
rooted out, counterrevolutionaries and hypocrites must be exposed. Build-
ing on the Catholic tradition of confession and Afro-Caribbean modes of
sociability, the Cuban Revolution created its own instrument to keep the
visibility always present: the CDRs. They are on every block of the country
and are responsible for “antisocial behavior,” criminal activity, and political
dissidence. They make sure people do “voluntary labor,” go to political
rallies or meetings, do night watch, and so forth. To their credit, the CDRs
do valuable work related to health care, construction, and other civic
projects. Their efficiency has brought about, however, the opposite of what
was sought: their attempt to enforce total transparency has created a total
split between public life and private behavior, unleashing the hypocrisy it
claims to eradicate.
The fifth image, the nontemporal state, sounds contradictory. Revolu-
tions are constantly claiming to be historical phenomena, issuing in a new
secular order. The linear logic of revolutions seems to make them totally
time-bound, keeping them always on the move. But time has a peculiar
relation to politics. Regis Debray said that “time is to politics what space is
to geometry,” especially if we understand it to be modern, non-Euclidean
geometry. In times of crisis, political time moves fast; so, for example, in a
month of revolution we might learn more about a society than in years of
status quo. In Cuba the political time moved fast in the 1960s, but clearly it
has slowed down. This is not only due to an institutionalization of the
revolution, but to the general orientation of socialist societies: they are
always geared toward the utopian future. As a result, they are impatient
with the present and undervalue the past. They compensate in a voluntarist
fury by pressing harder for the future, the upshot being that they freeze
time. This is reinforced by a scientific ideology, a blind faith in progress, a
thirst for destiny and a one-party state. E. R. Cioran reminds us of the words
of Seneca: “The life of the insane is sad, agitated, because it’s always
oriented toward the future.” Communist history carries some of that same
madness, as in the Cuban Communist Party’s slogan for its First Congress
(1975) which stated, “Human beings die; only the Party is eternal.”
As contradictory as it seems, nothing illustrates this better than the
communist mausoleums of their great leaders: Lenin, Stalin, Mao, Ho Chi
Minh, Kim Il Sung. Despite visual proof of mortality, it is as if the leader’s
dead body were the embodiment of the Party’s eternal power. The social
body, the body of doctrine, the collective body of the Party must never be
allowed to decay, become “corrupt.” The mausoleum itself seems to indi-
cate its triumph over nature: its immobility, its “sacred” dimension be-
speaks perfection. In these images all the models we have spoken of come
together: nature, architecture/space, medical-therapeutic, visibility, and
time. The “beautiful sickness” of revolution has become the “beautiful
totality” of utopia in the form of a dead body, the corpse of paradigms lost.
In their intense questioning of established truths, Cubans are critically
redefining many terms: nation, history, class, cubanía (Cubanness), race, and
the relationship between art and politics. On the issue of cubanía, one of the
tenets of the Cuban Revolution is being either discarded or substantially
revised: that one must be on the island to preserve one’s Cubanness. By
extension, this tenet apparently holds true for Cuban art (and its artists),
which is one of the most unfortunate and myopic consequences of the
Cuban Revolution, as well as being historically ungrounded. Some of the
greatest examples of Cuban art were created in exile: José María Heredia
(1803–39), José Martí (1853–95), and the composer Ignacio Cervantes (1847–
1905) are some of the prime examples in the nineteenth century. In the
twentieth, Alejo Carpentier, Nicolás Guillén, Lydia Cabrera, Reinaldo Are-
nas, and Severo Sarduy are among the best-known examples, not to men-
tion a series of Cuban-American artists who have flourished in exile, for
example, Cristina García, Elías Miguel Muñoz, José Kozer, and Dolores
Prida. At the crudest level, for example, this tenet concerning cubanía meant
that if an anthology of Cuban literature was being edited, and a writer had
left the island and was anywhere from indifferent to hostile to the revolu-
tion, s/he was not included in the book. After 1960, writers like Guillermo
Cabrera Infante, Lino Novás Calvo, Lydia Cabrera, Enrique Labrador Ruiz,
and Gastón Baquero would not be selected. After 1980 the list grew longer:
PARADIGMS LOST 169
Heberto Padilla, Reinaldo Arenas, Antonio Benítez Rojo, José Triana, Jesús
Díaz and many more. In the last few years, since 1989 and 1990, some
attempts have been made at discussing and even publishing authors who
had left the island, such as Lydia Cabrera, Jorge Mañach, and Lino Novás
Calvo. But it is still far from being enough: Cabrera Infante and Arenas are
still considered taboo. Sarduy is viewed more favorably, although it is
doubtful that his work will be published in Cuba any time soon. And even
more troubling is the state of the Cuban economy and the cost of imported
books, which makes it extremely difficult for Cubans to purchase books
unless produced locally.
Likewise, Cubans who fled the island adopted an equally defensive
attitude to the utopian vision of Communism, which they defined as merely
tyrannical. Some retreated into nostalgia, clinging to a pre-1959 Cuban
society and culture, which they viewed as authentic and as now being
destroyed by an atheistic and communist revolution. Others simply tried
to fit in wherever they went, and left their cubanía if not behind, at least on
hold. But many Cubans who came of age in exile in other countries viewed
things differently. Cubans in the United States, for example, began to
question their identity and culture vis-à-vis an Anglo culture with which
they were familiar but which somehow did not satisfy a lingering sense of
longing for knowledge of the island. This generation, growing up away
from the island, yet saturated with its parents’ mythic nostalgia and unre-
mitting political rage, also began exploring why Cuba went through a
revolution, a questioning aided by the context of the 1960s and the Vietnam
War. They felt cut off from their Cuban heritage and experienced that
separation as a terrible loss, both personally and politically. No doubt this
was reinforced by the fact that from 1959 to 1977 no Cuban who had left the
island had returned. Some Cuban writers and artists did go back to Cuba,
seeking to build bridges, people such as Lourdes Casal and Ana Mendieta,
or members of the Antonio Maceo Brigade (AMB). However courageous
and welcomed these efforts were, they were still initiatives by individuals,
except for the brigade. The AMB did require, however, a high degree of
identification with the Cuban Revolution, even if it was critical of individ-
ual Cuban governmental policies. All of these efforts, both individual and
organizational, were subject to the whims of the Cuban and U.S. govern-
ments. If relations were strained, it was almost impossible to travel to the
island.
A more recent effort to build bridges between Cuban artists, intellectuals,
writers, historians, and thinkers bore some fruit, in a double issue of the
Michigan Quarterly Review (MQR, summer and fall 1994 issues, reprinted in
book form in 1995). For the first time since the revolution, a Cuban writers’
publication included a roughly even breakdown: half the contributors were
in exile, the other half from the island. This is not meant to belittle previous
efforts, as in the case of Edmundo Desnoes’s Los dispositivos de la flor (1981).
But the double MQR issue, appropriately titled Bridges to Cuba/Puentes a

Cuba, went far beyond the Desnoes effort because it included a much wider
spectrum of political, historical, and cultural opinion. Edited by Ruth Behar,
anthropologist, poet, and writer, it is an exciting compendium of essays,
poems, fiction, personal narrative, memoirs, criticism, and artwork. Behar
states in her introduction:
In this second number, we extend the notion of the bridge beyond the
relationship between Cuba and its post-revolutionary diaspora. In my intro-
duction to the first number, I was only able to allude to the way syncretism,
transculturation, and diaspora are deeply embedded in the Cuban sense of
identity. Here the complex hybridness of Cuban culture is explored in greater
depth and in a variety of exciting and original bridgings. Rather than starting
from the assumption of Cubanness as a given, the aim is to unpack the layers
of meaning which are crammed into that bulging suitcase. (Behar, 1994b, pp.
639–40)
How do you begin to unpack such an overstuffed suitcase? In continuing

to explore contemporary cubanía, we concur with Behar’s assumption that
it is not a given, but instead a historical construct which must include both
imagined islands.
Transculturation and syncretism are still the Cuban people’s creative
response to diaspora, now encompassing an increasingly dispersed and
disseminated Cuban identity. Cubanía is intimately related to Cuban nation-
alism, and its history is long and complex, beyond the scope of this discus-
sion. This nationalism has been expressed at many different times and with
varying degrees of virulence. As a colonial subject of Spain in the nineteenth
century, it was put forth by many who wanted the island to become an
independent republic: Céspedes, Agramonte, Gómez, Maceo, Martí, to
name only the best known. As a U.S. proctorate under the Platt Amendment
(1902–34), Cuba was nominally an independent country but still subjected
to the whims of U.S. policy. Its nationalism was redefined again after 1959,
wedded to a project of modernization and liberation. It also became radi-
cally internationalist, tacitly recognizing the limitations of the Stalinist view
that revolutionary socialism in one country (particularly in Latin America,
so close to the United States) would not work. This outlook involved Cuba
in guerrilla struggles in Latin America, Africa, and Asia (primarily Viet-
nam). This radical internationalist nationalism had a price, which was
dependency on the Soviet Union. And so in the 1990s Cuba has again had
to redefine its nationalist ethos within a post–cold war climate. It probably
awaits another redefinition when it comes to terms with the diasporic
reality it helped create: nearly two million Cubans who are now living
abroad.
It is fashionable nowadays to bash nationalism and claim in our post-
modern times that it is part of our modernist past, one of the grand
PARADIGMS LOST 171
narratives we can dispose of, like truth, metaphysics, and religion. But it is
not quite so simple. Are small, poor, underdeveloped countries and their
nationalistic impulses always to be criticized because of what we see
happening in Bosnia or the recent war between Iran and Iraq? Cuban
nationalism, even given its excesses, has never showed itself as chauvinistic,
or with imperial or expansionist pretentions. Far more significant is to see
how that nationalism has been embedded within a political logic that has
shown remarkable consistency.
Nelson Valdés has incisively commented on recurring themes of Cuban
political discourse, which have dominated social thought on the island for
at least the last two centuries. He speaks of four codes: (1) the generational;
(2) morality and idealism as a lever of conduct; (3) betrayal and treason as
an ever-present danger; and (4) the duty-death imperative (sacrifice and
martyrdom). The generational code speaks to youth as renovator/innova-
tor of society, taking over from the older generation, whose ideas have
become stagnant, corrupt, or decadent, this latter word being laden with
heavy ideological baggage. But to speak of youth as “regenerating” society
is to use biological metaphors, a common enough ocurrence. It also draws
on family metaphors, and this convergence of society and family equally
conjures up the analogy of leadership of a generation (equals head of
family) with the usual paternalistic connotations. The underlying assump-
tion of generational metaphors, despite the differences and conflict to which
they allude, is that we are a big happy family, one preferably headed by a
stern father. Cuban patriarchal mores have continued throughout the revo-
lutionary period (some would say they have been exacerbated) and are
echoed by the following comment by Raúl Castro, head of the armed forces,
when referring to his brother: “Fidel is our father, and father of the Revolu-
tion.” In this context, the word affiliation takes on enormous (if not ominous)
resonance. To become affiliated with the revolution (the Party, Marxism) is
a filial relationship, to history and to the ruler. To affiliate is to be a member
of a group, to trace an origin. This corporeal identity (biologistic, if you will)
evokes the body politic, which is headed by a person who is the literal
embodiment of power. This literality is closely intertwined with the visibil-
ity, transparency, and power mentioned earlier. There is nothing new in this,
as it goes back to Christian theology, as well as medieval political theory
about kings and their power (Ernst Kantorowicz’s the king’s “two bodies”:
individual and collective, mortal and immortal, worldly and divine). What
is perhaps novel in modernity is how this concept has been recycled in
twentieth-century autocratic and totalitarian regimes, using the mass me-
dia and other manipulative though noncoercive systems of persuasion to
project and display a visibility of that body that is not only ubiquitous, but
all-powerful. (And, of course, when persuasion fails there are more coercive
ways to enforce this visibility.) It literally occupies not only a real social
space, but an imaginary social space which can only be described as mythic
as Lévi-Strauss spoke of myth (and more recently, music), as not only an

obliteration of time, but as possessing a power that encompasses the totality
of being.
It is precisely this double body of power that Virgilio Piñera so scathingly
exposes in his story “The Dummy.” Indeed, one could say that the four
codes outlined by Valdés have received the most implacable criticism from
his work. In one story, which reads as a savage parody of the “martyrdom-
sacrifice” code, Piñera borders on the unthinkable: the narrator defends the
eating of babies as a patriotic act, since in this fashion they will not be
butchered in war.
Valdés speaks of the generational code as leading to a kind of subjectiv-
ism, making Cuban thinkers ignore the material and social consequences
that come to bear on political circumstances. This “emotionalism,” what
writer Rolando Sánchez Mejías would refer to as the “epico-sentimental
guild,” has a Rousseau-ish hue to it. While most Cubans may not have read
Rousseau, some of Rousseau’s imagery has made its way down through
Martí. According to Rousseau, the heart was the source of virtue. This can
be extraordinarily problematic, if it is linked to the notion of general will,
or the will of the people. Rousseau used the image of the multitude united
in one body to express that general will, and Robespierre brought it to its
bloodiest consequences. This definition of the will of the people means that
the collective will of society will always be in conflict with individual
passions because the latter are an expression of egotism, not virtue. Rous-
seau spoke of the âme dechirée (a divided soul) to speak of the tension
between private passion and public virtue. Robespierre introduced this
divided soul into the political sphere with a goal of total visibility. Hannah
Arendt sums it up: “Robespierre and his followers, once they had equated
virtue with qualities of the heart, see intrigue and calumny, treachery and
hypocrisy everywhere” (Arendt, 1963, p. 96). But as Robespierre himself
said: “The hunt for hypocrites is boundless and can produce nothing but
demoralization” (ibid., p. 97). In Cuban terms, we could say that the search
for counterrevolutionaries is endless, since everyone is capable of betraying
the revolution.
Robespierre’s tragic moral dilemma dovetails with Valdés’s third theme
of betrayal and treason. This logic of pure political commitment, building
el hombre nuevo (the new man), pure of mind and heart, puts an enormous
strain on Cuban political discourse: “The right of different political perspec-
tives to be clearly in competition with one another has not won acceptance
in Cuban politics. Like other social relations, politics seems to be based on
a total, complete and absolute loyalty—towards an individual or a group
of ‘moral’ norms. Politics, then, requires unconditional loyalty, confidence,
and faith” (Valdés in Rodríguez Beroff, 1995, p. 149). Again, this treasonous
motif is closely linked to generational/family metaphors and provides
constant nourishment for the passion to create regimes of total visibility, in
PARADIGMS LOST 173
which the revolutionary sun casts no shadow where treasonous doubt can
hide. Newer voices, however, are suggesting that this kind of family is
dysfunctional at best, if not pernicious for the political health of a nation.
Valdés’s other two themes can be summed up under the notion of
heroism (morality-voluntarism and duty-death). I have often suggested
that the time for heroes in Cuban history is over and have evoked that wily
old Communist Bertolt Brecht himself, in his play Galileo, who when
hearing the lament that sad is the country without heroes, retorts, “Sad is
the country that needs heroes.” I am not alone in voicing this opinion: Coco
Fusco, Nena Torres, Ruth Behar, and others of our generation in exile have
also expressed themselves in a similar vein. (I am not saying that Cubans
cannot perform “heroic” deeds; but from that to “being a hero” is a large
step, one as far as going from history to myth.) However, no one has
expressed the danger of the hero with the devastating eloquence of Elías
Miguel Muñoz in his poem “Los vaticinios” (Prophecies):
I dislike people who predict the future,

who announce catastrophes and miracles.
Indolent sorcerers who claim they can invent
tomorrow. I am not speaking of those
who have no choice but to write.
I’m referring to those other wizards:
those who predict without thinking,
who rely solely on their clairvoyance.
A sorcerer once told me of an exodus
that would become my sustenance.
He offered details of my future routines.
Calm and collected, highly informative,
he described a fall, a bottomless pit,
a bedroom-turned-theater with no exit.
He showed me the exciting fucks
but didn’t let me see the silences,
the betrayals.
A kinder one took me by the hand.
And stroking me as though I were his cat,
he foretold this moment when,
exhausted, skeptical but lucid,
I try to remember all the prophecies.
And I still wonder, as I face the deeds
that haven’t yet been written,
if postponing myself is worth the pain.
“Too soon to wonder about that,” says the prophet.
“Most of you poets think you’re so unique,”
he adds reproachfully.
“You boast about your sacrifices:
how one must defer the meaning of one’s life

for the sake of artistic vision.
What snobbery, what dreams of grandeur!
If you were real, you would face up to reality.
You wouldn’t turn to words after each blow.”
And without putting on airs
or hiding behind poetic proclamations
(most of which are worthless),
I confess to him that when it comes to heroism,
I consider myself rather small.
You see, I know the meaning of my writing:
it’s home (a common place),
a bed (because poetry has never betrayed me),
my daily bread (a half-baked motif).
My justification.
Meanwhile,
what truths are the wizards announcing?
That a plague will devastate the Earth
and then a flood shall cleanse us;
that we will shed our skins, gradually;
that we will lose our voices,
our eyes, our sex.
So we can be reborn with skins of steel,
with robot voices,
with eyes only for numbers.
Born again with larger-than-life cocks.
(The “weak” genders won’t survive the deluge.)
Not coral skin
(because we won’t be like the sea).
Not a free voice (a myth that has
nothing to do with Defense).
But a new vision:
that of a warrior, a cybernerd,
a talk-show-host, a yuppie, a dink,
an actor, a liar, a thief.
Let it be known that I do not believe
in prophecies.
(Muñoz, 1989, pp. 53–54; trans. Muñoz)
Muñoz’s poem, with its savage humor, goes to the heart of what was
previously mentioned about socialism’s madness of always living in the
future. He debunks the utopian vision which promises all the excitement
but says nothing of “the silences, /the betrayals.” But the poem does much
more than that, creatively riding the line between ideology and utopia,
showing how they feed on each other. If ideology is the gap that must be
filled between the claims that a society makes and the beliefs of its citizens,
PARADIGMS LOST 175
then ideology, aside from a distorting function, has an important goal of

preservation and identity (of a nation, a class). But there are moments when
that order (which ideology has put forth or narrated) seems inadequate,
even fleeting. That is where utopian thinking can move societies forward,
by offering alternatives, by at least advancing an ideal, no matter how
unattainable; because, as Paul Ricoeur says, “A society without utopia
would be dead, because it would no longer have any project, any prospec-
tive goals” (Ricoeur, 1986, p. xxi). Muñoz’s poem evokes the stark reality of
our condition—an unshakable contingency—but assumes it with a kind of
restless patience. If utopia seems to foresee the future with unambiguous
clarity, then “history that can be foreseen is no longer history” (Heller, 1993,
p. 51). Instead it has become prophecy. By rejecting utopia as prophecy, the
poet is closer to Richard Kearney’s definition of the utopic: “The utopian
horizons of social imagination are open-ended goals which motivate a free
variation of possible worlds. They are not pre-established goals or prede-
termined. They are tentative, provisional, fragile. The universality of the
u-topos derives from the fact that it is the possession of no one and the
possibility of everyone” (Kearney, 1991, p. 219).
Muñoz is able to speak of betrayals and silences so convincingly because
he shared that vision of the “beautiful totality.” Equally poignant is his
understanding of poetry and its relationship to politics, but without belit-
tling it (by placing it beneath social concerns) or inflating it through a kind
of art-is-all narcissism. Kant equated poetry with the productive imagina-
tion (to some degree, then, utopic) as opposed to a merely reproductive
imagination (ideology). The poem, or the work of art, is utopian not because
it offers a detailed blueprint of a perfect society, but because it allows us a
perspective to see the poverty of the given; it is disruptive, a breaking
through of reality (Ricoeur, 1986). This breaking through is a recreation of
reality; it helps us think from somewhere else, creating a sacred site (sight?)
for new understanding.
But in his poem Muñoz is equally sanguine about capitalism’s promise
of a bigger, better, and more efficient future, mostly through the promise of
technology and science. His lucidity and caution still leave a door open for
future visions and alternatives, but they will no longer be bought at the
price of collective constraint or a rampant individualism that reinforces
conformity. There is a fleeting vision of hope by subtraction, by not giving
into the seduction of false redemption. In Greek, apocalypse means “reve-
lation.” Muñoz suggests that revelation can happen without one’s having
to be “burnt by the sun.”
One of the silences Muñoz speaks of has been the voice and power of
women and their role in Cuban history. This will constitute one of the
thoroughly new aspects of Cuba’s future, with its own tropes and its own
confrontation with ideological and utopian thinking. Can we speak about
a “women’s time” for Cuba? What might that be like? Julia Kristeva, in her
essay “Women’s Time,” speaks about a concept of nation that now seems
to be outdated, one characterized by economic homogeneity, historical
tradition, and linguistic unity. All of these criteria have been opened up by
economic interdependence as well as a symbolic complexity in terms of
tradition and language. In Cuba’s case the economic interdependence has
always had an element of dependence on colonial or foreign powers (Spain,
the United States, the USSR). Cuba’s linguistic unity is changing with its
diasporic culture that is also writing, thinking, and expressing itself in
English. It is no longer acceptable, if it ever was, to assume that the work
of Cristina García, Oscar Hijuelos, Robert G. Fernández, Elías Miguel
Muñoz, or Carmelita Tropicana is any less Cuban by being in English. The
historical tradition is also being pluralized, made more inclusive by those
who have not previously spoken or have been completely marginalized
(women, gays, war veterans, Afro-Cubans).
Kristeva also speaks of temporality in terms of gender, with linear,
progressive time, defined by productivity and obsessiveness with conquer-
ing and power, as male-oriented. She evokes Nietzsche’s distinction be-
tween cursive (linear) and monumental time, which transcends national
boundaries, linking up with a wider temporal dimension akin to Lezama’s
imaginary eras. Monumental time is either cyclical or biologistic, and some
feminists have tried to draw a positive source of strength from this kind of
time without turning women into a kind of archetype, devoid of historicity.
Too often, Cuban history, its national symbols, its goals, have been defined
in cursive time, as an airtight tradition or as prophecy. Some of the chapters
of this book have been dedicated to exploring a historicized version of this
monumental time, particularly the ones on Nancy Morejón and Dulce
María Loynaz (and to a lesser extent Lezama and Sarduy). Will this “new
time” (women’s and beyond) speak of jouissance, create and describe new
forms of power, propose a new way of valuing intersubjectivity, move away
from models of domination and mastery, view human development as a
dialectic of autonomy and mutuality? Possibly, and some of the writers in
this book either directly or indirectly suggest these possibilities for an
imagined Cuban future.
In the chapter on Morejón I spoke of the manigua, the Taíno word
referring to a place with dense vegetation, consisting of shrubs, bushes, and
lianas. The manigua is a landscape where there was a “natural profusion of
confusion,” a locus of escape from oppression and a new spot from which
to begin a life of freedom. If we compare it to the colonial model of the
square with a plaza and its important buildings (symbolically and politi-
cally), perhaps the manigua will seem chaotic. But it is not; instead it is a
more flexible place than the plaza, one that must be both respected as it is,
but also shaped for its new purposes of freedom. It is a signifying space as
well, which, if indicative of monumental time, does not need everlasting
monuments. Ultimately, it is a manigua of meaning, where the goals, iden-
PARADIGMS LOST 177
tity, and images of Cuban history will be interpreted and contested—and

peopled with the figuras to be fulfilled in the future, as mentioned in the
discussion of Lezama. This manigua, with its delicate and intricate ecology,
is not being opposed to the city or constructed environments. Traditionalists
will perhaps see the manigua as an Arcadian retreat, revolutionary modern-
ists as a guerrilla foco, and postmodernists would liken it to a rhizome. But
actually the vision being proposed is more modest. It is closer to how Leszek
Kolakowski sees the cultural role of philosophy, not as something that
delivers or possesses the truth, but as a quest for truth, a quest that allows
us to “build the spirit of truth, and this means to never let the inquisitive
energy of mind go to sleep, never to stop questioning what appears to be
obvious and definitive. . . . Philosophers neither sow nor harvest, they only
move the soil” (Kolakowski, 1990, p. 135). This moving of soil is not
busywork: by allowing the soil to breathe, we find old roots that needed to
be unearthed and new ones that will be discovered.
We are not opposing “natural” to “artificial,” or nature and society.
Lezama, Morejón, and Loynaz have shown us that that kind of thinking is
limited and superficial in understanding Cuban history and culture. In-
stead it speaks to the paths that have already been taken in the course of
Cuban history, as well as the many that still beckon in the future. In that
quilt of possibilities we can visualize that homecoming through otherness,
best nurtured by the watchful eyes of Elegguá (Eshu), as Nancy Morejón
reminds us. Orisha of the crossroads, at the intersection of different times,
the plurality of his aché is also a paradigm of different perspectives and
visions, and holds the key of our potentialities. Also a trickster, with a
penchant for mendacity, he ultimately gives his life by telling the truth. As
Robert Farris Thompson reminds us: “Eshu the prince devoured the truth
by lying, never sacrificing, heedless of the damage done, and paid for his
arrogance, when he finally told the truth, by dying. Thus in the Afro-Cuban
myth Eshu devours himself but once again returns when proper sacrifice,
centered upon a piece of stone, is made. The story of Eshu is an intricate
retelling of the Yoruba belief that the highest form of morality is sharing
and generosity—the strongest talisman to hold against jealousy”
(Thompson, 1984, p. 22). The manigua, then, is a locus of questioning and
where knowledge takes root (literally, sometimes), the breaking of new
ground for different kinds of production: economic, social, symbolic, nu-
minous. The manigua presents a thicket where meaning runs deep and
where history can be swallowed whole, to be brought back by a propitiation
that must be made of contingency, myth, generosity, memory, and meta-
phor.
Let us recollect some final images of that manigua. First, in the spirit of
knowledge through otherness, we turn to one that is geographically far
away. The beginning of Wagner’s Twilight of the Gods, the fourth and last
opera of his Ring Cycle, features three Norns handling the chord of destiny,
with which they weave time. They are the daughters of Erda, goddess of
wisdom and the earth, and represent the past, the present, and the future.
They surround the Yggdrasil, the World Ash Tree, quite withered. From the
tree a fountain streamed forth, that of wisdom. They yearn for a lost
harmony, brought about by Wotan’s actions. In order to obtain wisdom he
gave up the use of one eye. In addition, Wotan took a piece of the tree to
make a spear on which he inscribed the laws and from which he derived
the power to rule. But that caused the tree to lose its power and dry up the
fountain of wisdom. As the Norns try to wrap the chord or rope around the
rocks, it snaps or breaks. Finally, in despair, they return to Erda and sink
into the earth. A Jungian interpretation will, of course, point out that
Wotan’s ignorance of the earth’s wisdom is also a repression of the feminine,
of his anima, and ultimately a destructive act. This is borne out by the
opera’s end where Wotan and Valhalla perish in flames, as the sacrificial act
for a new beginning.
It would be tempting and perhaps too easy to read a literal meaning of
this ending of the Ring Cycle into current Cuban history. Instead, in the
spirit of Fernando Ortiz, and seeking in the dying tree from the Old World
the inventiveness of the New, I would instead offer the following counter-
point: there is a knowledge, a subjectivity, and a history embedded in
Cuba’s official history that is being explored and has not fully blossomed—
that of women, of gays and lesbians, war veterans, and Afro-Cubans. That
knowledge is very close to the poetics described by Gaston Bachelard in the
epigraph at the beginning of this book: “We are never real historians, but
always near poets, and our emotion is perhaps nothing but an expression
of poetry that was lost.” It also derives from our understanding of air,
water, and earth as a constant, renewable source of knowledge (a manigua).
Consider Bachelard’s words on roots and trees:
As a dynamic image, the roots assume the most diverse powers. It is both a
sustaining force and a terebrant force. At the border of two worlds, the air
and the earth, the image of the root is animated paradoxically in two direc-
tions, depending on whether we dream of a root bearing to heaven the juices
of the earth, or of a root going to work among the dead, for the dead. . . . A
root is always a discovery. . . . The tree is everywhere at once. The old root—in
the imagination there are no young roots—will produce a new flower. The
imagination is a tree. It has the integrative virtues of a tree. It is root and
boughs. It lives between earth and sky. It lives in the earth and in the wind.
The imagined tree becomes imperceptibly the cosmological tree, the tree
which epitomizes a universe, which makes a universe. (Bachelard, 1987, pp.
84, 85)
This description of the tree and its analogy to the imagination has a
suggestive correspondence with the ceiba tree in Cuba, another New World
symbol with ancient configurations. The ceiba is considered sacred by
PARADIGMS LOST 179
whites, blacks, santeros (or not), as well as the Chinese. Humans are not
supposed to cut the tree down without making the proper offerings. The
ceiba is so sturdy that neither lightning nor hurricanes are capable of
destroying it (Cabrera, 1992, p. 149). It is sacred in the Afro-Cuban tradition
of Santería, being both a life force and containing the souls of the dead as
well. It is known as the Mother Ceiba and referred to as the tree of the Virgin
Mary. Lezama refers to it in La expresión americana, along with the ombú tree
as a historical tree.
In rewriting Wagner’s scene for three Antillean Norns born in Cuba, we
can invoke Yemayá, Oshún, and Oyá, the three great female orishas of
Santería, who rule over the Cuban psyche: Yemayá, who gave birth to the
river, the orishas, and all that lives; Oshún, Yemayá’s sister, orisha of love,
celebration, sensuality; and Oyá, impetuous and sometimes violent, who
rules over lightning, the winds and storms, as well as cemeteries. She helped
Changó escape from jail and often accompanied him in battle. These three
orishas guard the ceiba tree and make not only the dead speak, but the living
as well. Like the three Norns who thread time and its roads, they invoke
Elegguá.
Maybe the three Norns—but much more so Yemayá, Oshún, and Oyá—
seem to come together in Carmelita Tropicana’s performance piece Milk of
Amnesia, which is a kind of ongoing conversation with Cuban history’s
dead and living spirits as she painfully reconstructs the memories shattered
by exile. She crosses genders and borders in a kind of exorcism which is
always mixed with Cuban choteo (poking fun) par excellence, as if to
exemplify Gianni Vattimo’s idea of freedom “as a continual oscillation
between belonging and disorientation.” This is hilariously evoked in two
different episodes, one in which she becomes a horse during colonial times,
another when she turns into a pig during the current “Special Period.” As
if turning Lezama’s “animistic (and animalistic?) counterpoint” inside out,
Carmelita’s memory trances evoke the pain of the “syntax of forgetting,”
but with enormous humor and compassion. The horse complains of having
the hairs of his tail used to make shirts, but these humiliations are small
compared to the genocide of the indigenous population that he has wit-
nessed. The pig remembers having a family photograph taken with a
baseball cap on, an innocent foretaste of his ultimate fate as a lechón asado,
or a roast pork sandwich. At one point Carmelita shadowboxes with a
strung-up pig figure, a rich metaphor for the demons and passions of
history that always seem to elude our grasp.
Carmelita’s oscillation between belonging and disorientation is transla-
tion in overdrive, as if to say, “there are no facts, only interpretations.” She
seems constantly to question from where she speaks: here, there, nowhere,
from women’s time, queer time? Perhaps she is a figura under the shade of
a ceiba tree, traversing the manigua of meaning, knowing that more than a
journey, or a path, it is a bridge to the past that must be constantly
reinvented, so that history will not be “the most dangerous product evolved
from the chemistry of the intellect.” If the path or the bridge is to speak to
the future (or in the future), it must embrace tropes that fashion the act of
tolerance “that creates the imaginative province where no one owns the
truth and everyone has the right to be understood.”
CODA
Living Tropes, Living Hopes
I, too, am a living trope of Cuban history. As a writer, I have sought to create

my own “open gnostic space” or manigua. As in Bachelard’s root and tree
imagery, there is a vertical flowering toward heaven and a seeping into the
earth to “work among the dead.” Perhaps the space should be called the
“tree of tangled destinies,” one that spans three homelands (Cuba, Puerto
Rico, the United States), two languages, and as many mytho-aesthetic
realms as there are continents. At our first of many stops, in Houston, Texas,
I lost my Spanish, which was a way of losing my history, my sense of
cubanidad. If, as George Steiner said, “History, in the human sense, is a
language net cast backwards,” by “rediscovering” my Spanish, language
then became a way of re-collecting history, allowing me truly to inhabit my
past and my future. I now write poetry and fiction primarily in Spanish,
and journalism, essays, personal narrative, and criticism in both languages.
Each medium offers a containment for the tension of its unifying metaphors
in a different way. While for Lezama the symbolic generativity of the
“animistic counterpoint” offered a method for historical interpretation, for
me the dialectics of lost and found language, nation, and history have
become a strategy for survival.
The island’s history is my family’s history, first in my grandparents’
generation as immigrants to the island, later as exiles after the revolution.
As a child of almost six, I witnessed the entry of Fidel Castro into Havana,
interpreted by almost everyone as an omen of hope. I also saw the hope
turn to frustration, bitterness, and rage. And later, in exile, while sympa-
thetic to many of the revolution’s aims, I also witnessed the terrible pain of
separated families, cold war rigidities from both sides of the Florida straits,
and a sense of loss aggravated by so many missed opportunities. As
tempting as it was to forget, it was an impossible task for any considerable
stretch of time. Cuba’s presence is overwhelming: the island will not let you
forget. I would not go so far as to describe myself as being tattooed by
history, like Cuban poet and fiction writer Rolando Sanchez-Mejías, but at
the same time Cuba has exerted a pull that is dangerously close to being an
obsession.
In the previous chapter I analyzed a poem by Elías Miguel Muñoz,
“Prophecies,” from his book No fue posible el sol (It Wasn’t Possible to Have
the Sun). There is an affinity between Muñoz’s poem and a recent text I
wrote about Cuban music. Written for a Cuban magazine published in
Madrid while I was in the midst of preparing this manuscript, it offers a
deconstruction of the hero in the spirit of Sarduy’s notion of transcultura-
tion as cross-dressing. The translation is a free one, trying to echo some of
the wordplay found in the original Spanish.
“Island Arias: La política e mobile”

One of the first Cuban operas was titled “The Devil Contrabandist (Smuggler),”
from 1840. Prophetic because you have to be a little of both to survive on the
island during what is euphemistically called the “special period.” But let’s
follow the example of Saumell (and his unstaged opera Antonelli) and propose
a current-imaginary opera; one we can cull from Beethoven (at least the
name): Fidelio. Maybe we can bring it up to date and call it Fides Fiddles with
History. A rescue opera no doubt. Besides, we can build on a Cuban tradition
of transvestism: remember that Leonor (in the Beethoven opera) dresses as a
man, going under the name of Fidelio, to rescue her imprisoned husband
Florestan. I nominate Reinaldo Arenas as the central character, dressed as
Obatalá. Why not? His Color of Summer reads like a libretto for an opera, and
the sheer (and queer) quantity of characters, choruses and extreme liberties
taken with believability put it on the Pharaonic scale of Aida. Arenas imper-
sonates Fidel in order to rescue his jailed lover (called Rococo), who is a jaguar
that during the day looks like Lezama and at night like Virgilio. The prison
is built in the form of a pineapple. But, as chance would have it, the head of
state visits the prison that day, bringing about the encounter of the two Fidels.
Naturally, each accuses the other of being an impostor. Who is more faithful
(or is it fi(s)tful)? A judge is needed to ascertain the highest degree of fidelity:
Raúl Castro is brought forth, dressed as vedette Rita Montaner. With a Wag-
nerian touch, the two sing arias longer than El Comandante’s speeches,
leaving the audience and the other characters in a deep sleep. With the
somnolent air still heavy with snoring bodies, a ghost appears à la Macbeth:
General Ochoa. Like a bolt, he strikes Fidel with a blow of his machete, surer
than the aim of Ogún. Arenas and his lover get married with Severo Sarduy
performing the ceremony, and Raúl-Rita Montaner (now contrite) sings a
blessing aria while the chorus builds rafts from old Soviet Marxist-Leninist
manuals. Curtain drops. Follow the lieder. (West, 1996)
LIVING TROPES, LIVING HOPES 183
This segment was written as a playful comment on Cuban politics,

perhaps conjoining its highly charged emotionalism with operatic outra-
geousness and a dose of Cuban choteo. But a closer look begins to reveal
many of the themes and issues brought up in this book: transculturation,
gender and identity, the specters of history, exile and homecoming (through
otherness), the island’s yearning for freedom, affiliation and filiality, loyalty
and patriotism, faithfulness to one’s roots and ideas.
Why is Arenas chosen as the “protagonist” of my imaginary opera? In
part, no doubt, because his own life appears as unbelievable in many ways
as most opera plots. But also because his life and work (not a distinction he
drew very clearly) are still an unfinished chapter in recent Cuban history,
literary and otherwise. There is an element to Arenas which I think has
made him “indigestible” on both sides of the divide and is summarized by
Abilio Estévez who quotes him: “The world and I are at war.” His war was
against all types of conformity, and in this regard he was spiritually close
to Virgilio Piñera, his mentor (the other was Lezama). Arenas had the rare
ability to depict both the greatness and squalor of what it means to be
Cuban, but usually in the most unflattering of ways. Estévez puts it thus:
“Reinaldo Arenas damns us and we come to love him, as we love the demon
who saves us by showing us the frightful sight of our own lives” (in Behar,
1994b, p. 867).
At some level my Cubanized Fidelio is a parable of betrayal and recon-
ciliation. The betrayal-treason code discussed by Valdés is seen at least
twice: in Arenas trying to impersonate the body of power (Fidel) and in the
ghost of Arnaldo Ochoa, trusted general who has “betrayed” the revolution
and who many see as himself betrayed by the revolution. When the two
Fidels confront each other, of course, there must a contest to demonstrate
their authenticity. If Arenas “betrays” his disguise, he loses. At one level,
Arenas as “other” is a double of what he despises, reinforced by the fact
that Arenas dresses like the orisha Obatalá. But at another level, being able
to impersonate the body of power is a definition of democracy. That is, the
possibility of any citizen being able to assume the body of power is what
constitutes a democracy (the seat of power is empty and is assumed by each
new elected president).
Clearly all the impersonating going on in this sketch points to the double
life of Cuban society, so admirably and humorously illustrated in the recent
film Fresa y chocolate (Strawberry and Chocolate). Nancy (Mirta Ibarra), for
example, is in charge of the CDR (neighborhood vigilance) for their block.
Ostensibly someone who is faithful to Marxism, she is constantly praying
to St. Barbara (Changó in Santería), trades on the black market (at that time
a punishable offense), and is the first to warn people about turning up the
radio so that certain conversations can take place.
These Cuban images of cross-dressing contain both a historical and
gender dimension which are inextricably linked and which try to navigate
that tension between ideology and utopia, particularly if the latter is

understood as said before, as being “tentative, fragile, provisional, and
open-ended.” Obviously, the thought of Raúl Castro dressed as Rita Mon-
taner is absurd, but it signals the desire to move beyond the warrior
mentality of Cuban society and its revolution, which in this instance it
shares with Santería. So is the marriage of Reinaldo Arenas at the end,
which, literally speaking, is ridiculous, made even more so by casting
Severo Sarduy as the priest (he was not only openly gay but a Buddhist as
well). This image of reconciliation is a dream, unrealizable, and not only
because Arenas and Sarduy have died of AIDS, but also because a tradi-
tional betrothal as image of reconciliation is clearly not sufficient or accu-
rate as a trope. Despite a certain harmony or resolution, it is not a
completely happy ending.
Beethoven’s opera is about marriage just as Cuba’s tropes and traditions
are wedded to history, to faithfulness, and loyalty to one’s roots. The opera
is also about freedom, but in the Cuban version it is not just political
freedom, but economic, social, reproductive, sexual, and racial freedom as
well. The ending by no means describes a perfect marriage: as Elías Miguel
Muñoz says, it has been made up of “silences and betrayals.” This marriage
of deprivation is both a displacement and an uncertainty, a kind of bereave-
ment. As Cioran says: “The more we are dispossessed, the more intense our
appetites and illusions become.”
The intensity of appetites and illusions of dispossession is one of the
major threads that I chronicled in my recent book of poems, Dar nombres a
la lluvia /Finding Voices in the Rain. To a degree, the poems are a conversa-
tion with many of the authors discussed in this book. Through the auda-
cious imagery of these writers, I began to understand Cuban history in a
novel way, particularly with the work of Carpentier, Lezama, and Sarduy.
Their proximity and their distance to the island allowed me to comprehend
that images have their history and at the same time can shape history. The
first part of the book is subtitled “Hi(stories) of the Image.” It builds on
mythologies of different cultures (Afro-Caribbean, Chinese, Arabic,
Greek), as well as the techno-mythic machine known as the movies. The
first section, drawing on a baroque eroto-aesthetics of writing, is not only
a celebration of a rediscovered language and history, but an active engage-
ment with a literary tradition that began with Spain’s Golden Age of
Literature and has been redefined and recreated by Caribbean writers in
the twentieth century (Lezama, Césaire, Sarduy). In contrast, the more
declarative style for the second half is titled “Images of History.” Again,
gathering sustenance from my own lived history as well as authors from
Martí to Morejón, the second half of the book explores either how history
creates images of itself or how we do so through memory. “O Tempora! O
Mores!,” the last poem, seeks to synthesize historical with writerly con-
cerns under the rubric of a philosophical meditation on a film by Chris
LIVING TROPES, LIVING HOPES 185
Marker, Sans soleil (Sunless). Marker’s 1982 film is an experimental docu-

mentary with a haunting magical aura to it, depicting unforgettable scenes
about war and loss, memory and hope, culture, tradition, myth, and belief.
With footage from Japan, Guineau-Bissau, and France, it is structured
as a series of letters sent to and read by the unnamed narrator. The sense
of distance and separation, which resonated with my own exile experi-
ence, is softened by the incantatory effect of a multilayered narrative
that freely and poetically shifts spatial and temporal realities. The film
constantly questions how images can represent history, culture, even
happiness, and as such is a metaphor for memory as recollection, in the
Hegelian sense.
Toward the end of the poem I question the ability of names or images to
portray the true horrors of history. The two passages are near each other
but not immediately contiguous:
Horror has a face but no name

As long as it’s a face that remains as image,
we will place it with others in a never-ending gallery
still as a collected butterfly,
and in the mausoleum we’ll domesticate it,
surgically remove it from time.
History/horror
We give it a name to make it memory
Bergen-Belsen, Tuol Sleng, Little Big Horn, Panzós, Sumpul
As long as it has a name we can retrieve it
in the vain hope that it will illuminate history,
which, if named time and again, might become a sort of primer.
..............
All those images could be my memory
All those images could be the clasped hands of a devout person
praying ceaselessly to the rhythm of life
as one might buy the paper on the way to work
Could be that crayfish that bit me as a boy
Could be that light/wreath that falls between two trees.
That scent
mingling autumn and spring,
the earth’s inclination intoxicating the sparrows
From this sponge that could be fire
and the bark’s next outbreak of fever
the resting of the branch drunk with arrows
now light now spike of grain
The image, that first step toward passion
and ruin.
(West, 1995, pp. 131, 133; trans. Mark Schafer)
The conclusion of the poem evokes an image that is both an ending and
a beginning, a recurring theme in the book, one that suggests the sly and
unpredictable movements of history. It encourages a reworking of
Bachelard’s phrase as follows: we are never real poets but always near
historians, and both our wonder and our despair are an expression of
history (and poetry) that reemerge, like the shifting border of light and
shadow, embroidering the abyss. If Cuba’s history echoes an Orphic dis-
memberment, our tropes make us more whole; poetry is a re-membering,
affording us the numinous and difficult serenity of the manigua. From the
manigua, trope and nature, philosophy and history sing their memory and
image. Like a great ceiba tree, it outwits and outlasts the unheeding and
forgetful night.
APPENDIX
Cuban History: An Overview
THE COLONY AND THE REPUBLIC, 1492–1958

Cuba is the longest and largest island of the Caribbean, its shape often
compared to a caimán, a smaller version of the crocodile. In area it is
equivalent to the state of Pennsylvania, but in terms of length it stretches a
distance comparable to going from Jacksonville, Florida, to Houston, Texas.
The island has a curent population of ten and a half million. The original
inhabitants of Cuba were the Siboneyes, followed by two principle migra-
tions of Arawak indians: the Sub-Taínos and the Taínos. When Columbus
arrived in 1492, the island’s inhabitants were mostly Sub-Taíno (90 percent).
The estimated numbers of the indigenous population at the time of the
Conquest were about 112,000, though estimates vary from 16,000 to 600,000.
The Siboney civilization was not as developed as the Arawak. They
tended to build camps instead of settlements, and they divided their
nomadic existence into two areas: those by the sea, bays, or swamp and
those among the cliffs and ravines, often living in caves. The name Siboney
appears to be derived from the Arawak words siba (cave) and eyerí (man).
Their economy was simple, based on hunting and gathering, but most of
their food came from the sea. They shared property, sporadically used fire,
and traveled on foot, having no beasts of burden. Little is known of their
cultural or religious practices or language. The latter tongue was different
from Arawak, because the Spanish colonizers who could speak to the Taínos
could not converse with the Siboneyes. Most of the Siboneyes were dis-
placed by Arawak migrations in the eastern part of Cuba.
188 APPENDIX: CUBAN HISTORY
The Taínos belonged to the language group of speakers of Arawak,

meaning “meal” or “cassava eater.” The staple of their diet was yucca (or
cassava), though they also grew other crops—sweet potatoes, corn, toma-
toes, pineapples, peanuts, many kinds of fruits and berries—and caught
various types of fish and shellfish. At the time of the Spanish Conquest they
were in the Neolithic period (they used ax heads of polished stone, but did
not use metal as instruments); however, they were extraordinarily skilled
in sculpture, ceramics, and basket weaving. In addition they were remark-
ably talented with cotton and other fibers for making hammocks, nets,
ropes, cord, mats, and mattresses. Their social organization was based on a
cacique (chief), who ruled over the nitaínos (a higher class) and the naborias
(workers). Recent archaeologcal evidence (from Puerto Rico) has revealed
more than fifteen instances of women being Taíno caciques.
The Taínos had a religious cosmology, believing in supernatural deities
that lived in the sky, such as Yocahú (the Supreme Maker) and Juracán (god
of destructive winds), the source of the word hurricane. Their myths, stories,
and traditions were passed on and retold in ceremonial dances called
areytos, held in a plaza or batey. These plazas or courts also were the place
of their ball games, played by ten to thirty players and vitally linked to
religious beliefs of sacrifice and fertility. Some archaeologists point out the
similarities between Mayan/Mesoamerican beliefs and practices and that
of the Taínos. To name only a few: the belief in twin gods, the myth of the
flood, the ball game played by both, in which the losers were part of a
sacrifice (but not always), their association of owls with death and frogs
with rain. There was indeed contact between the civilizations over several
centuries.
The Spanish, however, were more interested in shinier objects, mainly
gold, and put the Taínos to work extracting it, with many dying from
overexertion and mistreatment. Some Spanish priests, such as Bartolomé
de Las Casas, energetically denounced these practices, in particular when
he traveled with the Pánfilo de Narvaez expedition to Cuba in 1512.
Whether or not one views Spanish colonization as genocide because of how
complete the annihilation of indigenous cultures was in the Caribbean, it
should not obscure the following fact: the majority of the Taínos died from
unknown diseases brought by European settlers. Even a trivial example
shows how seemingly innocuous behavior can have devastating conse-
quences. The presence of unpenned pigs, cattle, goats, horses, and other
animals brought by the Spanish colonists was calamitous. These untended
beasts fed on grasses and on the crops of the Taínos, causing immense
ecological damage. This caused hunger and malnutrition, and in many
instances whole villages had to move. Infanticide and suicide became
widespread, becoming one of the main causes of death, as described by Las
Casas and others. Said one Spanish officer: “There were days in which they
APPENDIX: CUBAN HISTORY 189
were all found hanging, with their women and children, fifty households
of the same village.”
Goldfields and mines were exhausted quickly in Cuba, which paralleled
the decimation of the indigenous population, which by 1519 was at 19,000,
then down to 7,000 by 1531. After that, the encomiendas were dedicated to
animal husbandry and sugarcane production, introduced into Cuba from
the Canary Islands in 1515. By the 1550s, most of the Taíno population had
been wiped out (only 3,000 were left), paving the way for the introduction
of a greater number of slaves brought from Africa. (Black slaves had already
been brought to the island, but even as late as 1650 were only one out of
every six inhabitants.)
The Taíno legacy, however, was important to the future societies of the
Caribbean. Many foods that were unknown to the colonialists are still part
of the Cuban diet: yucca, yautía, sweet potato (batata), guanábana, mamey,
and peanuts (maní). Maize and tobacco, though originally from other
Mesoamerican cultures, were introduced via the Antillean islands to
Europe. Canoes (also a Taíno word), bohíos (the thatched huts where people
lived) and hammocks (hamaca) were elements of Taíno society that persisted
for centuries (or still do). Many Taíno names are still used for names of cities,
towns, and rivers: Maisí, Baracoa, Canimar, El Caney, Mayabeque, Ariguan-
abo, Camagüey. The Spanish language has more than three hundred words
that are of Arawak origin: canoa (canoe), cacique (chief), caimán (crocodile),
manigua (bush), tiburón (shark), huracán (hurricane), tabaco (tobacco), and
caoba (mahogany).
Cuba’s importance dwindled when more gold was found elsewhere.
Because of its strategic location, Cuba benefited indirectly by being the
point from which all expeditions set out for Mexico and Central or South
America. By and large, it was a population that was transient, but slowly
the population and the economy grew. Sugar, as in most of the Caribbean,
was an important crop, but Cuba could not compete with Saint Domingue
(Haiti), by far the world’s leading producer. In fact, economic activity was
centered on cattle raising and tobacco, which, because of its high price,
prompted many small farmers to produce greater quantities, often selling
it illegally. The concept of illegal sales must be understood in the context of
Spanish economic policy: it was illegal for colonists to trade with people
who were not members of the Spanish crown. Spain’s rivals—mostly
France, England, and Holland—also attacked its ships and looted them. The
pirating and competition were intense and led to the English taking over
Havana in 1762 for ten months. Although the British left, the aftermath was
economic liberalization and a substantial growth in Cuban production and
trade.
What kind of society was Cuba as a Spanish colony? If conceived as a
pyramid, the top would be occupied by the colonial administrators and
officers, followed by the clergy and the military, comprising the most
powerful sectors. They would be followed by the criollos (Creoles), mulat-

toes, free blacks, and slaves, who made up the majority of the population
but were not very powerful (except the criollos to a limited degree). Political
power was centralized on the island, to keep people from rebelling against
the crown as well as to provide unity in fighting against other European
colonial powers. Political absolutism was the norm, under the leadership
of the Spanish monarchy religious dogmatism was strict, and the economy
was tightly controlled. Despite considerable racial mixing, the persistence
of slavery and the suppression of African beliefs and languages show that
racism was not only widespread but dangerous to the physical and spiritual
well-being of slaves. The average life of a slave after being brought from
Africa to the New World was ten years. Given these political, economic, and
social limitations, it is not surprising that Cuban society, like most Carib-
bean nations, was ill-suited for change, modernization, or innovation.
In 1774, Cuba had a population of 172,000: 56 percent were white, 21
percent were free nonwhites, and 23 percent were black slaves. Though the
percentage of black slaves was much lower than in French and British
Caribbean possessions (where these figures ranged from 75 percent up), it
was still much higher than in the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico. As
a result of the slave insurrections (1791) and resulting independence of Haiti
(1804), Cuba became an important sugar-producing country, and this meant
the greater importation of slaves. By 1841, 43 percent of Cuba’s population
were black slaves. Its growing sugar economy also reflected the importance
Spain gave to the island. This was partly due to the fact that it was the only
former Spanish colony in Latin America not to achieve independence
(except Puerto Rico) by the 1830s. When Latin American countries achieved
liberation from Spain, they abolished slavery; and by this time, the British
and the French had also abolished slavery in the Caribbean.
By the early nineteenth century, no doubt inspired by the success of
independence struggles in Latin America, voices for Cuban independence
became more vocal, such as those of José Aponte (1812) and José María
Heredia, the poet, in 1823. Both were part of conspiracies that failed, as did
the attempt by Andrés Manuel Sánchez and Francisco Agüero, who led an
unsuccessful uprising in 1826. They were followed by Narciso López,
whose two attempts in 1850 and 1851 fizzled. López favored independence
from Spain but wanted Cuba to be part of the United States. Those who
favored this option were called annexationists, and the majority of the
Cuban creole elite favored this option (or remaining a colony of Spain). This
seems curious since the creole elite had many grievances with Spanish
merchants over economic policy, which severely curtailed the profitabilty
of Cuban exports. The explanation is not obscure: the creole elites owned
slaves and knew independence meant abolition. Since at that point (1820s
to the 1850s) the United States still practiced slavery, annexation seemed
like a good option to the Cuban creole elite. The great bulk of slaves in Cuba
were brought there after 1791. From 1512 to 1763, 60,000 slaves were
brought into Cuba, but between 1790 and 1864, the figures are staggering:
the estimates vary between 650,000 and 832,000. Slaves and free nonwhites
made up half the population of Cuba. Both Spain and the creole elite were
alarmed at this, and Madrid encouraged European immigration to
“whiten” the Cuban population mix. Many Spaniards fleeing newly inde-
pendent Latin American countries wound up in Cuba. Naturally, they
favored continued colonial rule. (As black slave figures began to decline,
Cuba imported Chinese indentured servants, which from 1847 to 1874
totaled nearly 125,000. By 1959, the Chinese population of Cuba was
estimated to be between 17,000 and 20,000.)
The independence forces grew under the aegis of excellent spokespeople
like José Antonio Saco (1779–1855), José de la Luz y Caballero (1800–1862),
and Félix Varela (1787–1853), all intellectuals, philosophers, and educators.
But it was a new generation of Cubans born in the nineteenth century who
were to provide the leadership of a more solid independence and revolu-
tionary movement: Carlos Manuel de Céspedes (1819–74), Antonio Maceo
(1845–96), Ignacio Agramonte (1842–73), and Máximo Gómez (1840–1905),
who was Dominican. By far the most brilliant was José Martí (1853–1895),
an extraordinary writer, poet, and journalist, an inspiring orator and a
tireless advocate for the Cuban independence cause.
In 1868, Carlos Manuel de Céspedes and others led the “Grito de Yara.”
Céspedes freed his slaves, proclaimed Cuban independence, and with his
co-conspirators drew up a constitution several months later known as La
Constitución de Guáimaro (April 10, 1869). This first great independence
war was called La Guerra de los Diez Años (The Ten Years War), lasting
from 1868 to 1878. It was a long, bloody conflict, costing hundreds of
thousands of lives and millions in property damage, and severely crippling
the productive capacity of the country. It left a festering wound in the island
between pro-independence and pro-Spain forces, between the rich and the
poor, and also between blacks and whites. For Spain, Cuba was one of two
colonial outposts left in Latin America (Puerto Rico was the other). Though
it had declined from its imperial glory of the sixteenth century, for Spain,
Cuba was still considered a prized possession whose prestige far out-
weighed its economic importance. One important positive outcome of the
war was that slavery was finally abolished in 1886.
José Martí was too young to have been a major player in the 1868
uprising, though as it wore on, he played a role in exile, first in Spain, then
in Latin America. Finally, in New York, where he spent many years (1881–
95), he campaigned, fundraised, and rallied Cubans toward independence.
Along with Gómez, Maceo, and Calixto García, Martí initiated a new
struggle for independence in 1895. Though Martí was killed early on (May
1895), the struggle continued and was quite successful, despite a further
setback with the death of Maceo in 1896. Overall, the war continued to favor
the Cuban patriots, but again it looked like a protracted struggle. This
changed abruptly when, in 1898, the U.S. battleship Maine was blown up
in Havana harbor. The United States blamed the Spanish, who denied
responsibility, but by April 1898 both countries had declared war on each
other, and the United States intervened militarily, defeating the Spanish in
a few months.
Cuban freedom fighters had waged three wars in thirty years. They
wanted a country politically and economically free of Spain; they had fought
for the abolition of slavery and had given blood to forge a nation in which
they could live in peace without the intervention of foreign powers. Martí
had warned his compatriots that Cuban independence was not only threat-
ened by the Spanish but by the designs of U.S. expansionism. His political
acumen in seeing future developments was borne out by subsequent events.
The United States ruled Cuba directly from 1898 to 1902 with a military
government. Though Cuba achieved formal independence as of May 20,
1902, the Platt Amendment, passed by the U.S. Congress, gave the United
States the right to intervene in Cuba whenever it thought its interests were
in peril. Furthermore, the United States also leased a military base in the
eastern part of the island, known today as the Guantánamo Naval Base; it
is still under U.S. control. These issues are a humiliating reminder to Cubans
of U.S. control over their affairs.
The Platt Amendment was abrogated in 1934 after dictator Machado was
overthrown. From 1902 to 1959 the Cuban political system had been rela-
tively democratic, plagued with periods of tight control (1929–33 and
1952–59). Despite a progressive constitution in 1940, most civilian govern-
ments had been marked by corruption, inefficiency, and nepotism, under-
girded by dramatic social and economic injustice. One of the key figures in
this period was a sergeant who later became General, Fulgencio Batista. For
a quarter of a century (1934–59) he dominated Cuban politics either directly
or behind the scenes. He was president from 1940 to 1944, and in this first
period was esteemed to be an apt and respected leader. He then withdrew
from public office but was always a significant player behind the scenes. As
subsequent governments (1944–52) proved inept, Batista stepped in again.
Seeing that his appointed candidate would lose the 1952 elections, he
engineered a coup d’état. For the first few months, not much changed, but
then his regime grew more repressive, often killing its political opponents.
Some disgruntled sectors of society felt that Cuba would not change paci-
fically. Among them was a young lawyer, Fidel Castro. On July 26, 1953,
Castro and about 150 followers attacked the Moncada Barracks in Santiago,
Cuba, hoping to establish a base for resistance and ultimately spark an
uprising in the general population. It failed, with many killed or jailed.
Castro was among the imprisoned, and in his defense speech, over two
hours long, he laid out the ills that beset Cuban society. The speech, called
“History Will Absolve Me,” spoke of “el tiempo muerto” (dead time), the
six months of the year when cane workers are unemployed, the 5 percent
of the rural population that eats meat, the lack of proper sanitary conditions
(running water, health care), the large numbers of Cubans who cannot read
or write (about 25 percent). Castro eloquently bemoaned the dismal expec-
tations of a one-crop country (sugar constituting 85 percent of exports)
dependent on one country, the United States. He denounced the vast social
and racial inequalities in the country, stated that they needed to be ad-
dressed, and that there was a need for political democracy. Though his
speech was a sensation, Castro was jailed, only to be released by an amnesty
in 1955. By the following year, from Mexico, he and 82 followers launched
an invasion by boat, landing in Oriente province. They began a guerrilla
struggle against the Batista government, under the banner of the July 26th
Movement. Their popularity grew, and in a little over two years they
defeated the Batista dictatorship. They were also favored by a pro-demo-
cratic climate in the western hemisphere that was rejecting military dicta-
torships like that of Trujillo in the Dominican Republic (1930–61), Pérez
Jiménez (1953–58) in Venezuela, Rojas Pinilla (1953–57) in Colombia, and
Alfredo Stroessner (1954–) in Paraguay.
Cuba in the 1950s, despite being a poor, underdeveloped nation, was
among the more prosperous of Latin American countries. It had a fairly
evolved industrial base, a more than adequate road system, excellent
communications, and a growing, if erratic, economy. Why would this
relative prosperity lead to a revolution? Part of this is explained by what
Castro referred to in his “History Will Absolve Me” speech. The economy
was growing, but there was high unemployment; the political system, with
censorship, repression, and corruption, had made the Batista regime ex-
tremely unpopular. Social inequality between classes was great, and this
generated expectations and resentment among the poor. And Cubans, a
very nationalistic people, saw major sectors of their society in U.S. hands
(including Batista himself), not to mention a tourist industry viewed as an
American playground. More critical voices denounced the vices of tourism
more emphatically and called Cuba “the whorehouse of the Caribbean.”
Cubans’ frustrated nationalism, so admirably expressed by Martí, was
given eloquent form in the leadership of Fidel Castro, whose oratorical
skills border on genius. Castro was able to gather the support of all major
sectors of society to overthrew the Batista tyranny. Most Cubans welcomed
the triumph of the Cuban Revolution, with the hope of establishing the
Constitution of 1940, a pluralistic, liberal document. Little did they know
that the storm of history would soon turn their world inside out, with
greater force than any hurricane.
THE CUBAN REVOLUTION, 1959–PRESENT

The triumph of the rebel forces in 1959 was not just the overthrow of a
corrupt and repressive government (i.e., Batista’s rule), but a radical at-
tempt to install an anti-imperialist, nationalist, and popular (or revolution-

ary) government. Its anti-imperialism sought the creation of a country that
was free of the dictates of major powers, which meant the United States and
the Soviet Union. As nationalists the Cubans wanted the affairs of the nation
primarily to advance the economic, social, political, and cultural welfare of
its own populace. In a popular or revolutionary government the Cubans
wanted a government that would enact policies to help the poor, create jobs
for the unemployed, provide education and health care for all, eradicate
racism, and promote the economic and social advancement of women.
The Revolution quickly enacted major social legislation: it decreed land
reform, urban reform, and other types of laws that addressed issues of
economic justice. Its increasingly nationalistic stance antagonized and wor-
ried the U.S. government. When Fidel Castro’s July 26th Movement took
power, U.S. companies in Cuba controlled 40 percent of raw sugar produc-
tion, 90 percent of telephone, light, and power services, half the public
railways, and 25 percent of all bank deposits. The United States suspended
the sugar quota (the amount of sugar that it guaranteed to buy from Cuba
every year) in 1960. When U.S.-built oil refineries refused to refine Soviet
oil, the Cuban government nationalized these properties and later all U.S.
properties, valued at $1 billion. Cuba then expropriated all large firms or
industries in the country. The United States responded with an embargo,
prohibiting any U.S. company or individual from doing business with
Cuba. The embargo, in different forms, still persists.
Tensions increased and the United States broke off diplomatic relations
with Cuba (1961). In the meantime, the U.S. government, the CIA, and
Cuban exiles hostile to Castro planned the military overthrow of his gov-
ernment. In April 1961 they landed at Playa Girón (the Bay of Pigs), with
roughly 1,700 men. They were to establish a beachhead that would then
spark uprisings in the rest of the country. The plan was a failure, with most
of the troops defeated and captured within seventy-two hours. Cubans,
with their nationalism inflamed even more by these events, rallied behind
Fidel, who took advantage of this support and declared the Cuban Revolu-
tion socialist. Several months later he would openly declare himself a
Marxist-Leninist, reaffirming his adherence to Communism. By then, Cuba
had drawn much closer to the Soviet Union in order to boost its economy.
During this first period of the radicalization of the revolution (1959–63),
many Cubans fled the island (approximately 300,000), since it was still legal
to do so and the United States openly welcomed them.
Castro was suspicious of the United States and sought indisputable
weapons of defense to ensure that Washington would not invade Cuba
again. The USSR responded with its military might and installed nuclear
missiles on Cuban soil. When U.S. reconaissance confirmed the presence of
nuclear weaponry on the island, the U.S. government responded with
outrage. Cuba proved stubborn in not wanting to withdraw the missiles,
and from October 16 to 28, 1962, the world lived on the brink of a possible
nuclear showdown between the United States and the USSR over Cuba.
Khrushchev, the Soviet president, backed down after strong pressure from
President John F. Kennedy and withdrew the missiles, despite the angry
protestations of Fidel Castro. In exchange for the withdrawal of the missiles
from Cuba, the United States agreed never to attack Cuba militarily and to
remove missiles on Turkish soil aimed at the Soviet Union.
Despite the peaceful resolution of the crisis, relations between the United
States and Cuba grew worse. In 1964 the Organization of American States
(OAS) requested that all its members sever economic and diplomatic ties
with Cuba; all did so except Mexico. Cuba responded angrily, claiming that
U.S. pressure was behind the move, and called the OAS the “United States
Ministry of Colonies.” Part of it had to do with Cuba’s support for Latin
American guerrilla movements, many of which were later to become part
of OSPAAL, an organization dedicated to the solidarity of peoples in
liberation struggles in Africa, Asia, and Latin America. OSPAAL was
founded in January 1966 in Havana. By then, Che Guevara, Fidel’s right-
hand man and premier guerrilla warfare strategist, was fighting in the
mountains of Bolivia, where he had gone to establish a continental base that
could fan the flames of revolution throughout South America. Guerrilla
movements were active in Guatemala, Venezuela, Peru and Bolivia, as well
as several African countries (Angola, Mozambique, Guinea, South Africa),
and, of course, the war in Vietnam was escalating daily. All of these
liberation movements were opposed by the U.S. government, who saw
Cuban support, if in many cases only moral and/or political, as major
contributors to “subversion and communist infiltration.”
A “revolutionary offensive” launched by Castro in 1968 nationalized
some 55,000 small businesses in Cuba. Except for some private farmers
(around 20 percent of rural landowners), all economic activity in Cuba was
placed in state hands. In fact, it was part of an ideological hardening that
began in 1965 with the creation of the UMAP (Units to Assist Military
Production). The UMAP was originally set up to imprison armed counter-
revolutionaries who had taken up arms against Castro in the Escambray
mountains from 1962 to 1966. But by early 1966 those anti-Castro forces had
either surrendered or been killed. The UMAP became political internment
camps with harsh conditions. Rapidly the ranks of the UMAP swelled with
dissidents of all kinds, be they political opponents, homosexuals, young
people with long hair, or others whose behavior was considered “anti-so-
cial.” The UMAP were closed down in 1967 (some claim 1969) as a result of
an alleged visit by Castro himself, who found the conditions deplorable and
inhumane. Despite their closure, the Cuban system still had ways to punish
political dissidence, either through incarceration or closely supervised hard
labor (mostly cutting cane).
In 1968 the Soviet Union invaded Czechoslovakia. Despite regretting the

need to take the action, Fidel Castro defended the invasion, saying that it
saved Czech socialism. This marked a turning point in Cuban-Soviet rela-
tions, which at the time of the invasion were uneven because of what the
Cubans perceived as a lack of Soviet revolutionary enthusiasm in backing
liberation struggles in the third world. Fidel Castro then took this opportu-
nity to draw closer to the Soviets and at the same time launched a new
offensive: a ten million-ton sugar harvest for 1970.
The harvest was not only to be an economic barometer of Cuba’s pro-
duction potential, but also a show of political will, a triumph of revolution-
ary consciousness, to prove socialism’s superiority over capitalism. It was
also to serve as a springboard to help Cuba overcome its underdeveloped
status. In 1970 Cuba had its largest harvest ever, 8.5 million tons, but it was
far short of the goal. But more disastrously, many other workers from other
sectors of the economy were used to make the harvest “successful.” It left
the Cuban economy in disarray, and this marked a second crucial moment
in Soviet-Cuban relations. After this failure, the Soviets insisted their aid be
tied to a more organized planning method based on the Soviet model. Many
technicians, economists, engineers, and planners came from the USSR to
make this happen, and in 1972 Cuba joined the Council of Mutual Economic
Assistance (COMECON), the socialist bloc’s version of the Common Mar-
ket. Cuban economic policy during the first decade of the revolution had
been improvised, marked by political exhortations (revolutionary mobili-
zations) and a call to selflessness and sacrifice (purely moral incentives).
The ideas of Ché Guevara espoused in “Man and Socialism in Cuba” were
to give way to Soviet planning manuals: the Cuban Revolution was headed
for a phase of institutionalization.
In some areas, though, revolutionary fervor did not let up, as when Cuba
sent troops to Angola (1975) in order to stop the advance of South African
troops. This action and subsequent military successes played a key part in
ensuring Angola’s national sovereignty, as well as paving the way for the
end of apartheid in South Africa. In 1977, under President Jimmy Carter,
Cubans began returning to their native land to visit for the first time after
seventeen years. It is estimated that from 1977 to 1980 hundreds of thou-
sands of Cubans in the United States visited family and relatives. In that
period Cuba released 3,000 political prisoners and their families, who
emigrated mostly to the United States. Some say these visits, with family
members bringing to the island cash and consumer items not readily
available to Cubans, helped precipitate the Mariel Crisis of 1980, when more
than 120,000 emigrated from Cuba in a little over two months.
During the 1980s the Cuban economy grew at a respectable rate of 5
percent a year. After a quarter century, Cuba led most Latin American
countries in health care indicators: it had the lowest infant mortality rate, a
high life expectancy, plus universal and free coverage for the entire popu-
lation. Many third world students from Africa and Latin America were
studying at Cuban schools, and many Cuban professionals and medical
personnel were serving abroad. Cuba was also buoyed by the Sandinista
triumph in Nicaragua (1979) and the New Jewel Movement in Grenada
(1979), both becoming close allies. The Cubans reciprocated by helping out
the Sandinistas and the Grenadians in terms of education, health care and
the training of their respective armies.
But not all was well. By 1986 a rectification campaign was instituted to
try and curb waste, excess bureaucracy, and corruption, all too familiar evils
in a centrally planned economy. The year 1989 turned out to be crucial. That
summer Cubans were to witness the trials of several high-ranking Cuban
officials and military personnel on charges of corruption and drug smug-
gling. Among them was General Arnaldo Ochoa, a popular figure and
brilliant military strategist who had won major battles in Angola. He had
won the highest titles: Hero of the Cuban Republic and the Máximo Gómez
Order, First Degree. Ochoa was found guilty not only of these charges but
also of treason and was executed by firing squad. It was a sad moment and
one that shocked many Cubans, because as implicated as he was in some
charges, everyone knew that Ochoa was breaking the law with the knowl-
edge and consent of higher-ups. They knew Ochoa was a scapegoat, and
this further undermined people’s credibility in the government.
But more trouble was to follow: in the fall of 1989 several communist
governments fell in Eastern Europe (East Germany, Poland, Hungary,
Czechoslovakia, and Rumania). Soon afterwards, in February 1990, Cuba’s
principal friend in Latin America, the Sandinistas, were defeated in elec-
tions.
The loss of socialist bloc support was disastrous. Cuba conducted 90
percent of its trade with COMECON countries. The loss was soon felt in the
Cuban economy; shortages were more frequent, and many products and
medicines simply vanished from Cuban shelves. Even the Soviet Union
started to draw back on its commitments to Cuba, and after the failed coup
in 1991, and with the subsequent presidency of Boris Yeltsin, Russian
largesse has ended. The magnitude of Soviet aid had allowed Cuba to
achieve what few poor third world countries could even dream of. Cuba
had an economic system with virtually no unemployment, whereas most
underdeveloped countries have from 20 percent to 60 percent of their
populations without work. They had built an educational system that was
comprehensive and had eradicated illiteracy. The health system was not
only free to all but preventative and able to deal with even sophisticated
medical problems; it was widely praised by the World Health Organization.
Cuba even exported doctors to Africa. The Cuban sports system was also
very effective and achieved international renown. Politically, Cuba was a
player on the world stage, being active in the nonaligned movement, by its
involvement in southern Africa, Central America, the Caribbean, as well as

being an active voice in the United Nations.
These achievements must be weighed against the drawbacks. Cuba has
a particularly closed political environment, with a one-party state (the
Cuban Communist Party is the only legal political party in the country).
Fidel Castro is the indisputable leader, and while there are established
political institutions, his charismatic leadership and his caudillista style
define the country irrevocably. Political dissent (not just specific criticism
of a certain policy) is dealt with harshly, and human rights activists are often
jailed, beaten or deported. The other alternative is leaving the country,
which many have chosen to do. Censorship of the press is widespread.
While freedom of religion is now more widely respected, for many years it
could adversely affect Cubans, particularly in terms of university admis-
sion or certain job opportunities. While more lax nowadays, personal
liberties such as changing jobs or pursuing a certain career of study were
more restricted for decades. And because of U.S. hostility toward Cuba, the
government diverts important resources to defense, which has made Cuban
society more militarized, often in subtle ways. In terms of the economy,
many consumer goods are scarce, and for thirty years there has been a
rationing system. Shortages of items such as rice, cooking oil, and meat are
constant. Centrally planned economic policy has caused much waste, inef-
ficiency, and lack of initiative on the part of workers, with a resulting low
productivity. For example, Cuba has a sophisticated biotechnology indus-
try with considerable exports, but cannot produce ballpoint pens or a
decently functioning telephone system. Cuban wages are very low, but
many social goods are free (health, education, sports, and so on) or ex-
tremely cheap (rent, phone, electricity, water).
With the loss of Soviet support, many of the achievements of the revolu-
tion are being eroded. Medicines are in short supply, schools are more
limited, and many factories have closed down or are functioning at 20
percent capacity. As a result, unemployment is up, possibly as high as 10 to
15 percent. Fuel shortages have made Cubans revert to using bicycles as a
main means of transportation, but with poor diets, a hot tropical climate,
and often long distances to cover, it can mean great hardship. Many are
feeling discontent, which was dramatically shown in July and August 1994,
when tens of thousands of rafters tried to brave the waters and sharks and
make it to Florida, or at least be picked up by the U.S. Coast Guard and be
taken to U.S.-owned Guantánamo Naval Base in southeastern Cuba.
The Cubans call this recent downswing “the special period.” The gov-
ernment, attempting to liberalize economic matters somewhat, has decrimi-
nalized the holding of dollars and has allowed the opening of private
produce markets to alleviate food shortages. This has improved the Cuban
diet, but dollars are needed to make purchases in these markets, and not
everyone has the same accessibility to dollars. Clearly much else needs to
be done, since the Cuban economy has probably contracted by at least half
in the last five years. Deals and joint ventures with many European, Latin
American, and Japanese firms are a hopeful sign. The economic future of
the country is clearly going toward market measures while still trying to
retain the social gains of the revolution. This juggling act has had mixed
success, perhaps because little real change has ocurred in the political realm.
When the communist governments of Eastern Europe fell in 1989, many
predicted Cuba would soon follow. Yet eight years later, Fidel Castro is still
in power, defying all odds. Cuba’s political future remains uncertain as it
continues in the grip of a cold war mentality, abetted by U.S. hostility (and
recalcitrant sectors of the Cuban exile community) on the one side and
Cuban intransigence and dogmatism on the other.
SELECTED READING
Cuban History—General
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Farber, Samuel (1976). Revolution and Reaction in Cuba, 1933–1960 . Wesleyan Uni-
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Foner, Philip (1972). The Spanish-Cuban-American War and the Birth of American
Imperialism, 2 vols., International Publishers: New York.
Foner, Philip (1977). Antonio Maceo. Monthly Review Press: New York.
Guerra, Ramiro (1952). Historia de la nación cubana, 10 vols. Havana.
Marrero, Levi (1972–86). Cuba, economía y sociedad, 12 vols. Editorial Playor: Ma-
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Moreno Fraginals, Manuel (1978). El ingenio. 3 vols. Editorial Ciencias Sociales:
Havana. (Abridged English version: The Sugar Mill. Monthly Review
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Moreno Fraginals, Manuel (1983). La historia como arma. Editorial Crítica: Bar-
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Ortiz, Fernando (1995). Cuban Counterpoint: Tobacco and Sugar. Duke University
Press: Durham, N.C.
Perez, Jr., Louis (1986). Cuba under the Platt Amendment, 1902–1934 . University of
Pittsburgh Press: Pittsburgh.
Pérez, Jr., Louis (1988). Cuba: Between Reform and Revolution. Oxford University
Press: New York.
Pérez de la Riva, Juan (1978). El barracón: Esclavitud y capitalismo en Cuba. Editorial
Crítica: Barcelona.
Schroeder, Susan (1982). Cuba: A Handbook of Historical Statistics. G. K. Hall:
Boston.
Thomas, Hugh (1971). Cuba or The Pursuit of Freedom. Harper & Row: New York.
The Cuban Revolution

Azicri, Max (1988). Cuba: Politics, Economics and Society. Pinter Publishers: London.
Benglesdorf, Carollee (1994). The Problem of Democracy in Cuba. Oxford University
Press: New York.
Cardenal, Ernesto (1974). In Cuba. New Directions: New York.
Domínguez, Jorge (1978). Order and Revolution. Harvard University Press: Cam-
bridge, Mass.
Domínguez, Jorge (1989). To Make a World Safe for Revolution: Cuba’s Foreign Policy.
Harvard University Press: Cambridge, Mass.
Franqui, Carlos (1985). Family Portrait with Fidel. Vintage: New York.
Leo Grande et al. (1989). The Cuba Reader. Grove Press: New York.
Mesa-Lago, Carmelo (1981). The Economy of Socialist Cuba. University of New
Mexico Press: Albuquerque.
Mesa-Lago, Carmelo (1994). Historia económica de Cuba socialista. Alianza Editorial:
Madrid.
Oppenheimer, Andrés (1992). Castro’s Final Hour. Simon and Schuster: New York.
Pérez-López, Jorge F. (1995). Cuba’s Second Economy: From behind the Scenes to Center
Stage. Transaction Publishers: New Brunswick, N.J.
Pérez-Stable, Marifeli (1993). The Cuban Revolution: Origins, Course, and Legacy.
Oxford University Press: New York.
Timmerman, Jacobo (1992). Cuba: A Journey. Vintage: New York.
On Fidel Castro
Lockwood, Lee (1969). Castro’s Cuba, Cuba’s Fidel. Vintage: New York.
Matthews, Herbert L. (1970). Fidel Castro. Simon and Schuster: New York.
Szulc, Tad (1988). Fidel: A Critical Portrait. Morrow: New York.
Immigration and Cuban-Americans

Behar, Ruth, ed. (1994). “Bridges to Cuba.” Michigan Quarterly Review, Part 1, vol.
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Boswell, T., and Curtis, J. (1984). The Cuban-American Experience: Culture, Images and
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Uriarte, Miren, and Cañas, Jorge, eds. (1984). Cubans in the United States. Center for
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Index
Afro-Cuban culture and beliefs, 16– tory, 45–46; Explosion in a Cathe-

21, 145–48, 177, 179. See also More- dral (El siglo de las luces), 37–53;
jón, Nancy; Santería; Sarduy, French Revolution, 51; overview
Severo of novel, 37–38; political dis-
Arenas, Reinaldo, 182–84 course of revolution, 41–42; revo-
Arendt, Hannah, 51–53 lution (Cuban), 50; revolution
“Automata.” See Piñera, Virgilio (Russian), 50; revolution and the
social question, 51–53; tableau
Bachelard, Gaston, 1, 98–99, 178; roots (Diderot), 46–47; theater and
and tree images, 178 revolution, 42–45; tragedy and
Ballagas, Emilio, 82 revolution, defined, 38–40
Baroque, 127. See also Lezama Lima, Castro, Fidel, 10
José Catholicism, 8
Barthes, Roland, 41 Ceiba (tree), 178, 179, 186
Baudrillard, Jean, 72 Cross-dressing, 183. See also Sarduy,
Bauman, Zygmunt, 165 Severo
Behar, Ruth, 170 Cuba: body of power, 171; four politi-
Benjamin, Jessica, 75 cal codes, 171–73; heroism, 173–75;
Bhabha, Homi, 3 history (1492–1958), 187–93; his-
bild, bildung, 5, 7 tory (1959–present), 193–99; nation-
Buddhism, 8 alism in, 3–4, 170–71; utopia and
ideology, 173–76
Canetti, Elias, 3, 11, 12 Cuban history, 2, 6; centrifugal and
Carpentier, Alejo, 4, 35–53; allegory centripetal forces in, 164; commu-
in, 47–49; biography and bibliog- nism and modernity, 165; patriot-
raphy, 35–36; emblems and his- ism, 9, 187–99, Appendix
212 INDEX
Cubanidad/Cubanía/Cuban-ness, 29, Lam, Wifredo, 6, 163

168–70 Landscape, 8
Cuban political imagination, 163–69 Lecuona, Ernesto, 6
Lezama Lima, José, 6, 107–38, 161; ani-
Displacement, and the imagination, mistic counterpoint of, 117–18; bi-
184 ography and bibliography, 107–9;
Dollimore, Jonathan, 81–82 baroque, 127; comedy, 132;
dragon, 116–17; figura, 133; flesh
Elegguá, 16–18 (Merleau-Ponty), 119; great choral
Eliade, Mircea, 98 groups, 116; Hegel compared and
Escoria (scum), 29 contrasted with, 124–31; historical
Exile community, Cuban, 168–70 writing of, 130; homecoming
through otherness, 117; image,
Foucault, Michel, 66–67, 78 129, 132–33; images and recollec-
Franqui, Carlos, 2 tion, 124–25; imaginary era, 115–
French Revolution, and Carpentier, 51 17; La expresión americana, 110–38;
memory and recollection, 120–24;
Gadamer, Hans-Georg, 65 metaphor, 118, 129, 132–33; nature,
Gaze, 66–67 134; open gnostic space, 134–37;
Gender, 175–76. See also Loynaz, painting, 112–15; poetry, 129;
Dulce María; Morejón, Nancy; Sar- spirit, 125, 128; tradition, 111–12
duy, Severo Loynaz, Dulce María, 85–105; agape,
Gide, André, 81–82 92; biography and bibliography,
Gusano (worm), 29 85–87; “The Calm” (El remanso),
94, Christian iconography, 88–91,
Harris, Wilson, 4 104–5; “The Cloud,” 95; “Em-
Hegel, W.F.G., 7; desire, 62; domina- brace” (Abrazo) eros, 91; “Eterni-
tion, 75–76; and Lezama ( see dad” (Eternity), 88–91; “Futile
Lezama Lima, José); master-slave Flight, Futile Fugue,” 95; garden,
paradigm, 62–63; recognition, 72; 90, 101–5; house and home, 98–99,
self-consciousness, 62 100–101; “Isla” (Island), 92–93;
Henríquez Ureña, Pedro, 111 Jardín (Garden), 101–5; memory,
History, 1–12, 181 98–99; Play of Water (Juegos de
History, Cuban: 1492–1958, 187–93; agua), 92–96; Poemas sin nombre, 96–
1959–present, 193–99 97; on poetics, 97; “Snow,” 95; Ulti-
Homecoming, through otherness, 4, mos días de una casa (Last Days of a
8; trans-subjectivity of, 4 House), 97–101; Wagner, 101, 104–
5
Interpretation, 7; and metaphor, 7
Maceo, Antonio (Brigade), 169
Kearney, Richard, 10 Manigua, 20, 176–77, 179, 181, 186. See
Kleist, Heinrich, 80 also Morejón, Nancy
Kojeve, Alexandre, 62 Martí, José, 3
Kristeva, Julia, 175–76 Martínez Estrada, Ezequiel, 111
Kundera, Milan, 11 Marxism, 6
Metaphor, 8, 10; for the modern state,
Lacan, Jacques, 66–67; and the imagi- 165–68; symbol and, 9. See also
nary, 71 Lezama Lima, José; State
INDEX 213
Michigan Quarterly Review, 169 Poe, Edgar Allan, 23–24

Mistral, Gabriela, 91, 92, 96 Poetry, compared to politics and sci-
Modernity, 165; metaphors defining ence, 3. See also Lezama Lima,
the modern state, 165–68 José
Morejón, Nancy, 13–34; “Ana Power, and the body, 183. See also
Mendieta,” 32–33; “Before a Mir- Piñera, Virgilio
ror,” 30–31; biography, 13–15;
books published, 13–15; “Elegy for Race, 29
Nieves Fresneda,” 18–21; “The Revolution, Cuban, and Carpentier, 50
Eyes of Elegguá,” 16–18, 21; “I Reyes, Alfonso, 111
Love My Master,” 26–27; “Montes Ricouer, Paul, 8
y mares,” 21–22; “Mother,” 28;
“Mundos,” 24–25; Paisaje célebre Santería, 8
(book), 30–34; “Piedra pulida” Sarduy, Severo, 10, 139–61; aesthetics,
(poem), 25; Piedra pulida (book) 141; Afro-Cuban culture and be-
stone(s), 25; race, 29; transcultura- liefs, 145–48; biography and bibli-
tion, 29–30; vision of poetry and ography, 139–40; bird symbolism,
writing, 20–24, 27. See also Elegguá; 158; calligraphy, 149; Cobra, 149–
Slavery; Yemayá 56; cosmology and baroque, 153–
Muñoz, Elías Miguel, 173–76; 55; cross-dressing, 151–53; death,
“Prophecies” (“Los vaticinios”), thoughts on, 161; epiphany, 159;
173–76 From Cuba with a Song, 141–49; hys-
teric text, 152; Maitreya, 156–61;
Nationalism, Cuban, 3–4, 170–71 painting, 157; sexuality, 160–61;
soul and body, 158; Tantrism, 159–
Olokún, 19 60; Tibetan Book of the Dead, 156,
Ortega, Julio, 111 158; transculturation, 148; tran-
Ortiz, Fernando, 6, 111 vestism, 151–53; writing, theories
of, 150–51
Past, historical, 11 Slavery, 26–27
Picón-Salas, Mariano, 111 Starobinski, Jean, 41–42
Piñera, Virgilio, 55–83; authenticity State: gardening, 165–66; nontempo-
and power, 72–73, 77, 81–83; biog- ral, 167–68; space-managing, 166–
raphy and bibliography, 55–57; 67; therapeutic, 166; total
communism, 68–70; domination visibility, 167
75 (see also Hegel, W.F.G.); dou- Sufism, 8
bles, 61, 79–80; “The Dummy” Syntax of forgetting (Bhabha), 3
(“El Muñeco”), 55–83; ethics, 78;
ethics of redemptive failure, 82– Taoism, 8, 116
83; homosexuality, 81–83; look- Time: discursive, 176; monumental,
ing and gazing, 66–67; machines, 176
72, 74, 77; political ego, 72; power Transculturation, 2, 182. See also More-
and visibility, 67; recognition, 75 jón, Nancy; Sarduy, Severo
(see also Hegel, W.F.G.); robots, Tropicana, Carmelita, 179–80
61; Los siervos (The Serfs), 63–65;
technology, 61; transgressive aes- Utopia, and ideology, 171–73
thetics, 81–83; transgressive ethics,
81–83 Valdés, Nelson, 171–73
214 INDEX
Valéry, Paul, 1 Wiener, Norbert, 61–62

Wilde, Oscar, 80
Wagner, Richard, 101, 104–5; Twilight Williams, Raymond, 38–40
of the Gods, 178 Winner, Langdon, 61
West, Alan, 82, 184–85; Finding Voices Women’s time (Kristeva), 175
in the Rain, 185; “O Tempora! O
mores!” 185 Yemayá, 19–20

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Tropics of History

BERGIN & GARVEY

West, Alan, 1953–

The paper used in this book complies with the

A Suggestion for the Reader ix

Introduction Tropics of History: Cuba Imagined 1

One Nancy Morejón: Poet of Cultural Crossroads 13

Two Alejo Carpentier: Symphonist of History’s Emblems 35

Three Virgilio Piñera: History to the Bone 55

Four Dulce María Loynaz: Cuba’s Living History 85

Five José Lezama Lima: The Re-Enchantment of the Wor(l)d 107

Six Severo Sarduy: Histories as Desire 139

Seven Paradigms Lost: The Manigua of Meaning 163

Coda Living Tropes, Living Hopes 181

Appendix Cuban History: An Overview 187

Tropics of History: Cuba Imagined

History is the most dangerous product evolved from the chemistry of

attraction is combustible material, so eloquently expressed by Carlos Fran-

to be a soldier in only one side of a battle.” Moreover, these traits create

meanings it suggests which speak to the hopes, dreams, and frustrations of

process of self-destruction or transformation which imposes a sort of twist

history, religion, literature, and landscape—to fashion their tropes, trying

American authors, and Morejón, or indirectly as is the case with Lezama

between history as an organizing narrative of political mobilization and

Nancy Morejón: Poet of Cultural

Nancy Morejón is the human and poetic embodiment of the word

Elegy for Nieves Fresneda

The author’s reference to the rumba is important because it is a central

This apparently surprising admission is not so striking, as we shall see. It

lover” (Poe in Bradley et al., 1967, p. 892). Morejón, inspired by Poe’s

Writing, however, is an act of absolute irrationality. A perfect example of this

In this same University of Missouri presentation, Morejón recognizes

My mother had no patio garden

adversary, where ideological debate is often strident. Because of her forma-

obvious Afro-Cuban themes like “The Eyes of Élegguá” and “Elegy to

Wherever you might move

Nothing will put you in place, anywhere.

This is why I will always remain on the margins,

Ana, gliding like a kite

That little man

Morejón is taking the famed (celebrated) landscape and examining its

Morejón’s ending has a Promethean ring to it. Despite Icarus’s failure,

Alejo Carpentier: Symphonist of

Alejo Carpentier (1904–80), one of the great Latin American novelists

(or embellishment) grafted onto indigenous cultures. In Spanish, the

Alejo Carpentier’s fifth novel, El siglo de las luces (1962; Explosion in a

With the triumph of liberal ideas (eighteenth–nineteenth centuries), the

and unable to understand social contradictions. But more significantly,

Carpentier refuses to be part of this “revolutionary romanticism.” No

This escalation of verbal vehemence in political language confronts

to the “theatricality” of its meaning, Explosion in a Cathedral also shows how

In Carpentier’s case the subscriptio is not always directly related to the

Esteban: the emblem that reads “Acquiring immortality by the study of

offer the spectator real paintings (tableaux) as favorable to a painter as the

As González Echevarría points out, following Paul de Man, allegory

subject. Through allegory Carpentier shows that this vision is idealist,

arrives at a glorification or justification of violence as such, it is no longer

Virgilio Piñera: History to the Bone

Virgilio Piñera (1912–1979) was born in Cárdenas, Cuba. He is not only