[In the following essay, Halsey discusses Buero Vallejo's relationship with Franco-era censors by tracing the author's use of José Mariano de Larra in La detonación.]

Many of Buero's protagonists represent author surrogates. However, with none of them does Buero so closely identify as with José Mariano de Larra of La detonación (1977), the dramatist's first play authored and premiered in post-Franco Spain. This identification is quite natural given Buero's well-known passion for truth and given, also, his well-documented difficulties with government censors during the Franco dictatorship.¹ After the death of Fernando VII, during the subsequent regency of María Cristina, with its rapid alternation of ministries that defrauded the Liberals' hopes, Larra stated that to write in Madrid was to weep. Buero no doubt experienced the same sentiment during the Franco era and initial transition period.²

La detonación is a study of a time of historical change that closely parallels Spain's present transition from dictatorship to democracy; it is, also, an important statement on the role of the intellectual in a repressive society—a problem Buero has dealt with in his earlier Las Meninas (1960) and El sueño de la razón (1970). Although Larra is never idealized in La detonación, Buero's admiration for the critic is obvious. Larra succeeded in publishing some of the most penetrating and lucid political essays Spain has ever known, many so progressive that they could not have easily been printed in the Franco era. Buero states in an interview: “Desde el punto de vista del cumplimiento de su misión del escritor crítico, Larra es paradigmático.”³ Similar words have sometimes been used to describe the role Buero himself has played now for some thirty-five years.

La detonación covers the ten years preceding Larra's suicide in 1837—a suicide that Buero makes clear was caused, not by an unfortunate love affair, but by despair over the destiny of his country. Larra relives, judges, and comments on these years in an extended flashback as memories race through his mind in the seconds before he pulls the trigger. The audience enters the very mind of the tormented writer and experiences, along with him, the actions, thoughts, and even dreams that he both re-enacts and witnesses as the spectator of his own theater.⁴ The flashback takes the form of a phantasmagoric delirium in which all of the characters save Larra and his friend Espronceda appear masked.⁵ The action moves constantly between three parts of a multiple-stage set: Larra's apartment, the Ministerial Offices, and the “Parnasillo,” as it was dubbed by the Romantics, where the literati of the day meet to discuss both literature and politics.⁶ Words about government repression spoken in Larra's apartment are followed, as the writer becomes lost in thought, by the appearances in their offices of the minister and censor. We witness the literati in the cafe cheer or decry decrees of the ministry, and the ministry react to the literati's cries. The nightmarish quality of the flashback, with its vertiginously frantic rhythm that accelerates as the end approaches, is no doubt inspired by the lugubrious and macabre elements that predominate in the essays of Larra's last years.

In the dialogue of the flashback Buero intercalates passages from Larra's essays. Larra both paraphrases and quotes himself; moreover his disembodied voice furnishes even further critique. The passages utilized include, not only political commentary highly relevant to Spain of the 1970s, but important statements on Larra's mission as a writer and on his position in the face of government censorship.

In the initial dialogue of the flashback, a young Larra speaks of his intent to snatch off the masks that society wears and of his passion for truth. In response to his father's protests that he will go to prison, Larra suggests that he may be able to “hablar … sin hablar,” i.e., to use “medias palabras,”—powerful weapons that have always been utilized whenever there have been gags. The masks worn by the other characters, both literati and politicians, will, in effect, fall as Larra exposes the falsehood that they represent—even the mask worn by Don Homobono, the ever-present censor who, first seen striking out words with a large quill pen, remains as new ministers come and go. Larra's own mask will be his laughter but, for those who are able to understand, it will hide nothing.

The horrors of such censorship are underscored in a dream Larra recalls near the end of the flashback. The satirist sees himself mutilated by the minister Calatrava and Don Homobono, who cut off his tongue and right hand and, then, slowly exit, carrying off their trophies. This dream is reminiscent of the nightmare in El sueño de la razón, during which Goya is attacked by monsters from the capricho whose inscription Buero uses as the play's title and his mouth covered with a strange wire muzzle which is secured by the Cat Figure, who noisily turns the key in the padlock.

Several of the passages utilized from Larra's essays during the discussions in the “Parnasillo” deal with the possible stances of the writer confronted with such censorship. Buero's own stance during the Franco regime closely reflects that of Larra as expressed in these passages. Utilizing Larra's words, Buero thus reiterates his own ideas on the correct conduct of the democratic writer under a repressive regime. So close is this identification between Larra's attitude and Buero's own that one critic states: “Existe evidentemente una respuesta de Buero Vallejo, a través de la figura de Larra, a los ataques a su postura personal durante la dictadura. Pero no se trata de una autojustificación, sino de la exposición de una opción que se considera correcta política y humanamente.”⁷

These debates in the “Parnasillo”, which extend over several years, replace, in a sense, the one climactic trial scene of Las Meninas, where Buero's Velázquez—like Buero's Larra the historical conscience of his time and target of political as well as religious censorship—must defend not only his canvasses against the charges of the Inquisition but, also, this method of painting against the attacks of a fellow artist.⁸ The dialectics of La detonación lie in the confrontation of divergent points of view that provide multiple perspectives on the issues raised and, at the same time, often expose the egoistic motives of the debators. Although the exact words of Larra are frequently used, more often than not it is the spirit, rather than the letter, of Larra's criticism that is present.

Larra first rejects the position of those writers, represented by Mesonero Romanos, who, in effect, collaborate with a repressive regime by not opposing it. After describing to Larra, who has just arrived in Madrid, the various literati and politicians of the “Parnasillo”—whose figures appear in the café as he speaks—Mesonero warns of the dangers of the wasps' nest it represents. Mesonero warns him to avoid its sting, to limit himself to writing cuadros de costumbres rather than serious satire. Larra's words however, reveal the fear behind Mesonero's mask. When the latter then asks if they do not have the right to live peacefully as possible, even though it means closing their eyes to ignominy, Larra replies that he will denounce that ignominy for the sake of the populace, which suffers.

Larra next rejects the stance of those who remain silent when unable to speak out clearly. During the harsh censorship that precedes Fernando's death agony, Larra himself struggles tenaciously to speak out. However, he is attacked by those who charge that what he does manage to publish is inoffensive since otherwise it would be prohibited. For example, Clemente Díaz, who calls himself a poet even though he publishes nothing, states that he prefers to maintain his silence rather than sign himself with a pseudonym, as does Larra, or to write about Spain and call it another name. Such practices, Díaz charges, prostitute one's pen. However, Larra's barbs unmask him for the hypocrite he is. Significantly, it is Díaz, a writer who secretly envies Larra's limited successes at getting his works published, who attacks him most strongly. Larra's attitude has already been made clear in a well-known passage from his essays that Buero has him quote to his servant, insisting that he will speak out:

“Mil caminos hay; si el más ancho, si el más recto no está expedito, ¿para qué es el talento? Tome rodeos y cumple con su alta misión. … En ninguna época, por desastrada que sea, faltarán materias para el hombre de talento: … si no las tiene todas a su disposición, tendrá algunas. ¡No se puede decir! ¡No se puede hacer! Miserables efugios, tristes pretextos de nuestra pereza. ¿Son dobles los esfuerzos que se necesitan? ¡Hacerlos!

(p. 76)⁹

When greater freedom is anticipated with the regency of Maria Cristina and the return of the exiles, Larra even suggests that, with an end to censorship, his manner of writing might not be very different. Díaz then reiterates his own position:

DÍAZ. O sea, lo de siempre. Fígaro dirá, y nada dirá. …

VEGA. ¡Claro que dirá! Y más desde hoy, si quitan la censura.

LARRA. No lo dé por seguro, Vega. Pero gracias.

DÍAZ. Pues si no desaparece habrá que enmudecer. Lo contrario es ceder ante ella.

LARRA. … O ella ante nosotros. ¿Quién podrá más?

DÍAZ. ¡Embolismos! Hay que hablar claro o callarse.

(p. 97)

Furthermore, when the expected freedom does not materialize under the paternalistic ministry of Céa Bermúdez and Larra's articles are all prohibited, the writer recalls in the presence of Don Homobono another pertinent passage from his essays: “Géneros enteros de la literatura han debido a la tiranía y a la dificultad de expresar los escritores sus sentimientos francamente una importancia que sin eso rara vez hubieran conseguido.”¹⁰ Conque imagínese lo importante que me siento (p. 107).

With the passages cited from Larra's essays and the dialogue he invents between Larra and Díaz, Buero suggests that literary conventions are useful disguises in times of absolutism but also valid vehicles to express the truth even when writers are free to speak more clearly.¹¹ That this is so is, of course, evinced by the renewed interest in Larra's essays today.¹²

Larra's words on literary convention—his own, of course, is his satire—recall debates on technique in Las Meninas and El sueño de la razón. Velázquez is forced to defend his famous “abbreviated” style, with its lack of detail that represents an attempt to paint the impression left upon the eye for a fleeting moment. It is through this method that he suggests the reality of his Spain in Las Meninas, which pictures living ghosts of persons whose truth is death. The surrealism of Goya's Pinturas Negras, which enables him to suggest the irrational evil that possesses a country when reason sleeps, is likewise called into question and even confused with senility or madness.

After attacking the position of those writers, like Mesonero, who collaborate out of fear and of those who, like Díaz, remain silent when unable to speak out clearly, Larra rejects the position, also, of those who, like his friend Espronceda, provoke confrontations that prove suicidal. When the Liberals pin their hopes on the new minister, Martínez de la Rosa, who has just returned from exile, and when Espronceda returns to found a new journal, El siglo, Larra warns the latter that things are not what they seem. Larra advises him to protect his journal from treachery, to beware of the secret police and censors who frequent the café. The time for precaution and “medias palabras” is not over. However, having only recently returned, Espronceda underestimates the danger, expressing reservations at Larra's advice.

As Larra suspected, under Martinez de la Rosa's ministry censorship continues in the person of the same Don Homobono and an entire issue of El Siglo is soon prohibited. When Espronceda decides to publish the entire issue with all of the page blank except for the titles of the forbidden articles, Larra warns him against such a provocation at a time when the government is besieged with problems and the very throne threatened by Carlist victories. The following exchange takes place between the two friends:

LARRA—¡No suicide su propia voz!

ESPONCEDA—¡No sea tan miedoso, Figaro! Publicaré El Siglo en blanco.

LARRA—Será un desafío y nos costará caro a todos.

ESPRONCEDA—¡Sea más valiente!

LARRA—¡Yo no soy cobarde! Yo sólo pienso. …

VEGA—¡Figaro, él tiene razón! ¡La campanada será enorme! …

LARRA—Y estéril.

(pp. 122–23)

As Larra foresees, Espronceda's action proves counterproductive; the publication of the journal is suspended and the latter, exiled. “‘En tiempos como estos,’” Larra's voice proclaims, “‘los hombres prudentes no deben hablar, ni mucho menos callar’” (p. 125).¹³ Larra thus shows little sympathy for a radicalism that serves only to provoke government repression. In his essay, “Larra y Espronceda: dos liberales impacientes,” C. Alonso states that for the latter, “víctima de su generosa imprudencia … no es hora de actitudes políticas definidas rigurosamente, sino de gestos dramáticos y espectaculares.”¹⁴

C. Alonso describes Larra's attitude through 1834, i.e. up to his final two years, as “un esperanzado y entusiasta posibilismo.”¹⁵ It is precisely this aspect of Larra that Buero underscores. “Entre el gesto y la eficacia,” writes one reviewer of La detonación, “Buero apuesta por la eficacia. … Porque Buero apuesta por la Historia.”¹⁶ The posibilismo of Larra, with which Buero strongly identifies, is also the attitude of Asel of La Fundación (1974), another important author surrogate. La Fundación is, among other things, a judgment on Franco Spain; however, it is also a meditation on the politics necessary to transform it. Asel, a political prisoner, tells his cellmate that efficacy in the struggle depends upon moderation and prudence, given the limited resources they have to use in confronting the established order. Asel emphasizes the importance of each step, of each political gain, each concession won from an authoritarian regime—no matter how provisional or illusory it may seem—as we journey from one prison to another in the struggle toward freedom.¹⁷

Posibilismo in politics and literature—as reflected in the passages cited from La detonación and Asel's advice in La Fundación—has been the credo of Buero during his entire career: from 1949, when as a recently released political prisoner he dared to submit his Historia de una escalera with its depiction of the tragic reality of post-war Spain and won the Lope de Vega prize,¹⁸ to 1974, when, by then a member of the Real Academia,¹⁹ he depicted still harsher truths in La Fundación, suggesting, in fact, that all Spain was a prison, to 1979 and 1981, when in Jueces en la noche and Caimán, he underscored the deficiencies of the present transition from the Franco dictatorship to democracy.

That Buero succeeded in conveying such messages despite the censorship of the Franco period now seems extraordinary. However Buero heeded early on the lesson of Larra: “Mil caminos hay. …” Using such masks as allegory (Aventura en lo gris), fantasy (Irene o el tesoro), myth (La tejedora de sueños), science fiction (Mito, El tragaluz), and, above all, history (Un soñador para un pueblo, El concierto de San Ovidio, Las Meninas, etc.) he subtly mocked the censors and spoke the truth without avoiding controversial and seemingly—but only seemingly—impossible subjects that did not exclude police torture of dissidents (La Fundación). In words as relevant now as they were twenty-three years ago, Pérez Minik describes the result of this “restauración de la máscara”: “Después de nuestra guerra civil, la historia de la convivencia española necesitaba un proceso. De esto no cabe duda. Nuestro dramaturgo no ha hecho otra cosa, a lo largo de su brillante carrera escénica, que abrir un proceso a gran parte de la existencia de nuestro país.²⁰

Despite these achievements, when government censorship finally ended, Buero evidently felt the need to defend, or at least, clarify, his stance during the Franco era. Just as Larra's essays, especially the passages cited, constitute an answer to the critics of the latter's day, so La detonación represents, among other things, a reply to those who, like Alfonso Sastre and Fernando Arrabal, attacked Buero's position in the 1960's and 1970's. The well-known and often bitter polemics which these fellow playwrights began with Buero has come to be known in the history of contemporary Spanish theater as the “posibilismo-imposibilismo” debate. The content of both polemics is closely reflected in the passages from Larra's essays that Buero utilizes in his drama.

In 1960 Sastre attacked Buero's well-known position that it was essential to write dramas that could be staged in Franco Spain even if some degree of adjustment to censorship was necessary. Writing in Primer Acto, Sastre maintained that all theater should be considered “possible” until proved otherwise. To write with censorship in mind meant to accept and normalize its existence and, given the contradictory and unpredictable way in which the censors operated, to risk needless sacrifice, creating obstacles that might not actually exist. Sastre concluded that progress is achieved, not through accommodation, but through dialectical opposition. He ended by asking if authors such as O'Neill, Brecht, A. Miller and Sartre, who seemed “impossible” in their time, were not better examples than “los predicadores de tácticas y acomodaciones” and by recalling that, in 1949, he had applauded Buero's own Historia de una escalera precisely because it represented “una obra imposible.”²¹

In the same article, Sastre refuted the position of comedy writer, Alfonso Paso, who maintained that playwrights should “sign a pact” with the establishment in order to get their plays produced so as to be able, later, to betray the clauses of this pact writing socially progressive works. Sastre noted that the first stance, posibilismo, could lead to the second, that is, Paso's position, although he did not charge that such had happened in Buero's case. Sastre stated that he refuted both positions, in which he perceived a lack of logic, “ya que no lo que en el lenguaje sartriano se señalaría como una forma de ‘mauvaise foi’, o, en otras palabras, conformismo.”²²

Buero's elaborate refutation of Sastre's attack appeared in the very next issue of Primer Acto. After explaining that he considered such public polemics among writers with similar objectives a great error and that he, himself, that never publicly criticized Sastre by name, Buero noted that Sastre had attacked not only his theories but, by extension, his theater and that the words cited above constituted a serious reproach to his professional conduct that he could not leave unanswered. Buero charged, in fact, that for some time he had noted an insidious campaign against his work by Sastre and the latter's friends, who considered it “insuficientemente positiva y contaminada, por el contrario de conformismo y acomodación.”²³

Buero flatly rejected Sastre's contention that, since in theory all theater is possible, dramatists must write with absolute inner freedom. He noted that the unpredictable nature of censorship is relative and does not preclude foreseeing that certain themes, concepts, etc. may be approached only in certain ways. He, himself, then quoted Sastre, reminding Sastre that writers must live their situation, acting upon their circumstances—even if they sincerely believe they are disdaining them—struggling successfully or otherwise, and taking the risks, although not rashly, of being censored or misunderstood. Finally, Buero explains that “posibilitación” is not “acomodación” and advocates:

un teatro difícil y resuelto a expresarse con la mayor holgura, pero que no sólo debe escribirse sino estrenarse. Un teatro, pues ‘en situación,’ lo más arriesgado posible, pero no temerario. Recomiendo, en suma, y a sabiendas de que muchas veces no se logrará, hacer posible un teatro ‘imposible.’ Llamo, por consiguiente, ‘imposibilismo’ a la actitud que se coloca, mecánica y antidialecticamente, ‘fuera de situación’: la actitud que busca hacer aun más imposible a un teatro ‘imposible’ con temerarias elecciones de tema o expresión, con declaraciones provocadoras, con reclamos inquietantes y abundantes, y que puede llegar tristemente aún más lejos en su divorcio dela dialéctica de lo real: a hacer imposible un teatro … posible.²⁴

Buero pointed out that, with his “imposibilista” stance, Sastre gave the impression that certain of the latter's works were impossible for reasons of censorship when, in reality, other reasons might exist. He noted that certain of what Sastre himself called “cripto-dramas” have been considered accommodations to censorship rather than “impossible” plays. Therefore, Sastre himself does not exemplify the absolute inner freedom he advocates—a freedom indeed impossible. Nevertheless, Buero concludes, Sastre attempts to justify his own works since he has appointed himself the standard bearer of theatrical revolution in Spain.

Sastre's brief response added little to what had already been said. After denying the possibility of such a contradiction as that supposed by radical theories and plays written as accommodations, as well as the supposition that his theories represented a tactic to explain failures not attributable to censorship, Sastre attempted to re-define somewhat his concept of absolute inner freedom. However, he reiterated his belief that the “posibilista” stance might be a mask for conformity.²⁵ Various ideas that Sastre expressed in this debate are obviously reflected in the positions both of Clemente Díaz and Espronceda of La detonación.

The entire polemic was renewed, in 1975, by Arrabal's attacks in Estreno. Arrabal cited the cases of Picasso, Cassals, and Alberti, who, he noted, like himself preferred exile to silence, and, also, implied that Sastre's imprisonment for political motives at the very time when Buero accepted his chair in the Real Academia de la Lengua, showed that Sastre's stance in the debate of the 1960's had been the correct one.²⁶ After refuting such logic and pointing out actions contradicting Arrabal's own “imposibilismo”—Arrabal's compliance with the censor's demands in two books, his use of the anagram, “Ciugrena” for “Guernica” in a play title, as well as his acceptance of the aid, during his trial of 1967, of various members of the very Real Academia he said he despised—Buero replied that the real purpose of Arrabal's statements in Estreno and elsewhere was to deny that writers in Franco Spain could produce anything of value without being muzzled, imprisoned, or exiled. Buero further charged that, in order to magnify the importance of his own theater, Arrabal scorned important efforts by those who struggled to keep alive, in difficult times, a culture that was independent—including authors much more important than either he himself or Arrabal. Buero reminded Arrabal that such assertions as he had made may enjoy a good press but that important accomplishments cannot be negated with the stroke of a pen. Moreover, those Spaniards who chose exile have the least right to so simplistically judge and condemn those who remained to struggle. In short, revindicating positive achievements of the last forty years, Buero again lamented the common misconceptions that an innovative and critical theater is impossible in countries where creativity encounters the obstacle of censorship and that the only alternatives for honest writers are exile or silence.²⁷

Arrabal then charged that instead of pronouncing a clear “J'accuse,” Buero had adopted the very arguments of the Franco propaganda machine by defending two myths: that theater went on much as usual despite occasional difficulties (proved by listing the few exceptions to the general rule) and that authors subsidized and honored by the regime enjoyed international prestige (proved by listings of amateur and school performances abroad of their plays). Arrabal concluded that the only real distinctions a tyrant could confer upon writers without dishonoring them were persecution and censorship.²⁸ To Arrabal's accusations Buero responded with concrete data showing that many authors, theater groups, and directors, who received awards and subventions from the government, had waged an effective battle to speak out independently. Moreover, he charged that for Arrabal, then in Paris, to appoint himself political mentor and try to give lessons in anti-fascism to those who had remained in Spain to struggle was simply unacceptable. Buero then declared, as he had done in the debate with Sastre, that for his part, the polemic was concluded.²⁹

In an overview of theater and society in Franco Spain, Luciano García Lorenzo quotes the words of Monleón, in 1966, describing the outcome of the posibilista debate with Sastre: “El posibilismo se ha cumplido, con ciertas limitaciones, en Buero; Sastre hace años que no estrena y Paso que habló de una revolución desde dentro, acabó por estar dentro sin hacer ninguna revolución.” García Lorenzo added, as he wrote in 1973: “Evidentemente, efectividad y calidad artística no son términos incompatibles y ahí está el ejemplo de Buero.”³⁰

Under Franco Buero knew that it was necessary to take “mil caminos” to speak the truth. However, since the abolition of censorship, he has continued to write much in the same way as before even though in La detonación criticism is clearer—due, in part, to the utilization of Larra's own essays—and in Jueces en la noche and Caimán grave social and political problems of post-Franco Spain are dealt with directly, without masks of any type whatever. Nevertheless, these dramas demonstrate, no less than his earlier one, the beliefs he expressed early in his career: excessive rationalization or didacticism may be a grave defect, implication is preferable to explication, the enigmatic is a positive value, and art must approximate the playwright's intuitions, presenting problems in all their complexity. Otherwise, Buero believes, plays would be, not works of art, but political acts or gestures.³¹

Indeed Buero clearly stated, in 1978, that his manner of writing could not change, contrary to what seemed to be the expectations of at least one critic, who hypothesized that La detonación (actually written after Franco's death) would be the last drama of the playwright's “Francoist phase” before some sort of radical change would occur. Buero added that, with or without censorship, “la oblicuidad, en sus diversos grados, suele ser condición intrínsica de la obra de arte. Es más, bien puede suceder que con mayor libertad, la oblicuidad estética se acentúe, mientras que, bajo la censura, se ha procurado no pocas veces dar precisamente obras más directas.”³² In 1979, while acknowledging that in La detonación, despite its historical distancing, he speaks more clearly than was hitherto possible, he reiterates: “Pero no por ello voy a tirar a la basura la expresión oblicua o sesgada o indirecta o alusiva o metafórica o simbólica. De ninguna manera. Con censura o sin ella estas son … grandes riquezas de lo literario y yo no prescindiré de esas riquezas.”³³ After insisting that, even without censorship, his La doble historia del doctor Valmy would have been set in an imaginary country and recalling that Brecht's Mother Courage, written without censorship, is a much more effective anti-war drama than one that clearly explained the atrocities of Dunkirk, for example, Buero concluded: “Así que you seguiré escribiendo, poco más o menos, como he escrito hasta ahora.”³⁴

As Buero, himself, has pointed out, some of the greatest writers of the world, such as Cervantes, Gorki, and Gogol, have written their works under difficult—but not insuperable—conditions of censorship.³⁵ Repressive and difficult situations saw the creation, in Spain, of such masterpieces as Don Quijote, Lazarillo de Tormes, and Quevedo's Sueños.³⁶ Nevertheless, strangely enough there has persisted both outside of, and to some extent, within Spain, the myth that nothing of value can be produced under a repressive regime. This attitude has led to clear prejudices against authors who, like Buero, did not go into exile but remained in Franco Spain to speak out from within, despite all the difficulties this implied. For years such prejudice together, of course, with distaste for a totalitarian regime, resulted in a curtain of silence that separated Spanish culture from that of the rest of the world.³⁷ This silence, which has gradually been broken as literary imports from Spain have found acceptance, especially in Latin America and Europe, ignored the emergence of new voices, including voices of protest. In the words of Larra, Buero tells us that such an attitude results from gross misconceptions as to the nature of creativity in Franco Spain.

Notes

1. See Patricia O'Connor: “Government Censorship in the Contemporary Spanish Theater,” Educational Theater Journal, 18, No. 4 (December, 1965), 17–24; “Torquemada in the Theatre,” Theatre Survey, 14, No. 2 (Novembre, 1973), 33–45; “Censorship at Work,” Spain Today, 6 (1966), 443–449; and, especially, “Censorship in the Contemporary Spanish Theater and Antonio Buero Vallejo,” Hispania, 52 (1969), 59–63. O'Connor was expelled from Spain in 1972 as the result of her research on censorship.

   Buero succeeded regularly in getting his plays premiered during the Franco period. However, Aventura en lo gris, written in 1949, was prohibited until 1963; and La doble historia del Dr. Valmy, written in 1964, was not allowed to open until 1976, after Franco's death. Although both dramas are set in an imaginary country, Surelia, the first describes situations with numerous parallels to the Spanish Civil War; and the second deals with police torture of political dissidents. The year before it was written, Buero, together with other leading intellectuals, had signed an open letter demanding an investigation into the alleged torture of striking miners in Asturias. Charges, later dropped, were brought by the government against those who had signed.

   In “De mi teatro,” Romanistisches Jahrbuch, 30 (1979), 217–227, Buero reveals that his habit was to write a drama without conscious concern with censorship and, then, to add ten or twelve “barbaridades,” which he had no intention of keeping, as bait for the censors. Since the latter had to make some concessions so as not to project abroad the image of a closed country, they took the offered bait, even if conscious of the trick. This tactic, Buero states, almost always worked even though, of course, at times other phrases were also suppressed. See p. 220.

2. In “Horas de invierno,” 1936. Larra's words are quoted in Buero Vallejo, La detonación. Las palabras en la arena (Madrid: Espasa Calpe, 1979), p. 89.

3. In “‘no hay que suicidarse, sino seguir viviendo’: Buero Vallejo estrena La detonación, sobre Larra,” Hoja informativa de Literatura y Filología, No. 54 (Fundación Juan March: November, 1977), pp. 4–5.

4. For studies of Buero's dramatic technique in this play see Luis Iglesias Feijoo, La trayectoria dramática de Antonio Buero Vallejo (Santiago de Compostela, 1982), pp. 465–495, and especially Janet W. Pérez, “Buero Vallejo's Larra: La detonación,” Estreno, 5, No. 1 (Spring 1979), 33–35.

5. The carnival motif is doubtlessly inspired by Larra's essay, “El mundo todo es máscaras; todo el año es carnaval.” (1833).

6. The “Parnasillo” is the Café del Principe situated adjacent to the Teatro del Principe, where the Teatro Español now stands. See Gregorio C. Martin, “El Parnasillo: origen y circunstancias,” La Chispa 81: Selected Proceedings, ed. Gilbert Paolini (New Orleans, 1981), pp. 209–218. Martin notes that under Fernando VII, the tertulia “existía como una necesidad de discutir lo que no se podia escribir.” (p. 209). A very similar role was played, in the Franco period, by the tertulia that met in Madrid's old Café Lisboa, where Bruno met with such aspiring young writers as García Pavón, Arturo del Hoyo, and Vicente Soto, at the time when he was writing his first dramas. See García Pavón, “Antonio Buero Vallejo: sus trabajos y sus días,” Destino (Barcelona), No. 1742 (February 20, 1971), p. 22.

7. M. B., “La detonación, Larra-Buero: ‘No soy cobarde, solo pienso.’” Cuadernos para el Diálogo, No. 231 (October 1–7, 977), p. 7.

   In various talks and interviews Buero makes quite explicit his admiration for, and identification with, Larra's posture. See, for example, his comments, published without title, in Teatro español actual (Madrid: Fundación Juan March and Cátedra, 1977), pp. 69–81. Buero states: “Entre los que han hablado, y siguen hablando y seguirán hablando de que la literatura inevitablemente se falsea y se empobrece y se deforma [bajo la censura y la coerción social] y que hay que marcharse o callar, yo asumo la respuesta de Larra y el deber que entonces Larra nos enseñó a todos.” p. 80.

   In “De mi teatro,” cited in note 1, after naming great works of literature produced under difficult situations, Buero states: “Bajo circunstancias españolas bastante parecidas ya a las del franquismo … las del poder absoluto de Fernando VII, Mariano José de Larra fue capaz de darnos la literatura—en su caso periodística y crítica fundamentalmente—más satírica y más clara, dentro del embozo inevitable, que se pudo dar en cualquier momento de la historia ante una situación criticable. Estos ejemplos luminosos, perfectamente racionalizados por sus autores—y sobre todo por Larra, que ha dicho acerca de ello, palabras definitivas,—podían ser y fueron de hecho nuestros guías” (p. 218). In a similar vein Buero has spoken of his admiration for Velázquez. See Arcadio Baquero, “Buero Vallejo, pintor,” La Estafeta Literaria, No. 198 (August 1960), p. 15.

   As was, perhaps, to be expected, Buero was charged with writing a play about himself. Carlos G. Reigosa writes: “En escena está Buero y no Larra. … Ha sido una pena que para hablar de sí mismo, Buero haya recurrido al gran Fígaro.” “Larra, según Buero: historia de una suplantación,” Ozono, No. 25 (October 25, 1977), p. 48. In similar fashion the playwright was attacked for using Velázquez, in Las Meninas, as a vehicle for expressing his own ideas on artistic freedom and on censorship.

8. See Sheehan's discussion of Las Meninas in “Censorship and Buero Vallejo's Social Consciousness,” Aquila: Chestnut Hill Studies in Modern Languages and Literatures (1969), 121–137.

9. From “Reflexiones acerca del modo de hacer resucitar el teatro espanol,” 1832. Passages from Larra's essays appear within quotation marks in the text.

10. From “Panorama matritense. Artículo segundo,” 1936.

11. Carlos Seco Serrano states with respect to Larra: “La censura de prensa—tan odiada por Figaro … contribuirá también—eso no lo percibe Larra—a perfeccionar al escritor; a ella debemos la finura de conceptos y la sutileza de intención de algunos de sus mejores artículos.” “Estudio preliminar,” in Larra, Obras (Madrid: Atlas, 1960), pp. LIII–LIV. BAE, No. 127.

12. For an overview of recent interest in Larra on the part both of leftist critics who sometimes idealize him as well as those scholars who write more objectively, see the beginning of Paul Illie's “Larra's Nightmare,” Revista Hispánica Moderna, 38 (1974–75), 153–166. Illie writes: “With increasing exaggeration, Larra is becoming the hero of modern leftist scholarship.”

    For a list of studies of Larra consulted by Buero for his play see Ricardo Salvat, “Entrevista a Buero Vallejo.” Estreno, 14, No. 1 (Spring, 1978), 15–18.

13. From “El siglo en blanco,” 1834.

14. In Literatura y poder: España 1834–1868 (Madrid: Editor Alberto Corazón, 1971), p. 18. C. Alonso is quoting, in part, from Patricio de la Escosura.

15. Ibid., p. 19.

16. M. B., “La detonación. …” p. 7.

17. See my article, “Reality, Illusion, and Alienation: Buero's La Fundación,” forthcoming in Hispanófila.

18. The manuscript of the play was submitted anonymously.

19. Of course, the prestige of membership afforded Buero considerable protection after his election in 1971. There is a parallel between his election to the academy and Larra and Espronceda's candidacy for the Cortes under Istúriz in 1836. In Buero's play, Espronceda states: “En las Cortes seremos invulnerables, y la censura no podrá silenciar nuestra palabra.” (p. 155).

20. “Buero Vallejo o la restauración de la máscara,” in Teatro europeo contemporáneo: su libertad y sus compromisos (Madrid: Ediciones Guadarrama, 1961), p. 385.

21. Alfonso Sastre, “Teatro imposible y pacto social,” Primer Acto, No. 14 (May-June 1960), pp. 1–2. Sastre also refuted what he perceived to be Buero's prior insinuations that he deliberately wrote an “impossible” theater to attract attention in certain circles and to get his works published and performed abroad.

22. Ibid.

23. Buero, “Obligada precisión acerca del ‘imposibilismo,’” Primer Acto, No. 15 (July-August, 1960), pp. 1–6.

24. Ibid. For a more detailed account of this debate see Kessel Schwartz, “Posibilismo and Imposibilismo: The Buero Vallejo-Sastre Polemic,” Revista Hispánica Moderna, 34 (1968), 436–445.

25. Sastre, “A modo de respuesta,” Primer Acto, No. 16 (1960), pp. 1–2. Sastre continued his attack, also, in Primer Acto, No. 29–30 (December 1961-January 1962), pp. 26–27, and in his book Anatomía del realismo (Barcelona, 1965).

26. Arrabal, “Objecciones de Arrabal al articulo de Dowling, Estreno, No. 1,” Estreno, No. 3 (Fall, 1975), p. 5.

27. Buero, “Desde España,” Estreno, No. 3 (Fall 1975), pp. 13–17. Buero included in his comments a lengthy list of documents he had signed defending young Spanish authors (including Arrabal) in trouble with the authorities.

28. Arrabal, “La alienación franquista,” Estreno, 2, No. 1 (1975), pp. 9–10.

29. Buero, “Confusión sin ceremonias,” Estreno, 2, No. 2 (Fall, 1976), pp. 5–7. Buero tells of his astonishment when, at Arrabal's trial in 1967 for a “Panic” inscription written in a book he autographed (“Me cago en Dios, en la patria y en todo lo demás”), the playwright failed to use the occasion to utter his own “J'accuse,” calmly declaring that the word “Dios” referred to “Pan” and that “Patria” was really his cat “Patra.” He was acquitted. Some sort of deal had obviously been made with the government in view of Arrabal's international reputation.

30. Luciano García Lorenzo, “Teatro y sociedad en la España de posguerra,” in El teatro y su crítica: reunión de Málaga de 1973 (Málaga, 1975), p. 263. See, also, Francisco Ruiz Ramón's lucid “De El sueño de la razón a La detonación (Breve meditación sobre el posibilismo),” Estreno, 5, No. 1 (Spring 1979), pp. 7–8.

31. For Buero's early statements see the second chapter of Martha T. Halsey, Antonio Buero Vallejo (New York: Twayne, 1973).

32. “Deslinde e índole de la obra postfranquista de A. Buero Vallejo (dos cartas del autor sobre este tema y otros afines),” Bulletin ode la Societé Belge des Professeurs d'Espagnol, No. 19 (December 1979), p. 4.

33. Buero, “De mi teatro,” pp. 224–25.

34. Ibid.

35. Ricardo Salvat, “Entrevista a Buero Vallejo,” Estreno, 4, No. 1 (Spring 1978), p. 10.

36. “De mi teatro,” p. 219.

37. For whatever reason, this silence has persisted in the United States, especially in regard to the theater. Except for Hispanists, American theater-goers are virtually ignorant of any Spanish playwright since Lorca. A case in point is Buero's own drama. His plays have been regularly produced for a number of years in such places as the Soviet Union, all of the Eastern European countries (where they have found especially imminent directors) the Scandinavian countries, Iceland, Italy, and West Germany. However, his professional opening in the United States came only in 1984, with the premiere of Marion Holt's English version of El sueño de la razón at Baltimore's Center Stage.