The Persistence of Center: José María Arguedas and the Challenge to the Postmodern Outlook
[In the following essay, Kelley asserts that Arguedas, despite using post-modernist techniques to depict the world of modern man, could not be a post-modernist; post-modernism, she contends, accepts no redemptive or transcendent force, whereas for Arguedas writing was itself a transcendent act of communion with the still-vibrant culture of the Quechua.]
José María Arguedas (1911-1969), the Peruvian writer and anthropologist, based his novels and stories on the life and outlook of the Quechua-speaking Indians living in a world forced upon them, and saw as his literary mission the expression of what another writer, speaking of current literature in the language of another oppressed people, the Irish, recently called a “unique and unrepeatable way of looking at the world” (Ní Dhomhnaill 1995, 28).
In recent years the terms posmodernismo and posmodernidad have begun figuring with increasing frequency in critical texts in Spanish, with little or no clarification as to usage. Subsequent to such clarification, Arguedas's work will be considered within the context of modernity and postmodernity, with his final novel El zorro de arriba y el zorro de abajo (The fox from above and the fox from below, 1971) viewed as his ultimate rejection of the latter. Arguedas's rejection of postmodernity, however, is no mere defense of modernity in the face of a later development, but is expressed in such a way as to leave in no doubt his innovative position in an emerging world literature, one outlined by Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill, and in which the voices of the dominant Western culture are no longer the only ones, nor even those that prevail.
Awareness of postmodernity in Latin American fiction appeared in an essay by the Chilean José Promis Ojeda, “En torno a la nueva novela hispanoamericana: Reubicación de un concepto” (The new Hispano-American novel: Rethinking a concept, 1977). In it Promis Ojeda berates critics of the sixties and seventies for claiming that a “new” Latin American novel, one that incorporates thematic and textual innovations, such as auto-referentiality, a nonchronological story line, stream of consciousness passages, levels of reality other than the everyday empirical, and change of narrative viewpoint, came into being during the boom years. The critics were dating this so-called new novel from the 1950s or, perhaps, the forties (Brushwood 1975, 333-34) and virtually ignoring fiction written from the 1920s on by Latin Americans such as Macedonio Fernández, Jorge Luis Borges, María Luisa Bombal, Teresa de la Parra, and Martín Adán, alongside Proust, Joyce, Mann, Woolf, Hemingway, Faulkner, and others. The “new” novel was almost half a century old at the time of the boom but had been ignored or misread by positivist critics enamored of Zola's naturalist roman experimental (Promis Ojeda 1977, 17-18), which had purported to produce a scientistic social document based on detached observation of empirical reality and to eschew aesthetic creation and lyrical language (Promis Ojeda 1993, 17-23; Braun 1965, 308-11).
In 1976 in Modernism: 1890-1930, the British critics Malcolm Bradbury and James McFarlane coined the term “cultural seismology” to define “the shifts and displacements of sensibility in art, literature, and thought,” and to bring attention to upheavals within those shifts (1976, 19). A German neologism, Modernismus, was taken over by most Western languages as an umbrella term to denote the spirit behind a cataclysm that appeared to shake the arts before and after the first World War. In Catalan and Spanish, the term modernismo, however, had been preempted by the nineteenth-century art-for-art's-sake tremor that produced Art Nouveau, symbolism, and Decadence immediately preceding modernity, which is categorized in Spanish as vanguardismo in poetry or neo-realismo in prose. Incongruously, no umbrella term in Spanish defined “modernity” until the recent appearance of modernidad to cover the spirit that informed the plastic arts, music, and literature vis-á-vis the terms posmodernidad and posmodernismo, already in use as a translation of French and English usage, possibly disseminated through a 1971 essay of that name by Ihab Hassan (Bradbury and McFarlane 1976, 35; Calinescu 1987, 141-43).
Bradbury and McFarlane incorporate the nineteenth-century tremors, including Hispanic modernismo, within the literature of modernity as they point out the plethora of conflicting concepts the term denotes. There is no particular theme or style unique to modernity, though “modernism/modernity” has “a recognizable general meaning” that clearly serves as “a broad stylistic description” (23). Pio Baroja's laconic tone, from which Hemingway took much of his “pared down style,” might appear to be poles apart from Thomas Mann's baroque sentences, yet the three are modernists inasmuch as their writing reveals a will to produce an original voice. The works of modernity are informed by a common creative attitude of mind, and the period of modernity can be seen as the culmination of a romantic mind-set that extends from the late eighteenth century through the first half of the twentieth, during which time the artist, musician, or writer is “perpetually engaged in a profound and ceaseless journey through the means and integrity of art” (29), with redemption and transcendence often ascribed to the creative act itself. During the time of modernity proper such belief combines with a search for new transcendent codes to replace the eroded underpinnings of Western culture (Promis Ojeda 1977, 19) and which is found in the Latin American novel of the early boom years (23). In several Latin American writers of modernity, Eliot's search for “the Tradition,” Hemingway's longing for “the Code,” or Yeats's quest for a private mythology (Olsen 1990, 27) find an equivalent in the favoring of an indigenous concept of reality—for example, in Miguel Angel Asturias in El señor presidente (Mr. President, 1948), Alejo Carpentier in Los pasos perdidos (The lost steps, 1952), and Augusto Roa Bastos in Hijo del hombre (Son of man, 1960), while José María Arguedas is consistent in advocating the outlook of the Quechua Indians from his first publication in the thirties to his death in 1969, but particularly in the autobiographical Los ríos profundos (Deep rivers, 1958) and in his final, posthumous novel, El zorro de arriba y el zorro de abajo (1971).
In Los ríos profundos Arguedas depicts moments of oneness with nature and with the people with whom Ernesto, the young protagonist, identifies (64, 65, 71-80, etc.). Ernesto, raised by the Quechua, learned his views on life from them; he speaks of his pride in the discovery of his own literary voice possessed of a lyricism born of the Quechua tradition, and not the high-flown, romantic Spanish style he affected until that time; his new voice was “neither a wail of sorrow nor one of despair. I left the classroom proud and erect, as sure of myself as when I swam across rushing rivers swollen by January floods” (79).1 In his last work, El zorro de arriba (1971), Arguedas writes again of such a worldview learned through an upbringing among Indians and states a literary credo: “I live to write and I believe one must live unconditionally if one is to interpret the chaos and order of things” (26).
In the boom years of the Latin American novel, writers and critics familiar with world literature and the latest literary theories flourished; Arguedas felt incapable of rebutting their sophistries and affected ignorance of literary techniques (1971, 15; Narradores peruanos 1969, 71, 174), but in doing so, contradicted earlier statements in “La novela y el problema de la expresión literaria en el Perú” (“The novel and the problem of literary expression in Peru,” 1950), in which he outlines the problems confronting the writer who wishes to depict the reality and outlook of the Quechua in literary Spanish (69). According to Margot Beyersdorff, from as early as 1931 Arguedas's “overriding concern” was to find a means of transposing Quechua speech characteristics (1986, 28). She also notes that several critics have been fascinated by this genesis of his literary voice (28-30), including William Rowe, who shows how Arguedas's attempts to find a convincing way to express Quechua speech forces his prose through complex experimental stages from text to text. A given usage might be tried, abandoned, modified, and taken up again (1979, 41-66), and this awareness of language and will to experiment gives Arguedas his unique literary voice. It also separates him from writers of the indigenist school of Andean social realism, born of Zolan naturalism. While the dichotomy between the writing of modernity and that of the scientistic naturalists, who supposedly produced reports based on empiric observation, is less total than critics and practitioners believed (Knapp 1975, 41; Promis Ojeda 1993, 9-31), Arguedas's will to original literary expression and need to represent moments of transcendence clearly place him in the modernist camp from the start of his literary career.
As published, El zorro de arriba begins and ends with, and the story line includes, sections classified by the writer as “diaries,” written “in the hope of emerging from the unexpected well into which I have fallen … half consumed by a recurrence of my old illness” (207). The diaries contain comments on a wide variety of topics and include reflections on the natural world and the writer's sense of union with it (24, 27, 96, 206-7), memories of earlier times (28-31), and discussion of the author's acute physical pain (21) and state of clinical depression, which finally led to his suicide (11, 18, 95-99). He offers views on the writer's vocation and refers to other writers with whom he can or cannot empathize (15-30, 209-11).
In the 1960s an unfortunate, widely disseminated dispute had taken place in print between Arguedas and the Argentinean postmodernist Julio Cortázar; Arguedas refers to it specifically in his last novel (204). Each debated the nature of the writer and the literary act as he conceived it. Once again, reference to José Promis Ojeda's 1977 essay sheds light on this occurrence. Promis Ojeda believes that, as critics earlier had not recognized in the literature of Latin America the modernity that had started in the 1920s, they now were overlooking the change in outlook that was taking place in the novel of the sixties.
Textual and thematic experimental techniques did not originate with the boom novels nor with the French nouveau roman. They can, in fact, all be found as in a sampler in Joyce's Finnegans Wake of 1940, but a different spirit does begin to inform the Latin American works of the sixties, as it also informs the nouveau roman and an increasing number of works of Western fiction from many countries (Barth, Gass, Olsen, O'Neill). Promis Ojeda refers to this as a “fall, or loss of center,” which strangely echoes Yeats's earlier auguries of impending chaos: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold” (1973, 210-11). The Chilean considers the whirlwind that carries away the written word at the end of Gabriel García Márquez's Cien años de soledad (One hundred years of solitude, 1967) emblematic of a new Weltanschauung (Promis Ojeda 1977, 26) that has now been identified with the postmodern. It had already manifested itself in the earlier part of the boom in Cortázar's Rayuela (Hopscotch, 1963), a tragic story told facetiously by a narrator who searches frantically but fruitlessly for transcendence. The postmodernist can find no redemptive forces, nothing in which to place hope of transcendence: all metanarratives have failed, God is dead, belief in historicism is not justified, reason has let us down, science dooms us to chaos. The modernist's only option appears to be laughter in the face of reality, and the absurdist playwright Eugène Ionesco, echoing Nietzsche, does in fact assert that “to become conscious of what is horrifying and to laugh … is to become master” (Esslin 1969, 158). This lends credence to Kristeva's assertion that, while the literature of modernity deals with the tragedy of existence, postmodern literature deals with the tragedy that is the human comedy (1987, 151).
Arguedas's last novel chronicles an appreciation of the new fiction of the sixties but ends by revealing his knowledge that he will never be able to come to terms with the postmodern viewpoint. He cannot, he says, consider writing as a “profession,” since, for him, to write is to live and is allied to his will to depict the moments of union with the natural world that he describes for an uncomprehending adversary (204, 210-11). However, Arguedas sees the “new” literary techniques of the sixties as necessary for depicting the new, man-made reality so different from the natural world with which he identifies. He says, “I should have learned something, at least; perhaps I should have learned a lot from the Cortázars,” but that would have meant being a very different person and leading a very different life (210).
Postmodernism is usually viewed nowadays as a literary Zeitgeist that starts around mid-century, but it can also be viewed as a constant in literature (Hillis Miller 1975, 31) that reflects a writer's individual temperament as much as the spirit of a given time (Kronik 1994). Kafka, Nabokov, and Borges were postmodernists during the heyday of the modernist outlook. A postmodern spirit might be said to inform Don Quixote and Tristram Shandy, and a character in Arthur Koestler's novel The Call-Girls (1972) insists that a similar spirit informs the words of Ecclesiastes, who “dates from the Bronze Age and God was still supposed to be alive then” (67).
Nothing could be further from postmodern mockery than the simple wonder expressed in Arguedas's lyrical prose in Los ríos profundos, or when the writer describes his experiences of redemption in the diary sections of his last novel. Arguedas spent his life attempting to communicate the “love, hate, and tenderness” (Narradores peruanos 1969, 36) that he learned, along with a sense of oneness with nature, as a child, as he says in his last novel “raised among don Felipe Maywa's folk, placed in the very oqllo [breast] of the Indians” (20). Just as Koestler finds that Ecclesiastes shows cynicism in the Bronze Age, it can be argued that efforts to convey the sense of such unity with all that is natural form a literary constant in religious expression from the Bronze Age and even earlier.
The difference between Arguedas and many modernist writers lies in the simple fervor with which he insists on the validity of his beliefs. In the “First Diary” of his last novel, he tells once again how and where he came upon his view of reality, stressing that such a view is based on his earliest perceptions of love (22-23) that have comforted him throughout his life. He is aware, however, that similar attitudes regarding the views of native peoples have become fashionable among some sophisticated writers, and he mentions one by name (17). His own commitment to artistic creation is typical of the spirit of modernism, but he is adamant in his abhorrence of literary posturing. Arguedas advocates the order he perceives as natural, and to describe it he prefers metaphors taken from the natural world (206, 207, 209, etc.), so that when the narrator of his last novel affirms his friendship with a tree: “two yards from its powerful, blackened trunk one hears a sound, the typical sound that flows forth at the foot of those who stand alone” (206), the reader senses his insistence that this is something he truly feels, as well as his fear that his sentences might be construed as fine writing.
In spite of the resentment that Arguedas feels for the new “professional” novelists and his insistence in his last novel that he is “a provincial” (25), he is remarkably successful in producing a totalizing text that incorporates the techniques he takes to be boom innovations. The story line of El zorro de arriba is set in the port of Chimbote, a once quiet backwater that in the 1960s became Peru's boom town due to the international fishmeal industry. As European and North American modernists looked to the Greek myths, so the Andean incorporates elements from Inca mythology. The novel covers all strata of Chimbote society, including some actual living persons, and its protagonists range from the displaced Indians of the shanty towns who, working at jobs created by the fishmeal boom—not the least important occupation being prostitution—to Peruvian and foreign capitalists who have turned the town into an inferno. Yet, in spite of the chaos, there are those beings who survive and even transcend the reality around them.
Arguedas was a very slow and careful writer who made many revisions. The jerky, impressionistic passages, which combine many styles, even elements of different genres, more than comply with the techniques considered mandatory for a novel written during the boom years, yet only a first, uncorrected draft of the novel exists, and no edition wholly complies with the writer's stipulations. The unfinished novel is in fragmentary form, with a stylized résumé near the end that proposes a denouement: Arguedas wanted the “chapters” of story line classified as “ebullitions” (212), as if to imply that they were being emitted by some uncontainable force.
The foxes of the title derive from the tricksters of a colonial Quechua document on myths of Huarochirí, a locality in the highlands, inland from Lima. In Arguedas's novel, the fox from the coast and the fox from the highlands first appear in order to discuss, critically, the writer's efforts to generate a new form of narrative (31-32). Diego, the fox from the coast, an “Inca hippie,” later performs an act of magic realism by powering the machinery in a fishmeal factory by dancing the traditional scissors-dance (130-34, 153), and he is also present as a stutterer magically cured of his affliction (151-53). The fox appears to symbolize Arguedas's faith in the indigenous population's ability to master the niceties of Western technology and custom without sacrificing its own culture and magic. Over the centuries, the Quechua have proven their capacity to prevail, and to take what they wish from the environment that was forced upon them, without relinquishing the qualities essential to their own particular vision. This also forms the subject of the Quechua poetry written by Arguedas in his later years (Murra 1978, xiii-xv; Rowe and Schelling 1991, 61).
There are factors in Arguedas's last novel that have proven troublesome to critics. William Rowe compares unfavorably the intellectualizing language of the “diaries” and their greater use of adverbs and adjectives with the gentle, onomatopoeic lyricism of Los ríos profundos dealing with identical material (1979, 197-99). There is a pervasive sexuality about the final novel. The action appears to take off from a description by the narrator in the “First Diary” of an enigmatic, infantile sexual experience (28-31), and Rowe ventures that the sexual element might mean to evoke the connotations possessed by the coast in the serrano mind (1979, 200-202); it is an element that figures prominently in Latin American boom literature but that appeared only mutedly in Arguedas's previous work. Arguedas incorporates into his last novel and his late poetry an unusual technique of deliberately comparing the natural to the man-made. A huayronqo (horsefly) is likened to a helicopter (27). While this brings to mind Dr. Johnson's famous observation that comparison of the man-made to the natural ennobles the man-made, and comparison of the natural to the man-made denigrates nature, denigration of nature is obviously not Arguedas's intent, yet the comparisons are so deliberate and insistent as to invite speculation. The text, unfinished as it is, shows that Arguedas “was an old dog with the adaptability to learn new tricks” (Higgins 1987, 211), but, as throughout the diaries, the narrator speaks repeatedly of beliefs that are firm and above changes of literary fashion.
Arguedas's repeated thesis was that in Peru the Quechua language has exercised more than substratum influence, and Rowe has pointed out in this context that the culture has produced two Quechua speakers, Guamán Poma de Ayala and José María Arguedas, who undertake to strengthen and extend the scope of the native tradition in time of crisis by depicting the Quechua outlook for the reader of Spanish. Rowe classifies the two as “translators” who attempt to present the Quechua world view to readers whose language is constituted quite differently from Quechua (1979, 53); according to culturally oriented translation theory, such translation ennobles and bestows authority on the source language (Lefevere 1992, 123).
Arguedas's writing in Spanish appears to possess such clarity of intent that its lyricism is evident, even in translation into other languages. The following is my translation of a passage from Los ríos profundos:
The rivers were always mine and the bushes growing on the slopes of the mountains, even the little villages and the houses with their red roofs streaked with lime, the blue fields of alfalfa, and my beloved cornfields. But whenever I was returning from the courtyard as night fell, the motherly glow of the world would melt before my eyes, and as soon as it was dark, my loneliness and isolation would grow.
[64]
In recent years Arguedas's popularity with readers of different languages and cultures appears to substantiate the success of his literary endeavor, but I do not believe that his fervor in presenting the Quechua vision should be construed as proselytizing to those who might or might not understand. He was aware from the start that the nuances of spoken language cannot be seen in print and that some Quechua concepts will not translate (1950), yet he does not hesitate to use them. Rosaleen Howard-Malverde in discussing Bruce Mannheim's writing on the Quechua principle of reciprocity, ayni, remarks that the concept is embedded in the language with suffixes indicating grammatically a sense of interpersonal obligation in Quechua speakers that functions below the level of consciousness (1994, 120). Arguedas told John V. Murra that he was persuaded to write in Spanish, though he had intended to write only in Quechua. Late in life he returned to writing in his first language (Murra 1978, x-xi). Arguedas's true intended reader must surely sense the niceties of that language and testify to the authenticity of the Quechua vision; Arguedas is addressing someone who reads Spanish but is familiar with the Quechua tradition. Such Peruvians, the first or second generation in their families to go to school, make up a considerable part of the population of Peru. For them, Arguedas's work has the appeal of writings by a close personal friend; his literary voice gives voice to their beliefs and outlook.
Ní Dhomhnaill, on speaking of her own poetry in the Irish language, voices the sentiment that appears to have inspired Arguedas's work. Ní Dhomhnaill stresses that she speaks not only for her own “defeated” language but for others throughout the world, and states that she believes such voices offer the only viable current alternative to the “originally Anglo-American, but now genuinely global, pop monoculture that reduces everything to the level of the most stupendous boredom” (1995, 28).
Arguedas's modernity consists in showing that, in spite of the fundamental viability of Ní Dhomhnaill's argument, her choice of wording is very wrong; the culture of the Quechua in Peru is anything but “defeated.” We are seeing that the staying power of a culture is not to be measured only in terms of economic and political hegemony or lack of same, as Rowe and Schelling (1991, 51-64) and others have shown. Anyone who visits Peru today, after a hiatus of several years, cannot but be astonished by the way in which the Andean culture is not merely surviving in the sierra but flourishing in the cities, where its presence has become ubiquitous; meanwhile, admiration for José María Arguedas, the “translator” of this culture—the man, his literary creativity and its message—has increased so greatly in the quarter century since his death that at times it almost reaches adulation.
That the sector of society whose culture Arguedas wrote of has been oppressed for over four hundred years and continues to be so to this day is certainly true, but we are coming to realize that the Quechua culture was never defeated, and that this might also be said of Ní Dhomhnaill's Celtic inheritance, and of that of many other peoples. Indeed, even in the face of total physical annihilation, a culture can prevail and influence its oppressors in ways never imagined. In directing his modernistic aesthetic toward the depiction of the Quechua and what he sees as the redemptive qualities of their culture, Arguedas, unlike most modernists, was expressing faith in what he knew from within. This lends to his work an unusual verisimilitude that flies in the face of the postmodern despair of the contemporaries with whom Arguedas debated in his final years. That he could master the purely technical aspects of so-called avant-garde prose writing he showed in his final novel, even as he insisted, to the very end of his life, through his depiction of the society he knew, that there is more to the human being and human culture than the society that has produced postmodernism could know or was willing to explore. In the case of the Quechua, as Julio Ortega has affirmed, Arguedas's writings show not only Peru's awareness of misfortune, but also its dream of what might be (1984, 89).
Note
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All quotations from Spanish originals have been translated into English by the author.
Works Cited
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———. 1993. La novela chilena del último siglo (The Chilean novel in the last century). Santiago: Editorial La Noria.
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