SOURCE: Davies, Lloyd Hughes. “Uses of Irony in Juan Carlos Onetti's El astillero.” Iberoromania 17 (1983): 121-30.

[In the following essay, Davies discusses Onetti's use of the modernist concern with absurdity in El astillero.]

It is only during the last ten years that Juan Carlos Onetti has been generally recognized as a leading Latin American writer¹. Born in 1909, he has never enjoyed the widespread acclaim accorded to younger writers such as Julio Cortázar, Gabriel García Márquez and Mario Vargas Llosa, though ironically, he is the acknowledged precursor of these so-called ‘boom’ novelists. Indeed, Vargas Llosa has himself asserted that the new Latin American novel, the ‘nueva novela’, was inaugurated in 1939, the year when Onetti's first novel, El pozo, was published².

Onetti's work has made an impact on two fronts. Firstly, in his native Uruguay it redirected the national literature, for years steeped in the traditions of regionalism and costumbrismo, and gave it a new urban orientation. By the time Onetti was writing, regionalist and costumbrista fiction, with its predominantly rural preoccupations, was already anachronistic: as early as the 1930's eighty per cent of Uruguayans were city dwellers. The second reason for Onetti's importance lies in his concern for intrinsic literary qualities which the Uruguayan novel along with the mainstream of Latin American literature had previously lacked. The regionalist novel used literature as a medium for a particular message. The purpose of costumbrista writing was mainly to record rural custom, often in an idealized way—Don Segundo Sombra (1926), by the Argentinian Ricardo Güiraldes, is a notable example. Other regionalist novels, particularly Indianist fiction, merely registered social protest and were akin more to works of documentation than to creative literature—Huasipungo (1934), by Jorge Icaza of Ecuador belongs to this category. Onetti's work is comparatively restrained and his approach to sociopolitical issues oblique; in contrast with the limited concerns of regionalist fiction, his novels are marked by their universal appeal. Emulating the techniques of Joyce and Dos Passos and particularly influenced by the works of Faulkner and Céline, Onetti, shares the modern writer's fundamental interest in the theme of human alienation and his novels dramatize the conflict between man and his absurd world.

El astillero is generally regarded as Onetti's masterpiece³. The shipyard of the title is a dilapidated ruin, overrun by weeds, full of rusting equipment, rickety furniture and soiled documents. It is the setting of an absurd farce initiated by the shipyard owner, Jeremías Petrus, and maintained by his employees, all of whom know that the shipyard is dead as an economic enterprise but consciously ignore the reality of the situation and pretend that the shipyard is functioning normally, or is at least on the way to recovery. Larsen, the general manager, is in charge of the other two employees, Gálvez and Kunz, who are responsible respectively for the administrative and technical sides of the business. Larsen is determined to perpetuate the farce for he knows that his personal survival depends on its successful functioning, while, on the other hand, Kunz exhibits increasing disillusionment and Gálvez hostile scepticism. A false bond, signed by Petrus, has fallen into Gálvez's hands; he eventually uses his power to denounce Petrus, so bringing about the old man's imprisonment. This action puts an end to the farce and leads to Gálvez's own suicide as well as to Larsen's death.

The farcical situation at the shipyard gives rise to various levels of irony. It is, for example, comic irony which underlies a long discussion involving Gálvez, Kunz and Larsen on the subject of Larsen's salary. They all know that no wages are to be paid and so Kunz's sober matter-of-factness increases the humour of the situation:‘—Me parece correcto—dijo Kunz, peinándose la melena con las manos, repentinamente serio y triste—. Seis mil pesos. No es demasiado, no es poco. Una suma adecuada al puesto’ (p. 39). The narrative mode itself is also comically ironic; the narrator enters the spirit of absurdity which governs the shipyard world through his preoccupation with the authenticity of an episode which is, by his own admission, of very little significance: ‘Nunca se supo con certeza si [Larsen] eligió encabezar la lista mensual de sueldos con cinco o seis mil pesos. En realidad, su preferencia por una y otra cifra sólo podría tener importancia para Gálvez, que escribía la lista a máquina …’ (p. 43).

This comic irony, though not an insignificant element in the novel, is overshadowed by the grave implications of man's metaphysical dilemma, which give rise to a more sombre and tragic irony. Such is the irony which underlies Larsen's hope that the farce, itself inherently meaningless, would endow his life with meaning:

Iba vigilante, inquieto, implacable y paternal, disimuladamente majestuoso, resuelto a desparramar ascensos y cesantías, necesitando creer que todo aquello era suyo y necesitando entregarse sin reservas a todo aquello con el único propósito de darle un sentido y atribuir este sentido a los años que le quedaban por vivir y, en consecuencia, a la totalidad de su vida.

(p. 42)

However, the author's ironic gaze extends beyond Larsen and the farcical proceedings at the shipyard and encompasses the impassive doctor, Díaz Grey, who lives in Santa María, Onetti's fictional town situated a short distance south of Puerto Astillero, the dockyard wharf.

Díaz Grey takes no part in the farce: his stance is one of total detachment—unlike Larsen's which is equivocal since he is both involved in the farce and, by virtue of his ironic awareness, detached from it. Consequently, the one displays an attitude of superior equanimity while the other is nervous and usually on the defensive. When Díaz Grey is visited by Larsen he feels a gratifying sense of superiority, akin to that which the free man might feel over the captive: ‘Se sentía protector, más fuerte que Larsen, desinteresado, y no le importaba mostrarlo’ (p. 81). Larsen, on the other hand, feels uncomfortable in the other's presence: ‘Encendió el cigarrillo, en un principio de rabia, porque algo se le estaba escapando, porque se sentía aislado y expuesto en la incómoda silla de metal y cuero en el centro del consultorio’ (p. 82). Díaz Grey is aware of his advantage and can hardly conceal his satisfaction. He regards Larsen as living confirmation of his own ironic knowledge of the human situation: ‘estaba de pronto alegre, estremecido por un sentimiento desacostumbrado y cálido, humilde, feliz y reconocido porque la vida de los hombres continuaba siendo absurda e inútil y de alguna manera u otra continuaba también enviándole emisarios, gratuitamente, para confirmar su absurdo y su inutilidad’ (p. 83). He proceeds to ironize, with little restraint, Larsen's farcical position at the shipyard: ‘—Un puesto de gran responsabilidad—dijo sin énfasis—. Sobre todo en estos momentos de dificultad para la empresa’ (p. 83). Larsen is next subjected to the doctor's calm, unfeeling scrutiny; reduced to a mere manifestation of physical degeneracy, he has his present and his past brusquely dispatched by a few rapid generalities, together with his philosophical outlook and his immediate dilemma:

Este hombre envejecido, Juntacadáveres, hipertenso … despatarrado, con una barriga redonda que le avanza sobre los muslos … Este hombre que vivió los últimos treinta años del dinero sucio que le daban con gusto mujeres sucias … que creyó de una manera y ahora sigue creyendo de otra, que no nació para morir sino para ganar e imponerse, que en este mismo momento se está imaginando la vida como un territorio infinito y sin tiempo en el que es forzoso avanzar y sacar ventajas … Y justamente este hombre … tuvo que volver para enredarse las patas endurecidas en lo que queda de la telaraña del viejo Petrus.

(pp. 83-4)

Larsen thus becomes the semi-dehumanized object of the clinical gaze of Díaz Grey who criticizes what he perceives as the other's naive vision of life and his lack of ironic awareness. The doctor sees him as an impotent human being, similar to himself but unaware of his limitations, of his imprisonment within the confines of the finite, and of the impossibility of personal affirmation. Larsen's situation is regarded as ironic by Díaz Grey but the doctor's superior attitude is itself ironic for not only is Larsen fully cognizant but his awareness is more poignant than Díaz Grey's. Indeed, the author's ironic treatment of Díaz Grey is evident in this episode⁴.

Larsen calls on the doctor when the latter is engaged in his nightly ritual involving solitaire card games and record-playing:

Cada uno de los discos del inmodificado programa nocturno, cada uno de sus ambiciosos crescendos, de los fracasos finales, tenía un sentido claro, expuesto con mayor precisión que todo lo que pudiera incorporársele por la palabra o el pensamiento. Pero él, Díaz Grey … no podía prestar a la música—a esa música, justamente, elegida un poco por bravata y por el deseo perverso de saberse cada noche, pero protegido, al borde de la verdad y de un inevitable aniquilamiento—más que la cuarta parte de un oído. A veces, con una deliberada picardía sin gracia, silbaba entre dientes la música que estaba escuchando, mientras cambiaba de columna, con orgullo y decisión, un siete o una sota.

(p. 80)

As Turton has pointed out⁵, the rectilinear represents human reason while the circular symbolizes the arbitrary, inscrutable workings of the hostile universe. Against this background it may readily be seen that Díaz Grey's activities constitute an ironic mimicry of mankind's futile struggle against cosmic forces. The shape of the records, as well as their message—their ‘ambiciosos crescendos’ and ‘fracasos finales’—refers to the absurd laws of cyclic recurrence which govern the cosmos⁶; the cards, and Díaz Grey's repositioning of them, represent, on the other hand, man's attempts to accommodate the world within an intelligible framework. Díaz Grey knows that all human exertions in this direction are futile: as we have already observed, his card-playing is a symbolic representation of the absurd human drama. The cards emphasize that all man's resources—reason and calculation, suggested by the repositioning of the seven, the exercise of power, represented by the kings and aces, and sex associated with the jack—are wholly ineffectual in this struggle.

Although this ritual indicates Díaz Grey's awareness of human limitations, its narrative presentation emphasizes his fallibility. He handles the cards ‘con orgullo y decisión’, obviously forgetting that he shares the basic predicament of the human beings he parodies and that he himself is subject to ironic scrutiny from a level higher than his own. While Díaz Grey sees Larsen in an ironic light, the reader enjoys the irony underlying the doctor's own inconsistencies. His over-confidence and vulnerability are suggested by his indifference to the music—he listens with just ‘la cuarta parte de un oído’—while, on the other hand, there is a measure of intellectual and emotional involvement in his card game—‘dudaba, con leve excitación, entre reyes y ases, entre seconal y bromural’ (p. 80). The clear implication is that Díaz Grey himself prefers to contrive his own reasoned composition with the cards rather than listen to the rhythms of the cosmos as expressed by the music. Ironically, his own behaviour resembles Larsen's farcical response to cosmic hostility: Díaz Grey's card game becomes a means of escape from the music and its terrible message of ultimate defeat. Thus Díaz Grey, who holds Larsen in contempt for seeking to escape the realities of life, is himself guilty of engaging in futile activity. His parody becomes an ironic self-parody and Adams's observation regarding Larsen is equally applicable to the doctor: ‘The will to act, although the actions be meaningless, preserves and defines the essential self. Because of this will to act the alienating conditions of society and life may be met and held at bay’.⁷ It must be stressed that man's capacity to hold these conditions at bay is limited: Onetti emphasizes the inevitability of his ultimate defeat.

Díaz Grey's blasphemous whistling to the music of the ‘discos sacros’ suggests that he is not only seeking to avoid its message but that he is losing sight of its truths. His contemptuous attitude derives from his familiarity with the music—it is part of his nightly ritual and is ‘sabida de memoria’ (p. 80). There is an obvious parallel here with the frequent emasculation of religious truths by familiarity and ritualism. Díaz Grey's own shortcomings in this respect heighten the irony of his subsequent reflection that men cannot accept the meaning of life because the most absurd circumstance of all, the negative finality of death, has become familiar and routine, an integral part of the ritual of life:

Y esto tiene un sentido claro, un sentido que ella, la vida, nunca trató de ocultar y contra el cual estúpidamente luchan los hombres desde el principio con palabras y ansiedades. Y la prueba de la impotencia de los hombres para aceptar su sentido está en que la más increíble de todas las posibilidades, la de nuestra propia muerte, es para ella cosa tan de rutina: un suceso, en todo momento, ya cumplido.

(pp. 87-8)

It is also ironic, in the light of Díaz Grey's low regard for human reason, that his thoughts should be couched in the terms of logical discourse, complete with affirmation and demonstrative conclusion. On the one hand, he conceives of life's clear meaning, while on the other, he perceives its inscrutability, finiteness and lack of meaning. His stance is assertive and inherently ironic: limited by his human ignorance, Díaz Grey is not qualified to judge whether death is, in fact, the ultimate absurdity. To insist that life is meaningless is as untenable as to claim that it has meaning, for both positions assume that the human mind can recognize meaning and that it is to be found in the structure of the universe.

While Larsen, as we have already observed, is subjected to Díaz Grey's scrutiny, the doctor in his turn becomes the object of the narrator's cold analysis: ‘Pero él, Díaz Grey, este médico de Santa María, solterón, de casi cincuenta años de edad, casi calvo, pobre …’ (p. 80). It is significant that this reductive assessment closely parallels that which the doctor himself makes of Larsen: ‘Este hombre envejecido, Juntacadáveres, hipertenso, con un res plandor bondadoso en la piel del cráneo que se le va quedando desnuda … (p. 83). Díaz Grey's ironic superiority is itself seen in an ironic light as the narrator emphasizes the similarities between the ironist and his victim.

The ensuing conversation between Díaz Grey and Larsen further undermines the doctor's position as ironic outsider. He is drawn into an absurd discussion about Angélica Inés, Petrus's retarded daughter, as Larsen divulges his farcical plan to marry her. The whole repertoire of falsities which were the norm at the shipyard—the lying, the deceit, the make-believe and even the spurious authenticity deriving from collusion—re-emerges in this episode. Having previously been forced by Díaz Grey to acknowledge the farcical nature of his involvement at the shipyard—‘Puerto Astillero está muerto, doctor …’ (p. 86)—Larsen seizes the initiative and recasts the conversation, destroying its initial realism by introducing a rather crude note of pretence: ‘Sin esperanzas ni intención de ser creído, como un simple homenaje amistoso, Larsen dejó de mirarse los pies y alzó hacia el médico la mejor expresión de inocencia, de honrada inquietud y sinceridad que le era posible componer a los cincuenta años’ (p. 88). Díaz Grey, who had previously insisted on the truth and shown little consideration for Larsen's feelings—‘Petrus está loco … Si liquidan cobrará cien mil pesos y yo sé que debe, él, personalmente, más de un millón’ (p. 84)—now becomes an enthusiastic collaborator in the farcical exchange which follows: ‘Díaz Grey asintió como si la repugnante y desinteresada intención de conmover que mostraba la cara de Larsen hubiera sido una frase. Esperó estremecido …—¿Cuándo se casan?—preguntó Díaz Grey con fervor’ (p. 88). Díaz Grey only pretends to take this prospective marriage seriously but Larsen, after all, requires no more of him. The doctor enters into the spirit of the farce by feigning earnestness in response to such an absurd proposition.

Larsen regards his planned marriage to Petrus's daughter as the climax of his farcical ascendancy at the shipyard. Though Díaz Grey is a contemptuous observer of proceedings at the yard, he clearly demonstrates in this episode his own capacity to participate in the same mode of spurious discourse: he ensures the satisfactory performance of Larsen's farcical game by accepting the tentative offer of the supporting role. Whereas Larsen is conscious of his absurd position, the ironist, Díaz Grey, seems to be unaware of his own vulnerability. It is significant that only once is he ironical at his own expense: referring to the general human need to protect a personal farce, Díaz Grey admits, though only by way of an afterthought, that he himself is no exception: ‘—… También yo, claro’ (p. 87).

Reflecting on the differences between himself and Petrus, Larsen realizes that his own sense of ironic detachment is far surpassed by the old man's:

Pero él juega distinto y no sólo por el tamaño y el montón de las fichas. Con menos desesperación que yo, para empezar, aunque le queda tan poco tiempo y lo sabe; y para seguir, me lleva la otra ventaja de que, sinceramente, lo único que le importa es el juego y no lo que pueda ganar. También yo; es mi hermano mayor, mi padre, y lo saludo. Pero yo a veces me asusto y hago sin querer balance.

(p. 92)

Though Larsen never loses sight of the truth, he persistently indulges in illusory expectations; he is also susceptible to agonizing moments of despair. In his treatise on irony, Kierkegaard states that the ironist posits nothingness; claiming that it is impossible to take nothingness seriously without either arriving at something or without despairing, he goes on to discuss the ironist's position in this regard:

But the ironist does neither of these, and to this extent one may say he is not really serious about it. Irony is the infinitely delicate play with nothingness, a playing which is not terrified by it but still pokes its head into the air. But if one takes nothingness neither speculatively nor personally seriously, then one obviously takes it frivolously and to this extent not seriously⁸.

If we take this criterion, Petrus clearly emerges as the supreme ironist in El astillero; his reaction to Larsen's disclosure that Gálvez is threatening to denounce him for the issue of a false bond is significant in this respect: ‘Pero Larsen supo que la cabeza impasible estaba sonriendo y que aquella invisible pero indudable sonrisa era ávida, burlona, y lo estaba incluyendo a él mismo junto con Gálvez, el título, el peligro, la Sociedad Anónima, y el destino de los hombres’ (p. 94). Petrus's unwavering equanimity is remarkable and his superiority over Larsen in this regard is further emphasized when Larsen subsequently visits him in prison. Both men now know that the end is at hand, but while Petrus watches his visitor with amused curiosity, Larsen struggles to maintain his composure. He feels an acute sensitivity to the wretchedness of his environment and comes dangerously close to opting out of a game which he suddenly finds repugnant. Asked by Petrus whether he has the strength to continue at the shipyard, Larsen ‘se aplicó a decir que sí con la cabeza, a ganar tiempo, mientras acostumbraba sus pulmones al aire de extravagancia y destierro en que había estado sumergido todo el invierno y que ahora, bruscamente, se le hacía insoportable y discernible’ (p. 147). Larsen overcomes this crisis and indulges in his final fling as farceur—he asks Petrus for a five-year contract with a salary of six thousand pesos payable when the shipyard resumes normal business (p. 150). However, his despair finally proves irrepressible and drives him to delirium (p. 166). In Kierkegaard's terminology, Larsen takes the void ‘personally seriously’ while Díaz Grey takes it ‘speculatively seriously’, coming up with various propositions regarding the world and the human condition—it is ironic that he should reflect on the futility of man's recourse to ‘palabras y ansiedades’ (p. 88). Petrus alone among these characters displays a spirit of pure frivolity. Significantly, he is a dehumanized character who never shows any real human feeling. He seems to have refined himself out of existence, physically as well as spiritually—Larsen sees not a human face but a ‘cabeza de momia de mono que se apoyaba sin peso en las almohadas’ (p. 92)—and it is because he has so successfully divested himself of his humanity that Petrus can play the role of pure ironist.

The ironic nature of modern literature is closely connected with its fundamental preoccupation with man's metaphysical dilemma⁹. The human situation is fraught with ironies and even its comic aspects are overlaid by their inherently tragic import. A rational, gregarious creature, man yet finds himself trapped in an irrational world and alienated from his fellow human beings. In El astillero, the ultimate irony is the revelation made only after his death that the protagonist's real name is not Larsen at all: ‘Murió de pulmonía en El Rosario antes de que terminara la semana y en los libros del hospital figura completo su nombre verdadero’ (p. 167). His bizarre relationship with Angélica Inés, which serves as a further source of frustration, is a graphic example of his general failure to communicate with other people. Most poignantly ironic, however, is the involvement of the clear-sighted Larsen in the shipyard farce: his course of action is utterly irrational and indicates the extent of his despair. It evokes man's adherence, in real life, to religion, with which the farce is closely identified. Man cannot face the reality of death and personal annihilation; he clings to any promise of salvation, however superficial and illusory. Just as Larsen is the faithful disciple of a false saviour, mankind still puts its faith in the power of religion. Onetti implies that both farce and religion require the suppression of reason which reminds Larsen of reality and persuades man that death signals extinction rather than new life. This gives rise to another irony: a peculiarly human attribute becomes, in these circumstances, man's greatest enemy.

Notes

1. Important criticism has appeared comparatively recently—for example, Fernando Aínsa's book, Las trampas de Onetti, was published in 1970. Increased interest in Onetti is also demonstrated by the recent publication, under the title Requiem para Faulkner y otros artículos (1975), of a collection of articles he wrote during his journalistic career and of a hitherto unpublished work, Tiempo de abrazar (1974). In the same year the Madrid journal, Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, devoted a triple issue to Onetti criticism, while Jean Franco's Spanish volume in the Penguin Parallel Text series, published in 1966, includes Onetti's notable short story ‘Bienvenido Bob’.

2. See Mario Vargas Llosa, ‘Primitives and Creators’, Times Literary Supplement, 14 November 1968, pp. 1287-88.

3. José Donoso makes this point in his edition of El astillero, Madrid, 1970, p. 13, while Rodríguez Monegal, in his prologue to Onetti's collected works, devotes a section, entitled ‘La obra maestra’, to El astillero. See Juan Carlos Onetti, Obras completas, prólogo de Emir Rodríguez Monegal, México, 1970, pp. 30-3. All references in this article are to Donoso's edition.

4. Deredita misses the full ironic significance of the episode when he states: ‘La escena vale porque en ella Díaz Grey aparece como una especie de doble o multiplicación del dilema existencial de Larsen, pero el cambio de reflector no es necesario para este efecto.’ John Deredita, ‘El lenguaje de la desintegración: Notas sobre El astillero’, in Onetti, edited by Jorge Ruffinelli, Montevideo, 1973, pp. 220-37 (p. 226).

5. Peter Turton, ‘La simbología de lo rectilíneo y lo circular en El astillero’, Texto Crítico, 4 (1976), 127-33.

6. In an earlier novel, Tierra de nadie (1941), Onetti uses the same music symbolism to suggest man's bewilderment in an incomprehensible world. Shortly before committing suicide, Llarvi hears a song being played on record in a room next-door but he does not understand the words: ‘Era una canción en cualquier lengua que no podía comprender, vieja y sin fuerza, con un coro lejano que la abandonaba de pronto junto a una voz de piano destartalado y candoroso.’ Tierra de nadie, third edition (Montevideo, 1968), p. 119.

7. M. Ian Adams, Three Authors of Alienation. Bombal, Onetti, Carpentier, Austin and London, 1975, p. 79.

8. Sören Kierkegaard, The Concept of Irony, with Constant Reference to Socrates, translated by Lee M. Chapel, London, 1966, pp. 286-87.

9. Muecke claims that irony is so predominant in modern literature that the distinction of ironical and non-ironical in serious fiction has been largely obliterated. See D. C. Muecke, The Compass of Irony, London, 1969, p. 10.