Juan Goytisolo, trans. Helen Lane
Serpent’s Tale 1993
Where have all the colons in writing gone? asks Terry Eagleton (one of his stock jokes in his lectures). They went into this novel, which has no end stops (but it does have line breaks and chapter divisions with allusive titles like “Heloise and Abelard”). ＭＡＫＢＡＲＡ is the most aesthetically radical novel I’ve encountered since Dara’s LOST SCRAPBOOK. No protagonist, no discernible plot. Huge chunks of it are in French, Arabic, and possibly other North African languages and dialects.
Behind this experiment is the work of Edward Said and the great Dr. Fanon as well as the poststructuralists. He uses the techniques of high postmodern narrative: East and West, Man and Woman become ontologically confused. That is, we flit from metropolitan places in Europe and America to Moroccan scenes without any marked transitions. There is an Arab man and a white woman, but their identities and voices are in a total state of flux with that of the narrator’s (the narrator is a ventriloquist, and is themselves a nomadic figure). The pronouns I, she, he, we do not demarcate but blend together and combine with random voicings from the streets and bazaars.
Come to think of it, the romance narrative is actually pretty standard. Like in BELOVED, the simple storyline is the scaffolding for ambitious rhetorical and modernist operations.
in the beginning was the cry: alarm, anguish, terror, chemically pure pain?: prolonged, sustained, piercing, to the limits of the tolerable: phantom, specter, monster from the nether world: a disturbing intrusion at any event: disruption of the urban rhythm, of the harmonious chorus of sounds and voices of supernumeraries and beautifully dressed actors and actresses: an oneiric apparition: an insolent, brutish defiance: a strange, transgressive presence: a radical negation of the existing order: index finger pointed accusingly at the happy, self-confident Eurocraticonsuming city: with no need to raise his eyes, strain his voice, extend his beggar’s hand with a black gesture of Luciferian pride…
The Arab man is a pariah figure shifting between peripatetic beggar, an ex-soldier with a big brown dick, an underground man, and still other figures. You can see the colons at work. In cinema, cuts are a division and a join at the same time. Likewise, at the same time the colon separates clauses it also promises an elaboration of what came before, so the novel unfolds at a relatively micro level. I’ve tried to stop worrying about translations too much, but clearly this sort of alternative system depends a lot on a prosody that can’t be reproduced — I wonder what it sounds like in Spanish.
Goytisolo’s work was heavily censored in Franco’s Spain. There have been some surprises as to what offends people in this novel. There was one online review that spent a whole paragraph complaining about the bad Darwinian science in the second chapter, apparently missing the entire context of it being a series dystopian proto-Fascist radio broadcast about eugenics and building the master race. Some folks still go to novels for adult education…
Another one is “Angel,” a white European woman who falls in love with the Arab man. She was virtuous until she is raped, which afterward makes her sexually active; she is “turned out,” as they say.
…a primal scene, a continually repeated point of reference that haunts you, has haunted you, and will haunt you: a ceaseless beginning all over again, one step forward and two back, with my Sisyphusrock on my back: how to defuse, pray tell, the tension of that extremely painful episode?: I have tried, you have tried medicines prescribed by doctors, the traditional remedies of faith healers, to no avail:[…] acting as though I were a frivolous creature without a care in the world: comporting myself in a deliberately childish, shocking manner: visiting the doctor’s office without a brassiere, winking suggestively when the nurse left the room, insisting on unhooking your garterbelt… (30-31)
Notice the pronoun switch, the narrator’s voice taking over or embodying voice. Well, the kind of media criticism sensitive to assault — and this is the classic rape porn narrative — would find this totally repugnant. But remember that this is Franz Fanon’s sexual analysis of colonial mentality, but in reverse.
I’ve come to think that the social justice oriented criticism, that accuses these moments of regurgitating the filth of our society, are right, mainly because the media they critique is garbage. I realize this makes me a Frankfurt School snob. But successful art and literature engages in the world’s filth in order to hold it in suspense.
It’s a blue book, by the cover as well as the eros packed into it. It’s darkly funny, and no matter how distressing you may think it looks or is to read, it happily opens itself up to you.
Everybody who knows about Goytisolo says he’s the best in Spain. He’s still underrated.