2011 Book TheUtopianImpulseInLatinAmeric

The Utopian Impulse in Latin America
The Utopian Impulse in Latin America
Edited by
Kim Beauchesne and Alessandra Santos
THE UTOPIAN IMPULSE IN LATIN AMERICA
Copyright © Kim Beauchesne and Alessandra Santos, 2011.
Softcover reprint of the hardcover 1st edition 2011 978-0-230-10352-8
All rights reserved.
First published in 2011 by PALGRAVE MACMILLAN® in the United States—a
division of St. Martin’s Press LLC, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
Where this book is distributed in the UK, Europe, and the rest of the world, this is
by Palgrave Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited, registered in
England, company number 785998, of Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire RG21
6XS.
Palgrave Macmillan is the global academic imprint of the above companies and has
companies and representatives throughout the world.
Palgrave® and Macmillan® are registered trademarks in the United States, the
United Kingdom, Europe and other countries.
ISBN 978-1-349-28785-7 ISBN 978-0-230-33961-3 (eBook)
DOI 10.1057/9780230339613
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
The utopian impulse in Latin America / edited by Kim Beauchesne and Alessandra
Santos.
p. cm.
1. Utopias—Latin America. 2. Utopias in literature—Latin America. 3. Utopias

in art—Latin America. I. Beauchesne, Kim, 1976– II. Santos, Alessandra, 1970–
HX806.U79335 2011
335'.83098—dc22 2011014070
A catalogue record of the book is available from the British Library.
Design by Scribe Inc.
First edition: October 2011
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
List of Figures vii

A Note on Translation ix
Acknowledgments xi
Introduction: The Theory and Practice of the Utopian Impulse in Latin
America 1
I Foundational Utopias
1 Utopia in Latin America: Cartographies and Paradigms 29
Beatriz Pastor
2 Barataria from the Perspective of Spanish American “Colonial”
Studies: Contributions for a Reading of (Counter)Utopia in the
Quijote and the New World 51
José Antonio Mazzotti
II Utopia and Modernity
3 Remnants of a Dream World: Latin American Pavilions at the 1889
Paris Universal Exhibition 73
Alejandra Uslenghi
4 Ecocannibalism: The Greening of Antropofagia 93
Odile Cisneros
5 Eulalia in Utopia: Urban Space, Modernity, and Gendered
Typologies in Rubén Darío and Hilda Hilst 107
Justin Read
III Feminist Utopias
6 Southern Displacements in Flora Tristán’s Pérégrinations d’une paria 131
Gisela Heffes
7 Revolution Interrupted: The “Women of April” and the Utopia of
National Liberation 145
Wanda Rivera-Rivera
vi Contents
IV Utopia and Counterculture

8 Jorge Mautner and Countercultural Utopia in Brazil 173
Christopher Dunn
9 Spatial Effects: Navigating the City in Cildo Meireles’s Arte Física:
Caixas de Brasília/Clareira 187
Elena Shtromberg
V Revolutionary Utopias and the Politics of Memory
10 Dangerous Illusions and Shining Utopias: From Banditry to Party in
Jorge Amado’s Seara Vermelha 203
Juan Pablo Dabove
11 Utopia and the Politics of Memory 225
Diana Sorensen
12 The Innocent Eye: Children’s Perspectives on the Utopias of
the Seventies (O Ano em que Meus Pais Saíram de Férias,
Machuca, and Kamchatka) 235
Rita De Grandis
VI Utopia and Ethnicity in the Twenty-First Century
13 Urgent (Anti)Spectacles of Critical Hope 259
Carla Beatriz Melo
14 Recent Peruvian Quechua Poetry: Beyond Andean and Neoliberal
Utopias 275
Ulises Juan Zevallos-Aguilar
Notes on Contributors 295
Index 299
Figures
1.1 Juan de la Cosa’s Map (1500) 31

3.1 View of the Eiffel Tower and exhibition buildings on the Champ de
Mars as seen from Trocadéro Palace, Paris Exhibition (1889) 76
3.2 Pavilion of Brazil, seen through the base of the Eiffel Tower, Paris
Exhibition (1889) 78
3.3 Crowd of people on Cairo Street, Paris Exhibition (1889) 79
3.4 Eiffel Tower machinery with a man beside the wheel, Paris Exhibition
(1889) 82
3.5 Interior of Gallery of Machines, showing machinery, Paris Exhibition
(1889) 83
3.6 Pavilion of Mexico, Paris Exhibition (1889) 85
3.7 Pavilion of Argentina, Paris Exhibition (1889) 87
8.1 Photograph of Jorge Mautner (1972) 178
9.1 Arte Física: Caixas de Brasília/Clareira by Cildo Meireles (1969) 188
9.2 Photographic panel from Arte Física (1969) 192
9.3 Map of Brasilia from Arte Física (1969) 195
13.1 Display of the “Zumbi Somos Nós” banner in a soccer stadium (2009) 265
13.2 Aerial photograph of the “SOS Amazonia” human banner (2009) 266
A Note on Translation
Following the publisher’s guidelines, all the quotes that appear were translated
into English. When no published translation is available, the quotes have been
translated and their original version appears in the notes. We have also respected
the publisher’s preference to attach the introductory “English translation of ”
to fragmented quotes in a foreign language to ensure they are grammatically
complete.
Acknowledgments
Gracias and obrigada to those who helped us realize our own utopian impulse:
our dedicated and stellar contributors; Palgrave Macmillan and our editor
Robyn Curtis, who kindly guided us throughout the publishing process and
promptly replied to all our queries; our colleagues, especially Rita De Grandis
and José Antonio Mazzotti, for their insightful comments on our introduction;
and the anonymous reviewer’s relevant recommendations. We would also like to
thank our translators and copyeditors (Susan Cruess, Ximena Osegueda, Cindy
Schuster, and Manya Wubbold) without whose assistance this project would
not have been accomplished so smoothly. Our special thanks go to our main
copyeditor, Hannah Hayes, who patiently proofread more than once most of the
essays contained in this volume.
We are extremely grateful for the financial support from the Department
of French, Hispanic, and Italian Studies at the University of British Colum-
bia, as well as the constant encouragement from the Department Chair
André Lamontagne and Acting Chair Ralph Sarkonak.
Finally, we express our deepest thanks to our respective families for their
unconditional love.
INTRODUCTION
The Theory and Practice of

the Utopian Impulse in Latin
America
AS WE ENTER A NEW DECADE IN the twenty-first century, the relevance of utopia in

the contemporary world scenario is undeniable. It is simply impossible to ignore
its various manifestations: Barack Obama’s election in 2008, popular uprisings
in many Arab countries (Tunisia, Algeria, Egypt, Libya, among others) against
authoritarian regimes, the continued appearance of numerous peace activists in
Palestine and Israel, the leadership of leftist governments in Latin America (like
Evo Morales’s and Dilma Rousseff ’s), and the rise of environmental consciousness
are only a few examples of projects for change that have recently occurred.1 In the
arts and popular culture, it is interesting to observe the resurgence of a utopian
desire to return to pristine, natural, preconquest spaces as a response to the cur-
rent economic and ecological crisis, such as in the Cirque du Soleil’s Totem (2010)
and James Cameron’s Avatar (2009).
More specifically, what is the history of Latin America but a chronicle of the
utopian impulse? This rhetorical question, borrowed from Alejo Carpentier’s
famous statement regarding the “marvelous real,” is at the core of the present vol-
ume. Indeed, utopian aspirations emerged as early as the pre-Columbian period
and are still very much alive today. This attests to the central role played by the
utopian impulse in the Latin American cultural tradition, demonstrating its prac-
tical potential, contrary to some interpretations that deny the realizable nature of
utopia.2
The importance of revisiting utopia is manifested in the abundance of schol-
arly studies addressing this topic.3 Our intention is to participate in the ongoing
debate generated by recent publications and investigate further, mostly in relation
to Latin America. In our view, the following questions deserve deeper reflection
from a comprehensive standpoint: How is the utopian impulse reconfigured over
K. Beauchesne et al. (eds.), The Utopian Impulse in Latin America

© Kim Beauchesne and Alessandra Santos 2011
2 Kim Beauchesne and Alessandra Santos
time, especially in new cultural fields and situations? How should Latin American
utopias be contextualized in a global world? How are the utopias of ethnic groups
articulated? How are feminist utopias constructed? And how is utopia expressed
as an aesthetic trope?
To answer these questions, our edited volume explores the notion of utopia
in Latin America from the earliest accounts of the New World to the cultural
production of the twenty-first century. We are fully aware that Beatriz Pastor’s
El jardín y el peregrino: Ensayos sobre el pensamiento utópico latinoamericano,
1492–1695 (The garden and the pilgrim: Essays on the Latin American utopian
thought, 1492–1695; 1996)4 is a seminal book that analyzes textual representa-
tions of Latin American utopias from a critical perspective. Using this work as a
point of departure, we expand the focus to other disciplines and eras. The vol-
ume’s originality lies not only in its diversity of approaches but also in its ability
to question stereotypes and commonplaces, such as a static concept of utopia.
Our main argument is that we can observe the recurrence of utopian thought in
a variety of cultural forms to the present. In their timely essays, the contributors
seek to define the haunting persistence of this particular way of thinking through
the examination of what motivates the unceasing search for an ideal community.
Despite a period of disenchantment that supposedly implied the end of utopia
(e.g., according to Russell Jacoby), we claim that while its impulse experienced
many transformations, it never expired.
Mapping Utopia: Theoretical Reflections

All freedom movements are guided by utopian aspirations.
—Ernst Bloch, Das Prinzip Hoffnung (The Principle of Hope)
To map utopia, the question of definition arises. Historically, it is well known

that the English humanist, lawyer, and writer Thomas More coined the term
in his 1516 publication in Latin called Utopia. The novel describes an ideal
community and the word utopia is a pun combining two Greek words: ou-topos
(no-place) and eu-topos (good-place). This term has since been considered a “rhe-
torical conceit that gave rise to a literary genre” (Schaer 3), but more importantly,
it is regarded as a concept, a social theory, and even a method.5 In their discus-
sions of utopia, critics have identified a link to the search for an ideal society,
directly connecting the genre and even the concept (if not necessarily the term)
with Plato’s Republic (ca. 380 BC). As a literary genre, utopia is understood as
the creation of fictional worlds that portray an idyllic community, usually living
in equality and abundance like in More’s novel, abolishing private property, and
eliminating material lack. In this sense, we may suggest that as a literary genre,
many fictional utopias constitute a critique of the economic system by propos-
ing material equality from their inception. Scholars like Fredric Jameson have
dedicated entire books to utopia as a genre (sometimes closely related to science
fiction), while also referring to it as a method.6 Krishan Kumar goes so far as to
identify utopia as an arguably Western genre, specifically one of social thought.7
If we acknowledge the political implications of aesthetic manifestations, even
The Theory and Practice of the Utopian Impulse in Latin America 3
as a genre it has constantly been closely associated with social theory because of
its satirical way of exposing the world we live in (obviously not utopian) and its
often subversive intent.
Further, both as a concept and as a genre, utopia has led to the coining of
another term: dystopia, which portrays the opposite ideal conditions of utopia.
There are numerous examples of dystopian literature, such as Aldous Huxley’s
Brave New World (1932) or George Orwell’s 1984 (1949). Historically, how-
ever, the lines are somewhat unclear, with evidence of social and political projects
that were seen as utopian but had dystopian consequences. Nazism, for instance,
could be interpreted as a “utopian” project turned into a totalitarian nightmare.
Needless to say, what is ideal to some may turn out to be dystopian to others.8
Perhaps it is because of these blurry definitions that the term utopia has had
negative connotations as well. Utopia or utopian have come to mean an idealization
that does not necessarily have a connection to reality or concrete accomplish-
ments. Therefore, philosophers of utopia, such as Ernst Bloch, Karl Mannheim,
and Herbert Marcuse, have stressed the distinction between an abstract, con-
ceptual utopia and a tangible, viable one. It is clear that the term bears a certain
ambiguity, a fact confirmed by Frédéric Rouvillois in L’utopie (Utopia; 1998).
Nevertheless, the weight and the importance of utopian thought have become
evident beyond a mere literary expression.
As British sociologist Ruth Levitas mentions in her excellent book The Con-
cept of Utopia (1990), utopia has been broadly defined as “dreams of a better
life” (86). In addition, historians have insisted on its humanistic origins not only
because of More’s position within Renaissance humanism but also because of
the context of his novel Utopia, which to some is a satirical criticism of More’s
own English society. As Kumar notes, “[U]topia was born with modernity” (51).
In this sense, navigation and conquests, newfound resources and technologies,
new philosophies and alterities provided a recipe for envisioning unexpected life
improvements. In fact, More’s novel is a kind of traveler’s tale historically coincid-
ing with the conquest of the Americas and its fabulous legends.
Generally speaking, visions of the earthly paradise, whether religious, literary,
or related to colonial conquests, may be conceived as utopian. Medieval fictitious
lands of milk and honey are also examples of utopias. From the sixteenth century
onward, the possibility of new worlds produced images of ideal communities that
were later attempted in the socialist utopias of the nineteenth century (after the
theories of Henri de Saint-Simon, Charles Fourier, and Robert Owen, among
others), as well as in religious utopian experiments in North America. More-
over, the city as an organizational structure is to some the quintessential utopian
construction, both ancient and modern; obviously, it can also be viewed as a dys-
topian chaos.9 Arriving at the twentieth century, we witness the rise of the Soviet
Union and Fidel Castro’s Cuba, two societies where the blueprint of an egalitarian
community is allegedly utopian but turned dystopian. Indeed, political dreams
of a better environment frequently become problematic once put into practice.
As previously suggested, since the late twentieth century and the failure of many
political utopias, we have experienced the negative connotations of the term.
Leaving aside the pejorative meaning of utopia as mere idealization, however,

when it is considered as the search for an ideal society, it has often been associated
with humanistic and sometimes humanitarian values and actions. As we keep
this association in mind, we would like to advert to two critical instances that
will hopefully help elucidate the term: one is by Edward Said, and the other is by
Ernst Bloch.
In his posthumously published book Humanism and Democratic Criticism
(2004), Said writes that “[h]umanism is the achievement of form by human
will and agency” (15). Will and agency are certainly part of the vocabulary sur-
rounding utopia: the will to imagine a better life, an ideal community, and the
agency to concretize such possibilities. In his essays, Said also associates human-
ism with change; he specifically stresses how interconnected history is to change.
Of course, there is no useful reason to conflate utopia with humanism or with
concrete historical transformations, but as previously mentioned, the notion of
utopia falls within a humanistic tradition, particularly in the sense of an ide-
alization of what humans may dream of and achieve in light of their qualities
and capabilities.10 Nevertheless, in the nineteenth century, this notion became
equated with an improbable ideal society (Levitas 40). As a concept, however,
utopia is not necessarily regarded as an impossibility despite the ambiguity of the
term; conversely, it may offer sensible alternatives and a forum to discuss practical
potential for improvement.
Ironically, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels have opposed utopian socialism,
questioning the viability of idealizations and the capacity of utopia to make
effective changes. Indeed, with the Marxist focus on praxis, the notion of utopia
appears to be antithetical to reality. Levitas explains that, although at the time
utopian socialism had similar goals to communism, the process was different and
utopia seemed like an unrealizable plan (43). Sociologist Karl Mannheim later
continues this discussion as he criticizes the unrealizability of utopias. None-
theless, in his famous book Ideologie und Utopie (Ideology and Utopia; 1929),
he asserts (according to Levitas’s reading) that “ideologies operate to sustain the
existing state of affairs, while utopias operate to change it” (Levitas 68).
In contrast, Bloch aptly argues that utopia is not always linked to unrealiz-
ability, but it functions as an impulse that makes the concretization of ideals
possible. It is from this viewpoint that we approach the utopian impulse in the
present volume. Utopia is considered here as a concept that potentially has the
power to create actual changes in a variety of areas and trajectories. Thus it oper-
ates in a dynamic and heterogeneous field where the political and aesthetic realms
converge, offering a space for reflection.
In The Concept of Utopia, Levitas identifies utopia as mostly moved by desire.
She addresses the historical contradictions and debates regarding this concept,
and more importantly, proposes an approach that would take into account con-
tent, form, and function. In her studies, she indicates plausible problems in the
discussion of utopia when one or two of those elements are ignored. In this sense,
an approach that would conceive it merely as a genre would only acknowledge
content, while looking at the earthly paradise would only acknowledge form,
for example. Intentionally, the essays in this volume were chosen because they
examine utopia or the notion of a utopian impulse while paying attention to

different applications in content, form, and function. Some of our contribu-
tors even contest the very notion of utopia but still keep in mind its conceptual
ramifications.
Furthermore, according to Levitas’s model, it is not only necessary to define
one’s terms but one must also engage this notion from a comprehensive stand-
point, focusing on theoretical as well as practical elements. For Levitas, desire
plays an important role in this matter precisely because utopia expresses a “desire
for a better way of being and living” (8). She refers to how Bloch and Marcuse
both suggest an essential ingredient in humans that aspire to utopia, which Bloch
calls the “utopian impulse.” This is why, according to her, the association of desire
and utopia is directly linked to a positive wish of experiencing a better world.
For Bloch, the utopian impulse is related to a positive imagination, which leads
to specific manifestations. In the present volume, we also align utopia to agency,
which consistently allows for social change.
Therefore, Bloch’s notion of the utopian impulse is extremely relevant here,
particularly as he explains it in Das Prinzip Hoffnung (The Principle of Hope;
1938–47). From his point of view, utopia is “expectation, hope, intention towards
possibility that has still not become: this is not only a basic feature of human con-
sciousness, but, concretely corrected and grasped, a basic determination within
objective reality as a whole” (1: 7). It is a drive as strong as sexuality, an anticipa-
tory and progressive consciousness geared toward a real transformation. Although
admittedly influenced by Marx (as well as Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel),
Bloch focuses precisely on what the Marxist tradition contested: the realizability
of dreams—that is, utopia as a “catalyst of the future” (Levitas 87). Nevertheless,
Levitas warns us against the potential pitfalls in Bloch’s utopian impulse, mostly
regarding the universalizing dimension of an impulse to be found anywhere (i.e.,
in all human cultural manifestations). She also alerts us to the problem of uni-
versalizing the very notion of utopia, commenting that “we may claim that all
utopias have something in common without making claims about the universal-
ity of utopia or the existence of a fundamental utopian propensity” (7–8). To
avoid this thorny issue, she encourages us to find a commonality in utopias as a
solution. Again, for her, their common factor would be the expression of desire
(8). It is incumbent to point out, however, that there may be a danger in reduc-
ing the utopian impulse to desire, which has been theorized by psychoanalysts
as pertaining to the realm of individuality (subject as lack), whereas the utopian
impulse is a united force, a combination of individual dreams that form collab-
orative actions.
Jameson also reflects on Bloch’s notion of the impulse, even though he does
not reiterate a warning against universality, but rather emphasizes the distinction
between this impulse and praxis. He alleges that to “see traces of the utopian
impulse everywhere, as Bloch did, is to naturalize it and to imply that it is some-
how rooted in human nature. Attempts to realize utopia, however, have been
historically more intermittent” (10). Yet, for Bloch, manifestations of the utopian
impulse are as evident practically as conceptually, present in cultural production
and collective movements, as Jameson himself affirms (8).
Despite critiques of universality, both Bloch and Marcuse hope to recuperate

agency through the manifestations of the utopian impulse: Marcuse in search of
an unalienated experience through a reeducation of desire for material things,
and Bloch in an attempt to catalyze change through cultural and artistic activi-
ties. It has precisely been noted that Bloch “focuses our attention on concrete
moments in history that point the way toward an actual transformation of the
material world” (Zipes xxiii). For Bloch, the utopian impulse is directly con-
nected to action and freedom: where there is hope and agency, the possibility
of freedom arises in a sort of circular manner.11 Therefore, Bloch’s notion of the
utopian impulse is crucial to our discussion of utopia in Latin America. As pre-
viously indicated, Pastor published a fundamental work that studies colonial
representations of American utopia, El jardín y el peregrino. For Pastor, Bloch’s
notion informs the common thread existing in the texts she analyzes: utopia is
not to be viewed as a recycled Western concept or a reformulation of this notion
but as a specific way of thinking differentiated in a series of cultural and his-
torical strategies and operations (13). Indeed, she considers the utopian impulse
as an alternative tradition to the hegemony of analytical reason (17).12 In this
vein, while exploring the utopian impulse and its applications, it is pertinent to
remember that this drive may be a search for the well-being of all humanity—
ideally living in inclusive, democratic societies. Pastor mentions that, in some
ways, utopia is meant to address needs and satisfy those needs, when it is feasible.
In this sense, it is closely related to material reality or at least to imaginative reflec-
tions on material possibilities in pursuit of a better life.
From this perspective, the concept of utopia has been based on notions of
inclusion versus exclusion and of social change. This is one reason why it seems
difficult to regard exclusionary far-right tendencies as utopian given that the idea
of utopia is about equality; instead, we may speak of a feminist utopia, of an envi-
ronmental utopia, and of course, of a sociopolitical utopia. As Jacoby advocates in
Picture Imperfect: Utopian Thought for an Anti-Utopian Age (2005), utopia should
not be associated with reactionary groups and movements that lead to a hierarchi-
cal and prejudiced society.
Moreover, in a recent anthology on utopia and art simply called Utopias (2009),
Richard Noble in his introduction makes the claim that the “utopian impulse is
implicit in all art making, at least in so far as one thinks that art addresses itself to
the basic project of making the world better” (12). This statement echoes Bloch
as he proposes that dreams of a better world will always persist in all kinds of cul-
tural expressions. It is with this proposition in mind that we approach the volume
and thus invite the contributors and readers alike to engage in a reflection on the
utopian impulse in the twenty-first century.
The Practice of Utopia in Latin America

Although the end of utopia was declared at the conclusion of the Cold War,
there has been consistent evidence of its recurrence. Specifically, Latin America
has been coherently and renewably motivated by utopia—politically, socially,
and culturally—as it has been defined according to utopian terms. The dialogue
between utopia and Latin America has been long present, and to some, like Bra-
zilian poet Oswald de Andrade, “Utopia is the social phenomenon that causes
society to march toward the future.”13 Yet it existed in the region well before there
was a Latin America.14
There is no doubt that this strong connection between the history of Latin
America and utopian practices has been thoroughly researched by a large variety
of scholars. We believe, however, that there is a need to revisit their studies in
order to either emphasize their most significant arguments or destabilize the com-
monplace notions they helped to perpetuate.15 Therefore, a brief critical review
of these texts is indispensable and will be organized, for the sake of clarity, fol-
lowing some of the main tendencies that have shaped the cultural history of
this region—namely, the foundational utopia of the New World, the indigenous
utopia(s), the Creole utopia of pan-American integration, the utopia of mestizaje
(miscegenation), the utopia of a return to the Inca Empire, and of course, the
socialist utopias of the 1960s and 1970s.16 In addition to addressing these trends,
we will insist on the timeliness of utopia in contemporary Latin America, arguing
that in times of economic, political, or social crisis, the practice of utopia becomes
particularly pertinent, even in the age of globalization.
Because Pastor’s El jardín y el peregrino is a key work that examines the founda-
tional utopias from an original angle, it deserves serious consideration.17 One of
its most noteworthy arguments concerns the relationship between More’s Utopia
and the chronicles of the New World. It is useful to recall that many authors
(Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo, Juan Durán Luzio, Margarita Zamora, David A.
Brading, and Santa Arias, among others) suggest that More’s book had a direct
influence on texts such as Bartolomé de las Casas’s Brevísima relación de la destruc-
ción de las Indias (A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies; 1552) or El
Inca Garcilaso de la Vega’s Comentarios reales de los incas (Royal Commentaries of
the Incas; 1609, 1617), asserting that they shared not only the same classic and
rhetorical sources (like Plato’s Republic)18 but also the same conception of ideal
places (Arias 125). Pastor, however, rightly warns us that this parallelism is quite
superficial: aside from the obvious differences between their respective contexts,
what distinguishes More from these authors is the justification of violence that
his character Utopus uses to build an ideal society (228). In this sense, as men-
tioned earlier, it seems appropriate to regard the utopian writings produced in
the New World as innovative rather than mere uncritical copies of European
works.19 Moreover, for Pastor, such parallelism is too narrow because it limits the
concept of utopia to a single text instead of considering it as a particular mentality.
She agrees with Bloch when he explains that “to limit the utopian to the Thomas
More variety . . . would be like trying to reduce electricity to the amber from which
it gets its Greek name and in which it was first noticed” (1: 15). This is also why
the utopian impulse is much more complex than the basic definitions of previous
historians and literary critics, according to which the first European explor-
ers of America “invented” this continent (see Pérez de Oliva and O’Gorman)
and conceived it as a tabula rasa prone to embody their prefabricated dreams.20
More accurately, the foundational utopias were a heterogeneous network of care-
fully selected European and indigenous images, symbols, and myths. As Aníbal
Quijano also postulates, the European utopias themselves were affected by native
cultures: they were “dependent above all on the seminal contribution of Andean
rationality to the new European imaginary that was being constituted” (142).
Therefore, the conquerors’ utopian impulse is not to be understood as a series of
unrealistic fables but as a cognitive process of familiarization with an unknown
setting. Our task as cultural critics, then, is to map this electricity, these symbolic
spaces of utopian resolution.
Another important argument advanced by Pastor is that utopia often coex-
ists with dystopia in the context of colonial Latin America, an aspect that must
be kept in mind when studying utopian practices throughout the history of this
region. As Las Casas’s work demonstrates, America is far from being an ideal space.
Indeed, in Pastor’s words, “Colonial America is not a utopia. It is a monstros-
ity.”21 Nevertheless, even though Las Casas is clearly revolted by the destruction
of the Americas carried out by the conquistadors, he firmly believes in the pos-
sibility of transforming colonial society (Pastor 262).22 Against this background,
utopian thinking consists in an effort to symbolically neutralize the horrors of the
conquest and negotiate its underlying contradictions.23
Pastor also encourages us to examine the practice of utopia from the perspec-
tive of the indigenous peoples of America. As we have suggested, although it is
often labeled as a European genre exported to the New World, it is difficult to
ignore that the utopian impulse in its broader sense was ingrained in the native
imagination long before the arrival of European explorers and conquerors. This
is evident in the myth of the land without evil, for instance. As for the utopia of
the indigenous chroniclers, it subsists in the theoretical viability of a discourse of
reconciliation that doesn’t necessarily correspond to the sociohistorical circum-
stances: “From the point of view of utopian thought, what defines the thought
of the conquered versus that of the conquerors is the recurring formulation of a
particular utopia: that of a possible communication across cultural boundaries
that makes a negotiation of alterity feasible . . . In the final balance, the utopia of
the dialogue becomes definitively displaced by the reality of the monologue that
follows the eclipse of all negotiation in favor of colonization.”24 It is perhaps due
to his awareness of the impossibility of a real dialogue that the renowned writer
Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala created a fictional one between himself and the
King of Spain in El capítulo del diálogo de Guamán Poma con el rey (The Chapter of
Guaman Poma’s Dialogue with the King; 974–99) in his El primer nueva corónica y
buen gobierno (The First New Chronicle and Good Government; 1615–16).
This and other native responses to the conquest remind us that the inhabit-
ants of what we now call Latin America have constructed utopias for themselves
as strategies of resistance in the face of injustice, a fact made explicit in later
indigenous-led rebellions, such as Túpac Amaru II’s famous anticolonial move-
ment between 1780 and 1783.25 As it may be observed in his half-brother Juan
Bautista Túpac Amaru’s Memorias o El dilatado cautiverio (Memoirs; 1825), which
John Beverley refers to as an early instance of transculturation (56), the practice
of utopia in Latin America is here again inseparable from dystopia. Although this
work expresses the firm desire to liberate Spanish America, whose representation
is based on an idealized version of the Inca Empire, it is at the same time a bleak
critique of the indelible impact of colonial rule on this region.
Like the native peoples, there is no doubt that the Creoles dreamed of build-
ing a better world for themselves. It bears emphasizing, however, that their utopia
was rather ambiguous: as Carlos A. Jáuregui convincingly argues, the loas of the
distinguished protofeminist writer Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, for example, reveal
that Creole intellectuals sought to negotiate both local and imperial interests with
the metropolis through the vindication of the native land and its ability to partici-
pate in the imperial order (219). Needless to say, the nineteenth century later saw
the fruition of the Creoles’ great utopian projects of independence, whose bicente-
nary—in the case of Argentina, Mexico, and other countries—was commemorated
in 2010. Simón Bolívar, Francisco de Miranda, and José Martí (in his 1892 essay
“Nuestra America” [“Our America”], one of the favorite genres of the time for shar-
ing personal reflections on politics and society) are just a few who represent the
pan-American aspiration to unite the continent. This aspiration has been embraced
by twentieth-century poets, such as Pablo Neruda, Rubén Darío, and César Vallejo,
and is now being resuscitated by the current president of Venezuela, Hugo Chávez.26
For this reason, Leopoldo Zea, Carlos M. Tur Donatti, and Joaquín Santana Cas-
tillo consider integration (in “our America”) as one of the constant utopias in Latin
America: “The history of the utopia of Latin American integration is the history of
an unrealized, but not unrealizable, dream.”27 Despite the repeated failures of such a
project,28 these critics continue to believe in its practical potential, which shows that
many scholars tend to fall prey to the danger of approaching the concept of utopia
from an unequivocally idealistic standpoint. We strongly think this approach must
be corrected or at least nuanced.29
As a direct consequence of the conquest, another utopian tendency that has
contributed to the definition of Latin American culture is the laudatory discourse
of mestizaje, a discourse that claims the region’s identity is praiseworthy and
even superior to others due to its mixture of cultures.30 This ideology is clearly
illustrated in José Vasconcelos’s La raza cósmica (The Cosmic Race; 1925), which
introduces the fifth race as a new hope for a better future. Marilyn Grace Miller’s
brilliant work, Rise and Fall of the Cosmic Race: The Cult of Mestizaje in Latin
America (2004), addresses this topic from a critical point of view, exposing the
uses and abuses of the concept of mestizaje in the service of various sociopo-
litical agendas.31 She reminds us that, although it has been employed to assert
cultural difference, it was discredited toward the end of the twentieth century for
reaffirming the racist discourse of the colonial apparatus: “[I]n fact, mestizaje’s
positive retooling had not solved problems of race and class in Latin America,
but instead had compounded them by employing a rhetoric of inclusion that
operated concurrently with a practice of exclusion” (4). Due to its inability to
account for the plurality of social reality in Latin America, critics like Fernando
Ortiz, Antonio Cornejo Polar, Martin Lienhard, and Antonio Benítez Rojo resort
to other terminological options such as transculturation, syncretism, or hybridity
(Poupeney-Hart 42–46). As Rita De Grandis and Zilà Bernd argue, however, the
term hybridity was used so repeatedly that it suffered from “epistemological pov-
erty and inherent conceptual obliqueness” (x). We would like to emphasize that
it is crucial to keep in mind the political ideology that underlies the concept of
mestizaje, even if it is viable to perceive intercultural exchanges under a positive
light, praising (in Fernando Aínsa’s words) “enrichment by a new society or of a
new society, an alternative to cultural pluralism, interracial breeding, and always
positive diversification and, above all, cultural stimulation.”32 Related to mes-
tizaje is the notion of cultural cannibalism developed by Andrade in his famous
“Manifesto Antropófago” (“Cannibalist Manifesto”; 1928) in order to praise the
particularity of Brazilian culture and its ability to appropriate the discourse of the
Other and make it its own by devouring—and recycling—it.33
In Buscando un inca: Identidad y utopía en los Andes (In Search of an Inca: Identity
and Utopia in the Andes; 1986), Alberto Flores Galindo provides a classic definition
of another major tendency of the utopian impulse in Latin America that emerged
as a reaction to the conflicts of modern times: the desire, from the sixteenth to the
twenty-first century, to return to pre-Columbian civilizations, mostly an idealized
image of the Inca Empire—without poverty or vices. Insisting on the practicality of
this dream, the Peruvian historian and social scientist suggests that “[t]he Andean
utopia was the project—or, better yet, projects—that confronted this reality . . . to
search for an alternative path in the encounter between memory and the imaginary:
the rebuilding of Inca society and the return of the Inca ruler. It was an effort to
find in the reconstruction of the past a solution to their identity problems” (5).
This phenomenon is what Mario Vargas Llosa polemically refers to as a nostalgic,
reactionary, and passé ideology in La utopía arcaica: José María Arguedas y las fic-
ciones del indigenismo (The archaic utopia: José María Arguedas and the fictions of
indigenism; 1996). Nonetheless, Flores Galindo sheds light on a few aspects that
deserve to be taken into account: this project was inscribed in a possible future,
as a past that would come back as a new cycle rather than being purely nostal-
gic; in addition, since Túpac Amaru I’s tragic death, the Andean utopia has been
hybrid because it flourished in contact with Catholic millenarianism and inspired
not only native peoples but also Creoles (such as Gabriel Aguilar) and mestizos.
As the Peruvian historian states, “America was not only the stimulus of millenar-
ian hopes but also the site of their realization” (13). Despite the relevance of these
arguments, Flores Galindo has been correctly criticized for proposing a universal
model for the peasant revolts in the Andes, which often had a more material moti-
vation than the ideological return to the Inca Empire. His friend and collaborator
Manuel Burga, for example, offers a highly nuanced perspective in Nacimiento de
una utopía: Muerte y resurrección de los incas (Birth of a utopia: Death and resurrec-
tion of the Incas; 1988).
Yet, when thinking about utopia in Latin America, the socialist movements
of the 1960s and 1970s—especially the revolutions led by Ernesto Che Guevara
(inspired by the concept of the “new man”) as well as the influence of liberation
theology since the mid-1950s—immediately come to mind. Jorge G. Castañeda’s
classic book, Utopia Unarmed: The Latin American Left After the Cold War (1993),
analyzes this issue at length, identifying flaws in the policies of the left while recom-
mending a more appropriate “social democratic” program.34 In fact, a substantial
number of scholarly studies have been dedicated to this phenomenon, such as A
Turbulent Decade Remembered: Scenes from the Latin American Sixties (2007) by
Diana Sorensen. This fascinating work links key artistic and literary manifestations
to historical events and traces, among other aspects, the rise and demise of utopia.
Sorensen critically examines a selection of intense incidents in order to revisit the
cultural production of this decade, including the novels of the “boom” (often dis-
tinguished by their “creativity” and a strong belief in endless “possibilities” [14]), as
well as the literary criticism that accompanied it. One may argue that the right also
expressed utopian projects in the following texts: Pinochet, verdad y ficción (Pino-
chet, truth and fiction; 1981) by the Francoist Álvaro Pineda de Castro and the
bilingual edition of Pionero del mañana: Biografía ilustrada de mi padre/Tomorrow’s
Pioneer: Illustrated Biography of My Father (1996) by Lucía Pinochet Hiriart. Both
represent the dictator Augusto Pinochet as a heroic savior capable of building a
“better” and “happier” society.35 Nevertheless, we would like to reiterate Jacoby’s
previously mentioned argument that utopia always seeks to transform the estab-
lished order for the sake of justice and inclusion, thus making it doubtful for such
writings to be considered absolutely utopian.
It is well known that the enthusiastic revolutions of the 1960s and 1970s
were followed by a period of disenchantment, which was often interpreted as the
end of utopia (see, aside from Jacoby, Claudio Magris).36 Indeed, the failure of
great socialist projects and the collapse of left-wing ideologies resulted in wide-
spread skepticism to the point that Haroldo de Campos claimed that the current
postmodern times would be better defined as “post-utopian” (Deus e o Diabo
no Fausto de Goethe 176). As we have acknowledged, while it is undeniable that
many social movements have lost credit and popular endorsement, it is possible
to suggest that the utopian impulse in Latin America has never died, even though
it may often take a more subtle and cautionary form. In this sense, we agree with
Horacio Cerutti Guldberg when he states that there are always acts of utopia in
the most banal details of quotidian life.37
Finally, the end of the twentieth century and the beginning of the twenty-first
century have seen the resurgence of indigenous movements of resistance that
advocate better living conditions for their communities. Despite major setbacks
and important challenges, considerable improvements have been made in Evo
Morales’s Bolivia, as well as in Chile, Colombia, Peru, Nicaragua, Mexico, and so
on, where indigenous laws were passed thanks to native activists. Similar move-
ments attempt to build a stronger democracy for indigenous peoples, as Claudia
González-Parra, Willem van Genugten, Camilo Pérez-Bustillo, Edward L. Cleary,
Timothy J. Steigenga, and Deborah J. Yashar, among others, demonstrate in their
studies.38 But what happens in the face of globalization when the end of utopia
is again proclaimed?
Utopia Still Matters: Crises and Their Antidotes

What is evident in this literature review is that utopian projects (however varied
they may be) were usually created to respond to a crisis, from the preconquest
period to the neoliberal era. Although utopian practices cannot completely
solve problems, Martín Hopenhayn asserts that “[utopia] nonetheless has the
mobilizing effect of shaking up the gregarious skepticism that has spread out dur-
ing the eaves of crisis” (143).
Without a doubt, some Latin Americanists regard the term utopia as passé,
out of fashion, inapplicable, useless, and dangerous, as Fernando Aínsa remarks
in La reconstrucción de la utopía (The reconstruction of utopia; 1999, 19) and
“Do We Need Utopia?” (13). However, we believe it is perfectly pertinent to
affirm that utopia is not only far from being unrealizable but also always prone to
reconstruction,39 recalling Walter Benjamin’s discussion of “eternal recurrence” in
his unfinished Das Passagen-Werk (The Arcades Project; 1982). Like an antidote,
its main purpose is to solve a problem, and it may be generated (with varying
degrees of success) to come to terms with a specific situation, overcome a crisis,
or dream a better world according to the different sociopolitical agendas of its
seekers. In fact, it is mostly due to its subversive nature that utopia is relevant
in times of crisis. As it is well known, More’s Utopia, El Inca Garcilaso’s Comen-
tarios reales, Tommaso Campanella’s Civitas solis (The City of the Sun; 1623), and
Francis Bacon’s Nova Atlantis (New Atlantis; 1624), for example, were all works
that criticized and proposed reforms for their respective societies. Indeed, in
Hopenhayn’s own words, “utopia always supposes a critique and questioning of
the existing order” (144).
For this reason, Aínsa declares that utopia is still possible in the age of global-
ization, contradicting the assumption that “[t]he ‘single thought’ that excludes all
utopian alternatives would seem to be the logical consequence, where modernity
and cultural diversity seem irreconcilable.”40 The “homo utopicus,” according to
him, should not abdicate in front of the “homo economicus” (La reconstrucción
de la utopía 15). We are also convinced that the climate of change the utopian
impulse may bring is urgently needed in a continent where social disparities are
extremely pronounced. In the same vein, the special report on Latin America
published in The Economist (September 11–17, 2010) mentions that during the
“Latin American decade,” in which more than forty million Latin Americans
“were lifted out of poverty” (3), “[s]ome countries may at last have found a path
towards economic development. But getting there may be no quicker or easier
than achieving independence” (4). Among the “big worries” are low growth in
productivity, unequal income distribution, and the rampant violence caused by
organized drug gangs (4).
Our firm belief in the productive function of the utopian impulse doesn’t
preclude us from noticing its possible adverse side effects. It would be too sim-
plistic to ignore that—in conjunction with history—it may be disastrous and
cause destruction. There is no doubt that it can provoke failure, which in turn
generates more utopian initiatives. Nevertheless, in a panel discussion about our
volume (“Crises and Their Antidotes: The Utopian Impulse in Latin America”)
at the XXIX International Congress of the Latin American Studies Association
(LASA),41 Pastor referred to Bloch when she pointed out that some harmful uto-
pias are sold as such, even though they are fantasies. For instance, the formation
of favelas around Brasilia is a true disappointment illustrating that poverty has
not been resolved. Perhaps, however, it was never a utopia but a fantasy used by
incompetent governments.
Moreover, it bears emphasizing that the initial phase of the uncritical, “happy
globalization” that followed the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 has now come to
an end. As Patrick Hayden and Chamsy el-Ojeili put it, “the neoliberal globalist
utopia is punctured” (7), making way to the “sometimes explicit rejuvenation
of utopianism” (8). The contemporary global world—hybridized and suppos-
edly without frontiers—may thus be conceived as a productive place for utopia
where alternatives are imagined and concretized. Indeed, current utopian proj-
ects of resistance to ideologies such as neoliberalism abound, many of which
are undertaken by internationally famous organizations—Mexico’s Zapatista
movement, Brazil’s Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Terra (Landless
Workers’ Movement), and the World Social Forum that was first held in Porto
Alegre in 2001, among others.42 This indicates that a strong stance against some
features of the present social order is both needed and possible. Similarly, at the
theoretical level, Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri thoroughly analyze the work-
ings of “Empire” and “counter-Empire” in their influential book Empire (2000)
from a neo-Marxist (and at times cheerfully optimistic) viewpoint. Its sequel,
Multitude (2004), focuses on “the living alternative that grows within Empire”
(xiii).43 Nonetheless, our vindication of the timeliness and relevance of utopia in
the global era as a realizable impulse must be nuanced to take advantage of past
experiences. Pierre Bourdieu is certainly right in claiming that we should strive
for a more “realistic” and “reasoned” utopia (128) in order to fight the negative
aspects of neoliberalism.
A remarkable example of current endeavors in the literary sphere is the Eloísa
Cartonera publishing house, which grew out of the 2001 crisis in Argentina
and could have been considered unfeasible at first.44 This cooperative attempts
to destabilize and redefine the institution of the editorial market by publish-
ing books at a very low price with recycled cardboard previously collected by
cartoneros. Although Eloísa Cartonera has been criticized for being a “product
of the crisis” and promoting an “aestheticized misery,”45 as a recycling process, it
is definitely part of a larger program of ecotopia (or eco-utopia), which combines
utopian thought and green consciousness.46 Similarly, new online communities
are being created to fight for a better future, such as La Via Campesina: Interna-
tional Peasant Movement, Utopía: Blog de la Biblioteca del CCC (Utopia: The CCC
library blog),47 and Desde Cuba, un portal de periodismo ciudadano (From Cuba,
a portal for citizen journalism), which includes Yoani Sánchez’s notorious blog
Generación Y.
We have shown utopia’s practical nature throughout this essay, but at the same
time we are aware of the fact that it is never concluded. As Pastor commented
during the previously mentioned panel discussion at the LASA Congress, social
utopia aims at a change that will itself bring another change; it is inevitably unat-
tainable, always deferred. In other words, it produces an excess that guarantees
that we, as human beings, will never be satisfied. Nevertheless, despite being
unstable, it may succeed in being an efficient resolution of contradictions at the
symbolic level.
In conclusion, utopia is never far from dystopia, or semitopias, in all fields of
Latin American culture. Yet we argue that the utopian impulse has never died.
While it is predisposed to change and transformation, it will continue to have a

long history, since it is absolutely necessary to keep imagining alternative configu-
rations of the future. Even though utopia is not specific to a particular region,
there seems to be an indisputable concentration of this impulse in the cultural
history of Latin America, as has been shown by tracing the trajectories and rup-
tures of this concept from pre-Columbian worldviews to contemporary culture.
Indeed, the desire to subvert the world order with the aim of empowering this
continent is well illustrated in América invertida (Inverted America; 1943) by
Uruguayan artist and art theorist Joaquín Torres García, as well as in Arriba el sur
(South up; 2007)—the painting that appears on the front cover of our book—by
Argentine artist and ecologist Nicolás García Uriburu, who also created Utopía
del sur (Southern utopia; 1993). These works of art turn Latin America upside
down, complicating power relationships and giving greater prominence to the
South than the North.
Although it is undeniable that utopia has occupied a dominant place in Latin
American(ist) criticism, some previously mentioned questions still need to be
answered, especially from an inclusive and nonidealistic perspective that takes
into account the concept’s ambiguous, multifaceted, and sometimes contradic-
tory nature.
Overview of the Volume

We have selected 14 essays that represent the latest research by some of the most
important Latin Americanists in North American academia today. From litera-
ture, music, performance, cinema, visual arts, critical theory, cultural studies, and
political science, the authors of these chapters approach a variety of concepts and
offer innovative (even provocative) readings, contributing immensely to the field
of Latin American studies.
Part I, “Foundational Utopias,” addresses early modern utopias from different
points of view. Beatriz Pastor examines real and imaginary/symbolic cartogra-
phies in canonical Spanish narratives about the conquest (by Columbus, Cortés,
etc.), considering them as sites of the utopian impulse and comparing them to
later foundational utopias (the modern city in Domingo Faustino Sarmiento,
Gabriel García Márquez, and Carlos Monsiváis). José Antonio Mazzotti appraises
the notion of utopia in the opposite direction, focusing on the impact the con-
quest had on Spanish literature, specifically Miguel de Cervantes’s El ingenioso
hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha (The Ingenious Hidalgo Don Quixote de la Man-
cha; 1605, 1615). Through the amusing utopian island of Barataria, this classic
work refers to the debate between Niccolò Machiavelli’s “reason of state” and the
Erasmian Christian prince, and more importantly, satirizes the role of the suppos-
edly legendary conquistadors in peninsular society.
Turning to the end of the nineteenth century and the twentieth century, in
Part II, titled “Utopia and Modernity,” Alejandra Uslenghi, Odile Cisneros, and
Justin Read look at how the utopian impulse fashioned the spaces of modernity—
more precisely, physical, technological, and ecological spaces. Each contributor
is concerned with different aspects. Uslenghi explores the representation of Latin
American cities at the 1889 Paris Exposition Universelle and exposes the contra-
dictory nature of modernization in Latin America. Her essay pays attention to
the intricacies of material configurations, and how they reflect traces of utopia in
the process of establishing the region’s position in the modern world, particularly
in relation to Europe’s colonial power. Cisneros sheds new light on some key
ideas of the Brazilian historical avant-garde, a utopian project par excellence. Her
contribution provides a refreshing discussion of antropofagia from an ecocritical
viewpoint and underscores the importance of the environment for the utopian
aspirations of early twentieth-century Brazil. Read interrogates the possibility of
utopia and negates its positive function. In his provocative analyses of two promi-
nent Latin American poets, Rubén Darío and Hilda Hilst, he moves from literary
modernism to postmodernism, arriving at a postutopian space of globalization to
study the multiple facets of urbanization and its relationship to social relations
and gender.
In Part III, “Feminist Utopias,” Gisela Heffes and Wanda Rivera-Rivera show
how women, through nontraditional feminist and socialist utopias, subvert their
condition of subalternity and strive to transform the established order in favor
of social improvement and gender equality. By examining Flora Tristán’s auto-
biography and the testimonies of leftist militant women who participated in
the popular insurgency of 1965 in the Dominican Republic, respectively, they
reveal how these female figures question the role of women within the private and
public spheres, patriarchal ideology, and the creation of knowledge. Despite the
different sociohistorical contexts and diverse political agendas of these women,
they all break with the conventions of the diary by producing either testimonios or
a hybrid form of autobiography.
Because Brazil has long been acclaimed as “the country of the future” where
utopia is allegedly realized, Christopher Dunn and Elena Shtromberg concentrate
on this region in Part IV, called “Utopia and Counterculture.” They identify dif-
ferent strategies of resistance during the years of the dictatorship: counterculture
in music and the construction of Brasilia, which celebrated its fiftieth anniversary
in 2010, as representative of the utopian city. The focus on Brazil also reflects the
current interest in the culture of this country within North American academia.
Dunn shares fascinating insights about the visionary utopia of Jorge Mautner, a
counterculture figure who is active in many cultural spheres. Shtromberg pro-
vides a spatial analysis of a piece by Brazilian artist Cildo Meireles regarding the
urban project of Brasilia. Both texts expose the ambiguity of utopian aspirations,
particularly during an authoritarian regime.
Utopia is at the core of revolutions. Conversely, all revolution is utopian in the
sense that utopian thinking always aspires for change. The contributors in Part V,
titled “Revolutionary Utopias and the Politics of Memory,” are deeply interested
in the sociopolitical utopias of socialism and communism. Juan Pablo Dabove dis-
cusses the portrayal of communism in literature, while Diana Sorensen and Rita De
Grandis contemplate the role of utopia in dealing with trauma and remembering.
Dabove traces the history of the Communist Party in Brazil and examines how
the Latin American left is perceived in the literary works of Jorge Amado, particu-
larly in their depiction of bandits. The essays by Sorensen and De Grandis address
interpretations of difficult time periods and the way utopian resistance offers an
alternative to political oppression. Their thoughts on memory reveal contrasting
but complementary points of view: whereas De Grandis analyzes filmic represen-
tations of Latin American dictatorships through the lens of the “innocent” eyes of
younger generations, Sorensen reflects on two earlier examples—the 1960s com-
mitment to liberation in Latin America and the 1948 Universal Declaration of
Human Rights—to highlight the relationship between political memory and the
double bind of utopia (as negation and affirmation, memory and anticipation),
as well as the importance of utopia to ethical concerns.
In the chapters of Part VI, “Utopia and Ethnicity in the Twenty-First Century,”
Carla Beatriz Melo and Ulises Juan Zevallos-Aguilar emphasize the presence of an
ethnic utopia in Latin America, especially in Brazil and the Andes. Melo studies
different kinds of theatrical performances related to human rights activism that
aim to deconstruct racial stereotypes, while Zevallos-Aguilar privileges literature
by focusing on the languages used in the latest Peruvian Quechua poetry. Melo
demonstrates how cultural initiatives challenge our assumptions about racial
democracy and attempt to shape policy. She posits the World Social Forum as a
utopian practice and calls attention to the way artistic and activist groups (Frente
3 de Fevereiro, Amazon Watch, and Rainforest Network) express the political
aspect of art and its effects. Zevallos-Aguilar, for his part, argues that we can
observe the formulation of a native utopia in a new cycle of Quechua poetry.
Indeed, contemporary Quechua poets like Fredy Roncalla, Odi Gonzales, and
Ch’aska Anka Ninawaman propose a local utopia that moves away from the tra-
ditional myths of return and the end of the millennium. The indigenous utopia
that originated before the conquest persists until today, although greatly modi-
fied, and these contributions attest to its varied manifestations.
Our readers will notice that some familiar topics, such as the Cuban and the
Mexican Revolutions, were not included in the volume. Instead, they will find an
eclectic combination of canonical and lesser-known case studies. Like the utopian
impulse itself, our book is meant to be left open and unconcluded. Since this is
not an exhaustive analysis of the utopian impulse in Latin America, we certainly
hope it will inspire future research.
Notes
1. We would like to acknowledge, however, that these projects for change had varying
degrees of success. At the political level, it seems evident that Obama represented a
utopia for the Americas with his famous slogan “Yes we can,” and the climate of eupho-
ria he created is clearly visible in Michael Moore’s documentary Capitalism: A Love
Story (2009). Indeed, he definitely brought a message of hope to many Latinos, Latin
Americans, and Latin Americanists who thought he could try to improve the relation-
ship between the two continents. As it is explained in the working paper “Dangerous
Complacencies: Obama, Latin America, and the Misconceptions of Power” presented
by Sheryl Lutjens et al. on October 7, 2010, at the XXIX International Congress of the
Latin American Studies Association (for publication in a special issue of Latin American
Perspectives), “Meeting with the presidents of Latin America at the Fifth Summit of the
Americas in Trinidad in April 2009, Barack Obama pledged to recast relations with the
region . . . The promise of Obama’s rhetoric in Trinidad failed to materialize in concrete

policies and, in retrospect, may have been a way to deflect attention from the fact that
his administration had no plans for fundamentally altering U.S. policy towards Latin
America” (1). The authors suggest that Obama is following a misguided policy that
pursues U.S. interests, considering Latin America as a low-priority issue. We should
also specify that if our definition of utopia may seem leftist, we are convinced that it is
inseparable from projects of inclusion and democracy.
2. For instance, as we will mention in the next section, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels
didn’t believe that utopia could be realized.
3. Utopias (2009) by Richard Noble, ed.; Globalization and Utopia: Critical Essays (2009)
by Patrick Hayden and Chamsy el-Ojeili, eds.; Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of
Queer Futurity (2009) by José Esteban Muñoz; Surrendering to Utopia: An Anthropology
of Human Rights (2009) by Mark Goodale; Futurescapes: Space in Utopian and Science
Fiction Discourses (2009) by Ralph Pordzik; The New Latin American Left: Utopia Reborn
(2008) by Patrick S. Barrett, Daniel Chavez, and César A. Rodríguez Garavito, eds.; Pic-
ture Imperfect: Utopian Thought for an Anti-Utopian Age (2005) by Russell Jacoby; Utopia
Matters: Theory, Politics, Literature and the Arts (2005) by Fátima Vieira and Marinela
Freitas, eds.; and less recently, The Utopia Reader (1999) by Gregory Claeys and Lyman
Tower Sargent, eds., among others.
4. We prefer to cite from the second (revised and expanded) edition of this work. Please
note that the adjective Latin American is applied to a colonial context, even though it was
first used in 1856.
5. Ernst Bloch stresses the conceptual aspect of the term, claiming that “the word utopia
emerged here coined by Thomas More, though not the philosophically far more com-
prehensive concept of utopia” (1: 14). More importantly, for Bloch, this concept has a
function. For Kumar, utopia is “a form of social thought” (40).
6. “The utopian thought experiment, which abruptly removes money from the field, brings
an aesthetic relief that unexpectedly foregrounds all kinds of new individual, social and
ontological relationships. It is as if suddenly the utopian strategy had been transformed
back into the utopian impulse as such, unmasking the utopian dimensions of a range
of activities hitherto distorted and disguised by the abstractions of value . . . converting
utopian representation into a critical and analytical method” (Jameson 230).
7. Kumar, Utopianism 33. It is obvious that, although utopia as a literary genre may be
conceived as Western, the ability to imagine an ideal society or ideal conditions for an
afterlife indeed appears in diverse world traditions.
8. Even More’s Utopia may seem relatively dystopian, since it presents the use of slaves, for
example.
9. In terms of Western literature, there are many cases of literary utopias after More: aside
from Tommaso Campanella’s and Francis Bacon’s works, see Samuel Butler’s Erewhon
(1872), William Morris’s News from Nowhere (1892), H. G. Wells’s A Modern Utopia
(1905), Aldous Huxley’s Island (1962), and Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time
(1976), to name but a few. Even Fyodor Dostoevsky presents a glimpse of utopia in
“Сон смешного человека” (“The Dream of a Ridiculous Man”; 1877).
10. This is a definition of humanism at face value, without entering into a further discussion
of the problematization of humanism and its consequences nor of contestations of it as
experienced in late twentieth-century criticism.
11. Interestingly, for Louis Marin, utopia is the fantasy of limits (xxii). Marin is known
for his concept of utopics, his definition of utopia as a “spatial play,” and his elastic
conception of the utopian impulse. He writes, “Utopic discourse occupies the empty—
historically empty—place of the historical resolution of a contradiction. It is the ‘zero
degree’ of the dialectical synthesis of contraries. It edges its way in between the contraries
and thus is the discursive expression of the neutral (defined as neither one nor the other
of the contraries)” (xiii).
12. Pastor’s perspective does not necessarily contest the notion that utopia is part of a
humanist tradition. She argues that the utopian impulse is part of a different way of
comprehending the world, almost as in the hermetic tradition.
13. English translation of “chama-se de Utopia o fenômeno social que faz marchar para a
frente a própria sociedade” (A Marcha das Utopias 205). All translations are by Susan
Cruess, unless a published translation is indicated.
14. In the “Manifesto Antropófago” (“Cannibalist Manifesto”; 1928), Andrade also states
that “[b]efore the Portuguese discovered Brazil, Brazil had discovered happiness” (42).
15. Some of these scholars organize or attend conferences on this topic, such as the
“Utopía: Espacios alternativos y expresiones culturales en América Latina” (Utopia:
Alternative spaces and cultural expressions in Latin America) International Congress
in Monterrey (August 2010); the proceedings Utopía en marcha (Utopia on the move)
from the “La concepción de la utopía desde América Latina (en homenaje a Fernando
Aínsa)” (The conception of utopia from Latin America [in homage to Fernando
Aínsa]) Symposium that took place at the Congress of Americanists in Seville under
the coordination of Horacio Cerutti Guldberg and Jussi Pakkasvirta (June 2006); the
congress in Warsaw, whose proceedings were edited by Cerutti Guldberg and Rodrigo
Páez Montalbán under the title América Latina: Democracia, pensamiento y acción.
Reflexiones de utopía (Latin America: Democracy, thought, and action. Reflections on
utopia; 2003), among others.
16. We are aware that this list is not exhaustive. Due to space limitations, we decided to
select the tendencies that we consider the most significant regarding the function of uto-
pia. In addition to mentioning these major movements, the contributors to the volume
will address alternative and lesser-known ones.
17. It is important to note that Pastor gently criticizes Juan Gil for not carefully distinguish-
ing between myths, legends, and utopias in Mitos y utopías del descubrimiento (Myths
and utopias of discovery; 1989): “Pero, ya desde el título, se anuncian los problemas
inseparables de una categorización que no ve la necesidad de deslindar teóricamente con
claridad el mito de la utopía [But, from the very title, are announced the inseparable
problems of a categorization that does not see the necessity to clearly delimit theoreti-
cally the myth of utopia]” (26).
18. In No hay tal lugar . . . (There is no such place . . . ; 1924), Alfonso Reyes gives an
overview of the use of utopia in Latin America and relates it to classic works like Plato’s
Republic.
19. Moreover, in “The Lightning Bolt Yields to the Rainbow,” José Antonio Mazzotti adds
that More’s masterpiece was already out of date by the publication of the mestizo author’s
major work (207).
20. It is interesting to point out that many Latin American countries still constitute sites of
paradise (see Argentina with its waves of immigration in the nineteenth and twentieth
centuries or Brazil with its bittersweet Amazonia). As for the invention of America, the term
first appeared in Hernán Pérez de Oliva’s Historia de la invención de las Indias (1528) and
was further developed in Edmundo O’Gorman’s La invención de América (1958).
21. “La América colonial no es una utopía. Es una monstruosidad” (29).
22. According to Pedro Borges, Las Casas is one of the most notorious utopists in Hispanic
culture, despite his ambiguity toward the American utopia (201). This ambiguity is also
patent in the European explorers’ accounts of the mysterious but hostile jungles, such as
Amazonia.
23. Other examples of the practice of utopia in colonial Latin America are Vasco de Quiro-
ga’s project in Michoacán (Mexico), which put into practice More’s utopia in order
to allegedly improve the lives of the native peoples; the Jesuit reductions in Paraguay,
Argentina, and Brazil, inspired by Campanella and Plato (Aínsa, “Do We Need Utopia?”
14); as well as the imperial projects described in La construcción de la utopía: El proyecto
de Felipe II (1556–1598) para Hispanoamérica (The construction of utopia: Philip II’s
project [1556–1598] for Spanish America; 2001) by José Miguel Morales Folguera and
La isla imaginada: Historia, identidad y utopía en La Española (The Imagined Island: His-
tory, Identity, and Utopia in Hispaniola; 1997) by Pedro L. San Miguel.
24. “Desde el punto de vista del pensamiento utópico, lo que define el pensamiento de los
vencidos frente al de los vencedores es la formulación recurrente de una utopía particu-
lar: la de una comunicación posible a través de fronteras culturales (cultural boundaries)
que haga posible una negociación de la alteridad . . . En el balance final, la utopía del
diálogo queda definitivamente desplazada por la realidad del monólogo, que sigue al
eclipse de todo interlocutor para el colonizado” (525–26).
25. Other remarkable rebellions include the indianist/indigenist movements of the nine-
teenth century and beginning of the twentieth century, and the quilombos founded by
runaway slaves in Brazil, such as the famous Quilombo dos Palmares.
26. As Cerutti Guldberg asserts in De varia utópica: Ensayos de Utopía III (Utopian miscel-
lany: Essays on utopia III; 1989), “Ya no podemos leer ingenuamente a Simón Bolívar
en nuestro tiempo . . . Cuando la tortura, el asesinato, el plagio y secuestro, los desa-
parecidos se han vuelto nuestro pan de cada día, no se puede hablar sin pasión y coraje
a partir de Bolívar . . . Porque el nombre de Bolívar es para nosotros legado y tarea, es
desafío y utopía, es propuesta y programa, es motivación y estímulo [In our times, we
cannot read Bolívar naively anymore . . . When torture, murder, plagiarism, and kid-
napping, the disappeared have become our daily bread, it is impossible to talk without
passion and anger about Bolívar . . . Because Bolívar’s name is for us a legacy and a task,
it is a challenge and a utopia, it is a proposal and a program, it is a motivation and an
incentive]” (139).
27. “La historia de la utopía de la integración latinoamericana, es la historia de un sueño
irrealizado, pero no irrealizable” (Santana Castillo 160).
28. In Las repúblicas de aire: Utopía y desencanto en la revolución de Hispanoamérica (Air
republics: Utopia and disenchantment in the revolution of Spanish America; 2009),
Rafael Rojas analyzes the period of crisis caused by the local caudillos who used their mil-
itary power to control the newly independent states. Another important Creole utopia is
Domingo Faustino Sarmiento’s well-known project for the modernization of Argentina
based on the European model.
29. From a more balanced and varied point of view, Jaime Preciado Coronado, Alberto
Rocha Valencia, and their contributors discuss the advantages and disadvantages of con-
tinental, regional, and supranational integration in América Latina: Realidad, virtualidad
y utopía de la integración (Latin America: Reality, virtuality, and the utopia of integration;
1997).
30. Although many countries in Latin America certainly do have a huge population of mixed
descent, the constant emphasis on a uniquely mestizo continent, superior to others, may
be considered a utopia.
31. For more information on the relationship between this topic and the modern cultural
industry, see García Canclini.
32. English translation of “el enriquecimiento por la nueva sociedad o de la nueva sociedad,
una alternativa de pluralismo cultural, de mestizaje y de diversificación siempre positivos
y, sobre todo, dinamizantes” (La reconstrucción de la utopía 110).
33. In visual arts, for example, Enrique Chagoya and Guillermo Gómez-Peña create a par-
ody of colonial visual culture about cannibalism to question colonial clichés. Their task
is to cannibalize official stories in order to perform what they call an “inverse anthropol-
ogy,” which consists in telling the story of the vanquished. Through the cauldron, the
stereotyped cannibals demonstrate their agency by taking revenge on the spokesmen of
racism. As self-proclaimed “utopian cannibals,” Chagoya and Gómez-Peña problematize
the construction of nationalism and ethnocentrism by mocking the European stereotype
of the cannibal as well as Western iconic figures like Asterix. The final product is a hybrid
one where “border thinking” operates, erasing the boundary between civilization and
barbarism and deconstructing official, homogeneous stories. For more information, see
Hickson, ed.
34. In a later article, “Latin America’s Left Turn,” Castañeda provides an updated perspec-
tive, affirming that there are now two lefts: “One is modern, open-minded, reformist,
and internationalist, and it springs, paradoxically, from the hard-core left of the past.
The other, born of the great tradition of Latin American populism, is nationalist, stri-
dent, and close-minded” (29). The emergence of a “new left” in Latin America is also
analyzed in The New Latin American Left: Utopia Reborn (2008) by Barrett, Chavez, and
Rodríguez Garavito, eds. However, the situation is slowly continuing to change, as we
observe a slight “right turn” since mid-2009 in countries such as Panama, Honduras,
Chile, and Costa Rica.
35. Other examples are El día decisivo: 11 de septiembre de 1973 (The Crucial Day, September
11, 1973; 1982) and Camino recorrido: Memorias de un soldado (A Journey through Life:
Memoirs of a Soldier; 1990) by General Augusto Pinochet himself.
36. In addition, Gilles Lipovetsky claims that postmodernism is best described as an “era of
emptiness,” as he explains in his 1983 homonymous book.
37. Cerutti Guldberg, De varia utópica: Ensayos de utopía III 31–32. Aínsa also puts into ques-
tion de Campos’s observation (231). In his view, Latin American authors are always seek-
ers of utopia (Espacios de encuentro 150); those that stand out include José Martí, César
Vallejo, José María Arguedas, José Lezama Lima, Alejo Carpentier, Julio Cortázar, Gabriel
García Márquez, and the avant-garde poets of Brazil and other countries, such as Oswald
de Andrade—see, for example, José Ángel Cuevas’s anthology, Utopías y contrautopías lati-
noamericanas (Latin American utopias and counterutopias; 1994). There is a wide variety
of critical works that focus on the utopian projects of Latin American literature and cul-
ture: Crítica literaria y utopía en América Latina (Literary criticism and utopia in Latin
America; 2006) by Ángel Rama, edited by Carlos Sánchez Lozano; Valiente mundo nuevo:
Épica, utopía y mito en la novela hispanoamericana (Brave new world: Epic, utopia, and
myth in the Spanish American novel; 1990) by Carlos Fuentes; Los buscadores de la utopía
(Seekers of utopia; 1977) by Fernando Aínsa, among other works by this author; Fuegos
bajo el agua: La invención de la utopía (Underwater fires: The invention of utopia; 1983)
by Isaac Pardo; Utopía y revolución: El pensamiento político contemporáneo de los indios en
América Latina (Utopia and revolution: The contemporary political thought of the native
peoples in Latin America; 1981) by Guillermo Bonfil Batalla; Creación y utopía: Letras de
Hispanoamérica (Creation and utopia: Spanish American literature; 1979) by Juan Durán
Luzio; and La utopía de América: La América española y su originalidad (American utopia:
Spanish America and its originality; 1978) by Pedro Henríquez Ureña, to name but a
few. In addition, several critics (for example, Roland Forgues and Alfonso Ibáñez) have
pointed out José Carlos Mariátegui’s close relationship to utopia. Moreover, it is worth
noticing that since the eighteenth century, science fiction has played an immense role
in the creation of utopias in Latin American literature, in the sense that it is a genre in
which social, political, economic, feminist, ecological, and other concerns are addressed.
Further, science fiction novels often portray some sort of utopian community where peace
and equal rights may sometimes prevail. As Darrell B. Lockhart comments in his intro-
duction to Latin American Science Fiction Writers: An A-to-Z Guide (2004), science fiction
writing “is a highly motivated vehicle for communicating trenchant social commentary”
(xi). Another tendency is the one studied by Gisela Heffes in Las ciudades imaginarias en
la literatura latinoamericana (Imaginary cities in Latin American literature; 2008), which
examines how imaginary cities are invented in order to create not only a new spatiality but
also a new collective subjectivity (16).
38. For instance, some specific examples are mentioned in Deborah J. Yashar’s Contesting
Citizenship in Latin America: The Rise of Indigenous Movements and the Postliberal Chal-
lenge (2005), such as the efforts of the ECUARUNARI, CONFENAIE, and CONAIE
in Ecuador, as well as the kataristas and CIDOB in Bolivia.
39. This is, of course, the main principle behind Aínsa’s La reconstrucción de la utopía.
40. “El ‘pensamiento único’ que excluye toda alternativa utópica parecería ser la lógica conse-
cuencia, donde modernidad y diversidad cultural parecen irreconciliables” (19). Quijano
puts it in other words: “The Latin American utopia [is] the proposal of an alternative
rationality” (153) and “the utopia of a new association between reason and liberation”
(155). Catalina Castillón argues along the same lines with regard to the waves of Latin
Americans who have chosen to emigrate to Spain instead of making it to North America:
“En el proceso globalizador, los ideales utópicos no se han perdido, permanecen constan-
tes en el imaginario centroeuropeo y latinoamericano [In the process of globalization,
utopian ideals have not been lost; they remain constant in the Central European and
Latin American imaginaries]” (155).
41. This panel discussion took place on October 8, 2010, in the Sheraton Centre Toronto
Hotel.
42. Please consult the edited volume titled Beyond Neoliberalism in Latin America? Societies
and Politics at the Crossroads (2009) by John Burdick, Philip Oxhorn, and Kenneth M.
Roberts, eds.
43. For more information, see the introduction to Globalization and Utopia (2009) by
Hayden and el-Ojeili, eds. and Globalización e identidades nacionales y postnacionales . . .
¿de qué estamos hablando? (Globalization and national and postnational identities . . .
what are we talking about?; 2005) by Grínor Rojo. In Empire, Hardt and Negri associate
utopia with counterpower, multitude, and militancy, selecting as examples the members
of the “Internationale,” Bartolomé de las Casas, Toussaint L’Ouverture, and Karl Marx.
To them, utopia is extremely useful, despite being quite ambiguous:
We think it important, however, not to forget the utopian tendencies that have
always accompanied the progression toward globalization, even if these ten-
dencies have continually been defeated by the powers of modern sovereignty.
The love of differences and the belief in the universal freedom and equality
of humanity proper to the revolutionary thought of Renaissance humanism
reappear here on a global scale. This utopian element of globalization is what
prevents us from simply falling back into particularism and isolationism in
reaction to the totalizing forces of imperialism and racist domination, pushing
us instead to forge a project of counterglobalization. (115)
44. There are similar cooperatives in other Latin American countries: Sarita Cartonera in
Peru; Yerba Mala Cartonera, Mandrágora Cartonera, and Nicotina Cartonera in Bolivia;
La Propia Cartonera in Uruguay; Animita Cartonera in Chile; Yiyi Jambo and Felic-
ita Cartonera in Paraguay; Dulcinéia Catadora in Brazil; La Cartonera, Santamuerte
Cartonera, and La Ratona Cartonera in Mexico (see Bértholo, “A Closer Look into
a Social Design Project—Eloísa Cartonera”). Even European countries, such as Spain
(Ultramarina Cartonera) and Sweden (Poesía con C), have seen the emergence of the
cartonera publishing phenomenon.
45. See the website Eloísa Cartonera—Cooperativa Editorial Latinoamericana/Publishing
House. This cooperative publishes many books written by recognized Latin American
authors, a fact that questions whether or not it completely challenges the literary canon.
46. As for popular participation, it may be considered more as a necessity than a utopia (see
Stiefel and Wolfe). Neighborhood associations in the greater Buenos Aires area, favela
organization in Brazil, and squatter movements in São Paulo are some of the projects
that are being accomplished. For more information on the latter, see Melo’s doctoral
dissertation titled “Squatting Dystopia: Performative Invasions of Real and Imagined
Spaces in Contemporary Brazil” (2007).
47. CCC stands for Centro Cultural de la Cooperación Floreal Gorini (Floreal Gorini Cul-
tural Center for Cooperation).
Works Cited
Aínsa, Fernando. Los buscadores de utopía: La significación novelesca del espacio latinoamericano.
Caracas: Monte Ávila, 1977.
———. “Do We Need Utopia?” The UNESCO Courier (Feb. 2001): 13–16.
———. Espacios de encuentro y mediación: Sociedad civil, democracia y utopía en América Latina.
Montevideo: Nordan-Comunidad, 2004.
———. La reconstrucción de la utopía. Buenos Aires: Ediciones del Sol, 1999.
Andrade, Oswald de. “Cannibalist Manifesto.” 1928. Trans. Leslie Bary. Latin American Liter-
ary Review 19.38 (July–Dec. 1991): 38–47.
———. A Marcha das Utopias. 1953. Rio de Janeiro: Serviço de Documentação, Ministério
da Educação e Cultura, 1966.
Arias, Santa and Mariselle Meléndez, eds. Mapping Colonial Spanish America: Places and Com-
monplaces of Identity, Culture, and Experience. Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell UP, 2002.
Avatar. Dir. James Cameron. Twentieth Century Fox, 2009.
Barrett, Patrick S., Daniel Chavez, and César A. Rodríguez Garavito, eds. The New Latin
American Left: Utopia Reborn. London: Pluto, 2008.
Benjamin, Walter. The Arcades Project. 1982. Ed. Rolf Tiedemann. Trans. Howard Eiland and
Kevin McLaughlin. Cambridge, MA: Belknap-Harvard UP, 1999.
Bértholo, Joana. “A Closer Look into a Social Design Project—Eloísa Cartonera.”
On Social Design. 8 Oct. 2009. Web. 1 June 2010. http://www.socialdesignblog.
org/2009/10/a-closer-look-into-a-social-design-project-eloisa-cartonera/.
Beverley, John. Subalternity and Representation: Arguments in Cultural Theory. Durham, NC:
Duke UP, 1999.
Bloch, Ernst. The Principle of Hope. 1938–47. Trans. Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice, and Paul
Knight. 3 vols. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1986.
Bonfil Batalla, Guillermo. Utopía y revolución: El pensamiento político contemporáneo de los
indios en América Latina. Mexico City: Nueva Imagen, 1981.
Borges, Pedro. “Las utopías de Bartolomé de las Casas.” Utopía y realidad indiana. Ed. Luciano
Pereña et al. Salamanca: Universidad Pontificia de Salamanca, 1992. 201–21.
Bourdieu, Pierre. “A Reasoned Utopia and Economic Fatalism.” New Left Review 221 (Jan.–
Feb. 1998): 123–30.
Burdick, John, Philip Oxhorn, and Kenneth M. Roberts, eds. Beyond Neoliberalism in Latin
America? Societies and Politics at the Crossroads. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.
Burga, Manuel. Nacimiento de una utopía: Muerte y resurrección de los incas. Lima: Instituto de
Apoyo Agrario, 1988.
Campos, Haroldo de. Deus e o Diabo no Fausto de Goethe. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1981.
Capitalism: A Love Story. Dir. Michael Moore. Overture Films, 2009.
Carpentier, Alejo. “Prólogo.” El reino de este mundo. 1949. Barcelona: Seix Barral, 2002. 5–12.
Casas, Bartolomé de las. Brevísima relación de la destruición de las Indias. 1552. Ed. André
Saint-Lu. 14th ed. Madrid: Cátedra, 2006.
Castañeda, Jorge G. “Latin America’s Left Turn.” Foreign Affairs 85.3 (May–June 2006): 28–43.
———. Utopia Unarmed: The Latin American Left After the Cold War. New York: Knopf, 1993.
Castillón, Catalina. “España y América Latina. ¿Hay utopías en el pajar de la globalización?”
Estudios culturales y cuestiones globales: Latinoamérica en la coyuntura transnacional. Ed.
Catalina Castillón et al. Santiago, Chile: Bravo y Allende, 2005. 155–68.
Cerutti Guldberg, Horacio. De varia utópica: Ensayos de utopía III. Bogotá: Universidad Cen-
tral, 1989.
Cerutti Guldberg, Horacio and Rodrigo Páez Montalbán, coords. América Latina: Democracia,
pensamiento y acción. Reflexiones de utopía. Mexico City: Plaza y Valdés, 2003.
Claeys, Gregory and Lyman Tower Sargent, eds. The Utopia Reader. New York: New York UP,
1999.
Cleary, Edward L. and Timothy J. Steigenga, eds. Resurgent Voices in Latin America: Indig-
enous Peoples, Political Mobilization, and Religious Change. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers
UP, 2004.
Cuevas, José Ángel. Utopías y contrautopías latinoamericanas. Santiago, Chile: Vía Láctea, 1994.
De Grandis, Rita and Zilà Bernd, eds. Introduction. “Hybridity: The Never-ending Metamor-
phosis?” Unforeseeable Americas: Questioning Cultural Hybridity in the Americas. Amster-
dam: Rodopi, 2000. x–xxix.
Desde Cuba, un portal de periodismo ciudadano. Web. 1 June 2010. http://www.desdecuba.com.
Durán Luzio, Juan. Creación y utopía: Letras de Hispanoamérica. Heredia, Costa Rica: Univer-
sidad Nacional, 1979.
———. “Sobre Tomás Moro en el Inca Garcilaso.” Revista Iberoamericana 42 (1976): 349–61.
Eloísa Cartonera—Cooperativa Editorial Latinoamericana/Publishing House. Web. 1 June 2010.
http://www.eloisacartonera.com.ar/ENGversion.html.
Flores Galindo, Alberto. Buscando un inca: Identidad y utopía en los Andes. Havana: Casa de las
Américas, 1986.
Forgues, Roland. Mariátegui: La utopía realizable. Lima: Amauta, 1995.
Fuentes, Carlos. Valiente mundo nuevo: Épica, utopía y mito en la novela hispanoamericana.
Madrid: Mondadori España, 1990.
García Canclini, Néstor. Culturas híbridas: Estrategias para entrar y salir de la modernidad. Mex-
ico City: Grijalbo, 1990.
Genugten, Willem van and Camilo Pérez-Bustillo, eds. The Poverty of Rights: Human Rights
and the Eradication of Poverty. London: Zed, 2001.
Gil, Juan. Mitos y utopías del descubrimiento. 3 vols. Madrid: Alianza, 1989.
González-Parra, Claudio. “Indigenous Peoples and Mega-Projects: Hydroelectric Dams in the
Land of Pehuenches in the Highlands of the Bío Bío River, Chile. Utopia of Development
and Human Rights.” Poverty of Rights: Human Rights and the Eradication of Poverty. Ed.
Willem van Genugten and Camilo Pérez-Bustillo. London: Zed, 2001. 71–86.
Goodale, Mark. Surrendering to Utopia: An Anthropology of Human Rights. Stanford, CA: Stan-
ford UP, 2009.
Hardt, Michael and Antonio Negri. Empire. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2000.
———. Multitude: War and Democracy in the Age of Empire. New York: Penguin, 2004.
Hayden, Patrick and Chamsy el-Ojeili, eds. Globalization and Utopia: Critical Essays. New
York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.
Heffes, Gisela. Las ciudades imaginarias en la literatura latinoamericana. Rosario: Beatriz Vit-
erbo, 2008.
Henríquez Ureña, Pedro. La utopía de América: La América española y su originalidad. Mexico
City: UNAM, 1978.
Hickson, Patricia, ed. Enrique Chagoya: Borderlandia. Des Moines, IA: Des Moines Art Center,
2007.
Hopenhayn, Martín. No Apocalypse, No Integration: Modernism and Postmodernism in Latin
America. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2001.
Ibáñez, Alfonso. Mariátegui, revolución y utopía. Lima: Tarea, 1978.
Jacoby, Russell. The End of Utopia: Politics and Culture in an Age of Apathy. New York: Basic,
1999.
———. Picture Imperfect: Utopian Thought for an Anti-Utopian Age. New York: Columbia UP,
2005.
Jameson, Fredric. Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fic-
tions. New York: Verso, 2005.
Jáuregui, Carlos A. Canibalia: Canibalismo, calibanismo, antropofagia cultural y consumo en
América Latina. Madrid: Iberoamericana-Vervuert, 2008.
Kumar, Krishan. Utopianism. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1991.
Levitas, Ruth. The Concept of Utopia. Syracuse: Syracuse UP, 1990.
Lipovetsky, Gilles. L’ère du vide: Essais sur l’individualisme contemporain. Paris: Gallimard, 1983.
Lockhart, Darrell B., ed. Introduction. Latin American Science Fiction Writers: An A-to-Z
Guide. Westport, CT: Greenwood, 2004. xi–xviii.
Lutjens, Sheryl, et al. “Dangerous Complacencies: Obama, Latin America, and the Miscon-
ceptions of Power.” Working paper presented at the open discussion “Obama’s Policy for
Latin America,” XXIX International Congress of the Latin American Studies Association,
Toronto, October 7, 2010.
Magris, Claudio. Utopia and Disenchantment: Reflections on the Millenium. London: University
College, Centre for Italian Studies, 1999.
Marin, Louis. Utopics: Spatial Play. 1973. Trans. Robert A. Vollrath. Atlantic Highlands, NJ:
Humanities P, 1984.
Marx, Karl and Friedrich Engels. The Communist Manifesto. 1848. New York: Penguin Clas-
sics, 2002.
Mazzotti, José Antonio. “The Lightning Bolt Yields to the Rainbow: Indigenous History and
Colonial Semiosis in the Royal Commentaries of El Inca Garcilaso de la Vega.” Modern Lan-
guage Quarterly (June 1996): 197–211.
Melo, Carla Beatriz. “Squatting Dystopia: Performative Invasions of Real and Imagined Spaces
in Contemporary Brazil.” Diss. U of California, Los Angeles, 2007.
Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino. Orígenes de la novela. 4 vols. Madrid: Bailly-Ballière, 1905–15.
Miller, Marilyn Grace. Rise and Fall of the Cosmic Race: The Cult of Mestizaje in Latin America.
Austin: U of Texas P, 2004.
Morales Folguera, José Miguel. La construcción de la utopía: El proyecto de Felipe II (1556–1598)
para Hispanoamérica. Madrid: Biblioteca Nueva, 2001.
Muñoz, José Esteban. Cruising Utopia: The Then and There of Queer Futurity. New York: New
York UP, 2009.
Noble, Richard, ed. Utopias. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 2009.
O’Gorman, Edmundo. La invención de América: Investigación acerca de la estructura histórica del
Nuevo Mundo y del sentido de su devenir. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1958.
Pardo, Isaac. Fuegos bajo el agua: La invención de la utopía. Caracas: Fundación La Casa de
Bello, 1983.
Pastor, Beatriz. El jardín y el peregrino: El pensamiento utópico en América Latina (1492–1695).
1996. Mexico City: UNAM, 1999.
———. Panel Discussion, XXIX International Congress of the Latin American Studies Asso-
ciation, Toronto, October 8, 2010.
Pérez de Oliva, Hernán. Historia de la invención de las Indias. 1528. Mexico City: Siglo Vein-
tiuno, 1991.
Pineda de Castro, Álvaro. Pinochet, verdad y ficción. Madrid: Vassallo de Mumbert, 1981.
Pinochet Hiriart, Lucía. Pionero del mañana: Biografía ilustrada de mi padre/Tomorrow’s Pioneer:
Illustrated Biography of My Father. Santiago, Chile: Zig-Zag, 1996.
Pinochet Ugarte, Augusto. Camino recorrido: Memorias de un soldado. Santiago, Chile: Talleres
Gráficos del Instituto Geográfico Militar, 1990.
———. El día decisivo: 11 de septiembre de 1973. Santiago, Chile: Andrés Bello, 1980.
Pordzik, Ralph. Futurescapes: Space in Utopian and Science Fiction Discourses. Amsterdam:
Rodopi, 2009.
Poupeney-Hart, Catherine. “Mestizaje: ‘I understand the reality, I just do not like the word’:
Perspectives on an Option.” Unforeseeable Americas: Questioning Cultural Hybridity in the
Americas. Ed. Rita De Grandis and Zilà Bernd. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2000. 34–55.
Preciado Coronado, Jaime and Alberto Rocha Valencia, eds. América Latina: Realidad, virtuali-
dad y utopía de la integración. Guadalajara: Universidad de Guadalajara, 1997.
Quijano, Aníbal. “Modernity, Identity, and Utopia in Latin America.” Trans. John Beverley.
Boundary 2 20.3 (Fall 1993): 140–55.
Rama, Ángel. Crítica literaria y utopía en América Latina. Ed. Carlos Sánchez Lozano. Medel-
lín, Colombia: Universidad de Antioquia, 2006.
Reid, Michael. “A Special Report on Latin America: So Near and Yet So Far.” The Economist
396.8699 (Sept. 11–17, 2010): 3–18.
Reyes, Alfonso. No hay tal lugar . . . 1924. Obras completas. Vol. 11. Mexico City: Fondo de
Cultura Económica, 1960. 336-86.
Rojas, Rafael. Las repúblicas de aire: Utopía y desencanto en la revolución de Hispanoamérica.
Madrid: Santillana, 2009.
Rojo, Grínor. Globalización e identidades nacionales y postnacionales . . . ¿de qué estamos hablando?
Santiago, Chile: LOM, 2006.
Rouvillois, Frédéric, ed. Introduction. L’utopie. Paris: Flammarion, 1998. 9–43.
Said, Edward. Humanism and Democratic Criticism. New York: Columbia UP, 2004.
Sánchez, Yoani. Generación Y. Web. 1 June 2010. http:www.desdecuba.com/generaciony/.
San Miguel, Pedro L. La isla imaginada: Historia, identidad y utopía en La Española. Santo
Domingo: La Trinitaria, 1997.
Santana Castillo, Joaquín. “Utopía y realidad de la integración latinoamericana y caribeña en
los albores del siglo XXI.” Latinoamérica, encrucijada de culturas. Ed. Leopoldo Zea and
Mario Magallón. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1999. 135–61.
Schaer, Roland. “Utopia: Space, Time, History.” Utopia: The Search for the Ideal Society in the
Western World. Ed. Roland Schaer, Gregory Claeys, and Lyman Tower Sargent. New York:
Oxford UP, 2000. 3–7.
Sorensen, Diana. A Turbulent Decade Remembered: Scenes from the Latin American Sixties. Stan-
ford, CA: Stanford UP, 2007.
Stiefel, Matthias and Marshall Wolfe. A Voice for the Excluded. Popular Participation in Develop-
ment: Utopia or Necessity? London: Zed, 1994.
Totem. Dir. Robert Lepage. Cirque du Soleil, 2010.
Tur Donatti, Carlos M. La utopía del regreso: La cultura del nacionalismo hispanista en América
Latina. Mexico City: Instituto Nacional de Antropología e Historia, 2006.
Utopía: Blog de la Biblioteca del CCC. Web. 10 Jan. 2011. http://www.centrocultural.coop/
blogs/utopia/.
Vargas Llosa, Mario. La utopía arcaica: José María Arguedas y las ficciones del indigenismo. Mexico
City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1996.
La Via Campesina: International Peasant Movement. Web. 1 June 2010. http://viacampesina.
org/en/.
Vieira, Fátima and Marinela Freitas, eds. Utopia Matters: Theory, Politics, Literature and the
Arts. Porto, Portugal: Universidade do Porto, 2005.
Yashar, Deborah J. Contesting Citizenship in Latin America: The Rise of Indigenous Movements
and the Postliberal Challenge. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge UP, 2005.
Zamora, Margarita. Language, Authority and Indigenous History in the Comentarios reales de los
incas. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge UP, 1988.
Zipes, Jack. “Introduction: Toward a Realization of Anticipatory Illumination.” The Utopian
Function of Art and Literature: Selected Essays. Trans. Jack Zipes and Frank Mecklenburg.
Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1988. xi–xliii.
PART I
Foundational Utopias
CHAPTER 1
Utopia in Latin America

Cartographies and Paradigms
Beatriz Pastor
A map of the world that does not include Utopia is not even worth glancing at, for
it leaves out the one country at which Humanity is always landing.
—Oscar Wilde, “The Soul of Man under Socialism”
IN THE VAST GEOGRAPHICAL, HISTORICAL, CULTURAL, AND political space that we

call Latin America, cartography and utopia have always gone hand in hand. In
fact, the beginnings of this vast space could be told in a new myth of origins
that would narrate the story of a visionary navigator who, guided by the logic of
desire, would gradually displace the outlines and measurements of an unknown
world by the seductive images and configurations of an imaginary one. This nar-
rative of origins would accurately illuminate the central and irreducible presence
of the utopian impulse in the New World as a driving force behind the dynamics
of discovery, creation, and transformation that have shaped Latin America.
The project that Christopher Columbus so carefully formulated over the
course of many years of reflection and research was not a utopian project. It was
a commercial venture that responded to specific economic needs within concrete
historical coordinates. His project drew on the theories of recognized authorities
as well as the reports of explorers and travelers that circulated in Europe at that
time. It was, as Juan Gil points out, “[T]he fruit of a long process of decanting
data and reflection.”1 Though Columbus did not read the great authors he often
referred to until after his third voyage, it is clear that before the first voyage he
had access to considerable information about Asia and knew about a possible
sea voyage toward the west. He did not acquire the fundamental books—such
as Naturalis historia (Natural History; ca. AD 77–79) by Pliny the Elder, Imago
mundi (Image of the World; 1410) by the Cardinal Pierre d’Ailly, Historia rerum
ubique gestarum (History of All Things and All Deeds; 1477) by Enea Silvio Picco-
lomini, or Il milione (The Million, commonly called Travels; ca. 1300) by Marco

30 Beatriz Pastor
Polo and Rustichello da Pisa—until around 1497, when he began to assemble

a library. However, between 1480 and 1492, he had access to Paolo dal Pozzo
Toscanelli’s letter to the Canon Fernão Martins (1474), which was accompanied
by a map. He also gained access to many other maps and accounts. Following the
cartographical conventions of the time, those maps would have included captions
taken from well-known texts (such as Marco Polo’s Travels)2 as well as illustrations
in the margins linking the maps to what was known or imagined of the charted
lands. Using these sources, Columbus calculated distances and delineated charts,
drawing a first outline of the imaginary geography of the unexplored territo-
ries. From the competing measurements of the Earth’s circumference at that time
(e.g., the 1370 Catalan Atlas estimated it at approximately 20,000 miles and Fra
Mauro’s map estimated it at 23,600 miles) he chose the calculations of Posido-
nius of Apamea and Marinus of Tyre, who fixed the circumference at 17,609
miles. When calculating the distance separating Europe from Japan and Japan
from China, he based his estimate on the erroneous measurements of Claudius
Ptolemy, who reduced the width of the Pacific to eight degrees and extended
Asia eastward from 130 to 180 degrees longitude. He further compounded the
problem by rejecting the measurement of a 70-mile degree in favor of a 50-mile
degree. Using the information in Toscanelli’s letter, Columbus would reduce
these distances even more in his final calculations, placing Japan at only 3,500
nautical miles from Europe.
First Cartography
Columbus was a keen observer and meticulous cartographer. In his numerous
letters and accounts, he takes a careful inventory and describes in detail forms,
contours, and routes. Yet he never captured these rigorously written cartogra-
phies in one great map of his voyages and discoveries. The first map of the world
that included the lands discovered on the other side of the Atlantic was made
by Juan de la Cosa in the year 1500.3 But if we were to imagine a nonexistent
map using Columbus’s written cartographies, we would see a proportion of land
and water that leaves no room for the new continent. We would see that Asia
extends eastward approaching Europe, reaching the longitude that America occu-
pies. We would see that in the great gulf separating the Asian land mass in the
northern hemisphere from that in the southern hemisphere—in a longitude that
corresponds more to the Caribbean than to the Pacific—lie Cipango (Japan),
the western coast of China, and the Island of Sheba. We would see that Cuba is
indicated as Quinsay, China as Cathay or Mangi, and Central America as Aurea
Chersonesus (the Malay Peninsula). And we would see the terrestrial paradise
in the lands of Paria (Venezuela) next to the mouth of the Orinoco River. The
illustrations that would accompany this imaginary map might contain detailed
botanical sketches of the most sought-after specimens, portraits of cannibals and
Amazons, the nightingale, the golden-roofed palaces of Marco Polo’s Cipango,
the treasures and riches of the Queen of Sheba, the gold from King Solomon’s
mines, and the Garden of Eden. The explanatory captions would probably con-
firm the presence of commercial objectives (animal and plant species, pearls,
gold); the signs of native civilizations (clothing, textiles, weapons, utensils); the
Utopia in Latin America 31
Figure 1.1 Juan de la Cosa’s Map (1500)
customs and wanderings of Amazons and cannibals; the Biblical references to

Sheba and Solomon; the origin of the four great rivers; and other references taken
from Columbus’s cosmographic sources.
The vision of the world and its newly discovered lands that this imaginary
map unfurls before our eyes drew on two traditions. The first is geographical
and scientific and reflects the geographical theories that organized the knowledge
and understanding of the world at that time. It framed the information that
Columbus gathered first in word-of-mouth reports and maps and later in erudite
texts on the unexplored lands and in travel logs from voyages to little-known ter-
ritories. The second tradition is of a different nature: it harks back to one of the
great paradigms of Western utopian tradition—the terrestrial paradise—tying the
newly discovered lands to the lost Garden of Eden.
At the end of Columbus’s account of the third voyage, we read, “[Y]our High-
nesses have now another world in which our Holy Faith can be greatly extended
and from which such great profits can be derived . . . and now just as you are receiv-
ing information about these lands which I have newly discovered and in which I
fervently believe the earthly Paradise to lie . . . , of which I feel deeply in my soul
that Terrestrial Paradise is there” (The Four Voyages 225–56; emphasis mine).
By locating paradise in Paria, Columbus is reinscribing that utopian paradigm
in the New World and, in this sense, we can argue that his representation of the
region is utopian. But the presence of imaginary features or constructions that we
can identify as utopian in elements from Western or indigenous traditions is only
a minor aspect of the utopian dynamics that are at play in Columbus’s vision of
America and its representation in his writings. Those dynamics are only indicated
in the imaginary map that we have just traced, pointing to other cartographies
and other maps—those that would delineate and sketch out the twists and turns
of utopian thought throughout the Spanish discovery and conquest of America.
32 Beatriz Pastor
Second Cartography
Every element, every image, every text of Columbus’s imaginary map refers us to
a process of selection and to a network of symbolic associations that define their
specific utopian function within the discourse of the discoverer. King Solomon’s
mines, the palaces of Cipango, the kingdom of Sheba, and paradise are all archive
images. But the reinscription of these images within the utopian discourse that
Columbus’s imaginary map points to gives them a new meaning and a new func-
tion. The image from the archive becomes a utopian figure in a discourse that is,
in the words of Louis Marin, “a figurative mode of discourse, a textual product
of utopic practice” generated “somewhere between yes and no, false and true,
but as the double of figure, the ambiguous representation, the equivocal image of
possible synthesis and productive differentiation. It points to a possible future reconcili-
ation and a present acting contradiction of the concept, and of history” (8–9). It is a
discourse generating figures that project, on the symbolic plane, imaginary solu-
tions to fundamental contradictions confronted by the subject. The imaginary
map of America we have already traced following Columbus’s texts inscribes the
New World within the imaginary coordinates of the European archive. Yet, at the
same time, the sketches, images, and captions point toward other cartographies:
those of the American utopia, of America as the utopian locus, as the symbolic
space of resolution to a fundamental contradiction—that which pits Columbus’s
imaginary Asia against the reality of a new continent—and by extension, as the
space of resolution to all insoluble contradictions of a historical or natural order.4
The nightingale Columbus mentions in his Carta a Luis de Santángel (Letter to
Luis de Santángel; 1493) and that we have included in the images illustrating his
imaginary map gives us the key to this new cartography. Columbus says, “And the
nightingale and other birds of all kinds sang in November, when I passed through”
(Accounts and Letters 311). Leonardo Olschki replies in “L’usignuolo di Colombo”
(Columbus’s nightingale; 1937), “The nightingale he believed he saw in the for-
ests of Haiti has never existed in those regions. There exists explicit ornithological
and geographical proof of it.”5 And yet, while the nightingale is nonexistent in
the lands that Columbus claimed to be representing accurately, it is indeed real in
another map. Here it lives, and its song resounds in the groves suspended in eter-
nal springtime whose flora and fauna evoke a vision of paradise. It is the map of
a space of harmony where trees challenge all botanical classification because they
have “different kinds of branches growing out of the same trunk, and the twigs
are of various kinds, all very dissimilar, the most extraordinary thing in the world.
For example, one branch will have leaves like canes and another like mastic, with
a single tree having up to five or six varieties, all very different from one another”
(Accounts and Letters 57). In this marvelous space, there are waters with fish “like
dories that have the most brilliant colors in the world, azure, yellow, red, and
every color in all possible hues, and others are painted in a thousand ways. Their
colors are so delicate there is not a person who would not be wonder struck and
take great delight in looking at them” (59). But in Columbus’s letter, the eternal
springtime of these lands, the paradigmatic nightingale, and the marvelous fish
do not describe American reality. They evoke the utopian referent of paradise as
a place of harmony and a space of exception to all natural law and all historical
limitation, thus capturing one of the defining features of utopian America. In
the symbolic space outlined in this second cartography, America is, from the first
days of Columbus’s discovery, the place of unfettered freedom and endless pos-
sibility, the utopian space that escapes any limitation or determinism.
Columbus’s Relación del tercer viaje (Narrative of the Third Voyage; 1498–1500)
offers a very detailed description of the lands he explores. He records longitudes
and latitudes, celestial and marine observations, and meteorological and botanical
data. He describes the natives and takes inventory of the signs of their cultures. The
illustrations and captions of the imaginary map of this voyage—which is, accord-
ing to Columbus, an “accurate account and picture of the land” (The Four Voyages
226)—describe white, tall inhabitants, “handsome, with fine limbs and bodies”
(210) dressed in “a cotton cloth elaborately patterned in colours” (210). They cap-
ture a climate of eternal spring where “the temperature of the air was very mild and
did not change from winter to summer” (216), with a “great roaring of the waters”
(212) from the mouth of the river, and sea water that is “the sweeter and fresher”
the further he goes (212). It is an environment of “land and trees . . . very green and
as lovely as the orchards of Valencia in April” (219), a civilization with bread and
wine, houses that are “very large,” “with a double-pitched roof,” “not round like a
field tent,” “with many seats,” and cloths that look “like silk” (213–14). However,
here again these observations refer us to another, very different map: a map that will
question the roundness of the Earth and locate the terrestrial paradise close to the
mouth of the Orinoco River. The symbolic space that this alternative cartography
configures is utopian, not because it reinscribes the utopian Garden of Eden in the
lands of Paria but because it is conceived as a space of resolution to a series of fun-
damental contradictions. First, the conflict between the image of the desired and
anticipated objective—Asia—and the reality of a continent that refuses to coincide
with it. Second, the worrisome contradiction between the splendid vision of discov-
ery in Columbus’s project and its failure to materialize in the new lands threatened
to undermine him dramatically at this precise point in his career. The utopian dis-
course of the Relación del tercer viaje that configures this alternative cartography
transforms the lands of Paria and the mouth of the Orinoco River into the Asia
of d’Ailly and Marco Polo, placing Columbus in close proximity to the terrestrial
paradise. Columbus’s direct observations and learned sources appear to support this
transformation. The eternal springtime marks the suspension of historical time in
the mythical Lost Garden.6 The roar of water confirms d’Ailly’s location of Paria
at the foot of paradise. The abundant fresh water confirms the close proximity of
the sources of the four great sacred rivers and of the desired object: Marco Polo’s
Asia. In this new, symbolic map of discovery, Paria becomes the utopian figure that
neutralizes the two contradictions. It transforms America into Asia, the object of
the discoverer’s desire and the prize he promised to his investors. And it reaffirms
the clairvoyance, competence, and authority of its discoverer, worthy of royal favor
and the greatest material rewards.
In time, other captions and illustrations would further enrich Columbus’s
imaginary map. Some showed a river of immortality or a fountain of eternal
youth. The corresponding captions detailed their marvelous properties. Others
34 Beatriz Pastor
illustrated a mythical community of seven cities supposedly founded by an eighth-

century Portuguese bishop, describing the riches they contained. The country of
Meta, the kingdom of the Omaguas, and the Sierra de la Plata (Silver Mountains)
would be added with their corresponding captions. Later, the illustration of the
great mythical city of El Dorado would appear accompanied by a caption that
detailed its riches and underscored its value as a potential object of discovery.
Other archive images would follow, sometimes combining indigenous and Euro-
pean traditions, such as El Dorado and the Fountain of Eternal Youth.
At the time of the discovery of America, according to Ernst Bloch, geography
was the space where anything was possible, where the fairy tale intertwined with
observational data, bringing together the fabulous images of unexplored lands and
the practical information from a traveler’s guide (2: 753). Yet Juan Gil is mistaken
when he concludes that this happened because “[t]he mind of the conquistadors
never succeeds in breaking with inherited traditions, and so it continues to apply
once and again the same norms to different realities.”7 In the imaginary cartogra-
phies of utopian America, every reinscription of myths and fictitious objectives has
a specific symbolic function and refers us to the broadest process that the map rep-
resents: the transformation of America into the utopian locus. The illustrations and
captions are not descriptive. They are figurative and indicate the specific function
of these images in the configuration of utopian America. The miraculous foun-
tain and the river of immortality constitute one of the central features of utopian
America: the suspension of natural laws exemplified by the defeat of aging and
mortality. The Seven Cities of Gold inscribe the presence of a perfect society in
utopian America, with the city as a space of prosperity and harmony. With its image
of limitless riches, the mythical El Dorado summons the symbolic eradication of
poverty and social inequality in the America this second map displays.
This map of the discovery of America represents Columbus’s vision of the
“new” land, but, at the same time, it foreshadows the infinitely more complex
and vaster cartography of utopian dynamics in Latin America. In his work Das
Prinzip Hoffnung (The Principle of Hope; 1938–47), Bloch clarifies, “The word
utopia emerged here coined by Thomas More, though not the philosophically
far more comprehensive concept of utopia . . . But to limit the utopian to the
Thomas More variety, or simply to orient it in that direction, would be like trying
to reduce electricity to the amber from which it gets its Greek name and in which
it was first noticed” (1: 14–15).
One could argue that Columbus’s imaginary map representing America as a
composite of archive images, myths, and utopian paradigms is not unlike Bloch’s
“amber.” However, the vast cartography that his map indicates takes on the shim-
mer of Bloch’s “electricity”—that is, the changing forms of utopian thought and
the incessant movement of utopian dynamics in Latin America.8
Divine Cartographies
Columbus’s imaginary map reminds us that the discoverer’s gaze, as he surveys
uncharted territories, is not strictly ruled by the physical laws of optics or per-
spective. His vision often seems to follow the approach of a hermetic hero who
sees the cosmos as a great book of symbols and reads in the manifestations and
geographical features of nature the presence of another reality.9 Years later, a
Franciscan monk, Friar Toribio Motolinia, would explicitly illustrate this dis-
placement of the optic vision by the symbolic gaze: “Having seen the earth and
contemplated it with the eyes of the soul, it was full of darkness and the confusion
of sin, without any order whatsoever, and they saw and knew death in all its great
horror and, being subjected to Pharaoh they knew all misery and pain, and their
pain was renewed with other more carnal plagues than those of Egypt.”10
In implicit opposition to “sight,” these “eyes of the soul” illuminate the reality
of America for the Franciscans: a symbolic reality where a battle between good and
evil is being fought and where nothing less than the arrival of the millennium is at
stake. These same “eyes of the soul” will delineate the contours of the symbolic map
of the spiritual conquest of America that another Franciscan, Friar Francisco de la
Parra, sends to Charles V in February of 1547. Here, life is a boundless sea where
“the skilled sailors . . . are guided by a mariner’s map where they find many dangers
described to caution them.”11 For this friar, the Franciscans are “minor mariners”
that sail on “the ships that are the sacred vessels of virtue.”12 They are charged with
sailing for the spiritual conquest of America in the name of the king, God’s chosen
captain. They are in charge of drawing the cartography that displays before the eyes
of the king, a remote and powerful captain, the routes, pitfalls, and geographical
features of that conquest. He argues, “[I]t is right that the minor mariners of the
Order of the Minor Friars of Observance that sail through these other parts give
warning of the dangers of these seas, so that Your Majesty may take them under
advisement and register them in a sea chart.”13
The Franciscan chart of the spiritual conquest of America is utopian for two rea-
sons. First, because the gaze of Motolinia’s “eyes of the soul” ties that conquest to the
utopian paradigm of the millennial kingdom and a long, symbolic tradition that goes
back to Saint John’s utopian vision in the Apocalypse, reactivated by the Franciscan
reform and Joachim de Fiore’s interpretation of Saint John’s text. In the Apocalypse,
the utopian figure of New Jerusalem appears suspended between heaven and earth.
It is the third term that neutralizes the fundamental contradictions that frame the
monastic reforms of the Middle Ages: heaven/earth, divine/human, and perfection/
degradation. It is, as all utopia is, “a new Heaven and a new Earth” because the “first
Heaven” and the “first Earth”—that is, the terms of the contradiction that lies in
its origin—have “disappeared.” Eleven centuries later, Fiore continues to weave a
whole series of symbolic correspondences into his interpretation, turning Saint John’s
writing into a prophetic text that announces the realization of desire: the arrival of
the millennium of harmony. His utopian vision transforms New Babylon into the
Roman Church and New Jerusalem into the New Church of Christ.
Second, the Franciscan cartography of the spiritual conquest of America is uto-
pian because, within the line of thought of Motolinia’s “eyes of the soul,” 1519
is a symbolic date when three events converge: the conquest of Tenochtitlán by
Hernán Cortés; the legitimation of Saint Gabriel’s Custody (the Franciscan reform
to which the 12 monks who traveled to Mexico belonged); and the publication and
distribution of Fiore’s book. Against the backdrop of the Joaquinist interpretation
of history, America becomes for the Franciscans the utopian space that resolves
36 Beatriz Pastor
the fundamental contradiction between the primitive Church of Christ and the
degraded and corrupt Church of Rome—against which the very reform of the Cus-
tody of Saint Gabriel rose. America becomes a utopian space that mirrors New
Jerusalem as the “new Heaven and new Earth” suspended outside of history. It is
indeed, in the words of Bernardino de Sahagún, “almost another world” (610).
In his Memoriales (Memorials; 1541, first published in 1903), Motolinia draws
with careful sketches the contours of that “world”:
It should not be doubted that the probable argument is that the proper and uni-
versal name of this Earth is Anahuac, which means “great land all near to and
surrounded by water”; and a more particular and specific interpretation means
“world.” That this should be taken as true and clear is proven in the interpreta-
tion of the word and its etymology, for in this language the whole world is called
Cemanahuac, from Cem and Anahuac. In this word, Cem is capitalized and means
“together,” as if we were to say “Anahuac all together” . . . that is, a thing that is
within or enclosed in water, called Cemanahuac, which is all that is created under
the sky, without being divided, according to the meaning of the prefix cem: without
the cem, Anahuac is by itself “that which is between water or surrounded by water,”
a land that is large and exceeds the size of an island, because the word for island is
tlatelli. Anahuac does not mean island, but rather firm ground and almost another
world, not all the world together because it is missing the prefix cem, but rather a
great land that in common speech we tend to call a world.14
The play of etymologies and prefixes mirrors the spatial play of the found-
ing of Utopus in Thomas More’s Utopia (1516). Cemanahuac corresponds to
More’s Abraxas: “[T]heir land was not always surrounded by the sea,” says Rafael,
“but Utopus . . . had a channel cut fifteen miles wide where the land joined the
continent, and thus caused the sea to flow around the country” (70). Both des-
ignate remote lands, linked to the known world by the isthmus in More and by
the prefix cem in Motolinia. The elimination of cem indicates the passage in the
Franciscan map into utopian America and evokes the destruction of the isthmus,
the initial founding gesture in More’s utopia. Both frame the physical space of
utopia in maps: a social utopia in More and a religious utopia in Motolinia. In
the symbolic map of America that Motolinia’s text delineates, Anahuac is the key
to the identity of the utopian figure: America conceived as the symbolic space of
resolution to fundamental contradictions, the realization of Saint John’s prophe-
cies, and the arrival of the millenary kingdom of harmony.
In the symbolic space depicted by Franciscan cartographies, Bartolomé de las
Casas will inscribe his own utopian spaces, although the contours of his utopian
America do not coincide exactly with those of the Franciscans. His map does
not trace the prophetic route that leads to the millennial kingdom. However, he
does map his utopian America as a space of resolution for the same fundamental
contradictions. The America Las Casas’s map outlines is the utopian locus that
offers a spiritual paradise to the West; it is the place of the symbolic recovery of
lost grace, of reentry into the Lost Garden through a profound spiritual renova-
tion that will turn natives and Europeans alike into true Christians. In his map,
Las Casas will set up two utopian spaces in opposition to the terrible reality of
the conquest he symbolically encodes in his Brevísima relación de la destrucción

de las Indias (A Short Account of the Destruction of the Indies; 1552), where good
is identified with the preservation of America as a utopian figure and evil with
its destruction. The first utopian space delineates a geographical and symbolic
reality that corresponds to the paradigm of the founding of utopia in More. It
is the founding of the utopian communities of Tierra Firme (1521) and Vera
Paz (1537). Both utopian experiments duplicate the isolation of the founding of
More’s utopia: a radical break with the colony expressed in the covenants (capitu-
laciones) in the first founding and in the agreements made with Maldonado in
the second. Both experiments represent a project of social and spiritual utopia
and both fail, giving way to the second utopian space Las Casas will explore: the
law. This time Las Casas’s utopian vision does not seek utopia in another penin-
sula, island, or remote territory. Instead, it incorporates the discursive spaces of
colonial power within his map of American utopia. With the new laws, Las Casas
moves away from the paradigm of More’s founding (and from his own utopian
communities) and places himself at the very center of the power that dominates
America—the court—as he takes over the central instrument of that domina-
tion: the law. Louis Marin asserts that all utopias implicate the superseding of the
law—natural, historical, and social—by discourse (17). Yet, paradoxically, in Las
Casas the law is precisely the final battleground for utopia. His legislative activi-
ties, together with the symbolic battle that he records in his debates with Juan
Ginés de Sepúlveda, amplify a vision of law and justice bent on protecting and
preserving the America that his utopian cartographies delineate.
Civilizing Cartographies
The utopian discourse that the figure of Tenochtitlán illuminates in Cortés’s 1520
Segunda carta de relación (Second Letter, in Letters from Mexico 61–69) draws on a
symbolic tradition that goes back to the Middle Ages. Like an unending gallery
of mirrors, this tradition combines the images of the architectural elements of
marvelous cities (towers and domes, plazas and patios) with extraordinary riches
(gold, silks, gems, species), as well as with signs of unheard-of refinement that
take the form of luxury and artifice in elaborated ceremonies and complex ritu-
als.15 Though Cortés’s description of Tenochtitlán is to a certain degree framed
by this tradition, it is inscribed in a much more complex network of symbolic
associations. Tenochtitlán’s elaborate description, constructed in a dialogue with
the tradition of medieval voyagers, is also a utopian figure.
Cortés’s utopian discourse delineates the contours of a symbolic space: the
map of the city. This discourse can be read, as Marin suggests, as “translating a
blueprint into language, or a written surface transposing words and ideas (i.e.,
desires) into sketched figures” (113). In this symbolic space, a utopian figure that
neutralizes the contradiction between Europe and the Other is sketched out: the
city as a microcosm of the cosmos ordered by Cortés’s reason. The description of
the city plan of Tenochtitlán in the Segunda carta is just one element in a broader
utopian map that charts, in Cortés’s letters, the entire conquest of Mexico as a
symbolic transformation of chaos (the Other) into Cortés’s ordered cosmos.
38 Beatriz Pastor
The utopian figure of Tenochtitlán that is outlined as a symbolic projection

of the description of the city is a metonymic articulation of that cosmos. From
the start, its utopian nature is inscribed in its spatial position—the center of
the lagoon—and in its relation to the land: the walkways that can be cut off at
will by simply removing the bridges.16 The map that is sketched out details the
transformation of the American space into order, its humanization in the layout
of walkways, streets, bridges, plazas, houses, and mosques that configure the map
of the city. Nature is only to be found captive in patios and gardens, in canals
traced as if with rulers, and in the private zoos of Moctezuma. Cortés’s descrip-
tion of Tenochtitlán is a utopian figure of control that conjures up the object of
desire—America—while neutralizing its threat. The figuration of the object of
desire, like Moctezuma’s houses that symbolize it in the text, is grounded on sen-
sual pleasure. “He had,” says the letter, “both inside the city and outside, many
private residences . . . where Moctezuma came to amuse himself ” (109–10). Still,
the glimpse of these wonders in Cortés’s letter betrays a constant tension between
wonder and fear, seduction and threat. It begins with the radiant image of the gar-
den of birds, followed immediately by the ambiguous and unsettling vision of the
albinos: “Above these pools were corridors and balconies, all very finely made . . .
There was also in this house a room in which were kept men, women and chil-
dren who had, from birth, white faces and bodies and white hair, eyebrows and
eyelashes” (110). In another house, the “very elegant flagstones” of a patio “like a
chessboard” lead to a space inhabited by birds of prey, and the entire house rises
up over “certain underground rooms, all full of great cages with thick bars” (111)
where wild beasts are imprisoned. The last house is the house of monsters: “There
was yet another house where lived many deformed men and women, among
which were dwarfs and hunchbacks and others with other deformities; and each
manner of monstrosity had a room to itself ” (111). The progression that begins
with the beautiful bird garden gradually gives way to increasingly threatening
elements revealing, at the very center of wonder, the threat of the Other. The
opposition between reason (symbolized by the chessboard) and the underground
room of caged beasts highlights the contiguity of wonder and monster, express-
ing—as it does in other writings from that period—a deep anxiety in the face of
the object of desire. The figure that Cortés’s utopian discourse presents to the
king, as he meticulously displays Moctezuma’s refinements before his eyes and
ours, proposes a symbolic resolution to the threat of the monster, the other face
of the wonder of the object of desire. This is indeed a utopian figure of the city,
where nature and chaos appear controlled: the birds in their garden, the beasts in
their cages, and the monsters all in their own chambers. In this figure of wonder,
a model of imperial order is clearly expressed in Cortés’s representation of the sys-
tem of commerce with the rigorous classification of merchandise by street: a street
for game, a street for construction materials, a street for firewood, and another for
fruits and vegetables. Activity is ordered by profession, and professions are also
grouped by street: streets for herbalists, for barbers, for apothecaries. The grand
city hall presides over all this activity, administrating law and justice in permanent
session and guaranteeing the perfect order of all economic and social transactions
within the city.
The plan of Tenochtitlán draws a utopian figure that refers us to a vaster map
where Cortés’s vision of the relation with the Other that America is in the pro-
cess of discovering is chartered, as is his personal concept of what constitutes the
order of society in the face of the threat of chaos and barbarism. Among all the
items that Cortés singles out in his description of Moctezuma’s incredible refine-
ments, one stands out in this context. It is an element that especially fascinates
him, illuminating his vision with the greatest clarity—the gold replicas that the
Aztec emperor had his goldsmiths cast and carve for him: “And lest Your High-
ness should think all this is an invention, let me say that all the things of which
Mutezuma has ever heard, both on land and in the sea, they have modeled, very
realistically, either in gold and silver or in jewels or feathers, and with such perfec-
tion that they seem almost real” (100).
The marvelous figurines symbolize the transformation of nature into treasure
in a process that combines riches (gold) with art. They are, in Cortés’s uto-
pian text, figurines representing a resolution of the fundamental contradiction
between nature and civilization in the American context, and at the same time,
the unquestionable proof of an Aztec civilization that the utopian discourse has
harmonically integrated into Cortés’s cosmos: “[C]an there be anything more
magnificent than that this barbarian lord should have all the things to be found
under the heavens in his domain, fashioned in gold and silver and jewels and
feathers; and so realistic in gold and silver that no smith in the world could
have done better?” (108). But these exquisite replicas also illuminate by anal-
ogy Cortés’s own process of creation of the utopian figure of Tenochtitlán: the
figuration that subtly transforms the threatening elements of an alien reality into
a beautiful utopian figure—the city—that “almost seems like” the capital of the
Aztec empire, although in reality, it is one more gem, a product of the process of
creation that brings together, in the text, Cortés’s imagination with his reason—
the empirical project of the Crown with his personal aspirations.
The utopian figure of Tenochtitlán, like the gold figurines that represent
nature, neutralizes the opposition between America and Europe, proposing a
third term of symbolic resolution: Cortés’s cosmos, whose realization depends
only on another utopian figure—the fictional hero of the Cartas de relación (Let-
ters from Mexico; 1519–26). The city is a utopian figure of this third term. Its plan
is the symbolic articulation of the geographical, economic, and cultural space
where Cortés’s political vision is embodied. It is, as Marin suggests when reflect-
ing on the city in More’s Utopia, “the image of the map of which the utopian
discourse [of the letter] is offered as descriptive commentary” (127).17
The power of seduction in Cortés’s narrative is undeniable. It derives as much
from the description of the beauty of the figure that unfolds before our eyes as
from its function. The utopian city of Cortés’s Segunda carta symbolizes (and
at the same time legitimizes) the concept of civilization. The city map, social
organization, commerce, laws, aesthetics of palaces and gardens, and relationship
between nature and culture that the city embodies all come together in the let-
ter, conveying the precise terms of a vision that goes beyond its author. Because,
when all is said and done, the map of the city refers us to a map of the sym-
bolic space where the entire economic, political, and cultural project that shapes
40 Beatriz Pastor
Cortés’s vision of his new state—New Spain—is articulated. That is precisely the
function that turns Cortés’s utopian figure of the city into a paradigmatic one.
Four centuries later, Domingo Faustino Sarmiento develops his descrip-
tions of the city along the same utopian lines drawn by Cortés. “The city,” says
Sarmiento, “is the center of Argentine, Spanish, European civilization; the arti-
sans’ workshops are there, the commercial stores, the schools and academies, the
courthouses: in short, everything that characterizes cultured peoples” (52). As
in the case of the Segunda carta, Sarmiento’s city is the harmonic space where
the political project is actualized. And, as in the case of the Segunda carta, that
symbolic space of harmony bears the traces of negotiation with all that threatens
the author’s project. For Cortés, it was the slide toward the chaotic brought about
by the presence of Otherness. For Sarmiento, it is the slide toward the chaotic
brought about by the presence of barbarism. Cortés neutralized this threat by
inscribing spaces of containment for threatening elements within the order of this
utopian city—the chambers of Moctezuma’s monsters and beasts (“each man-
ner of monstrosity had a room to itself ”)—and by symbolically transforming
nature into art with the replicas of Moctezuma. Cortés’s utopian figuration of
Tenochtitlán thus reveals the traces of an inclusive will. Sarmiento’s city, on the
other hand, is built on exclusion. His construction of the city ruthlessly erases or
expels anything that cannot be easily integrated within his project. In the utopian
cartography of the nation in Sarmiento’s Facundo (1845), this expulsion is staged
with the construction of parallel or often mutually exclusive spaces.
As in the description of Tenochtitlán, Sarmiento’s utopian city symbolically
articulates his entire national project. His map reflects the play of cartographies
that configures his utopian vision of the nation against the backdrop of a funda-
mental historical contradiction that pits civilization against barbarism:
Buenos Aires is destined one day to be the most gigantic city of both Americas.
With a benign climate, mistress of the navigation of the hundred rivers that flow
at its feet, leisurely reclining over an immense territory, and with thirteen inte-
rior provinces knowing no other outlet for their products, it already would be the
American Babylon, had not the spirit of the Pampas blown over it and the riches
that the rivers and provinces must always bring to it in tribute been strangled at
their source. It alone, in the vast expanse of Argentina, is in contact with European
nations; it alone exploits the advantages of foreign commerce; it alone has power
and income. (47)
This description of Buenos Aires points to the map of a symbolic space where
the unitarian economic and social projects are implemented. It is a place of com-
merce and culture that occupies the symbolic center of Sarmiento’s vision: the
monopoly of routes and commercial transactions (the raw materials from the
provinces had “no other outlet”) and the monopoly of culture, a culture which for
Sarmiento can only come from “contact with European nations.”
In Sarmiento’s description of the city and country, there is no hint of nego-
tiation with anything that questions or threatens the harmony of the utopian
figure. Evil is displaced to an external space and is identified with “the spirit of
the Pampas” that breathes on Buenos Aires from afar. In Sarmiento’s utopian car-
tography of Argentina, questions and threats are carefully expelled to the exterior
space of the Pampas, or to an alternative space that the author describes in detail:
the dystopian city. It is a dysfunctional space, defined by all the elements that do
not fit in his utopian vision of city and nation: “The native town is the disgraceful
reverse side of this coin: dirty children covered in rags, living amid packs of dogs;
men stretched out on the ground, in utter inactivity; filth and poverty every-
where; a little table and leather chests, the only furnishings; miserable huts for
habitation, notable for their generally barbaric and neglected appearance” (51).
The quote from Walter Scott that Sarmiento includes immediately following
his description of the dystopic city reveals the lineage of this vision. What Scott
sees in the spaces extending beyond the limits of the city intensifies and illumi-
nates Sarmiento’s own anxiety: “‘The vast plains of Buenos Aires,’ says he, ‘are
populated solely by Christian savages, known by the name of guachos’—that is,
gauchos—‘whose principal furnishings are horses’ skulls, whose food is raw meat
and water, and whose favorite pastime is racing horses until they burst’” (51).
This is the same anxiety about the relationship between city and territory that
shapes Sarmiento’s representation of city and nation. Cortés’s city multiplied its
ties with the land. The urban map of his description neutralized the possible
isolation of a city built on an islet at the very center of the lagoon, with a prolif-
eration of walkways and bridges. Sarmiento’s cities, on the other hand, are cities
under siege: “The desert surrounds the cities at a greater or lesser distance, hems
them in, oppresses them; savage nature reduces them to limited oases of civiliza-
tion, buried deep into an uncivilized plain of hundreds of square miles” (52).
Isolation is an unavoidable condition of existence in the context of a vision
that, like Sarmiento’s, will only consider two possible options: total assimilation
to a national project (i.e., the acceptance of the distributions of roles and func-
tions that his utopian figure of Buenos Aires outlines) or expulsion to the chaotic
space of barbarism. Several centuries and hundreds of miles separate Cortés’s car-
tography of colonial Mexico from Sarmiento’s utopian nation, Tenochtitlán from
Buenos Aires. Yet, whether as a figure of integration in Cortés or of exclusion
in Sarmiento, what seems clear is that over the course of four centuries, with all
the differences between their descriptions, the original paradigmatic function of
Cortés’s city remains intact. The utopian city is built as a symbolic center of civi-
lization and a microcosm that contains and reveals the keys to the political project
of its author. And, in both cases, the plan of the city is a civilizing, paradigmatic
figure referring us to the vast symbolic space that the utopian gaze delineates in
its endless quest for resolutions to fundamental contradictions.
Cartographies of Eternal Return

I.
Through the chronicle of the wars of Arauco, Alonso de Ercilla y Zúñiga’s La
Araucana (The Araucaniad; 1569–89) displays a great symbolic cartography of the
entire process of the discovery and conquest of America. In this poem, the utopian
42 Beatriz Pastor
discourse unfolds against the backdrop of two fundamental contradictions. The

first is the ideological and moral conflict that opposes a heroic Christian ethos to
the daily horrors of the conquest and colonization of America. The second is the
contradiction between the figure of America as a limitless possibility and a symbolic
space of fulfillment that utopian cartographies outline, and its destruction as the
object of desire through the violence and degradation of colonial reality.
The death of Caupolicán in canto 34 marks the end of a cycle of conquest and
confirms the resounding victory of an atrocious reality over utopia. But Ercilla’s
first symbolic cartography of a familiar utopian landscape does not mark the end
of utopia. It is the symbolic map that follows the paths of a terrible century and
a half of experiences of conquest and colonization (canto 35). It is the map of the
failure of utopia in a historical process that Las Casas summed up laconically as
“the destruction of the Indies.” The captions in this map record the initial uto-
pian impulse of the conquistadors: “Gaze on labor’s certain premium, / All that
Fortune hath bequeathed you! / Authors of such great emprises, / You will be its
unreined masters!” (308). Its lines trace the geographical features of an expan-
sive environment: swamps, mountains, woodlands. They also record the false
accounts of lying guides, the first contact between Europeans and natives, and
the negotiations and betrayals that follow. But this is also the symbolic map that
opens up an alternative space, a new utopian landscape revealing the contours of
“a third world,” of “another new world,” of a new American utopia (482). For,
on the other side of the impassable barrier set up by nature, the explorers finally
behold the magical beauty of the Ancud archipelago “peopled / With innumer-
able islands” (312). The new utopian space floats on the map a good distance
from the land already conquered, and this radical separation is, in fact, the neces-
sary condition for its existence: “Truth was outlawed to this region, / And from
all our lands excluded, / As deception, craft, and lying / Never found here hearty
welcome” (314). The archipelago neutralizes the two fundamental contradictions
with a new figure of harmony. But the configuration of this figure is radically
different from that of Cortés. The closed lagoon is displaced by the open ocean;
the island, by a multitude of islands. The archipelago is a figure of decentralized
multiplicity; it is fragmented, dynamic, and diverse. The key to its harmony is
not in the concentration of authority and power in a single point—the city—that
mirrored the authoritarian, centralized structure of the empire and the nation. It
is a decentralized vision where the dispersal of power is grounded in the recogni-
tion and negotiation of differences by persuasion and friendship, and is unified
by a shared objective—peace:
Should you hope to found a homeland,

We shall give you isles to settle.
If the mountain vales allure you,
We shall lead you to fair hillsides.
Is you ask for war or friendship,
We accept and counter either.
Choose the better! My election
Would be amity and concord. (314)
This is a new utopian cartography of a possible history for America, and in

radical contrast with the earlier symbolic map of the conquest, the archipelago is
a utopian figure that relativizes absolutes and presents the negotiation of multi-
plicity and plurality as the only strategy capable of creating and preserving a space
of harmony and peace.
It is true that the arrival of the Spaniards to the archipelago marks the begin-
ning of the destruction of this new utopian space: “We, however, bent on pillage,
/ Disrespectful, with our wonted / Base destruction” (315). But it is also true that
the destruction of this third world does not necessarily imply the irrevocable end
of utopia. Canto 36 opens with a declaration by Ercilla: “I proclaim that truth
was cradled / On the earth, ere heaven crowned it” (314).
The truth that the poet found in the vast expanses of southern Chile is none
other than the utopian alternative to the horror of the conquest. The imaginary
archipelago is the last refuge of truth and justice, but it also opens up a new pas-
sage that leads away from the closed cycle of the conquest and into the symbolic
open space of new utopian landscapes. The canto concludes with a radical contrast
between the threat of a new cycle of destruction of utopia by the Spaniards—“a
swarm of ravenous locusts” (312) or cowards, as the poet calls them—and Ercilla’s
solitary voyage to the most remote of all islands. Driven by the need “to be the
first to trample / Soil” (316)—literally, to always put one foot forward—Ercilla’s
last voyage is a symbolic gesture of the will to transcend once more geography
and history in utopia. And the promise of yet another cycle of hope and possibil-
ity that breaks the fatality of history is underscored with the words that the poet
carves into the bark of a tree: “Here, where others have not trodden, / I, Alonso
de Ercilla, / In a bark without a ballast / Came with ten, and crossed the channel”
(317). The quest for utopia merges with the search for truth. Utopian dynamics
become the renewed movement of utopian visions and foundations that drive the
subject time and again to put one foot forward, breaking down the limits and
constraints of history, neutralizing contradictions and failures, and opening anew
the horizon of a map without borders: the map of utopia.
II.
Centuries later, Gabriel García Márquez, another great cartographer of the uncer-
tain journey of American utopia, revisits the paradigms of explorers and founders
and traces his own map of utopian dynamics in Latin America. Cien años de
soledad (One Hundred Years of Solitude; 1967) begins with a utopian foundation
and unfolds as a vast map that recapitulates utopia’s secret dynamics across the
history of the continent.
The novel opens with a striking contrast: the execution of Aureliano set against
the vision of a space of primitive harmony in a utopian Macondo that precedes
history and language. This is a happy Macondo, “where no one was over thirty
years of age and where no one had died” (13). It is a space of harmony, governed
by the quest for knowledge, cooperation, social egalitarianism, family bonds,
and individual freedom. Violence does not exist; the law is summed up in one
interdiction: the ban on cockfighting. However, the contrast between the first
44 Beatriz Pastor
paragraph and what follows in the rest of the chapter underscores the precarious-
ness of such harmony. True, violence does not exist in Macondo. But the opening
image of Aureliano facing the firing squad forewarns us that violence is already
awaiting us, at some point in a future that we cannot yet predict.
Paradoxically, the paradise of Macondo in the first chapter is equally grounded
in violence and in the rejection of violence. It is utopian in the very specific sense
that it is conceived as a space of the symbolic neutralization of a fundamental
contradiction: violence ~ harmony.
José Arcadio leaves behind a space polluted by violence—Riohacha—crossing
mountains and jungles to found, as in a new genesis, a space and a lineage free
from this curse. Yet the structure of the narrative clarifies the fragility and pre-
cariousness of the utopia this founding foreshadows. Utopian Macondo appears
to be in double jeopardy. It is threatened from the past by a violence that, despite
José Arcadio’s determination to eradicate it, is the mark of the founder’s lineage,
just like the curse of the pig’s tail. And it is threatened in the future by a violence
that closes off the utopian horizon with the image of the anticipated execution of
Aureliano that opens the novel.
From there on, the novel unfolds like a display of the forms and causes of
human violence and of the utopian strategies to reject and neutralize that vio-
lence. With Arcadio’s deadly spear at its origin, the story of Macondo moves in
the concentric circles generated by this spear, reinscribing and amplifying violence
in the utopian space of its neutralization. The novel closes with the apocalypti-
cal destruction of Macondo and the Buendía lineage. Yet the narrator’s emphasis
on this destruction as the particular destiny of a particular lineage condemned
to one hundred years of solitude opens the door to new utopian horizons and
cartographies: the cartographies that García Márquez delineates in the map of his
“Discurso de aceptación del Premio Nobel” (“Nobel Prize Acceptance Speech”;
1982): “Faced with this awesome reality that must have seemed a mere utopia
through all of human time, we, the inventors of tales, who will believe anything,
feel entitled to believe that it is not yet too late to engage in the creation of the
opposite utopia. A new and sweeping utopia of life, where no one will be able to
decide for others how they die, where love will prove true and happiness be pos-
sible, and where the races condemned to one hundred years of solitude will have,
at last and forever, a second opportunity on earth” (Nobel Writers on Writing 153).
III.
Speaking of the cities of our time, Carlos Monsiváis says that precisely “what is
really new about it is the radical obsolescence of the city as a civilizing project.”18
Has this paradigm exhausted itself already? Does this mean the end of utopia in
America?
In Monsiváis’s Mexico City, the monumental city of Cortés and Sarmiento
is displaced by the “happening” city; any sign of permanence gives way to an
immediate, fragmented, temporary, discontinuous reality. The “civilizing project”
was the ordering principle that framed and shaped Cortés’s and Sarmiento’s vision
as they carefully drew the map of their utopian cities. But what can the ordering
principle possibly be in the descriptions and symbolic maps of today’s city? To

which new cartographies do they refer us?
They refer us to a city built on random happenings—Pierre Bourdieu’s évé-
nements (events)—against a backdrop of accelerated obsolescence and constant
recycling of what Monsiváis calls “short-term ruins”: Mexico City. It is a city
crisscrossed incessantly by migratory flocks that occupy, unoccupy, or reoc-
cupy transitional spaces defined by the aesthetics of the precarious; a city that
“bring[s] together people who have nothing in common and forces them to live
together, either in mutual ignorance and incomprehension or else in latent or
open conflict—with all the suffering this entails” (Bourdieu 3). It is also a city
that escapes any attempt to provide a coherent description that no longer pre-
tends to represent a superior political project; a city that undermines and destroys
any aesthetic vision, any rhetoric of progress, harmony, and social justice daily.
What utopian fissures can this city, marked by expiration and fear, possibly open
up behind the mask of the imagined community touted by the nation’s centers of
power and by the rhetoric of its government? How can such a space be a place of
hope? How can the apocalypse and chaos be utopian? For Motolinia and the other
Franciscans, the apocalyptic horrors of the destruction of Tenochtitlán had a uto-
pian meaning because they opened the door to the new millennium. Chaos was
not simply chaos but rather the zero degree of a new, better, and necessary order.
Cortés’s Tenochtitlán, on the other hand, was the utopian figure of a resolution to
the fundamental contradictions generated by the discovery of America; it sketched
out the emblematic cartography of a great imperial project. But Mexico City is
today—like many other large cities—the stage where the mask of social order
falls away; where governmental rhetoric becomes absurd; and where institutions
demonstrate their limitations, their incompetence, and their distorted function at
the service of power. It is the place where the failure of institutions, projects, and
rhetoric is dramatized and verified; where the popular song that affirms that “tout
va très bien, Madame la Marquise” has to finally come to terms with the fact that,
no, what are you talking about, everything is certainly not fine!
And yet, or better, precisely because of that, for Monsiváis the city is the
place where utopia affirms itself with all its strength, where genesis can be the
other daily face of the apocalypse, where mere survival amid the dreadful daily
catastrophes that weave the very texture of the city opens up new spaces for the
affirmation of life despite everything and against all odds. It is the place where
the dissolution of identities that comes from anonymous overcrowding opens up
unexpected spaces for individual freedom, allows for the most extreme diversity,
strengthens negotiations and radical tolerances. Mexico City, according to Mon-
siváis, “is the place for the ambitious, the desperate, the freedom seekers, for their
heterodox customs or their artistic experiments or their fed-up attitude toward
the lack of horizons.”19
It is true, Mexico City is their place because, in contrast to more controlled,
safer, and more comforting social spaces, only the great city reaches a physical and
symbolic dimension that turns it into a privileged space where the ability to over-
come, to change, to demystify, and to reach out for freedom and creation is part
46 Beatriz Pastor
of daily life against the backdrop of a chaotic landscape of catastrophes, multiple

realities, and heterogeneous visions.
There lies its utopian potential. There, the symbolic base that transforms chaos
into the rejection of a false order, and the apocalypse into the possible vision of a
new order, is to be found. And the play of utopia begins once again because the
new map of the twenty-first century city refers us to the new utopian cartography
of our time: a globalized cartography. Not the descriptive map of the contradic-
tory realities of globalization20 but rather a symbolic cartography that would trace
the map of globalization as a collective utopian representation of a new imaginary.
This map would sketch out a space without borders, a space of infinite fluidity
and constant negotiation that would turn globalization into a utopian figure of
“the possibility for a civil sphere on a supra-national scale” and “[t]he dream of
cosmopolitan peace” (Alexander 37) guaranteeing prosperity, equality, and justice
for everyone. The space of this map would be organized following the rhizome
model of Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari.21 In the margins would appear illus-
trations of the cybernetic space, the temporary autonomous zones (TAZ), the
World Social Forum (WSF), the Zapatista revolution, and the Reclaim the Streets
collective (RTS), with their corresponding captions:22 indigenous solidarity, the
homeless movement, free circulation of people and merchandise, human and
civil rights, to name but a few.
This new cartography would sketch the global symbolic space in a new map
where the drive to “put one foot forward” and to “go where no one has gone
before” continues to trace, with a firm hand, new unexplored horizons, and
where we glimpse again in ever-changing form Oscar Wilde’s island, awaiting a
new landing.
But that is another story.
Notes
1. English translation of “fruto de un largo proceso de decantaciones de datos y reflexiones”
(22). All translations (including the main text of this essay) are by Susan Cruess, unless
a published translation is indicated.
2. Consuelo Varela points out the presence and informative value of these texts in the maps
that Columbus consulted and demonstrates that, in fact, the data accompanying the
copy of Toscanelli’s letter made by Columbus “está formada por los letreros más sobre-
salientes [is formed by the most outstanding signs]” from the map that accompanied it
(132).
3. Juan de la Cosa’s map follows the cartographic techniques of the medieval portulanos
(portolan charts) that organized space by anchoring it in a determined number of wind
roses. With these roses, they traced the diagonals that indicated the winds and navigation
routes between different ports and delineated the coastlines in relation to the very posi-
tion from which they mapped space. It is important to note that this map is configured
in broad terms according to the cosmographic conception of Columbus himself. See also
Putnam’s collection of maps and portulanos in Early Sea Charts.
4. For a detailed analysis of the utopian discourse in America that incorporates the theories
of Ernst Bloch and Louis Marin, see Pastor.
5. English translation of “l’usignolo di cui egli credette di sentir risonare le foreste de Haiti
non è mai esistito in quelle regioni. La geografia ornitologica è esplicita su questo fatto”
(19). Olschki mentions as well that Washington Irving had previously noted the error
in his biography of Christopher Columbus when he wrote that he deceived himself into
fancying that he heard the song of the nightingale, a bird unknown in these countries.
6. This suspension indicates the neutral and marks the departure from the historical series,
the symbolic entry into a modifiable destination—Bloch and Marin—and the entry into
an alternative time: that of utopia. For a detailed discussion of the neutral as a zero degree
within the terms of a fundamental conflict, symbolic departure from the historical plane,
and possibility of access to utopia, see Pastor, especially chapters 1 and 3.
7. “La mente de los conquistadores no consigue romper nunca la tradición heredada y así
vuelve a aplicar una y otra vez las mismas normas a realidades diferentes” (1: 46).
8. The object of this alternative cartography relates to what Fredric Jameson calls the “more
obscure and more various line of descent” of utopian thought. Jameson suggests that “it
may be well to think of the utopian and its hermeneutic in terms of allegory” (3–4).
9. For Marsilio Ficino, the world was exactly that: “[A] book of symbols that encompassed
the wisdom of the Creator”; see Garin 216–17.
10. “Vista la tierra y contemplada con los ojos interiores, era llena de grandes tinieblas y
confusión de pecados, sin orden ninguna, y vieron y conoscieron morar en ella horror
espantoso, y cercada de toda miseria y dolor, en sujeción de Faraón, y renovados los
dolores con otras más carnales plagas que las de Egipto” (10).
11. English translation of “los avisados marineros . . . se rigen por la carta de marear donde
hallan muchos peligros descriptos para su aviso” (177).
12. English translation of “las naos que son los santos ejercicios de la virtud” (177).
13. “[J]usta cosa es que los menores marineros de la Orden de los Menores Frailes de la Obser-
vancia que navegamos de estotra parte, demos aviso de los bajos que por aquí se navegan,
para que V.M. ponga en su real entendimiento, como en carta de marear” (2: 177).
14. “No se debe dubdar de que es argumento probable el propio e universal nombre de esta
tierra que es Anahuac, que quiere decir ‘tierra grande y toda cercada y rodeada de agua’;
y más particular y especial interpretación quiere decir ‘mundo’. Que aquesto sea ansi
verdad claro se prueba de la interpretación del vocablo é de su etimología, porque á todo
el mundo llámanlo en esta lengua Cemanahuac, de Cem y Anauac. Esta dicción Cem es
congresiva ó capitulativa, como si dijésemos ‘todo junto Anahuac’ . . . esto es cosa que
esta dentro o cercada de agua, dícese Cemanahuac, que es todo lo criado debajo del cielo,
sin hacer división alguna, según la significación verdadera de la dicción cem: quitada la
cem, Anahuac es ansimismo ‘que está entre agua o cercada de agua’, que sea grande y tal
que exceda á isla, porque el nombre y vocablo de isla es tlatelli, onde Anahuac no quiere
decir isla sino tierra firme é casi otro mundo, no todo el mundo junto porque le falta la
dicción cem sino una tierra grande que en vulgar solemos decir un mundo” (9).
15. See Olschki 111–12 and the description of the court of the Great Khan in Marco Polo’s
Travels.
16. The topography that Cortés delineates here anticipates that of More’s utopia. As in
Tenochtitlán, the utopian dimension of Abraxas is realized in the destruction of the isth-
mus that unites it with the land. This destruction, which marks the symbolic departure
from historical progression, marks the founding of utopia.
17. This construction of the plans of the city as a utopian figure connects with other great
utopian paradigms of the West—the ideal city. It is that which organizes More’s cities
and goes back to Plato’s Polis.
18. English translation of “lo novedoso, abrumadoramente, es el olvido de la ciudad como
proyecto civilizatorio” (6).
48 Beatriz Pastor
19. English translation of “es el sitio para los ambiciosos, los desesperados, los ansiosos de
libertad, para sus costumbres heterodoxas o sus experimentos artísticos o su hartazgo
ante la falta de horizontes” (9).
20. To cite only a few obvious points concerning globalization: the radical increment of the
production and distribution of products for trade, accompanied by the marginalization
and exploitation of large zones that service this production; the augmentation of wealth
accompanied by the augmentation of the distance between rich and poor; the unprec-
edented circulation of information and freedom of access, together with the subordina-
tion of the flow and production of a good part of this information to economic interests
and current politicians; the developed nations’ consolidation of cultural and economic
power over the rest (see Alexander).
21. This concept is developed in their book Mille plateaux: Capitalisme et schizophrénie (A
Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia; 1980). Of particular interest is chapter
1 (“Introduction: Rhizome”).
22. These are examples of contemporary movements of a utopian nature. For more informa-
tion, see Robinson and Tormey.
Works Cited
Alexander, Jeffrey C. “Globalization as Collective Representation.” Globalization and Utopia: Critical
Essays. Ed. Patrick Hayden and Chamsy el-Ojeili. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. 28–39.
Bloch, Ernst. The Principle of Hope. 1938–47. Trans. Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice, and Paul
Knight. 3 vols. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1986.
Bourdieu, Pierre. The Weight of the World: Social Suffering in Contemporary Society. Trans. Pris-
cilla Parkhurst Ferguson. Cambridge, UK: Polity, 1999.
Columbus, Christopher. Accounts and Letters of the Second, Third, and Fourth Voyages. 1492–
1504. Ed. Paolo Emilio Taviani et al. Trans. Luciano F. Farina and Marc A. Beckwith.
Rome: Istituto Poligrafico e Zecca dello Stato, 1994.
———. The Four Voyages of Christopher Columbus: Being His Own Log-Book, Letters and Dis-
patches with Connecting Narrative Drawn from the Life of the Admiral by His Son Hernando
Colon and Other Contemporary Historians. 1492–1504. Ed. and trans. John Michael Cohen.
Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin, 1969.
Cortés, Hernán. Letters from Mexico. 1519–26. Trans. and ed. Anthony Pagden. New Haven:
Yale Nota Bene, 2001.
Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. 1980.
Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1987.
Draugsvold, Ottar G. Nobel Writers on Writing. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2000.
Ercilla y Zúñiga, Alonso de. The Araucaniad. 1569–89. Trans. Charles Maxwell Lancaster and
Paul Thomas Manchester. Nashville: Vanderbilt UP-Scarritt College, 1945.
Fiore, Joachim de. Liber introdictorius in expositionem Apocalipsim. Venice: Bindoni, 1527.
García Márquez, Gabriel. One Hundred Years of Solitude. 1967. Trans. Gregory Rabassa. New
York: Harper, 2003.
Garin, Eugenio. “Imágenes y símbolos de Marsilio Ficino.” Medioevo y Renacimiento: Estudios
e investigaciones. Madrid: Taurus, 1986. 207–22.
Gil, Juan. Mitos y utopías del descubrimiento. 3 vols. Madrid: Alianza, 1989.
Jameson, Fredric. Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fic-
tions. New York: Verso, 2005.
Marin, Louis. Utopics: Spatial Play. 1973. Trans. Robert A. Vollrath. Atlantic Highlands, NJ:
Humanities P, 1984.
Monsiváis, Carlos. “Apocalipsis y utopías.” La Jornada Semanal 213 (Apr. 4, 1999): 1–13.
More, Thomas. Utopia. 1516. London: Penguin, 1965.
Motolinia, Toribio. Memoriales. 1541/1903. Ed. Fidel de Lejarza. Biblioteca de Autores Espa-
ñoles. Vol. 240. Madrid: Atlas, 1970.
Olschki, Leonardo. “L’usignuolo di Colombo.” Storia letteraria delle scoperte geografiche. Flor-
ence: Olschki, 1937. 11-21.
Parra, Friar Francisco de la. Carta al Emperador del 19 de febrero de 1547. Nueva colección de
documentos para la historia de México. 5 vols. Ed. Joaquín Icazbalceta. Mexico City: Chávez
Hayhoe, 1941.
Pastor, Beatriz. El jardín y el peregrino: El pensamiento utópico en América Latina (1492–1695).
1996. Mexico City: UNAM, 1999.
Putnam, Robert. Early Sea Charts. New York: Abbeville, 1983.
Robinson, Andrew and Simon Tormey. “Utopias without Transcendence: Post-Left Anarchy,
Immediacy and Utopian Energy.” Globalization and Utopia: Critical Essays. Ed. Patrick
Hayden and Chamsy el-Ojeili. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009. 156–75.
Sahagún, Bernardino de. A History of Ancient Mexico. Trans. Fanny R. Bandelier. Nashville:
Fisk UP, 1932.
Sarmiento, Domingo Faustino. Facundo: Civilization and Barbarism. The First Complete Eng-
lish Translation. 1845. Trans. Kathleen Ross. Berkeley: U of California P, 2003.
Varela, Consuelo, ed. Cartas de particulares a Colón y relaciones coetáneas. Madrid: Alianza,
1984.
Wilde, Oscar. “The Soul of Man under Socialism.” The Soul of Man under Socialism and
Selected Critical Prose. Ed. Linda Dowling. London: Penguin, 2001. 125–60.
CHAPTER 2
Barataria from the

Perspective of Spanish
American “Colonial” Studies
Contributions for a Reading
of (Counter)Utopia in the
Quijote and the New World
José Antonio Mazzotti
Introduction
THE IDEA OF A REPUBLIC RULED BY virtuous leaders has a long history in humanistic
political thought. In the sixteenth century, the literature that proposed and devel-
oped some textual expressions of this ideal—an ideal full of an insistent utopianism
derived in part from the demands of the philosophia Christi—flourished enormously
in Spain.1 In the first decades of the century, certain events appeared to profoundly
modify the existence of human beings, and the hope of exchanging reality for dreams
grew extraordinarily. (By this I refer to the human being as defined horrifically by
poststructuralist analyses as the “eurologophallocentric subject in process of forma-
tion.”) The “invention” (to use Hernán Pérez de Oliva’s term) of the immense lands
on the other side of the vast sea and the resulting transformation of its settlers’ iden-
tity were among those unavoidable events. The so-called West Indies was offered
to the European world as a fundamental stimulus to the extent that it represented
an environment where confidence in human reason (one of the pillars of humanist
thought) was able to serve as an organizing pattern for new societies.
The sixteenth and seventeenth centuries saw gigantic developments in the
utopian ideal in Spain. Many works and documents emerged from classical read-
ings that were newly commented on or “rediscovered.”2 Niccolò Machiavelli’s
“reason of state” was opposed with increasing force by the ideal of the Erasmian

52 José Antonio Mazzotti
Christian prince of the Institutio principis christiani (The Education of a Christian

Prince; 1516). While it is true much survived from the sixteenth century to the
beginning of the seventeenth century (thanks to the Jesuit neoscholasticism of
Francisco Suárez, Juan de Mariana, and Pedro de Ribadeneira), the efficiency of
the state of the Habsburgs ended as the general attitudes of the European political
climate were imposed and/or adapted.
This essay will illustrate how distinct aspects of this dispute are found in the
case of the hilarious utopia of Barataria. This is seen in the advice given by Don
Quijote3 to Sancho, and evident in many of Sancho’s actions during his brief
governorship. At the same time, I will try to illuminate some textual indications
that would bring us to a reading of the Cervantine work in relation to American
“colonial” society and to the subtle satire about conquistadors. These conquista-
dors became leaders and attained high positions within Spanish society during
the sixteenth century by virtue of their actions and because they applied chival-
ric paradigms in their confrontation with the Indian enemy. This came to pass
thanks to the development of praised historical models by an important part of
Spanish historiography about America during the same century and with which
Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra would have been indirectly and subliminally able
to carry on a dialogue.
A World of Inversions
Before examining this topic, it is helpful to remember that Sancho’s government
was developed in the narrative context of the world of the Dukes of Aragon,
which was full of inverted situations. In them, Don Quijote’s and Sancho’s hosts
were trying to entertain themselves and their court through practical jokes and
teasing at the expense of the knight and his attendant. For example, when Don
Quijote has his first encounter with the duchess, he declares “the two of them,
having read the first volume of this history and having learned from the book
exactly what form of lunacy afflicted Don Quijote, awaited their introduction
to him with the greatest pleasure, determined to indulge his madness and go
along with whatever he said, dealing with him as a full-fledged knight errant for
however long he might stay with them, with all the formalities set forth in the
books of chivalry which both of them had read and were extremely fond of ” (Don
Quijote, pt. 2, chap. 30, 519).
In a typical example of the complicity between narrator and reader (and in
this case, between the reader, the duke, and the duchess), the text establishes a
simulated situation where the illusory “reality” of Don Quijote is transformed
for purposes of the narrative continuity of the text. Outside of the court, the
situation is exceedingly real and it is where the true existence of Don Quijote
emerges for the first time since part 1 of the work narrating his heroic deeds. This
type of reality in the text permits us to understand the nature of the following
carnivalesque episodes that take place during the already carnivalesque stay of
Don Quijote and Sancho in the castle.4 Within this succession of episodes, the
government of Barataria is presented as a humorous model of administration
Barataria in Spanish American “Colonial” Studies 53
that nevertheless includes some severe judgment about governors and politicians
in general.5 This method of presenting political critiques of the times as coming
from the mouth of a madman reminds us of the strategy used by Erasmus. In
Elogio de la locura (In Praise of Folly; 1511), Erasmus often puts into the mouth of
Folly (la Locura) opinions that he declares could not be attributed to him, asking
who may take seriously the words of a madwoman.
In this sense, the continual deceptions in chapters 30 to 44 of part 2 suggest that
the duke and duchess intend to make Don Quijote and Sancho objects of ridicule.
Also, the theatrical representations made by young men (of Dulcinea, the court
of the Countess Trifaldi, and the countess herself ) basically demonstrate a world
where roles are inverted. This makes very logical the fact that a laborer or voluntary
page like Sancho is able to transform himself into the governor of an island.
But it is important to note that along with the jokes about the enchantment of
Dulcinea and the “beard misfortune” of Trifaldi, there are some signs that relate
this fictional world of the duke and duchess, which is a reality to Don Quijote,
with the idea of a trip toward southern lands. In fact, the parade of carts driven by
the enchanters—Lirgandeo, Alquife, Archelaus, and Merlin and announced by the
devil (pt. 2, chap. 34)—represent a sign of the diabolical world “from below” to
the human world “from above.” Thus the Otherness that these characters embody
(Otherness in the sense of the gnoseological category) will be a part of the collec-
tive imagination that in the sixteenth century will renovate some ancient questions
about the nature of the unknown from a European-dominant perspective. This per-
spective includes fundamental themes about hierarchies within the human species
and the association of the devil with some sectors of humanity that did not identify
with the European Christian subject. Although such an issue has been considered
since the time of Aristotle (and perhaps before),6 the appearance of the new Ameri-
can lands brings to the world of European knowledge a new sphere of reference.
This viewpoint underlies, in good measure, the mentality of the conquistadors and
theorists of the Europeanization of the New World throughout the century.
When Don Quijote tries to cross the “equinoctial line” in the recently stolen
“enchanted boat” (pt. 2, chap. 29), the intention of the protagonist is to travel to
bewitched lands where giants and enchanters live freely in accordance with the
chivalric tradition of fiction. But it is important to keep in mind that chivalrous
thought, as a system of conceptual categories, is not understood only as a “liter-
ary” manifestation during the sixteenth century. In fact, many treatises about the
chivalric role of the ruling classes were part of a corpus of textual justification of
medieval order, and this corpus defined the founding principles of the behavior
of knights under whatever circumstance. Alfonso X of Castile, Ramon Llull, the
Prince Juan Manuel, and other important Spanish leaders from the thirteenth to
the fifteenth century wrote treatises on knighthood as an ideological foundation
in the strategy of the fight against the Moors.7 They called the group of knights
“the defenders” and conceptualized the Other as the enemy within an inferior
category of the European Christian subject. It was a category so inferior that
to develop subsequent theories about the nature of the Native American, it was
defined as something close to subhuman and even bestial.8
In this manner, in examining the chivalric thought in some of the most impor-
tant texts written about the West Indies, it would be appropriate to summarize
a few of their essential characteristics in order to establish their similarities and
stylistic qualities. These include the chronicles and histories written by Hernán
Cortés, Bernal Díaz del Castillo, Gonzalo Fernández de Oviedo, and Francisco
López de Gómara.9 In addition, it would be appropriate to examine how chivalric
thought relates to the political critique of the quality of the ruling class—from
Barataria to Spanish society in general.
In this sense, there is a close relationship between chivalric thought and histo-
riography about America written by those authors who in some way situate the
Native American within a conceptual hierarchy similar to that of the Muslims
and the Jews, or simply within the category of barbarians. This close relationship
exists not only from the perspective of the chivalric novel and its characters (as
studied by Irving Leonard in 1949) but also in the stylistic characteristics that
permit the persistent presentation of Spanish exploits as acts of justice directed
by divine will.10 It also exists in the idea that the European presence in the New
World is fulfilling the mission to “undo grievances,” as Bernal Díaz suggests
(109ff.). In his Historia general de las Indias (General History of the Indies; 1552),
Gómara did not fail to present the conquest wars within the context of the Holy
War (chap. 15).
The frequently presented intertextual relationships could easily divert us from
the central objective of our study. But it is possible to trace the presence of chival-
ric thought within the conquistador ideology of American lands.11 Furthermore,
this historic event in itself contributed to a series of changes within Spanish soci-
ety that make it possible for the Quijote (1605, 1615) to express veiled critiques of
conquerors like Cortés and Pizarro who were distinguished with the title of mar-
quis for their military actions during their campaigns in the Indies. This criticism
extends to the so-called utopias of evasion derived from the failure of the utopias of
reconstruction in the first half of the sixteenth century.12
Return to the Castle

Returning to our starting point—the castle of the duke and duchess—we have the
persistent idea of Don Quijote traveling to the south. The opportunity presents
itself with the appearance of the horse, Clavileño, as an instrument of arrival to
the kingdom of Kandy (Candaya). Among Clavileño’s renowned qualities is that
“he is here today, tomorrow in France, and another day in Potosí” (pt. 2, chap.
40, 567). Hence he is known as “Clavileño or Little Peg the Fleet” (pt. 2, chap.
40, 568).13 Potosí formed part of the viceroyalty of New Castile or the viceroyalty
of Peru in the seventeenth century and was famous for its abundant silver mines.
Further, it had characteristics worthy of any city from chivalric stories: streets
paved with silver and a proliferation of squandered silks and luxury products that
would be found only in the most exclusive settings of the peninsula.14 Its fame
as a sumptuous city, where social groups comingled and one could easily change
social positions thanks to the abundance of money, made it almost a mythical
place to Europeans—a real and historic version of El Dorado. On the other hand,
Candaya is found between “the grand Trapobana and the Southern Sea” (pt. 2,
chap. 38, 561), at “5,000 leagues” if one goes by land and “if one goes by air or a
direct line, 3,227” (pt. 2, chap. 40, 567).15 It is interesting to state as well that the
horse Clavileño was delivered by order of Malambruno to the garden of the castle
of the duke and duchess by “four savages, all of them dressed in green ivy” (pt. 2,
chap. 41, 570). Therefore, this makes one think that there is a continuity in Don
Quijote’s intention of traveling to vaguely presented utopian places (although
never presented with this name at any moment) to execute the reestablishment of
a primordial order through the liberation of Clavijo and Antonomasia from the
hands of the evil Malambruno, and to undo the injustice of the enchantment of
Trifaldi and her court.
These are only some small key points that obey the frequent conventions of
chivalric fictional literature, which Cervantes likes to deconstruct.16 In reality, the
attack on chivalric novels that the author exercises throughout the work should
be understood in relative terms. But above all, this attack should be understood
within the ideological context of the epic and of the utopias of evasion. The
attack is a reelaboration of chivalric thought derived not only from chivalric nov-
els but also from treatises as occurred in the initial moments of the discourse of
the historiographic genre referring to America, like in the cases of Cortés, Bernal
Díaz, Gómara, and others, as we have noted.
Nevertheless, it would be an exaggeration to include Cervantes in this debate
that continued to be present in his time, as the appearance of the first part of the
Comentarios reales de los incas (Royal Commentaries of the Incas) by El Inca Gar-
cilaso de la Vega in 1609 certifies.17 But also it would be an oversight to forget
that his humanistic education brought him to assume a critical position about
ethics and the politics of his epoch. When Sancho is declared governor in the
reverse world of the castle, the idea of traveling toward the south is implicit in
Don Quijote, who actually never comes to know Barataria. The “island” as such
clearly reminds us of the utopian island described by Thomas More in 1516,18
but is in reality only a few hours away from the castle. Nonetheless, in the mind
of an errant knight of novels, distances are relative and represent only an illusion
if the knight wants to prolong or shorten them according to his traveling whims.19
In the same manner, it is important to remember that the word barato (cheap)
from which the word Barataria is derived is something of little worth or value,
according to Sebastián de Covarrubias in his Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española
(Thesaurus of the Castilian or Spanish language) of 1611. This has been tradition-
ally understood to explain that the island was given to Sancho as a gift. However,
one of its derivations is exactly that of baratista (barterer): “[O]ne who has the
custom or trade of bartering one thing for another.”20 Following this meaning,
Barataria becomes not only a microworld in reverse that is conceived as an exten-
sion of the world in reverse of the castle but also as its negation that already formally
results in a negation of a negation. It represents (as a possible reading) the place
where the false order of the duke and duchess is able to find a complement in an
ironic operation of the displacement of meaning. As such, accepting that Sancho’s
power is an unreal power, the value of his opinions and procedures will be appreci-
ated as true because his actions and reasoning correspond to a “natural light.” This
is much more important for Don Quijote and the people of Barataria than the mere
condition of being a “man of learning” that every governor supposedly should have.
In reality, it deals with a search for equilibrium and harmony between theory and
practice that is present throughout the work. Further, in this case it promotes the
military abilities that all governors should exhibit, as demonstrated when the duke
follows the advice given to Sancho (without doubt to satisfy Don Quijote later by
having read part one): “You, Sancho, will be dressed partly like a man of learning
and partly like a commanding officer, because, on this island that I’m giving you,
weapons are as necessary as learning, and learning is as necessary as weapons” (pt. 2,
chap. 42, 579). The intention of transforming Sancho into a type of sensible knight
(a vague reminiscence of the warrior priest or the dux populi so valuable to the trea-
tises of chivalry) is justified as well by the number of inhabitants of Barataria: one
thousand or the number of people for whom, according to Ramon Llull, one has to
choose a “defender” (Llull 160). The term letrado (man of learning) should also be
understood according to one of its Spanish meanings, that of “jurist” (Covarrubias
347; Gil Fernández, chap. 1). This reinforces the idea that Sancho’s conduct in his
government adheres to the values of applying practical reason to overcome the slow-
witted and bothersome bureaucratic procedures of the administration of the period.
Ironically, once again the description of Sancho as an illiterate swineherd reminds
us of the character of Francisco Pizarro, the conquistador of the Inca Empire who
was also illiterate and a swineherd in his childhood according to what was written
in the chronicles of his times. In addition, he was one of two marquises appointed
during the sixteenth century who held the title of governor. One of these chronicles,
Gómara’s Historia general de las Indias, attained immense popularity since its first
edition in 1552, despite a royal ban in November of 1553, inspired no doubt by
Father Bartolomé de las Casas’s influence at court. By 1554 six editions were pub-
lished and many other clandestine versions were produced later. Gómara was in
charge of disseminating an extremely negative image of Francisco Pizarro that pre-
vailed throughout the sixteenth century: “[Pizarro] was a bastard child of Gonzalo
Pizarro, a captain in Navarra. He was born in Trujillo and left on the doorstep of
the church. He nursed from a sow for a time without finding anyone willing to
give him milk. Later he was recognized by his father, and was brought back to tend
the pigs, and therefore he never learned to read.”21 The veracity of this description
has been (and still is) a subject of much discussion. But what is certain is that the
grudge against the Pizarros (Francisco’s half-brother Gonzalo rebelled against the
king and was executed in 1548) meant Gómara’s version was well received. On the
other hand, the intention to praise Cortés over the other conquerors (Gómara, after
all, was chaplain to Cortés) clearly explains the strategy of tarnishing the image of
the conquistador of the Incas.
After confessing to the duke that “I don’t even know the alphabet” (pt. 2, chap.
42, 579), Sancho is lectured by Don Quijote, who references his old occupation:
“[B]e careful to watch yourself, seeking to know who you truly are, which of all
knowledge is the hardest you could ever think of. Knowing yourself will keep you
from becoming puffed up like the frog who wanted to be as big as an ox, and will
serve you as the peacock’s ugly feet help him to counterbalance the glory of his
tail, for you will remember that once, in your birthplace, you had to take care of
pigs” (pt. 2, chap. 42, 580).
It would appear, then, that Sancho is able to represent an ideal governor who
shares some characteristics with one of the best known conquistadors of America.
This ideal position is textually marked by a linguistic competence that Sancho
begins to perfect after being declared governor by the duke. In part 1 of the Qui-
jote, Sancho Panza doesn’t hesitate to use proverbs on any occasion; but in part
2, this use becomes a little more reasoned and explanatory.22 Nevertheless, he
does not cease to mix up words like logincuo for longincuo (“reboat” for remote)
and many others to the point where he is incessantly corrected by Don Quijote,
a testament to Sancho’s cultural inferiority. This typical linguistic banter is com-
monly known as a fight between verbal classes, or in stricter terms, diastratic
discrimination.
But when Sancho is made governor, he stops forgetting words and changing
expressions, and as Don Quijote advises him, he uses his proverbs and sayings in
appropriate situations. Later, before going to his island, Sancho is able to bril-
liantly play with the structure of words as seen in the humorous passage where
the Countess Trifaldi or Lady Dolorida appears (pt. 2, chap. 38), announcing a
superlative discourse:
“I am confident, most potent potentate, and loveliest of ladies, and wisest and most
sensible of all bystanders, that my infinite grief must surely find asylum in your
bravest of all breasts (every bit as serene as they are magnanimous and sorrowful),
because my misfortune should be sufficient to soften marble itself, as well as thaw
the hardness of adamant and melt the most steely-hearted hearts in all the world—
but before it finds room in your hearing, not to say in your ears, I would wish you
to inform me whether there is to be found in this company, or group, or congrega-
tion, that purest of all pure knights, Don Quijote, the Mostest of La Mancha, and
that Squire of all Squires, Panza.”
“That Panza,” answered Sancho, before anyone else could speak, “is right here,
and that Mostest of La Mancha and Quijoteed of all Quijotes too, so all you have
to do, oh most saddest of all most sorrowingest ladies, is to tell us what you most of
all mostnesses would like, which we’ll be the quickest of quicknesses and readiest of
readinesses to be at your most service of servicenesses to do.” (560)
Sancho reveals an enormous ability not only to transform language to ridicule

what he already thought was an affected style but also to recognize and be suspi-
cious of Countess Trifaldi’s farce. He also discredits the sham of the apparently
excessive and abundant “gifts” (from his point of view) in his new government of
Barataria when he assumes office in part 2 (chap. 45).
From the moment that Sancho leaves the castle, the narration begins to
diverge, alternating between even and odd chapters to present Don Quijote’s and
Sancho’s actions, respectively. Thus chapters 45, 47, 49, 51, and 53 of part 2 are
dedicated to recounting Sancho’s wisdom during his government, while chapters
46, 48, 50, and 52 narrate the adventures of Don Quijote and the temptation
presented to him by the lovelorn Altisidora in the castle. This narrative syntax
transports and identifies, by analogy, Don Quijote’s loyalty to Dulcinea during
this period, and at the same time, the justice and honesty that Sancho applies in
Barataria. Sancho’s expression continues to be comparatively moderate, including
when he insults the doctor and is infuriated by some of the legal cases paraded
before him. Moreover, these are the chapters with Sancho’s letters to his wife and
Don Quijote’s as well as Teresa’s responses to Sancho and to the duchess.23 The
written order then becomes real for the illiterate and establishes a point of per-
manence and transparency for the oral thought that is usually related, in Sancho’s
case, in an exceedingly open discourse, without any type of censorship. It is also
rather representative of the passionate and emotive flow of grotesque attributes
that supposedly characterize his conduct.
We should note that studies, theories, and methods of contemporary analysis
about the importance of writing and its function within the Spanish society of
the period of national consolidation are scarce at this time. This is true especially
in regard to writing as a modeler of the social subject, and is even more evident
with print. Also, it represents a mechanism for the materialization of a knowledge
that for humanists and scholars at the end of the sixteenth and beginning of the
seventeenth century constituted the knowledge of excellence. Nevertheless, this
does not involve the negation of the importance that diverse humanists conferred
to popular knowledge, especially the use of proverbs (and always through writ-
ing) as a pillar of national identity.24 Although I will return to this issue later, it is
worth mentioning that in the Quijote, a moderate position is presented. Indeed,
if on the one hand knowledge is recovered from Sancho’s sayings (as explicit in
the advice given by Don Quijote for the government of the island), on the other
hand rejection and mockery toward popular manifestations of national identity
do not go unnoticed—such as the idea of blood purity that the knight is in charge
of ridiculing.25
In this sense, the continuous updating of the topic of the beatus ille (i.e., the
peaceful and relaxed life away from politics), as opposed to the intrigues and jokes
that Sancho had to consciously endure (as he reveals at the end of his government
quoting Góngora’s “and let people laugh”), is a textual practice that would bring
us to a mistaken idea about Cervantes’s political conception of life and society.
It is not possible to take Don Quijote’s oral and written advice to Sancho as a
political manifesto. And yet Marcelino Menéndez Pelayo identified the similari-
ties between much of the advice given by Don Quijote with the advice that King
Polidoro gives his son shortly before his death in the Diálogo de Mercurio y Carón
(Dialogue of Mercury and Charon; 1529) by Alfonso de Valdés.26 It appears, then,
that this Erasmian source was not just what Cervantes was thinking when narrat-
ing Sancho’s government and its conclusion. But as José Montesinos has noted,
ending with funereal humor is a typical characteristic of Christian utopia.27 This
is what occurs with Sancho’s fall (along with his dapple-gray horse) into the
unknown cave, as a way to return to the former order of the castle, announced
by the confused masculine and feminine clothing worn by the daughter and son
of Diego de la Llana. This name, whose meaning is very close to the nasalized
bilabialization, bringing it closer to llama (flame), refers to a lower place. From

there it evokes a resurgence of the underworld just before the mock battle that
motivated Sancho’s resignation. (However, it would not be completely ridiculous
to understand the name as a remote allusion to the Andean camelids [llamas] in
its function as a symbolic sign of another upside-down world: America and the
Spanish society that models it, as final references to the allegory of the castle of
the duke and duchess.)
The episode of Barataria—a materialization of the reunion of Don Quijote
and his page—culminates in part 2 (chapters 54–55) and presents a particular
structure where both characters are divided in half by a change in subject that
goes back and forth between each chapter: first, from Don Quijote to Sancho and
then from Sancho to Don Quijote. Later, the narrative “order” and that of the
story (historia) are reestablished with an inversion of character; the utopia ends,
and Sancho and Don Quijote return together to the castle.
(Utopian?) Conclusions
This essay does not attempt to exhaust the complex structure of meaning and the
internal relationships with the period contained in chapters 30–55 of part 2. An
approach that takes into account the carnivalesque characteristics of the world
of the duke and duchess and their joint internal narrative of Barataria would
without a doubt arrive at different conclusions. Many elements demonstrate an
underlying presence of the ideal heroic Spaniard embodied in the figures of those
already legendary conquistadors of the Indies as an element of satiric reference
subverted through the figure of Sancho as governor.
Although the American world is almost never directly referred to in the Qui-
jote,28 a vindicated indigenous world is likewise not mentioned as one of the
possible Others opposite the ideal knight (which would be more like the task of
someone like Las Casas). However, it is important to emphasize the effect of the
empire’s expansion to the lands on the other side of the Atlantic and the resulting
prestigious image the conquistadors created in the popular imagination during
the formation of the universal Spanish monarchy.29 Pizarro and Cortés signi-
fied a possibility of social mobility and the acquisition of political power that
for a humanist immersed in the debate of the moment represented paradigms
legitimizing the intolerance (or later, the arrogance) of their contemporaries. This
aspect of the Quijote serves to revise (once again), as well as amplify, the general
conception of the novel as a founder of the genre in its modern version. The
novel includes a very specific discourse that concerns the immediate problems
and crises of those times. As a proposal and vision of reality, it opposes the atti-
tude of calmness belonging to societies that have arrived at considerable national
development and consolidation, therefore affirming a dominant subjectivity
above others. These problems (grouped together in this case under the common
moniker of the “Spanish decline”) were negated by the authorities that legiti-
mized options such as that of the official state or the utopias of evasion, which
originated in the exaltation of chivalric deeds and categories. At the same time,
these problems were concealed by the idealization of agrarian life where such
categories were developed, many of them present in the glorified discourse of the
conquest of America, among others.
In relation to this, José Antonio Maravall tells us in his interpretation of the
Quijote:
Equally unsatisfactory are the incompetent and oppressive official State and the
utopia of chivalric traditionalism which, as an answer to the former, only gener-
ates confusion; a studied and prudent adaption to the modern world would be a
third alternative, and there are data in Cervantes’s works suggesting that this was his
approach. This is the spiritual perspective from which the Quixote was written, and if
we see the novel as an exposition of the contrast between humanistic utopianism and
an acceptance of the modern world, while always searching for ways in which this
world might be improved, then it will acquire a transparent and total meaning. (26)
Naturally, “searching for ways in which this world might be improved” should
be understood within the discursive context of the period and of the ideological
and artistic debate that was directly immersed in the conception of the Quijote.
Thus the utopias of reconstruction that had their impetus at the beginning of
the sixteenth century through the action and discourse of humanists like Bar-
tolomé de las Casas, Juan Luis Vives, Alfonso de Valdés, Juan de Zumárraga, and
Vasco de Quiroga had reached a decline. This was due to the American reality
that modeled itself in accordance with the extractive metallurgic necessities of
the metropolis and the Spanish state, and not with the goals of improving the
human being (the European and the American) as the ultimate aim of the con-
quest and the organization of the viceroyalty. The New Laws of 1542 (clearly
inspired by Las Casas) prohibited the distribution of Indians into encomiendas
(parcels of land and their inhabitants “entrusted” to conquistadors) and the sub-
sequent forced labor that this entailed. However, due to the enormous pressure
on the monarchy by the old conquistadors, these were modified to the point that
15 years later they were basically an ungrateful memory for most Spaniards who
settled on American lands. With the discovery and subsequent exploitation of
the mines of Potosí in 1545, the indigenous labor force became more necessary,
since the Spanish authorities were required to send more silver to the peninsula
as the mines revealed their extraordinary magnitude. During the administration
of Viceroy Francisco Toledo (1569–81) in the viceroyalty of New Castile or Peru,
the forced labor imposed on large numbers of the native population was one of
the principal causes (together with sickness and war) of the enormous loss of life
that decimated the American population. Of the estimated 12 million Indians
living in the territory of Tahuantinsuyo before 1532, only one million remained
at the beginning of the seventeenth century (Hemming, chaps. 16–18).
As we have mentioned, the contrast offered by the utopias of evasion based on
an idealization of agrarian life in its primitive version became a discursive option
lacking application and place in the economic and social reality of the period. As
Maravall points out (11), Cervantes himself in his first phase falls prey to this ten-
dency when he writes La Galatea (Galatea: A Pastoral Romance; 1585); the second
part of the work (which was never written) acts as an eloquent testimony to the
process of the writer’s maturation, which brought him to opt for a much more
disenchanted and nonconformist vision. He conceived the multiperspectivism
and the criticism of intolerance present in the Quijote as the poetics from which
his writing would find its place in the debate of the moment.
In this sense, Sancho’s hopes to obtain a marquisate, a government, and an
island cannot be read merely as a parody of the typical convention of the chivalric
novel (i.e., compensating a loyal page for his good actions). They gain a greater
meaning and resonance when compared to historic cases that fall within the limits
of the Spanish imagination of the beginning of the seventeenth century that was
part of the national tradition.30 At the same time, they became an example of an
inefficient state administration whose projects and results in the Spanish society
were already clearly perceived. Thus Sancho’s government is not only an indirect
critique of a type of political administration that is not based on the concept of
natural light, tolerance, benefit of the doubt, or Christian compassion; it also rep-
resents a purification (that only finds dimension in the reality of the text) of those
political models that in social life never got to be expressed.31 However, it must be
noted that Sancho’s allusions to chivalric values should also be understood as an
effort to accept what already constituted a prestigious part of a historic patrimony
and therefore the foundation of a national subjectivity. Without this, it would be
impossible to conceive the single identity of the discourse subject (multiple and
at the same time univocal) in the Quijote as a whole.
In other words, the (counter)utopia—that is to say, counterutopia and utopia
simultaneously—explicit in Barataria and understood as a viable proposal, as well
as a combination of certain typical characteristics of chivalric discourse, fluctuates
between the criticism of political administration common in that period and the
reevaluation of national (courtlike) traits that had already been existing for a long
time in imperial Spanish thought. For this reason, it is important to recall once
more the insightful passage about the clothing the duke recommends for Sancho
due to its association with the topos of armas y letras (arms and letters).
Certainly, there are many details left unwritten. I do not want to conclude
without mentioning one that could clarify the previous reflections: the name
ínsula (isle) that appears at the beginning of the seventeenth century is an anach-
ronism, according to Covarrubias’s thesaurus. In this useful dictionary, the name
isla (island) and not ínsula appears; however, in the case of isla the meaning of
“houses that stand alone and are set apart from others”32 is valid. The Latin origin
and the nature of the word ínsula reveal not only the utopian insular place of Bara-
taria but also a uchronic and supposedly previous time—transformed within the
text into a society where simplicity, honesty, justice, common sense, and balance
prevail in the tradition of the philosophia Christi and the search for the “com-
mon good.”33 To do so, it will dispense with the so-called reason of state, the
vanity of the learned, the bureaucracy that Cervantes knew directly, as well as the
unconditional glorification (already outdated in the seventeenth century) of social
promotion by means of chivalric conduct and vision, as it is expressed in the texts
of Cortés, Bernal Díaz, and other chroniclers.
At the same time, “to isolate oneself is to cut oneself off and express oneself
without reflecting on anything . . . to stay isolated, left stunned.”34 This is a
curious meaning that together with the previous one would reveal the paradox
of textual possibility, on the one hand; and on the other, the real impossibil-
ity of Barataria because of the lack of reflection or discourse. Such a meaning
brings us closer to a discursive novelty—the modern novel as a genre—that in
its moment would stay, for some followers of canonized art, unavoidably iso-
lated. In this underlying dialogue with the New World, a long journey remains
to be explored.
Notes
1. For a definition of the philosophia Christi based on the teachings of Erasmus under the
principle of the imitation of Christ in politics, see Arocena 30. To this definition of
“good government” inspired by the virtues demonstrated by Christ in the Gospels, one
must add works of Cervantes’s contemporaries, such as Tratado de la religión y virtudes
que debe tener el príncipe cristiano para gobernar y conservar sus estados contra lo que Nicolás
Maquiavelo y los políticos de este tiempo enseñan (Religion and the Virtues of the Christian
Prince, Against Machiavelli; 1595) by Pedro de Ribadeneira, which reinforces a long tra-
dition of political philosophy that passes through Erasmus and continues at least until
Diego de Saavedra Fajardo. For a discussion on the Counter-Reformation prince during
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in a European context, see Bireley. The studies
by María del Carmen Rivero Iglesias and Edwin Williamson are also important in order
to know the universe of political ideas that Cervantes used in Sancho’s configuration
of Barataria. Both researchers emphasize the enormous influence of sixteenth-century
neoscholasticism and the questioning of utopia as a return to the Spanish Golden Age
in the Quijote. Instead of developing such a substantial aspect of the Cervantine world,
I am focusing more on the veiled relation of said ideas with the American world.
2. Among other sources, Plato, Aristotle, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Livy, and Saint
Thomas are well known. See also García de Diego, who traces a broad overview of the
development of political ideas in Golden Age Spain.
3. Regarding the spelling of the Quixote/Quijote, I will respect the preference of the transla-
tor, Burton Raffel, whose English version is used for this essay (i.e., the second option).
All translations (including the main text of this essay) are by Manya Wubbold, unless a
published translation is indicated.
4. In keeping with, as the reader surely has intuited, the Bakhtinian concept of carnival,
“this half-forgotten idiom” powerfully infiltrates not only the works of François Rabe-
lais but also the distinct styles of the writings of Erasmus, Shakespeare, Lope de Vega,
Guevara, and Quevedo (Bakhtin 11). Nevertheless, the utopias also inherited some char-
acteristics of the carnivalesque symbology: “Not only belles lettres but the utopias of
the Renaissance and its conception of the universe itself were deeply penetrated by the
carnival spirit and often adopted its forms and symbols” (11). Thus we will see this at
times in the analysis that follows.
5. Sancho doesn’t waste the opportunity to comment that he has seen governors who are
not even fit to tie shoelaces. Also in his dialogue with the duchess (pt. 2, chap. 33), he
justifies the presence of his “dapple donkey” (rucio) in his future government by saying
sarcastically: “He wouldn’t be the first ass I’ve seen sent to become a governor, and if I
take mine with me it won’t be anything new” (542).
6. In spite of the fact that the theologians summoned by Ferdinand of Aragon in 1512 to
revise the legal terms of the occupation of the Caribbean Islands had already appealed to
the authority of Aristotle, it was John Mair, a Scottish theologian, historian, and member
of the Collège de Montaigu in Paris, who was the first in 1519 to broadly capture in writ-
ing a justification of the European domination of America based on the theory of natural
slavery set forth by Aristotle in his Politics. The criterion for slavery was the acknowledg-
ment of the superiority of the European over the native, starting from a dual formation
of the universe and all the elements and beings that existed in it. Since civilized men
were governed by reason and “barbarians” by passions and animal instincts, the latter
required European domination in order to be converted into “complete men.” The idea
continued to be accepted by theologians, jurists, and historians such as Fernández de
Oviedo, Gómara, Sepúlveda, and others who found in this idea the necessary argument
to demonstrate the legality of the Spanish occupation of the Indies (see Pagden, The Fall
of Natural Man 38 and García-Pelayo).
7. The treatises I refer to are Libro de la orden de caballería (The Book of the Order of Chiv-
alry; 1274–76) by Ramon Llull; Título XXI de la Segunda Partida (Title XXI of the Second
Partida; 1265) or De los caballeros e de las cosas que les conuiene fazer (Of Knights and the
Things That They Should Do) by Alfonso X; and Libro del cavallero et del escudero (The
Book of the Knight and the Page; 1326–28) by Prince Juan Manuel.
8. In this way, chroniclers like Juan de Matienzo in his Gobierno del Perú (Government
of Peru; 1550) and Fernández de Oviedo in his Historia (History; 1535) confirm what
Oviedo proposes: “As their skulls are thick, so is their intelligence bestial and ill dis-
posed” (56, as qtd. in Las Casas 274).
9. I allude to the Cartas de relación de la conquista de México (Letters from Mexico; 1519–26)
by Hernán Cortés; Historia verdadera de la conquista de la Nueva España (The True His-
tory of the Conquest of New Spain; 1632) by Bernal Díaz del Castillo; Historia general y
natural de las Indias (General and Natural History of the Indies; 1535) by Gonzalo Fernán-
dez de Oviedo; Historia general de las Indias y Conquista de México (General History of the
Indies and Conquest of Mexico; 1552) by Francisco López de Gómara; Demócrates primero
(Democritus I; 1533) and Demócrates segundo (A Second Democritus; 1545) by Juan Ginés
de Sepúlveda.
10. For examples of a style framed by references and self-justifications characteristic of chi-
valric thought, see Cortés, Letters from Mexico 41–43. It must be clarified, nevertheless,
that with the passing of the decades, the American Indians were classified within the
categories of “rustics” or “miscreants” in official legislation, differentiating them as the
Other, like the Jews or Muslims, and their descendents, the converts (conversos), in the
peninsula.
11. Studies such as those by Ida Rodríguez Prampolini and Irving Leonard emphasize the
relationship between chivalric novels and the colonizing imaginary. It seems to me that
a collective vision on chivalric thought (which includes the treatises of chivalric knight-
hood and not only the novels) within the discourse that accompanied colonization will
result in a more useful and better explanation of the contradictions in the texts by Cortés
and Bernal Díaz that reject the same chivalric novels as fantastic. The categories of refer-
ence on divine intervention, the importance of disseminating the Christian faith, the
condition of “dogs,” “barbarians,” and “infidels” of the indigenous peoples, and above
all, the presentation style of the “avenging” Spaniards require a textual analysis that takes
into account a universal discourse that cannot be reduced to the heroic deeds of Amadis,
Esplandián, or Palmerin. In this sense, an important advance (although rarely followed)
is the text “Hernán Cortés and the tradition of the Siete Partidas” by Victor Frankl.
12. This is based on the terminology that José Antonio Maravall (chap.1) obtains from
Lewis Mumford. The utopias of reconstruction included implementing early Christian-
ity into Juan de Zumárraga’s hospital-towns in Mexico and the Jesuit reservations in
Paraguay. The utopias of evasion developed in parallel, above all discursively through the
adoption of chivalric ideals that refer to a disappearing feudal order.
13. The European tradition of the flying horse dates back to at least the thirteenth century
with the French verse novel Cléomadès (ca. 1285, published in 1859) by the poet Adenet
li Rois (or le Roi). In this novel, the protagonist Marcadigas, prince of Castile, flies
through the Spanish skies thanks to the freakish equine created by the Moorish king,
Comprart de Bujía. The origin of the cliché of the flying horse appears to be in A Thou-
sand and One Nights (created in the ninth century, first published in English in 1706),
and through Spain it was disseminated to the rest of Europe. Cervantes would only have
to resurrect it in order to convert it into an object of corrosive parody (Riquer 153–54).
14. The exorbitant descriptions given by Bartolomé Arzáns de Orsúa y Vela, although
belonging to the local and patriotic Creole spirit of the beginning of the eighteenth
century and even before, nurture a good part of the corresponding chorographic litera-
ture without necessarily distancing itself too far from the truth. In any case, Juan López
de Velasco had already pointed out in 1574 the abundance of Potosí in his Geografía y
descripción universal de las Indias (Geography and Universal Description of the Indies; 1574,
502–3). Although this text was not published until the nineteenth century, the enor-
mous silver mines of Potosí were famous and one of the three places in the New World
that Cervantes was wishing to solicit for a vacant position in 1590. As it is known, the
president of the Council of the Indies, Dr. Núñez Morquecho, took responsibility for
recommending the great writer that “busque por acá en qué se le haga merced [he look
around here for something to his liking]” (Albistur 29).
15. Joaquín Forradellas reminds us of the ancient identification of Trapobana with the island
of Ceylon (942, note 26). The geographic imprecision of Kandy (Candaya) leaves open
the possibility that the fantastic kingdom is found in some indistinct location in the
Pacific Ocean. The distance between Barcelona (in close proximity to the castle of the
duke and duchess) and Ceylon is approximately 8,400 kilometers, which is equivalent to
around 1,400 leagues, much less than the 3,227 leagues that the Lady Dolorida indicates
for Candaya, “if one goes by air or by direct line” (pt. 2, chap. 40, 567). In this same
direction, the 1,827 remaining leagues (close to 10,000 kilometers) practically end on
the Pacific South American coast, the alleged place of the imaginary Candaya.
16. The study of Roger Bartra is very illustrative of the theme of the savage and its ancient
lineage since classic times.
17. Without a doubt, due to its complex and subtly persuasive plot and its clearly artistic
captivating images of court within a genre traditionally understood in its principally
referential function, one of the undeniable merits of the Comentarios reales de los incas
is that it disseminates the image of a benevolent and constructive American civilization
that had attained an admirable level of civility before having knowledge of the Gospel.
This topic would merit many pages of development and connects with the work of
Cervantes to the extent that it appears, for example, in the Persiles “para documentar
costumbres de bárbaros septentrionales [in order to document the customs of northern
barbarians]” (Márquez Villanueva 219). Albistur also illustrates this with the example of
the shipwrecked Antonio, inspired in the episode of Pedro Serrano (bk. 1, pt. 1, chap.
8 of the Comentarios reales). The case of the barbarian Ricla of Persiles likewise resonates
with the Erasmian ideal of the natural goodness of the human being—much earlier
than the Rousseauian hypothesis of the noble savage (Albistur 37–38) and similar to the
naïve Indians of Columbus and Las Casas. At the same time, what is needed is a way of
addressing the characters of Francisco Pizarro and Juan de Orellana from the perspective
of “colonial” Spanish American studies (homonymous—one complete, the other par-
tial—of two conspicuous conquistadors) as they appear in chapters 3 to 6 of book 3 of
the same Cervantine novel, during Auristela’s pilgrimage through Spain. Jorge Albistur,
Aurelio Miró Quesada, and Diana de Armas Wilson in her brilliant Cervantes, the Novel,
and the New World advance the theme of the New World in Cervantes.
18. In spite of being prohibited in Spain by the Inquisition in 1586, it is highly probable
that Cervantes knew More’s work due to the multiple editions in Italian that circulated
during the sixteenth century:
La primera [edición] de 1516 es seguida . . . por otras quince latinas impre-

sas en los Países Bajos, en Francia, en Alemania, en Italia, en Suiza. Claudius
Cantiuncula traduce la obra al alemán en 1524. Entre 1548 y 1583 se cuentan
dos traducciones italianas diferentes y seis ediciones de Utopía. En 1550 y
1559 se publican en Francia dos ediciones de la traducción de J. Leblond,
otras dos de la holandesa de Amberes (1553–1562) y tres de la versión inglesa
de Robinson en Londres, entre 1551 y 1597. La primera versión española es
algo posterior. Don Jerónimo Antonio de Medinilla y Porres tradujo Utopía
en 1637 (Esquerra, Ramón, “Fortuna hispánica de Utopía”, en el prólogo de
su traducción, Barcelona, 1937) [The first (edition) published in 1516 is fol-
lowed . . . by fifteen other Latin printings in the Netherlands, France, Ger-
many, Italy, and Switzerland. Claudius Cantiuncula translated the work into
German in 1524. Between 1548 and 1583, there were two different Italian
translations and six editions of Utopia. In 1550 and 1559, two editions were
published in France with J. Leblond’s translation, two others in Dutch from
Antwerp (1553–1562) and three of the English version by Robinson in Lon-
don between 1551 and 1597. The first Spanish version appears somewhat
later. Don Jerónimo Antonio de Medinilla y Porres translated Utopia in 1637
(Ramón Esquerra, “Fortuna hispánica de Utopía,” in the prologue to his trans-
lation, Barcelona, 1937)]. (Arocena 51–52)
19. And also, when speaking with Don Quijote while they are “flying” on Clavileño, Sancho
declares that “‘if the lady Magallanes, or Magalona, or whatever, was happy sitting where
I’m sitting, her flesh couldn’t have been very tender’” (pt. 2, chap. 41, 575). He confuses
the names, as Forradellas states (963, note 34), in reference to the famous voyage of
circumnavigation attempted by Ferdinand Magellan.
20. English translation of “el que tiene por costumbre o oficio trocar una cosa por otra”
(Covarrubias 192).
21. “[Francisco Pizarro] era hijo bastardo de Gonzalo Pizarro, capitán en Navarra. Nació en
Trujillo, y echáronle a la puerta de la iglesia. Mamó una puerca ciertos días, no se hal-
lando quién le quisiese dar leche. Reconociólo después el padre, y traído a guardar los
puercos, y así no supo leer” (Gómara, chap. 144).
22. About Sancho’s origins as a rustic representative of worldly knowledge, already sketched
as a character in an earlier popular tradition, as well as about his own “improvement”
throughout the work, see Márquez Villanueva 63–87.
23. The similarity between Sancho’s initial letter to his wife (chap. 36) and the letter that
Governor Vaca de Castro sent to his spouse from Peru decades before has been empha-
sized by the Peruvian historian Raúl Porras Barrenechea. Miró Quesada, in his article
“Cervantes y el Perú,” gathers this and additional information to make the connection
between the Quijote and the Americas.
24. Paremiology, a science that collects and stores the popular knowledge inherent in say-
ings and proverbs, developed extraordinarily in the Golden Age. B. Russell Thompson’s
introduction to the edition of Francisco del Rosal’s La razón de algunos refranes (The
reason of some sayings; modern ed. 1975) provides us with an important bibliography:
S. Gilman analyzes the narrative and poetic aspects of the sayings in La Celes-
tina and in Spanish literature in general (see The Art of ‘La Celestina’ [Madi-
son, Wisconsin, 1956], 40–41 and 221–22, no. 19). More specific studies
about sayings in the theater include E. J. Gates, “Proverbs in the Plays of
Calderón,” Romanic Review 38 (1949), 1027–1048; and F. C. Hayes, “The
Use of Proverbs . . . : Tirso de Molina,” HR 7 (1939), 310–323. See also Karl-
Ludwig Selig, “The Spanish Proverbs in Percyvall’s Spanish Grammar,” KRQ
17 (1970), 267–274, which includes a valuable diagram that documents the
transmission of Castilian sayings. Also, there is a methodological bibliography
covering not only peninsular collections but also European studies of great
value (271–274). (Thompson 8)
25. Márquez Villanueva agrees with this:
Sancho, que fue pastor y porquero en su mocedad, siente fraternal ternura por
su rucio, es dormilón, enemigo de pendencias, muy aficionado a sus fiambres
y al tinto de su bota, pero, sobre todo, soñador incurable con su ínsula o con-
dado. Cervantes sabía muy bien que el tema de la recompensa desproporcio-
nada constituía en el fondo un ataque contra la limpieza de sangre, y la mejor
prueba de ello es que no deja de subrayar la magnitud del absurdo con irónica
valentía: “Que yo cristiano viejo soy, y para ser conde esto me basta.” “Y aún
te sobra,” responderá Don Quijote (1, 21) [Sancho, who was a shepherd and
a swineherd in his youth, feels a fraternal tenderness for his dapple-gray, he is
a sleepy head, an enemy of quarrels, and a fan of cold meat and the red wine
from his wineskin, but above all, he is an incurable dreamer of his island or
county. Cervantes knew very well that the theme of disproportionate compen-
sation constituted in reality an attack against blood purity, and the best test of
this is that he keeps emphasizing the magnitude of the absurdity with ironic
valor: “And since I’m an old Christian, that ought to be enough to make me a
count.” “More than enough,” replied Don Quijote (1, 21)]. (82)
26. This is Menéndez Pelayo’s understanding as stated in his Historia de los heterodoxos (A
History of the Spanish Heterodox; 1880, 4: 199). Américo Castro, on the other hand,
prefers to identify the source of Don Quijote’s advice in the works by Isocrates that
Cervantes uses, which had been popularized by Diego Gracián’s translations (360). This
is mentioned by Cervantes in part 2, chapter 49 and is also emphasized by Martín
de Riquer (155), as well as in additional sources. For example, those adopted by Juan
de Castilla y Aguayo in El perfecto regidor (The perfect alderman; 1586) and Gracián
Dantisco in the Galateo español (The Spanish Gallant; 1593); “y tal vez en el Galateo de
Giovanni della Casa, que en 1585 se había publicado en español [and perhaps in the
Galateo by Giovanni della Casa that in 1585 had been published in Spanish]” (155). For
his part, Manuel de la Plaza Navarro reminds us of the advice given by Don Quijote to
Sancho and how it relates to the compassion that every judge should exercise as a coun-
terweight to punishment, as found in some passages of the third part of the seven-part
code by Alfonso X (9).
27. In the introduction to his edition of the Diálogo de Mercurio y Carón, Arturo Marasso
proposes to identify the cave of Sancho’s fall with Plato’s cave without alluding to any
other type of symbology that would lend itself to psychoanalytical and Bakhtinian
approximations (232–33).
28. For a listing of the references to the New World in this work by Cervantes, see Miró
Quesada 70–101.
29. Some of these images are examined by Héctor Brioso Santos in relation to the Spanish
literary prose of the Golden Age.
30. Another fascinating yet unexplored topic is the relation between Sancho Panza and Ber-
nal Díaz through the repeated use of sayings that the Spanish conquistador persistently
used as an example of discursive authority in Historia verdadera de la conquista de la
Nueva España. His main argument of persuasion is that his writing is not “erudite” nor
“Latinized,” but is based on the condition of “visual witness” and on popular knowledge
that was “común hablar de Castilla la Vieja, que en estos tiempos se tiene por más agrad-
able, porque no van razones hermoseadas ni de policía dorada, que suelen componer los
que han escrito, . . . y debajo de esta verdad se encierra todo bien hablar [commonly said
of Old Castile, that in those times it was considered more agreeable, because it did not
consist of beautified rationales or gilded policies that are usually made up by writers, . . .
and within this truth is enclosed the art of speaking]” (615). Nevertheless, we should
keep in mind chronological discrepancies because the Historia verdadera only appeared
in 1632, after Cervantes had already died. The paremiology of the chronicles of the
Indies is undoubtedly a pending area of study (see Mazzotti).
31. Niceto Alcalá Zamora demonstrates that “la idea de la equidad, como alma vivificante
del Derecho, contra y sobre la petrificación técnica de sus preceptos, late en esos consejos
[de don Quijote] y acorde con ella está la noble advertencia de respetar la dignidad del
reo, para no insultarlo de palabra, antes o tras el castigo de obra [the idea of equity as the
invigorating soul of Law, against and about the technical petrifaction of its precepts, pul-
sates in these pieces of advice (Don Quijote’s) and in keeping with it is the noble warning
to respect the dignity of the accused in order not to insult him in words before and after
the punishment of hard labor]” (113–14). This increasingly disappearing equity is what
Cervantes and Spanish society in general were observing with the enforcement of state
bureaucracies.
32. English translation of “casas que están edificadas sin que ninguna otra se les pegue”
(742). Riquer is responsible, nevertheless, for noting that the term ínsula, although an
archaism at the beginning of the seventeenth century, originates in the Quijote from
the prolonged chivalric tradition: “En el Amadís de Gaula, por ejemplo, se citan islas
llamadas ínsula Sagitaria, ínsula Triste, ínsula Profunda, ínsula del Lago Ferviente, ínsula
Fuerte, ínsula de la Torre Bermeja, ínsula non fallada, ínsula Gravisanda, y lo propio
ocurre en otros libros de caballerías [In Amadis of Gaul, there are islands that are named
Sagittary Island, Dolorous Island, Deep Island, island with the Boiling Lake, Strong
Island, Island of the Red Tower, Undiscovered Island, Gravisanda Island, and the same
occurs in other chivalric books]” (Riquer 155).
33. With good reason, Sancho says, “[B]ut all I have to keep in mind, to be a good governor,
is the Christus” (pt. 2, chap. 42, 579), referring to “la cruz que precedía el abecedario en la
cartilla en que se aprendía a leer . . . un juego de palabras no infrecuente para significar ‘con
poca instrucción, pero con sentimiento cristiano’ [the cross that preceded the alphabet in
the primer in which one learned how to read . . . a word game not infrequent to mean a
person ‘with little education, but with Christian feeling’]” (Forradellas 969, note 12).
34. English translation of “aislarse uno es cortarse y pasmarse sin discurrir en ninguna
cosa . . . quedarse aislado, quedar pasmado” (Covarrubias 742).
Works Cited
Adenet le Roi. Les oeuvres d’Adenet le Roi. Vol. 5. Cléomadès. 1285. Geneva: Slatkine, 1996.
Albistur, Jorge. Cervantes y la crónica de Indias. Montevideo, Uruguay: Banda Oriental, 1989.
Alcalá Zamora, Niceto. El pensamiento de “El Quijote” visto por un abogado. Buenos Aires:
Kraft, 1947.
Alfonso X, King of Castile and León. “De los caballeros e de las cosas que les conuiene fazer.”
1265. Floresta española de varia caballería. Madrid: Editora Nacional, 1975. 207–46.
Arocena, Luis A. El Inca Garcilaso y el humanismo renacentista. Buenos Aires: Chiesino, 1949.
Arzáns de Orsúa y Vela, Bartolomé. Historia de la villa imperial de Potosí. 1705–36. Ed. Lewis
Hanke and Gunnar Mendoza. 3 vols. Providence, RI: Brown UP, 1965.
Bakhtin, Mikhail. Rabelais and His World. Trans. Hélène Iswolsky. Bloomington: Indiana UP,
1984.
Bartra, Roger. El salvaje en el espejo. Barcelona: Destino, 1996.
Baudot, Georges. Utopie et histoire au Mexique. Les premiers chroniqueurs de la civilisation mexi-
caine (1520–1560). Toulouse: Privat, 1976.
Bireley, Robert. The Counter-Reformation Prince: Anti-Machiavellianism or Catholic Statecraft in
Early Modern Europe. Chapel Hill: U of North Carolina P, 1990.
Brioso Santos, Héctor. América en la prosa literaria española de los siglos XVI y XVII. Huelva:
Diputación de Huelva, 1999.
Burke, Peter. “Chivalry in the New World.” Chivalry in the Renaissance. Ed. Sidney Anglo.
Woodbridge: Boydell, 1990. 253–62.
Casas, Bartolomé de las. History of the Indies. 1552. Trans. Andrée Collard. New York: Harper,
1971.
Castro, Américo. “El pensamiento de Cervantes.” Revista de Filología Española 6 (1925):
187–90.
Cervantes Saavedra, Miguel de. Don Quijote: A New Translation, Backgrounds and Contexts,
Criticism. 1605, 1615. Trans. Burton Raffel. Ed. Diana de Armas Wilson. New York: Nor-
ton, 1999.
Cortés, Hernán. Cartas de relación de la conquista de México. 1519–26. Madrid: Espasa-Calpe,
1987.
Covarrubias, Sebastián de. Tesoro de la lengua castellana o española. 1611. Ed. Martín de Riquer.
Barcelona: Horta, 1943.
Díaz del Castillo, Bernal. Historia verdadera de la conquista de la Nueva España. 1632. Madrid:
Espasa-Calpe, 1985.
Erasmus of Rotterdam, Desiderius. Elogio de la locura. 1511. Barcelona: Bruguera, 1982.
Fernández de Oviedo y Valdés, Gonzalo. Historia general y natural de las Indias. 1535. Ed.
Juan Pérez de Tudela Bueso. Biblioteca de Autores Españoles. Vols. 117–21. Madrid: Atlas,
1959.
Forradellas, Joaquín. “Notas.” Critical edition of Don Quijote de la Mancha. Ed. Francisco Rico
(dir.) et al. Barcelona: Instituto Cervantes, 1998.
Frankl, Victor. “Hernán Cortés y la tradición de las Siete Partidas.” Revista de Historia de
América 53–54 (1962): 9–72.
García de Diego, Vicente. “Prólogo.” Idea de un príncipe político cristiano representado en cien
empresas. By Diego de Saavedra Fajardo. Madrid: Colección de Clásicos Castellanos “La
Lectura,” 1927–28. 9–58.
García-Pelayo, Manuel. “Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda y los problemas jurídicos de la conquista
de América.” Tratado sobre las justas causas de la guerra contra los indios. By Juan Ginés de
Sepúlveda. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1979. 1–42.
Gil Fernández, Luis. Panorama social del humanismo español (1500–1800). Madrid: Alhambra,
1981.
Gilman, Stephen. “Bernal Díaz del Castillo and Amadís de Gaula.” Studia philologica: Hom-
enaje ofrecido a Dámaso Alonso 2 (1961): 99–114.
Hemming, John. The Conquest of the Incas. 1970. London: Macmillan, 1971.
Hernández Sánchez-Barba, Mario. “Introducción.” Cartas de Relación. By Hernán Cortés.
Madrid: Historia 16, 1985. 7–32.
Juan Manuel. “Libro del cauallero et del escudero.” 1326–28. Floresta española de varia
caballería. Madrid: Editora Nacional, 1975. 247–336.
Keen, Maurice. Chivalry. New Haven: Yale UP, 1984.
Leonard, Irving. Books of the Brave: Being an Account of Books and of Men in the Spanish Con-
quest and Settlement of the Sixteenth-Century New World. 1949. Berkeley: U of California
P, 1992.
López de Gómara, Francisco. Historia general de las Indias y Conquista de México. 1552. 2 vols.
Ed. Jorge Gurría Lacroix. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1979.
López de Velasco, Juan. Geografía y descripción universal de las Indias. 1574. Madrid: Real Aca-
demia de la Historia, 1894.
Llull, Ramon. “Libro de la orden de caballería.” 1274–76. Floresta española de varia caballería.
Madrid: Editora Nacional, 1975. 149–206.
Marasso, Arturo. Cervantes, la invención del Quijote. Buenos Aires: Hachette, 1954.
Maravall, José Antonio. Utopia and Counterutopia in the “Quixote.” Trans. Robert W. Felkel.
Detroit: Wayne State UP, 1991.
Márquez Villanueva, Francisco. Fuentes literarias cervantinas. Madrid: Gredos, 1973.
Mayer, Jacob Peter. Trayectoria del pensamiento político. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura
Económica, 1932.
Mazzotti, José Antonio. “‘Volvamos a nuestra relación’: Nuevas consideraciones sobre la oral-
idad y la escritura en Bernal Díaz del Castillo.” “Nictimene . . . sacrílega”: Homenaje a
Georgina Sabat Rivers. Ed. Mabel Moraña and Yolanda Martínez-San Miguel. Pittsburgh:
Instituto Internacional de Literatura Iberoamericana, 2004. 19–35.
Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino. Historia de los heterodoxos españoles. 1880. 2nd ed. 4 vols.
Madrid: Suárez, 1928.
Miró Quesada, Aurelio. “Cervantes y el Perú.” Cervantes, Tirso y el Perú. Lima: Huascarán,
1948. 70–113.
Montesinos, José. “Introducción.” Diálogo de Mercurio y Carón. By Alfonso de Valdés. Madrid:
Clásicos Castellanos “La Lectura,” 1929. vii–xxv.
More, Thomas. Utopia. Ed. George M. Logan and Robert M. Adams. Cambridge, UK: Cam-
bridge UP, 2003.
Mumford, Lewis. The Story of Utopias: Ideal Commonwealths and Social Myths. London:
Harrap, 1923.
Pagden, Anthony. The Fall of Natural Man: The American Indian and the Origins of Compara-
tive Ethnology. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge UP, 1982.
———. “Translator’s Introduction.” Letters from Mexico. New Haven: Yale UP, 1986.
xxxix–lxxx.
Pérez de Oliva, Hernán. Historia de la invención de las Indias. 1528. Mexico City: Siglo Vein-
tiuno, 1991.
Plaza Navarro, Manuel de la. La idea de justicia en el Quijote. Málaga: Sociedad Económica de
Amigos del País, 1948.
Riquer, Martín de. Aproximación al Quijote. Barcelona: Teide, 1967.
Rivero Iglesias, María del Carmen. “El bien común en el Quijote y el gobierno de Sancho en
la ínsula Barataria.” Autoridad y poder en el Siglo de Oro. Ed. Ignacio Arellano, Christoph
Strosetzki, and Edwin Williamson. Madrid: Iberoamericana-Vervuert, 2009. 117–36.
Rodríguez Prampolini, Ida. Amadises de América. Mexico City: Junta Mexicana de Investiga-
ciones Históricas, 1948.
Sánchez Pérez, Juan, ed. Dos refraneros de 1541. Madrid: Cosano, 1944.
Sepúlveda, Juan Ginés de. De la compatibilidad entre la milicia y la religión. Tratados políticos de
Juan Ginés de Sepúlveda. 1533. Ed. and trans. Angel Losada. Madrid: Instituto de Estudios
Políticos, 1963. 127–304.
———. Demócrates segundo o de las justas causas de la guerra contra los indios. 1545. Ed. and
trans. Angel Losada. Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas, 1951.
Thomas, Henry. Spanish and Portuguese Romances of Chivalry. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge
UP, 1920.
Thompson, B. Russell. Introduction. La razón de algunos refranes. By Francisco del Rosal.
London: Tamesis, 1975. 3–13.
Vega, El Inca Garcilaso de la. Comentarios reales de los incas. 1609. Ed. Carlos Araníbar. 2 vols.
Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1991.
Williamson, Edwin. “La autoridad de don Quijote y el poder de Sancho: El conflicto político
en el fondo del Quijote.” Autoridad y poder en el Siglo de Oro. Ed. Ignacio Arellano, Chris-
toph Strosetzki, and Edwin Williamson. Madrid: Iberoamericana-Vervuert, 2009. 241–66.
Wilson, Diana de Armas. Cervantes, the Novel, and the New World. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2000.
PART II
Utopia and Modernity

CHAPTER 3
Remnants of a Dream World

Latin American Pavilions at the
1889 Paris Universal Exhibition
Alejandra Uslenghi
Each epoch dreams the one to follow.

—Jules Michelet, quoted in Walter Benjamin,
Das Passagen-Werk (The Arcades Project)
Redeeming Utopia
THIS EPIGRAPH IS ITSELF A QUOTE, JUST as the ideas that this essay presents are prefig-
ured in the image-based historical sensibility that Walter Benjamin formulated as
a genuine form of cultural and historical interpretation of the nineteenth century.
Benjamin cited Michelet in the first section of his exposé for Das Passagen-Werk
(The Arcades Project; 1982), “Paris, Capital of the Nineteenth-Century,” and again
as the epigraph to “Convolute F: Iron Construction.” The phrase becomes a his-
toriographic leitmotif for his later research and encapsulates the utopian impulse
in the capacity of imagination to anticipate what is not yet actual, but conceived
as possible: those dream images in which the inadequacies of the social organiza-
tion are transfigured, and the collective that brings its historical experience into
remembrance. In the intricate relationship between these wish images and the
residues of their material expression, Benjamin traces the historical origins of the
cultural forms of industrial modernity and also deems them the storehouse for
humanity’s expressions of utopian desires. He writes in the 1935 exposé, “[T]he
experiences of such a society . . . engender, through interpenetration with what
is new, the utopia that has left its trace in a thousand configurations of life, from
enduring edifices to passing fashions” (Benjamin 5).1 These material configura-
tions of life in the nineteenth century are precisely the stuff that collective utopian
dreams were made of. Though viewed from the twentieth century as modernity’s

74 Alejandra Uslenghi
debris and ruins, dusty images, outdated commodities, and remnants of a world
once enchanted by the new, they constitute the historical traces of latent utopia.
Attentively, Benjamin adds an important afterthought: “Not merely does each
age dream the next one, but it aims, in so doing, to awaken” (173). Understood
both as distorting illusions and as redeemable utopian symbols, Benjamin’s dia-
lectical cultural history seeks to transform these symbolic expressions of human-
ity’s dreams into genuine political consciousness by shattering their mythic spell
and reappropriating the power bestowed on these images. To chronicle, docu-
ment, and detail the marginal and ephemeral, the strange and insignificant—
reading everything from urban designs to iron constructions, from kitsch objects
to prostitution, from world exhibitions to early advertising—his genealogy of
modernity seeks to restore the illuminating power of seemingly forgotten desires.
As Gerhard Richter phrased it, “[T]hrough a strategic poetic montage, in which
the neglected debris of history is placed into a new grammar constellation, a revo-
lutionary image emerges. This is, for Benjamin, the image of history itself ” (135).
Acknowledging this emancipatory potential in the dream image—that is, its
transformation into a dialectical image, a genuine historical image—implies neither
the realization of this utopian hope nor the restoration of a primal past. In their
intuitive apprehension of the future, the dream forms of what is yet to come are
not revolutionary without the material technological mediation necessary for their
fulfillment. For Benjamin, these images are dialectical precisely because they begin
as desires—dreams that develop toward an entanglement with the material condi-
tions of social reality. Then, read against the grain of the present moment, they
bring into visibility the mediation at play between the utopian capacity to imagine
and the technological capacity of society to produce. The presence of these utopian
desires can therefore be actualized as transitory moments in a process of cultural
transition and awakening.2 The possibility of utopia is seen as potentially within
reach, existing immanently in the stories and products of material culture, and
also latent until redeemed from the continuum of history and society’s imaginary,
laden with scattered dreams and unfulfilled wishes. Awakening, remembrance, and
actualization of the historical past depend on accessing the materiality of histori-
cal experience, those indelible historical traces that remain inscribed in society’s
dreams. The specific historicity of these images would exclude equally both nostal-
gia and prognostication, destabilizing any representational or pictorial relation to
what might come. As Susan Buck-Morss has convincingly articulated, “The images
are thus less pre-visions of postrevolutionary society than the necessary pro-visions
for radical social practice . . . Wish images do not liberate humanity directly. But
they are vital to the process” (117–20).
What, then, are the materials from which the images of nineteenth-century
modern utopia were cast? What are the conditions of legibility that would allow
us to acknowledge these dream images today? My point of departure for an
exploration of a particular visual construction of utopia in Latin America in the
nineteenth century is a series of images produced and circulated around universal
exhibitions, a decisive stage for its complex passage across the threshold of moder-
nity. From an endpoint of contemporary, global, postindustrial capitalism and
neoliberal hegemony, and with the full power of the nineteenth-century dream
Remnants of a Dream World 75
world faded, these images of utopian progress, prosperity, and social growth are
the ultimate domestic phantasm. They have become a consoling image, a hallu-
cinatory return folding back inexorably into a seamless fabric of mythic national
identity. The very logic of modernity devours its own images. Therefore, follow-
ing Benjamin, we deal with the remnants of that which has not been transcended
even as it has been forgotten. This analysis does not merely intend to be a demys-
tification of the fetishistic wishful fantasies of the nineteenth-century Latin
American liberal elites as embodied in the national pavilions that represented
them—that is, the working of ideological critique exposing the mechanisms of
the universal exhibitions’ regime of spectacle; rather, it attempts to trigger in these
images that core in the imaginary that defies absolute idealization, resisting the
abstract closures and symbolic appropriations that have rendered them into dead
objects of pure consumption.
Paris, 1889: L’Exposition Universelle

World exhibitions are places of pilgrimage to the commodity fetish . . . [they]
provide access to a phantasmagoria which a person enters in order to be distracted.
—Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project
Behind the phantasmagoric appearance of their fetish character, the cultural cre-
ations and innovations of the nineteenth century bear witness to the utopian
desires that marked the beginnings of capitalist industrial modernity. Among
those proliferating cultural forms of nineteenth-century urban life, the architec-
tural reorganization of social time implicit in the iron and glass structures of
exhibition halls and leisure spaces (such as the Parisian arcades and winter gardens)
is captured in the dream forms within which the new technologies were grasped,
mastered, and transformed into collective experience. Nowhere else but in the
turn-of-the century universal exhibitions did this new architectural style acquire
such dreamlike status; they were scenarios where modern capitalism presented
its most dramatic and relentless vision of the mythological forces of industrial
progress, commercial expansion, and colonial conquest expanding from metro-
politan centers to peripheral locations. Further, their ephemeral existence charted
the primordial global landscape of consumption. None was perhaps as paradig-
matic of the emerging epoch as the 1889 Paris Exhibition with its enticing and
threatening image of new technology embodied by the Eiffel Tower. The bolted,
wrought-iron tower proclaimed itself as a new kind of monument, one where the
traditional distinction between engineering structures as artifacts of mass pro-
duction and the high architectural style that bourgeois liberalism had previously
embraced were brought together: skill and imagination, technology and art, all
giving way to a new modern style. If until then construction in iron was relegated
to meeting the demands of industrial efficiency, now it came to claim a cen-
tral place in the creation of a new material culture with its technical absolutism.
Alexandre Gustave Eiffel’s construction became instrumental in integrating new
technologies into culture. Following the new nature of industrial forms, such as
railways and bridges that he had previously built, the tower’s structure professed
Figure 3.1 View of the Eiffel Tower and exhibition buildings on the Champ de Mars as seen from
Trocadéro Palace, Paris Exhibition, 1889. Courtesy of the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
to wed technology and art into a functional and economic form. Eiffel himself
enthusiastically endorsed both the symbolic and socially transformative power
of the structure; he stated that his intention was to bestow the French people
and modern science a new kind of monument: “She will be at the same time
the striking proof of the progress made in this century by the art of engineers.”3
However, as the naturalist conventions of bourgeois culture were being replaced
by the paradigm of technological construction, the tower also came to be viewed
as an expression of the mechanistic and the rational over the individual and the
expressive, provoking a critical outrage that the French bourgeois intelligentsia
made explicit in the letter titled “Protestation des artistes contre la Tour Eiffel”
(Artists’ protest against the Eiffel Tower; 1887): “You all need . . . to imagine for
a moment a dizzyingly ridiculous tower dominating Paris, as well as a gigantic
black factory chimney completely crushing with its barbaric mass Notre Dame,
the Sainte-Chapelle, the Saint-Jacques tower, the Louvre, the Invalides’ dome, the
Arc de Triomphe, all our monuments humiliated, all our architecture belittled,
and ultimately disappearing in this staggering dream.”4
The origin and purpose of the Eiffel Tower was to be the triumphal archway
to the 1889 Paris Exposition Universelle. As the French Prime Minister Jules
Ferry (1832–93) conceived it in 1880, the exhibition was to be a unifying enter-
prise consolidating the Third Republic, a promise of liberal republicanism and
progress for the new decade.5 The centennial of the French Revolution offered
the appropriate occasion. As Miriam Levin states, “[T]he French Republicans
were seeking ways to reform, or at least channel an existing and troubled mixed
system of production into Republican ends. Upon coming to office towards the
end of the 1870s, they found industrialization undermining the very foundation
on which the Republican society was to be built” (1056). Therefore, the universal
exhibition aimed to restore the international prestige of the Third Republic after
a series of political crises, in addition to acting as a stimulus to a lagging economy.
It proved, however, to be somewhat less international in its participation due to
the very nature of the event celebrated. Great Britain refused to participate and
provided no government sponsorship. Russia, Germany, Sweden, and Turkey did
not accept the invitation. This afforded an unprecedented opportunity for the
new republics of the Americas to have a central visibility. Along with the United
States and the recently formed Dominion of Canada, 12 Latin American coun-
tries not only were present with their exhibits but also each constructed a national
pavilion to house them.6 As the New York Times stated on June 16, 1888, “The
boycotting of the Paris Fair of 1889 by the monarchical Governments of Europe
is more distinctly signaled than ever by the continued refusal of Russia to take
part in it . . . the hatred of popular government and the unwillingness to seem to
forgive the memorable uprising that overthrew the Bastille in 1789, which the
Paris Exposition is designed to celebrate, are motives too powerful to resist. Our
government has taken decided and conspicuous steps to be officially represented
there, in common with nearly or quite all the republics of the world.”
Deborah Silverman has documented how the public celebration of the centen-
nial was “an exercise in selective historical remembrance, centering on the specific
revolutionary actors with whom the Third Republic liberals could identify” (73).
Therefore, the emphasis of the official commemoration was on the political revo-
lution of 1789 framed by liberals seeking a limited civic and judicial authority;
any focus on revolutionary violence or the popular uprising around the Declara-
tion of the Rights of the Man and of the Citizen was conspicuously absent.7 This
legacy rather became the object of museification, revealing the traumatic strange-
ness of an unfinished past. The catalogue Exposition historique de la Révolution
française (Historical exhibition on the French Revolution), published as Notice sur
l’exposition historique de la Révolution française (Report on the historical exhibition
of the French Revolution; 1889), displayed the artifacts belonging to the ancien
régime with a nostalgic flare. The ornaments of the theater of Versailles clustering
around an empty throne contrasted with the dandyism of the architects of the
Terror translated in carefully reproduced attire and giving way to the dramatic pre-
sentation of the instruments of the First Republic: decrees of exile, death sentences,
and confiscations. Through the mechanisms of visual contemplation and a cultural
editing process, the exhibit became a strategic site for the cultural production of
heritage from the vantage point of the Third Republic: the idea of the modern
French nation—the self-production of the body politics of the people—as the natu-
ral outcome of the French Revolution. In this sense, it mirrored the utopian desires
attached to the Eiffel Tower: an image that produces and naturalizes an idea about
national culture; the expression of the Republican social idea as a multitude of small
parts, each clearly articulated and made of the same material in its most efficient
arrangement, interlocked with the others to form an integrated and controlled sys-
tem. Moreover, it became an object evoking the processes of decontextualization
and standardization that inform the relationship between technology and tradition.
As the exhibition’s plan had determined it, the pavilions of the Latin Ameri-
can republics were erected in the Champ de Mars surrounding the base of the
tower, and their exhibits’ arrangement and display not only reflected a process of
selective tradition just like the one the host nation staged but managed complex
material strategies as well.
Their architectural diversity pointed to different resolutions to the employ-
ment of the new modern style that the Eiffel Tower came to embody, negotiating
Figure 3.2 Pavilion of Brazil, seen through the base of the Eiffel Tower, Paris Exhibition, 1889.
Courtesy of the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
their particularities as manifested in emerging “national styles,” with the uni-

versalized forms of industrial material: iron and glass. Even if the World’s Fair
produced a formalized comparative framework whose conceptual model was
industrial development, its forms of expression were always aesthetic and cul-
tural. At a historical moment when the material life of colonial people became an
object of spectacle—the contents of an imaginary imperial space—Latin Ameri-
can countries negotiated their inclusion in this visual framework mostly aimed at
“Othering” and commodifying their cultural differences. The 1889 Paris Exhibi-
tion was unprecedented in its extensive presentation of colonial people. Along the
Esplanade des Invalides, the exhibit of French colonies—a mixture of the didactic
and the picturesque—simulated ethnographical villages with Cambodian pago-
das, Algerian mosques, Tunisian casbahs, Arabian bazaars, Gabonese markets,
and the most famous of them all, the reconstruction of Rue du Caire.8
The human and ethnographical displays were organized into national and
racial hierarchies in accordance to the norms of the emerging discipline of anthro-
pology. The architectural historians Zeynep Çelik and Leila Kinney documented
how “[b]eginning with the 1867 universal exposition in Paris, a dual system was
established: a Beaux-Arts plan, highlighted by imposing structures for the main
displays of industrial and artistic artifacts, and a picturesque array of buildings
interspersed in the parks and gardens of the exhibition grounds. A major com-
ponent of the non-Western exhibits almost always was situated in the picturesque
Figure 3.3 Crowd of people on Cairo Street, Paris Exhibition, 1889. Courtesy of the Library of
Congress, Washington, DC.
sections . . . [T]his topographical system coincided with other kinds of informa-

tion about the relative status and nature of foreign cultures” (36–37).
Within this dual system, the industrial progress of the empire nation was jux-
taposed to the preindustrial forms of its colonies, shaping and subjecting the
ideological thematic of popular entertainments to the rhetoric of evolutionary
progress. In this sense, the exposition managed the weight of diversity by assign-
ing the colonized cultures the site of the peculiar exotic.
The uncanny effect of the exotic situated it at the limit of an unintelligible
experience made transparent through its objectification. The classificatory and
taxonomic discourses of the exhibition operated to neutralize the perception of
the colonized as exorbitant, and at the same time as terrifying excess. Through
these various picturesque displays and replicas, the “primitive” non-Western sub-
jects became objects of fascination susceptible to mastery and categorization. This
process that took place at the exposition was emblematic of a historical moment
in which colonial people acquired an exhibitionary existence at the threshold of
their marginalization, assimilation, or disappearance. In his analysis of colonial
discourse, Homi K. Bhabha wrote that “in order to understand the productivity
of colonial power it is crucial to construct its regime of truth, not to subject its
representations to normalizing judgement. Only then does it become possible to
understand the productive ambivalence of the object of colonial discourse—that
‘otherness’ which is at once an object of desire and derision, an articulation of
difference contained within a fantasy of origin and identity” (67).
As part of its regime of truth, the visual forms of the Paris Exhibition—which
represented cultures as entirely knowable, visible, and most importantly, read-
ily available—were predicated on the social and political arrangements already
established by the metropolitan power. They set the parameters for national rep-
resentation and provided the channels for cultural expression through which the
national images would be fashioned. Within this framework, Latin American pavil-
ions presented their national displays at a calculated distance from the colonial
exhibits but nevertheless within an ambiguous status among the industrial nations.
Their place of difference or Otherness within the space of the exhibition was never
entirely on the outside or oppositional. Rather, it was situated at the contours where
their particularity pressured, shifted, and split the rules of recognition of hegemonic
discourse. An instance of explicit enunciation of these rules of recognition can be
found in the extensive article published in the Revue des Deux Mondes (Journal of
two worlds) signed by one of its reviewers, C. de Varigny, and titled “L’Amérique
à L’Exposition Universelle” (The Americas at the Universal Exhibition; 1889),
which presented a guided tour of sorts through the pavilions and exhibits where
the United States, Spanish America, and Brazil shared the same status as “the New
World.” L’Amérique, or the Americas, as a continental entity, is the site of political
renewal, economic adventure, and fantasy where Europe mirrors itself:
The future is theirs, and we, their elders, who have shown them the way; we who
for centuries have poured in these new lands the surplus of our population—those
elements dangerous for the old civilization and reborn as desirable for emerging
ones, impatient for a free life and vast spaces—we can be confident of the results
obtained by these children of Europe. It was them, the French and English, the
Spanish and Portuguese, the Irish and Italians, who have founded, created these
flourishing republics and the vast empire of Brazil, who have colonized and given
value to these unknown territories, opened a limitless ground to the needs of expan-
sion and capital of the ancient world.9
This text establishes the rules for recognition within Europe’s colonial author-
ity; and in a filial genealogy that obliterates any trace of indigenous culture, it
expands this authority beyond colonial rule into the immigrant population that
is cast here as a surplus of European civilization. What is clearly defined as a mise
en valeur is what precisely the Paris Exhibition’s framework enacts.
The Triumph of Iron

Technological production, at the beginning, was in the grip of dreams.
—Walter Benjamin, The Arcades Project
The series of photographic reportage by nineteenth-century photographer Théo-

phile Féau, who documented the construction of the Eiffel Tower from its beginning
in 1887 (when foundations of masonry and cement were laid in the Champ de
Mars) until its completion in 1889, show an intricate and dynamic process. The
lattice ironwork takes shape before the camera as pieces are added to the puzzle
structure. These images recreate the progression of a technological achievement,
one both praised and repudiated from its inception. More significantly, the almost
twenty plates patiently taken from the same angle, step-by-step, mirror another
building process that reaches its spectacular conclusion in the materialization of the
highest structure of its time: the dream world of bourgeois culture.
The French novelist Joris-Karl Huysmans (1848–1907) wrote in his famous
article “Le Fer” (“Iron”; 1889), “Our period may yet incarnate itself in buildings
that symbolize its activity and its sadness, its cunning and its money, in works
sullen and hard, in any case, the material is here, it is iron” (74). The tower was
thus a latent physiognomy of technical still forms constrained under the rule of
the bourgeoisie awaiting the realization of its utopian power.
Of the 12 pavilions built by the Latin American countries, the Mexican Aztec
Palace and the Argentine modern iron structure were to emulate these utopian
meanings while articulating two divergent resolutions in terms of style: the rep-
lica of the Aztec temple (where antiquity and modernity blended in a new form)
and the boldness of the iron and glass framework (where construction passed
over into a new cultural expression). They were the most remarkable ones in size,
aspiration, and public recognition; both received medals for their design and
execution, which were extensively reviewed in the exhibition guides and official
reports.10 While countries like Venezuela, Paraguay, and Guatemala opted for
different variations on the Spanish colonial style, Brazil, Bolivia, and Ecuador
decided on a neoclassical Beaux-Arts inspiration.
The Mexican and the Argentine pavilions both adopted the modern iron struc-
ture under the patronage of its nation-states, and both contingents represented their
Figure 3.4 Eiffel Tower machinery with a man beside the wheel, Paris Exhibition, 1889. Courtesy
of the Tissandier Collection, Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
largest and most ambitious participation of the nineteenth-century exhibitions.

Coincidentally, in the 1880s both Mexico and Argentina had seen the end of inter-
nal rupture and a political, economical, and administrative centralization of power
as an inherent manifestation of the formation of the modern nation-state. Com-
missions of experts—writers, historians, poets, and public intellectuals portrayed
in Mauricio Tenorio-Trillo’s work as “the wizards of progress” (see chap. 4)—were
summoned among the countries’ elites to fashion a well-defined national image.
This newly instituted scientific management of politics required that the physical,
economic, and social diversity of these countries be reduced to an analytical reality
through the production and order provided by maps, photographs, albums, alma-
nacs, paintings, sculptures, documentation, and especially the display of statistics
and works of public administration. Another important component was the display
of public works—railroads, bridges, schools, public buildings, and factories—as
a clear signal of the modernizing ventures undertaken. The gathering of the eco-
nomic and the public vision of national societies, a combination of statistics and
landscape photography, figural data, and scenes of urban life became a form of illus-
tration, which is perhaps less of the actual national physiognomy than the modern
desires attached to it.
Near the tower and the Latin American pavilions, another central structure
of the exhibition underscores this scheme: the Galerie des Machines (Gallery
of Machines), where the newest technical developments from France and other
parts of Europe and America were presented. Its external enclosure was composed
of wrought-iron beams and glass panels and it was advertised as a “synthesis of
modern industry” devoted to the display of mechanized heavy industry as well
as small-scale manufacturing products. Sigfried Giedion’s description states that
“the volume of free space included by the 1889 Galerie des Machines represented
an entirely unprecedented conquest of matter . . . But the glass and walls do
not, strictly, close up the building; they constitute a thin transparent membrane
between the interior and outer space . . . The aesthetic meaning of this hall is
contained in the union and interpenetration of the building and outer space, out
Figure 3.5 Interior of Gallery of Machines, showing machinery, Paris Exhibition, 1889. Courtesy
of the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
of which there grows a completely new limitlessness and movement in keeping

with the machines it contains” (268–69).
Nevertheless, the interior of the building was itself a labyrinth of interiors
where the expressions of the new materials were in sharp contrast with the richness
and density of the spaces that cultivated and preserved each carefully fashioned
object. Silverman’s analysis points to this contradiction as a sign of confrontation
between advanced technological structures and the notion of the free individual
as a core of bourgeois ideology: “In the meeting of the iron shed and the interior
room, the forms of public and private space confronted each other. This extraordi-
nary architectural juxtaposition bespoke the challenge posed to the supremacy of
nineteenth-century individualism, privacy, and materialism by the rising domina-
tion of twentieth-century mass-standardized, advanced technological society” (88).
It is precisely the features that the “Protestation des artistes” criticized—
industrial form and its scale—that point toward the latter developments. As
Giedion observes, “Here construction is unconsciously moving toward aesthetic
feelings which did not find their equivalents in art and architecture until decades
later” (271).
The tensions inherent in the juxtaposition of these forms of spatial organization
and building materials were also part of the pavilions’ designs. Both the Mexi-
can and the Argentine pavilions employed the light iron, glass, and wood frame
that allowed for transparent yet opaque, open yet confining, and perspicacious yet
labyrinthine spaces, revealing their dreamlike ambiguity of forward- and backward-
looking elements. As Jens Andermann has written in his study of Latin American
representations in the age of exhibitions, “Often employing a light steel, glass and
wood frame camouflaged towards the outside by sumptuous ornamented façades in
plaster and light cement, the illusionist architecture of exhibition pavilions inscribed
utopian meanings into the materials of the industrial age precisely by draping them
in the ornamental forms of a mythicized past. This peculiar archaism offered Latin
American exhibitors a way of accommodating exotic perceptions of their countries
abroad within a modern architectural idiom” (338).
Benjamin studied these particular imbrications of the old and the new as typi-
cally modern material form, recognizing that modernity was not yet free of myth.
Informed by his reading of Alfred Gotthold Meyer’s Eisenbauten (Iron Construc-
tion; 1907), Benjamin sees this dualism with the insistence that traditional forms
and principles of architectonic expression developed for stone and wood be used
to assimilate iron construction into a new architecture as a form of precisely
willful symbolization, a premature synthesis of extreme rationality and extreme
fantasy. As Detlef Mertins’s analysis shows, “Meyer adopted engineering as the
vital and dynamic basis for a new architecture that would grant to technical forms
the potential of a new self-generated beauty . . . Meyer spoke of the Eiffel Tower
of 1889 in terms of a ‘new beauty, the beauty of steely sharpness’ and the expres-
sion of a new tempo of tectonic vitality” (152). With the rationality of technology
and the enchantment of decoration and art renditions, these figural incongrui-
ties informed the construction of the Mexican and Argentine pavilions, revealing
their social and material contradictions, their historical and temporal dissonance.
Figure 3.6 Pavilion of Mexico, Paris Exhibition, 1889. Courtesy of the Library of Congress,
Washington, DC.
Rather than an ethnographical or self-exoticizing exercise that responded to the

demands of the exhibition’s visual regime as interpreted by some studies,11 I claim
that the design of the Aztec temple in the Mexican pavilion constitutes an aesthetic
deployment of the status of the archaic in Mexican culture at the turn of the cen-
tury—a site of contention on the function of historical content in the construction
of a modernized nation. The explicit deployment of the Mexican indigenous past
in the form of an architectural style becomes a vital instrument for the creation of
the national exhibit. A modern structure modeled after an Aztec temple (or teo-
calli) and imprinted with a collage of images and visual emblems of Aztec history,
the pavilion materializes the liberal appropriation and canonization of a selectively
interpreted historical past as the founding agent of the republican epic of Mexico
under the Porfirian regime.12 The new industrial materials hollow out the Aztec
ruin, making it the recipient of a new signification, the national ancient past. It
is precisely the construction of an Aztec temple replica, reproduced with modern
technical means, which constitutes it as an image of the past; the legacy of antiquity
comprises the materials from which the new whole is constructed. Its technological
reproduction names the ruin as a site of reevaluation of tradition, making it part of
a new political configuration, one that projects its utopian desires into the future
of progress. As the Mexican exhibit argues for a culture that encompasses its own
destruction to secure the remains that would be instrumental for the national epic,
the modern structure of the Aztec temple is posed as a way to dominate history
continuously rather than arrest it. In its use of antiquity as a claim to modernity, the
pavilion displays how allegorical mechanics reveal the profound gap between mate-
riality and meaning, the estrangement between the myth of culture as a language
of universality and social generalization, and the object of culture in the unstable
artifice of its own signification.
Quite the reverse of the Aztec palace, the Argentine pavilion was entirely
designed and constructed by the French architect Albert Ballu (1849–1939),
who presented the commission’s delegate in Paris, the writer and former politi-
cian Eugenio Cambaceres,13 with a proposal for a dismountable structure that
would resemble all the wealth of the republic, as the Guide bleu du Figaro stated
in 1889 (163). It is also described in its section on foreign exhibits, which opens
with a photograph of the Argentine pavilion: “It is Mr. Ballu, the architect whose
name makes any appreciation dispensable, who has made the Argentine Pavilion.
Instead of reproducing monuments as he has done in the Algerian section, and
in the absence of a characteristic architecture as in the Mexican pavilion, Mr. Ballu
has thrown himself arduously into every innovation his imagination suggested.
He has succeeded in such a way that he thinks he has been plagiarized in other
installations not far from this one” (emphasis mine).14
As a Beaux-Arts and Orientalist architect, Ballu’s Algerian pavilion was an
interpretation of Oriental motifs and styles: mosque inspiration, caravansaries,
a courtyard, and the central space dominated by a dome. This was considered
“Islamic architecture” despite its French authorship, whereas in the case of the
Argentine pavilion it was considered the product of modern imagination, itself
one that proceeded from an apparent vacuum, with “the absence of any charac-
teristic architectural style.” While Ballu employed more traditional Beaux-Arts
methods and stone construction for the Algerian pavilion, the Argentine pavilion
was an example of industrial style. Distancing itself from the Spanish colonial
legacy (and the other Latin American nations that decided to claim it) was a
programmatic idea for the Argentine commission, and utilizing the modern
industrial style for its structure was crucial. Iron architecture did not distinguish
itself by virtue of the novelty of the material alone, but rather, as we have pointed
out, it had become part of the working rationale of engineers. The corrugated
iron sheets—with no ornaments but their own undulation—were generated for
the construction of a structure with no commitment to forms of the past.
The aesthetic potential of efficiency, simplicity, and standardized production
was embodied by a structure that seemed to apply a mechanical metaphor in
building construction: a structure that would look like and be used as a machine.
As a result of the structural calculated possibilities of iron and steel, the rational
formal language proper to the new material came to match the rational principles
the exhibition embodied in the presentation of raw materials, industrial products,
and archaeological displays. In the words of the Argentine exhibit’s commissioner
Santiago Alcorta, “The Argentine section has incited a special interest, not just
for the products presented but also for its display; its luxurious installations, the
adornments with plans and charts and also the photographs called everybody’s
attention . . . our mineral samples, the secret treasure of our land, have been
shown under the most rigorous forms of scientific classification.”15
Figure 3.7 Pavilion of Argentina, Paris Exhibition, 1889. Courtesy of the Library of Congress,
Washington, DC.
The iron structure provided not only the mechanical metaphor and the mod-
ern functionality the exhibition intended to exemplify but also a clean surface on
which the national symbols could be attached. In a letter published in the Buenos
Aires newspaper La Prensa days before the inauguration of the pavilion, the chief
commissioner Julio Victorica wrote to the president of the Senate,
When I was in Buenos Aires I did not approve of the fact that the delegation here
had to pay so much attention to the ornamentation, but now when I see how oth-
ers have done so and that we have surpassed them, I am proud as an Argentine that
our nation is represented in such manner, and as everything has been done for its
transportation to Buenos Aires, where we do not have these kinds of constructions
to embellish our squares and garden, this ornamentation would not be superfluous.
Our national colors had been somewhat neglected in the interior paintings and in
the glass windows, but I took care of that omission and now it has been mended.16
The visual effect of the profuse ornamentation of the structure—covered in

mosaics, porcelains, stained glass, ceramics, and decorative sculptures—served
to cover the iron structure and provide a statement of the nation’s wealth: “Mr.
Ballu wanted to remind everyone of the wealth of the Argentine Republic. It is
all but precious stones and earthenware in terracotta, stained glasses of a com-
pletely new system employed in mosaics, decorative sculptures ornamenting the
pendants of the interior cupola. The entire pavilion is covered in porcelains,

mosaics, and stained glass. In one word, luxury everywhere.”17
The modern iron and glass structure of the Argentine pavilion was covered
with the aesthetic motifs that served to disguise its industrial nature—technical
modernism within the trappings of bourgeois aesthetic culture. These efforts did
not succeed in covering the chasm opened up by industrial style; and the per-
fect materialization of its modern utopian image based on visibility, order, and
transparency was achieved through light itself: “All the glass plasters are illumi-
nated by electric light. More than nine hundred illuminated points will give this
palace, every night, a fairylike aspect.”18 As gas lighting became associated with
something dismal, oppressive, and old, electrical technologies in the exhibition
were transforming the very processes of mass display, and the spectacular night-
time illumination became one of the chief displays of modern technology in the
Gallery of Machines and the Eiffel Tower, giving way to their designations as “la
Ville Lumière” (the City of Light). Its reorganization of perceptual experience—
electricity as formless, invisible, and capable of infinite transformations—adds to
the rational and enchanting elements of the dream image. The Argentine pavilion
partook in this vision—“magical effects for domestic use,” as Benjamin called it
in “Mondnächte in der Rue La Boétie” (“Moonlit Nights on the Rue La Boétie”;
1928, 108)—and matched the technical structure of iron and glass with its tech-
nological counterpart, electricity. Spectacle and commodity fused in its glittering
polychromatic colors. The Argentine pavilion as a spectacle of light was in itself
offered as an object of visual consumption.
In the decades after the 1889 Universal Exhibition, Latin American countries
would become avid consumers of European industrialized products, including
iron buildings. Railway stations, greenhouses, public markets, theaters, pergo-
las, and other venues were found for the cast-iron structures, which would soon
change the physiognomy of Latin American capitals and peripheral cities antici-
pating the emergence of modern architecture.19 According to the plans of the
1889 Commission, the Argentine pavilion was rebuilt in Plaza San Martín, the
central square in downtown Buenos Aires, which was soon surrounded by elegant
Beaux-Arts palaces of the bourgeoisie. In 1895, it became the site of the Museum
of Fine Arts and was the main exhibition site at the 1910 centennial celebrations.
It would be dismantled in 1933 after urban reform reshaped the area. Though the
Mexican commission thought of making the Aztec palace into an archaeological
museum, it was never rebuilt in Mexico or anywhere.20 By the time the participa-
tion at the Paris 1900 Universal Exhibition was planned, the neoclassical style
had replaced the iron structure as the architectural style now favored by the local
elite. The iron and glass structures of the Mexican and Argentine pavilions in
the 1889 Exhibition were the modernizing facade of the urban transformations
taking place at the turn of the century. In their appeal to technical resolution,
functionality, and modern aesthetics, they became “the hollow mold from which
the image of ‘modernity’ was cast” (Benjamin 874). The mobilization of both
modern and archaic emblems and the aesthetic negotiations of these structures
illustrate the “constructedness” and fragmentary nature of images of national
culture and their representative value. As technologies of nationhood, it is not
only their realized contemporaneity that speaks to our present time but precisely
their incomplete modernity—the encrustation of anachronisms, archaisms, and
ornaments—that renders them so figurally rich.
Notes
1. On the critical debate regarding Benjamin’s Parisian exposés of 1935 and 1939, see
Susan Buck-Morss, The Origin of Negative Dialectics (New York: Free P, 1977); Marga-
ret Cohen, “Benjamin’s Phantasmagoria,” in New German Critique 48 (Autumn 1989):
87–107; and Rebecca Comay, “Materialist Mutations of the Bilderverbot,” in Walter
Benjamin and Art, ed. Andrew Benjamin (London: Continuum, 2005).
2. For a reading of the complexity of Benjamin’s use of the dream device for historical
analysis, see Stathis Gourgouris, “The Dream Reality of the Ruin,” in Does Literature
Think? Literature as Theory for an Antimythical Era (Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 2003).
3. “Elle sera en même temps la preuve éclatante des progrès réalisés en ce siècle par l’art des
ingénieurs” (Lanoux 35). All translations are by the author, unless a published transla-
tion is indicated.
4. “Il suffit d’ailleurs . . . de se figurer une Tour vertigineusement ridicule, dominant Paris,
ainsi qu’une noire et gigantesque cheminée d’usine, écrasant de sa masse barbare Notre-
Dame, La Sainte-Chapelle, la tour Saint-Jacques, le Louvre, le dôme des Invalides, l’Arc
de Triomphe, tous nos monuments humiliés, toutes nos architectures rapetissées, qui
disparaîtront dans ce rêve stupéfiant” (qtd. in Lanoux 46).
5. Jules Ferry held several positions in the years of the Third Republic and he was twice
prime minister (1880–81; 1883–85). He is associated with two major events: the non-
clerical organization of public schools and the beginning of French colonial expansion:
the establishment of the protectorate in Tunis, the exploration of Congo and Niger
regions, the occupation of Madagascar, and the conquest and reorganization of Annam
and Tokin in what became Indochina. The results of French imperialism would feature
prominently in the 1889 Paris Exhibition.
6. The official catalogue of the 1889 Paris Exposition Universelle acknowledges and presents
photographs of the pavilions of Argentina, Brazil, Bolivia, Chile, Dominican Republic,
Ecuador, Guatemala, Mexico, Nicaragua, Paraguay, Uruguay, and Venezuela.
7. On the occasion of the celebration of the 14th of July, Edmond de Goncourt made a
notation in his infamous diary on the legitimacy of the Third Republic as guardian of
the historic legacy of the French Revolution: “The anniversary, noisily proclaimed by the
guns of the good city of Paris, of the Revolution of ’89, that revolution which turned
the great France of old into the ridiculous little France of today and endowed it with the
present-day government, in which, out of seven ministers composing it, three at least
deserve to be sent to prison” (347).
8. In his Journal, Edmond de Goncourt treats this exhibit as “a red light district” in Çelik
and Kinney’s terms. After the visit to the Eiffel Tower, Goncourt and his party descend
to the replica of the Egyptian street where “every evening all the erotic curiosity of Paris
is concentrated” (348). As Tim Mitchell has studied, these exhibits provided the direct
experience of a colonized object-world, before restricted to travel and Orientalist litera-
ture, proving the integral relationship between representation, as a modern technique of
order and meaning, and the construction of Otherness so crucial to the colonial project
(290).
9. “L’avenir est à eux, et nous, leurs aînés, qui les avons précédés et leur avons montré la
voie, qui, sur ces terres nouvelles, despuis des siècles, déversons le trop-plein de notre
population, ces éléments disparates, dangereux pour des civilisations vieillies, recrues
désirables pour des civilisations naissantes, ces impatientes de vie libre et des grands
espaces, nous pouvons être fiers des résultats obtenus par ces enfants de l’Europe. Ce
sont eux, Français et Anglais, Espagnols et Portugais, Irlandais et Italiens, qui ont fondé,
créé ces républiques florissantes et ce vaste empire du Brésil, colonisé et mis en valeur ces
terres inconnues, ouvert aux besoins d’expansion et aux capitaux de l’ancien monde un
champ sans limite” (Varigny 837–38).
10. Most notably, see Catalogue général officiel. Exposition Universelle de 1889 à Paris (Lille:
Danel, 1889); Alfred Picard, L’Exposition Universelle 1889. Rapports du jury international
(Paris: Imprimerie Nationale, 1891); Émile Monod, L’Exposition Universelle de 1889
(Paris: Dentu, 1890); Guide bleu du Figaro (Paris: Le Figaro, 1889); and Louis Rousselet,
L’Exposition Universelle de 1889 (Paris: Hachette, 1890).
11. Historian Tenorio-Trillo states that “Mexico in nineteenth-century world’s fairs shared
Europe’s orientalist and exoticist concerns and in turn undertook an ‘auto-ethnography.’
It fed the hunger of these exhibitions for exotic objects and people” (7).
12. For a detailed description of the construction of the pavilion and its archeological motifs,
see Tenorio-Trillo 7.
13. The designation of E. Cambaceres as the commission’s representative in Paris is interest-
ing, though not surprising. Having renounced his former life in politics, he wrote four
novels between 1881 and 1887, which were informed by the contradictions of modern
liberal thought as it was embraced by the Latin American elites, and critically parodied
the principles of literary and political representation. Josefina Ludmer characterized him
as “a unique figure in the coalition [of liberal intellectuals] because he constitutes its ideo-
logical and literary vanguard . . . [His and Lucio V. Mansilla’s lives] synthesize this specific
combination of the Creole and the European that is one of the marks of high culture”
(30–31); not unlike the features he championed in the Argentine exhibit. He died in
Buenos Aires in 1889 before the pavilion was inaugurated and Alcorta took his place as
official envoy (see Alcorta).
14. “C’est M. Ballu, l’architecte dont le nom dispense de tout éloge, qui a fait le Pavillon
Argentin. Au lieu de reproduire des monuments comme il l’a fait dans la section algéri-
enne, et en l’absence d’une architecture caractéristique dans le genre de celle du Pavillon
Mexicain, M. Ballu s’est lancé hardiment dans toutes les innovations que son imagina-
tion lui a suggérées. Il a tellement réussi, qu’il prétend avoir été plagié dans d’autres
installations qui ne sont pas loin de celle-là” (162; emphasis mine).
15. “La sección argentina ha ofrecido especial interés, no sólo por los productos presentados
sino también por su exhibición; sus lujosas instalaciones, los arreglos con planos y tablas
y también fotografías han llamado la atención de todos . . . también las muestras mine-
rales, el tesoro secreto de nuestra tierra, han sido mostradas bajo la más rigurosa forma
científica de clasificación” (23).
16. “Cuando estaba en Buenos Aires no me parecía bien que la comisión aquí se hubiese
preocupado tanto por los adornos, pero hoy que veo en los demás el mismo empeño
y que a todos los hemos sobrepasado, me siento orgulloso como argentino que nuestra
patria esté así representada y, como todo está hecho para ser transportado a Buenos Aires,
donde no tenemos estas construcciones para adornar nuestras plazas y jardines, nunca
estará de más esta ornamentación. En las pinturas interiores y en los vidrios se habían
olvidado un poco nuestros colores nacionales, pero sin dificultad conseguí que esta omis-
ión fuera salvada” (La Prensa, May 23, 1889).
17. “M. Ballu a voulu rappeler partout la richesse de la République Argentine. Ce ne sont
que pierres précieuses et faïences enchâssées dans les terres cuites, vitraux d’un sys-
tème absolument nouveau, employés en mosaïques, sculptures décoratives ornant les
pendentifs de la grande coupole à l’interieur. Tout le pavillon est revêtu de porcelaines,

mosaïques, vitraux. En un mot, le luxe partout” (Guide bleu du Figaro 163).
18. “Tous les cabochons de verre extérieurs sont éclairés à la lumière électrique. Plus de neuf
cents points lumineux donneront à ce palais, tous les soirs, un aspect féerique” (163).
19. The bibliography on the emergence of modern Latin American architecture is extensive
and diverse. For an overview, see Cruelty and Utopia: Cities and Landscapes of Latin
America, ed. Jean-François Lejeune (New York: Princeton Architectural P, 2005). For the
development of modern iron and glass construction at the turn of the century, see José
M. Peña, “Art-Nouveau Stained Glass and Ironwork,” in Journal of Decorative and Propa-
ganda Arts 18, Argentine issue (1992): 222–41; and Gerardo Gomes, “Artistic Intentions
in Iron Architecture,” in JDPA 21 (1995): 86–107.
20. Benjamin writes in the “Iron Construction” section of The Arcades Project, “The Galerie
des Machines, built in 1889, was torn down in 1910 ‘out of artistic sadism’” (160).
Works Cited
Alcorta, Santiago. La República Argentina en la Exposición Universal de 1889. Paris: Mouillot,
1890.
Andermann, Jens. “Tournaments of Value: Argentina and Brazil in the Age of Exhibitions.”
Journal of Material Culture 14.3 (1999): 333–63.
Benjamin, Walter. The Arcades Project. Ed. Rolf Tiedemann. Trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin
McLaughlin. Cambridge, MA: Belknap-Harvard UP, 1999.
———. “Moonlit Nights on the Rue La Boétie.” Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings. Vol. 1,
pt. 2, 1927–30. Ed. Michael W. Jennings, Howard Eiland, and Gary Smith. Trans. Rodney
Livingstone. Cambridge, MA: Belknap-Harvard UP, 2005. 107–9.
Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. New York: Routledge, 1994.
Buck-Morss, Susan. The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades Project. Cam-
bridge, MA: MIT P, 1989.
Çelik, Zeynep and Leila Kinney. “Ethnography and Exhibitionism at the Expositions Univer-
selles.” Assemblages 13 (Dec. 1990): 34–59.
Giedion, Sigfried. Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition. 1941. Cam-
bridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1963.
Goncourt, Edmond and Jules de. Pages from the Goncourt Journals. 1962. Ed. and trans. Robert
Baldick. New York: NYRB, 2007.
Guide bleu du Figaro. L’Exposition Universelle de 1889 à Paris. Paris: Le Figaro, 1889.
Huysmans, Joris-Karl. “Iron.” The Expanding World of Art (1874–1902). Ed. Elizabeth Gilm-
ore Holt. New Haven: Yale UP, 1988. 74–78.
Lanoux, Armand, ed. La Tour Eiffel. Textes et documents rassemblés par Viviane Hamy. Paris: La
Différence, 1980.
Levin, Miriam R. “The Eiffel Tower Revisited.” The French Review 62.6, Special Issue: 1789–
1989 (May 1989): 1052–64.
Ludmer, Josefina. The Corpus Delicti: A Manual of Argentine Fictions. Trans. Glen S. Close.
Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 2004.
Mertins, Detlef. “Walter Benjamin and the Tectonic Unconscious.” Walter Benjamin and Art.
Ed. Andrew Benjamin. London: Continuum, 2005. 148–63.
Mitchell, Timothy. “Orientalism and the Exhibitionary Order.” Colonialism and Culture. Ed.
Nicholas Dirks. Ann Harbor: U of Michigan P, 1992. 289–317.
Notice sur l’exposition historique de la Révolution française. Paris: Société de l’histoire de la Révo-
lution française, 1889.
Richter, Gerhard. “A Matter of Distance: Walter Benjamin’s One Way Street through The
Arcades.” Walter Benjamin and The Arcades Project. Ed. Beatrice Hanssen. London: Con-
tinuum, 2006. 132–56.
Silverman, Deborah. “The 1889 Exhibition: The Crisis of Bourgeois Individualism.” Opposi-
tions 8, Special Issue: Paris Under the Academy: City and Ideology (Spring 1977): 71–91.
Tenorio-Trillo, Mauricio. Mexico at the World’s Fairs: Crafting a Modern Nation. Berkeley: U
of California P, 1996.
Varigny, Charles de. “L’Amérique à L’Exposition Universelle.” Revue des Deux Mondes 95
(Sept.–Oct. 1889): 837–66.
CHAPTER 4
Ecocannibalism
The Greening of Antropofagia
Odile Cisneros
OSWALD DE ANDRADE’S 1925 “MANIFESTO DA POESIA Pau-Brasil” (“Brazilwood

Poetry Manifesto”) and the elaboration of those ideas in his 1928 “Manifesto
Antropófago” (“Cannibalist Manifesto”) constitute the core of one of the most
interesting intellectual experiments in the artistic avant-gardes of the 1920s in
Brazil.1 Both manifestos have a long history of important and often divergent
critical readings. The philosophy embodied in these manifestos, known in criti-
cal circles as antropofagia (Portuguese for cannibalism), has been hailed by some
as a model for cultural decolonization, as in Haroldo de Campos’s essays “Uma
Poética da Radicalidade” (“A Poetics of the Radical”; 1966)2 and “Da Razão
Antropofágica: A Europa Sob o Signo da Devoração” (“Anthropophagous Rea-
son: Dialogue and Difference in Brazilian Culture”; 1981)3 as well as in read-
ings by Benedito Nunes.4 These early readings have been historically important,
particularly for the way they have seen these manifestos as an attempt to create
a space for a Brazilian (and by extension Latin American) culture that resists
and counters Eurocentric models and domination. Subsequent readers, however,
have critiqued antropofagia’s shortcomings in creating such a postcolonial cul-
tural identity, pointing out that its elision of Otherness reveals how Andrade’s
thought is still embedded in colonialist thought.5 Still others find fault with the
gender and sexual politics of antropofagia because, as one critic argues, while on
the surface it embraces the feminine and the irrational, in fact “Oswald’s utopia
provides no place for the real woman, whose particularly female social restrictions
the manifesto ignores” (Vinkler 110).
My purpose here is not to elaborate on the positive or negative merits of antro-
pofagia as a viable metaphor for national/postcolonial/gender/sexual identity
constructions, which is an endless discussion that has perhaps reached a point
of saturation. Rather, I would suggest a new way in which the revolutionary and
utopian potential of the “Manifesto Antropófago” and “Manifesto Pau-Brasil”

94 Odile Cisneros
may be unleashed in the light of the eco-turn in literary studies.6 While acknowl-
edging the limits of ecological literary criticism itself as a discipline still in the
making and whose focus on the natural aspects of the world may be seen as overly
narrow, I would like to suggest that subjecting antropofagia to a new “ecoread-
ing” has the advantage of abandoning the age-old binaries that plague the issue
of identity in Latin America while still bringing out the radical political content
that lies at the heart of the anthropophagic project as a critique of capitalism
and anthropocentric thinking. This reading of what are now classics of Brazilian
modernism can recycle, so to speak, the contents of antropofagia and extend their
useful life while bringing its message to bear on the current state of the environ-
ment in Brazil and beyond.7 For this purpose, my essay will center on three issues
central to the contemporary ecocriticism debate and how they are portrayed in
the manifestos: first, the focus on the landscape and natural world as the Other;
second, the focus on a return to Nature (rather than to a state of primitivism)
through a questioning of the artificial divide between nature and culture; and
third, a reading of the figure of the cannibal and of anthropophagy in general as
a metaphor for recycling (cultural and otherwise), with all the connotations that
this paradigm shift entails, including a critique of capitalism.
Before tackling these issues as they specifically relate to Andrade’s manifestos,
a brief discussion of some of the thinking behind what has come to be called
ecocriticism might be in order. Although the first mention of the relationship
between literature and ecology dates back to the early 1970s, debates on what
has been termed ecocriticism or green studies only really took off in the late 1980s
and early 1990s (as Peter Barry explains in a survey of literary theory).8 Much like
the parallel discussion of British cultural materialism and American new histori-
cism, ecocriticism developed in North America and in Britain roughly around the
same time, but with a slightly different ancestry and emphasis (Barry 251). In the
United States, ecocritics took their cue from the nineteenth-century American
transcendentalists Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, and Marga-
ret Fuller, whose books—Nature (1836), On Walden Pond (1854), and Summer
on the Lakes, in 1843 (1844), respectively—became foundational works of eco-
centered writing (Barry 250). In Britain, the foundational moment was British
romanticism, particularly toward a reevaluation of Wordsworth as a “nature
poet,” as in Jonathan Bate’s Romantic Ecology: Wordsworth and the Environmen-
tal Tradition (1991), a fundamental departure from important and apparently
definitive Marxist readings such as those by Jerome McGann and Alan Liu (Barry
250–53).9 Two important collections of essays in the United States and Britain
became the main sourcebooks for ecocentered writing: The Ecocriticism Reader:
Landmarks in Literary Ecology (1996), coedited by Cheryll Glotfelty and Harold
Fromm, and The Green Studies Reader: From Romanticism to Ecocriticism (2000),
edited by Laurence Coupe.10
Since these early attempts at the “greening” of literature, the field has grown
exponentially with a great number of debates emerging on both sides of the
Atlantic. In Latin America, the practice of ecocriticism is a much more recent
phenomenon. Before moving on to the reception and practice of ecocriticism in
Ecocannibalism 95
Latin America, perhaps a general discussion of some of the issues that have been
raised elsewhere might prove useful.
In the current debates in North America and Europe, ecocritics have attempted
to do a variety of things in their exploration of the relationship between literature
and the environment. One such move has been to challenge some of the funda-
mental assumptions in literary criticism, particularly claims about the linguistic
constructedness of reality—that is, the idea that nature itself is a linguistic or
theoretical construct. A typical work in this vein is Kate Soper’s What is Nature?
(1998), where in an oft-quoted phrase, the author notes that “[i]t isn’t language
which has a hole in its ozone layer” (151). This challenge to the privilege that
criticism has accorded to the linguistic construction of the world also relates to
another fundamental goal of the ecocritical project: the attempt to undo a deep-
seated anthropocentric bias that locates humans at the center of everything.11
Furthermore, the focus on nature and the landscape for itself (and not as a
representation of the inner life of humans) adds a different perspective: invert-
ing the terms where outer is a metaphor for inner, outer is simply outer. In this
respect, ecocritics do not necessarily privilege culture over nature; instead, they
celebrate nature for itself. This seems a particularly urgent task as a warning about
the threats to the environment, something that can potentially affect all humans
regardless of class, race, gender, sexual, or national identity. This is where the
already obvious political aspect of ecocriticism becomes explicit: the attention to
the landscape and nature in literary works may function as a warning that our
patterns of production and consumption significantly threaten natural balance.
Furthermore, as Bate argues, “works of art can themselves be imaginary states of
nature, imaginary ideal ecosystems, and by reading them, by inhabiting them, we
can start to imagine what it might be like to live differently upon the earth” (The
Song of the Earth 250–51).
In Latin America, environmental activists and educators have long issued
warnings about ecological threats.12 However, the field of literary ecocriticism is
still fairly new. For instance, one of the first theoretical discussions of ecocriticism
in Brazil appeared in 2006.13 On the creative side of literature, writers and intel-
lectuals have also joined in the debate. In Mexico, for instance, the contemporary
poet Homero Aridjis, in both deed and letter, has paid enormous attention to a
variety of ecological issues from endangered species, such as whales and tortoises,
to opposition to nuclear power plant projects.14 The Brazilian poets Haroldo de
Campos (in a poem titled “Nékuia: Fogoazul em Cubatão” [“Nekuia: Bluefire in
Cubatão”] in Crisantempo [Chrysantime; 1998]) and Régis Bonvicino (Remorso
do Cosmos [Remorse of the Cosmos; 2003] and Página Órfã [Orphan Page; 2007])
warn of the deleterious effect of pollution and urban detritus in Brazilian cities.
But perhaps the biggest environmental concern in Brazil is the long-standing
issue of deforestation in the Amazon, the world’s largest tropical rainforest and
home to half of the species on the planet. Recently, it has once again become
an international cause célèbre: on January 24, 2008, according to a BBC report
published online, “The Brazilian government . . . announced a huge rise in the
rate of Amazon deforestation, months after celebrating its success in achieving a
reduction” (“Brazil Amazon deforestation soars”). The report indicated that the
96 Odile Cisneros
increased rate in the loss of land—in the thousands of square kilometers—was

unprecedented for that time of year. The increase was tied to economic pressures
to clear land for soybean crops due to the rise in commodity prices. Clearly, there
is a connection between capitalism and the depletion of natural resources, which
should be a concern for all, including literary critics. But how can these issues be
foregrounded in canonical texts of modern Brazilian culture (such as the “Mani-
festo Pau-Brasil” and “Manifesto Antropófago”) so they can come to bear on the
pressing environmental issues that face Brazil and the entire planet?
Before exploring this question, it might be interesting to ask why the con-
cern with nature has for the most part not caught the attention of literary critics
in Latin America thus far.15 It seems to me that part of the problem in bring-
ing nature and the environment into focus in the context of Latin American
literature (and in this case Brazil) has been the dominant paradigms of nature
versus culture, and civilization versus barbarism that have been in place practically
from the beginning of history—at least literary history—in Latin America. From
the colonizer’s perspective, Latin America and its native peoples were linked to
nature as a territory and force to be dominated; thus it is not surprising that intel-
lectuals and writers have long been suspicious of celebrations of nature, which
have often been seen as literal pretexts to colonization and exploitation. Con-
sequently, the descriptions of nature found in Brazilian romantic classics such
as José de Alencar’s O Guarani (The Guarani; 1857) and Iracema (1865) were
thought to be European(ized) romantic versions or distortions of Brazil and were
therefore rejected by subsequent generations of writers and intellectuals, includ-
ing Andrade. His project has mostly been perceived as an attempt to resist such
metropolitan visions of Brazil as a virgin land to be conquered. He attempted to
create viable models for a modern, urban, and tropical civilization equally distant
from the romantic and Eurocentric visions as from a jingoistic manifestation of
national pride in the landscape—as in Brazil’s Ufanismo (Boastful nationalism),
which is exemplified in a treatise by Afonso Celso from 1900, Porque Me Ufano
do Meu País (Why I Boast About My Country),16 and later taken up by the rival
avant-garde factions: Verdeamarelismo (Green-Yellowism) and Anta (Tapir).17
But while it is true that such projects exist in both the “Manifesto Pau-Brasil”
and the “Manifesto Antropófago,” we can still reflect on the fact that Andrade
does not ignore or simply ironize the Brazilian landscape in these works. What
happens if we remove the quotes around the word nature and begin instead to
look more closely at the images and references to nature and the natural world?
Does a potential alternative view emerge in which the landscape is viewed for
itself, exemplifying certain basic concepts such as growth and energy, balance
and imbalance, symbiosis and mutuality, sustainable or unsustainable uses of
resources, to mention a few terms ecocritics propose as relevant categories for
ecocritical analysis?
For one thing, it is worth noting that the “Manifesto Pau-Brasil” was indeed
named after the plant indigenous to Brazil that became the first commodity to
be exploited and exported. This has often been read as the icon of a “poetry for
export” when the concern was to stress Brazil’s desire to compete in the world
market of culture. On the other hand, it may also lead us to a less cheerful
Ecocannibalism 97
reflection on the exploitation of Brazil’s natural resources, or as Andrade puts

it in the “Manifesto Pau-Brasil”: “The entire history of the Penetration and the
commercial history of the Americas” (135). This phrase clearly links the discov-
ery and exploration of the New World to the commercial aims of the colonizers.
For Andrade, however, nature that is “[a] rich vegetation. Minerals” (135)
should and indeed does harmoniously coexist with “[a] rich ethnic formation”
(135), meaning the native and mixed populations, and “[c]uisine. Shrimp
stew, gold, and dance” (135). In these images of the “Manifesto Pau-Brasil,”
elements of the natural world (plants and minerals) are placed metonymi-
cally side by side with culture (ethnic formations, food, and dance). In this
juxtaposition, there is no hierarchical structure of one dominating the other,
which constitutes a model for sustainability. Significantly, the manifesto
closes with a reiteration of such a vision of balance, symbiosis, and mutuality,
although recognizing perhaps its naïve optimism: “Barbarians, picturesque,
and credulous. Brazilwood. The forest and the school. The kitchen, miner-
als, and dance. Vegetation. Brazilwood” (136). Note here the occurrence of
three terms that reference nature: “the forest,” “minerals,” and “vegetation”
(not counting “[b]razilwood”), finding a balance with other less natural and
more cultural elements: “the school,” “[t]he kitchen,” and “dance,” which per-
haps symbolize human activities—education, economic production, and art.
The balance is not only a mathematical quid pro quo but also the alternating
sequence suggests a mutuality and symbiosis of natural elements and human
activity (cultural, economic, and artistic) coexisting in harmony side by side.
The “Manifesto Pau-Brasil” already contains many of the seeds of the critique
of European culture that the “Manifesto Antropófago” brings to full flower. Often
these critiques involve a contrast between Brazil or the New World and Europe,
and between nature and culture seeking to remedy the imbalance. Thus the “Man-
ifesto Pau-Brasil” recommends “[a]gainst the fatality of the first landed white
man and diplomatically dominating the savage jungle” (135). Note here that
the adverb “diplomatically” modifying “dominating” suggests the opposite of the
forceful domination and deforestation of the “savage jungle” by the Europeans in
their quest for brazilwood.18 Accepting the human necessity to make use of natu-
ral resources, however, Andrade advocates a more sustainable, “diplomatic” use.
The “Manifesto Pau-Brasil” also makes references to an inauthentic natural-
ism, the nineteenth-century European discipline of natural science established
to observe and empirically study nature, usually for the purposes of domina-
tion: “From naturalism to household pyrography and a tourist’s Kodak” and “[a]
gainst the naturalist’s shrewdness—synthesis” (136). The natural science practice
involved collecting natural specimens and sending them to Europe for study and
classification as opposed to the home practice of pyrography, literally a kind of
writing (or drawing) on wood through burn marks. The term household here is
significant; not only was pyrography a domestic hobby, but perhaps Andrade is
suggesting that such writings about nature should not occur in Europe, a place
remote from where the natural samples were collected. Rather, they should occur
in their properly domestic place of origin, namely, Brazil. This, in a way, is a call for
Brazilians to develop their own knowledge about the natural environment instead
98 Odile Cisneros
of relying on the knowledge generated by foreign colonial powers. The image

of directly writing on wood is also suggestive given the title of the collection.
Furthermore, “Kodak” is both a reference to the original title of a poetry collec-
tion (later named Documentaires [Documentaries; 1924] by the Swiss poet Blaise
Cendrars, who was invited to visit Brazil by Andrade),19 as well as perhaps a hint
at Andrade’s photographic style of writing. Perhaps this suggests an even more
unmediated type of writing, since photography literally means writing with light.
Further, against the naturalist’s “shrewd” (meaning perhaps analytic) approach to
nature, Andrade also recommends a more holistic approach of “synthesis,” which
etymologically suggests joining in rather than a separation from nature.
Interestingly, this detail of a synthesis with nature often escapes critics who see
Andrade’s project solely as a defense of primitivism and not as what would more
accurately be characterized as a return to nature; in a Thoreauvian sense, back to
the basics that have been forgotten in the process of “civilization.” The “Manifesto
Pau-Brasil,” for instance, defends “[l]anguage minus the archaisms. Minus the eru-
dition. Natural and neologistic. The million-dollar contribution of all mistakes”
(135). This formulation is rich in associations. It implies not only natural language,
meaning already existing and opposed to the artificial grammars and construc-
tions of linguists, but also language as it was readily spoken on the streets. Andrade
saw the Brazilian vernacular, which often broke the rules of standard continental
Portuguese, as a richer “[n]atural” language whose “million-dollar contribution”
Brazilians should embrace, not only in everyday speech, but also in literature. The
adjective neologistic is also interesting because it suggests not only neologism as in
a new word but also neologic in the sense of a new logic, a new way of thinking,
perhaps characteristic of this return to nature afforded by the New World. The
“Manifesto Antropófago” also identifies this natural approach with Brazil (and the
Americas more broadly) and contrasts it with the disciplinary European attitude.
Andrade, for instance, compares a living language—“we never had grammars”
(139)—to its naturalistic (meaning European scientific) codification: “collections
of old plants” (139). An artificially dried, classified—indeed ossified—nature,
a “canned consciousness” as opposed to “the palpable existence of life.”20 And
whereas the “Manifesto Pau-Brasil” favors neologic natural language (or tongue),
the “Manifesto Antropófago” throws the reader off by ironically referencing the
“prelogical mentality, a topic for Mr. Lévy-Bruhl’s studies” (“para o Sr. Lévy-Bruhl
estudar,” in Portuguese).21 It also gives a playful nod at the popular saying “para
inglês ver” (literally, “for the Englishman to see,” meaning doing something for the
sake of recognition by powerful colonial foreigners) and what Michel Foucault later
identified as the close relationship between knowledge and power.
The “Manifesto Antropófago” also deploys references to the natural environ-
ment as a powerful source of life; organic beings in a condition of sustainable
growth: “[T]he spirit . . . against the plant elites. In communication with the
ground”; “magic and life”; “Jaci [a Tupi lunar deity] is the mother of plants”
(140). All these images portray a state of nature where the forces of life are in bal-
ance, in “communication” (also communion) with one another. The ecological
balance of this natural environment was disrupted by the arrival of the white man
and his “objectified,” “corpse-like ideas,” his “codification of Magic” (140), and
Ecocannibalism 99
his “catalogs, antagonic sublimations.” In keeping with the theme of the “pre-
logical” mind that has no place for contradictions or logical categories, the white
man’s arrival brought dead, objective (objectified) ideas. In Eurocentric thinking,
magic is no longer a life force, but a codified system, and plants are no longer
living beings and forces. In a word, the arrival of the European has imposed
instrumental reason for colonial domination and environmental devastation.
Of course the ultimate rebellion to this state of affairs is the anthropophagous
“bárbaro tecnizado” (“technicized barbarian”) who doesn’t necessarily reject tech-
nology but only approves of those forms of technology that are not detrimental
to the environment. Thus the “Manifesto Antropófago” censors “catalogs and
TV sets,” instruments of classification and surveillance, to once more suggest an
avant-la-lettre echo of Foucault; but it admits instead “only machinery and blood
transfusion machines” for their productive and life-giving power.
The image of a blood transfusion where a donor and a receiver are involved
in a symbiotic relationship has been identified by Else Ribeiro Pires Vieira as an
appropriate metaphor for the dynamics of postcolonial assimilation of culture in
Haroldo de Campos, particularly in the area of translation: “Also in the space of
trans is the notion of a translation as transfusion of blood . . . a more conspicu-
ously anthropophagic metaphor that moves translation beyond the dichotomy of
source/target and sites original and translation in a third dimension, where each
is both donor and receiving” (97). As mentioned earlier, Haroldo de Campos
famously developed Andrade’s metaphor of the cannibal as cultural digestion and
resynthesis as a decolonizing strategy in “Da Razão Antropofágica.” This is a
powerful and suggestive argument. In the particular focus of my essay, though, I
am less interested in bringing out the cannibal as a cultural equalizer or inverter
of power relations, as I am going beyond the power dynamics to explore the
simpler motif of the cannibal as a natural recycler devouring and reprocessing
cultural products, cultural compost. The analysis that follows owes much to an
essay by Valérie Bénéjam titled “The Reprocessing of Trash in Ulysses: Recycling
and (Post)Creation” (2010).
As Bénéjam has noted, the recycling of material is intimately connected to
the ephemeral nature of objects whose useful life is limited, such as packaging,
newspapers, and magazines. This also relates closely to the context in which the
“Manifesto Antropófago” was published, namely, Revista de Antropofagia, which
appeared in two “dentitions” (Andrade’s punning term for the editions of a can-
nibalist review): first in a magazine that lasted only one year and then literally
as a page on the Estado de São Paulo newspaper. Bénéjam suggests that in James
Joyce’s Ulysses (1922), the figure of Bloom can be seen as an exemplar, ingenious
recycler in a variety of ways that include the recycling of cultural products that
have been relegated to waste to produce new cultural meanings by alteration. In
other words, like the cannibal, Bloom takes the refuse (just as, say, old newspa-
pers and used containers become irrelevant) and extends their useful life through
transformation that makes them relevant once more.
This is borne out by the cannibalist method practiced by Andrade himself
in his own creative works. In the section of the poetry collection Pau-Brasil
titled “História do Brasil” (History of Brazil; 1925), Andrade recycled fragments
100 Odile Cisneros
of chronicles by colonial historians. The chronicles, written by figures such as

Pêro Vaz de Caminha, Pero Magalhães Gândavo, Claude d’Abbeville, and
Friar Vicente do Salvador, are rescued from the oblivion of the shelves of the
Bibliothèque Nationale in Paris, where Andrade resided for some time during
Pau-Brasil’s composition. The fragments of chronicles are changed through cut-
ting and splicing, thus recycling them into new use as modernist poems. We
should note that from the perspective of the modernist writer, instead of being
discarded like trash—the useless documents of an oppressive colonial past—these
chronicles are given new life through this recycling operation that extends their
useful life, albeit under a radical alteration. Like reused materials, the documents
(although still recognizable) have lost their original form and shape as sources of
colonial historical authority and are instead put to use in a poetic project that
attempts to playfully but also critically and ironically revisit Brazil’s national past.
The recycling of intellectual property by other writers can also acquire the
less virtuous form of plagiarism, as in Andrade’s ingenious recycling of William
Shakespeare into his felicitous pun in the “Manifesto Antropófago,” “Tupi or
not Tupi—that is the question” (139), which coincidentally, is also a punning
reference to human waste products. In different contexts, borrowing and using
not only involve both innovative inversion and perversion but also could be con-
sidered a provocation or at least a reminder of the possibility of infringing on the
property rights of others. Although parodic use of creative works is not generally
considered plagiarism by criminal codes, there is still the insinuation of the finan-
cial tyranny of copyright in this gesture and in Andrade’s note at the beginning
of his novel Serafim Ponte Grande (Seraphim Grosse Pointe; 1933), where he grants
the “right to be translated, reproduced, and deformed in all languages.”22 This
playful yet corrosive attack on a particular form of private property—that is,
authors’ rights—is also implicitly a critique of capitalism.
Serafim Ponte Grande, like his earlier novel Memórias Sentimentais de João
Miramar (Sentimental Memoirs of John Seaborne; 1924), brings out another aspect
of recycling noted by Bénéjam. She notes “the measure of Joyce’s predilection
for what usually passes as literary trash.” Like Finnegans Wake (1939), these two
novels recycle “the trivia of current newspapers and periodicals,” producing, as
Haroldo de Campos has noted, a bric-a-brac mixture of linguistic snippets—
everything from overheard conversation to fait divers. Again, Bénéjam extends
the recycling metaphor to the linguistic composition of these works: “The reus-
able parts have been removed, and fitted again onto new sentences . . . you could
even say that the words have been shredded, blended, melted down, remixed
and recombined with other materials to produce new words and a new text.” In
other words, “Joyce’s consciousness of such recycling appears in the declension,
throughout Finnegans Wake, of the litter/letter paronomasia: drawing letter from
litter, he gradually produces his own litteringture” (Bénéjam). Although on a
smaller scale, Andrade’s recycling project in these two novels is very similar. As an
author, he is a cannibal recycler who creates new meanings from old, useless ones,
exemplifying in the process a way in which literature constantly renews itself in
a sustainable fashion.
Ecocannibalism 101
So what lies at stake in proposing the cannibal as a contemporary recycling

mechanism? What new and different insights may this focus afford? Haroldo de
Campos had posited the cannibal as resynthesizer of European materials and ener-
gies into a new almagest that would allow the Latin American to stand the same
ground as the European, allowing the symbiotic relationship between the two
to be recognized (“Anthropophagous Reason” 173–74). Yet, for all de Campos’s
espousal of the Derridean attack on plenitude, he remains haunted by the specter
of originality. De Campos wants to claim originality for this Latin American
mechanism that will have a political decolonizing value. A reading of antropofagia
that views the cannibal simply as recycler, devoid of this decolonizing imperative,
would correspond in our present world to what Marilyn Randall terms “a gen-
eration whose faith in originality was confronted by the (re)discovery of its very
impossibility. Recycling . . . [is also] a practice whose virtue derives from a context
of crisis in which the production of waste has become a primary, rather than a
secondary activity. Translated into the cultural realm, the notions of exhaustion
and of the gratuitous production of the worthless loom behind the metaphor.”
To conclude, I hope I have shown some new perspectives that can be gained by
reading antropofagia under the green lens of ecocriticism. Specifically, a focus on
the references to nature as significant and not simple ironic inversions, the need
to return to nature, and the exploration of the cannibal as recycler might help
us view these canonical works of Brazilian literature as manifestos for ecojustice,
thus extending their useful life into the twenty-first century and tapping their
powerful utopian political energies for a sustained and sustainable generation of
new meanings. In a word, by greening antropofagia, we can recycle the 1920s’
“Caraíba revolution” into a twenty-first century ecocannibalism.
Notes
1. All quotations from the “Manifesto da Poesia Pau-Brasil” or “Manifesto Pau-Brasil” for
short (titled “Falação” [Talk] in the poetry collection Pau-Brasil) come from the latest
edition of Pau-Brasil by Oswald de Andrade, and all quotations from the “Manifesto
Antropófago” come from the original version in Revista de Antropofagia. The translation
of these texts, a selection of which was published in The Oxford Book of Latin American
Poetry, is by the author—including the quotes that were omitted from this selection. All
other translations are also by the author, unless a published translation is indicated.
2. In this introduction to a 1966 edition of Andrade’s collected poetry, de Campos noted
how the poetic language renovation led by Andrade in Pau-Brasil was the sign of a newly
emerging national sensibility: “Being radical language-wise, he found, while drilling
into the fossilized strata of convention, the restlessness of the new Brazilian man” (“An
Oswald de Andrade Triptych” 203).
3. That essay, published originally in 1981, proposes an early postcolonial reading of
antropofagia:
I believe that in Brazil, with Oswald de Andrade’s “Anthropophagy” in the

1920s (revisited in the 1950s, as a philosophical-existential cosmic vision, in
his thesis A crise da filosofia messiânica [The Crisis of Messianic Philosophy]), we
experienced the strong urge to rethink the national in a dialogic and dialectic
102 Odile Cisneros
relationship with the universal. Oswald’s “Anthropophagy” . . . is a thought

of critical devoration of the universal cultural heritage, formulated not from
the submissive and reconciled perspective of the “noble savage” (idealized by
the model of European virtues in the “nativist” vein of Brazilian romanticism,
by Gonçalves Dias and José de Alencar, for example), but from the disabused
point of view of the “bad savage,” devourer of whites, the cannibal. This last
view does not involve submission (conversion), but, rather, trans-culturation,
or, better, “trans-valorization”: a critical view of history as a negative function
(in Nietzsche’s sense), capable of appropriation and of expropriation, of de-
hierarchization, of deconstruction. (“Anthropophagous Reason” 159–60)
4. Benedito Nunes’s 1979 book Oswald Canibal (Cannibal Oswald) traces the European
avant-garde aesthetic origins of the trope of the cannibal, but argues for the original-
ity of Andrade, who, according to Nunes, while aware of these uses, bases his own
anthropophagic theories on primitivist sources derived more from the social sciences.
Nunes defends “o caráter específico da antropofagia oswaldiana, como ensaio de crítica
virulenta, que atinge, ao mesmo tempo, visando à desmitificação da história escrita, a
sociedade patriarcal à que esta deu nascimento [the specific character of Oswald’s anthro-
pophagy, as an attempt at a virulent critique that targets, at the same time, while aiming
at a demystifying written history, the patriarchal society that such history gave rise to]”
(36). In “A Antropofagia ao Alcance de Todos” (Anthropophagy at everyone’s reach),
Nunes’s introduction to the volume A Utopia Antropofágica: A Antropofagia ao Alcance
de Todos (Anthropophagic utopia: Anthropophagy at everyone’s reach; 1990) of Oswald
de Andrade’s Obras Completas (Complete works) is a detailed analysis of the “Manifesto
Antropófago” that warns readers not to look for a discursive and careful philosophical
reasoning but rather for “a cadeia de imagens que ligam a intuição poética densa à con-
ceituação filosófica esquematizada [a chain of images that link dense poetic intuition to
schematic philosophical concepts]” (39).
5. According to Leslie Bary, Andrade’s anthropophagy “establishes national identity
through the dominated inclusion of Otherness, thereby fetishizing heterogeneity and
interdicting the imagination of a community with a truly pluralistic power base” (13).
For Bary, the “nationalist cultural project [of the ‘Manifesto Antropófago,’ or MA] is
a highly ambiguous one because, through the form its emancipatory intent takes, this
document fetishizes Brazil and the idea of a Brazilian culture” (13). Bary concludes that
“the MA is more interesting for what it reveals about the structure of colonialist thought
and the problems of constituting an identity in the post-colonial context than as a blue-
print for the creation of national culture” (15).
6. When I presented this paper at a conference, Marcos Reigota kindly approached me
and provided me with the reference to his pioneer article, “Brazilian Art and Literature:
Oswald de Andrade’s Contribution to Global Ecology,” which I was unaware of at the
time. His article is the first one to suggest a possible connection between antropofagia and
global ecology, arguing that “[t]he ecological interpretation of the Brazilwood and anthro-
pophagy manifestos must be done in the context of Andrade’s complete work, particularly
as this work filters and reflects the interests of global ecology from cultural, political, and
social points of view—implicitly and explicitly present in the images, phrases, and slogans
of the Andrade text” (363). Reigota also suggests that Andrade “stresses the contributions
of the forest and the school, maintaining a utopian perspective of anthropophagous syn-
thesis of them both” (362). Reigota’s article is illuminating but his discussion is a bit more
general; I provide instead a close reading of both manifestos focusing on three specific
issues: the landscape, the return to nature, and the figure of the cannibal as recycler.
Ecocannibalism 103
7. What Jonathan Bate notes with respect to new “green” readings of Wordsworth could
very well apply to Andrade’s manifestos:
What makes a literary text “classic” is its ability to speak both to its own
time and to later ages; the best readings of classic texts are accordingly those
that have both historical and contemporary force. A green reading of Word-
sworth . . . has strong historical force, for if one historicizes the idea of an
ecological viewpoint—a respect for the earth and a skepticism as to the ortho-
doxy that economic growth and material production are the be-all and end-all
of human society—one finds oneself squarely in the romantic tradition; and
it has strong contemporary force in that it brings romanticism to bear on
what are likely to be some of the most pressing political issues of the com-
ing decades: the greenhouse effect and the depletion of the ozone layer, the
destruction of the tropical rainforest, acid rain, the pollution of the sea, and,
more locally, the concreting of England’s green and pleasant land. (Romantic
Ecology 9)
As we suggested earlier, Andrade’s antropofagia can be read historically from the

postcolonial perspective, as a contestation and reversal of the experience of European
colonization (both political and cultural) vis-à-vis the pristine status of Brazil before the
conquest. Likewise, a contemporary ecological reading that focuses on the images of
nature and the valorization of precolonization ways of life, which can be seen as being
closer to nature, can also be brought to bear on the current threats to the environment
in Brazil and elsewhere.
8. Some notice a coincidence between the rise of ecocriticism and the wane of Marxist
theory as hermeneutical paradigms due perhaps to the debacle of communism in many
parts of the world in the late 1980s and early 1990s. Bate, for example, suggests that many
formerly Marxist critics made the move “from red to green” (Romantic Ecology 8–9).
9. In terms of further differentiation, as Barry notes, “Generally, the preferred American
term is ‘ecocriticism,’ whereas ‘green studies’ is frequently used in the UK, and there is
perhaps a tendency for the American writing to be ‘celebratory’ in tone (occasionally
degenerating into what harder-left critics disparagingly call ‘tree-hugging’), whereas
the British variant tends to be more ‘minatory,’ that is, it seeks to warn us of envi-
ronmental threats emanating from governmental, industrial, commercial, and neo-
colonial forces” (251).
10. Glotfelty noted in 1996 the shocking indifference of literary studies to what she called
the “most pressing contemporary issue of all, namely, the global environmental crisis”
and called for a new critical practice that would acknowledge that “literature does not
float above the material world in some aesthetic ether, but, rather, plays a part in an
immensely complex global system, in which energy, matter, and ideas interact” (xv, xix).
Writing in 2000, Coupe went further, decrying not only the indifference to, but the
outright denial of, nature that theory has brought about: “In seeking to avoid naïvety,
it [theory] has committed what might be called ‘the semiotic fallacy.’ In other words, it
has assumed that because mountains and waters are human at the point of delivery, they
exist only as signified within human culture. Thus they have no intrinsic merit, no value
and no rights. One function of green studies must be to resist this disastrous error: it
belongs, whatever the claims of the theorist to reject the legacy of western ‘Man,’ to ‘the
arrogance of humanism’” (21).
11. Pioneers in this field are critics such as Donna Haraway, who, from her early works (see
Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature [New York: Routledge, 1991]),
104 Odile Cisneros
which challenged the divide between human and cyborg (and human and animal), went
on to seriously focus on human relations with the animal world (see The Companion
Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness [Chicago: Prickly Paradigm,
2003]). Animal rights movements have been around for a while, but a more recent
development is the idea that the environment itself has rights. The publication of Cor-
mac Cullinan’s book Wild Law: A Manifesto for Earth Justice in 2003, for instance, has
spawned an entire field in legal studies called Earth Jurisprudence, dedicated to the idea
that the natural environments (not just its animal populations) should be acknowledged
as legal persons with rights.
12. I would like to point out specifically the work of Marcos Reigota, a distinguished Bra-
zilian environmentalist and educator who has published extensively on environmental
education. Interestingly, this prolific essayist and social scientist decided to turn to the
domain of literature in his book Ecologistas (Ecologists; 1998) in an effort to explore
Félix Guattari’s ideas in Les trois écologies (The Three Ecologies; 1989), which deems that
ecological issues are not only the environment but also social relations and subjectivity
(15). In that book, Reigota combines reflections on the relations between literature and
ecology as well as fictional narratives.
13. A translation of Greg Garrard’s Ecocriticism (New York: Routledge, 2004) was published
in Brazil in 2006 as Ecocrítica (translated by Vera Ribeiro; Brasilia: UNB, 2006).
14. For a discussion of Homero Aridjis and his work on environmentalism, see Dick Russell,
“Homero Aridjis y la ecología” (Homero Aridjis and ecology), in “La luz queda en el aire”:
Estudios internacionales en torno a Homero Aridjis, edited by Thomas Stauder (“Light
remains in the air”: International studies on Homero Aridjis; Madrid: Iberoamericana-
Vervuert, 2005) 65–81.
15. At the time I wrote this essay in 2008, precious little by way of what could be called
ecocriticism regarding Latin American literature had been published. As I was revising
the essay for publication, I came across the recently published volume Reading and Writ-
ing the Latin American Landscape by Beatriz Rivera-Barnes and Jerry Hoeg, where the
authors set out to “scrutiniz[e] the ecological implications and relationships between
man and nature, or nature and culture, in [a selection of ] texts and the Latin American
reality that inspired them” (1). The collection approaches a variety of texts from colonial
to contemporary times, but the only text from Brazil they analyze is Euclides da Cunha’s
Os Sertões (Rebellion in the Backlands; 1902).
16. A poet, essayist, politician, journalist, and educator, Celso (1860–1938) published a
number of books of romantic poetry and fiction, but he is best known for Porque Me
Ufano do Meu País, an essay celebrating Brazil’s natural beauty and alleged superiority
and that gave rise to a nationalist trend in Brazilian essay writing.
17. In the context of modernist tendencies in Brazil, Plínio Salgado, Paulo Menotti del Pic-
chia, and Cassiano Ricardo authored the manifesto “O Curupira e o Carão” (Curupira
and the big-face monster; 1927), where they criticized the Week of Modern Art and
founded a new art movement called Movimento Verde Amarelo (Green-Yellow Move-
ment), also known as Verdeamarelismo (Green-Yellowism). The movement had a con-
servative nationalist focus and militantly promoted antirationalist values. In reaction to
Andrade’s antropofagia, these authors and Raul Bopp drafted the “Manifesto do Verde-
amarelismo ou da Escola da Anta” (Manifesto of green-yellowism or of the tapir school;
1929), starting a polemic. Eventually, the movement degenerated into a fascist move-
ment known as Integralismo (Integralism), led by Salgado.
18. In The Song of the Earth, Bate has argued for the connection between colonialism and
deforestation. A recent book by Graham Huggan and Helen Tiffin, Postcolonial Eco-
criticism: Literature, Animals, Environment, examines the relationship between humans,
Ecocannibalism 105
animals, and the environment in literary texts from postcolonial contexts probing for the
“colonial/imperial underpinnings of environmental practices in both ‘colonizing’ and
‘colonized’ societies of the present and the past” (3).
19. On the visit of Blaise Cendrars to Brazil in the 1920s, see Alexandre Eulálio’s A Aventura
Brasileira de Blaise Cendrars (Blaise Cendras’s Brazilian adventure; 2nd ed. rev. by Carlos
Augusto Calil; São Paulo: EDUSP, 2001).
20. This quote does not appear in the excerpt published in The Oxford Book of Latin Ameri-
can Poetry, but it has been translated by the same translator, who is the author of this
essay. For this reason, as in the case of the following quotes that are not included in this
book, there is no page number.
21. Andrade references the theories of the French anthropologist Lucien Lévy-Bruhl on
the primitive mind in La mentalité primitive (Primitive Mentality; 1922). Lévy-Bruhl
opposed the so-called primitive to Western mentality, deeming primitive mentality as
being “prelogical” and a mentality that did not address contradictions. This is interest-
ing given the way that Andrade’s writing also admits of certain oppositional conceptual
syntheses that reject Western logical concepts.
22. This is the copyright statement and English translation of “direito de ser traduzido,
reproduzido e deformado em todas as línguas” (36).
Works Cited
Andrade, Oswald de. “Brazilwood” (excerpts). Trans. Odile Cisneros. The Oxford Book of Latin
American Poetry. Ed. Cecilia Vicuña and Ernesto Livon-Grosman. New York: Oxford UP,
2009. 135–37.
———. “Cannibal Manifesto” (excerpts). Trans. Odile Cisneros. The Oxford Book of Latin
American Poetry. Ed. Cecilia Vicuña and Ernesto Livon-Grosman. New York: Oxford UP,
2009. 139–42.
———. “Falação.” Pau-Brasil: Obras Completas de Oswald de Andrade. São Paulo: Globo,
2000. 101–3.
———. “Manifesto Antropófago.” Revista de Antropofagia 1.1 (1928): 3, 7.
———. Serafim Ponte Grande. São Paulo: Globo, 1990.
Barry, Peter. Beginning Theory: An Introduction to Literary and Cultural Theory. Manchester:
Manchester UP, 2000.
Bary, Leslie. “The Tropical Modernist as Literary Cannibal: Cultural Identity in Oswald de
Andrade.” Chasqui: Revista de Literatura Latinoamericana 20.2 (1991): 10–19.
Bate, Jonathan. Romantic Ecology. London: Routledge, 1991.
———. The Song of the Earth. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2000.
Bénéjam, Valérie. “The Re-processing of Trash in Ulysses: Recycling and (Post)Creation.”
Hypermedia Joyce Studies: An Electronic Journal of James Joyce Scholarship 5.1 (2004): MLA
International Bibliography. EBSCO. Web. 5 June 2010. http://hjs.ff.cuni.cz/archives/v3/
benejam.html.
“Brazil Amazon deforestation soars.” BBC News. 24 Jan. 2008. Web. 25 Mar. 2008. http://
news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/americas/7206165.stm.
Campos, Haroldo de. “An Oswald de Andrade Triptych.” Novas. 201–13.
———. “Anthropophagous Reason: Dialogue and Difference in Brazilian Culture.” Novas.
157–77.
———. Novas. Ed. A. S. Bessa and Odile Cisneros. Evanston: Northwestern UP, 2007.
Coupe, Laurence, ed. The Green Studies Reader: From Romanticism to Ecocriticism. London:
Routledge, 2000.
106 Odile Cisneros
Glotfelty, Cheryll. “Introduction: Literary Studies in an Age of Environmental Crisis.” The

Ecocriticism Reader: Landmarks in Literary Ecology. Ed. Cheryll Glotfelty and Harold
Fromm. London: U of Georgia P, 1996. xv–xxxvii.
Huggan, Graham and Helen Tiffin. Postcolonial Ecocriticism: Literature, Animals, Environment.
New York: Routledge, 2010.
Nunes, Benedito. “A Antropofagia ao Alcance de Todos.” A Utopia Antropofágica: A Antropofa-
gia ao Alcance de Todos. By Oswald de Andrade. São Paulo: Globo, 1990. 5–39.
———. Oswald Canibal. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 1997.
Randall, Marilyn. “Recycling Recycling or plus ça change . . .” Other Voices: A Journal of Critical
Thought 3.1 (2007): MLA International Bibliography. EBSCO. Web. 3 June 2010. http://
www.othervoices.org/3.1/mrandall/index.php.
Reigota, Marcos. “Brazilian Art and Literature: Oswald de Andrade’s Contribution to Global
Ecology.” Trans. Christopher C. Lund. Literature of Nature: An International Sourcebook.
Ed. Patrick D. Murphy. Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn, 1998. 359–65.
———. Ecologistas. 2nd ed. Santa Cruz do Sul, Brazil: EDUNISC, 2003.
Rivera-Barnes, Beatriz and Jerry Hoeg. Reading and Writing the Latin American Landscape.
New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.
Soper, Kate. What is Nature?: Culture, Politics and the Non-Human. Cambridge, MA: Black-
well, 1995.
Vieira, Else Ribeiro Pires. “Liberating Calibans: Readings of Antropofagia and Haroldo de
Campos’ Poetics of Transcreation.” Post-Colonial Translation: Theory and Practice. Ed. Susan
Bassnett and Harish Trivedi. London: Routledge, 1999. 95–113.
Vinkler, Beth Joan. “The Anthropophagic Mother, Other: Appropriated Identities in Oswald
de Andrade’s Manifesto Antropófago.” Luso-Brazilian Review 34.1 (1997): 105–11.
CHAPTER 5
Eulalia in Utopia
Urban Space, Modernity,
and Gendered Typologies in
Rubén Darío and Hilda Hilst
Justin Read
THE FIGURE OF EULALIA (OR EULÁLIA IN Portuguese) appears at several key moments
in the cultural history of “Iberophone” societies.1 At each turn, Eulalia is associ-
ated with utopia and utopian impulses. And at each turn, the story of Eulalia
results in almost unspeakable barbarity. The first appearance is that of Saint Eula-
lia of Barcelona (ca. AD 290–303), who may have been the same person as Saint
Eulalia of Mérida (ca. AD 290–304). Although there is no historical record to
prove it, the hagiographies of both martyrs are strikingly similar.
During the reign of Roman Emperor Diocletian, the Christian parents of
Eulalia lock their 13-year-old daughter in a forest cabin so that she might avoid
persecution by the pagan Romans. Eulalia escapes from the cabin, returns to her
home city, publicly professes her Christian faith, and is arrested by the Romans.
Her martyrdom is particularly cruel: the Romans place Eulalia in a barrel of glass
shards and roll her down a street; they then cut off her breasts and crucify her on
an x-shaped cross before beheading her. Here, the legends give us two versions
of her decapitation. In Barcelona, a white dove flies out of her severed neck. In
Mérida, a dove flies out of her mouth just before the Romans attempt to burn her
at the stake. Eulalia does not burn, so the Romans crucify and decapitate her, at
which point a white snow falls to cover her naked body. In both versions, white-
ness serves as a sign assuring Eulalia’s apotheosis to heaven.2
The first appearances of Eulalia, therefore, occur during the historical trans-
formation of the Roman Hispania into a Christian/Catholic world. Moreover,
given that her first widely distributed hagiographies appear only after the ninth
century, we may recognize Eulalia as a figure of regional and national importance,
at the foundation of the early modern consolidation of Spain and Catalunya.

108 Justin Read
Subsequent appearances of Eulalia occur more than a millennium later, at the other
end of this world’s history. At this time, Catholic Latin America was undergoing
a transformation into a globalized and urbanized region dominated by capitalistic
political-economic forces.3 One of her initial reincarnations occurs as the central
figure of Rubén Darío’s modernista poem, “Era un aire suave . . .” (“It was a gentle
air . . .”) from Prosas profanas (Profane Prose; 1896/1901). Perhaps by coincidence
(or perhaps not), Eulalia (Eulália) would be again reborn as a low-class, wanton
woman in Hilda Hilst’s pornographic novel, Cartas de um Sedutor (Letters of a
seductor; 1991). This work was the final installment of the so-called obscene tril-
ogy that included the novels O Caderno Rosa de Lori Lamby (Lori Lamby’s pink
notebook; 1990) and Contos d’Escárnio/Textos Grotescos (Tales of scorn/Grotesque
texts; 1990).4 In the interim between 1896 and 1991, Latin America as a whole
attempted to modernize and industrialize itself. The region sought to establish
political-economic policies that would ensure permanently high levels of social sta-
bility and prosperity guided by the laws of the global market. Such policies were
often enacted by force at the hands of authoritarian regimes. The region’s popula-
tions were largely urbanized with massive urban complexes filled with cosmopolitan
skyscrapers, museums, condominium complexes, slums, favelas, and mountainous
waste dumps. During this century-long span of modernization, Latin America con-
structed a “First World” and a “Fourth World” simultaneously, and in so doing,
provided the blueprint for what we might call “global urbanization.”5
If at first Eulalia was regimented by her divinity, the latter-day Eulalia is
immersed in profanity. In the fourth century, the virginal Eulalia is thoroughly
idealistic: through physical torment, she directs herself toward the attainment of
an otherworldly utopia. By contrast, the twentieth-century Eulalia is presented as
an idealized object within decidedly materialistic contexts. However, both mod-
ern Eulalias serve as sex objects for literary writers. In the case of Darío, Eulalia
is a nymph at a Beaux-Arts orgy in the poet’s fantasy. She is an ideal beauty
whom Darío desires to bring into the world through the poetic word. Hilst’s
Eulália, on the other hand, is the companion of an ex-novelist turned homeless
trash digger named Stamatius who struggles with his own inability to create art
in a Brazil turned over to the culture industry. Stamatius’s polymorphous sexual
escapades with Eulália provide him space to avoid writing a novel that could
actually sell, and this in turn allows him to extend his life of miserable poverty.
Whether ancient or modern, however, the figure of Eulalia/Eulália operates as an
object for the utopian impulse: she is a passage through which the desire for utopia
must penetrate. This is to say the utopian impulse expressed through Eulalia is
decidedly erotic—or more precisely, it is both heteronormically and perversely
eroticized. Utopia may be an ideal state, yet the attraction toward utopia results
in the desecration and the mutilation of the female body.
This essay critiques the utopian impulse in modern Latin America as the region
continues to transition into the world of globalization. Specifically, I would like to
explore two interrelated issues with respect to the modern figuration of Eulalia/
Eulália: First, what exactly is the space of utopia envisioned by Latin American writers
like Darío and Hilst, and what kinds of social relations are mandated by that space?
And second, what kind of social relations are engendered by Latin American utopia?
Eulalia in Utopia 109
Utopia as Negative Space in Latin America

Both Prosas profanas and Cartas de um Sedutor are products of an urban environ-
ment. This is not to say that either seeks to represent the Latin American city per
se as a primary mode of literary figuration. Rather, both works emerge within
contexts of social relations that can be characterized as both modern and urban,
and one of the principal aims of the present essay is to specify and theorize these
contexts in Latin America.6
The so-called urbanity of Darío’s early modernismo (the phase of his career
when he wrote Prosas profanas) is superficially antiurban. Notably, “Era un aire
suave . . .” appears to reject city life entirely, for Darío sets the poem in a kind of
nowhere land or no place. It is a place that completely lacks any specific spatial or
historical markers. The scene through which Darío’s “gentle air” blows is that of
a palatial estate akin to Versailles, where Greco-Roman gods and medieval nobles
converge for a masquerade ball. There are strong indications that this party is
an ecstatic Dionysian festival since the atmosphere is one of orgiastic release.
At the ball, Eulalia comes forward as the ideal belle, alluring the attentions of
the male figures assembled in the courtyard. Darío himself then enters into the
poem as Eulalia’s slavish page seeking to meet her for a tryst in a dark corner of
the estate. So enraptured is the poet of her smile that he rushes headlong into an
impassioned series of closing stanzas that explicitly ignores all questions of time,
history, nation, or geography. In this state of poetic rapture, the poet—through
his poetry—seeks to reject the demands of the outside world in order to carve out
an interior realm of pure beauty. Nevertheless, Darío’s move to pure interiority can
only be read as motivated by the political economics of Latin American moder-
nity, even in his rejection of the same.
In comparison, Cartas de um Sedutor cannot be characterized in any way as
pure, but only in the extremity of what passes for its plot. Written in the vein of
the French nouveau roman, the novel may be divided into four parts. In a brief
introductory chapter, the primary narrator, Stamatius, digs through the refuse in
some unnamed Brazilian city, where he finds a packet of discarded letters. These
missives (the cartas de um sedutor) take up the second part of the novel, and they
form one-half of an epistolary exchange between a brother and a sister. More spe-
cifically, the brother (Karl) is a gay aristocratic playboy from Minas Gerais who
writes to his sister Cordélia (cloistered in some convent in the countryside) of his
seductions of unsuspecting lower-class boys. He also recounts both his and Cor-
délia’s incestuous adolescent seductions of their father. Indeed, he even attempts
to seduce his own sister away from the convent with promises of his irrepressible
sexual abilities.
The preposterousness of this narrative becomes apparent in the third section,
“De Outros Ocos” (From other holes), which returns to Stamatius, now in a
favela close to the beach with his Eulália. During the stream-of-consciousness
meanderings that follow, Stamatius reveals that he is a novelist who, despite his
best efforts, continually fails to produce the kind of novel that could be sold
to a publisher and become a bestseller. He also intimates that the cartas are the
start of an epistolary novel he is writing in order to humiliate the real Karl, who
110 Justin Read
may have been a love interest of Stamatius at some point in the past. As Stama-
tius struggles to start writing a bankable work of literature, he constantly stops
writing in order to have sex with Eulália in various ways (to be blunt, “from
the other holes” of the section’s title). Toward the end of the section, Stama-
tius further implies that Eulália may be a figment of his deranged imagination
as he slips further and further into psychosis. Finally, the last section, “Novos
Antropofágicos”—which may be translated as “New anthropophagites” or “New
anthropophagy”—presents several more of Stamatius’s attempts at producing a
popular novel, including scatological critiques of contemporary literature’s turn
to pornography in order to remain viable. Accordingly, like the other works in the
obscene trilogy, Cartas de um Sedutor turns markedly into metanarrative, and as
such, it is impossible to separate its (nominal) plotlines from Hilst’s own creative
process and her patent spite for contemporary consumer society in Brazil.
The spaces in which both of these works operate are conditioned by the mod-
ern city and utopia. To repeat, neither attempts to represent a particular city,
whether it is Paris, Rio de Janeiro, or Buenos Aires. Nevertheless, both works
featuring Eulalia critically reject the modern city in some fashion: either negat-
ing the city in order to establish a new utopia (cf. Darío) or exposing the failure
of Latin American modernity, its cities, and its literature to produce utopia or
anything but horrendous trash (cf. Hilst). The works of both authors thus rise to
the level of what Theodor Adorno and others from the Frankfurt School would
have called Kulturkritik: “The cultural critic is not happy with civilization, to
which alone he owes his discontent” (Adorno 19). Both Darío and Hilst register
their discontent through negation: their writings serve to critique Latin Ameri-
can culture by negating civilization on the symbolic-literary-aesthetic level—even
though, paradoxically, both authors write literature to create spaces beyond the
civilization they negate. Darío designs his palatial estate of the mind as a space
that cannot be touched by the historical and material world; Hilst creates literary
representations of modern Brazil that seemingly allow the reader to stand above
Brazilian culture in order to judge it. In either case, despite the fact that neither
represents a city as such, both seek to critique the civitas of their respective civili-
zations by representing the urbs in abject negation.
In other words, the utopian spaces—whether strictly utopian or dystopian—
imagined in relation to Eulalia are in fact negative spaces, spaces of negation. As
I will argue later in this essay, both authors are ultimately critical of the abstract
social relations (politics, citizenship, economy, class, civitas) that bind them to
their respective “civilizations.” This is precisely because the material conditions
(urbs) of civilization are not ideal. The immediate impulse (cf. Darío) in reaction
to cultural discontent may be the attempt to imagine a new ideal realm within the
negative space of civilization; the end result of this impulse (cf. Hilst), however,
may be perversion, frustration, and madness—the negative space of psychosis.
The question is, therefore, why the negation of space fails to produce utopia given
that the u-topos can only be considered negatively.
For the purposes of this essay, I will consider the urban from the standpoint of
three conceptual markers: polis (the political city), agora (the market), and oikos
(private space). Traditionally in Latin America, these markers have been gendered,
with public space coded as masculine and private space as the domain of the
feminine (albeit under patriarchal control). Both Darío and Hilst, through their
utopian figurations of Eulalia, effectively push the private sphere out into public
display; indeed, the utopian impulse may be defined by the desire to dissolve dis-
tinctions between oikos and polis. However, with respect to Latin America, one
must also mediate such desire through historical transformations of the agora.
Extrapolating from Angel Rama’s theories of urbanization in La ciudad letrada
(The Lettered City; 1984), Latin American modernization after roughly 1850 may
be defined in terms of a spatial logic. Modernization stemmed from the recogni-
tion that political and economic power was confined to a reduced, exclusive polis
without, however, developing well-maintained agorae for the new nations. Latin
American modernization may therefore be seen as the effort to create new agorae
apart from the polis of the colony or the lettered city. These new agorae would,
on the one hand, include previously excluded social sectors (i.e., mestizos, indig-
enous people, blacks, women) or new social sectors (such as immigrant urban
working classes). These sectors would be incorporated by producing a new sense
of the national “people,” even if they are “hybrid” or “mixed.” On the other hand,
the new agorae would be incorporated into the international economic order
of industrialization. Theoretically, either of these arrangements could have been
achieved by the people’s free consent; unfortunately, they were to be imposed
over the people in the majority of cases by coercion and violence in order to
benefit new classes of elites (and older classes as well). To summarize, what I am
calling here the “modernized Latin American agora” was at once a local and a
global phenomenon. It was developed without the concurrent development of
a modernized polis but rather achieved politically by authoritarian institutions
subservient to an incipient global agora. Modernization constituted an urban
revolution for Latin America, in the strict etymological sense of urban. In other
words, modernization created massive complexes of urbs (most visibly in mega-
lopolises like Mexico City, Buenos Aires, São Paulo, or Santiago) drawing on
mass migrations of the rural poor from within the nation and the industrial poor
from overseas. All these “mega-urbs” grew, however, in such ways as to exclude
spaces for effective, widespread political engagement.
This is not to say that the Latin American megacity grew without a sense of
utopia, and here I will enter into a brief theoretical digression before returning
my attention to Eulalia. Modern utopia is negative space insofar as it expresses the
location of what modernity is not. Or better, this modern negativity expresses
what modernity is not yet. The production of modernity in Latin America is
premised on the concept of development—that is, social space can develop as if it
were a subject or organism in its own right developing toward some more perfect
future.7 The utopia of modernity is not therefore some otherworld like heaven or
nirvana; rather, it is a material virtuality that may be obtained through concerted
effort at some point in the imaginable future. Particularly in Latin America, the
material virtualization of developmental modernization has been engendered.
In order to see this more clearly, I would like to build from Walter Benjamin’s
thoughts on the gendering of space in the arcades of nineteenth-century Paris.
For Benjamin, capitalist modernity definitively arrives with the construction
112 Justin Read
of the Parisian arcades—modern public spaces built with industrially produced

materials like iron and glass, which are exclusively commercial in nature. Thus
the arcade is an agora that is solely a marketplace above and beyond its use as
a place of public assembly, such that the market may cast aside any possibility
of political discourse beyond that ordained by the market. The arcades permit
relations of economic exchange to the exclusion of creating a new political body,
especially one such as the metaphorical Corpus Christi of the Catholic Church.
This does not mean, however, that absolute divinity has ceased to be; rather,
Benjamin contends that the arcades transmute divine power into abstract rela-
tions of production and consumption. In “Convolute O” of Das Passagen-Werk
(The Arcades Project; 1982), Benjamin specifies these abstract relations in terms of
gendered types: the gambler and the prostitute. As Benjamin writes,8
[The gambler] leaves the Palais-Royal with bulging pockets, calls to a whore, and
once more celebrates in her arms the communion with number, in which money
and riches, absolved from every earthen weight, have come to him from the fates
like a joyous embrace returned to the full. For in gambling hall and bordello, it is
the same supremely sinful delight: to challenge fate in pleasure. Let unsuspecting
idealists imagine that sensual pleasure, of whatever stripe, could ever determine the
theological concept of sin. The origin of true lechery is nothing else but this stealing
of pleasure out of the course of life with God, whose covenant with such life resides
in the name. The name itself is the cry of naked lust. (O1, 1)
Unlike the ancient agora, one’s ability to participate fully in the public space
of the arcades is not determined by one’s birth or by one’s possession of an essen-
tial nature (a soul ordained by an all-supreme god). Rather, participation in the
arcades is merely a function of one’s ability to buy, to sell, or to be sold. Economic
exchange thus steals immediate pleasure away from the rapture of “life with God.”
In the arcades, absolute essences are displaced by the ciphers of commodifica-
tion and exchange value (the “number” mentioned by Benjamin in the passage
above), and this produces all sorts of strange effects in the fabric of reality. For
one, progress and knowledge are thoroughly disrupted even if modernity is pre-
mised on ideologies of order and progress. This is perhaps the central dialectical
contention of all Benjamin’s work: without a god at the end of the line, there can
be no positive, orderly progress of citizens or civilizations toward an ultimate state
of godly perfection. Instead, the past and the future appear to constellate into the
present—both the moment when the philosopher obtains a flash of historical
insight and the moment when the consumer obtains a shock of excitement when
buying something new. In either case, time and history are no longer oriented
toward some future moment of death where individuals or societies pass into
the afterlife and come into contact with divinity. Rather (and rather strangely),
history after the arcades can only be felt in the immediate fulfillment of desires,
desire for things or desire for other bodies, which has the secondary effect of pro-
ducing a lot of trash as soon as desire has been fulfilled. Of course, the fragments
of trash produced by the arcades (and their offspring—the mall and e-trade) have
an afterlife that allows any mind properly trained in dialects to re-collect material
knowledge of history. You buy a toy and throw away the wrapping; the wrapping
ends up in a landfill. And, if we dig into the landfill, we will have an archaeo-
logical record of where we have been (and where we are going) as a society. The
scraps of quotations that constitute The Arcades Project are themselves Benjamin’s
archaeological record of the trash heap.
Out of all this garbage and afterlife, Benjamin recognizes the beginnings of
what we now call virtual reality. This is most keenly felt in “Convolute O: Gam-
bling and Prostitution.” The gambler and the prostitute epitomize the ultimate
denizens of the arcades for our German critic. (And here let me underscore deni-
zens, not citizens.) The primary activities in the space of the arcades are not just
shopping but loitering. They were (or rather, are) the perfect places to seek out
sex, drugs, or other games of chance that might present themselves. Thus it is no
surprise that the arcades led to the first public ordinances policing space against
loitering; at the same time, they also provided public storefronts and real estate
for gambling dens and brothels that encouraged loitering and illicit behavior,
hence requiring the regulation of real estate by the state. The arcades produced
perhaps the first instances of the zoning of urban space.
Benjamin identifies loitering, gambling, and prostitution as the three primary
activities of the arcades, above and beyond mere shopping. Yet while loitering
is considered a waste of time, gambling and prostitution steal divinity by giv-
ing their practitioners the illusory sense that they control time. Throughout his
notes in The Arcades Project, Benjamin repeatedly states that the gambler becomes
“intoxicated by time,” as if the gambler had entered into a distinct frame of time
and space—a virtual reality:
A game passes the time more quickly as chance comes to light more absolutely in
it, as the number of combinations encountered in the course of play (of coups) is
smaller and their sequence shorter. In other words, the greater the component of
chance in a game, the more speedily it elapses. This state of affairs becomes decisive
in the disposition of what comprises the authentic “intoxication” of the gambler.
Such intoxication depends on the peculiar capacity of the game to provoke presence
of mind through the fact that, in rapid succession, it brings to the fore constella-
tions which work—each one wholly independent of the others—to summon up
in every instance a thoroughly new, original reaction from the gambler. (O12a, 2)
In gambling, the gambler comes into direct contact with abstract ciphers of
value; all his attention is focused on the pure exchange value he has staked on the
wager and the number that will turn up on the roll of the dice. Gambling thus
disrupts time and space: during the game, there is no space beyond the craps
table; and the gambler may pass hours, days, or even weeks in front of the table as
if it was only a matter of seconds. Time seems to stop entirely, and yet days pass
by in a flash, yielding the sensation of being able to control time, halt it, or speed
it up, even though in reality the gambler has no control of anything. Gambling is
thus the ultimate immediate fulfillment of desire: all past throws of the dice form
a superstitious constellation that will determine the number that is just about to
be rolled; each roll therefore accelerates the arrival of one’s future destiny or fate,
114 Justin Read
producing a rush of exhilaration. The gambler may then use his winnings (or
whatever remains of his losses) to rent a woman’s body for his pleasure, a similar
sort of intoxication as gambling. Once he can pay money for sex, the gambler no
longer has to rely on the vagaries of chance for the jouissance of sexual release; he
now feels control over his erotic desires.
Rather than waiting for his fate, rather than waiting for a moral death and
entrance to heaven, gambling and prostitution produce a virtual time and space
where ultimate ecstasy can be felt right now and repeatedly: now, now, now, now.
Outside of this virtual reality, however, the result is catastrophe: “The ideal of
the shock-engendered experience <Erlebnis> is the catastrophe. This becomes very
clear in gambling: by constantly raising the stakes, in hopes of getting back what is
lost, the gambler steers towards absolute ruin” (O14, 4). In other words, gambling
itself only exists to take the gambler’s money; the house always wins. The casino
is in reality just another marketplace, just another storefront in the arcades or the
mall. Consumers enter into the casino-agora to purchase pleasure—the illusion
that they control time, desire, and fate. This illusion, which borders on divine power,
is the utopian impulse that drives modernity. In exchange, the casino takes all their
money, and it may do so because those who enter into the arcades are no longer
subjects or individuals but rather consumers, vendors, or denizens. Even though the
arcades are gendered spaces that provide “shock-engendered experiences,” there are
no women or men in the arcades, no real bodies but just types to be commodified.
It is not the body of the prostitute that is sold—it is a type of femininity that sells.
Or as Benjamin writes, “Prostitution opens a market in feminine types” (O14, 3).
To that we must add, “Gambling opens a market in masculine types.” Here there
are no bodies to be accounted for; there are just types of bodies to be bought and
sold like pork-belly futures. In the virtual agora of the arcades, all women are pros-
titutes, all men are gamblers, and thus all people are avatars of themselves.
Profanities
Latin American modernismo (and subsequent vanguardismo) is not merely sig-
nificant as an aesthetic movement; modernismo clears a virtual territory for Latin
America’s entrance into the global agora of industrial capitalism. It is in this latter
sense that we will come to understand how Darío’s “Era un aire suave . . .” typi-
fies modernismo. Nevertheless, the initial response of many readers is that the
modernista poem sounds so decidedly unmodern, written as it is in traditional
verse form:9
It was a gentle air, with leisurely turns;

the fairy Harmony lent rhythms to its flights;
and vague phrases and tenuous sighs would slip
between the sobs of the violoncellos. (115)10
The poem embodies classical notions of beauty and harmony so distinct from
the fractured defamiliarization typically associated with modernity. Yet Darío’s
poem, and indeed the entire volume, is nothing if not an exercise in anachronism.
The conceit of “Era un aire suave . . .” is a masquerade ball of nymphs and

gods and noblemen—ancient-mythical or medieval figures of power. The poem
conveys numerous erotic images, although nothing is so terribly profane to con-
temporary eyes. The poet’s gaze circulates around the party but quickly becomes
fixated on the figure of
[t]he marquise Eulalia laughter and snub

bestowed at the same time upon two rivals,
the blond viscount of duels
and the young abbot of madrigals. (115)11
Eulalia is nothing but a coquette who covers herself in lace, veiling all of her
body except her beautiful face: “[W]ith her delightful eyes and her red mouth /
the divine Eulalia laughs, and laughs, and laughs” (117).12
As the orchestra plays, Eulalia’s smile is entwined, enlaced, with the sound of
orchestral music and she becomes the center of all attention, the belle of the ball.
She becomes both the poet’s muse as well as his ultimate object of sexual desire.
At one point, she sneaks away from the party and from her two courtiers, appar-
ently to have a tryst with the poet:
The gay Marquise will arrive at the grove,

a grove that covers the pleasant arbor
where a page will take her in his arms,
who, being her page, must be her poet. (117)13
From this point, the poet has submitted himself to Eulalia as her servant or
page and falls into an ecstatic state where he loses all sense of time and space. He
ends the poem with a long series of questions (no answers) covering five entire
strophes. He concludes,
Was it perhaps in the North or in the Noon?

Neither age nor day nor land do I know,
Only that Eulalia still is laughing,
and cruel and eternal is her laugh of gold! (119)14
To say that Darío objectifies Eulalia is readily apparent. He provides little detail
about what she actually looks like, besides her blue eyes and red lips (and golden
laughter). She never speaks or thinks; she just giggles and acts pretty and seductive.
Eulalia is not even a woman properly speaking, but rather a mere figure of feminin-
ity to which the poet (or reader) attaches his own wants and needs. That is, just as
Darío’s gaze within the poem is male and heteronormic, the poem itself presupposes
a reader who would see things and desire bodies in the same way the poet does.
What is somewhat less clear is how “Era un aire suave . . .” works to create (or
recreate) a certain kind of space for the woman-object to inhabit. The poem seems
to take place in some sort of open-air palace (a luxurious oikos), although architec-
tural details are scant. The setting is at once natural (terraces, boscages, small woods,
116 Justin Read
valleys, etc.) and artificial (some sort of ballroom large enough for an Italian or Hun-
garian orchestra). The effect is something of trompe l’oeil: we see natural bodies or
natural entities that suddenly transform into artistic objects (statues, tapestries), all
of which appear to be in both interior and exterior spaces. For instance, at one point
a god appears simultaneously in a landscape and an architectural (“Ionic”) space:
And under a grove in the arena of love,

on a tasteful socle in the Ionic style,
with a lighted candelabra in his right hand
Giovanni da Bologna’s Mercury was in flight. (115)15
Here it is unclear whether Giovanni da Bologna’s (more correctly known as

Giambologna) famous statue of Mercury has suddenly come to life and grabbed
a candelabra, or whether the Mercury attending the party has suddenly frozen
into a Renaissance statue.
In fact, what Darío presents is not a landscape with a gentle breeze blowing,
but rather a landscape architecture dotted with open-air peristyles of freestanding
Ionic columns and hidden dens enclosed by carefully placed shrubbery, with the
sound of music strumming everywhere. In the scenery of the poem, there is no
Nature properly speaking, but just architecture, artifice, technique.16 The space
of “Era un aire suave . . .” is a place of luxury befitting viscounts, nymphs, and
Greco-Roman gods. However, the poem refuses to locate this space of luxury his-
torically or geographically—it could be a ball in the gardens of Versailles, or some
bacchic ritual in the forests of ancient Greece, or indeed some medieval tapestry
depicting either of these:
Was it perhaps in the time of King Louis of France,

a sun with a court of stars in fields of azure?
When Pompadour, the regal and pompous rose,
filled the palaces with fragrance?
...
Was it in that fair time of shepherd-dukes,
of princess-lovers and tender suitors,
when among smiles and pearls and flowers
the doublets of the chamberlains would pass? (119)17
This site cannot be situated in time or space since the poet’s purpose is to dream
up a kind of no place that is totally anachronistic, eternal, outside of time. It is a place
where ancient myths, Renaissance aristocrats, and modernist poets might all assem-
ble and comingle together. The poet works to push time back or away: “Neither
age nor day nor land do I know.” And he does so in order that his desires—whether
musical, poetical, or sexual—can be immediately fulfilled in the now without the
mediation of time, which forces us to wait for good things to come our way.
We must resist jumping to the conclusion that this no place of immediate ful-
fillment does not exist materially, however. Darío’s search for an eternal space of
erotic beauty is typically understood as a rejection of the modern world in favor
of a move to an internal world of the poet’s own psyche, the only place where
absolute beauty might be found. This move toward interiority and pure beauty
carries strong esoteric overtones throughout Prosas profanas. The poet reclaims an
almost pagan or gnostic ability to cast off the false world of the present in order to
“bust through” to a pure engagement (an erotic one) with beauty as a pure symbol
in a pure form. This is also evident in poems like “Divagación” (“Digression”),
“Yo persigo una forma . . .” (“I Pursue a Form . . .”), or “Coloquio de los centau-
ros” (“Dialogue of the Centaurs”). As the first poem in the volume, “Era un aire
suave . . .” would therefore be the first step on this bacchanalian journey. These
kinds of readings (exemplified by a truly exceptional work of literary criticism
by Cathy Login Jrade in Rubén Darío and the Romantic Search for Unity [1983])
are quite correct: Darío is seeking an interior realm of symbolic truth—just not
necessarily a mystical or absolute space of truth.
The problem with respect to the poet’s search for interiority is that Darío’s
esoteric search constantly collides with material reality. The temptation to assume
that Darío seeks to create an immaterial utopia for the fulfillment of his desires
is strong. Yet in Prosas profanas, the poetic voice explicitly rejects a specific set of
historical material conditions. In the prefatory “Palabras liminares” (“Liminary
Words”) that precedes “Era un aire suave . . . ,” Darío begins with a rejection of
Latin American culture. Why? For one, “[f ]or the absolute lack of mental eleva-
tion in the thinking majority on our continent” (111);18 and for another, “[b]
ecause the collective work of the new Americans is still vain” (111).19 Later in the
preface Darío rejects the Latin American cultural mixture (mestizaje) before tak-
ing a swipe at Latin American politics: “Is there in my blood a drop of blood from
Africa or of Chorotega or Nagrandan Indian? It may well be, despite my hands of
a Marquis: yet note here that you will see in my verses princesses, kings, imperial
matters, visions of lands remote or impossible: what do you expect? I detest the
life and times into which I had to be born; and I will be unable to greet a presi-
dent of the Republic in the language in which I would sing to you, O Elagabalus!
Whose court—gold, silk, marble—I recall in dreams” (113).20
Significantly, Darío casts aside actual bodies, lives, and histories—those of
blacks or Amerindians—in favor of other (presumably white) “princesses, kings,”
and other bodies that are “remote or impossible.” Just after expressing his loath-
ing of time itself, he states that he is unable to speak in a common language with
the “president of the Republic.” To clarify, then, in Prosas profanas Darío rejects
a specific material space called América. He also rejects the internal dynamics of
Latin American transcultural or racial politics, and he rejects the modern politi-
cal forms by which Latin America defines itself as an independent region in the
external world at large. In this respect, we should note how Darío cannot speak
with the president of a modern nation-state but he can speak of “imperial” things.
He then punctuates this by taking a swipe at a major center of Latin American
national politics: “Buenos Aires: Cosmopolis. / And tomorrow!” (113).21 Has
Buenos Aires become a cosmopolitan capital of world culture? Not likely.
Darío himself provides the most accurate description of what he intends by
such statements. He calls the manifesto of his “Palabras liminares” neither fruitful
nor opportune: “Because by proclaiming what I proclaim—an anarchic esthetic—,
the imposition of a model or code would entail a contradiction” (111).22 Darío’s
118 Justin Read
modernism is acratic in nature, beyond the control of any official authority. This is
not to say that his work is not subject to powerful forces like lust, desire, or greed.
Rather, he has rejected any regulation of his thought or creation by any authority
figure. In this light, we must understand that Darío’s desire to obtain contact with
immaterial entities like beauty, art, or form depends on the materialization of some
other kind of space unfettered by political or religious authority. Immateriality
depends on the materialization of the acratic—not democracy, autocracy, or theoc-
racy, but the intemperate and somewhat chaotic lack of regulating power (kratos).
Although Darío might claim that he cannot tolerate contradictions, contra-
dictions are precisely what he produces. In “Palabras liminares,” he rejects the
authority of politics in Latin America, and indeed I would go so far as to claim
that he rejects the political per se, but only in order to elevate his own (rather nar-
cissistic) authority as an individual poet. In “Era un aire suave . . . ,” he expresses
this rejection as a willful act of ignorance: “Neither age nor day nor land do I
know.” Time exists and so does the space of the nation, but Darío has decided
to ignore them. Instead, he works to create a new space free from the authority
of time itself. The poem materializes anachronism as a structural matter. When
read formally, the poem is written entirely in dodecasyllabic verses. By poetic
law, each dodecasyllable divides neatly into six-syllable hemistichs. In Darío’s day,
the dodecasyllable had fallen into wide disuse; it was a form primarily associated
with medieval or pre-early-modern poetry, before giving way to the hendecasyl-
labic verse that came to dominate traditional “Iberophone” poetic forms after
Luis de Góngora. Early dodecasyllables were marked not only by division into
equal hemistichs but also by the fact that each hemistich consisted of 2 dactyls
(long-short-short), so that the original dodecasyllable should be composed of 12
syllables falling into four 3-syllable dactylic feet. The dactyl, in turn, is originally
associated with Homeric verse, particularly the dactylic hexameter of the Iliad
and the Odyssey. Thus, reading poetic form historically, we see that Darío reclaims
a moment in which Hispanic verse was both syllabic and accentual, which is felt
in “Era un aire suave . . .” in the way each hemistich carries two accented tonic
syllables (just as two dactyls would carry). In Darío’s use of form, the modern, the
medieval, and the ancient classical all inhabit the same space. And the space for
this mélange of form is a physical thing—words printed on a page.
Once anachronism is materialized as the structure of Darío’s space, the poet feels
the barriers to his wish fulfillment fall down. Like the gambler in Benjamin’s arcades
losing himself in the twin ciphers of dice and money, Darío loses himself to the
ciphers of poetic and erotic beauty. His anachronism is therefore not the elimination
of time but another sort of temporal catastrophe: lost to the moment, time passes
Darío by so quickly that past, present, and future all seem part of the same space.
Darío becomes intoxicated by time, as witnessed by his closing series of unanswered
questions expressing a total loss of temporal, spatial, or geographical bearings. But in
this acratic space, there can be no place for the political. Darío has lost himself to his
own narcissism; he becomes the figure of a poet within his own poem—the poet who
becomes a page groveling at the feet of his cruel and beautiful mistress. Within his
role as his own avatar, there can be no negotiation with other bodies: for one, Darío
has already rid himself of all the other bodies (black, mestizo, or indigenous) in the
“Palabras liminares.” Further, all the other bodies that remain in the poem are formal
types (royal courtiers, mythological beasts, gods). Though the poem pretends to be
acratic, some power does hover over it. Beauty is not just beauty in itself, but it is
wrapped in gold, silk, and marble. The laugh of Eulalia that dominates Darío’s every
breath is laughter made of solid gold (“and cruel and eternal is her laugh of gold!”).
In the acratic space without political authority, then, the economy of desire is built
on the circulation of commodities (gold, silk, marble, luxury). The unfettered econ-
omy of desire (read utopia) finds its true place—its gold standard—by creating a
virtual market for types of femininity (the coquette, the courtesan, the nymph, the
prostitute) and for types of masculinity (the poet, the dueling rival, the gambler).
Utopia in the Figure of Woman

Darío’s utopia is, despite its best intentions, a site for production and consump-
tion. Likewise, Hilst’s novel Cartas de um Sedutor does not narrate so much as
it produces. The primary narrator, Stamatius, spends the entire novel trying to
write stories that he can sell to an editor, but he is constantly frustrated by his
own inability to complete his narratives. Though he never finishes anything that
he begins, he does manage to produce a collection of fragments that litter the
landscape of Hilst’s “novel” (if indeed we can properly identify the work generi-
cally). To reiterate, Stamatius’s main work (taking up roughly half of Cartas de um
Sedutor) is an epistolary novel narrated exclusively through letters written by an
aristocrat named Karl to his sister Cordélia. (We never read Cordélia’s side of the
exchange.) Karl is a sociopathic pervert who writes in order to seduce his sister,
who evidently rejects his advances out of guilt for having had (just like Karl) an
incestuous relationship with their father. As Stamatius writes this, however, he
is periodically interrupted by his live-in girlfriend: a poor, illiterate nordestina
(northeastern girl) named, of course, Eulália.
Eulália serves as Stamatius’s muse, but there can be no educated or civilized
discourse between them. She is good for all sorts of sex, but she cannot under-
stand why or what her “Tiu”23 is struggling to write, and he cannot possibly
explain it to her. Midway through the book, for instance, Stamatius cannot con-
tinue with the story of Karl and Cordélia. Eulália then asks him,24 “[W]ho is that
guy, huh baby? is he family? write somethin’ good, the greats, the beautiful, or if
you don’t wanna write that write about what I told you about my life, there’s crazy
stuff I could tell you, stuff that’s outta this world, go write that, Tiu, write about
the people I knew over there in Rio Fino. / I’m hearing without listening, I ask
distracted: where exactly did you learn to fuck like such a gazelle?”25
The effect of such passages is to snap the reader out of the chronotope of the
novel (the literary form to be published and publicized) and into the private realm
of the novelist, which is marked by a lack of interpersonal communication. Eulália
has no concept of why her Tiu would write incestuous pornography in the style
of an eighteenth-century epistolary novel. And Stamatius will never tell her that
before he lost all his money and started picking trash, the real Karl was his high
school classmate with whom he may or may not have had an affair. Stamatius,
in turn, cares nothing of Eulália’s life, her formation (or Bildung) as a person, or
120 Justin Read
her education such as it might be. Or rather, the only education he cares about is
how she has learned to “foder” (fuck). There is no discourse between them, only
intercourse.
Eventually, Eulália begs him to write about a boy she knew who became a dog
and lived with her lesbian aunt, Fadinha.26 I quote an exchange between Stama-
tius and Eulália at length:
[Stamatius] good. i’ll write “Filó, the little lesbian fairy.”

[Eulália] no. write about the boy who became a dog.
but he just became a dog, just that?
yeah. isn’t that some crazy piece of shit?
yeah. it’s something for some editor for sure, but it has to be a low-down dirty
dog, a real fucker.
ah, that wasn’t it, he was a simple dog, quiet.
then it won’t work, it has to be like oh (and i lick her cheeks slowly and then
pant my tongue), a low-down dirty dog.
Eulália laughs happily. She looks at me as if I existed, nothing looks at me as
if I existed, it makes me want to eat a tongue sandwich right now and Eulália for
dessert. But I have to write at least one shitty story and sell it to who knows some
shitty supplement.
wanna know, Tiu? write a horrible story, everybody likes to be scared, we feel
something inside . . . a big chill.
good. so i write:27
Stamatius rejects his lover’s literary advice, and then Eulália rather stupidly
confuses “horrible” (“write a horrible story”) for the “horror” genre. Nevertheless,
this malapropism proves productive, as the next chapter in the book is a story
Stamatius titles “Horrível” (Horrible). This begins a series of unfinished narra-
tives that Stamatius pens based on random words uttered by Eulália. During this
phase of Hilst’s novel, Stamatius writes a fragment, Eulália interrupts him before
he finishes, and he then uses the last word of her interruption as the title for the
next fragment he will not finish. In other words, we are given access to Stamatius’s
creative process, even if it always ends in failure. At a certain point, whatever liter-
ary flourishes his epistolary novel might have are meaningless because he has to
sell his stories, however poorly these stories turn out. His “literature” gives way to
considerations of market forces, gives way to writing designed to provoke only a
momentary shock (of lust or of horror) before being discarded. In reality, Eulália
probably has a better sense of what the reading public wants to consume, but
Stamatius will not, or cannot, understand her. Nevertheless, despite their lack
of communication, her loving gaze allows him to recognize his own existence:
“She looks at me as if I existed, nothing looks at me as if I existed.” In more
precise critical-theoretical language, Eulália is the Other to the author, the Other
who guarantees his own subjectivity, not only through direct discourse but also
through the erotic contact of the gaze and the indirect discursivity of the literary
representation we read as Hilst’s book.
This view toward subject and position is made all the more complex by the
fact that Eulália may or may not exist. In the second half of Cartas de um Sedutor,
Stamatius enters into long stream-of-consciousness digressions (de outros ocos)

in which he doubts his own writerly abilities. At significant points he does so
over a literary conversation with the Devil, whom he calls “o demo” (short for o
demônio, but it also rings of the demos of democracy). After seeing the shriveled
penis of o demo, Stamatius returns to Eulália and they go to bed for sex. In a
climactic moment of the novel, the naked Stamatius exclaims to his lover,
i’m God! i’m God! Eulália laughs: that’s right, dear, God’s thing’s probably like that.
I say: it is like that, Eulália, just like that. Who told you, Tiu? The demo. Eulália
curls up: i’m scared. i go back to bed, take her in my arms, pet her pubes and
discourse on the Dark One, his total nudity, his shriveled cock, his sadness. She
begins to laugh slightly, says that she always thought the horned one had a huge
one. Well that’s what he explained to me that night, that no, and i saw it, Eulália,
it’s really little, a little wrinkled tick. Miserable, huh? And he also told me that you
don’t exist, Eulália, that you’re my invention. That could be right even, my dear, she
responds, i like you so much that if one day you didn’t love me more, I’d turn into
a piece of charcoal, little leaf, crab.
why crab?
Ah . . . because crab is so sad.
I think: the truth is that I constructed my yelp-woman-before-life in a poignant
and delicate way, submissive and patient.28
Stamatius’s discourse leaves us with several untenable options. First, the real
possibility is that Stamatius’s psyche is hopelessly fragmented, that he is a schizo-
phrenic ego hopelessly locked in dialogue with the voices inside his head. Like
Darío’s Eulalia, Stamatius’s Eulália is his own (psychotic) invention. (At one point
he states “Eulalia is not real. She’s here in front of me, but she’s not real. Maybe
she has some materiality because sometimes I think I hear her talk.”29) The other
option is more self-referential: perhaps Eulália does exist as the Other with whom
Stamatius copulates but cannot communicate. But in this sense, she becomes
fodder for his literary invention as a character within the novel he’s writing (or
more accurately, trying to write, trying to communicate with the outside world).
In either case, Stamatius effectively dematerializes Eulália in order to incorporate
her into his own invented world—a form of anthropophagy. But this is can-
nibalism in its most uncivilized (violent, sexualized) sense, without any of the
romantic trappings of Oswald de Andrade, Haroldo de Campos, or Caetano
Veloso. Rather than a space of political engagement (a polis, even if hybrid),
Stamatius and Eulália occupy an oikos where all sorts of erotic and thanatotic
impulses are given free reign. The ultimate psychosis of this domain, moreover, is
that both eros and thanatos become motivated by economic forces (agora).
This kind of “new anthropophagy” (as Hilst herself names it in the final sec-
tion of Cartas de um Sedutor) goes straight to the question of how the books of
the obscene trilogy are territorialized as Brazilian literature. The word antropofágico
cannot be uttered in Brazilian culture without connoting both colonial efforts to
“tame” the native body and modernist efforts to create an autonomous Brazilian
culture superior to that of Europe (cf. Andrade’s “Manifesto Antropófago” [“Can-
nibalist Manifesto”; 1928]). With respect to the context of a national literature or
122 Justin Read
culture, each of the works in the corpus of the obscene trilogy demarcates discursive
subject positions that are frustrated, frustrating, and illicit. As I mentioned, there
is no discourse between Tiu and Eulália, between the insane producer of language
and the hallucinated object of his writing; moreover, the incestuous ménage à trois
between Karl, Cordélia, and their father is only narrated through a one-sided (and
therefore unreliable) epistolary exchange. The middle book, Contos d’Escárnio/Textos
Grotescos, is a sort of memoir written by a rich, womanizing, sixtysomething named
Crasso, whose main muse is Clódia. Clódia, in turn, is an insane painter who
obsessively paints portraits of vaginas. When Clódia meets Crasso, she switches to
painting penises exclusively. Clódia’s other lover, Hans Haenkel (whose silent ini-
tials H. H. are also those of Hilda Hilst), has committed suicide because he refuses
to sell out as a literary writer. Crasso ends the novel trying to track down Haenkel’s
lost writings, to minimal effect. The first book of the trilogy, O Caderno Rosa de Lori
Lamby, is unquestionably the most scandalous. The novel is nominally the personal
diary (the “pink notebook”) of an eight-year-old prostitute pimped out by her par-
ents. Midway through, Lori Lamby finds an unpublished pornographic short story
(O Caderno Preto, the “black notebook”) written by her father, a tale of perversity
and bestiality written in the style of a ribald cordel (chapbook). Most disgustingly,
Lamby enjoys her work greatly, not only the physical sensation but primarily the
money she earns: she says, “All this I’m writing I can’t tell to anybody because if I
tell it to other people, all the girls will want to be licked and there are some girls who
are prettier than me, so the boys will give money to all of them and there won’t be
any money left for me, for me to buy things I see on television and at school. Those
cute purses, blouses, those tennis shoes, and the Xoxa doll.”30
The characters of Hilst’s works and the works themselves are part of Brazilian
national culture only to the extent that they enter into a national market. If we
are to put any stock into the work of Benedict Anderson, the novel as a genre is
the literary form par excellence of the nation-state’s “empty time”—the coordi-
nated movements of subjects who do not know one another but imagine that
they are part of the same communal destiny (Bildung). The novel is the form that
expresses best the pseudosubjective development of abstract space. Yet in Hilst’s
obscene novels (which may in fact be just one novel), there is no character devel-
opment and thus no possibility of an empty time to be filled by symbolic relations
of national citizenship. Instead, all the characters are in fact producers, writers
whose writings never develop coherently. Their writings purport to be autobio-
graphical (the autobiographies of the narrators), yet there is no representation of a
fully realized self given that the biographical experiences from which they draw are
always repugnantly illegitimate: pedophilia, bestiality, incest, prostitution, suicide,
schizophrenia, and murder. These authorial characters (or characterized authors)
do not share a common fate, history, or empty time. They do, however, share
the common space of a national market: all are overdetermined by market forces,
oriented entirely to sales by having their writings sold or by being sold as bodies.
As much as these writers produce writing, they are also produced by writing,
whose value is only determined monetarily by the market. Since the author (or
character) is so overdetermined by the market, the only literary option left is
pornography—that is, pornography does not constitute “outside” beyond “proper
culture” but rather is thoroughly inscribed in it. Pornography is not some non-
normative or totally perverse space of society, even though it is definitively illicit
or abnormal. To the contrary, Hilst’s obscene novels portray pornography as the
only normative space available in contemporary globalization because it is the most
absolutely commodified form of writing, recording, and/or graphic representa-
tion. The commodification of aestheticized images is absolutely instrumental: one
buys pornography in order to fulfill one’s intimate erotic desires; once those desires
are met, the pornography is thrown away, requiring one to buy more pornography
once one’s desires manifest themselves again. Pornography is not trashy because
of what is inside it; it is trashy because it is always destined to be trash. Thus, the
reason why Hilst locates the most overtly literary writer of the trilogy, Stamatius,
as a trash digger in a highly cultured trash heap begins to make sense:
[T]hen we separated everything: rats and shit over here, books rocks and shards over
there. Food never . . . What readings! Such first-class people! What they tossed out
of Tolstoy and Philosophy is unbelievable! I’ve got half a dozen of that major work
The Death of Ivan Ilitch [sic] and the complete works of Kierkegaard. And shards, I’ve
got a few special ones too: one of Christ’s feet from the 12th century, half of Teresa of
Ávila’s face from the 18th century, a piece of Saint Sebastian’s thigh (with arrow and
blood) from the 13th century, a pink plastic dildo, from this century, all twisted as if
it had been burned (I kept it so as not to forget . . . so as not to twist mine into one
of those through spontaneous combustion . . .), two parrot plumes, one Buddha’s
belly, three pieces of an angel’s wing, six Bibles and two hundred and ten Das Kapital.
(They threw a lot of this last one away, seems like it fell out of fashion, I believe.)
Yes, we’re going to fuck, Eulália, soon.31
Notably, this catalogue of refuse is completely out of time and out of place.
Medieval Christian relics mingle with plastic dildos; St. Teresa of Ávila (another
Hispanic martyr like St. Eulalia) mingles with Buddha; Tolstoy is left as unread as
Søren Kierkegaard; and the Bible and Karl Marx’s Capital have equally fallen out
of fashion. This is a mound of garbage that is as high-minded and anachronistic
as Darío’s imagined Versailles. Likewise, Hilst’s obscene trilogy is nothing more or
less than a trash heap of Brazilian literature. Its authors write because they wish to
sell their writings, but they are never able to sell out completely. As a result, they
produce shards and shreds of literary forms that all pile on top of one another:
novels, memoirs, biographies, epistles, grade-school notebooks, stream of con-
sciousness, poems, plays, cordéis, crónicas (chronicles), even recipes.
The trash heap is not just waste, but it must properly be termed waste product.
Hilst’s characters produce trash, but they are also produced by Hilst as literary
trash. Narratives, novels, characters—there is no development of these over time.
Instead, one textual corpus folds over others, jostled and juxtaposed, so that we
form poetic constellations from them, a fetishized eroticism of escrituras (writ-
ings). All these textual fragments find their paralogues in the writers who produce
them. Just as the people Stamatius, Crasso, or Lori Lamby meet become charac-
ters (textual constructs) in their writings, these authors themselves are all textual
constructs produced by Hilst. She has produced, in other words, virtual avatars of
124 Justin Read
other writers, virtual avatars of herself. All these avatars are gendered types. On the
one hand, all these writers are really gamblers. They have a stake in literature only
because they are hoping that their productions will pay off as instant bestsellers.
On the other hand, because they have become gamblers, they have all become
prostitutes as well—they are types (the “literary writer”) to be bought and sold on
the market. This agora leaves no space for a polis, however. Just as texts pile upon
one another in the trash heap, Hilst’s avatars can only have sex with one another
at best. Because their bodies are always bumping into one another, coming into
and out of each other’s “holes,” there is no space of discourse left between them.
There is no space in between where they might negotiate their differences. Hilst
and her avatars are thus caught in a fundamentally acratic space. They are ruled
by powerful forces like lust and money with no authority in their space to control
such forces. They are caught in a market of feminine (and masculine) types, but
are left with no possibility of taking a stake in governing this market.
Stamatius’s Eulália is herself the negative space from which the author attempts
to shelter himself from Brazil—or at least a Brazil given over entirely to the global
market. If Eulália is real, the erotically charged holes in her body become negative
spaces into which Stamatius attempts to enter as a means to stop working. In this
sense she would be the (negative) space where the time and space of the workplace
ceases. If Eulália is a hallucination, she represents Stamatius’s psychotic attempt to
escape from the time and space of the real world. In either case, her body is utopia
to the extent that she is the space beyond time where any and all desires can be met
now and then now, now, now, now. But beyond the figments of Stamatius’s perverse
imagination, in material practice, Eulália is not so much a utopia as she is an arcade.
She is just a type of femininity (the prostitute, the slut, the nordestina) to be con-
sumed by a type of masculinity (the poet or novelist, the letrado [learned man], the
gambler). Indeed, once these subjects have been (re)produced as types, they have
become mere commodities to be consumed and discarded.
Coda
Let me end with a blunt statement of fact: utopia is a bad idea. Utopia is the
place where human needs will cease to be distinct from human desires, and it is
the place where human needs and desires—be they bodily, spiritual, economic,
political, philosophical, poetic, or erotic—will all be satisfied. But of course, uto-
pia is not a place. Utopia is held up as a place that does not yet exist, but in reality
it cannot be a place and never will be.
As a no place, utopia only proves useful as a shadow to provide contour and
definition to the space produced for, by, and against society. Utopia is, for all
intents and purposes, the outer limit of any given time and space. In the case of
Latin America, utopia is the borderland of a borderland, the margin of a margin.
But this is not to cast aside Latin America as peripheral or tangential to globalization
and its world order. As I have argued in this essay, the figure of Eulalia/Eulália both
is situated in the space of utopia and is herself a utopia. Her body is utilized as the
object of utopian desire—it is the site in which utopia might be actuated. As such,
her body (as represented in Darío and Hilst) is the marginal borderland of Latin
American modernization, even as she moves within Latin American markets. Eula-
lia/Eulália is the border inscribed within the territory of Latin America—a territory
now folded into a marketplace that is virtually global. And while the use of her body
appears to provide a means to collapse time and space, movement through or across
Eulalia/Eulália accompanies—or worse, produces—a proliferation of waste. Thus
she is more than an ideal utopia—she is a virtual arcade through which types of
human bodies are produced and consumed.
Globalization is not merely a paradigm of corporate-capitalist organization. It is
also a dream that promises the end of time and space—that is, a world where peo-
ple and things can move from anywhere to anywhere, where this movement occurs
instantaneously. As one of the first regions to enter into globalization, the experience
of “global” Latin America may prefigure what is only now developing in other parts
of the world, including those typically thought of as “developed.” Latin America’s
experience has been particularly dirty: mountains of waste and pollution, some of
it human and some of it plastic. However, the solution to this predicament cannot
merely be subjective. It is not sufficient to define, defend, and valorize new subject
positions, whether these are based on race, gender, or class. Even the most perverse
subject position potentially creates a type to be commodified, transported, and con-
sumed. In addition to subjective politics, an objective practice is also required to alter
space, not for utopian ends, but to construct a real place for real justice.
Notes
1. My apologies for the awkward neologism. Though the early Eulalia’s might be character-
ized as “Iberian,” the latter pair from Latin America cannot. “Hispanic world” does not
quite work either, as only one of the Eulalia’s appears in Spanish (cf. Darío). However,
both pairs of Eulalia’s may be brought together under the rubric of cultures that speak
languages originating from the Iberian peninsula. “Iberophone” thus represents my best
effort at some sort of compromise.
2. For more information on the early Eulalia’s and their medieval and early modern hagi-
ographies, see Haliczer and Cazelles.
3. In addition to the representations of Darío and Hilst, Eulalia also appears in at least two
other significant literary works in the Americas: Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, “Eulalie,” and
as a minor figure in Machado de Assis’s novel, Memórias Póstumas de Brás Cubas (The
Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas; 1881). Poe and Machado will be analyzed in a sub-
sequent version of this essay.
4. The trilogy has also been described as having a “breath mint” in the form of a short
volume of pornographic poems, Bufólicas (1991)—a neologism probably based on the
combination of “buffooneries” and “bucolic.”
5. For more comprehensive presentations of my thoughts on this matter, see “Obverse
Colonization” and “Speculations on Unicity.”
6. Here I build off the work of Henri Lefebvre, La production de l’espace (The Production of
Space; 1974).
7. As Lefebvre writes, modern “abstract” space
sets itself up as the space of power, which will (or at any rate may) eventu-
ally lead to its own dissolution on account of conflicts (contradictions) arising
within it. What we seem to have, then, is an apparent subject, an impersonal
126 Justin Read
pseudo-subject, the abstract “one” of modern social space, and—hidden

within it, concealed by its illusory transparency—the real “subject,” namely
state (political) power. Within this space, and on the subject of this space,
everything is openly declared: everything is said or written. Save for the fact
that there is very little to be said—and even less to be “lived,” for lived experi-
ence is crushed, vanquished by what is “conceived of.” History is experienced
as nostalgia, and nature as regret—as a horizon fast disappearing behind us.
This may explain why affectivity, which, along with the sensory/sensual realm,
cannot accede to abstract space and so informs no symbolism, is referred to
by a term that denotes both a subject and that subject’s denial by the absurd
rationality of space: that term is “the unconscious.” (51)
8. As is customary for discussions on The Arcades Project, citations will be made by the
letter assigned to each “Convolute” (the notebooks Benjamin used for his project), para-
graph, and section number.
9. The source text for Prosas profanas y otros poemas will be that of the complete Poesía, edited
by Ernesto Mejía Sánchez (179–241). Citations of “Era un aire suave . . .” will be made
by line number. The translation of Darío’s poems will come from Selected Poems of Rubén
Darío: A Bilingual Anthology, edited and translated by Alberto Acereda and Will Derusha.
All other translations are by the author, unless a published translation is indicated.
10. “Era un aire suave de pausados giros / el hada Harmonía ritmaba sus vuelos; / e iban
frases vagas y tenues suspiros / entre los sollozos de los violoncelos” (1–4).
11. “[l]a marquesa Eulalia risas y desvíos / daba a un tiempo mismo a dos rivales: / el viz-
conde rubio de los desafíos / y el abate joven de los madrigales” (9–12).
12. “[S]us ojos lindos y su boca roja, / la divina Eulalia ríe, ríe, ríe” (31–32).
13. “[L]a marquesa alegre llegará al boscaje / boscaje que cubre la amable glorieta / donde
han de estrecharla los brazos de un paje / que siendo su paje será su poeta” (53–56).
14. “¿Fue acaso en el Norte o en el Mediodía? / Yo el tiempo y el día y el país ignoro, / pero
sé que Eulalia ríe todavía, / ¡y es cruel y eterna su risa de oro!” (77–80).
15. “Y bajo un boscaje del amor palestra, / sobre rico zócalo al modo de Jonia, / con un
candelabro prendido en la diestra / volaba el Mercurio de Juan de Bolonia” (17–20).
16. As a side note, if there were space to read Prosas profanas in its entirety, we would find
that Darío repeatedly creates imaginary spaces (such as the island of centaurs who discuss
the Pythagorean harmony of the universe), imaginary architectures, and architectonic
landscapes, as in the final poem, where “[a]dornan verdes palmas el blanco peristilo / los
astros me han predicho la visión de la Diosa / y en mi alma reposa la luz como reposa /
el ave de la luna sobre un lago tranquilo” (5–8); translated as “[g]reen palms adorn the
white peristyle / the stars have predicted for me the vision of the Goddess / and the light
reposes in my soul as the bird / of the moon reposes on a tranquil lake” (155).
17. “¿Fue acaso en el tiempo del rey Luis de Francia, / sol con corte de astros, en campos de
azur? / ¿Cuando los alcázares llenó de fragancia / la regia y pomposa rosa Pompadour?
/ . . . / ¿Fue en ese buen tiempo de duques pastores, / de amantes princesas y tiernos
galanes, / cuando entre sonrisas y perlas y flores / iban las casacas de los chambelanes?”
(61–64, 73–76).
18. English translation of “[p]or la absoluta falta de elevación mental de la mayoría pensante
de nuestro continente” (179).
19. English translation of “[p]orque la obra colectiva de los nuevos de América es aún vana”
(179).
20. “¿Hay en mi sangre alguna gota de sangre de África, o de indio chorotega o nagrandano?
Pudiera ser, a despecho de mis manos de marqués; mas he aquí que veréis en mis versos
princesas, reyes, cosas imperiales, visiones de países lejanos o imposibles: ¡qué queréis!,
yo detesto la vida y el tiempo en que me tocó nascer; y a un presidente de República, no
podré saludarle en el idioma en que te cantaría a ti, ¡oh Halagabal!, de cuya corte—oro,
seda, mármol—me acuerdo en sueños” (180).
21. “Buenos Aires: Cosmópolis. / ¡Y mañana!” (180).
22. “Porque proclamando, como proclamo, una estética acrática, la imposición de un mod-
elo o un código implicaría una contradicción” (179).
23. Eulália’s nickname for Stamatius. In Brazilian Portuguese, “Tiu” is a homophone of
“tio”—a word that in Brazilian slang means “guy” or “dude.”
24. Since much of the novel is written in dialect and slang, I offer my translation for these
citations.
25. “[Q]uem é esse cara, hem benzinho? é teu parente? escreve coisa de bem, os graúdo, os
fino, ou se tu não qué escrevê aquilo que eu já te disse da minha vida, tem coisa pra burro
pra eu te contá, tem coisa por esse mundo afora, escreve vá, Tiu, escreve das gente que
eu conheci lá em Rio Fino. / Fico ouvindo sem ouvir, pergunto distraído: onde é que tu
aprendeu a foder com jeito de gazela?” (Cartas de um Sedutor 89–90).
26. “Filó, a fadinha lésbica” (Filo, the little lesbian fairy) is also the title of a poem in Bufólicas.
27. “[Stamatius] tá bem. vou escrever ‘Filó, a fadinha lésbica.’
[Eulália] não. escreve do menino que virou cachorro.
mas só virou cachorro, só isso?
uai. e não é coisa pra burro?
é. é coisa pra editor sim, mas tem que ser um cachorro sacana, fodedor.
ah, isso não era não, era um cachorro simpres, quietoso.
então não dá, tem que ser assim ó (e lambo os beiços lentamente e reviro a língua), um
cachorro sacana.
Eulália ri gostoso. Olha para mim como se eu existisse, nada me olha como se eu exis-
tisse, me deu vontade de comer agora um sanduíche de linguado e Eulália de sobremesa.
Mas tenho que escrever ao menos um continho reles e vendê-lo quem sabe a um reles
suplemento.
qué sabé, Tiu? escreve um conto horrível, todo mundo gosta de pavor, a gente sente uma
coisa nos meio . . . um arrepião.
tá. então começo:” (Cartas de um Sedutor 91–92)
28. “sou Deus! sou Deus! Eulália ri: é mesmo, bem, o de Deus deve ser assim. Eu digo: é
assim mesmo, Eulália, é igualzinho sim. Quem te disse, Tiu? O demo. Eulália se encolhe:
tenho medo. volto pra cama, tomo-a nos braços, afago-lhes os pentelhos e discorro sobre
o Trevoso, seu todo nu, seu pau mirrado, sua tristeza. Ela começa a rir devagarinho, diz
que sempre pensou que o chifrudo tivesse um assinzão. Pois foi isso o que ele me expli-
cou esta noite, que não, e eu vi, Eulália, é pequenino assim, um tico enrugado. Coitado,
né? E também me disse que você não existe, Eulália, que você é minha invenção. Até que
pode ser, benzinho, ela responde, gosto tanto de tu que se um dia tu não me amá mais,
vou virá cisco, folhinha, caranguejo.
por que caranguejo?
Ah . . . porque caranguejo é tão triste.
Penso: verdade que construí meu ganido-mulher-diante-da-vida de um jeito pungente e
delicado, submisso e paciente.” (Cartas de um Sedutor 147–48)
29. “Eulália não é real. Está ali à minha frente mas não é real. Talvez tenha alguma materiali-
dade porque suspeito algumas vezes de lhe ouvir a fala” (Cartas de um Sedutor 133).
128 Justin Read
30. “Tudo isso que estou escrevendo não é pra contar pra ninguém porque se eu conto pra
outra gente, todas as meninas vão querer ser lambidas e tem umas meninas mais bonitas
do que eu, aí os moços vão dar dinheiro pra todas e não vai sobrar dinheiro pra mim,
pra eu comprar coisas que eu vejo na televisão e na escola. Aquelas bolsinhas, blusinhas,
aqueles tênis e a boneca de Xoxa” (O Caderno Rosa 18).
31. “[A]í separávamos tudo: rato e bosta pra cá, livros pedras e cacos pra lá. Comida nunca . . .
Que leituras! Que gente de primeira! O que jogaram de Tolstoi e Filsofia não dá para
acreditar! Tenho meia dúzia daquela obra-prima A morte de Ivan Ilitch [sic] e a obra com-
pleta de Kierkegaard. E cacos tenho alguns especiais também: um pé de Cristo do século
12, metade do rosto de Tereza Cepeda e Ahumada do século 18, um pedaço da coxa de
São Sebastião (com flecha e sangue) do século 13, uma caceta de plástico cor-de-rosa,
deste século, toda torcida como se tivesse sido queimada (guardei-a para não esquecer . . .
para não enfiar a minha numa dessas de combustão espontânea . . .), duas penas de pap-
agaio, uma barriga de Buda, três pedaços de asa de anjo, seis Bíblias e duzentas e dez O
Capital. (Jogam fora muito esse último, parece que saiu de moda, creio eu).
Vamos foder sim, Eulália, logo mais.” (Cartas de um Sedutor 16–17)
Works Cited
Adorno, Theodor. “Cultural Criticism and Society.” Prisms. Trans. Samuel and Shierry Weber.
Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1967. 17–34.
Benjamin, Walter. The Arcades Project. Ed. Rolf Tiedemann. Trans. Howard Eiland and Kevin
McLaughlin. Cambridge, MA: Belknap-Harvard UP, 1999.
Cazelles, Brigitte. The Lady as Saint: A Collection of French Hagiographic Romances of the Thir-
teenth Century. Philadelphia: U of Pennsylvania P, 1991.
Darío, Rubén. Prosas profanas y otros poemas (Poesía). Ed. Ernesto Mejía Sánchez. Caracas:
Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1977.
———. Selected Poems of Rubén Darío: A Bilingual Anthology. Ed. and trans. Alberto Acereda
and Will Derusha. Lewisburg: Bucknell UP, 2001.
Haliczer, Steven. Between Exaltation and Infamy: Female Mystics in the Golden Age of Spain.
Oxford: Oxford UP, 2002.
Heidegger, Martin. “Building Dwelling Thinking.” Poetry, Language, Thought. Trans. Albert
Hofstadter. New York: Harper, 1971. 145–61.
Hilst, Hilda. Bufólicas. Rio de Janeiro: Globo, 2001.
———. O Caderno Rosa de Lori Lamby. Rio de Janeiro: Globo, 2001.
———. Cartas de um Sedutor. Rio de Janeiro: Globo, 2001.
———. Contos d’Escárnio/Textos Grotescos. Rio de Janeiro: Globo, 2001.
Jrade, Cathy Login. Rubén Darío and the Romantic Search for Unity: The Modernist Recourse to
Esoteric Tradition. Austin: U of Texas P, 1983.
Lefebvre, Henri. The Production of Space. Trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. Malden, MA:
Blackwell, 1991.
Rama, Angel. The Lettered City. Trans. John Charles Chasteen. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 1996.
Read, Justin. “Obverse Colonization: São Paulo, Global Urbanization, and the Poetics of the
Latin American City.” Journal of Latin American Cultural Studies 15.3 (Dec. 2006): 281–300.
———. “Speculations on Unicity: Rearticulations of Urban Space and Critical Theory during
Global Economic Crisis.” CR: New Centennial Review 9.2 (2009): 109–38.
PART III
Feminist Utopias
CHAPTER 6
Southern Displacements
in Flora Tristán’s
Pérégrinations d’une paria
Gisela Heffes
ON APRIL 7, 1833, FLORA TRISTÁN EMBARKS on a voyage that will take her south.
From Paris to Peru, she undertakes this transatlantic journey in order to claim
the inheritance left to her father by her uncle, Don Pío de Tristán, an important
figure in Peru at the time. It should be clarified that Flora Tristán, Paul Gauguin’s
grandmother, was the daughter of a French woman and a Peruvian man who had
met in Spain, where her mother had taken refuge during the French Revolution.
Her parents were married there by a French priest who had immigrated to Spain,
but Flora’s father, Mariano Tristán, died four years later without regularizing his
civil status. He thus left Flora as an illegitimate daughter. Her father’s brother
refused to acknowledge her legally (although he did so affectionately) and to give
her the portion of inheritance that was rightly hers.
At the same time, Flora Tristán had been forced to marry against her will.
When Tristán was twenty years old, she and her husband separated. Flora had by
this time given birth to three children. The author later confesses that she owes all
her “misfortune” to this marriage (Feminism 211).1 She is not only the illegitimate
daughter of a marriage unrecognized by law, but she is also “separated” in a society
where divorce does not yet exist. She must falsify and manipulate her civil status
according to the circumstances in which she lives. When she is with her children,
she passes for a widow; but in situations where she finds herself alone, she passes
as single. This complicated and unresolved condition prevents her from having a
relationship with a man, and so she refers to herself as a “fugitive slave” (Feminism
212) who lives in the midst of society “with its cold egotism” (Feminism 217).
This situation forces her, moreover, to live in constant deceit.
Seeking her inheritance and taking refuge with her paternal family, Tristán
embarks on the ship El Mexicano (The Mexican), a vessel that will take her on this

132 Gisela Heffes
intercontinental adventure. Her travel log, Pérégrinations d’une paria: 1833–1834

(Peregrinations of a Pariah), was published in 1838, four years after her return.
Its complete translation into Spanish, however, did not appear until 1946.2 The
original publication in French was approximately nine hundred pages long.
This displacement toward the South represents the possibility of economic
recovery and redemption from her familial and social problems. Unlike many
learned, nineteenth-century Latin Americans in search of cultural legitimization
or political protection (such as Domingo F. Sarmiento, Esteban Echeverría, Juan
Montalvo, José Martí, Andrés Bello, or, at the beginning of the twentieth century,
Rubén Darío), this is not the classic South-North (or periphery-center) itiner-
ary. On the contrary, this voyage represents an inverse circuit, where the South
(however obliquely) embodies another classic myth: the search for a peaceful and
natural environment, far from the vices and inexorable contamination of the
civilizing machinery.3 Such a quest is by no means new in Tristán’s time, since
America has functioned as a space in which Europeans have projected utopian
experiments since the early modern era. Starting with Columbus’s first voyage in
1492, this prophecy acquires the characteristics of invention, dream, and myth
that continue well into the nineteenth century. In this sense, Tristán leaves in pur-
suit of a utopia that will “transform the existing order into a better and different
one,”4 to put it in María Ramírez Ribes’s words. For this reason, and as a search
for an internal El Dorado, the motor or impulse that drives her from north to
south ratifies the “mythical and heavenly vision that America has represented as
a place of utopia.”5
During her journey, Tristán takes notes following the norms of nineteenth-
century travel writing through a process that Mary Louise Pratt defines as the
reinvention of America as well as her own reinvention (65). In her diary, Tris-
tán documents her impressions, elaborates observations, comments, argues, and
summarizes the reality that surrounds her. The author’s fragile emotional state
combines with the customs she observes in Creole society. Maintaining the gen-
eral format that is typical of travel narratives according to Pratt, Tristán takes the
two positions that define the imperial subject: a scientific report linked to the
exercise of colonial power and the emotional voyage, which is an expression of
individualistic ideology and serves the promotion of moral fictions (Arro 278).
Nevertheless, given her peripheral condition (not as much in geographical terms
as in terms of her personal situation), she finds herself at once in a subaltern posi-
tion that reverses the assumptions mentioned earlier. This attribute, in addition
to her particular situation, makes her work a complex narrative, since it not only
follows certain premises of the genre but also reverses and questions them.
Pérégrinations d’une paria is a fundamental text because it is set within one of
the most important feminist (or feminist-socialist, as Pratt suggests [153]) dis-
courses of the nineteenth century. Also, a utopian dimension appears in this work
as well as in later ones by the author that will have a direct impact on contem-
porary readers. In this sense, this article will attempt to analyze two fundamental
elements of Tristán’s textual configuration: first, it will look at the condition of
subalternity that characterizes and pollutes her narrative; second, it will examine
the emergence of an increasingly prominent utopian imaginary in her writing.
Southern Displacements in Tristán’s Pérégrinations d’une paria 133
Consequently, this chapter will demonstrate how these two features intertwine,
determining the discursive and autofigurative constitution of her account. It is
important to clarify that the term autofigurative will be defined as an autobio-
graphical representation that goes to great lengths to coincide with an introjected
ideal of one’s self (Amícola 253). At the same time, Tristán’s subaltern condition
stems from a dual circumstance: first, as an illegitimate daughter; and second (an
inevitable consequence of the first), as a separated woman. This makes her a mar-
ginal subject in her own society (Parisian) as well as in the Peruvian Creole society
where she seeks to integrate herself. It is this society she is turning to by way of her
transatlantic crossing. The equation—a result of her marginal, peripheral condi-
tion and a few incipient utopian conceptions delineated in the text—will result
in one of the most important discourses of the nineteenth century, both in its
feminine modality as well as in its socialist and utopian character.
Moreover, I will attempt to discern how this account of pilgrimage questions
the basic premises of her own society, especially the role of women within the
public and private spheres, both in her native France and in Peru. Tristán makes
use of the literary genre of travel narrative (one of the few privileged mediums
available to exercise her criticism) with the aim of objectifying and contesting the
oppressive conditions that emerge from a historical and sociocultural context.6
Her use of this genre, besides exercising a shrewd criticism of her South American
experience (to the point that its publication will refashion her as a polemical fig-
ure, since her family in Peru will burn her text in effigy in the Arequipa Square),
also serves a pedagogical function. Indeed, the intimate experience of the voyage,
inseparable from the desire to transform the existing order into a better one, can
be connected to the Bildungsroman genre. While there is the usual search for a
personal identity, it is also connected to one of the characteristics of the feminine
Bildungsroman: the rejection of social rules as an effort to redefine the structure
of society (Kushigian 36). In this case, it is not about a renovation or reconstruc-
tion of childhood, as Julia A. Kushigian explains. In Tristán’s case, the Bildung
consists precisely in the rejection of an understanding of life—and therefore of
reality—as a series of disconnected events and relationships (36). Hence the links
between personal events and the cultural context in which they are anchored
work as the formulation of a concrete model for change—that is, the utopian
project.
Pariah among Pariahs

Flora Tristán’s subaltern condition appears to be firmly established from the
very title of the text, where the enunciating subject (and object of representa-
tion) defines herself as “a pariah.”7 This identity lies within the “invisibility” that
characterizes the subaltern subject, which, as Gayatri Spivak points out in her
well-known article on subalternity, becomes more profound in the case of women
since the ideological construction of genders preserves male dominance (287).
Without a doubt, Spivak is referring to a context mediated by colonial academic
institutions, a space where epistemic violence silences a whole series of Others.
According to Spivak, if in the context of colonial production the subaltern has
134 Gisela Heffes
no history and cannot speak, the feminine subaltern is relegated even further
into darkness (288). Tristán’s subalternity, therefore, also relegates her to a certain
darkness. Her condition as a pariah appears at the end of her work as a synthesis
of her failed voyage when she states, “Rejected everywhere, without family, for-
tune or profession, without even a name I could call my own, I was abandoning
myself to chance, like a balloon which falls where the wind takes it” (Peregrina-
tions 244).
The initial goal of her voyage remains therefore unfinished. Her uncle does
not legally recognize her, and consequently, Tristán cannot recover her fortune
and insert herself into the Peruvian elite where her paternal family was highly
regarded. She does not gain the financial independence that she desired either.
Upon her return, she still has all her subaltern attributes, if these are understood
as features of someone “that lacks the power of (self ) representation” (Beverley
27). She is still poor, an illegitimate daughter, and a woman.
Tristán maintains her condition of inferiority and subordination (i.e., she
finds herself beneath the dominant, hegemonic Other) in a society that, as she
notes in the introduction to her text, found itself “organized for grief ” (Feminism
215). The relationship between institutional power and subalternity is not only
made explicit but also called into question. Tristán is not a “subject of history,”
but rather, indirectly, she demands an intervention of the institutions with hopes
of a plausible future transformation (Beverley 22). This practice of articulating
her demands is clearly directed toward “this society that prides itself on its civili-
zation” (211), since it is precisely this that turns Tristán into a “miserable Pariah,”
condemning her to exclusion, punishment, and deception (Feminism 211).
However, as John Beverley points out, following Henry Staten’s argument, sub-
alternity is more of a “relational” identity than an “ontological” one; “that is, a
contingent, and overdetermined, identity (or identities)” (30). The use of a wholly
intimate rhetoric in a genre that permits her to evade dominant premises makes
Tristán’s a unique and exceptional case. Even though she is rejected by her paternal
family, she uses an incisive instrument—namely, travel narrative—to articulate an
acute criticism where the objective is to reveal the pettiness of a society that from
the author’s viewpoint is provincial and retrograde. The fact that she finds herself
drifting between two different territorialities allows her to reverse her point of view,
and while facing disappointment, she puts forward a divergent reading. In this
sense, it is important to remember that the problems of subalternity are irrevocably
linked to problems anchored in geographies and regionalisms, since the very notion
of “area” designates a “subalternized space” (Beverley 2). More specifically, Tristán
inverts her docile behavior (a mechanism she uses at first to obtain acceptance—
and remuneration—from her paternal family) to become scathing and caustic. Her
initial subordination and obedience mutates into an unexpected aggression. The
text, therefore, is abundant with observations that define Peruvians as “untrust-
worthy” (Peregrinations 80) and the Peruvian territory as a space where “nothing
is esteemed more than duplicity” (Peregrinations 139). The Creole provincialism
is depicted sarcastically. Tristán refers to the social conventions as “sumptuous din-
ners” (or “comidas de etiqueta” [328] in the Spanish version, which is to say “formal
dinners”) and banquets and points out how absurd and detrimental they are for the
national economy (Peregrinations 279). Later, she observes that the Peruvian popu-
lation finds itself “still reduced to sensual pleasures,”8 and because of this, it lacks
enlightenment, reason, and critical thought. In summary, she describes a society
reduced to primitivism and barbaric precariousness.
A sort of paradox produces itself, which makes the lens through which Tris-
tán observes and analyzes increasingly complex. If subalternity confines her to
a position of inferiority within the society she seeks to integrate into, by being
rejected by her own family, she reverses her position and elaborates a text where
the perspective of subalternity is also inverted. The tone of her writing, which is
initially marked by the spite and discomfort of her condition as a “stranger” (this
“house of my father, that should have been mine and in which, however, I was
considered a stranger”9) suffers a process of transformation that is translated as
“bitter reflections,” allowing her to see “everywhere” the “evil prejudice” and “the
slow progress of human reason” (Peregrinations 249).
Through her acerbic observations, Tristán relegates Peruvian society in general
to a cultural subalternity, because now it finds itself in a position of inferior-
ity with respect to Europe. Furthermore, Tristán makes use of her position as a
foreigner—a position that had precisely caused her “moral anguish” (Peregrina-
tions 249)—to analyze Peruvian reality from the point of view of an explorer. Her
account, from then on, deals not only with delegitimizing this society but also
with revealing the parodic features of an epigonic society that, through its emulat-
ing character, appears degraded.
Tristán’s status as a stranger operates, thus, as an identity that is articulated in
two ways: it is related to her situation as a pariah, but then, through the course of
her account, it is transformed into a weapon that will be linked to her subsequent
political writing. In this new articulation, the subject of domination is objecti-
fied and Tristán herself, who was once objectified, now becomes an active subject
capable of registering and cataloging the institutional problems of the society
that has rejected and therefore condemned her. Peruvian social conventions are
defined in this new stage as the yoke of traditions. It is in her social criticism
where the utopian dimension is projected—a dimension that will become more
evident in later texts. One paradigmatic example is her reference to evil and its
“vices,” since according to her, it is the “masters who have given us social insti-
tutions and the yoke from which only the privileged can free themselves.”10 In
other words, it is these very institutions that create vices in men, and only a privi-
leged few can escape them. Similarly, when referring to her uncle (for whom she
admittedly feels a certain affection), she will say that it is the “unfortunate social
organization”11 that establishes hate and resentment among men and impedes the
realization of a true communion, as ambition, avarice, and selfishness constantly
interfere. The relational and territorial identity of the subaltern condition, as Bev-
erley accurately defines it, is capitalized in an extraordinary way by Tristán, who
removes herself from her “ontological” designation, revealing (albeit with certain
limitations) that a transformation is certainly possible.
136 Gisela Heffes
South of the Atlantic

Flora Tristán is a migrant subject, a subject in exile. In Pérégrinations d’une paria,
her exile appears to be represented in two ways. There is an exile that is related to
her subaltern condition, as a marginal subject. It is the internal exile that orbits
around a center into which she may not insert herself. It is a painful exile that,
in certain moments, is associated with death: “I did not know where to hide nor
what to do! I could not find shelter nor rest in any place on earth . . . There was
no one to whom I could confide my pain. A dark melancholy took hold of me. I
was silent and pondered the most sinister projects. I took aversion to life.”12
But there is another exile that is linked to her geographical dislocation, for
she finds herself far from her native country and, most importantly, from her
children:
The youngest of Joaquina’s daughters was the same age as mine. She was nice,
mischievous, and her infantile language reminded me of my poor Alina. At this
thought my eyes filled with tears . . . I looked away from this girl and retired to
my room in a state of suffering that only a mother can feel. “You wretch,” I told
myself, “What have I done?” . . . I left my daughter in the care of strangers. The
poor thing could be ill perhaps, perhaps even dead! Then my imagination exagger-
ated the dangers that could befall her, as well as my guilt toward her, and I fell into
a delirious despair.13
These two forms of exile are differentiated considerably from notions like dias-
pora or voyage, as formulated by James Clifford in Routes: Travel and Translation
in the Late Twentieth Century (1997). While the first differs from the category
of voyage in that it is not temporal, it also differs from the idea of exile that is
generally distinguished by its more individualist emphasis: it generally involves
a community, and consequently, alternative public spaces, communitarian forms
of solidarity, and an identification that transcends the category of national space
and time (251).14 Tristán’s exile can be compared to the condition of the migrant
writer described by Florinda Goldberg in that her fundamental purpose is to
create a metaphorical and virtual space that replaces the lost space (289).15 For
Goldberg, the world or space of expatriates is divided in two territories that are
mutually exclusive and that articulate opposing paradigms: the absent and the
present, the own and the alien, the familiar and the nonfamiliar, the safe and
the dangerous, and so on (288). In the case of Tristán, however, these paradigms
do not appear to be confrontational but analogous. In fact, it is one continuous
and all-encompassing paradigm, and it emerges as an insoluble block formed
under the vault of the alien, the unfamiliar, and the dangerous. This is where her
“aversion to life” and the “delirious despair” come forth. Nevertheless, stemming
from the same anxiety created by this internal emptiness, Tristán reemerges and
constructs not so much a metaphoric and virtual space but rather an ideologi-
cal consciousness that immerses her completely into political activism upon her
return to France.
Indeed, according to Pratt, it is this prolonged stay in Peru that incites Tristán’s
political awakening and that will lead her to total activism when she returns to
France in 1834 (153). Carlos Rama also points out that her voyage awakens her
“consciousness” not only in relation to the world she observes but also in regard
to her personal perspectives and capabilities (xxii). In this sense, there is an evolu-
tion in Tristán through her journey and contact with the culture and people of
the South, as it is during this period that she observes Peruvian society from the
inside of the upper class. At the same time, however, she considers it from an
external perspective, given her situation as a stranger and a pariah. So another
paradox is fulfilled in Tristán’s point of view, for it is the South that “enlightens”
her reason not so much as a place of belonging but rather as a vehicle by which
she will read the contradictions that characterize both sides of the Atlantic (those
of her father’s and her mother’s respective lands). Being internally and externally
dislocated, she articulates a reading that can analyze the mechanisms of power
and domination through an adequate objectivity. This manner of observation,
however, is still limited to territorial frontiers and to the cultural differences that
every nation (and its people) entails. She will not yet see, as Rama suggests, that
“all men are brothers and that the world is their common land.”16 In other words,
she will not yet have the full conviction that there exists a universalism that tran-
scends the barriers of origin and unifies all men across all social classes.
In this sense, Pérégrinations d’une paria shapes a sort of prologue to her later
works of utopian dimension, and this prologue begins with her journey to Amer-
ica. It is necessary to clarify at this point that I use the term utopian not in the
traditional sense, as inspired principally by Thomas More’s Utopia (1516), which
illustrates an ideal society that is imagined in places isolated in space or far off
in time and apparently at the margin of all historical causality. On the contrary,
following Fernando Aínsa’s definition in La reconstrucción de la utopía (The
reconstruction of utopia; 1999), this dimension consists in the form of the spirit,
as a “subversive imaginary” that can be present in philosophical essays, politi-
cal platforms, declarations, journalistic articles, pamphlets, speeches, poems, and
works of fiction (21). The “subversive” intent, which is patent in Tristán’s account
and defines all orders of representation, consists in the idea of an imagination
that seeks to subvert, invert, or change a given order or status quo. Further, it
is manifested through the “rebellion” and constant dissent with respect to social
conventions, the established system, and norms. It is, in short, that quality of the
feminine Bildungsroman mentioned earlier. At the same time, however, it is an
epistemological reversal, and its origin refers to a displacement—not only territo-
rial but also cultural. The transformation at work in Tristán is manifested likewise
in several orders: on the one hand, it is the rejection that she suddenly expresses
toward her paternal family; on the other hand, it is the solidarity toward other
pariahs or lower-class people with whom she will now identify herself. With Péré-
grinations d’une paria, she is one of the first female writers who write about the
Others, her partners in subalternity, in Peru. Her detailed description of slaves,
natives, servants, soldiers, women, the poor, and mestizos, among many others,
reveals her interest in these subjects. This interest no longer stems from a Euro-
pean viewpoint, or that of the nineteenth-century travelers who sought to clear a
138 Gisela Heffes
path for the implementation of economic modernization. Rather, it stems from

the concern and solidarity that will appear later, when she becomes a pointed
social critic and an “apostle” in the fight to improve the way of life for women,
workers, and the poor.
Along those same lines, the reflections about the lives of women in Peru func-
tion as a resource that allows her to elevate this problematic topic to a universal
level: in this way, she concludes that the alternatives for a woman of her time to
escape a miserable life are marriage or the cloister. In regard to the first, she will say
that women find themselves subjected to the will of men (from whom they suffer
continual “tyranny”), a condition that is reproduced as much in Peru as in Europe
(Peregrinations 106). Marriage is described as an inferno; women on both sides of
the continent are “unhappy and oppressed,” and the “intelligence” they had “is
doomed to sterility and inertia” (Peregrinations 106). This assessment allows her
to introduce the problem of the “law which makes marriage indissoluble” and to
indirectly propose the need to legalize divorce (Peregrinations 52). With respect
to the women of the convent, she observes that these are “unfortunate victims”
tragically “buried alive beneath this mass of stone” (Peregrinations 186).
Nevertheless, by establishing a relationship between the tyranny and oppres-
sion of husbands and fathers, Tristán is laying the foundations for some of the
propositions articulated by Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels in the Manifest der
Kommunistischen Partei (The Communist Manifesto; 1848). While promoting the
abolition of private property, they argue that as a natural consequence, capital
and family will disappear as well (i.e., family as a space of oppression and exploi-
tation), so women will no longer be an instrument of production (41).
It is important to underline that despite being self-taught, Tristán was a
socialist linked to many of the best-known utopists of her time. However, she
developed her own concept of class conflict and stood out as pacifist, as she
was concerned with international solidarity and humanitarianism. According to
Rama, the “central utopian line”17 in Tristán’s work is directly related to the ideas
of Henri de Saint-Simon. Within the Latin American sphere, she is grouped
with Esteban Echeverría, the author of Dogma socialista (Socialist Dogma; 1846)
as well as El Matadero (The Slaughterhouse; 1871).18 Yet Tristán was not only
an “efficient propagandist,” a “‘liberated’ writer,” or a “vindicator of women’s
rights”; she was chiefly a “creator in the world of socialist ideas”19 at the level
of socialist and utopian thinkers such as Robert Owen, Charles Fourier, Henri
de Saint-Simon, Victor Considérant, Pierre Leroux, Étienne Cabet, or Félicité
Robert de Lamennais.
In addition, Tristán is ahead of Marx in that, early on, she had suggested that
the workers unionize and build a class of their own in the same way that the aris-
tocracy and bourgeoisie had done in the past. Besides associating herself directly
with Fourier and Owen, she will be defended by Marx from attacks by Edgar
Bauer in Die heilige Familie, oder Kritik der kritischen Kritik (The Holy Family;
1844).20 More importantly, Tristán wrote two paradigmatic texts, or as Rama
claims, two capital works within the socialist thought of the first half of the nine-
teenth century: Promenades dans Londres (London Journal) in 1840 and L’union
ouvrière (The Workers’ Union) in 1843 (xxi). If her work inspires Engels’s Die Lage
der arbeitenden Klasse in England (The Condition of the Working Class in England;
1845), L’union ouvrière is likewise important because it proposes the recognition
of the “right to work,” which anticipates the French Revolution of 1848 (and
the declaration of the Second Republic). It will also support the organization of
workers through a Universal Workers’ Union, the International Workingmen’s
Association (or First International), which comes to light for the first time in
1864 (Rama xxi).
To Conclude: A Utopian Drive

In The Idea of Latin America (2005), Walter Mignolo refers to the division estab-
lished between North and South, which appears as a “natural” partition from
Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel until the present: from the nineteenth century
onward, “the North has been constructed as the leader of the South and the
‘natural’ location of economic, political, military, and epistemic power” (158).
Although this deeply rooted construction still remains under new forms of “colo-
nialism,” it is challenged by Flora Tristán. In her case, the displacement toward
the South suggests a reversal of the classic nineteenth-century paradigm that
equates the North with the space that shelters (and produces) the acquisition of
knowledge. Moreover, Tristán’s “peregrinations” across a particular hemispheric
geography and culture foster a broader understanding of the universe around
her as well as of her social interactions. Throughout Pérégrinations d’une paria,
there is a growing social critique that in the majority of cases is directed toward
the institutions of power and the laws made by men. It deals with an (implicit)
historical understanding of power, which excludes all connections with its inher-
ent origin and, consequently, involves a possible social transformation. In fact, it
is this very possibility that is taking place.
If utopia works as the motor of history, the utopian imagination that is under-
lying in Tristán’s narrative flow bears the objective of producing immediate radical
change. Some critics refer to the adjective utopian (which appeared for the first
time in 1529, after More published his text in 1516) as a form of the spirit. This
characteristic has served to justify that, in many cases, intention (determined by
the “subversive imaginary”) is more important than the literary work or genre
(Aínsa 21). Indeed, with the appearance of its adjective, utopia became a syn-
onym for having a rebellious mental attitude, opposing or resisting an existing
order, and proposing instead an order that is radically different from the present
one. For this reason, writers can be utopists without having written about any
utopia. This alternative vision of reality is fundamental because it determines the
principal questioning that appears in Pérégrinations d’une paria. In the words of
Ernst Bloch, it is about an “anticipation” (Vorschein) that differs from mere fan-
tasy in the fact that it possesses an expectation that does not yet exist but that is
anticipated as a real potential in a physical manner (105). It is through this antici-
patory illumination that it is possible to reach a sense of truth in reality. Likewise,
anticipatory illumination forces us to concentrate on works of art concerned with
the productive human activity that relates to the way we define ourselves and the
world. In his introduction to select essays by Bloch, Jack Zipes points out that it is
140 Gisela Heffes
necessary to become detective-critics in our appreciation and evaluation of those

works (xxxvi). It is up to us to determine the anticipatory illumination of a work;
by doing so, we contribute to the cultural inheritance or patrimony. In other
words, the quality of our cultural inheritance and its meaning are determined
by our capacity to estimate that which has value and is utopian in artistic works
from every period.
Tristán’s work has hardly been analyzed in the area of Latin American studies.
Her writing reveals a complex network that problematizes various literary posi-
tions, as it oscillates between an imperial and a subaltern position, between the
center and the periphery, and between the North and the South. At the same
time, her position exposes “subversive” tendencies such as fragmenting the unity
of the coherent world and the common logic embedded in the archetype of
the traditional discourse of patriarchy. Further, it exhibits the desire to destroy
the assumed totality of the subject, as a “projection of a specifically masculine
fight,”21 in María Luisa Gil Iriarte’s own words. In summary, her writing alters
the structures of the “accepted processes of signification”22 and suggests instead a
“proposal that is disturbing, revolving, and destructive of patriarchal hierarchical
structures.”23 The fusion of styles present in her text includes the intimate diary,
the autobiography, the adventure novel, the travel narrative, and stories of cus-
toms and traditions. At the same time, it is a work of denunciation through which
the author illustrates “the reverse side” of the hegemonic Creole society—that is,
its miseries, its hypocrisies, its ambitions, and its injustices. This stylistic hybrid-
ity opens up a space of freedom and creativity that allows her to exercise her social
criticism as well as indirectly propose a concrete project for improvement.
By situating itself in a peripheral position, this feminist, socialist, and utopian
discourse is constructed out of a geographical and personal eccentricity. Its nar-
rative itinerary, therefore, establishes a certain distance from the cultural nucleus
assumed by the dominant patriarchal hierarchy. But it is this eccentricity that
leaves Tristán in exile—that of external dislocation and internal emptiness—and
that situates her in a privileged position, understanding privileged as the ability
to create an affective and territorial distance in order to dialogue with the reality
she confronts. If, using Mikhail Bakhtin’s definition, “feminine literature is a dia-
logical literature”24 (keeping in mind that dialogism is “a way of approaching an
integrated reality that questions totalizations, absolute truths”),25 Pérégrinations
d’une paria alters the (masculine) canonical interpretations of history. Further-
more, supported by the utopian impulse, it also offers a new approach to the
world of representations that she has inherited (Gil Iriarte 51). In this sense,
the discursive complexity of her narration, the mixture of genres, the changes of
positions, and the reversal of textual paradigms all combine to make this unique
text a specific model for dismantling the sociocultural patterns on both sides of
the Atlantic in a similar temporal context, in a fluctuation that will give way to
innovative, radical, and exceptional proposals.
Despite the multiple difficulties that limit the writing and publication of
nineteenth-century women’s literature, Flora Tristán makes use of the most
canonical genres of the bourgeois and authoritarian era—the autobiographical
narrative and travel writing—with a double objective.26 On the one hand, she
articulates a critique that allows her to reverse her subaltern condition, transform-
ing the dominant society into a group of cultural subalterns. This objectification,
which relocates her in an alternative position, creates a distance that was absent in
her former state. On the other hand, it is by way of this process—a strategy that
can only occur as a result of her marginal and foreign condition—that Tristán
underlines some of the most important principles of what will later become her
main work. In this way, she not only exercises social criticism but also implicitly
proposes a project for social improvement that involves men and women in a
situation of equality. Without a doubt, this is a hallmark that will reappear in later
women’s writings and utopian discourses.
Notes
1. All quotes from Flora Tristán’s preface are from Feminism, Socialism, and French Roman-
ticism, since these were omitted from the 1980 French reprint on which Jean Hawkes’s
translation is based. As for most of the quotes from Tristán’s narration, they are from
the 1986 edition of Peregrinations of a Pariah, except if they were omitted or translated
differently than expected; in this case, they have been translated by Susan Cruess and
the page number is from the 2003 Spanish version, Peregrinaciones de una paria, which
appears in the endnotes. All other translations (including the main text of this essay) are
by Susan Cruess and Ximena Osegueda, unless a published translation is indicated.
2. The two-volume book was published in Paris by Arthus Bertrand, Libraire-Éditeur (Rue
Hautefeuille, no. 23). While the first volume is 400 pages long, the second contains 462
pages.
3. A myth that, paradoxically, has been shaped by some of the authors mentioned, such
as Andrés Bello (with his Alocución a la poesía [Allocution to Poetry; 1823] and Silva a la
agricultura en la zona tórrida [Ode to the Agriculture of the Torrid Zone or Ode to Tropical
Agriculture; 1826]) and José Martí. It is a tradition that in the Spanish American context
refers to the eclogues written by Garcilaso de la Vega (mostly the first and the second), to
Soledades (The Solitudes; 1613) by Luis de Góngora, and to Fray Luis de León (with his
“life withdrawn” from the “mundane noise”), among others.
4. English translation of “transformar el orden existente en uno mejor y diferente” (Ramírez
Ribes xxiv).
5. English translation of “la visión mítica y paradisíaca que se ha tenido de América como
lugar de la utopía” (Ramírez Ribes 109).
6. Contrary to Maria Graham, who used the form of the diary, but like most male and
female travelers at the time, Tristán “took up the form that had become canonical and
authoritative in the bourgeois era, the autobiographical narrative” (Pratt 168).
7. The two meanings of the term paria (pariah), according to the Real Academia Española
(Royal Spanish Academy), are “1. Persona excluida de las ventajas de que gozan las demás,
e incluso de su trato, por ser considerada inferior [A person excluded from the advantages
that others enjoy, and even from good treatment, because he or she is considered inferior].
2. Habitante de la India, de ínfima condición social, fuera del sistema de las castas [Inhab-
itant of India, from the lowest social condition, outside of the caste system].”
8. English translation of “todavía reducido a los goces sensuales” (Peregrinaciones 329).
9. English translation of “casa de mi padre, que hubiese debido ser la mía y en la que, sin
embargo, era yo considerada como una extraña” (Peregrinaciones 251).
10. English translation of “amos quienes nos han dado las instituciones sociales y el yugo de
los cuales sólo las naturalezas privilegiadas pueden sustraerse” (Peregrinaciones 232–33).
142 Gisela Heffes
11. English translation of “desgraciada organización social” (Peregrinaciones 305).

12. “¡No sabía adónde huir ni qué hacer! No entreveía asilo ni reposo en ningún sitio sobre
la tierra . . . No había ninguna persona en el seno de la cual pudiese desahogar mi dolor.
Una negra melancolía se apoderó de mí. Estaba silenciosa y meditaba los más siniestros
proyectos. Tomé aversión a la vida” (Peregrinaciones 251).
13. “La menor de las hijas de Joaquina tenía la edad de mi hija. Era simpática, traviesa y su
lenguaje infantil me recordaba a mi pobre Alina. A este pensamiento mis ojos se llenaban
de lágrimas . . . Apartaba los ojos de esta niña y me retiraba a mi cuarto en un estado de
sufrimiento que sólo una madre puede concebir. ‘¡Ay!, desgraciada –me decía–, ¿qué he
hecho?’ . . . Dejé a mi hija al cuidado de gente extraña. ¡La desgraciada criatura está quizá
enferma, quizá muerta! Entonces mi imaginación exageraba los peligros que podía correr, así
como mis culpas hacia ella, y caí en una desesperación delirante” (Peregrinaciones 250–51).
14. “Diaspora is different from travel (though it works through travel practices) in that it is
not temporary. It involves dwelling, maintaining communities, having collective homes
away from home (and in this, it is different from exile, with its frequently individualist
focus). Diaspora discourse articulates, or bends together, both roots and routes to con-
struct what Gilroy describes as alternate public spheres, forms of community conscious-
ness and solidarity that maintain identifications outside the national time/space in order
to live inside, with a difference. Diaspora cultures are not separatist, though they may
have separatist or irredentist moments” (Clifford 251).
15. I use the term exile, as Goldberg uses it, to refer not so much to a forced exile (as in
the cases representative of those in political exile) but rather to a voluntary exile (as in
the case of Julio Cortázar and many writers who, for various reasons, left their native
countries): “Applying Jean-Philippe Imbert’s definition—‘We will consider an exile to be
someone who inhabits one place and remembers or projects the reality of another’—in
this essay I shall use exile, expatriation and migration as comprehensive terms, stressing
when necessary the specific situation of forced exiles” (Goldberg 288).
16. English translation of “todos los hombres son hermanos y que el mundo es su patria
común” (xxii).
17. English translation of “línea utópica central” (xxiii).
18. In 1833, Tristán “conocía a fondo el pensamiento de Saint-Simon, en que se había ini-
ciado en 1826, contacto que renovará con los discípulos de Prosper Enfantin después de
1840. En definitiva, por entonces, su línea utópica central se emparenta con el citado
maestro francés, y su caso no es distinto del argentino Esteban Echeverría, visitante de
París por los mismos años, con el que asimismo comparte la admiración por Victor Con-
sidérant, al igual que Santiago Arcos Arlegui y sus amigos chilenos [had a deep under-
standing of Saint-Simon’s work, which she began studying in 1826, a contact that will
be renewed with the disciples of Prosper Enfantin after 1840. In short, at the time, her
central utopian line relates to the above-mentioned French master, and her case is not
distinct from the Argentine Esteban Echeverría, a visitor to Paris in the same years, with
whom she shares admiration for Victor Considérant, as well as Santiago Arcos Arlegui
and his Chilean friends]” (Rama xxiii).
19. English translation of “propagandista eficiente,” “escritora ‘liberada,’” “reivindicadora de
los derechos de la mujer,” and “creadora en el mundo de las ideas socialistas” (Rama xx).
20. See Rama xxi.
21. English translation of “proyección de una lucha específicamente masculina” (Gil Iriarte 50).
22. English translation of “procesos de significación aceptados” (Gil Iriarte 50).
23. English translation of “propuesta transtornadora, revolvente y destructora de las estruc-
turas jerárquicas patriarcales” (Gil Iriarte 51).
24. English translation of “la literatura femenina es una literatura dialogal” (Gil Iriarte 51).
25. English translation of “una forma de acercamiento a la realidad integradora que interroga
las totalizaciones, las verdades absolutas” (Gil Iriarte 51).
26. According to Pratt, in travel writing, “science and sentiment code the imperial frontier in
the two eternally clashing and complementary languages of bourgeois subjectivity” (38).
Works Cited
Aínsa, Fernando. La reconstrucción de la utopía. Buenos Aires: Ediciones del Sol, 1999.
Amícola, José. Autobiografía como autofiguración: Estrategias discursivas del Yo y cuestiones de
género. Rosario: Beatriz Viterbo, 2007.
Arro, Evelin. “Tentativas de intimidad. Para una lectura del relato de viaje en la narrativa argen-
tina contemporánea.” El viaje en la literatura hispanoamericana: El espíritu colombino. Ed.
Sonia Mattalia, Pilar Celma, and Pilar Alonso. Madrid: Iberoamericana-Vervuert, 2008.
275–90.
Beverley, John. Subalternity and Representation: Arguments in Cultural Theory. Durham, NC:
Duke UP, 1999.
Bloch, Ernst. The Utopian Function of Art and Literature: Selected Essays. Trans. Jack Zipes and
Frank Mecklenburg. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1988.
Clifford, James. Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge, MA:
Harvard UP, 1997.
Gil Iriarte, María Luisa. Testamento de Hécuba: Mujeres e indígenas en la obra de Rosario Castel-
lanos. Seville: Universidad de Sevilla, 1999.
Goldberg, Florinda. “Latin American Migrant Writers.” Globality and Multiple Modernities:
Comparative North American and Latin American Perspectives. Ed. Luis Roniger and Carlos
Horacio Waisman. Brighton: Sussex Academic P, 2002. 285–312.
Goldberg Moses, Claire and Leslie Wahl Rabine. Preface and Introduction. Feminism, Social-
ism, and French Romanticism. Bloomington: Indiana UP, 1993. 204–17.
Kushigian, Julia A. Reconstructing Childhood: Strategies of Reading for Culture and Gender in the
Spanish American Bildungsroman. Lewisburg: Bucknell UP, 2003.
Marx, Karl and Friedrich Engels. “Manifesto of the Communist Party.” The Communist Mani-
festo. London: Penguin, 1985. 77–124.
Mignolo, Walter. The Idea of Latin America. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005.
Pratt, Mary Louise. Imperial Eyes: Travel Writing and Transculturation. London: Routledge,
2008.
Rama, Carlos. “El utopismo socialista en América Latina.” Utopismo socialista, 1830–1893. Ed.
Carlos Rama. Caracas: Biblioteca Ayacucho, 1977. ix–lxxi.
Ramírez Ribes, María. La utopía contra la historia. Caracas: Fundación para la Cultura Urbana,
2005.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “Can the Subaltern Speak?” Marxism and the Interpretation of
Culture. Ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg. Champaign: U of Illinois P, 1988.
271–313.
Tristán, Flora. Peregrinaciones de una paria. Introd. Germán Arciniegas. Bogotá: Villegas, 2003.
———. Pérégrinations d’une paria. Paris: Bertrand, 1838.
———. Peregrinations of a Pariah. Ed. and trans. Jean Hawkes. Boston: Beacon, 1986.
Zipes, Jack. “Introduction: Toward a Realization of Anticipatory Illumination.” The Utopian
Function of Art and Literature: Selected Essays. Trans. Jack Zipes and Frank Mecklenburg.
Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1988. xi–xliii.
CHAPTER 7
Revolution Interrupted
The “Women of April” and the
Utopia of National Liberation
Wanda Rivera-Rivera
There was a space for reflection, at times, attained paradoxically in jails.

—Magaly Pineda, quoted in Margarita Cordero,
Mujeres de abril (Women of April)1
THE 1965 APRIL WAR IS PERHAPS ONE of the most significant historical events in
the Dominican Republic in the second half of the twentieth century. The war
of 1965 was a dramatic process of sociohistorical changes and cultural-political
transformations that culminated in violent civil wars between conservative mili-
tary groups and the civic military factions that were supporting the return of the
constitutionalist government of Professor Juan Bosch. In the first phase, the civil
war was followed by the second United States intervention. This process is what
initiated the second phase of the war known as the national war (guerra patria).
The analysis of the cultural and political development of the aforementioned
national war should be considered as a counterpoint to the utopian impulse of
the revolutionary movements of the militant left in Latin America. As is known,
Jorge Castañeda’s analysis of the unarmed utopia charged itself with determining
if the persistence of the different Latin American leftist objectives would still be
feasible, and if the pertinence of the utopian impulse that made the left possible
would still be valid. In speaking of egalitarian utopia, it is customary to insist on
the following: social justice over economic performance, the distribution of rev-
enue over the good functioning of markets, reducing inequalities over fostering
competitiveness, social spending over the control of inflation, and the necessity of
expenditures over the imperative of rationalizing government finances. According
to Castañeda’s proposed analysis, these objectives have proven to be incompatible
in contemporary Latin America (25–26).

146 Wanda Rivera-Rivera
As soon as politico-military organizations began to spread throughout Latin

America, the egalitarian utopia ideal rapidly demonstrated its limitations and
internal contradictions. These organizations took the Cuban Revolution and
the guerilla figure of Fidel Castro as a model, and were principally characterized
by adhering to the practice of armed struggle. The armed struggle movements
became national liberation movements because their goal was the (re)construc-
tion of a new state. Throughout the sixties and seventies, the models provided
by guerilla groups in Venezuela and the Dominican Republic demonstrated the
emergence of foco armed strategy—small armed groups of militant fighters in
the mountains or the jungles. The armed struggle was, according to Castañeda, a
response to the political failing of the Communist parties and also a logical and
ineluctable consequence of the Cuban Revolution (88).
In the beginning of the 1965 April War in the Dominican Republic, some of
the members of the Movimiento Clandestino 14 de Junio (Clandestine Move-
ment of June 14), also known as 1J4, were returning secretly2 after having been
jailed and deported as part of the Triumvirate government’s effort to defeat the
guerilla movement. The disappearance of leader Manuel Tavárez Justo and 32
guerilla fighters in Las Manaclas and the outlawing of the 1J4 Revolutionary
Movement—a consequence of the overthrow of Juan Bosch’s constitutional
government—obliged the returnees to search for new solutions and political
directives in order to impel the revolutionary left (Tavéras 9).
After his death, Tavárez Justo was invested with a messianic symbolism com-
parable to that of guerilla leader Castro. The Dominicans, who were fighting for
the utopia of economic and social equality, saw in him the continuity of the “man
symbol” and the promise of the Dominican national liberation. On the other
hand, Minerva Mirabal, in conjunction with her sisters, Patria and María Teresa,
and their respective husbands, promoted the egalitarian participation of women
in the politico-military insurgency of the Dominican Republic.3
Of the three sisters, Minerva had the most political training and education
and was the female political prisoner most feared by Dictator Rafael Leónidas
Trujillo. Through her friendship with the founder of the Partido Socialista Popu-
lar (Popular Socialist Party), Pericles Franco Ornes, Minerva always maintained
a clear commitment to leftist ideology; this was one of the prime motives for her
being publicly accused as “antitrujillista.” She had a thorough knowledge of Cas-
tro’s defense argument, La historia me absolverá (History Will Absolve Me; 1953),
and she used Castro’s programmatic principles as a model for her clandestine
meetings against the regime. She studied law, and despite many difficulties due
to being on file with the regime, she managed to graduate, but Trujillo did not
permit her to practice as a lawyer (Ricardo 158).
“Dedé” (the sister who did not play an active role in the insurgency) and Patria
were never imprisoned, but Minerva, María Teresa “Mate,” and Tomasina Cabral
“Sina” (a childhood friend with whom they shared political ideas opposed to the
Trujillo regime) were condemned to 5 years in prison, which were reduced by
appeal to 3.4 After 11 days in the La Cuarenta (La 40) torture center, Minerva
was transferred with Mate and Sina to La Victoria prison. During the clandestine
phase of the 1J4 Movement, Tavárez Justo and Minerva headed the leadership.
Revolution Interrupted 147
When the regime discovered the movement and imprisoned the leaders, Minerva
spoke to the other female prisoners on the importance of maintaining the secrecy
of the movement and resisting with dignity by stoically not revealing their fear to
the guards, in this way making them the ones fearful of the power of the move-
ment’s liberation ideology. Although there is a dispute among historians as to
whom full leadership of the movement should be attributed, the revolutionary
movement’s pursuit of social justice and democratic ideals would not have been
possible without the intellectual and political background of both leaders.5
During the 31 years of dictatorship under the Trujillo regime, masculine val-
ues and patriarchal ideology fostered among women ideas of class difference and
segregation. The concept of family served as a type of mechanism of the law,
morality, rules regarding private property, and the education of women and men
in maternal and authoritative roles, respectively. The Trujillo regime’s ideological
rhetoric on domesticity was responsible for promoting the correlation between
men, culture, and authority.
As indicated by Dominican historian Roberto Cassá, the persecution and
imprisonment of the leaders of the 1J4 Movement stimulated reflection on the
contradictions and the antagonism within the Dominican left. At this time, the
left’s foundation was formed by intellectuals who generated the paradoxical phe-
nomena of questioning their own intellectual activity, as theory was put under
suspicion while pragmatic action took on an urgent character. According to
Cassá, the revolutionary activist was the practical subject, while the spectator (the
theorist) was considered bourgeois. This was a debate that circulated throughout
Latin America in this period and is in line with the ideas stated by Régis Debray
on the topic of the national liberation movement’s armed struggle.
After the tragic assassination of the three Mirabal sisters, the political interven-
tion of Dominican women was markedly consolidated in the struggle to obtain a
national democratic state. The testimonial stories of the women that were perse-
cuted and imprisoned during the war of 1965 also indicate the necessity of liberty
and critical thinking. The testimonies of these women demonstrate empathy for
the political militancy initiated by Minerva Mirabal and her husband Manuel
Tavárez Justo.
In the following pages, I will examine the testimonies of Carmen Josefina
“Piky” Lora and other female combatants that have been compiled in Margarita
Cordero’s Mujeres de abril (Women of April; 1985). The collaborative effort that
this publication represents consists of the compilation and transcription of oral
accounts provided by women who had themselves participated in the 1965 April
War. Cordero’s work was published with the support of Magaly Pineda, director
of the Centro de Investigación para la Acción Femenina (CIPAF; Research Center
for Women’s Action). The testimonies included in Mujeres de abril represent the
first study of the personal reflections of the female militants themselves regard-
ing gender, sexuality, class, and the political practice of the left in the Dominican
Republic. That said, it should be kept in mind that the selection is limited to
testimonies of and interviews with women of the Dominican middle class.
The categories of class and status provide some complexity and innovation to
the reception of Mujeres de abril. Testimonial narratives seek to give voice to a
voiceless, anonymous, and collective popular-democratic subject usually known

as the people (el pueblo). In that sense, the compelling question raised by Gay-
atri Chakravorty Spivak, “Can the subaltern speak?,” might be problematic in
the context of this discussion. The women interviewed by Cordero were aware
of their privileged class position in relation to the popular women who also
participated in the 1965 April War. The middle-class Dominican women were
dependent on the people’s struggles without denying their social status either as
educated women or as militant women of the left party. On this matter, Elżbieta
Skłodowska has suggested that testimonial narratives “continue to be a discourse
of elites committed to the cause of democratization” (113). However, by exercis-
ing a sense of ethics and justice, the collectivity of “women of April” became also
part of a historic block.
The testimonial narrative served as a cultural framework and a channel into
the subjectivity of the daily lives of the women who participated in the April War.
The oral record made possible the reaffirmation of their participation in the so-
called national war and in the democratic processes of the Dominican Republic.
The testimony was a narrative vehicle that reaffirmed the political solidarity prac-
ticed within the politico-military structure of the 1J4 Revolutionary Movement.
The testimonies of the “women of April” combine to form a preliminary analysis
of the revolutionary paradigm that accompanied the utopian impulse of the 1965
April War. In demonstrating this, I will insist on the political and cultural valid-
ity of the testimonial narrative and the authority that this narrative mechanism
confers on these women as concerns the analysis of their daily experiences and
the specific historical contexts that defined their problematic subaltern position
during the utopian national war of 1965.
Testimony, as a narrative form, has provoked an interest in theoretical-cultural
dialogue because, beyond its apparent transparency, it rearticulates many recent
critical-theoretical debates. Situated between adjacent discourses (ethnological,
journalistic, anthropological, and literary, among others), testimony has provoked
a questioning of these discursive practices and the borders they have established.
In Cuba, for example, the importance of testimony must be seen in relation to
the recognition it has been afforded by the official revolutionary culture. Within
this context, testimony was consolidated as a genre when it was included in the
Casa de las Américas competition in 1970. This event validated testimony as a
meaning-producing discourse, establishing it in the Latin American discursive
geography and gradually conferring on it an international critical space. The
discursive hybrids of testimony and its complex mechanisms of production and
reception have created a “strategic aporia” on the part of the critic. All the con-
cepts implicated in theoretical discussions of testimony are full of snares. In this
manner, testimony is and isn’t an authentic form of subaltern culture, is and isn’t
oral narrative, is and isn’t literature, agrees and doesn’t agree with the humanist
ethic that drives academia, affirms and at the same time deconstructs the category
of the subject.
Testimonial narratives were read and debated in the context of new social move-
ments and political subjectivities, such as Me llamo Rigoberta Menchú y así me nació
la concienca (I, Rigoberta Menchú: An Indian Woman in Guatemala; 1982).6 The
legacy of testimonio in Latin America has been studied in the context of the Cold
War and the former struggles of national liberation, but also in the context of glo-
balization, multiculturalism, and geopolitical hegemony. John Beverley, who has
written extensively about the debates surrounding testimonio in Latin America,
defined it as a form of narrative literature “in which people could witness and be
part of the emerging culture of an international proletarian/popular democratic
subject in its period of ascendancy” (Testimonio x). He also made a clear distinc-
tion between the narrative form of testimonio and the intentions of oral history.
A testimonio usually requires “testifying and bearing witness to truth” in a legal
or religious way, and the intentionality of the narrator is crucial. According to
Beverley, it involves an “urgency to communicate a problem of repression, poverty,
imprisonment or a struggle for survival, implicated in the act of narration itself.”
Oral history, by contrast, is a “recorded participant narrative. It is the intentional-
ity of the recorder (usually a political scientist) that is dominant, and the resulting
oral account is in some sense data” (32). Drawing from these definitions, it could
be argued that Mujeres de abril serves both the intentions of oral history and testi-
monial narrative. Cordero is a social scientist who also participated directly in the
debates surrounding the 1965 popular insurgency.
I would like to emphasize that the historical context in which the publication of
Mujeres de abril appears cannot be detached from the ethical and political urgency
of the testimonio. In 1985, when Cordero published her compilation of testimo-
nios, the Soviet Union still existed, UNESCO awarded consecutive periods of
literary campaigns in Nicaragua, and Domitila Barrios de Chungara had already
published (with Brazilian sociologist Moema Viezzer) her famous book “Si me per-
miten hablar . . .”: Testimonio de Domitila, una mujer de las minas de Bolivia (Let me
Speak! Testimony of Domitila, a Woman of the Bolivian Mines; 1977).
For Cordero, the epic task of reconstructing the historical memory of the
national war created new forms of cooperation and dialogue across different
sectors of Dominican civil society. The Dominican intelligentsia and political
elite were not the only audience of this innovative oral history but only one of
the many audiences it meant to address. It could be argued that the testimonial
narratives and oral history of the 1965 April War constitute a complementary
form of epistemological truth. However, I am not asserting that the testimonios
published in Mujeres de abril constitute a unique narrative form of some sort of
melancholic socialist utopia in the Dominican Republic. In general, testimonio
has been in Latin America and elsewhere a creative cultural form at the service of
revolutionary activism and human rights struggles. Nonetheless, testimonio nur-
tures its own contradictions and paradoxes since the utopian impulse of “bearing
witness to a truth” makes it dependent on “the conditions of dramatic social and
cultural inequality that fuel the same revolutionary utopian impulse in the first
place” (Testimonio 61).
My intention is not to assess hierarchically the discursive materials of com-
position used in testimony but instead to emphasize the political function of
testimony in the specific context of the leftist militancy of Dominican women
who participated in the April War of 1965. For this reason, I will focus on Cor-
dero’s Mujeres de abril. Her contribution is significant in Latin America because
it offers one of the first analyses of daily life during the popular insurgency of
1965. To borrow René Jara’s phrase, testimonios narrate “the epic of everyday
life.”7 The “women of April,” thus, told their epic daily experiences—of war and
prison—with a reassuring language, but “without assuming the hierarchical and
patriarchal status of the hero.”8 For instance, in her testimonial narratives, Piky
Lora speaks for or in the name of a collectivity, a community, or a group. There
is an attempt to omit the use of the authorial presence. I will expand the analysis
of Piky Lora’s testimonial narratives later in this essay. The interviews and testi-
monies compiled by Cordero also provide a critique of the ideological categories
that had sustained paternalism and silenced the women involved in the country’s
political struggles up to this moment.9
The women and men that participated in the war of 1965 were also part of the
intellectual left. The intellectual left in this case is understood as being functional
as well as political. In the Dominican Republic, the reflection on the social and
political consequences of the April insurgency originated with the analysis that
had been made by its own participants. As a result, the oral history served to
authorize the urgent character with which political solidarity was practiced, while
affirming the participation of the Dominican women in the prodemocratic and
anti-imperialist struggles of the country.
From a critical perspective, the themes articulated in Mujeres de abril and Abril,
la liberación efímera (April, the ephemeral liberation; 1990) by Rafael “Fafa” Tavé-
ras are the following: (1) the internal disintegration of the 1J4 Revolutionary
Movement, (2) the imprisonment and the dismantling of the left’s leadership, (3)
the coalition between civil and military groups, (4) the fleeting sense of libera-
tion, (5) and the participation of women in the political intervention of the 1965
war. According to these authors, who participated directly in the revolutionary
scene of April 1965, the origins of the insurrectional movement need to be found
in the political and economic conditions provoked by the civic-military coup of
the constitutional government of Juan Bosch in September 1963.10
All the authors agree that the response to the coup is one of the key factors for
understanding the April revolution. It was immediate in many social, political,
and military sectors and consisted of three very important moments: the guerilla
insurrection of November 1963, commanded by Tavárez Justo; the 1964 general
strikes and social protests; and the discontent and conspiracy within the Domini-
can armed forces. As part of this conspiracy, the military came out against the
government of Donald Reid Cabral, as announced on a radio program by José
Francisco Peña Gómez on April 24, 1964. According to Teresa Espaillat, another
woman combatant, this was the incendiary moment that provoked the people to
take to the streets and demand the restoration of the constitution and the return
of Juan Bosch as president.11 Reflections on the April War were reinforced with
language that emphasized the relationship between historical subjects and their
daily lives.
According to Cordero, the April conflict opened spaces for reflection on the
subjects as Others from a plural we, integrating multiple subjects whose daily
practices destabilized hierarchies and generated a distinct solidarity based on col-
lective struggle. According to Tavéras, the zone organized itself like a small state
open to the interests of the people (47). The constitutionalist zone and the tacti-
cal deployment of the commandos were the sites of the April acts of insurrection.
After the defeat, there was also a transformation in urban spaces. The combat
staged at the head of the Duarte Bridge brought about urban modifications for
the city of Santo Domingo. The bridge had linked the eastern and western parts
of the city and the capital with the rest of the country. The transformation of
the city was a consequence of what architect René Alfonso called “architecture
of counterinsurgency” because it erased, before the eyes of the capital’s residents,
“the space where the constitutional forces stopped the advance of the coup forces
directed by General Elías Wessin y Wessin.”12 In this sense, the deconstruction
of the constitutionalist imagination translates into two consequences: (1) the
intervention of U.S. troops, solicited by the military factions that opposed con-
stitutionality, and (2) the redesign of the city in order to erase both the collective
memory and the physical space of the anticonstitutionalist defeat (Espaillat 34).
The Duarte Bridge incident affirmed the political direction of the military con-
stitutionalists. With Francisco Caamaño Deñó as president, they collaborated with
the insurgents in what was the first project involving the military—the assault on
the major arsenal of Fort Ozama. Upon the arrival of the U.S. forces, the coalition
was divided and the constitutionalist forces separated. The creation of the U.S.
military corridor left the northern part of the country under the control of the
Centro de Enseñanza de las Fuerzas Armadas (CEFA; Armed Forces Instruction
Center) and the state police who, with the help of the U.S. military, initiated an
attack on the population under the military code “operación limpieza” (clean-up
operation). Nevertheless, all the activities and the daily lives of the constitutional-
ists were controlled from the area of the zone. The commandos were a popular
instrument organized to fulfill the functions of supply, information, security, and
health; but they also constituted a zone of aporias and internal contradictions. It
was a politically heterogeneous space, integrated by the military and civilians, and
by diverse organizations and parties of the Dominican left (Tavéras 45).
The slogans “Armas para el pueblo” (arms for the people), “El retorno a la con-
stitucionalidad” (return to constitutionality), and “Abajo el Triunvirato” (down
with the Triumvirate) operated as catalysts of this presence and unified diverse
social and political sectors (Cordero 8). It was the popular presence that changed
the course of events and was offered as a type of solution for the constitutionalist
sector of the military. The joint action of the military constitutionalists, under
the leadership of Caamaño Deñó, the different leaders of the organized left (1J4
Movement, the Socialist Popular Party, the Popular Democratic Movement, and
the Christian Revolutionary Party), and the popular masses made possible the
foundation of the constitutionalist zone. Here, ideological differences and class
tensions were also consolidated. According to Cordero, this resulted in a move-
ment constantly in swing and it also gave birth to a paradox:
If the intensification of social contradictions acted as catalyst for a presence, the

ideological weight in the social collective practice functioned, in its way and in par-
allel, as a constraint. Rather than any critique of imposed roles, the signs transferred
to society were distinctly gendered: women as mothers, wives, sisters, girlfriends,
and above all, those presumably with impunity faced with the repressive conduct of
power. Another important thing, nourishing an ancient heroism: “I would rather
be the widow of a brave man than the wife of a coward,” as a Spartan woman once
said. Centuries later, the discourse was repeated without considering its content.13
Being seduced and trapped by the euphoria of military protagonism, the women
did not prioritize the transformation of patriarchal structures in Dominican society.
Mujeres de abril, in this sense, emphasized the absence of criticism of patriarchal
ideology from the women’s point of view during the April proceedings of 1965,
including not only the beliefs that sustained their subordination but also the exclu-
sionary hierarchies imposed voluntarily by the women themselves at the moment
of measuring and judging their own political participation in the war. The women
of the organized leftist parties, the majority of whom came from the middle class,
preferred competing to approximate the masculine militant ideal and, in some
cases, opted to remain asexualized. At the moment of the war, they were persecuted
and shared the risk of incarceration and death, but they were also imprisoned by
their own class prejudices. According to Cordero, the women—including militants
and nonmilitants, those affiliated with the leftist parties and women from popular
classes—self-segregated and indicted their own guidelines for conduct.
The founding of the Academy of the Revolutionary Movement of June 14 was
the instrument of the popular government that forced a redefinition of military
practices. The art of war was no longer exclusively a masculine domain, just as
cooking a mangú was no longer only an alchemy practiced by women. The mili-
tary academy was an initiative of Homero Hernández and served as a center of
education and moral support for the combatants. Nevertheless, in the case of the
women, their military training was a myth questioned by the same women who
participated in the war. According to Cordero, the triumphal image that unified
the Dominican combatants, which appears in the now-yellowed photos of the
parades and the military academy, “was a rhetorical construction and testimony
to a circumstance that today almost all women look upon with critical eyes.”14
The famous slogan “Hombro a hombro con nuestros hombres” (shoulder to
shoulder with our men) was criticized by a sector of women that redefined their
participation in the war from the perspective of daily life: as Pineda commented,
“[W]e were saying, which women? Cooking? Ten years from now, we will see
the role of the everyday life . . . If it hadn’t been for these women that washed,
that cooked, that created networks of information for the commandos, the zone
would not have been able to resist like it did.”15 At the same time, for Piky Lora,
the militancy of the women was a product of the egalitarian utopia: “Here no
woman fought with weapons in her hands; this is not true . . . I had a M-2 rifle
that Francisco Alberto Caamaño gave me, but I didn’t use it because they didn’t
let me, not because I didn’t want to.”16 The question of gender is converted into
a problematic category, trapped in the segregation of the feminine and the mascu-
line. That is to say, in this ideological struggle, to legitimize their autonomy in the
April War, women emulated a type of masculinity based on physical superiority,
aggressiveness, and competitiveness. They attached themselves to the model of
militancy, as we can see in Piky Lora’s response:
Ever since I’ve been able to think for myself, I’ve been a part of the Clandestine
Movement of June 14; I was always a rebel and combatant, or more like, for me
that was a routine . . . I wasn’t a woman dedicated to domestic chores, I never was;
I was a student leader, I was a political leader, I was a guerilla, I was in exile, I was
a prisoner—I didn’t have a traditional role. Perhaps now that I have been a mother,
that I have been married, that I have a home, if [the war] happened again, I would
be able to say what the difference is . . . I knew how to do other things, and there
were so many people that knew how to cook that why would I cook if I knew how
to load and unload all the weapons in the constitutionalist zone, and that was more
important, to keep the weapons well oiled.17
The testimonies of Piky Lora constitute a justification of the 1J4 Revolution-

ary Movement and emphasize a critical consciousness of masculine protagonism
that characterized the Dominican armed struggle.18 The testimony previously
cited verified her participation in the urban warfare of 1965. The same was pub-
lished in Cordero’s Mujeres de abril. Nevertheless, in addition to this testimony,
there exists another testimonial account that narrates in a very creative way Piky
Lora’s participation in the rural guerilla warfare organized by the 1J4 Movement.
This testimonial account, which I will analyze later, narrates the military adven-
tures of Piky Lora in the rural struggle in La Loma de Quita Sueño, in San José
de Ocoa. The testimony offers us a candid, detailed description of her guerilla
activity upon assuming the mission of preparing conditions in the countryside
for the initiation of military actions. The account culminates with the narration
of her imprisonment and that of her guerilla companions, reaffirming in this way
her status as a political prisoner.
Nevertheless, unlike Commander Ernesto Che Guevara, Piky Lora never
wrote a military campaign diary. It is known that the poet, narrator, and political
essayist Antonio Miguel Raful Tejada (Tony Raful), who directed in 1983 the
cultural supplement in the since-disappeared newspaper La Noticia, had asked
Piky Lora—twenty years after the popular insurrection—to give him some man-
uscripts narrating her experiences in the war.19 The text that Piky Lora gave to
Tejada is a brief account written in the first person. The conditions in which the
text originated and the style in which Piky Lora decided to narrate the guerilla
activities have generated confusion in regard to its classification; and, for this
reason, it figures in Yolanda Ricardo’s anthology under the category of “diary.”20
Piky Lora’s text is a testimonial narrative. The text was not thought of or cre-
ated by its author according to the conventions of the diary; that is to say, as a
day-to-day report of the guerilla activities in the mountains. Furthermore, she
did not entirely follow the intentions of clandestine, secret, and private writing
that often characterize the act of “keeping a diary.” In publishing this testimonial
account in an anthology or newspaper cultural supplement, she broke the bounds
of her intimacy and exposed it to a wider and more diverse audience. Another
possibility would be to read it like a testimonial account—solicited by the intel-
lectual public of a national newspaper—that weaves together, in a very creative
form, a narrative of the author’s militancy in the rural warfare of November 1963.
That is to say, the manuscripts that Piky Lora gave to the newspaper La Noticia
share narrative characteristics that make possible the textual inscription of her
guerilla activities and prison experiences.
In the text, we are able to identify a dramatic and episodic plot that enters
into the journeys and adventures of the young fighter on the front commanded
by Hipólito Rodríguez Sánchez in the mountains of Bonao. In telling her
account in the first person, she reaffirms herself in the eyes of the reader as an
executor of guerilla actions that benefit her squadron and the allied rural popu-
lation of the zone. This brief testimonial account unfolds its plot in six fields of
action that culminate in an idealized and aesthetic representation of the defeat
and imprisonment: (1) the affirmation of an I-executor of guerilla actions, (2) the
postponement of the climax through the use of suspense, (3) the exaltation of loy-
alty and belonging to a collective through the use of the first person plural, (4) the
dismantling of we and the guerilla warfare, (5) the drama of the conversion of the
soldier, and (6) the poetic abstraction of defeat and imprisonment.
The first thing that Piky Lora does is reaffirm her militancy, and to do this, she
identifies herself as a subaltern guerilla fighter that has a fuller comprehension of
the politico-military logic of the armed struggle:
In the first days of November 1963, I was sent to the site “Quita Sueño,” in the
middle of the Central Cordillera, with the goal of making contact with the rural
community of the zone with whom we would establish a support base with supply
and information posts for the guerillas. I accomplished the job that was entrusted
to me directly by Manolo Tavárez, supreme chief of the projected armed insurrec-
tion, and Hipólito Rodríguez Sánchez, commander of what would be the Front
“Juan de Dios Ventura Simó” that would operate from Bonao to San José de Ocoa
in the Central Cordillera . . . Thirteen days before the insurrection took place, the
longed-for moment of my reunion with them arrived. This was an exceedingly
difficult moment for us—with me ready to receive orders to join the war or serve
as a messenger returning to the city with the missions that my commander gave
me . . . Originally, the guerilla Front “Juan de Dios Ventura Simó” was composed
of 24 combatants that penetrated the mountainous zones around the area of “Los
Quemados,” in Bonao, on the day of November 28, 1963.21
The abundance of details and the precision of dates and names of people and
places that establish the truth of the insurrection of November 1963 is one of
the distinctive characteristics of Piky Lora’s testimonies. It calls attention to the
use of a dramatic style to communicate to us the intensity of her experiences and
observations of the guerilla activities. As we have seen in the preceding fragment,
Piky Lora constructs herself as a desired subject in the war, in the “longed-for
moment” of her reunion with Tavárez Justo and Rodríguez Sánchez—also identi-
fied under the pseudonym “Polo.”
Piky Lora develops her war drama through a concise episodic structure. She
tells us, for example, how the passing of hurricane Flora through the Cordillera
completely changed the topography of the terrain, obliging Commander Polo to
consult the opinion of the rural population that put him on the right track for
thinking out “a very correct military plan.”22 For Piky Lora, the desire to be part
of a collective struggle against the military coup was not fully satisfied by simply
following orders. She also showed her talents as a leader and military strategist
in moments of crisis, according to what we see in the dynamism with which she
describes the following scene: “The cold was intense. I went on ahead because I
was familiar with the path by day, and I assured my companions that I was able
to conduct them with the greatest possible speed. Suddenly, I heard the sound
of a saddle’s bridles and we stopped at the moment when I had already run into
two guards that were sitting under a tree at the side of the path.”23 By affirming
herself as a leading subject, at the vanguard of the squad, Piky Lora abandons her
role as a camp follower or subaltern. She stops being a receptacle for orders and
guides her companions by paths that she says she knows well. She not only assures
them of her knowledge of the zone but also confirms her capacity for leadership.
In addition, it is important for her to verify the risk and the danger that she will
have to confront in her path. This is why, on a textual level, the double threat of
natural forces and the coup’s troops are added to the literary strategies of suspense
and, in my opinion, cause the delay of the climax of this “longed-for” drama of
the war: “The companions enter the coffee plantation from both sides and wait
with their weapons prepared for the reaction of the soldiers, but they, as surprised
as us, only manage to ask me what I am doing here at this time; I say that I live
nearby and I have a romantic date, and they lecture me, pretending that they
have believed my story, and they order me to return.”24 The anxious wait for war,
which she had spoken of at the beginning of her account, is now deferred by the
arrival of another obstacle, the paternalism of the soldiers. Piky Lora’s presence in
the combat zone is a surprise for the military men that only see her as a defense-
less girl. But she does not fall into the trap of inevitable subalternity, but rather
takes advantage of the circumstance for a different performance—the role of a
young country girl that has gone out partying with her boyfriend. We see that
while the soldiers act as if they believed the “story,” she only pretends to obey and
return to her house. It seems that the paternalism and the false condescension of
the soldiers give Piky Lora the key to maneuver creatively and escape: “And this
is how I came back frightened but maintaining my serenity. I walk quickly up
to where I think the guards can’t see me, and then I enter the coffee plantation
trying to find my companions that have been closely protecting me. But they are
not visible and can’t call to me . . . I can’t find them!”25 When she separates from
the group, the guerilla force loses its sense of cohesion. For Piky Lora, this dis-
mantling translates into the loss of herself. When she uses the first person plural,
she does it to emphasize her consciousness of belonging to the guerilla group; but
when the unit sees itself threatened, fear invades her and she dramatizes it in her
account: “They captured the other two, Pérez Cuevas and Mesa, who surrendered
because of their fatigue. What am I going to do alone?”26 Therefore, more than
reflecting her individualism, what radicalizes her now is an ethic of solidarity with
her companions in the struggle and the peasants that had offered her refuge.
After learning the news about her companions Polo and “La Yerba,”27 the
peasants insist on giving her food and drink, but she refuses and says to them:
“[D]on’t worry about me, I’m alive, and it is a privilege in times like these, but
don’t jeopardize yourself: if you can’t return, don’t do it.”28 All these acts of brav-
ery and solidarity, although they seem obvious in Piky Lora’s testimonial and do
not present a more complex interpretation, confirm an interest by communicat-

ing a human side to the war. Piky Lora mentions the names of the people killed in
the mountains and of the companions that were taken prisoners by the military.
She also offers a kind of apology for those who took part in the coup and formed
alliances with the constitutionalist troops:
I have to surrender, it’s decided. I’m going to wait for an official on the side of the
road. Here comes one, I go up to him from the bushes, he aims at me, I cross the
stream and in the middle he lowers his weapon. It is he, Captain Miguel Ángel
Calderón, who captures me. He was accompanied by a soldier, both of them riding
mules. He orders: “Go and tell the major that I have the girl, and that he can come
now with the others.” He offered me his saddle, but I refused. “Two of your com-
panions died,” he says with tears in his eyes. I can tell you this now because he was
a constitutionalist fighter during the April War. Later he was an escort for Professor
Juan Bosch but then was released, and now he lives abroad.29
The use of now transports us to Piky Lora’s present time, when she is in
the process of writing her story and publishing it in the cultural section of the
newspaper La Noticia. But in this passage Captain Calderón’s conversion to the
constitutionalist forces is also revealed. With this new piece of information, she
emphasizes the political alliances that were formed during the 1965 April War.
Therefore, in admiration she says that this same soldier who had captured her and
had taken part in the coup was an insurgent in the April War and also an escort
for Juan Bosch. The soldier’s tears not only contrast with the guerilla captive’s
stoicism but also emphasize the dramatic and sentimental tone at the end of the
account. All the previous narration serves as an introduction and pretext in order
to justify the 1965 April War and the coordinated participation of the 1J4 Move-
ment fighters and the armed forces.
These manuscripts authorize Piky Lora’s participation as a militant in the
guerilla activities of November 1963. In her subjectivity, the bodies of her dead
fighting companions are confused with the landscape of the countryside; but she,
on the other hand, is taken prisoner and survives to write and tell the story twenty
years later: “The long journey to Santo Domingo and to the prison begins. In the
orchards, close to the stream, Polo and La Yerba are left behind.”30
The publication of this brief testimonial in the cultural section of La Noticia
and the interviews that document her prison experience in La Victoria legitimize
her not only as a public figure and as the first woman that participated in the rural
guerilla fighting (led by Tavárez Justo in 1963) but also as the creative author
of her own drama of the war. The war experience helped to break down the
segregation of women and problematized the masculine-feminine, public-private
dichotomies. This is to say that participation in the war stopped being a distant
or unfamiliar project and was converted into urgent politics that were personal
for men and women. For women that participated in the militant and party line,
this meant a rupture with learned “feminine” stereotypes and it offered them the
opportunity to explore what it was like to be a protagonist during the war. Piky
Lora was, in fact, one of the few women that took on a leadership role in the
Constitutionalist Movement early on in 1963.
In Piky Lora’s testimonials, exalted discourses of heroism and patriotism from
the leaders of the 1J4 Movement were also circulated. An example of this was
the death of military leader Juan Miguel Román during the April War of 1965.
Piky Lora and the other women combatants describe Román as the 1J4 guerilla
fighter (catorcista) killed by U.S. bullets. This description illustrates how values
of stoicism and heroism were celebrated to the detriment of other reflections that
questioned the paternalistic dimension of the war. Also emphasized in Piky Lora’s
prison testimonies is a tension between the existing protagonist discourse—
represented by the masculine guerilla figure of Manolo Tavárez—and that of the
woman guerilla and her criminalization as a prostitute. As is illustrated by Piky
Lora in one of her testimonial accounts, the women were trapped in a conceptual
prison of double discrimination; on the one hand their revolutionary action was
criminalized, and on the other they were subordinated by the paternalism of their
fellow combatants:
When we were prisoners in La Victoria, because I was the only woman, they kept me
with the prostitutes. One of the trusted prisoners told Juan Miguel that the coronel
that was on duty in the prison, Emilio Espinal, had told Josefina “La Palera,” a les-
bian, to come into my cell. He took some swigs of whiskey in the guard house and
the key to my cell. When Juan Miguel found out, he made such a commotion that
they had to call the reinforcement police and had to climb on top of the prison to
calm the situation down . . . I saw the guys every Thursday in the yard. It was visiting
day; they assigned us Thursday so that there wouldn’t be many people . . . usually it’s
Sundays . . . but even though it was Thursday the prison was always full. They took
us out into the yard in La Victoria and that’s where I saw the guys. They made up a
softball team and they asked the prison authorities if they would let me leave in order
to be the mascot for their team; they took me out and I was the one that threw the
first ball. They played every day; they were taken out daily to get sun. But they didn’t
take me out. My life was very difficult, nevertheless the majority of the prostitutes
treated me very well. They sat in front of the bars to play cards with me and I sewed
for them, I made dresses for them, and I cut the fabric with knives they had hidden.31
From the first sentence, Piky Lora shows us how the sexual segregation and
hierarchical structure of the prison denied her the political status of prisoner
of war. By being the only woman, they separated her from the other political
prisoners and she was locked away with the other female inmates accused of com-
mon crimes, such as prostitution. The assessment of the woman guerilla that she
defends in her account is now redefined by the patriarchal logic organized by the
prison’s social order. Her own fighting companions see her as an object and not
as a subject of political action. From the point of view of the imprisoned men,
Piky is a lucky talisman, the mascot for their team. On the other hand, the social
discrimination against the lesbian women is manifested in the condescending
comments and in the compassion that Piky Lora feels for “La Palera.” La Victoria
prison is presented in this sense as a political space where homophobia and pater-
nalism are intensified.
According to Ileana Rodríguez, this is a common attitude in representative

literature of guerilla subjects: “In prison, and in danger, the ideal of the couple
resuscitates the topos of the resting place of the guerrillero” (102). The prison is
the political space where guerillas take on the role of strong subjects of resistance
and the women are represented as the disciples of masculine guerrero (fighter)
knowledge. In Piky Lora’s testimony, we see that while the men established their
own guilds, through competition and aggressive sports that permitted them to
consolidate a masculine hegemony in prison, the women occupied their time
with domestic chores, creating solidarity networks and fabricating escape plans
“with knives they had hidden.”
La 40 and La Victoria not only repressed and dismantled the revolutionary
insurgency but also were gruesome stages where masculine hegemony was consoli-
dated. Since the beginning of the Rafael Leónidas Trujillo regime, and remaining
through the transition of Triumvirate up until Joaquín Balaguer, the practice of tor-
ture, the repression of homosociality, sexual segregation, and a hierarchical structure
of violence were pillars that sustained the patriarchal structure of the prison.
In Piky Lora’s prison testimony, we can appreciate that the gender and class
segregation present in the prisons, such as the rejection of the prostitutes and
lesbians who fought along with the people, were indicators of the extension of
puritanism and the patriarchal prejudices inherited from the Trujillista ideology.
Nevertheless, the women from the popular sectors also felt part of the collective,
even though they were excluded from the broad process of the struggle. These
women, whom Cordero designates as the Others (the prostitutes), are diluted
into a collective unit and into the anonymity of the street; and for this reason, no
one identifies them under the name of a political party.
In the Trujillista and later Balaguer prisons, the relations of subalternity were
measured in another binary construction: the female militants from the middle
class supported the use of reason while the others—the women from the popu-
lar classes—embodied a single group and followed their instincts in the struggle
against the tanks of the armed forces (Cordero 51). Although oral history is mostly
preoccupied with publishing the testimonies of intellectual women affiliated with
leftist parties, it should be noted that Cordero’s oral history project documents
only a few samples of testimonies of female insurgents from the popular sector.
Under the nicknames of “The Forgotten Ones” and “The Anonymous,” these
popular women gave middle-class women a lot to talk about. In this sense, a col-
lective memory and a militancy myth emerged. For Sagrada Bujosa, one of the
instructors of the Academy, Tina embodied this type of Otherness:
I had a group of women in the Academy, out of whom I specially remember Tina. I
don’t know her last name, but she was one of the people that made a deep impres-
sion on me, not only as a teacher, not only as a combatant, but also as a trainer.
It was like knowing a woman that wasn’t from the bourgeoisie, like I was at that
time; she was a woman from the lower class that had fought and that had different
experiences than mine . . . She was the woman that had fought because the majority
didn’t; all, including myself, who was the instructor, none of the other women that
were under my command had participated in combat. Only Tina.32
Tina’s example, like what happened with other forgotten women from the
lower class, came to form part of popular collective memory. Most women from
the pueblo didn’t participate as representatives of an organized leftist movement,
like the large majority of women did. They remained relegated to anonymity, but
when they were remembered, they were mentioned with the use of a particular
pseudonym that gave information about their skills and military abilities—“La
Bazookera” (the Bazooka User)—or their identification was precipitated by a
humorous and in some cases condescending nickname—for example, “La Fifí”
(the Sissy), “La Palera” (the Woman with the Hard Stick), “La Rubia” (the Blond).
Among these women, there were others that stood out like “La Coronela” (the
Female Colonel), the name that Gladys Borrel was baptized with due to her lead-
ership capabilities and defiant attitude in the face of death: “My men who were
falling at my side, I didn’t leave them, I brought them with me. In the middle
of open battle and under fire, but I brought them with me.”33 The prevailing
ideological differences of the political groups of the time period and the different
levels of education were expressed in the most trivial and ordinary ways within
the 1J4 Movement.
There was another aspect that was emphasized beyond the exaltation of their
own acts of resistance. Twenty years after the war ended, a reflection on the lack
of visibility of women from the popular sectors was generated. According to the
testimony of Brunilda Amaral, “The Blond was a 16-year-old-woman, an old
16-year-old woman . . . She was a prostitute, yes. Later it really hurt me when I
found out that she had been thrown off the Duarte Bridge, that they had killed
her like a little animal.”34 The participation of the women from the popular sec-
tors was, in fact, underestimated and degraded in comparison with that of the
men and women who had fought for political reasons and enjoyed the cultural
prestige of belonging to a leftist movement.
In the oral history of the women militants from the middle class, the very
important ethic of rescuing from the silence the forgotten women (i.e., the com-
mon women from the lower class that fought in the April War) encouraged a
reevaluation of their Otherness that was translated, as we see in the testimonies,
in the euphemisms used to describe their sexual preference (lesbianism), racial
difference (their dark skin color), and the moral judgment against their lifestyle
(prostitution). During the armed conflict, the self-perception that the Dominican
women had was accompanied by a double sexual standard that, on the one hand,
rationalized prostitution as a pragmatic economic strategy, but on the other, saw
lesbianism as a destabilizing force of the normative values of heterosexuality—the
family and sexual morality characteristic of the Dominican nation. Bujosa’s tes-
timony about the prostitute, who was Homero Hernández’s (the founder of the
April 24 Military Academy) lover, constitutes a clear reflection of the contradic-
tions assumed by the women of the militant sector:
I came to know comrades that were prostitutes and lesbians. For example, I went
out with a female comrade that Homero had met in a brothel, had rescued, and
brought to a school. In the middle of the revolution, she runs away from the school
and puts herself in the middle of the constitutionalist zone. “The Fifí” was a young
girl, and I remember that she was a girl just like me; I didn’t have the problems
that she had in life, and we went out frequently together . . . Later I also spent time
with a lesbian comrade. This was even more striking because perhaps at that time
prostitution had an economic purpose, but lesbianism didn’t, this was irrational as
well as unacceptable. And this comrade was lesbian. There was no way for her to
live with us.35
From the previous testimonies we can see that the class prejudices and the
Manichean definitions of the feminine and the masculine were conceptual frame-
works that the majority of women were not able, at that moment, to identify
from a critical perspective. One could also ask if the testimonios published in
Mujeres de abril advocate for some sort of “Latin Americanism,” a concept elabo-
rated by Alberto Moreiras. As in the case of Edward Said’s Orientalism (1978),
Moreiras has explained that “Latin Americanism shares with orientalism the fact
that it too must be understood as an apparatus of mediation for transcultural
social relations. As such, it suffers from the start from a dissymmetry that in fact
constitutes it” (129). In other words, Latin Americanism requires a native infor-
mant to authorize itself as a discourse. Drawing from this idea, it could be argued
that by requiring the voice of a combatant woman and a direct participant of the
1965 April War, Cordero also enacts a type of Latin Americanism that seeks to
appropriate the voice of its Other (the lesbians and prostitutes that are identi-
fied with nicknames) in order to institutionalize a discursive formation of power
over the other anonymous popular women who participated in the 1965 popular
insurgency.
For Consuelo Despradel, another female leftist militant, the experience of the
war was, in this sense, a structured event from a conservative model that created
out of political work a classist and equalizing exercise: “The movement traps us
and we have to respond. But who is going to respond? In my particular case, a
person coming from the comfortable middle class with a series of taboos, of cri-
teria, and of political ignorance primarily with respect to women themselves and
the struggle of women.”36 For Despradel and her militant comrades, the necessity
of viewing themselves from the masculine perspective in contrast to the feminine
one resulted in the creation of compartmentalized thinking. This cancelled the
possibility of combining constructive aspects from symbolic categories of both
the feminine and the masculine.
The deconstruction of the egalitarian utopia and the gender category extends
into cultural and postcolonial studies. Nevertheless, the analysis of the question
of gender is taken up again with the theorizing of the function of the intellec-
tual in the context of broader debates on globalization, civil society, and identity
politics. The issue of gender is, according to Mabel Moraña and María Rosa
Olivera-Williams, the blind spot of the theories of subjectivity that emerge with
political modernity in Latin America. In addition, one must remember that the
question of gender always intersects with the questions of class, race, and sexuality.
Judith Butler has already demonstrated that the category of gender is a social and
cultural construction and is not a given category a priori.37 On the other hand,
postcolonialist and transnational feminist Chandra Talpade Mohanty argues that
the question of gender is always accompanied by a philosophical reflection about

concrete practices of political solidarity that goes beyond the local and applies to
the international level. That is to say, political solidarity doesn’t feel threatened by
sexual class or race differences but recognizes the historical specificity of identity
politics and social movements.38
In Latin America, it is possible to trace the vindication of women’s rights since
the 1920s and 1930s, through the political struggles led by middle-class women
in Argentina, Cuba, Puerto Rico, Nicaragua, Mexico, Chile, Colombia, Brazil,
and the Dominican Republic. As indicated by Sonia Álvarez, the demands of
social and political equality by these women’s movements were manipulated and
co-opted by the elite that represented the political interests of the state insti-
tutions (20). The studies about gender politics and the different objectives of
feminisms from developed countries or the First World usually ignore the his-
torical contexts that define the relation between the state and civil society. Latin
America is a region historically marked by the political violence instigated by the
state. The ramifications of this repression extend to racial, sexual, gender, class
hierarchies, and above all, relations of political and economic dependence with
other capitalist nations. The criticism that Álvarez makes about the Latin Ameri-
can social movements deconstructs the liberal idea of political solidarity between
the state institution and the demands of political and social justice by the women
and men that make up the plurality of political identities within the state.
In Cordero’s comments about daily life during the 1965 April War, there is an
empathy with some of Mohanty’s and Álvarez’s arguments. For Cordero, the mili-
tancy of the left didn’t resolve the question of gender equality because the utopia of
equal rights—for women and men—continued to be tied to the politico-military
logic of the revolutionary state. The material conditions demanded, according to
her, a policy of solidarity and a compromise with the collective struggle in the
interest of reaching another utopia, that of national liberation. The participation
of women in the Patriotic War of April 1965 was a model of political solidarity
for the rest of Latin America. The egalitarian utopia also had complicated politi-
cal ramifications in the political struggles led by women in Brazil in the 1970s
and 1980s and the violent saga that characterized the armed struggle in Central
America in the mid-1980s. Cordero’s work, like that of Álvarez and Mohanty,
analyzes the historical specificity of the political militancy of Dominican women
without ignoring the global dimension of common political struggles that exceed
the geopolitical limits of the nation-state. Neither should it be forgotten that the
war of 1965 was a political combat against U.S. imperialism.
With the publication of Cordero’s Mujeres de abril and Tavéras’s Abril, la lib-
eración efímera, an internal criticism of the contradictions and limitations of the
utopian impulses that accompanied the 1965 April War was initiated. Cordero
and Tavéras demonstrate that the analysis of the cultural limitations of the armed
struggle and the contradictions of the national liberation utopia were already
present in the debates that were occurring within the armed struggle groups and
the leftist parties in the Dominican Republic. The questions of gender, national
identity, ethnicity, race, and sex were not absent in the daily conversations
between the popular insurgents and leaders of the 1J4 Revolutionary Movement.
Tavéras claims that the April War was an “ephemeral liberation” in which the
military government of the United States reversed the triumph of a popular insur-
rection and aborted the most profound political transformation of Dominican
society (73). According to this author, the U.S. military intervention interrupted
the revolution, and this act was what determined the limits of the revolutionary
movement. In the four days of fighting between April 24 and 27, what had begun
as a military uprising in the barracks was radically transformed into the possible
victory of a popular struggle against imperialism—a victory toward democracy
and socioeconomic development in the Dominican Republic. These were times
of political and ideological division in the 1J4 Movement; while the leaders were
debating a better way to reconstruct the left, they were also disputing the causes
of this division. A fragmented concept of society predominated among the major-
ity of the leftist revolutionaries (74).
The criticism of the hierarchical structures and the sexist practices of the revo-
lutionary parties and movements in the Dominican Republic do not represent
an isolated case in Latin America. According to Margaret Randall, in Nicaragua,
the criticism that the Sandinista women make about machismo is that sexism
increased with the Sandinista Revolution. On the one hand, the collective strug-
gle of national liberation was attempting to construct a beneficent state for the
people. On the other hand, the dominant practice of a politico-military logic
insisted on not admitting the plurality of identity politics that were being built
within the social movements. The urgent character of the armed struggle appears
to have lost the solemn aura that covered its ideological function.
Nevertheless, the analysis that Tavéras proposes of an “ephemeral liberation”
should not be confused with the paradigm of disillusion that, according to Bev-
erley, has been responsible for depoliticizing the historical and cultural legacy of
the armed struggle in Latin America: “A paradigm of disillusion that equates the
armed struggle as a political strategy with an excess of youthful idealism or vol-
unteerism” (“Rethinking the Armed Struggle in Latin America” 49). In contrast,
in Mujeres de abril the beginning reflection on the limitations and contradictions
of the revolutionary utopia should not be interpreted as an obituary for political
solidarity. The legacy of the utopian impulse of April still persists in the Domini-
can collective memory.
As stated by the novelist and Dominican literary critic Marcio Veloz Maggiolo,
the defeat of the popular insurrection of April hindered the construction of an
optimistic, coherent, and realistic historical narrative in the Dominican Republic.
De abril en adelante: Protonovela (From April on: Protonovel; 1975) was, indeed,
a narrative articulation of the disintegration of the Dominican left after the frus-
trated April victory. During the ten years of the failed Dominican revolution, the
urgency of writing a new national novel was a response to the politico-cultural
void that was left by Trujillo’s death in 1961.39 Nevertheless, the historical frus-
tration that the April War left did not signify the abandonment of the romantic
structure in the Dominican national novel. According to Doris Sommer, Veloz
Maggiolo “deconstructed” the traditional model of the historical novel in order
to “reconstruct an historic narrative criticism” of the patriarchal ideology and
populist rhetoric (200).
The representation of women in De abril en adelante is not a critical response

to patriarchy. While the nonconformist men and homosexuals like Teddy are
emphasized for their political individualism, the characters of the Dominican
women, on the other hand, lack creativity and political leadership (Sommer 213).
They form part of a popular collective and share archetypal characteristics of
passivity and religious self-denial. They are represented as decorative figures that
distract men from their revolutionary heroic deeds. Political modernity is only
possible from the distance of the Western world. In Veloz Maggiolo’s novel, the
feminine characters that join the revolutionary struggle have received a Western
education while in exile. For instance, Paris is the city of the egalitarian utopia for
middle-class Dominican women.
Dominican national literature is not the only cultural device that has been
given the task of representing the utopian impulse of the 1965 April War.40 The
symbolic and ideological dimension of the heroic deed of April still persists in the
oral history of the women that participated in this popular insurgency. The women
also fought to create openings for the continuity of their political struggles. At the
time, the majority of the politically active women questioned themselves on how
they could participate in the fundamental actions of the moment: Loading a rifle?
Cooking? Transporting weapons and medicines for the commando? The political
assessment attributed to the prison experience made possible this reflection, as
commented by Pineda in the quote that appears as the epigraph of this essay. But
it principally consisted in the political imprisonment of men that spent up to five
years in prison. In reality, the women that were prisoners for a short period—not
all of them served long sentences like the men—were equally penalized. They lost
their legal rights to freely enter and leave the country, and, in other cases, they
were deported and severely restricted by their “criminal” records.
According to Cordero, the women of April “were support and not catalysts;
efficient executors but not leaders.”41 From this observation, it is perhaps possible
to derive one of the most important lessons that the women received from their
subordinate relations in the war—to not let themselves be trapped by the cer-
tainty of subalternity. The majority of the women that participated in the April
War recognized the necessity of the vindication of their support and domestic
labor without implicating in their analysis their collaboration with patriarchy.
They stood out not only in traditional jobs, such as in the supplying of food and
medicines, but also in military training and the use of arms. They served as a clan-
destine mail service, created home hospitals in order to take care of the wounded,
and administered the redistribution of resources and foods to the interior of the
country through contacts and excursions outside the war zone.
Twenty years after the April War, in 1985, when the oral history Mujeres de
abril was published, Cordero invites us to examine a different oral history that
looks at the past with a critical eye. Currently, the recollection of the belliger-
ent and brave acts of April and their recovery in writing are still problematic
and under the analytical gaze of the women that had been involved. According
to Cordero, although women have preferred to stay outside of political parties,
they continue to organize themselves politically from the institutional spaces of
civil society and culture. The decision to not affiliate themselves with the official
parties represented by the Dominican state should not be interpreted as disen-

chantment or political failure.
The criticism made by the participants of the 1965 April War does not sepa-
rate the analysis of the elusive place of utopia from the possibility of enforcing
new practices of political solidarity in the present. The war of 1965 was a matu-
ration of political ideas that was completed with the reinsertion of women in
the fields of public communication, sexual rights activism, academic research,
jurisprudence, ecology, and the union struggles of farmers and the working
class.42 New institutions were founded and integrated into civil society through
different social functions that ranged from academic research, legal practice, and
cultural activity. An example of this is the Centro de Investigación Para la Acción
Femenina, an initiative that has been charged with fomenting a local and interna-
tional discussion space for women studies in the Dominican Republic.43
Notes
1. “Hubo un espacio para la reflexión, a veces, logrado paradójicamente en las cárceles.”
Magaly Pineda participated in the debates on the Revolutionary Movement of June 14
during the 1965 April War. Pineda is also the founder of the Centro de Investigación
para la Acción Femenina (CIPAF; Research Center for Women’s Action). All transla-
tions (including the main text of this essay) are by Manya Wubbold, unless a published
translation is indicated.
2. The origins of 1J4 can be traced to the democratic youth group that had been formed
secretly in 1944 under the name of the Juventud Revolucionaria (JR; Revolutionary
Youth) with the encouragement of the Partido Democrático Revolucionario (PDRD;
Democratic Revolutionary Party), the first modern political party of the country,
founded in 1943 by Marxist-Leninist militants. Following the encouraging example of
the Cuban Revolution, political circumstances intensified. Opposition groups began
to form while others already in existence were reactivated; their objective was to bring
about an insurrection and support the actions being prepared by the exiles in June
1959 in Constanza, Maimón, and Estero Hondo. The participants established the
basis to radicalize the insurgency and multiply the number of clandestine groups that
would form 1J4. According to Rafael Tavéras, the Acción Clero Cultural (ACC; Cul-
tural Clergy Action) was one of the organizations that united with the 1J4 Movement.
The ACC was formed by seminarians, priests, and people associated with the Catholic
Church (73).
3. Certainly, Julia Álvarez’s 1994 novel In the Time of the Butterflies functions as a literary
demonstration of the elevation of Minerva Mirabal to mythical status. Rather than exalt-
ing the figure of Dictator Rafael Leónidas Trujillo (1930–61), the literary interpretation
of the dictatorship offered by Álvarez focuses primarily on the political resistance of the
Mirabal sisters. The novel explores Minerva, Patria, and María Teresa’s ideological trans-
formation, their imprisonment, and their eventual assassination by order of the Trujillo
regime. Álvarez combines oral sources (the conversation between Dedé and the “gringa
dominicana” [Dominican Yankee], the alter ego of the author), threading together the
life stories of Patria, Minerva, and the writer of a mysterious prison diary attributed to
María Teresa, the youngest of the sisters. The invention of Mate’s diary is part of the
author’s strategy to develop within the fiction a correlation between María Teresa and
Minerva, the political prisoner par excellence in the Dominican Republic.
4. In 1949, Minerva was arrested, along with her father; in 1951, she was imprisoned along
with her mother in the Hotel Presidente while her father remained a prisoner in Fort
Ozama; in 1960, Minerva completed the sentence in La Cuarenta (La 40) prison that
she had been serving due to her intellectual and political participation in the Revolu-
tionary Movement of June 14. She was released only to be reimprisoned at La 40 four
months later. An Organization of American States (OAS) commission advocated for the
release of political prisoners, and as a result, in August 1960, Minerva, María Teresa, and
Tomasina Cabral were set free. The tragic assassination of the Mirabal sisters (Minerva,
María Teresa, and Patria) and their driver Rufino de la Cruz occurred on the isolated
mountain La Cumbre, as they were returning from visiting their husbands in La 40
prison (Galván 294).
5. On June 14, in the constituent assembly of January 10, 1960, the 1J4 Movement estab-
lished the basis for economic and social development for the Dominican people, propos-
ing, among other reforms, a modification of the republic’s constitution, with the purpose
of consecrating in the legal document a progressive government within the parameters
of a representative democracy. Once the end of Trujillo’s dictatorship was declared, the
assembly outlined fundamental aspects and programmatic issues to be resolved (includ-
ing social, economic, political, and international matters) in order to allow for the instal-
lation of a state of law in the Dominican Republic.
6. An example of this intense debate is the conflict generated by David Stoll, the author of
Rigoberta Menchú and the Story of All Poor Guatemalans, regarding the credibility of the
account told by the activist Rigoberta Menchú. According to Doris Sommer, when read-
ers focus on the manipulative aspects of Menchú’s text, any claim regarding its veracity
or fictionality becomes useless because the narration does not provide all the information
the readers are expecting. Menchú intentionally omits and maintains secrets that she
has decided not to share with her readers. For an extensive discussion on the legacy of
testimonio in Latin America, see Beverley, Testimonio: On the Politics of Truth.
7. English translation of “la epicidad cotidiana” (2).
8. English translation of “sin asumir el estatus jerárquico y patriarcal del héroe” (Jara 2).
9. Cordero studies the daily practices of the April War drawing on the theoretical obser-
vations of Marxist anthropologist Ágnes Heller: “La vida cotidiana es un reflejo de las
relaciones sociales, que no está ajena a las relaciones de poder que se establecen entre los
individuos [Daily life is a reflection of social relations, which are similar to the power
relations that are established between individuals]” (13). In most cases, the quotes from
the testimonies studied in this chapter come from the book Mujeres de abril. This oral
history project unites the testimonies of Brunilda Amaral, Gladys Borrel, Sagrada Bujosa,
Lourdes Contreras, Consuelo Despradel, Teresa Espaillat, Carmen Josefina Piky Lora,
Altagracia de Orbe, Cándida Oviedo, Magaly Pineda, Mercedes Ramírez, Leopoldina
Restituyo, and Aniana Vargas.
10. The assassination of Trujillo in 1961 enabled the celebration of free elections on Decem-
ber 20, 1962, resulting in the triumph of the Partido Revolucionario Dominicano
(PRD; Dominican Revolutionary Party) under the presidency of Juan Bosch. He had
returned from a long exile (1939–62) to serve as a candidate for the PRD, which had
been founded in 1939. His rhetoric announced a fresh start that would put an end to
Trujillism. But his ideal was cut short when, on September 25, 1963, he was overthrown
by an unsatisfied sector of the Dominican armed forces, a resentful oligarchy, and the
intervention of the U.S. Pentagon. This led to the installation of a Triumvirate gov-
ernment, composed of President Emilio de los Santos and members Manuel Enrique
Tavares and Ramón Tapia Espinal. This was not tolerated by the resistance and the
Triumvirate government was declared illegal from its beginnings.
11. Teresa Espaillat (b. 1943), on the other hand, was also detained, at a mere 17 years of
age, in 1961, in order to be interrogated in the torture center called La 40. In 1963, she
traveled to Cuba as part of the Dominican delegation and attended the tenth anniversary
of the assault on the Moncada Barracks. She was part of the group of women instructors
in the April 24 Military Academy created by the 1J4 Movement and she joined the com-
mission for the liberation of revolutionary prisoners during the second week of the war.
12. English translation of “arquitectura de la contrainsurgencia” and “aquel espacio en que
las fuerzas constitucionalistas frenaron el avance de las tropas golpistas dirigidas por el
general Elías Wessin y Wessin” (qtd. in Espaillat 32).
13. “Si la agudización de las contradicciones sociales actuaba como catalizadora de una pres-
encia, el peso ideológico en la práctica social colectiva funcionaba, a su vez y paralela-
mente, como limitante. Antes que una crítica a los roles impuestos, se trasladó a lo social
el signo genérico distintivo: las mujeres madres, esposas, hermanas, novias y, sobre todo,
las presumibles impunes frente a la conducta represiva del poder. También, cosa impor-
tante, alimento de una heroicidad ajena: ‘prefiero ser la viuda de un valiente antes que
la esposa de un cobarde,’ según lo había dicho una mujer espartana. Siglos después, se
repetía el discurso sin reparar en los contenidos” (34).
14. English translation of “fue construcción retórica y testimonio de una circunstancia que
casi todas las mujeres miran hoy con ojos críticos” (77).
15. “[D]ecíamos, ¿cuáles mujeres?, ¿cocinando? Diez años después podemos ver el papel de
la vida cotidiana . . . Si no hubiera sido por esas mujeres que lavaron, que cocinaron, que
crearon redes de información en los comandos, la zona no hubiera podido resistir como
lo hizo” (qtd. in Cordero 145).
16. “Aquí ninguna mujer combatió con las armas en las manos; eso no es verdad . . . yo tenía
un rifle M-2 que me regaló Francisco Alberto Caamaño, pero no lo utilicé nunca porque
no me dejaron, no porque no quería” (qtd. in Cordero 62).
17. “Desde que yo tengo uso de razón me metí al Movimiento Clandestino 14 de Junio;
siempre fui rebelde y combatiente, o sea, que para mí eso era la rutina . . . Yo no era
una mujer dedicada a las labores domésticas, nunca lo fui; fui dirigente estudiantil, fui
dirigente político, fui guerrillera, estuve en el exilio, estuve presa; yo no tenía un rol
tradicional. Tal vez ahora, después que he sido madre, que he sido casada, que tengo un
hogar, si ocurriera de nuevo [la guerra] yo te podría decir cuál es la diferencia . . . Yo sabía
hacer otra cosa, y había tanta gente que sabía cocinar que para qué yo iba a cocinar, si yo
sabía armar y desarmar todas las armas que había en la zona constitucionalista, y eso era
lo más importante, mantener las armas aceitadas” (qtd. in Cordero 47).
18. Carmen Josefina Lora Iglesias (1940–99), known as Piky, was the first woman to become
part of the Juan de Dios Ventura Simó guerilla front, in the hills of Bonao, led by Manolo
Tavárez in the 1963 insurrection. Piky Lora is the popular nickname that identifies her
in the revolutionary mythology that documented her political militancy during the April
War. She was a prisoner in Fort Ozama and in La Victoria prison before being deported
to France in 1963. She returned in 1965 to rejoin the constitutionalist movement.
19. Antonio Miguel Raful Tejada (Tony Raful) belongs to the so-named generation of 1965.
He was the director of the National Library (1980–82), columnist for the Última Hora
newspaper, and director of the radio program Tribuna Democrática (Democratic tri-
bune) of the Dominican Revolutionary Party. He joined writers Pedro Peix and Andrés
L. Mateo in the television program Peña de tres (Group of three) that aired for a while on
Dominican television.
20. The narrative that Piky Lora gave to the La Noticia newspaper in December 1983 was
published by Yolanda Ricardo in the section of her book titled “Textos complementar-
ios” (Complementary texts). Piky Lora’s text appeared in the aforementioned anthology
along with other similar accounts written by Cuban women as representative of practices
of political resistance by Caribbean women.
21. “En los primeros días de noviembre del año 1963 fui enviada al sitio ‘Quita Sueño,’ en
plena Cordillera Central, con el fin de hacer contacto con campesinos de la zona con
quienes lograríamos una base de apoyo con puestos de abastecimiento e información
para la guerilla. Realicé el trabajo que me encomendara directamente Manolo Tavárez,
jefe máximo de la proyectada insurrección armada e Hipólito Rodríguez Sánchez,
Comandante del que sería Frente ‘Juan de Dios Ventura Simó’ que operaría desde Bonao
hasta San José de Ocoa en la Cordillera Central . . . así, a los trece días de producirse el
inicio de la insurrección, llegó el ansiado momento de mi reunión con ellos en momen-
tos sumamente difíciles para nosotros, dispuesta yo a recibir órdenes de unirme a la
guerilla o servir de mensajera regresando a la ciudad con los encargos que me hiciera mi
comandante . . . Originalmente el frente guerrillero ‘Juan de Dios Ventura Simó’ estuvo
compuesto de 24 combatientes que penetraron a la zona montañosa por el paraje ‘Los
Quemados,’ en Bonao, el día 28 de noviembre de 1963” (qtd. in Ricardo 345).
22. English translation of “un plan militar muy correcto” (qtd. in Ricardo 346).
23. “El frío era intenso. Yo iba delante porque conocía el camino de día, y les aseguré a los
compañeros que podía conducirles con la mayor rapidez posible. De pronto siento el
ruido de las bridas de una montura y nos detenemos en el momento en que ya yo he
tropezado con dos guardias que estaban sentados debajo de un árbol que bordeaba el
sendero” (qtd. in Ricardo 347).
24. “Los compañeros penetran en el cafetal a ambos lados y esperan con sus armas prepara-
das la reacción de los militares, pero ellos, sorprendidos igual que nosotros, sólo atinan
a preguntarme qué hago por ahí a esas horas; les digo que vivo cerca y tengo una cita de
amor, me sermonean simulando que han creído el cuento y me ordenan devolverme”
(qtd. in Ricardo 347).
25. “Es así como me devuelvo muy asustada pero conservando la serenidad y camino rápida-
mente hasta donde creo que los guardias ya no me pueden ver y entonces me interno en
el cafetal tratando de encontrar a mis compañeros que han estado protegiéndome desde
muy cerca, pero no están visibles ni pueden gritarme . . . ¡No puedo encontrarlos!” (qtd.
in Ricardo 347).
26. “Capturaron a los otros dos, Pérez Cuevas y Mesa, rendidos como estaban por el cansan-
cio. ¿Qué voy a hacer yo sola?” (qtd. in Ricardo 349).
27. To respect the original spelling of the Spanish texts used in this essay, both the article
and the noun are capitalized in nicknames, although the Real Academia Española (Royal
Spanish Academy) recommends to lowercase the article (see “Mayúsculas,” 4.4). In all
the other essays, the RAE guidelines are followed.
28. English translation of “[N]o te apures por mí, estoy viva, y eso es un privilegio en estos
momentos, pero no te comprometas. Si no puedes volver, no lo hagas” (qtd. in Ricardo
349).
29. “Tengo que entregarme, decidido está. Voy a esperar algún oficial al borde del camino.
Viene uno, le salgo del matorral, me apunta, cruzo el arroyo y en medio de éste baja su
arma el capitán Miguel Ángel Calderón, quien me apresa. Andaba acompañado de un
soldado, ambos montados en mulos. Le ordena: ‘Ve dile al mayor que tengo a la mucha-
cha, que ya puede venir con los otros.’ Me ofrece su montura, la rechazo. ‘Murieron dos
de sus compañeros,’ me dice y se le salen las lágrimas al capitán. Puedo decirlo ahora
porque él fue combatiente constitucionalista durante la guerra de abril, luego escolta del
profesor Juan Bosch y ahora está cancelado y vive en el extranjero” (qtd. in Ricardo 349).
30. “Comienza el largo viaje hacia Santo Domingo y la prisión. Detrás, entre los pomares
cercanos al arroyo, quedan Polo y La Yerba” (qtd. in Ricardo 349).
31. This is the original transcription by Patricia Solano of Giovanna Bonnelli’s interview
with Piky Lora:
Cuando estábamos presos en La Victoria, como yo era la única mujer, me

tenían con las prostitutas. Uno de esos presos de confianza le dijo a Juan Miguel
que el coronel que estaba de puesto en la cárcel, Emilio Espinal, le había dicho
a Josefina “La Palera,” una lesbiana, que se metiera en mi celda. Le dio unos
tragos de whisky en la casa de guardia y la llave de mi celda. Cuando Juan
Miguel lo supo armó un alboroto tan grande que hubo que llamar policías de
refuerzo y se tuvieron que trepar arriba de la cárcel para calmar aquello . . . Yo
veía a los muchachos cada jueves en el patio. Era el día de visitas; nos asignaron
los jueves para que no fuera mucha gente . . . usualmente es los domingos . . .
pero aún los jueves así se llenaba la cárcel. Nos llevaban al patio de La Victoria
y allí yo veía a los muchachos. Ellos hicieron un equipo de softball y le pidieron
a las autoridades del penal que me dejaran salir para ser madrina de su equipo
y me sacaron; yo fui la que tiró la primera bola. Ellos jugaban todos los días,
los sacaban a coger sol al patio diario. A mí no me sacaban. Mi vida era más
difícil, sin embargo las prostitutas se portaron muy bien conmigo, la mayoría.
Ellas se sentaban frente a las rejas a jugar cartas conmigo; yo les cosía, les hacía
vestidos, cortaba las telas con navajas que tenían escondidas.
Of the little that has been written about the participation of women in the April
War, there is also a triptych published by Piky Lora’s daughter, journalist Solano.
The text was requested by the Secretary of Women in the Dominican Republic.
Under the title of 1965: Las mujeres también hicieron abril (1965: Women also made
April), Solano documented the political roles in the war played by Hilda Gautreaux,
Yolanda Guzmán, Emma Tavárez Justo, Aniana Vargas, and her own mother, Piky Lora
(see http://www.sem.gov.do/boletin.htm). She mentions the fact that, as in the Indepen-
dence War or in the first North American intervention in 1916, women were integrated
in the struggle of the 1965 April revolution.
32. “Yo tenía un grupo de mujeres en la Academia, de las cuales recuerdo de manera especial
a Tina, que no sé su apellido, porque ella fue una de mis mayores impresiones, no sólo
como profesora, no sólo como combatiente, sino también como instructora. Fue con-
ocer a una mujer que no era pequeño-burguesa, como yo era en ese entonces; era una
mujer del pueblo que había combatido y que tenía experiencias diferentes a las mías . . .
Era la mujer que había combatido porque la mayoría, la mayoría no, todas, incluyén-
dome a mí que era instructora, ninguna de las compañeras que estaban bajo mi mando
habían participado en combate. Solamente Tina” (qtd. in Cordero 138).
33. “Mis hombres que caían al lado mío yo no los dejaba, me los llevaba. En medio del
fuego, pero me los llevaba” (qtd. in Cordero 105).
34. “La rubia tenía 16 años esa mujer, una mujer vieja de 16 años . . . Ella era prostituta, sí.
Y luego me dolió mucho cuando supe que la habían tirado por el puente Duarte, que la
habían matado como un animalito” (qtd. in Cordero 139).
35. “Llegué a conocer compañeras prostitutas, compañeras lesbianas. Por ejemplo, yo salía
con una compañera que Homero había conocido en un burdel, la había rescatado y
llevado a un colegio. En plena revolución, ella se fuga del colegio y se mete en la zona
constitucionalista. La Fifí era una muchacha joven y yo recuerdo que era una muchacha
igual que yo; no tenía problemas de que ella tuviera esa vida y salíamos juntas con mucha
frecuencia . . . Luego me pasó con una compañera lesbiana, también. Eso fue más fuerte
todavía porque quizás en ese tiempo la prostitución tenía una razón económica, pero el
lesbianismo no, eso era una tara, eso era inaceptable. Y esta compañera era lesbiana. No
hacía vida con nosotras” (qtd. in Cordero 82).
36. “El movimiento nos atrapa y nosotras tenemos que dar respuesta. ¿Pero quién estaba dando
esa respuesta? En el caso particular mío, una persona procedente de la pequeña burguesía
acomodada, con una serie de tabúes, de criterios y de ignorancias políticas, fundamental-
mente, con respecto a la mujer en sí misma y a la lucha de la mujer” (qtd. in Cordero 48).
37. According to Butler, a universalized feminine subject that is marked by social determina-
tions and biological or psychological attributes does not exist. The idea of a feminine
subject negatively defined from binary and homogenizing categories responds to the
universalizing logic imposed by patriarchal domination systems. Instead, it is necessary
to examine the participation of women from alliances and collaborations with other
groups that share similar political struggles beyond their geographical limitations.
38. As stated by Mohanty, “Geographically, the nation-states of Latin America, the Carib-
bean, sub-Saharan Africa, South and South East Asia, China, South Africa, and Oceania
constitute the parameters of the non-European Third World. In addition, black, Latino,
Asian, and indigenous peoples in the United States, Europe, and Australia, some of
whom have historic links with the geographically defined Third World, also refer to
themselves as Third World peoples. With such a broad canvas, racial, sexual, national,
economic, and cultural borders are difficult to demarcate, shaped politically as they are
in individual and collective practice” (47).
39. According to Veloz Maggiolo, the lack of a gradual and lasting development of a national
middle class and its aesthetic tastes was likewise an obstacle for the development of the
genre of the novel in the Dominican Republic (7).
40. The reflection on the April War is not only recorded in oral history and in annual con-
ferences; the monuments and the urban spaces inscribed with the names of leaders and
combatants of the 1J4 Movement also proposed a visual memory of the war. In Decem-
ber 2003, the Council of Santiago named an avenue in honor of Piky Lora.
41. English translation of “fueron apoyo y no catapulta; ejecutoras eficientes pero no diri-
gentes” (53).
42. After the end of the war, Piky Lora practiced as a lawyer in property law and carried out
an inquiry against those accused of expropriating land in Bahía de las Águilas. Hilda
Gautreaux also practiced as a lawyer and defended political prisoners in the country’s
tribunals. Aniana Vargas died leading a federation of Bonao farmers in which she fought
for the environment and the river basins of the zone.
43. I am grateful to Patricia Solano, Pedro de León, Manuel Arias, and Antonio Mena for
their support during my visit to the National Archives in Santo Domingo. The events
and testimonies of the women and men that participated in the April War are currently
compiled and analyzed in the section for oral sources that are part of the Department
of Research and Dissemination of the National Archives. All the testimonies have been
catalogued, filed, and are in the process of being transcribed. This initiative represents an
important cultural contribution and permits an enriching and accessible knowledge of
Dominican history for the local and international community. I am also grateful for the
Joseph P. Healey Grant Program at UMass Boston, which helped me to carry out part of
the research used in this essay.
Works Cited
Álvarez, Julia. In the Time of the Butterflies. Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin, 1994.
Álvarez, Sonia. Engendering Democracy in Brazil. Princeton, NJ: Princeton UP, 1990.
Beverley, John. “Rethinking the Armed Struggle in Latin America.” Boundary 2 36.1 (2009):
47–59.
———. Testimonio: On The Politics of Truth. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2004.
Blanco Fernández, Ramón A. 1J4: De la resistencia a la esencia (breve historia de algunos errores
políticos). Santo Domingo: Corripio, 1994.
Butler, Judith. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. New York: Routledge,
1990.
Cassá, Roberto. Los orígenes del Movimiento 14 de Junio: La izquierda dominicana. Santo
Domingo: Editora Universitaria, 1999.
Castañeda, Jorge G. Utopia Unarmed: The Latin American Left After the Cold War. New York:
Knopf, 1993.
Cordero, Margarita. Mujeres de abril. Santo Domingo: CIPAF, 1985.
Debray, Régis. “The Long March in Latin America: Guerilla Movements; Theory and Prac-
tice.” New Left Review 33 (Sept.Oct. 1965): 17–58.
Espaillat, Teresa. Abril en mis recuerdos: Testimonio de una combatiente. Santo Domingo:
Cocolo, 2002.
Galván, Manuel. Minerva Mirabal: Historia de una heroína. Santo Domingo: Taller, 1997.
Jara, René. “Prólogo.” Testimonio y literatura. Ed. René Jara and Hernán Vidal. Minneapolis:
Institute for the Study of Ideology and Literature, 1986. 1–6.
Mohanty, Chandra Talpade. Feminism Without Borders: Decolonizing Theory, Practicing Solidar-
ity. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2003.
Moraña, Mabel and María Rosa Olivera-Williams, eds. Intelectuales, género y Estado en América
Latina. Madrid: Iberoamericana-Vervuert, 2005.
Moreiras, Alberto. The Exhaustion of Difference: The Politics of Latin American Cultural Studies.
Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2001.
Raful Tejada, Antonio Miguel. Movimiento 14 de Junio: Historia y documentos. Santo Domingo:
Búho, 2007.
Randall, Margaret. Sandino’s Daughters: Testimonies of Nicaraguan Women in Struggle. New
Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers UP, 1994.
Ricardo, Yolanda. La resistencia en las Antillas tiene rostro de mujer (transgresiones, emancipacio-
nes). Santo Domingo: Publicaciones de la Academia de Ciencias de la República Domini-
cana, 2004.
Rodríguez, Ileana. Women, Guerillas and Love: Understanding War in Central America. Min-
neapolis: Minnesota UP, 1996.
Skłodowska, Elżbieta. “Hacia una tipología del testimonio hispanoamericano.” Siglo XX/Twen-
tieth Century 8.1–2 (1990–91): 103–20.
Sommer, Doris. One Master for Another: Populism as Patriarchal Rhetoric in Dominican Novels.
Lanham, MD: UP of America, 1983.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. “Can the Subaltern Speak?” Marxism and the Interpretation of
Culture. Ed. Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg. Urbana: U of Illinois P, 1988. 271–313.
Stoll, David. Rigoberta Menchú and the Story of All Poor Guatemalans. Boulder: Westview, 1999.
Tavéras, Rafael. Abril, la liberación efímera (testimonio y análisis). Special edition for the twenty-
fifth anniversary of the April Revolution. Santo Domingo: Bloque Socialista, 1990.
Veloz Maggiolo, Marcio. De abril en adelante: Protonovela. Santo Domingo: Taller, 1975.
PART IV
Utopia and Counterculture

CHAPTER 8
Jorge Mautner and

Countercultural
Utopia in Brazil
Christopher Dunn
WHEN GILBERTO GIL, THE FORMER BRAZILIAN MINISTER of Culture under the Lula
government, appeared at the 2003 World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzer-
land, he came with a dramatic message for this elite international community of
statesmen, intellectuals, and financial barons: “Either the world becomes Brazil-
ianized, or it will be Nazified.”1 It would be difficult to imagine a more dramatic
claim for the moral value of a national project than Gil’s statement, which posits
a stark dichotomy between the promise of a harmonious “Brazilianized” world
and one that devolves into fascism, ethnic strife, and genocide. Indeed, it would
be hard to imagine a leader from any other country to make such a claim without
causing a scandal or being dismissed as a patriotic crank. Other possible models
come to mind for ethnically diverse democratic nations that have managed peace-
ful internal and external relations, but it seems unlikely that we will see any time
soon similar exhortations for the world to be “Canadianized,” or “Zambianized.”
Gil’s claim was even more remarkable given Brazil’s notorious social inequality,
its high levels of violence, and recent critiques of its race relations from both aca-
demics and activists. As one of Brazil’s leading singers/songwriters of the last four
decades, Gil himself made powerful forays into social critique, including denun-
ciations of racial exclusion. Yet, as his statement in Davos suggests, he has also
tapped into a celebratory discourse on Brazilian culture and society that extends
back to the first colonial encounter. Together with Gil, Caetano Veloso was the
leading voice of Tropicália, a multifaceted cultural phenomenon that erupted in
the late 1960s with particular force in popular music. Tropicália represented an
exuberant moment of countercultural affirmation in the face of authoritarian
repression, as well as a frequently caustic reflection on the impasses and failures
of Brazilian modernity. In recent years, Veloso has explicitly sought to revive a

174 Christopher Dunn
hopeful, even utopian vision for Brazil as a way to “compensate” for his partici-
pation in the creation of disenchantment during the late 1960s (O Mundo 46).
Gil was not the author of this memorable slogan that set up an imaginary
dichotomy between Brazilian culture and Nazism. He was quoting Jorge Maut-
ner, a writer/singer/songwriter/violinist who has collaborated with Gil and Veloso
since the early 1970s but always remained on the margins of the Brazilian popu-
lar music scene. In his memoirs, Veloso referred to Mautner as a “precursor to
tropicalism” owing to a substantial body of literary production from the early
1960s that presaged many of the themes developed by the tropicalists later in the
decade (Verdade 449). Mautner’s work draws attention to nationalist dimensions
of Tropicália, which have been largely interpreted as antinationalist critiques of
Brazilian identity discourse. As the tropicalist movement exploded in the late
1960s, Mautner was living in New York, but connected with Gil and Veloso in
1970 while they were in exile in London. Soon after returning to Brazil in 1972,
he established himself as a posttropicalist singer/songwriter. In the ensuing years,
he also published several volumes of essays and poetry that positioned him as a
spokesperson of the Brazilian counterculture. In 2002, his work was collected in
a three-volume set, Mitologia do Kaos (Mythology of kaos [a play on the word
chaos]), which featured a collection of song lyrics, interviews, newspaper clip-
pings, and writings about Mautner going back to the 1960s.
I will focus here primarily on his essays from the 1970s but would like to first
cite a more recent song from Eu Não Peço Desculpas (I don’t apologize), an album
he recorded with Veloso in 2002. Mautner’s call to “Brazilianize” the world first
appeared in the song “Urge Dracon”:
Either the world is Brazilianized

Or it will become Nazi
Jesus of Nazareth
And the drums of candomblé.2
In Mautner’s vision, the compassionate, pacifist teachings of Jesus and the

trance-inducing drums of Afro-Brazilian religion must come together in an ecu-
menical approach to achieving peace among peoples and nations. “Urge Dracon”
appeared as a coda to Veloso’s “O Namorado” (The boyfriend), a pop song about a
fashionable girl from Rio’s Zona Sul (South Side) who has a handsomely muscled
boyfriend. The refrain, however, reveals that “the boyfriend has a boyfriend,” a
parodic homage to Carlinhos Brown’s 1996 song “A Namorada” (The girlfriend),
which reverses the roles. The song draws attention to an ambiguous social and
sexual milieu in which girls and boys maintain appearances with partners of the
opposite sex while pursuing same-sex liaisons. By pairing “O Namorado” with
“Urge Dracon,” Mautner celebrates contemporary Brazil as a place of religious
plurality, racial mixture, and sexual freedom where guys and gals can have both
boyfriends and girlfriends.
Throughout the West, the 1970s are often associated with a period of crisis
and disillusionment as revolutionary political, social, and cultural movements
were suppressed or otherwise defeated in the late 1960s. In Brazil, the sense
Jorge Mautner and Countercultural Utopia in Brazil 175
of disillusionment was particularly acute for democratic and progressive forces

under a right-wing military regime that ruled from 1964 to 1985. The most
draconian period began in late 1968, when hard-line forces within the military
assumed control, suspended habeas corpus, dissolved congress, and launched
a violent campaign against the civilian opposition and small groups of armed
resistance. “The dream is over,” as John Lennon intoned in “God” (1970), a
statement about his personal disillusionment with the Beatles, which captured
a more general sense of exhaustion and retreat from utopian projects. Two years
later, upon returning to Brazil from exile in London, Gil would translate this
theme for Brazilian youth, albeit in a more light-hearted and humorous vein:
“The dream is over / whoever didn’t sleep in a sleeping bag didn’t even dream.”3
Yet Gil’s “O Sonho Acabou” was released in 1972 when countercultural energies
were still ascendant among Brazilian youth. The political opposition had been
crushed, but the hippie movement was in full swing, a vibrant alternative press
was emerging, and artists from several fields were experimenting with new forms.
There would still be many opportunities for Brazilian youth, mostly middle class,
to hit the road and enjoy the unique comforts of a sleeping bag. In retrospect,
Gil’s song seems less like a requiem for a dream that had passed, as in Lennon’s
“God,” than an inaugural gesture for something yet to come.
Countercultural utopianism emerged at a distinctly unhopeful (one might
even say dystopian) moment in Brazilian history, as the military regime became
increasingly repressive. Earlier revolutionary projects of national liberation,
inspired by the Cuban Revolution, had by the early seventies been defeated. The
utopia of the counterculture was a symptom of and response to this defeat that
shifted focus from class struggle and anti-imperialist nationalism toward cultural
practices. Mautner’s multifaceted oeuvre provides unique insights into the Brazil-
ian counterculture and its utopian articulations.
Trajectories
While Gil’s and Veloso’s artistic production and career trajectories are well known,
Mautner’s work as a novelist, poet, essayist, composer, and musician has been
largely overlooked. For a left-wing artist of his generation, people who came of
age just as Brazil was entering a twenty-year period of right-wing authoritarian
rule, Mautner maintained an optimistic view of Brazil as a modern promised land.
Much of this sentiment is related directly to his own existential condition as the
child of European immigrants who found safety and prosperity in Brazil in the
years leading up to the Second World War. Jorge Mautner was born in 1941 to
an Austrian couple from Vienna who fled to Rio de Janeiro in the late 1930s. His
mother, Anna, was a Catholic of Slavic origin, and his father, Paul, was Jewish.
As in all nations of the Americas that received Jewish immigrants and refugees,
Brazil was a place of considerable anti-Semitism (Lesser 27–30). It appears, how-
ever, that Mautner’s father, as a polyglot European with means and connections,
thrived in his adopted homeland. Once in Brazil, Paul Mautner became a lead-
ing figure of the anti-Nazi campaign and even met with the president, Getúlio
Vargas, to convince him to side with the allied powers, which he eventually did
in 1942. As Jorge remembers, “My father, of course, educated me with all of

his might—poetically I might say that he was an avenger for the concentration
camps, but it’s true. So all of that love that he had for Brazil, he transmitted to
me and I knew that if I hadn’t been born in Brazil, I would have been reduced
to ashes in a crematorium in a Nazi concentration camp.”4 One of his earliest
memories, related in the first chapter of his memoirs, is of attending a hero’s
parade in downtown Rio for Brazilian soldiers returning triumphantly from the
war in 1945 (O Filho do Holocausto 16–17).
During his early years in Rio, Jorge Mautner was raised by an Afro-Brazilian
nanny, Lúcia, a candomblé priestess who instilled in him an abiding interest in
and passion for black culture (Mitologia do Kaos 2: 216–17). In the 1940s, Brazil
was widely regarded as a racial and ethnic paradise, especially in light of genocidal
fascism in Europe but also in relation to a segregated United States. Brazilian
intellectuals, most notably Gilberto Freyre, set out to explain and theorize Brazil’s
unique Portuguese-speaking tropical civilization forged through biological and
cultural fusion of European, African, and indigenous peoples. Foreign observ-
ers followed Freyre’s lead in assessing Brazil as a model for race relations in the
modern world. One of the earliest uses of the term racial democracy was by French
anthropologist Roger Bastide who visited Freyre in Recife in 1944, when the
contrast with Western Europe could not have been more evident (Guimarães
142–44). Mautner came from a family of European immigrants, not from landed
gentry in northeastern Brazil. Yet his early childhood, profoundly influenced by
his nanny, conforms to familiar stories of black-white transculturation most
famously described by Freyre in his study Casa-Grande e Senzala (The Masters
and the Slaves; 1933).
Like many artists of his generation, especially those associated with Tropicália,
Mautner was deeply influenced by the work of Oswald de Andrade, author of the
famous “Manifesto Antropófago” (“Cannibalist Manifesto”; 1928). The mani-
festo proposes an Americocentric reading of the Enlightenment by affirming the
legacy of precolonial indigenous societies, particularly those of coastal Brazil,
in the creation of basic human rights that were adopted by European think-
ers against an autocratic idealized reading of these societies. Precolonial Brazil
was a matriarchal utopia dominated by communal living and ritual cannibalism,
whereas the Portuguese colonizers introduced a patriarchal Catholic society based
on property rights, enslavement, and sexual repression. For Andrade, ritual canni-
balism would provide a metaphor for creating and sustaining a modern national
culture premised on the critical assimilation of foreign cultures that was neither
imitative nor xenophobic. Forty years later, the tropicalists revived the metaphor
to describe their own cultural project in terms of “devouring” international rock
in order to produce something new.
Andrade’s utopianism, while implicit in the manifesto, becomes explicit in his
later writing. In his essay A Marcha das Utopias (The march of utopias; 1953),
he argued that the colonization of the Americas made possible the very idea of
a utopia based on the values and practices of indigenous societies: “Utopias are
thus a consequence of the discovery of the New World and, above all, of the new
man, of the different man found on the lands of America.”5 In his later writing,
Andrade reevaluated the Portuguese Catholic colonial legacy of Brazil that he

had previously denounced and ridiculed as inherently repressive in the “Mani-
festo Antropófago.” Writing some twenty years later, Andrade championed the
Portuguese colonial project in Brazil as a bulwark against the Protestant capital-
ist rationality epitomized by the United States. For Andrade, the conservative
Catholic order, which privileged stable hierarchy over market competition, was
the very condition of possibility for the creation of a racially and culturally mixed
society: “[W]e Brazilians, champions of racial and cultural mixing, are of the
Counter-Reformation, even without God or worship. We are the Utopia made
real, for better or worse, in the face of a mercenary and mechanic utilitarianism
of the North.”6 According to him, these cultural qualities would eventually lead
Brazil to greatness on the world stage. Mautner would develop similar themes in
his writings, while trying to reconcile the North-South split in order to propose a
trans-American, hemispheric cultural project (Perrone 165).
Bridges of Energy
When Mautner was seven, his parents divorced and his mother relocated to São
Paulo with a new husband, a German musician who introduced Mautner to the
violin, which would become his primary instrument. His father relocated to São
Paulo and played an active role in his upbringing. By all accounts, his family
education was cosmopolitan and erudite, as his mother, father, and stepfather
exposed him to the long tradition of Western thought from classical Greek to
contemporary European philosophy. In 1958, after a sudden epiphany, Mautner
founded a short-lived anarchist-existential political party, the Partido do Kaos,
using a “K” to distinguish it from caos (chaos). In 1962, he joined the Communist
Party at the invitation of the nuclear physicist Mario Schenberg, but maintained
an independent, heterodox position reflected in his writings. In the early 1960s,
he established himself as a literary prodigy with a trilogy of novels based on the
mythology of Kaos—Deus da Chuva e da Morte (God of rain and death; 1962),
Narciso em Tarde Cinza (Narcisus in gray afternoon; 1965), and O Vigarista Jorge
(Jorge the hustler; 1965). Following the military coup of 1964, he was detained
and warned to be careful with his literary production. When his novel O Vigarista
Jorge was cited in 1966 as a threat under the new Law of National Security, Maut-
ner decided that it was time to leave the country.
Mautner moved to New York where he worked as a dishwasher, a waiter’s assis-
tant, and a typist in the United Nations. Judging from the song “Babylon,” which
he composed in English in New York, Mautner’s exile was initially difficult: “The
first time I came to Babylon / I felt so lonely / I felt so lonely and people came
along / To mistreat me.” “Babylon” was recorded by Gil in London in 1971.
Mautner finally secured employment as the translator and personal secretary for
the American poet Robert Lowell. During that time, he also befriended Paul
Goodman, a key intellectual of the American counterculture, who introduced to
him the pacifist philosophy of Mahatma Gandhi (Mitologia do Kaos 2: 325). Liv-
ing in New York, he witnessed the insurgent social and political upheaval of the
late 1960s. In interacting with blacks, Puerto Ricans, hippies, university students,
Figure 8.1 Photograph of Jorge Mautner by Alcyr Cavalcante. Published in Correio da Manhã,
1972. Courtesy of the Arquivo Nacional, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
and gay activists, he formed an impression of the United States as a place of per-
petual social conflict, like the image of a field constantly burned (Mitologia do
Kaos 2: 326).
Mautner witnessed the latter-stage civil rights movement as it erupted into
black power, protests against the Vietnam War, the emergence of the hippies, and
the first demonstration of an organized gay liberation movement. He was liv-
ing in the heart of the American counterculture, while his own country suffered
under a crushing military regime that imposed social and political order. Writing
in 1971 for Flor do Mal (Flower of evil), an early underground journal from Rio,
Mautner mused about ways to revive Dionysus, the Greek god of wine associated
with carnivals, ritualized ecstasy, and joyful liberation, by developing transcon-
tinental connections between Brazil, the United States, and Africa. In his view,
Brazil was like a mythical Orient, a fantastical place of cultural exuberance that
was the other side of Babylon, a competitive capitalist jungle: “Bridges of energy
and culture will be established between Brazil-Orient and New York-Babylon.
With a dual bridge to Africa, from where the essence of the blues and maracatu
came from.”7 For all his interest in the Dionysian aspects of rock music, the hip-
pie movement, and carnival, Mautner was an Apollonian figure. As Veloso has
recalled, he abhorred the use of drugs and alcohol and eschewed the use of youth
slang (Rasec 95).
Mautner moved back to Brazil in early 1972, soon after Veloso and Gil returned
from their exile in London. By this time, the focus of his work had moved from
literary fiction to popular music. He recorded his first LP Para Iluminar a Cidade
(To illuminate the city; 1972), featuring album cover notes (entirely in lower-
case typescript) by Veloso about their meeting in London and subsequent travels
together in Europe: “tropicalism came to an end and jorge mautner appeared in
london with an umbrella. i liked him right away because he is an incredible guy
and also because he immediately began declaring good prophecies (and happily
they have come to pass) . . . i became a fan of jorge mautner. his songs have the
smell of creative freedom that I only find in jorge ben. in spain he kept talking
about nietzsche and pre-socratic philosophers, talking about apollo and dionysus,
reading sartre on the beaches of catalonia. We called him maestro.”8
Around this time, Mautner initiated a lifelong musical partnership with gui-
tarist/composer Nelson Jacobina with whom he composed his most famous song
“Maracatu Atômico” (Atomic maracatu; 1972), a musical and poetic affirmation
of Afro-diasporic music, in this case the maracatu from Pernambuco and its inser-
tion into a modern global circuit, as per the final stanza:
The beak of a hummingbird kisses the flower,

kisses the flower
And all of the fauna cries with love
He who holds the standard-bearer has
art, has art
And with verve goes by electronic
atomic maracatu.9
Charles Perrone has drawn attention to the song’s juxtaposition and fusion
of nature and technology, as well as of tradition and modernity, in a way that
recalls the vanguardist poetics of Andrade and the pop innovations of Tropicália
(171–74). “Maracatu Atômico” was recorded by Gil in the late 1970s with a new
arrangement that would provide the foundation for a third iteration by Chico
Science and Nação Zumbi, the leading group of the mangue beat movement of
Recife in the 1990s. The Mautner-Jacobina composition would become, some
25 years after its original recording, a kind of song/manifesto for mangue beat,
which fused maracatu with rock, funk, hip-hop, reggae, and other contemporary
sounds of the contemporary Afro-Atlantic world.
The White Negro, Brazilian Style

In the early 1970s, the northeastern state of Bahia became a kind of mecca for the
youth counterculture. Middle-class, mostly white kids from the southern indus-
trial cities flocked to the state capital, Salvador, and surrounding coastal towns,
most famously Arembepe, a fishing village that became a meeting point of hip-
pies (and occasionally rock stars like Janis Joplin and Mick Jagger) from all over
the world. Together with Veloso and Gil, both natives of Bahia, Mautner spent
the summer of 1972 in Salvador. During this period he continued to develop
ideas about the counterculture, modern industrial society, and the future promise
of Brazil. He was one of the first in Brazil to draw connections between black
culture and the counterculture (often referred to as the “underground”) following
his experiences with Afro-Bahian culture. Like many artists and intellectuals of
his generation, Mautner conceived Afro-Bahian culture (and African cultures in
general) as blissfully uninhibited and liberated, explaining in a March 1972 inter-
view to the alternative magazine Bondinho: “It’s a tribal culture, it’s an instinctive
culture that hasn’t been destroyed by the industrialized world.”10 Mautner sought
to elucidate connections between what he called cultura underground with the
Afro-diasporic culture that he encountered in Bahia much in the same way that
European counterculture sought inspiration in Asian (especially Indian) culture
and religion. Of course, much of this discourse is based on a kind of idealized
fantasy of black culture as essentially “instinctive” or “Dionysian.”
Mautner’s musings on the vitality of Afro-Bahian culture remind us of the
complexities of countercultural appropriations and celebrations of black culture
in the Americas. In many ways they bring to mind the figure of the white negro,
infamously analyzed by Norman Mailor in the late 1950s. The urban white hip-
ster, according to Mailor, was an American existentialist in rebellion against the
stultifying conformity of postwar U.S. society (340). As a sign of this rebellion,
the hipster adopted the outlook, attitudes, and styles of marginalized black men
represented as antisocial, potentially dangerous, but also liberated from the con-
straints of “civilized life” (348). In embracing this black urban street culture,
the white negro was purposefully cultivating his inner psychopath as a way to
generate creative energy (344–46). In a similar fashion, Mautner, who has been
described as a “branco enegralhado” (blackened white, in Junior 15), asserts the
liberating power of black culture as a corrective to the disciplinary structures of
modern industrial society.
In his first collection of essays, Fragmentos de Sabonete (Soap fragments; 1976),
Mautner devotes considerable attention to the significance of Afro-diasporic cul-
ture, particularly music, in the formation of an emergent counterculture, which
he calls (using one of his many compound neologisms) “hippie-afro-american-
renaissance of Indian America, miscegenated America, black America, America of
rhythm and pop.”11 In the writings of both Mailor and Mautner, black culture is
romanticized and essentialized, but accorded different civilizational valence. For
Mailor, there is a kind of heroic pathology at work in urban black culture and
its white appropriations; while for Mautner, Afro-diasporic cultures provide the
very foundations of a healthy, vibrant society. Modern black music, whether from
Brazil, the United States, or elsewhere, was the supreme symbol of cultural vital-
ity and power in the Americas: “We must not be afraid to affirm with great vigor
the culture of the Americas, which opens triumphantly to the world: an affirma-
tion of vitality, sound, rock, jazz, blues, sambas, maracatus, in sum the great and
extremely healthy American negritude!”12
Mautner further developed these ideas in a second collection of essays, Panfle-
tos da Nova Era (Pamphlets of the new era), published in 1980 at the outset of
a period known as abertura (opening), as the regime began preparing to return
to the democratic rule. New social and political movements were emerging as an
alliance of industrial workers and intellectuals formed the Workers’ Party under
the charismatic leadership of the metalworker and union leader, Luiz Inácio Lula
da Silva. Afro-Brazilians, women, and gays began organizing to denounce author-
itarian rule and press for civil rights. Panfletos is a document of this era, when a
sense of optimism and hope was once again on the rise after a hiatus of nearly
15 years.
In this volume, he exalted the powers of black culture as “Dionysian, healthy,

ironic, evolved to survive in the most hostile worlds, in the most oppressive situ-
ations, tempered by patience and stoicism.”13 These were qualities, as Mautner
suggests, that could help progressive forces overcome the dictatorship and provide
a cultural and psychic foundation for redemocratization. He was an enthusias-
tic supporter of new Afro-Brazilian cultural expression, especially the Black Rio
movement that adopted the music, styles, and to some extent political posture of
the U.S. African American soul counterculture. For Freyre and other conservative
critics of the time, Black Rio had generated racial tensions and divisions in Bra-
zilian society. For Mautner, these emergent Afro-Brazilian cultural movements,
connected as they were to U.S. African American movements and to a lesser
extent liberation movements of the African continent, were an essential compo-
nent for the democratic liberation of Brazil. Black culture would be the common
denominator that would unify the country.
Despite his enthusiasm for contemporary expressions of black culture like soul
music, Mautner’s vision was in other ways Freyrean in its emphasis on media-
tion, transculturation, and mestiçagem (miscegenation). At a time when Brazil
was regarded throughout the free world as a dictatorial state that violated human
rights and repressed its citizens, Mautner was waxing utopian about its future:
“In 1994, exactly two decades from now, Brazil will be entering its first stage of
youth, providing a model to the world of a society so original, so diverse, and so
endowed with a poetic-fantastic-playful-rhythmic-all-too-human soul (a mixture
of white, Indian, and black, where else did this occur?) that it will be a point of
reference for the rest of the world.”14 Although Brazil was living under a military
dictatorship, it was on the verge of a new democratic era rooted in its hybrid
culture. His role as an artist was to channel the creative forces within this culture
in order to maximize the human potential of the Brazilian nation: “[M]y entire
work is at the service of the powerful, unique, brilliant, mestiço Brazilian culture
that in its myths and archetypes is in full bloom . . . Huge responsibilities await us
all Brazilians, for this time we will construct a nation of continental proportions
with social democracy and an original Brazilian philosophy!”15
Country of the Future?

While there were other artists of his generation that celebrated Brazilian popular
culture, Mautner was the only one to develop a distinctly utopian narrative about
Brazil and its future potential. In some ways, his vision for Brazil overlapped
with the discourse of the regime, which also trumpeted the slogan of “Brasil
Grande” (Great Brazil) to convince the population of the nation’s growing eco-
nomic and geopolitical power. In this light, Mautner’s project may be understood
as an attempt to appropriate the “Brasil Grande” discourse for progressive, social-
democratic ends.
Mautner defined his project as a kind of radicalism of the center that was
opposed to authoritarian rule but was also critical of sectors of the left that he
considered socially conservative, masculinist, and antidemocratic. He regarded
machismo as the root cause of political violence, denounced the treatment of
homosexuals under Fidel Castro’s regime in Cuba, and suggested that the prin-
cipal weakness of the armed resistance in Brazil was its reliance on a masculinist
ideology (Pereira and Buarque de Hollanda 127). He argued that humans were
innately bisexual and the repression of same-sex desire would only perpetuate
more violence and strife in society (Mitologia do Kaos 2: 242).
Mautner’s utopian faith in the regenerative, democratizing potential of racial
and cultural mixture was coupled with a kind of technological positivism that
imagined a postpolitical world where science and technology would replace ide-
ology. He went so far as to prophesize that antagonisms between the left and the
right would be overcome by computer technology (Mitologia do Kaos 2: 231). He
also made some bold predictions about the future of energy production, which
in hindsight have proven to be sadly off the mark. He believed that the world
was on the verge of developing new technologies that would put an end to oil
dependency, which in turn would put an end to modern warfare: “These are
happy times, for in less than thirty years, classical warfare and the supremacy of
petroleum will be extinct and humans of planet earth will be riding on top of four
new sources of energy: 1) solar energy; 2) tidal energy from the ocean; 3) laser
rays; 4) gravitational energy that will be harnessed at the beginning of the next
century.”16 He obviously overestimated the slow pace of technological advance
and the lack of political will (especially in the United States) to transition from a
petroleum-based economy to one based on alternative renewable energy sources.
He imagined Brazil as a vanguard in renewable energy, predicting that the coun-
try would be filled with hydroelectric plants by the end of the twentieth century.
What he didn’t consider, however, was the environmental and cultural impact of
hydroelectric dams, which in many cases destroy the forest habitat of indigenous
peoples in the Amazon Basin. Nor could he have imagined the recent enthusiasm
over presalt deepwater drilling off the Brazilian coast, which appears to ensure the
predominance of an oil-based economy in Brazil for years to come.
In retrospect, Fragmentos de Sabonete and Panfletos da Nova Era seem overly
optimistic and at times even naïve about the prospects for Brazil’s future in the
1970s. Mautner clearly overestimated the power of technology to create energy
solutions and mediate political conflicts. He also exaggerated Brazil’s potential
for mediating internal social and political conflicts that would serve as a model
to the rest of the world. Yet these essays provide us with a remarkable document
of utopian thought for a popular audience. Mautner was not read by philoso-
phers or literary critics. He was read by young Brazilians with countercultural
sensibilities who not only opposed the military regime but were also disillu-
sioned with the traditional Brazilian left. They were impressionistic sketches of
what Brazil could look like in twenty or thirty years once it was liberated from
authoritarian rule: “We are social-democrat-universalist-nationalist-electronic-
sweet-anthropophagic-ecological-pacifists with swing and axé of the new era of
the world, for which Brazil will be one of its principal Meccas and vectors in the
twenty-first century.”17
“Brazil is the country of the future and will always be”; so goes the well-known
adage about Brazil’s extraordinary potential that is forever unrealized due to politi-
cal and social failures. Thirty years since Mautner published Panfletos da Nova Era,
Brazil returned to democratic rule, its economy grew into one of the world’s larg-
est, and it began to assert greater influence in the international sphere. The election
of Lula in 2003 and the extraordinary growth of the Brazilian economy coupled
with modest advances in alleviating poverty have produced a palpable sense of
optimism in Brazil, leading some to believe that the future has, in fact, arrived.
Mautner regarded Lula’s election as a sign of Brazil’s evolving role as a world leader:
“Brazil has today the first president in world history that embodies the American
democratic project, who is a world leader, a mestiço genius from Guaranhuns (Per-
nambuco).”18 Lula left office with 90 percent approval rating, having lifted some
twenty million Brazilians out of poverty and put the country on track to becom-
ing the fifth largest economy in the world by 2016, when Rio de Janeiro becomes
the first South American nation to host the Olympics (Philips, “Lula era”). The
election of Lula’s former chief of staff, Dilma Rousseff, further bolstered a sense of
optimism and promise for the future. A former guerilla who was imprisoned and
tortured by the military regime in the early 1970s, Rousseff became Brazil’s first
female president on the first day of 2011, vowing to continue Lula’s policies of
economic growth, income redistribution, and vigorous internationalism.
Brazil continues to be one of the most unequal countries in the world and
suffers from extremely high levels of urban violence. The utopian vision that
Mautner prophesized in the late 1970s, informed by the international counter-
culture, obviously did not come to fruition. If it had, after all, it wouldn’t be a
u-topia, literally no place. Yet his intellectual and artistic project affirmed one of
the central values of utopian thought: the ability to imagine a place of human
liberation and peaceful coexistence in contexts of political repression, social
inequality, and warfare. He imagined not only a place of social justice but also
one free of sexual repression, racial and gender hierarchies, and ecological depre-
dation. Mautner’s call to “Brazilianize” the world is premised on a utopian vision
for his own nation that could be followed by others. For that to happen, it is
necessary to first “Brazilianize” Brazil, so that the country might create a society
that resembles these utopian ideals.
Notes
1. “Ou o mundo se brasilifica ou vira nazista” (“Ou o mundo se brasilifica ou vira nazista.”
Interview with Jorge Mautner and Nelson Jacobina). All translations are by the author,
unless a published translation is indicated.
2. “Ou o mundo se brasilifica / Ou vira nazista / Jesus de Nazaré / E os tambores do
candomblé.”
3. “O sonho acabou / quem não dormiu no sleeping bag nem sequer sonhou.”
4. “Meu pai me educou, claro, com todas as forças para eu ser—eu digo assim poetica-
mente—o vingador dos campos de concentração, mas é verdade; então todo o amor ao
Brasil que ele tinha, ele transmitiu a mim e eu sabia que, se eu não tivesse nascido no Bra-
sil, eu seria cinza de forno crematório de campo de concentração nazista” (“Ou o mundo
se brasilifica ou vira nazista.” Interview with Jorge Mautner and Nelson Jacobina).
5. “As Utopias são, portanto, uma conseqüência da descoberta do Novo Mundo e sobre-
tudo da descoberta do novo homem, do homem diferente encontrado nas terras da
América” (Andrade 163).
6. “Nós brasileiros, campeões da miscigenação tanto da raça como da cultura, somos a

Contra-Reforma, mesmo sem Deus ou culto. Somos a Utopia realizada, bem ou mal, em
face do utilitarismo mercenário e mecânico do Norte” (166).
7. “Pontes de energia e pontes culturais serão estabelecidas entre o Brasil-Oriente, e Nova
York-Babilônia. Com uma ponte dupla para a África daonde partiu a essência dos blues
e maracatus” (“Para que Dionisius ressuscite . . .” 5).
8. “acabou-se o tropicalismo, em londres, apareceu jorge mautner com um guarda-chuva.
gostei logo dele porque ele é uma figura incrível e também porque foi logo me fazendo
profécias muito boas (e que felizmente deram certo) . . . fiquei fã de jorge mautner. suas
canções têm um cheiro de liberdade criadora que eu só encontrara em jorge ben. na
espanha ele ficava falando em nietzsche e nos filósofos pré-socráticos, falando em apolo
e dionisius, lendo sartre nas praias de catalunha. a gente chamava ele de mestre.”
9. “O bico do beija-flor beija a flor, / beija a flor / E toda a fauna aflora grita de amor /
Quem segura o porta-estandarte tem / arte, tem arte / E aqui passa com raça eletrônico
/ maracatu atômico.”
10. “É uma cultura tribal, é uma cultura instintiva, mas ela não foi destruída pelo mundo
industrial” (qtd. in Cohn 29).
11. English translation of “hippie-afro-renascentista-americana da America índia, da
América da miscigenação, da América negra, da América do ritmo e do pop” (Mitologia
do Kaos 2: 180).
12. “Não devemos ter medo de afirmar, com toda a pujança, a cultura das Américas, que
se abre triunfante para o mundo todo: afirmação de vitalismo, som, rock, jazz, blues,
sambas, maracatus, enfim a grande e saudabilíssima negritude americana!” (Mitologia do
Kaos 2: 180).
13. English translation of “dionisíaca, saudável, irônica, treinada para sobreviver nos mun-
dos mais hostis, nas situações mais opressoras, temperada com a paciência e o estoicismo”
(Mitologia do Kaos 2: 309).
14. “Em 1994, exatamente daqui a 2 décadas, o Brasil estará nascendo para a sua primeira
Juventude, dando ao mundo um modelo de sociedade tão original, tão diversificada
e tão dotada de alma poético-fantasiosa-brincalhona-ritmica-humana demasiadamente
humana (mescla de branco, índio, e negro, aonde mais teve isso?) que será como o lugar
de referência para o resto do mundo” (Mitologia do Kaos 2: 232–33).
15. “[M]inha obra está toda a serviço da pujante e inédita e mestiça e genial imensa cultura
brasileira que está em plena aurora de seus mitos e arquetipos . . . Imensas responsibili-
dades nos esperam desde já, por parte de todos os brasileiros, pois desta vez construire-
mos a nação-continente com social-democracia e filosofia original brasileira!” (Mitologia
do Kaos 2: 227).
16. “Felizes tempos, pois em menos de 30 anos, extintas estarão as guerras clássicas e a
supremacia do petróleo, e o hominóide desse planeta-terra estará cavalgando no bojo de
mais quatro novas fontes de energia: 1) a energia solar; 2) a das mares dos oceanos; 3)
a do raio laser; 4) energia da gravidade a ser descoberta nos alvores do século vindouro”
(Mitologia do Kaos 2: 228).
17. “Nós somos social-democratas-universalistas-nacionalistas-eletrônicos-docemente-
antropofágicos-ecológicos-pacifistas com swingue e axé da nova era do mundo, que tem
no Brasil uma de suas principais Mecas e vetores fundamentais do ser do século XXI”
(Mitologia do Kaos 2: 242–43).
18. “O Brasil possui hoje o primeiro presidente na história do mundo que é a realização do
projeto democrático americano, que é um líder mundial, um gênio mestiço de Guaran-
huns” (qtd. in Cohn 163).
Works Cited
Andrade, Oswald de. A Utopia Antropofágica. São Paulo: Globo, 1990.
Cohn, Sérgio, ed. Jorge Mautner—Encontros. Rio de Janeiro: Azougue, 2007.
Dunn, Christopher and Idelber Avelar. “Ou o mundo se brasilifica ou vira nazista.” Interview
with Jorge Mautner and Nelson Jacobina. O Biscoito Fino e a Massa. 28 Jan. 2005. Web. 15
July 2010. http://www.idelberavelar.com/.
Guimarães, Antonio Sérgio. Classes, Raças e Democracia. São Paulo: Editora 34, 2002.
Junior, Luís Carlos de Morais. Proteu ou a Arte das Transmutações: Leituras, Audições e Visões da
Obra de Jorge Mautner. Rio de Janeiro: HP Communicação, 2004.
Lesser, Jeff. Welcoming the Undesirables: Brazil and the Jewish Question. Berkeley: U of Califor-
nia P, 1995.
Mailor, Norman. Advertisements for Myself. New York: Putnam, 1959.
Mautner, Jorge. O Filho do Holocausto. Rio de Janeiro: Agir, 2006.
———. Mitologia do Kaos. 3 vols. Rio de Janeiro: Azougue, 2002.
———. “Para que Dionisius ressuscite . . .” Flor do Mal 3 (1971): 5.
Pereira, Carlos Alberto M. and Heloísa Buarque de Hollanda. Patrulhas Ideológicas: Arte e
Engajamento em Debate. São Paulo: Editora Brasiliense, 1980.
Perrone, Charles. Brazil, Lyric, and the Americas. Gainesville: UP of Florida, 2010.
Philips, Tom. “Lula era comes to an end in Brazil.” The Guardian. 31 Dec. 2010. Web. 31 Dec.
2010. http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2010/dec/31/brazil-lula-era-ends.
Rasec, César. Jorge Mautner em Movimento. Salvador: Editora do Autor, 2004.
Veloso, Caetano. O Mundo Não É Chato. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2005.
———. Verdade Tropical. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 1997.
CHAPTER 9
Spatial Effects
Navigating the City in Cildo
Meireles’s Arte Física:
Caixas de Brasília/Clareira
Elena Shtromberg
“Change life!” “Change Society!” These precepts mean nothing without the
production of an appropriate space. A lesson to be learned from the Soviet
constructivists of 1920-30, and from their failure, is that new social relationships
call for a new space, and vice versa.
—Henri Lefebvre, La production de l’espace (The Production of Space)
TODAY, IT IS DIFFICULT TO IMAGINE A discussion of utopia and/or dystopia in Latin

America that does not broach the topic of Brasilia, the capital city whose astonish-
ing emergence on the formerly barren scrubland of Brazil’s interior central plateau
transpired just over fifty years ago. An architectural project of unprecedented scale,
Brasilia came into existence under the developmentalist ethos of then president
Juscelino Kubitschek, working in conjunction with city planner Lúcio Costa and
architect Oscar Niemeyer.1 The confluence of a wildly optimistic idea, a master
plan, and tens of thousands of workers resulted in the materialization of a new,
interior capital city. Unlike the city of Rio de Janeiro, Brasilia was projected as
a utopia that would leave behind Rio’s urban entropy and social inequality, act-
ing instead as a harbinger of “Order and Progress,” the ideals of modernization.2
The rest of the story is by now well rehearsed. Utopian aspirations turned sour
as inequality rivaling (if not surpassing) that of Rio and urban ills (shantytowns,
crime, traffic, corruption, and unsightly decay) have become a permanent part of
Brasilia’s landscape. Having just celebrated its fiftieth anniversary in April 2010,
Brasilia has inspired a new wave of scholarly scrutiny across the disciplines with
an expanding bibliography on the ramifications of the utopian vision that led to
its construction. But while different aspects of Brasilia as an architectural, techno-
logical, and sociological phenomenon have been extensively researched, the spatial

188 Elena Shtromberg
politics of the city’s original plan and the configuration of its material reality,
especially with regard to other artistic propositions that it spurred, have not been
addressed. In this essay, I am interested in exploring the role of space in Brasilia as
both concrete and imagined reality in constituting a new kind of subjectivity. To
do so, I will turn to Cildo Meireles (b. 1948), one of Brazil’s leading avant-garde
visual artists, and his artwork titled Arte Física: Caixas de Brasília/Clareira (Physical
Art: Brasilia Boxes/Clearing; 1969), which is uniquely suited for an investigation of
Brasilia’s spatial identity (see Figure 9.1).3 A spatial analysis seems especially apt for
Figure 9.1 Arte Física: Caixas de Brasília/Clareira (Physical Art: Brasilia Boxes/Clearing; 1969) by
Cildo Meireles. Photographic panel (97 × 70 × 3 cm), map (68 × 80 × 3 cm), and two boxes (each
30 × 30 × 30 cm). Courtesy of the artist.
Spatial Effects 189
understanding Brasilia, a city that attested to the highly utopian conviction that
the human manipulation of space can mold a model modern citizen.
In my examination, I will deviate from the existing (and plentiful) bibliography
on the planning, architecture, and history of the city to concentrate on Brasilia’s
spatial constructions. Turning to the visual arts for an analysis of Brasilia is a depar-
ture from traditional scholarship on the city. Oddly, for a city that conceives of itself
as a work of art, Brasilia had few spaces dedicated to the exhibition of art, and even
more remarkably, no plan was made for an art museum.4 Though several sculptures
can be found throughout the city center, for the most part they were commissioned
by Oscar Niemeyer, and as art historian Valerie Fraser put it, stand as “isolated
statues which reinforce the sense that the whole area is a sort of sculpture park,
dominated by Niemeyer’s deliberately sculptural architecture” (242).
In addition to the lack of dedicated art spaces, Brasilia is conspicuously absent
as subject or object in the work of visual artists following its construction, espe-
cially in comparison to its widespread presence in film and photography.5 This is
a curious absence given Brasilia’s prevalence as an aesthetic, political, social, and
economic phenomenon during the 1950s. In retrospect, it is surprising that it was
not a more dominant thematic in the work of artists who experienced its rather
unusual, rapid, and immensely publicized appearance in Brazil’s interior. It is even
more surprising given the history of Brazilian avant-garde art during the 1960s,
a time when artists were called on to engage with social issues. The artists’ com-
mitment to such issues was formalized in Hélio Oiticica’s seminal text “Esquema
Geral da Nova Objetividade” (“General Scheme of the New Objectivity”; 1967).6
Written in a manifesto format, the squeme outlined six defining features of Brazil-
ian avant-garde art, with the fourth attribute stipulating “an engagement with and
a position on political, social, and ethical problems.”7 Ferreira Gullar, a prominent
Brazilian poet and critic, also argued that the Brazilian avant-garde aesthetic should
address social problems, and in particular, those stemming from Brazil’s underde-
velopment.8 Given the polemical discourse surrounding Brazil’s new capital and
especially its purported intentions of overcoming underdevelopment, one is left to
wonder why it was not more prominent in the work of visual artists. Meireles’s Arte
Física is a notable exception within the Brazilian art of the time, not only because
it deals directly with the topic of Brasilia, but also because it was executed there.
In my analysis of the spatial resonance of Meireles’s work, I want to first turn
my attention to Michel de Certeau’s landmark publication L’invention du quoti-
dien (The Practice of Everyday Life; 1980), and in particular, his essay “Marches
dans la ville” (“Walking in the City”). De Certeau’s texts have been a mainstay of
scholarship dedicated to the “spatial turn,” a cross-disciplinary investigation of
space, concerned with situating the cultural and social relevance of place, map-
ping, and geographies. This essay famously began with de Certeau looking down
on Manhattan from the 110th floor of the World Trade Center, a position that
offered him a panoptic view, the kind of all-seeing perspective that de Certeau
identified with visual artists’ conception of past utopias.9 De Certeau’s panoptic
perspective seems an appropriate place to initiate a discussion of Brasilia. This
city houses the tallest television tower in Latin America (six hundred feet), the
Torre de Televisão (built from 1965 to 1967 on the Monumental Axis, Brasilia’s
central avenue) from which such a view is possible. It is also a city best viewed
from above, a fact attested to by early photographic documentation, which tends

toward aerial views emphasizing the city’s totality and monumentality.10 Addi-
tionally, in de Certeau’s elaboration of different modes of experiencing the city,
what he calls strategies and tactics, I find a compelling forum for examining the
subject’s spatial formation in Brasilia via Meireles’s project.
To briefly summarize, in the introduction to his famous critical study, de Cer-
teau argues that even within totalizing environments—such as the tightly planned
urban grid of Brasilia—meant to discipline their subjects to conform to a particular
political, social, and/or conceptual ideology, individuals find “ways of operating” by
reappropriating the space through a “multitude of ‘tactics’” in the details of every-
day life” (xiv). Such tactics can be found in the “makeshift creativity of groups or
individuals already caught in the nets of ‘discipline’” (xiv–xv)—that is, one does
not need to function outside of the environment to assert his or her own subjec-
tivity. On the other hand, strategies are aligned with institutions of power and are
enacted by such entities as the state, the city planners, the bureaucrats, and, in the
case of Brazil, the military. Such institutions act, in de Certeau’s words, as “the col-
lective mode of administration” (96). Tactics thus constitute an “individual mode
of reappropriation” (xiii), which leads to individual moments of resistance, or as de
Certeau aptly claims, they act as “stubborn procedures that elude discipline” (96).
It is important to clarify that de Certeau does not see strategies and tactics as oppo-
sitional in nature but, as de Certeau scholar Jeremy Ahearne argues, “[T]hey enable
us as concepts to discern a number of heterogeneous movements across different
distributions of power” (163). In “Marches dans la ville,” de Certeau locates tactics
in pedestrian movements, and in particular, within the indeterminate paths carried
out by walking or rather wandering in the city. It is within these subtle (and at times
subversive) digressions that the true outlines of the space of the city emerge, and it
is here that individuals find agency.
Applying de Certeau’s terminology, particularly his ideas regarding walking,
Brasilia may at first appear incongruous since it is a city that is conspicuously hostile
to walking. James Holston, a noted cultural anthropologist who has published widely
on Brasilia, describes the city as having an “absence of streets themselves, in place of
street corners and their intersections, Brasília substitutes the traffic circle, in place of
streets, high speed avenues, in place of sidewalk pedestrians, the automobile” (85).
Brasilia is notoriously difficult to get around in by foot: the distances are great, and
there are few sidewalks and traffic signals, making walking in the city a dangerous if
not unpleasant endeavor. Simone de Beauvoir, who traveled to Brasilia shortly after
its inauguration, chronicled this feature of pedestrian life in her autobiography. She
bluntly described the experience as follows: “The only way to get around is by car.
In any case, what possible interest could there be in wandering about among the
six- or eight-story quadra and super quadra, raised on stilts and all, despite superficial
variations, exuding the same air of elegant monotony . . . But the street, that meet-
ing ground of riverside dwellers and passers-by, of stores and houses, of vehicles and
pedestrians . . . the street does not exist in Brasília and never will” (551).
Coinciding with the bourgeoning of the automobile industry and widespread
car ownership, Brasilia was planned for a future where everyone would have a car
and walking would be unnecessary. Given Brasilia’s existing spatial configuration,
Spatial Effects 191
I would like to broaden de Certeau’s notion of pedestrian speech acts—a term he

uses to denote walking—to other urban interactions and/or interventions, ones I
identify in Meireles’s Arte Física.
Having spent ten of the more formative years of his childhood living there,
Meireles had what was undoubtedly a more intimate experience of the city’s cul-
tural influence and spatial parameters (Morais interview with Meireles). Brasilia is
also where Meireles was initiated into art, having taken his first art classes in one of
Brasilia’s only place to study art, the studio of Peruvian painter Felix Alejandro Bar-
renechea Avilez.11 By 1969, Meireles was no longer living in Brasilia (he had moved
to Rio de Janeiro), and Brazil’s social and political landscape had undergone sig-
nificant changes with the installation of the military government in 1964.12 Some
of these changes are embedded in his Arte Física. The artwork itself comprises an
installation, including documentation from a performance carried out by Meireles
and three other young men: artist Guilherme Vaz, Meireles’s friend Alfredo Fontes,
and the photographer (see Figure 9.1). The performance took place on the banks of
Lake Paranoá—an artificial lake that was created as part of Brasilia and whose shores
constitute prime realty for this city’s elite.13 Meireles recounts that the location for
the performance had changed because in the original spot they had been detected
by the military police stationed in the Television Tower and told to leave (Cildo
Meireles, interview by author, Rio de Janeiro, July 13, 2010). Though the tower
was initially meant for television transmission, it was co-opted by the military who
took advantage of its panoptic vantage point for surveillance purposes.14 As Meireles
experienced, spontaneous gathering of people was often immediately perceived and
often intercepted. I find it compelling to think about the tower and its view with
relation to de Certeau’s position at the top of the World Trade Center.15 While de
Certeau used his position to reflect on pedestrian digressions of charted routes or the
individual appropriations of space—a practice he designated as tactics—in Brasilia’s
context, such a position was used by the military to avoid tactics.
The censuring of the uncharted use of Brasilia’s spaces (such as that carried out
by the military in the case of Meireles’s performance on the shores of Lake Paranoá)
significantly strains the utopian convictions of the city’s organizers. This then begs
the question, what happens when individuals digress from planned cartographies,
in a city whose identity is imbricated within a highly coded use of space? I would
argue that Meireles’s Arte Física responds to such an inquiry. Just a few days after
the military’s initial warning, Meireles and his conspirators moved to a new loca-
tion on the northern shores of the lake and proceeded to appropriate the space
they selected, attesting to de Certeau’s notion of tactics as something that responds
to strategies. Meireles himself has described his work as “an attempt to create
and take possession of a free territory,” a conceptual drive that is manifested
throughout his artistic career and one that performs the operation enacted with
the founding of Brasilia (Morais interview with Meireles). As the title of the work
implies, the act of appropriation was physical and involved first clearing a plot of
soil, a direct allusion to the initial procedures for Brasilia’s construction. First, Meire-
les marked off the territory with a wooden stake, and then he cleared the territory
of its leaves, twigs, and other organic fragments, later burning them in a ritual fire.
The following day, the artist dug a hole next to the extinguished fire, placing the
Figure 9.2 Photographic panel (97 × 70 × 3 cm) from Arte Física: Caixas de Brasília/Clareira
(Physical Art: Brasilia Boxes/Clearing; 1969) by Cildo Meireles. Courtesy of the artist.
Spatial Effects 193
earth from the hole into one of three square wooden boxes (30 × 30 × 30 cm) that
comprised the work.16 The first box was filled with the ashes of the extinguished
fire; the second contained the earth from the hole; and the third contained both the
remaining ashes and earth. Finally, the third box was sealed shut and buried inside
the hole. When the work was exhibited for the first time in 1969 at the Salão da
Bússola (Compass Salon) in Rio, it included photographic documentation of the
performance, a carefully constructed panel holding a sequence of sixty black-and-
white photographs hung just above the remaining two wooden boxes (see Figure
9.2). The panel and the boxes were accompanied by a color map of Brasilia (see
Figure 9.3). The photographic panel is the only narrative component of the work
and comprises five vertical strips of photos, read left to right, visually documenting
the clearing of the territory, the fire, the bodies of the perpetrators, and finally, the
three stand-alone boxes. Viewed frontally, the first image to the top left corner is
that of the location of the performance on the lake, the appropriated territory, and
the final image at the bottom right corner is that of the three boxes (see Figure 9.2).
It should be pointed out that this is the only visual register available for the third
box, which ostensibly remains buried on the lake’s shore.
I want to now turn my attention to the boxes in the work. The square shape
of the boxes undoubtedly references the construction of Brasilia itself, conceived
through the application of a geometric rigor popularized by the concrete art
movement, a dominant mode of artistic production in the visual arts, poetry,
and architecture during the 1950s in Brazil. In fact, in the many aerial views
of the city, it is its geometry that is first palpable. The calculated nature of this
geometry was first foreseen in the Master Pilot Plan for the city, conceived by
Costa. The plan divided the city by the crossing of two main axes—the main
thoroughfares—organizing the city into four central areas, each of which would
have a premeditated function: shelter, work, recreation, and transit. Costa
described his division of the city as follows: “Basically, it was born of the primary
gesture of one who marks or takes possession of a place: two axes crossing at
right-angles; the very sign of the Cross.”17 In what became the preliminary sketch
for the map of Brasilia, the axes are lined with three layers of squares, symbols of
the box-like buildings that would eventually populate the landscape. In a recent
article on the spirit of Brasilia, Holston described the visitor’s disorienting first
encounter with the city commenting on the absence not only of street corners
but also of streets themselves. Instead, he wrote, one encounters “an entire city of
detached rectangular boxes, the transparencies of a world of glass facades, auto-
mobile traffic flowing uninhibited in all directions, vast spaces seemingly empty
without the social life of streets and squares, and serial order, clean, quiet, and
efficient. In short, they find modernity, regulation, and progress on display” (85).
The rectangular boxes Holston cites are likely a reference to the large blocks
found within Brasilia’s residential sector, what Costa designated as the superqua-
dras, which are sometimes translated into English as squares. Each superquadra
was meant to contain residential blocks that would be raised on pilotis (stilts)
and would house up to three thousand residents. Additionally, the residential
blocks would have to observe Costa’s criteria: a maximum height of six stories
and a separation of pedestrian and automobile traffic.18 The residential blocks are
often critiqued for both their monotony and their propagation of class inequal-
ity, although Costa originally intended them as a means to avoid “undesirable
class distinctions” (297). The reality, however, proved quite different. Many of
the workers who made Brasilia possible could not afford to live in superquadra
housing and were forced to move to the many satellite cities or communities that
surfaced as early as 1956 to accommodate the laboring class.19 When displayed
alongside the map of Brasilia, Meireles’s boxes recall the superquadras and their
failed attempt to promote social coexistence. Ironically, in Meireles’s work, the
boxes house debris and ashes, signifying the absence of life, and they therefore
function as a critique of Costa’s residential blocks and their purported relationship
to modernity and progress. Additionally, the act of clearing the territory only to
bury the box suggests the reversal of the operation that led to Brasilia’s construc-
tion. Labor in this case is futile rather than productive. The fact that the box is
invisible but there also suggests an interesting register of Meireles’s pedestrian act.
On the one hand, by being buried, the box is situated outside of administrative or
authoritative control. On the other hand, it signals a possible transgression—that
is, the ability to alter the urban space not only outside of the strict parameters of
the city’s master plan but also away from the all-seeing eye of the military. Meire-
les’s installation thus presents a significantly altered version of Brasilia than that
which had been celebrated during its inauguration just nine years prior.
The installation of Arte Física includes a map Meireles bought in Brasilia (see
Figure 9.3). The map itself, a found object or ready-made (à la Duchamp), is
hung alongside the photographic series of his performance. This official car-
tographic document, formalized by a stamp from the Brazilian Institute of
Geography and dated 1969, suggests an institutionalized and administrative for-
mat for demarcating space, what de Certeau would certainly catalogue within
his strategies. However, in what could be designated a tactical maneuver within
de Certeau’s lexicon, Meireles appropriates the map. He uses this administra-
tive document, meant to formally designate the spatial navigation of the city, to
informally inscribe his own rather unorthodox and certainly unprescribed use of
it. The procedure is subtle: a bubbled handwritten message leads to an arrow that
points to the specific place on the lake where the performance was carried out and
where one of the boxes was buried. The handwritten text states, “The place where
the work took place and where the third box is buried.”20
To further interrogate the area between the official space of the map and the
unofficial/informal space of Meireles’s mark on it, I would like to briefly turn to
the writings of French Marxist philosopher Henri Lefebvre (1901–91). It is out-
side both the permitted length and scope of this essay to do justice to Lefebvre’s
significant theories on the production of space. However, it would be negligent
not to mention the importance of his influential text La production de l’espace
(The Production of Space; 1974) in conceptualizing different spatial formulations.
Briefly, I would like to turn to Lefebvre’s lexicon for understanding social space.
He differentiates between three different modes of experiencing space: perceived
space (which he ascribes to the everyday urban reality of work, home, and leisure);
conceived space (this references representations of space by architects, mapmakers,
and others with the administrative power to codify which spaces get used and
Spatial Effects 195
Figure 9.3 Map of Brasilia (68 × 80 × 3 cm) from Arte Física: Caixas de Brasília/Clareira (Physical
Art: Brasilia Boxes/Clearing; 1969) by Cildo Meireles. Courtesy of the artist.
how); and lived or endured space (much like de Certeau’s tactics, this is where one
can find moments of resistance to coded space, or strategies) (38–39).21 Meireles’s
Arte Física positions conceived space—that is the map—in tension with lived space,
or his unorthodox use of it. This tension is pushed even further if one takes into
consideration the context of Brazil’s military dictatorship. Meireles had already
been warned to leave the lake’s grounds by the military policy, but instead he
moved elsewhere. His resolve to continue with his intervention into Brasilia’s
physical landscape and later into its symbolic representation on the map could
have been perceived as provoking the authorities. Given the conditions of repres-
sion in Brazil’s historical context at this time, Meireles’s pedestrian act takes on
subversive connotations by affording him a means to assert his subjectivity.
By way of conclusion, I would like to return to the beginning of this essay to
comment on Lefebvre’s opening quotation. The impetus to change life and soci-
ety were unquestionably utopian and the ideas espoused by Brasilia’s planners,
who imagined the city as the opportunity to advance Brazil and Brazilians toward
an improved modernity, were indeed revolutionary. But perhaps what were less
considered were the spatial and social consequences of the city’s original plan, or
as Lefebvre pointed out, a more critical interrogation of the relationship between
“new social relations” and “a new space.”
It is now clear that the utopian convictions of the city’s planners failed to
generate the kind of modernity and progress that was initially projected. This
failure was registered early on by a number of filmmakers and writers. Clarice
Lispector condemned the construction of Brasilia as “that of a totalitarian state”
in her well-known chronicle “Brasília: Cinco Dias” (“Five Days in Brasilia”;
1964, 137). She also pointed to another common critique: the “founders tried
to ignore the importance of human beings” (137). Such incisive commentary by
one of Brazil’s most renowned writers would suggest that Brasilia was a failure,
but this is far from the dominant opinion held by many of its residents today.
So rather than focus on the success or failure of Brasilia, I have chosen to reflect
on how its topography organized social life, pointing to the indeterminate but
fertile regions where the tensions between planning space and living it collide.
What is ultimately at stake is how urban space accrues meaning and the reper-
cussions of accrued meaning on social life. It is my conviction that any complex
architectural undertaking (and its afterlife as a lived-in space, shaped by a vastly
heterogeneous population) creates unique opportunities for artists to explore the
role of urban topographies and modern citizenship. This is particularly apropos
for understanding how Brasilia intended to model a new modern Brazilian citi-
zen to navigate a newly conceived modern topography, or vice versa. I relied on
Meireles’ work Arte Física to elaborate on the possibilities of navigating Brasilia’s
complicated landscape and spatial order. I want to suggest that the city provided
opportunities for its own nature of pedestrian acts, those moments of resistance
that de Certeau’s conception of urban space helps to elaborate. In this essay, it has
been my intention to move away from a strict adherence to a utopian or dysto-
pian paradigm, instead positioning Brasilia somewhere in between.
Notes
1. It should be clarified that the idea of Brasilia had been contemplated for several centu-
ries. An inland city was first proposed in 1789 in the hope of securing increased military
control. The idea was taken up again in 1823 by José Bonifácio de Andrada e Silva
(1765–1838), who proposed the name of the city, Brasilia, and that it be located in
Minas Gerais. Brasilia’s current location in the central plateau was suggested by Francisco
Adolfo Varnhagen. He is the author of A Questão da Capital: Marítima ou Interior? (The
question of the capital: Coastal or interior?; 1877), who “wrote favorably of the planalto,
or plateau, as the site for such a city” (Sadlier 195). For a well-researched history on
Brasilia’s origins, see Inês Palma Fernandes, “Building Brasilia: Modern Architecture and
National Identity in Brazil” (Diss. Princeton U, 2003), in particular chapter 4, “The
Idea of Brasilia: Nation and City Building in Historical Perspective.” See also Lauro
Cavalcanti, Fraser 215, and Philippou 211–50.
2. The motto “Ordem e Progresso” (Order and Progress) first appeared on the Republican
flag in 1889, following the fall of the monarchy.
3. Arte Física is a series comprising three different works completed in 1969. Along
with the work in question here, were Arte Física: Cordões/30km de Linha Estendidos
(Cords/30km Extended Line) and Mutações Geográficas: Fronteira Rio-São Paulo (Geo-
graphical Mutations: Rio-São Paulo Border). All three works are engaged with spatial
analysis and lend themselves to questions regarding the social implications of mapping,
Spatial Effects 197
urban topographies, and cultural geography. Arte Física was first exhibited at the 1969
Salão da Bússola (Compass Salon) exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in Rio de
Janeiro, followed by a 1970 showing at Agnus Dei, an exhibit at the Petite Galerie in Rio
de Janeiro.
4. There was an initial but stifled effort to have Brasilia host the annual Salon of Modern
Art, which was held here in 1965 and 1967. It is likely that as the military dictatorship
took a stronger hold on social life, it became more difficult and even dangerous for artists
to reference Brasilia directly in artwork.
5. There were a number of both feature and documentary films, both Brazilian and inter-
national, that either devoted plotlines to Brasilia or took place in Brasilia. It was featured
as early as 1960 in News of the Day, a chronicle of Dwight D. Eisenhower’s tour of
Latin America; Mexican director Mauricio de la Serna’s Rumbo a Brasília (En route to
Brasilia; 1960); George Tamarski’s early documentary entitled Brasília (1961); Philippe
de Broca’s L’homme de Rio (That Man from Rio; 1964); Nelson Pereira dos Santos’s Fala
Brasília (Speak Brasilia; 1966); Joaquim Pedro de Andrade’s Cidades do Futuro (Cities
of the future; 1967); a short documentary film (recently restored) by Joaquim Pedro de
Andrade called Brasília, Contradições de uma Cidade Nova (Brasilia, contradictions of a
new city; 1967), and so on. Dozens more were made in the decades following the 1960s.
6. Hélio Oiticica (1937–80) was a leading Brazilian avant-garde artist who is known for
his participation in the Concrete art and later the Neo-Concrete art movement in Rio
de Janeiro. His text “Esquema Geral da Nova Objetividade” accompanied the exhibit
Nova Objetividade Brasileira (New Brazilian Objectivity) at the Museum of Modern
Art in Rio de Janeiro in 1967 where he first exhibited his installation Tropicália. Though
outside the purview of this essay, Oiticica’s work also presents a unique possibility for
exploring spatial constructions during the 1960s.
7. Oiticica’s writings on New Objectivity are originally outlined in the exhibition catalogue
Nova Objetividade Brasileira (Rio de Janeiro: Museum of Modern Art, 1967). The text is
reprinted in Oiticica, Aspiro ao Grande Labirinto (Rio de Janeiro: Rocco, 1986) 84–98;
in Guy Brett et al., Hélio Oiticica (Minneapolis: Walker Art Center, 1992) 110–20;
and in Carlos Basualdo, Tropicália: A Revolution in Brazilian Culture (São Paulo: Cosac
Naify, 2005) 221.
8. Gullar (b. 1930) describes his position in his essay titled “Vanguarda e Subdesenvolvim-
ento” (“Avant-Garde and Underdevelopment”) in Gullar, Cultura Posta em Questão: Van-
guarda e Subdesenvolvimento. Ensaios sobre Arte (Rio de Janeiro: José Olympio, 2002).
9. “The same scopic drive haunts users of architectural productions by materializing today
the utopia that yesterday was only painted” (De Certeau 92).
10. For example, see the work of photographers Thomas Farkas and Marcel Gautherot,
recently exhibited in As Construções de Brasília (Brasilia’s constructions), exhibition cata-
logue (Rio de Janeiro: Instituto Moreira Salles [IMS], 2010).
11. Meireles began taking classes in 1963 when he was 15 years old. See his early biography
available in Cildo Meireles by Ronaldo Brito and Eudoro Augusto Macieira de Sousa.
12. The 1964 military coup d’état was carried out against then left-leaning president João
Goulart, more commonly referred to as “Jango.” The military regime ruled from April
1964 to March 1985, the first year of democratic elections. By 1969, the year of Meire-
les’s work, the authoritarian government was particularly repressive following the insti-
tution of AI-5 (Fifth Institutional Act) in 1968, which suspended congress and habeas
corpus, and gave the government unchecked executive powers. The first five years fol-
lowing AI-5 were marked by rampant censorship, torture, and violence toward not only
contrarian political figures but also many of Brazil’s musicians, film directors, writers,
and artists.
13. According to Costa’s master plan, the area of the lake is described as follows:
Using the lakefront as a site for residential districts was avoided in order to
preserve its beauty intact, landscaping it with woods and fields in a natural
and rustic manner, so that the urban population can enjoy its simple pleasures.
Only athletic clubs, restaurants, places of entertainment, beach resorts and
fishing groups may be built on the shoreline water’s edge. The Golf Club was
placed at the eastern end, next to the Presidential Residence and the hotel
(both under construction at present), and the Yacht Club on a nearby cove,
separated from the Golf Club by dense woods reaching right to the edge of the
dam, which at this point is bordered by a drive. This drive circles the lake but
occasionally turns from its banks to wander through the fields that, eventually,
will be gracefully laid out with plants and trees. (Costa)
By the time of Meireles’s work, it was clear that the lake would not be enjoyed by
all in Brasilia, nor would it be kept “unspoiled,” as Costa foresaw, but rather it became a
desirable area for the wealthy to buy homes.
14. Ironically, today the tower is a must-see on Brasilia’s tourist itinerary, offering visitors the
city’s unparalleled panoramic views.
15. Moreover, in light of historic and tragic world events, 9/11 in the case of the World
Trade Center in 2001 and the end of the military regime in Brazil in 1985, neither loca-
tion fulfills its original purpose.
16. The material used was actually a type of wood panel called duratex, after the company
that initially began producing the wood product. Meireles described the material as both
cheap and easily available in hardware stores. Interestingly, its history coincides with
that of Brasilia’s emergence. The company dates its start to 1951 and its first factory to
1954. See the company’s website for a brief history: http://www.duratex.com.br/eng/
institucional/quem_somos/historico.asp?sessao=1950 (accessed on August 22, 2010).
17. This statement is undoubtedly referencing Brazil’s colonial history. The Portuguese took
possession of Brazilian territory by installing a wooden cross and holding the first mass
on Brazilian soil (in what is now Bahia) in 1500. The scribe Pêro Vaz de Caminha later
described the event to the Portuguese king, Dom Manuel.
18. The original Pilot Plan contained 98 superquadras (later increased to 120) in three paral-
lel rows, one to the east and two to the west. For more detailed information about Costa’s
plan for the superquadras, see Philippou 296–304.
19. Satellite cities located ten to twenty miles outside of Brasilia’s city center were originally
temporary constructions meant to disappear after Brasilia’s construction. One of the first
of such cities was Cidade Livre (Free City). By now there are over twenty: Taguatinga,
Sacolândia, Sobradinho, Núcleo Bandeirante, Samambaia, and Brazlândia, to name just
a few. The rapid growth of the satellite cities is often discussed with regard to Brasilia’s
failure to adequately address the question of social inequalities. See an early critique of
the problem in Snyder 31–45. The short film Brasília, Contradições de uma Cidade Nova
also broaches this topic.
20. “O local onde foi realizado e onde se encontra a 3a caixa.” This translation is by the
author.
21. For a secondary source, see Ronneberger 134–46. Lefebvre’s theory of space, what he
coins spatio-analysis or spatiology, involves a productive encounter between “physical
space (nature), mental space (formal abstractions about space), and social space (the
space of human interaction)” (Merrifield 104).
Spatial Effects 199
Works Cited
Ahearne, Jeremy. Michel de Certeau: Interpretation and Its Other. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP,
1995.
Beauvoir, Simone de. Force of Circumstance. Trans. Richard Howard. New York: Putnam’s Sons,
1964.
Brito, Ronaldo and Eudoro Augusto Macieira de Sousa. Cildo Meireles. 2nd ed. Arte Brasileira
Contemporânea Series. Rio de Janeiro: FUNARTE, 2009.
Cavalcanti, Lauro. “When Brazil Was Modern: From Rio de Janeiro to Brasilia.” Cruelty and
Utopia: Cities and Landscapes of Latin America. Ed. Jean-François Lejeune. New York:
Princeton Architectural P, 2005. 160–71.
Certeau, Michel de. The Practice of Everyday Life. Trans. Steven F. Rendall. Los Angeles: U of
California P, 1984.
As Construções De Brasília. Exhibition catalogue. Rio de Janeiro: Instituto Moreira Salles (IMS),
2010.
Costa, Lúcio. “Report of a Pilot Plan for Brasilia.” 1957. Web. 10 Mar. 2010. http://www
.infobrasilia.com.br/pilot_plan.htm.
Crang, Mike. “Relics, Places and Unwritten Geographies in the Work of Michel de Certeau
(1925–86).” Thinking Space. Ed. Mike and Nigel Thrift Crang. New York: Routledge,
2000. 136–53.
Epstein, David, G. Brasília, Plan and Reality: A Study of Planned and Spontaneous Urban Devel-
opment. Los Angeles: U of California P, 1973.
Evenson, Norma. Two Brazilian Capitals: Architecture and Urbanism in Rio de Janeiro and
Brasilia. New Haven: Yale UP, 1973.
Fraser, Valerie. Building the New World: Studies in the Modern Architecture of Latin America,
1930–1960. London: Verso, 2000.
Hayden, Dolores. The Power of Place: Urban Landscapes as Public History. Cambridge, MA:
MIT P, 1995.
Holston, James. “The Spirit of Brasília: Modernity as Experiment and Risk.” City/Art: The
Urban Scene in Latin America. Ed. Rebecca E. Biron. Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2009.
85–111.
Jacobs, Jane. The Death and Life of Great American Cities. New York: Random, 1961.
Jaguaribe, Beatriz. “Cities Without Maps: Favelas and the Aesthetics of Realism.” Urban Imagi-
naries: Locating the Modern City. Ed. Alev and Thomas Bender Çinar. Minneapolis: U of
Minnesota P, 2007. 100–20.
Lara, Fernando. The Rise of Popular Modernist Architecture in Brazil. Gainesville: U of Florida
P, 2008.
Lefebvre, Henri. The Production of Space. Trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. Oxford: Blackwell,
1991.
Lispector, Clarice. “Five Days in Brasilia.” Foreign Legion: Stories and Chronicles. Trans.
Giovanni Pontiero. Manchester, UK: Carcanet, 1986. 136–39.
Merrifield, Andy. Henri Lefebvre: A Critical Introduction. New York: Routledge, 2006.
Morais, Frederico. Interview with Cildo Meireles. Tate Etc. 14 (Autumn 2008). Web. 10 Mar.
2010. https://www.tate.org.uk/tateetc/issue14/materiallanguage.htm.
Oiticica, Hélio. Nova Objetividade Brasileira. Exhibition Catalogue. Rio de Janeiro: Museum
of Modern Art, 1967.
Philippou, Styliane. Oscar Niemeyer: Curves of Irreverence. New Haven: Yale UP, 2008.
Reynolds, Bryan and Joseph Fitzpatrick. “The Transversality of Michel de Certeau: Foucault’s
Panoptic Discourse and the Cartographic Impulse.” Diacritics 29.3 (Fall 1999): 63–80.
Ronneberger, Klaus. “Henri Lefebvre and Urban Everyday Life: In Search of the Possible.”
Space, Difference, Everyday Life. Ed. Kanishka Goonewardena, Stefan Kipfer, Richard Mil-
grom, and Christian Schmid. New York: Routledge, 2008. 134–46.
Sadlier, Darlene J. Brazil Imagined: 1500 to the Present. Austin: U of Texas P, 2008.
Snyder, David E. “Alternate Perspectives on Brasilia.” Economic Geography 40.1 (1964): 31–45.
Tuan, Yi-Fu. Topophilia: A Study of Environmental Perception, Attitudes, and Values. Englewood
Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1974.
Underwood, David. Oscar Niemeyer and Brazilian Free-Form Modernism. New York: Braziller,
1994.
PART V
Revolutionary Utopias and

the Politics of Memory
CHAPTER 10
Dangerous Illusions
and Shining Utopias
From Banditry to Party in
Jorge Amado’s Seara Vermelha
Juan Pablo Dabove
It is Captain Corisco confronting the Dragon of Wealth.

—Corisco in Glauber Rocha, Deus e o Diabo
na Terra do Sol (Black God, White Devil)1
Jorge Amado: Banditry and Revolution

JORGE AMADO (1912–2001) IS ARGUABLY THE LATIN American fiction writer who
has addressed the topic of outlaw rural violence and its role (or lack thereof ) in
class-based revolutionary social change with the most perseverance and coher-
ence. As a whole, his work is a sustained (and totalizing) exploration of north-
eastern life, mainly Bahian. Nearly all walks of life have found a place in his
work: urban elites (large exporters, bankers, industrialists and wealthy merchants,
senators and governors); urban middle classes (professional, commercial, intel-
lectual, conservative, liberal, and radical); urban workers and urban riff-raff of
all sorts (prostitutes and pimps, out-and-out criminals and borderline malandros
[rascals], the lumpen proletariat, con artists, thieves, beggars, and street urchins);
larger-than-life planters as well as oppressed plantation workers, peasants and
squatters, immigrants, popular and elite poets, sailors, fascist militants and Com-
munist Party members, torturers and revolutionary martyrs, Roman Catholic
beatos (devotees) and Afro-Bahian pais-de-santo (candomblé priests). In this rich
cast of characters, rural outlaws play a paramount role. Amado’s literary produc-
tion features all varieties of outlaws, from social bandits and avengers (cangaceiros)
settling real or imagined old scores to hired gunmen (jagunços) who either are

204 Juan Pablo Dabove
loyal to their masters (as in Terras do Sem Fim [The Violent Land; 1943]) or hold
more duplicitous allegiances (as in Cacau [Cacao; 1933]).
This recurrence of the topic of outlaw violence is not surprising. A time-
honored tradition of outlaw violence, which was at the same time extremely
complex and tightly woven into the fabric of social life, was one of the most
permanent and, for outsiders, most visible traits of the society inhabiting the
Northeast, in particular its arid interior, or sertão.2 Outlaw violence gave rise to
rich traditions in both popular and elite literatures, from the literatura de cordel
(cordel literature or chapbooks) to Os Sertões (Rebellion in the Backlands; 1902)—
the “Bible of Brazilian nationality,” as Joaquim Nabuco emphatically put it—and
to regionalist fiction, of which Amado, of course, was one of the main pillars
from the 1930s onward.
Amado explicitly tapped into both literary traditions. He imagined his oeuvre
as a sublation of the dichotomy between popular and elite literatures. During the
1930s and 1940s, he was a loyal and prominent member of the Partido Comuni-
sta do Brasil (Brazilian Communist Party; from now on PCB), through its various
transformations and Comintern-inspired strategies: Popular Front, armed revolt,
narrow classism, clandestine status, collaboration with Getúlio Vargas, and at
last, legal status.3 Predictably, his literary consideration of the phenomenon of
banditry revolves around the peasantry’s role in class struggle and revolutionary
social change. This is part of a larger political and theoretical problem—that
of the revolutionary potential of the peasantry, still a controversial issue among
communists given the rather negative assessments by Karl Marx himself on the
subject as well as the ambiguous lessons of the Russian Revolution and Joseph
Vissarionovich Stalin’s own stances on the topic. Also because Amado was writing
before the triumph of the Chinese Revolution, the heyday of the African Libera-
tion struggles, Cuba, and Vietnam.4
Amado was, however, at least before the 1950s, quite different from other
writers of Marxist persuasion. Unlike the Mexican José Revueltas—another of the
literary giants of Latin American Marxism—Amado never doubted the ability of
dialectical materialism in the various versions endorsed and enforced by the PCB
to provide a full understanding of the phenomenon of outlaw violence, or of the
so-called laws of History.5 Amado was—to put it in Roland Barthes’s terms—
“the last happy writer” and he always felt that, no matter the particular historical
conjuncture, he was on the good side of History. Accordingly, backlands outlawry
never came to embody for him, as it did for so many writers from the nineteenth
century onward, the dilemmas of Latin American modernity. His novels from the
1930s to the 1950s are rife with ghastly events: treason, exploitation, abject pov-
erty, murders, famines, rapes, epidemics, torture, and massacres. But all these acts
are only episodes, perhaps temporary setbacks in the long march of humankind
toward emancipation. These events consist in meaningful violence or suffering. It
is shocking or moving perhaps, but never tragic, since it is part of the grand nar-
rative of the pilgrimage toward utopia.
On the other hand, Amado’s take on outlaw violence is far from the undi-
vided celebration of the bandit as “herói do terceiro mundo” (“hero of the Third
World,” in Alberto Silva’s words) like in other writers from the left, or as the epic
Dangerous Illusions and Shining Utopias 205
hero of a peasant struggle of cosmic overtones like in Manuel Scorza’s Redoble por
Rancas (Drums for Rancas; 1970), or as an anti-imperialist icon like in Pablo Ner-
uda’s Fulgor y muerte de Joaquín Murieta (Splendor and Death of Joaquín Murieta;
1967). Amado is sensitive to the ambiguous, even contradictory roles that ban-
ditry plays in class struggle. Thus, although his value as a writer has been under
siege for decades now, I would contend that his theses on banditry, which antecede
the very similar ones proposed by Eric Hobsbawm by more than a decade, should
be considered among the most articulated and nuanced in either literature or the
social sciences in Latin America—at least until the 1970s.
An assessment of the role of outlaw violence in Amado’s fiction should include
at least three varieties. I would call the first one banditry as cultural capital of the
oppressed, under the form of a resistance tradition (real or imagined) and a coun-
termemory (alien or opposed to that of the nation state and the bourgeoisie).6 It
features prominently in his earlier novels of the 1930s, such as Cacau, Jubiabá
(1935), and Capitães da Areia (Captains of the Sand; 1937). In these novels there
is almost no direct presentation of banditry, which is the crucial point in the
articulation of subaltern identities aside from the jagunço Honório in Cacau and
a glimpse of Lampião at the end of Capitães da Areia.
On the one hand, outlawry, still a very apparent force in backlands social life
in the 1930s, acts as a living link between past and present struggles. In Cacau,
the old man Valentim, one of the protagonist’s friends and mentors, was one
of Antônio Conselheiro’s jagunzinhos (popular name given to the children who
fought alongside Conselheiro) (192). In Jubiabá, Antônio Balduíno—the main
character and revolutionary leader in the making—was an orphan who knew
practically nothing about his father, except that he was one of Conselheiro’s jag-
unços (23). His father was far from a role model (since he was a womanizer and
a heavy drinker), but he bequeathed a memory of rebellion that his son—whose
childhood desire was to become a jagunço—later lives to honor.7
On the other hand, bandit stories provide the cultural framework—which in
Amado’s view, is lacking Marxism and Marxism-inspired class struggle—in which
the legitimacy of the present social order can be questioned and perceived as his-
torical (i.e., contingent and subject to change). Take again, for example, Balduíno
who, before becoming a militant, is an avid consumer of outlaw stories—the
popular poetry sung or narrated both in the sertão and in the cities. These stories,
and the tradition of insurgency on behalf of the downtrodden that they embody,
are an essential point in Balduíno’s character development from happy-go-lucky
lumpen proletarian to full-blown proletarian leader. This insurgent tradition,
coupled with the Afro-Brazilian culture embodied in the character of Jubiabá
(the pai-de-santo who takes Balduíno under his wing), constitutes a mainstay of
his early socialization at a time when he does not have class consciousness and
any appreciation of the historical moment in which he is immersed or the chal-
lenges he should face. Aside from Jubiabá, his childhood idol is the malandro Zé
Camarão, a great singer and consummate storyteller around whom the neighbors
of O Morro do Capa Negro gather to listen to lurid stories of the cangaceiros. (It
is worth noting that Lampião was still alive at the time the novel was published.)
Thus bandit narratives are essential to his moral education as his only childhood
vision of the future was to grow up to be a jagunço. The values of independence

and bravery that he puts into action later in life are taken from the stories of
Lucas da Feira and Lampião. These narratives were also important to his political
education; before his contact with leftist radicalism, his only understanding of
class dynamics came from the ABCs responsible for the “robinhoodization” of the
image of the cangaceiros.8 This also occurs in his “formal” education, because he
only learns how to read to be able to read chapbooks.
A second variety can be found in other works by Amado where banditry is
addressed as both the foundational and sustaining violence of the capitalist agrar-
ian order. Terras do Sem Fim is considered by many (among them the author of
this article) not only as his best novel but also as the work that most brilliantly
embodies this view of the relationship between outlaw violence and the agrar-
ian order. The novel, which has a sequel, São Jorge dos Ilhéus (Saint George of
Ilhéus; 1944), has an undoubtedly epic scope, in the same way that American
Western narratives can be called epic. Terras do Sem Fim tells the story of the rise
and zenith of the cocoa-baron class in the southern part of the Bahia State at the
beginning of the twentieth century. This rise encompasses the process of primi-
tive accumulation that allowed the transformation of nature into capital—that is,
the destruction of the Sequeiro Grande Forest, the last remnant of the Atlantic
Forest in the area, and its transformation into a cocoa bean plantation. It also
encompasses the dispossession of the small landowners who stood in the way
of the consolidation of the large plantations, as well as the intraelite feuds for
dominance in the Ilhéus-Itabuna plantation area, which pitched the Badaró clan
against Horácio and his allies. All these struggles were fought, like Far West nar-
ratives, by small armies of jagunços under the direct command of each respective
landowner.9 This link between outlaw violence and agrarian capitalism is a well-
established motif in Latin American literature, where literary works emphasize
the role of outlaw violence either as the necessary condition for the process of
land accumulation or as a means to fend off potential challengers to landowner
rule, either by other landowners or by landless peasants or by revolutionaries.10
In Terras do Sem Fim, the jagunço has no identity, no subjectivity separate
from that of the landowner in whose service he thrives—a tool of the ruling class
against his own class. Damião and Antônio Vítor, jagunços of the Badarós (the
losing party in the conflict for dominance that is described in this novel) are two
cases in point. Damião is not only a good-natured and naïve camponês (peasant),
but he is also a fearsome (and fearless) murderer with a dead-on marksmanship
that makes him particularly suitable for ambushes (tocaias). He is charged with
murdering Firmo, a small landowner affiliated with Horácio’s faction. But before
leaving for the mission, he overhears his master (Sinhô Badaró) arguing with Juca
about the justice in killing another human being in the pursuit of money and
power. Since Damião does not have a separate identity or an independent set of
values, his master’s vacillation does not engender a new consciousness but signifies
the disintegration of all consciousness resulting in his madness. The counterex-
ample is Antônio Vítor, who remains loyal to the end and even after, and who is
so completely identified with the cause of the landowners that his ultimate dream
is to become a landowner himself, which he fulfills when the Badarós give him
a tract of land as a wedding gift and as a token of gratitude for the many killings
committed on their behalf.
These two narrative lines represent exact opposites: banditry as an icon of
resistance or insurgency against capitalism, and banditry as a shock force in the
constitution and consolidation of agrarian capitalism. In the aforementioned
works, there are no ambiguities, no middle ground. There is, however, a third
strand in which the role of the outlaw vis-à-vis the revolution is more complex
and difficult to discern. It is best presented in Seara Vermelha (literally, red har-
vest), Amado’s 1946 novel. To this novel I will devote the rest of my essay.
Seara Vermelha
Seara Vermelha is the story of the travails of a sertanejo (backcountry) family.11
Following a well-traveled path in Latin American fiction, the family as subject
naturalizes larger political or cultural identities and institutions.12 The most vul-
garized example of this is that of the national romance. In the case of this novel,
the family stands for the larger class to which it belongs: that of the peasant,
sharecropper, or agrarian laborers of the fazendas (farms) of the sertão. This social
sector was a particular target of PCB activity at the time of the publication of
Seara Vermelha—as the novel depicts toward the end.
The family is composed of three generations; Jerônimo is the elder and leader
of the group. He is accompanied by his wife Jucundina, his deranged sister Zefa,
and his brother João Pedro (João has a wife, Dinha, and a daughter, Gertrudes).
Jerônimo and Jucundina had six sons and daughters. Three of them, at one
point or another, abandoned the home. They were either fascinated with the
prospects of a life of adventure (as was Zé, who joined the gang of cangaceiro
chieftain Lucas Arvoredo and became a noted cangaceiro himself ) or enmeshed
in problems pertaining to the complex sertanejo honor system (as was João, who
joined the state police) or even frustrated with the meager economic prospects
of sharecropping (as was Nenen, the youngest, and Jucundina’s favorite, who
joined the army, became a communist militant, and later took a significant part
in the 1935 revolt; after a long prison stay, he became a leader in the newly legal-
ized PCB and returned to work in the sertão).13 Jerônimo and Jucundina’s two
remaining children, Agostinho and Marta, stayed with them. Nonetheless, their
final destinies could not be more disparate: Agostinho makes it to São Paulo,
while Marta becomes a prostitute and disappears from the narrative. There was
also a daughter who died, leaving three children for Jucundina to take care of:
the rambunctious 13-year-old Tonho, the shy and sensitive Noca, and Ernesto,
who was still an infant.
Jerônimo heads a family of sharecroppers (meeiros) eking out a meager living in
Colonel Inácio’s fazenda. The fazenda is as “large as a state”; it is so large, according
to the narrator, that some people have never left the property in their lives (31).
The novel begins when Aureliano, the current owner of the fazenda, decides to
sell it. As part of the agreement, all the sharecroppers have to be evicted and must
either leave the fazenda or remain as day laborers. Seara Vermelha is thus the story
of the forced transformation of sharecroppers into rural proletarians14—which I
will call peasants, following James Scott’s use of the word in The Moral Economy of
the Peasant (1976), even though there is some discussion regarding this terminol-
ogy. The novel narrates the initial act of dispossession and the various strategies of
resistance or adaptation, the so-called roads of hope, attempted by the camponeses:
(1) southbound migration, which is carried out by Jerônimo and Jucundina, his
remaining offspring, and his in-laws (although more than half will die or be lost
in the journey); (2) banditry—Zé; (3) millenarian rebellion—Zefa and briefly,
Zé; (4) incorporation into the state apparatus—João and Nenen; and, last but
most importantly, (5) revolutionary activism—Nenen. Like Cacau, Jubiabá, Suor
(Sweat; 1934), and Capitães da Areia, Seara Vermelha belongs to the tradition of
the Bildungsroman. However, instead of narrating the formation of an individual
character within the coordinates of a bourgeois subject and possessive individual-
ism, Amado narrates a process of collective learning. Or, better yet, he narrates
the individual learning of the collective—the emergence of class consciousness
and the integration into the Communist Party as its vanguard. Class and party
become, in this Stalinist Bildungsroman, primary identity markers. When Nenen
culminates his evolution from peasant to wannabe bandit to military man to elite
party cadre, his identity is coeval with his class and party identity.
The novel is built on a number of fairly commonplace metaphors and symbols.
These “melodramatic exaggerations” (Assis Duarte 175) have been attributed to
the popular or populist nature of his literature. Without a doubt, this is consistent
with Amado’s idea of literature, in both its political as well as its aesthetical dimen-
sions. These are some of the most recurrent metaphors: (1) planting (a seara) and
reaping (a colheita), which open and close the novel; (2) the journey or sacrificial
pilgrimage; (3) the illumination reached at the end, as found not only in Jerônimo
and Jucundina’s southbound trail of tears but also in Nenen’s formative experiences
through the entire territory of Brazil; (4) the sacrifice of the favorite child, for
example, when Marta offers herself to the lustful Doctor Epaminondas to secure
her father’s permit to continue south, although he has tuberculosis; (5) blood—
that is, the rain of blood, the dew of blood, blood as the fertilizer of the earth,
blood as a metaphor for the suffering of the downtrodden in the clutches of agrar-
ian capitalism, the blood of virginity offered for passage, the blood of the dead as
the price to pay to leave captivity, and blood as the metaphor for the upcoming
revolution; (6) the cyclical or circular nature of the narrative since the novel begins
with the sertanejos leaving the sertão and ends with the sertanejos—now com-
munist activists—returning to the sertão; (7) the opposition between light and
darkness, wetness and dryness, as part of a larger pathetic fallacy. As is seen in the
beginning of the novel, before the eviction the sertão is an idyllic rural landscape—
humid and pleasant, with cows, hens, and goats. Once the sharecroppers have
been evicted, the sertão becomes a hellish, dry place populated by lizards, snakes,
and the unrelenting glare of the northeastern sun.
All the aforementioned metaphors or motifs, one way or the other, connect
with economic or cultural aspects of a backland’s worldview and experience:
agrarian cycles, bodily functions, sertanejo ethics, and popular Catholicism. At
the same time and also following a well-beaten path in Latin American literature,
Seara Vermelha is a sort of archive that features most of the topics of a by then
decades-old representational paradigm. In this case, Amado incorporates char-

acters and motifs that were pervasive in elite and popular literature, the social
sciences, politics, and the press: the caatinga (arid landscape) and the drought,
the sertanejo’s appalling poverty coupled with a fierce sense of dignity and honor,
the traditional colonel, the millenarian leader, the cangaceiro, the colonel-coiteiro
(one who protects bandits), and the retirantes (migrants).
Decades ago, at the height of Amado’s prestige (his popularity remains high), these
thematic preferences, as well as the aforementioned representational techniques—
that were, to a significant degree, innovative at the time—helped to create the myth
of the author-medium, the undivided voice of the people. Roger Bastide was perhaps
one of the most prestigious expressions of this myth. The problematic nature of this
assumption, embedded in the very idea of engaged literature toward the middle of
the twentieth century, is glaringly evident today and hardly merits further commen-
tary. More interesting perhaps is to trace the ways in which Amado creates a literary
version of the peasantry that he later claims to express in such an undivided fashion,
and to reflect on the motives and effects of his doing so.
Amado introduces two distortions on the agrarian reality that he depicts. Col-
onel Aureliano’s fazenda is extremely large (as quoted before, “large as a state”).
The fazenda land is devoted to agriculture: maize, manioc, and sweet potatoes
are the main crops. On the one hand, in the sertão the pattern of land tenure
had been gravitating for decades toward the subdivision of land, to the point
that many properties were not viable, given the climate constraints and the
poor quality of the land that required extensive exploitation. The opposite was
true for the coastal strip devoted to sugar cultivation—where land monopoly
was indeed a tendency. At the same time, the crops as well as the system of
sharecropping that Amado presents were well-known in the sertão, but they
did not represent the dominant economic activity. Extensive cattle ranching
was the primary occupation that created the leather civilization distinctive of
the sertão. Hence Amado endows the fazenda and the conflict over land with a
representative value that they do not have in actual life. In the novel the plight
of Jerônimo’s family is replicated ad infinitum, throughout the entire sertão.
Amado needs this to (1) explain away all social developments in the sertão accord-
ing to a single overriding cause—land monopoly (he was not alone in this; read,
for example, Cangaceiros e Fanáticos [Bandits and fanatics; 1963] by Rui Facó)
and (2) map the social reality following a single line of conflict—class struggle
over land—and two simple opposing camps, landowners and landless peasants
(or peasants on their way to being landless). As the scholarship on backlands
banditry has shown, conflicts and alliances were organized along lines that were
not—or not exclusively—class lines. Simplifying and focusing on class conflict
allows Amado to address his central problem without encumbrances: the revolu-
tionary potential of the peasantry, of its traditional means of resistance (such as
banditry) and the strategic means by which the PCB could unleash that poten-
tial. The problem of the transition from oppression to revolution, which in the
indigenist novel contemporary to Seara Vermelha appears impossible to solve (see
Cornejo Polar, chapter 3), is solved in Seara Vermelha. But the path to the solu-
tion of this political riddle goes through the acknowledgment of a major obstacle.
Unlike the “precipitate” peasantry (Yarrington) of the cocoa zone, the peasantry of
the sertão has a cultural density that presents challenges the PCB has to deal with.
The sertão has a tradition of violence that has to be reinterpreted as a symptom of
an exclusive class conflict and transformed into a legitimate, though insufficient,
protoform of revolutionary violence. This was the explicit intent of the climactic
moment of the novel, the 1935 Aliança Nacional Libertadora (ANL; National
Liberation Alliance, the PCB-inspired, popular front-style organization) rebellion
whose leader in Natal is Nenen. As Robert Levine explains, “The ANL portrayed
itself as heir to the Brazilian revolutionary tradition, claiming such precursors as
Antônio Conselheiro, the martyr of the federal assault on Canudos in the early
days of the Old Republic, and Lampião, the cangaceiro bandit leader, in spite of
his service against the Prestes Column in the pay of northeastern políticos” (79).
Seara Vermelha is the narrative embodiment of this postulate—the exploration
of a native tradition of insurgency akin to that undertaken by Friedrich Engels
in Der deutsche Bauernkrieg (The Peasant War in Germany; 1850). But in order
for this tradition of insurgency to be appropriated, Amado engages in a sort of
cultural ethnography that makes such a tradition malleable. This ethnography
involves two operations: (1) to decide what constitutes “legitimate” peasant cul-
tural capital, splitting it from dangerous illusions and false consciousness—the
work of ideology that preserves the hegemony of the ruling class—and (2) to
reterritorialize those expressions deemed as legitimate peasant culture in a mac-
ronarrative culminating in the PCB as the collective identity where all aspects of
human experience—love, violence, family, knowledge—are integrated and pro-
jected toward the future. The dangerous illusions that Amado tries to destroy are
several, creeping from right to left: interclass alliances, upward social mobility as
part of the larger phenomenon of peasant differentiation, the idea of the status
quo as an unmovable image of the universe, the progressive middle class as a
potential ally of the peasantry, and the belief in the state as mediator in class war-
fare. Allow me to comment briefly on each of these illusions.
Interclass alliances, as a feature of peasant culture, are the first target of Ama-
do’s critique. At the beginning of the novel, times are relatively good: the season
promises rain, crops will be productive, and there are no conflicts in sight. Atal-
iba, one of the sharecroppers, is throwing a party to celebrate the marriage of his
daughter. By poor peasant standards, it will be an occasion to remember. Even the
stern administrator of the fazenda, Artur, is considering softening his treatment
of the sharecroppers. Times are not bad, but, as always, they have been better.
Although the fazenda belongs to Colonel Aureliano, the family wealth was built
by his father, the late Colonel Inácio. Inácio was a traditional, paternalistic land-
owner aware of and abiding by the vertical, transclass prescriptions embedded in
rural culture and the gestures of protection and appreciation that peasants expect
in exchange for deference and submission. This is the network of exchanges that
made the rural order workable from the standpoint of the peasants—what Scott
called “the moral economy of the peasant.” But this was more than a strategy
for domination. Inácio considered the fazenda his true and only capital. Agri-
culture was his sole activity, and hence he had no use for the excess income that
the fazenda provided him—consequently leaving the money sit idle in the bank.
The fazenda was his true home, and he was a willing partner of an (unequal)
cultural alliance with the peasantry. The emblem of that cultural alliance is Iná-
cio’s patronage of sertanejo poets and musicians, such as Pedro da Restinga and
Bastião. Pedro was a blind guitar player, and Inácio liked his music so much that
he accorded him unlimited credit in the fazenda store as a token of apprecia-
tion for his status. As soon as Inácio died, Artur cancelled this arrangement and
Pedro ceased to go to the fazenda. He then composed some vindictive stanzas
insulting Artur and idolizing Inácio. Bastião, on the other hand, was a peasant
who doubled as a musician living on the fazenda. On the occasion of Inácio’s
stepdaughter’s marriage, Bastião was the musician and Inácio, touched by the cel-
ebration, gave Bastião the land that he was cultivating as a sharecropper. He never
actually gave him the deed, but for Bastião, it was just as well—Inácio’s word was
ironclad and he never backed out of a promise.15
From the peasants’ point of view, Inácio’s son Aureliano falls way short of this
ideal. He does not take care of the land, relying instead on Artur’s honesty to
run the fazenda, which he only visits occasionally and more like a tourist than
like a master. And yet, he is not the classic Latin American absentee landowner.
The absentee landowner still derives his money and, most importantly, prestige
and sense of worth from the fact that he belongs to the landed gentry. Aureliano
focuses his energy on his financial endeavors and social life in Rio. His landed
interests in the Northeast quickly become superfluous even as a sign of prestige.
This is the novel’s starting point for the destruction of the cultural and eco-
nomic pact between peasants and landowners that was exploitative but livable
from the point of view of the peasants—or at least the older generation of peas-
ants. Aureliano decides to sell the fazenda to an unnamed party. As part of the
sale agreement all the sharecroppers will be evicted (including Bastião) and the
fazenda will be transformed into a cattle ranch now manned by salaried hands. It
is most telling that Aureliano never appears, even though he is the one who sets
the conflict in motion. He is only a name and a signature at the end of a letter.
This disembodied quality represents the abstract nature of a market economy.
Even though Amado condemns the colonels as a class, he clearly finds them more
sympathetic than the aloof financiers—including Aureliano. Witness the clear
fascination with the Badarós and Horácio in Terras do Sem Fim, when contrasted
with the palpable disdain for the cocoa exporters that is evident in São Jorge dos
Ilhéus. Aureliano is not a man but the “invisible hand of the market.” This is why
the attempt to kill him, carried out by the cangaceiros, is doomed to fail from the
start. It is an attempt to solve new problems by resorting to old methods. In any
case, the selling of the fazenda and the eviction of the peasants who lived there
for decades is a lesson on how cultural alliances are subordinated to class realities.
The destruction of all (ethical) options for upward social mobility is part of
this same breach of the oral pact. The novel presents two cases: Artur (the foreman
and administrator) and Gregório (the ambitious and enterprising sharecropper) as
two variations of the phenomenon of peasant differentiation: (1) upward mobil-
ity as part of an alliance with the landowners (Artur) or (2) upward mobility in
competition with the landowners (Gregório). Artur came to the fazenda as a sim-
ple hired hand (alugado), but rose to the position of administrator. He professed
an undivided allegiance to the landowner—an allegiance that for him is not an

option, but belongs to the order of nature and is sustained. In spite of Aure-
liano’s neglect of fazenda affairs, Artur is scrupulously honest in his management.
His honesty is a mainstay and a folkloric stereotype of sertanejo culture—where
crimes against property were considered far more serious that crimes against per-
sons. Although this honesty springs from peasant culture, it is used against the
peasantry. Artur’s honesty does not contradict the enforcement of the fazenda’s
exploitative rules. These rules prescribe that sharecroppers are not to have any
commercial ties outside of the fazenda; that they have to buy all their groceries at
the fazenda store—of course at inflated prices; and that they must sell their crops
to the landowner—at depressed prices. Peasants in the fazenda do not read or
write; therefore, they cannot keep accurate tabs when it comes to their balance,
and thus they live in a state of perpetual indebtedness.16
This drives home one of Amado’s points on sertanejo culture. Sertanejo
morality, when divorced from clear class position and consciousness, becomes
immorality, treason, and oppression. Culturally, Artur still belongs to the world
of the peasants. Objectively, he does not. The perception of this gap splits the
fazenda social fabric; but, most importantly, it positions Artur against himself.
Artur embodies the contradictions of his position—that of a classless being. He is
(relatively) privileged but miserable and lonely. He exploits the sharecroppers, but
he is also happy to be invited to their feast. Even though he never faces an open
defiance of his methods or of his position, he is confronted with the full panoply
of “everyday form of peasant resistance” (Scott, Weapons of the Weak [1985]):
silence, gossip, exclusion from the events that characterize peasant life, hate songs,
and cheating. These “small firearms in the class war” do not imply an open break
with the rules of peasant deference (to which Artur is entitled as a representative
of the landlord) and have little, if any, economic effect. Hence they do not qualify
for Amado as legitimate peasant resistance. They do wear Artur down particularly
since he is from peasant stock and knows full well the extent of the treatment to
which he is being subjected. He is placed between a landlord who does not appre-
ciate him, and a peasantry that hates him. Ataliba’s feast, to which he is invited,
is a truce offered by the peasants (that Artur is willing to accept) and, as such, it
runs the fate of all such alliances—its ruin by class-based realities.
The other example is Gregório. He intends to earn money by saving what
he can make through sharecropping to buy his own plot of land, thus ceasing
to be a tenant and becoming a landowner himself. Gregório is fiercely individ-
ualistic and austere—he does not go to the party, so as not to spend money
and waste time, but also because he has no relations. He accumulates money by
depriving himself of any pleasures: he is a celibate, he does not drink alcohol, he
does not have a girlfriend nor contact with his family, and he does not buy new
clothing. He unwittingly follows to the letter the liberal spirit of free market
capitalism (without its Latin American bents) when he refuses to comply with
the fazenda store monopoly and decides to buy seed and sell the crop outside of
the fazenda. By sidestepping these time-honored practices, Gregório represents
a face of modernity—market driven, individualistic, and eminently rational, so
to speak. He does not share in the traditional culture of the peasantry and its
rituals of deference, its celebrations, and its lack of class consciousness, which
allows him to defy widespread exploitative practices. But on the other hand, his
fierce individualism makes his path toward social mobility simultaneously heroic
and impossible. He is the only peasant in the fazenda that has a degree of con-
sciousness. However, it is not class consciousness, but rather the consciousness
of a heroic bourgeois imbued with the spirit of accumulation and free competi-
tion. In this respect, although he represents a superior version of capitalism, he
is stamped out by the dominant version of capitalism in the sertão—renter capi-
talism of absentee landowners that condemns him to become a criminal when
he makes a completely futile attempt on Artur’s life. It is highly peculiar that,
even though the news about the selling of the fazenda and the eviction are given
during Ataliba’s feast, in which practically all the sharecroppers are gathered, the
only one to actively react is Gregório—the only one who was not at the feast. It is
not explained how Gregório knew about this unsettling piece of news (Amado
avoids this problem by not narrating it indirectly through another character). In
any case, it is telling that nobody organizes anything, even though they were all
together—a little drunk probably—and in the heat of the moment.
For the peasants, oppression is part of the order of the universe. This is another
of the dangerous illusions that Amado needs to dispel. Exploitation is not an
act of injustice or an unacceptable break of a time-honored arrangement, but
either, as Jucundina and Jerônimo come to regard as fact, a part of the inscrutable
order of the world or, as Zefa prefers, incontrovertible evidence that the world
is coming to an end. These two attitudes (the impassibility of Jucundina, the
apocalyptic vision of Zefa) may seem opposite poles, but they are not—they stem
from the belief that a certain form of agrarian capitalism equals the order of the
universe. Class consciousness is equated with the realization that oppression is
not a natural fact, as bourgeois universalization pretends.
After a long trek through the caatinga—in which Noca, Dinah, and Jeremias
the donkey die, Zefa disappears (later, we find out that Zefa joined the band of the
beato Estevão), and Agostinho and Gertrudes desert the group to live together—
the greatly reduced band arrives at Juazeiro by the São Francisco River. The arrival
to Juazeiro has a symbolic import: from the dry caatinga to the water margin,
from the backlands to the city, from nature—walking—to technology—boats
and trains. It is also the arrival to the domain of the state. The ship that will take
them to Pirapora is property of the State of Bahia. In Pirapora, they have to catch
a train that will take them to São Paulo—their final destination. The train is free,
as long as the retirantes can prove that they are not carrying any infectious dis-
eases. Doctor Epaminondas runs the state medical office in charge of examining
migrants and issuing bills of health. But during the boat ride from Juazeiro down
the São Francisco River, Jucundina’s baby grandson dies during an epidemic of
dysentery that breaks out among the third-class passengers of the boat. First-class
passengers, enjoying a better diet, avoid the epidemic—if not the foul smell of
the persistent diarrhea of the passengers on the lower deck. Once in Pirapora,
Marta sacrifices her virginity to Epaminondas to obtain a clean bill of health for
her father, who had contracted tuberculosis due to prolonged malnutrition and
hardship. Evicted from the family, she becomes a prostitute and falls victim to an
unspecified venereal disease.
Even though these seem to be just two more misfortunes, they are radically dif-
ferent because of their context: they happened while Jerônimo and his family were
wards of the state, so to speak. Contrary to the populist imagination of the state
as a mediation, and ideally a cancellation of class conflict, here the state reproduces
and enforces the class system (the poor diet on the state-owned ship kills the baby
and the requirements of the state force Marta to prostitute herself ). Furthermore,
even when successful, the state works, in spite of the appearance of benevolence,
to assure the supply of cheap labor to the labor market—transporting the excess
workers from a place where they are plentiful to another where they are scarce.
And by doing this, the state ensures that there is a surplus in the South, thus
depressing wages.
In fact, this is the truth that tortured Epaminondas and destroyed his prede-
cessor Doctor Diógenes (the latter fell from the status of respected doctor to that
of barfly and town drunkard, with occasional sparks of brilliance and cynicism).
It is not that they, and the state they represent, cannot solve the problems of the
poor and sick, but rather they produce the poor and the sick in the first place.
They transform honest sertanejo women into prostitutes, and honest peasants
into beggars and criminals.
Vargas (the embodiment of statist populism in the period) is never mentioned
in the novel, even though it is set in the 1930s. This absence has to do, most
likely, with the fact that the PCB and Varguismo (already out of power in 1946,
when the novel was published) had been de facto allies in the struggle against
fascism during World War II (see Hora da Guerra [The hour of war]). Because of
this alliance, the PCB was enjoying a brief moment of legality that would end in
1948. Amado himself won a seat in the federal assembly as part of the process of
the return to democracy. With Vargas absent or not from the novel, the point is
clear: if classic paternalism (that of Inácio) was just a fragile mask for harsh class
divisions, modern paternalism (that of Vargas and the Estado Novo [New State])
was no different.
The episode of Epaminondas is also a refutation of all liberal reformist
attempts, when carried out in an individual fashion. Epaminondas is an image of
the liberal modern intellectual: a hard-working, intelligent, compassionate doc-
tor, who is interested in both anthropology and epidemiology. But he becomes at
the same time a victim and an executor in a class-based society.
Banditry
In contrast to these dangerous illusions that always entail individual accommoda-
tion, there are means of collective resistance—banditry and millenarian rebellion.
Even though they are definitely not the conclusion of the argument that Amado
puts in narrative form, cangaceiros and fanáticos seem to have usurped the
public’s (and the editor’s) perception of the novel (witness the covers, from the
first edition on, that always—and solely—feature cangaceiros and sometimes a
Conselheiro-looking beato). The story of the cangaceiro Lucas Arvoredo and his
gang comprises the first section of the part of the novel called “As Estradas da
Esperança” (The roads of hope). Prominent in Lucas’s gang is his trusted lieuten-
ant Zé Trevoada (son of Jerônimo and Jucundina). On the other hand, there is
the story of the beato Estevão and Zefa (Jerônimo’s sister). When state armed
forces catch up with Estevão, Lucas rushes to the aid of the romeiros (pilgrims)
and dies heroically in defense of a lost cause.
Lucas’s saga is a compilation of episodes belonging mainly (but not exclu-
sively) to Lampião’s life and legend: (1) the almost incredible mobility on foot
through the caatinga, encompassing the backland regions of six states, as well as
the superb guerilla tactics that baffled state forces for more than two decades;
(2) the town invasions; (3) the branding of women; (4) the grim dancing par-
ties that ended in gang rapes; (5) the childish weakness for perfumes, toys, and
entertainments such as film, circus, and music; (6) the unrelenting hatred of the
police; and (7) the collusion between banditry and millenarianism. Crucial to
Amado’s argument, however, is Lucas’s return to the “myth of origin” of his ban-
dit career. Much like Jerônimo, Lucas’s father was evicted from his land (and a
worthless, arid plot of land at that). When he tried to resist, he was killed. Lucas
tells this story to different interlocutors—the senator, Zé Trevoada, the travel-
ing salesman—at least three times throughout the novel (199, 214, and 216)
because this event is for him the source of his legitimacy as an outlaw.17 Federico
Pernambucano de Mello coined the term moral shield (escudo ético) to refer to the
construction of the cangaceiro’s persona as either a good robber or an avenger. By
this, professional cangaceiros (profiteering bandits, to use Paul Vanderwood’s apt
term) use the rhetoric and rituals of the noble robber or the avenger to legitimize
their practice. Amado prefers to take Lucas’s words at face value, since they are
coherent with his larger agenda. In the novelist’s perspective, there is a total over-
lap between the objective and the subjective causes for outlawry—the problem
lies in the response: banditry instead of PCB activism. It is also important that
for Amado, all violence in the sertão is class violence. Seara Vermelha does not
emphasize (does not even acknowledge) the existence of a culture of violence in
the sertão that cuts across class lines. This violence is not always and perhaps not
even mainly related to land monopoly. In other words, Amado explains this cul-
ture of violence away by giving it a single origin. All the characters that take to the
caatinga do so either because they have been dispossessed of their land (as in the
case of Lucas Arvoredo) or because they do not have any hope of ever acquiring
it (as in Nenen’s case). By acknowledging a culture of violence unrelated to class
conflict, Amado would present an image of the peasantry that perhaps carries
inherent contradictions.
The section on Lucas Arvoredo opens with the defeat of a military unit that
recklessly decided to fight the bandit in the caatinga—his own turf. Lucas deci-
mates the detachment and invades the unnamed (and now defenseless) town
where the unit used to be stationed. Once in control, he kills his enemies within
the town, loots and wrecks several stores, feasts in the hotel, exacts a significant
amount of ransom money, forces everybody to attend a double feature (Tom
Mix and Charlie Chaplin), and throws a dance (in which everybody has to dance
naked), which quickly degenerates in a collective rape. This episode showcases

the possibilities and limits of a bandit politics.
Lucas is not a mere vandal moved by irrational lust, greed, or hatred. Quite to
the contrary, all his acts have an internal logic. This logic is opaque and repulsive to
the elite members of rural society and Lucas himself would not be able to verbally
articulate it. But it is coherent and powerful nonetheless. This logic operates through
negation and inversion (see Guha, Elementary Aspects). If Lucas does not have a class
consciousness (and for Amado that is a fatal flaw), he has what Guha calls a “nega-
tive consciousness,” a well-developed sense of a peasant’s place in rural society and
of the protocols, rituals, and symbols that regulate the peasantry’s relationship to
their social superiors. Hence his actions are the performance of a countertheater that
actively destroys and inverts those protocols, rituals, and symbols.
Lucas occupies and disrespects spaces that by definition are off-limits for poor
peasants—the hotel where he feasts (at the head of the table) and the box in the
movie theater. He extorts money from the town, but less for money’s sake than
to see the mayor of the town grovel and beg for a reduction in the amount of the
ransom money. He rapes and brands the town teacher, not because of her beauty
(she is not particularly pretty) or due to sexual urges, but because she is blonde.
He forces everyone to dance naked, not only to exhibit the grotesque, bloated
nature of urban bodies (when compared to the wiry bodies of the cangaceiros),
but also to divest the elite of all the symbols of their prestige—the highlight of the
dance is the puny judge being forced to dance naked with his obese wife.
As a peasant, Lucas was condemned to a life of deprivation and scarcity and
he was always living on the edge of starvation. His actions in the town are conse-
quently a performance of waste: throwing the feast and eating much more food
than necessary, dinging and breaking bottles of precious liquor, and wrecking the
stores where the goods that the peasants cannot access are sold.
He literally turns the world upside down when he forces everyone to watch
the Tom Mix feature, but with the movie upside down. Lucas Arvoredo is thus
sensible to symbolism and he distinguishes how these things are related to a class
reality. This subversive performance ensured his cultural prestige. For Guha, as
well as for Scott, these types of performances (or counterperformances) are fully
political acts, even more so since they fall beyond the modern elite notion of poli-
tics. This was not so for Amado, who fully endorsed a modern notion of politics.
Lucas has a keen perception of the cultural aspects of the agrarian order. But he
is incapable of casting a historical glance. In this sense, he is (for Amado) like a
child or like a primitive man. This comes up in the episode of the toy duck—
since the people are fascinated with a self-moving toy, they wind it up and follow
its meandering through the town. Or when they mistake reality for fiction and
shoot the screen where The Bully is harassing Charlie.
After leaving the town, Lucas Arvoredo and his gang take refuge in the sena-
tor’s fazenda. This episode illustrates how Lucas, although he is respected—even
admired by his fellow camponeses—is not the champion of his class (as Coirana
in Glauber Rocha’s Antonio das Mortes [Antonio of deaths; 1969] portends to be).
The senator is his main coiteiro (supplier, contact, and harborer). But that protec-
tion has a price. He uses Lucas as the muscle either to evict peasants and small
landowners from their lands or to force them to sell for ridiculously low prices.
From this point of view, there is no difference between the cangaceiros and the
jagunços of Terras do Sem Fim. Perhaps the significant difference is that while
the jagunços of Terras do Sem Fim are attached to the colonel on a permanent
or semipermanent basis, Lucas is a free agent—a relatively equal partner in the
alliance. This type of relationship inspired Pernambucano de Mello to coin the
expression “landless colonel” when referring to professional cangaceiros. There
are some elements of subversion in the relationship. Lucas is of peasant stock, but
demands to be treated with much more respect than a peasant. He smokes and
feasts with the senator and neglects many of the rituals of deference that the sena-
tor considers are owed to him. Nevertheless, he remains a loyal subordinate. The
alliance breaks down when the senator betrays Lucas, sensing that he is becoming
a political liability and is beginning to act without due deference.
His alliance with this patron is firm and it only breaks down when the senator
starts to perceive Lucas Arvoredo as a threat. When Lucas realizes the treason, he
kills the senator in cold blood. This killing adds to Lucas’s cultural prestige, show-
ing that “even the poor and weak can be terrible” (Bandits 58). But he is killed
not as a class enemy, but as a disloyal ally.18 The same happens when, in order to
please Zé, Lucas attacks the fazenda that used to belong to Aureliano. He and his
men burn the main house, loot the fazenda store, and try to kill Aureliano—who
is injured, but not killed. Again, this attack is part of the internal solidarity of the
gang and not a class-oriented move. And this shows how the cangaceiro, in the
last resort, is a traitor to his class or someone unaware of the glaring contradic-
tions of his actions. The attack on Aureliano’s fazenda does not contradict this,
since, spectacular though it is, it has no effect on the real situation. Furthermore,
Lucas is incapable of recognizing an obvious contradiction: what Aureliano did
(which deserves Lucas’s punishment) was what he himself had done countless
times before on behalf of the senator. The attack on the fazenda is indeed a dra-
matic performance. But for Amado, politics is not composed of performances but
of tactical moves and long-term strategies.
According to Amado, bandit politics, steeped in peasant culture, has a flawed
idea of time and space, since it extinguishes itself in this instantaneous performance.
Of course, banditry implies rational calculation and the administration of time and
space: timing ambushes, mapping routes of escape, and so on. But it is not part of a
long-term strategy or a strategy that would have widespread consequences. Banditry
lacks long-term economic effects. It does not introduce any durable transformation
in the relations of production: the citizens of the town that Lucas plundered will
recuperate and join the ranks of Lucas’s most obstinate foes, the fazenda of the
murdered senator will remain within his family, and the new owner of Aureliano’s
fazenda will be even more severe in his treatment of the peasants.
Furthermore, Lucas Arvoredo and his gang are nomads. They are fully aware
of state borders and jurisdictions, since this is crucial to successfully evade the
police—who were prevented from carrying on the persecution into a neighboring
state due to a strong sense of state autonomy (Pernambucano de Mello 197). But
in the novel, Lucas’s gang also lacks a larger concept of territory (as does Jerônimo,
who thinks that São Paulo is a country). Throughout Lucas’s saga, there are no
names of states, cities, or regions. This, of course, deliberately endows the nar-
rative with a more universal value because it could have happened anywhere in
the sertão. But it also highlights what for Amado is a deficient historical and
geographical sense, and hence a built-in limit to the potential of banditry as a
revolutionary model. Unable to conceive of a real and enduring alternative to the
existing world (in this respect, Lucas is like Jucundina, minus the resignation),
Lucas nevertheless dies defending another failed option of collective resistance—
that of the beato Estevão. The romeiros have a much clearer understanding of
the class dynamics articulated in evangelical language. The beato speaks openly
against the rich, and the phenomenon has a long lasting (if unintended) eco-
nomic impact and cultural effect—causing a labor shortage and an erosion of
peasant deference. The beato has a vision, but he has not the means to carry it out
or to defend his community, and hence he is crushed by the state.
The Party as Utopia

Both Lucas’s and Estevão’s groups are harmonic and rather egalitarian communi-
ties, and both are devoid of internal conflict. But they are unable to bring about
change on a larger scale, and in fact, they divert forces that could be used for this
specific goal (like in the case of Zé, who after Lucas’s death wanders aimlessly
through the infinite caatinga). In this respect, bandits and millenarian leaders are,
for Amado, objectively reactionary. Millenarianism is a pure vision without the
means to carry it out. Banditry is raw force without vision. Communism is the
place where these two limited utopian impulses are simultaneously negated and
recuperated into a larger synthesis. From millenarianism, communism recuperates
the utopian vision of a just society, transformed from an otherworldly apocalyptic
event into a historical and necessary event. From banditry, it recuperates the col-
lective organization of force—reterritorialized as revolutionary violence.
Nenen embodies this synthesis, this negation/recuperation of the premodern
tradition of violence. He is the only one among Jerônimo’s sons who, from the
start, has a clear consciousness of the conditions of his existence. He leaves Jerôni-
mo’s household because he does not want to eke out a living as sharecropper.
He intends to follow in Zé’s steps, but when looking for Lucas, he comes across
the railroad tracks and follows them to the city and his heroic destiny. He first
becomes a policeman and later a military man. He is destined first for the south,
where he becomes a communist, and later he heads toward the Amazonia, where
he shows his qualities as a leader in the fight against the Indians. Transferred to
Natal, he leads the 1935 rebellion. When it fails, he spends ten years in prison.
And then, when the PCB is legalized and an amnesty is declared, he returns to the
sertão to work in the short-lived peasant leagues (ligas camponesas) of the 1940s.
Nenen is a heroic character. But his heroism is not defined by his accomplish-
ments: fighting in the jungle, storming a machine gun nest, and enduring torture
and prison. This is all predicated on his achieving class consciousness. He is a
hero of knowledge, and Seara Vermelha is a novel about knowledge. Hence the
relevance of the opening quote, borrowed from Engels: “Freedom is the knowl-
edge of necessity.”19 This is why, even though the novel is full of terrible events,
it is finally defined by its happiness—for example, Nenen’s surprising happiness

during his prison stay (275)—because it is a novel of sacrifice toward a revela-
tion, a novel of the reunion between man and History, and a novel of the world
as meaningful, as human.20 Seara Vermelha is a political novel. However, it is a
political novel in which the political dimension is not really based on praxis—an
effect of contingent articulation of agents—but is mainly envisioned as knowl-
edge effect.
In a nutshell, Seara Vermelha is an epic of knowledge, leading from the pre-
modern fatalism of Jucundina to the partial, imperfect knowledge of cangaceiros
and fanatics, to the full class consciousness of Nenen. The (admirable) intellectual
pirouette of the novel is that this progression of knowledge happens within a single
class—the peasantry. Nenen is from peasant stock, but he is not a peasant leader,
although he becomes a leader of the peasantry. He becomes a leader in the army
and his ideology is perfected in prison—a modern institution par excellence. But
there are no legitimate leaders of the PCB that do not belong to the peasantry.
The premodern answers to the land issue are symbolically refuted through
family metaphors. But these metaphors are all catastrophic in nature. Marta is
sacrificed by her parents to the double standard of backlands morals. Zé Trev-
oada kills his brother João in the showdown between Estevão’s romeiros and the
state police, and finally the family ceases to exist as such. On the other hand, the
acquisition of a modern class consciousness is expressed through the parental
metaphor, since Nenen becomes Tonho’s sort of adoptive father. Tonho is the
only member of Jerônimo’s group for whom migration is not another link in a
long line of misfortune and oppression, but rather a founding and productive
experience as well as an educational event that creates an identity. That is why
Tonho is the hope of the future, and Nenen endows him with his legacy and
ideology through his affiliation with the PCB.21
The novel begins and ends with a meeting of sertanejos. But if in the first case
the feast was an event illuminated by the false light of ideology, in the final meet-
ing (the meeting of the ligas camponesas organized by the PCB) the true light of
knowledge shines. Upon Zé Tavares’s return to the sertão to proselytize, a peasant
approaches him:
“Mister Tavares, you tell me, you’re the one that knows what’s that thing; com-
munism . . .” [After receiving the explanation, he exclaims,] “Mister Tavares, that
thing, communism, reminds me of ghosts. Don’t you see mister that a light appears
on the road and they tell us not to get closer because that thing is haunted, that it
kills us just because we take a look at it. But they talk about it so much that us folks
are eaten up by wanting to go and take a look. One day we won’t resist, we get close
and see that it’s the people’s father.”22
This dialogue shows how the transformation from a passive social class into
an active social class implies a dynamic link (but also an unmovable hierar-
chy) between local knowledge, its myths and legends, and the new materialist
truths of national and international dimension. Seara Vermelha begins with the
assumption (which it shares with the indigenist novel, its contemporary) that the
peasantry has no history—no history fit for novelization, at least—and that it is

the intrusion of capitalism—or of a new version of capitalism—that makes this
novelization possible.23 This is why the peasantry in the novel has no past, no
memory, and no identity separate from that of the fazenda (and the landowning
class) that they inhabit. The movement of capital that sets the novel in motion
(Aureliano’s invisible hand) starts in the South, the active pole of History. This
causes the response of the sertanejos, their painful search for History: migration,
banditry, and millenarian rebellion. These are traditional responses. But the cul-
mination of the novel is when the peasants really begin to be contemporaries with
their own history, understand the nature of capitalist violence as contingent and
based on class, and envision other worlds. This is only possible under the guid-
ing light of the Communist Party (that also comes from the South). And from
São Paulo the sertanejo goes back to the North, to the sertão—the dark lands of
oppression—to shed the new light, the new Lampião of the Revolution.
Notes
1. “É o Capitão Corisco enfrentando o Dragão da Riqueza.” All translations are by the
author, unless a published translation is indicated.
2. The bibliography on northeastern outlawry is extensive. Eric Hobsbawm devotes a sig-
nificant portion of Bandits to cangaceirismo (see section devoted to the variety of social
bandit that he calls “the avenger”). Two books that address banditry in the Northeast in
the context of a widespread and well-established culture of violence are Pernambucano
de Mello’s Guerreiros do Sol (Warriors of the sun; 1987, new and expanded edition from
2004) and Os Cangaceiros: Les bandits d’honneur brésiliens (Os cangaceiros: The Brazilian
honor bandits; 1968) by Maria Isaura Pereira de Queiroz. Also, it is useful to consult the
articles by Linda Lewin and Peter Singelmann collected in Bandidos (Bandits), edited by
Richard Slatta in 1987.
3. For an account of the transformations of the PCB during the crucial years 1935–45
(between the ALN rebellion and legalization), see Dulles.
4. For a general consideration of the debate, from its Marxian roots to the dramatic shift
entailed by the Cuban Revolution, see Harris and Harding.
5. For a consideration of how outlaw violence posed an insurmountable challenge—
epistemological, political, and ethical—to Revueltas, and how that challenge is expressed
but never resolved in his works, see Dabove’s “Bandidaje y experiencia de los límites de
la razón letrada en José Revueltas” (Banditry and the experience of the limits of lettered
reason in José Revueltas; 2008).
6. An incredibly clear example of how this countermemory works is found in Engels’s Die
Lage der arbeitenden Klasse in England (The Condition of the Working Class in England;
1845), a book that Amado probably read. In the section devoted to the education of
working children, Engels quotes the Children’s Employment Commission’s Report.
Commissioner Grainger brings up a startling discovery from Birmingham: “[T]he
children examined by me are, as a whole, utterly wanting in all that could be in the
remotest degree called a useful education . . . Several boys have never heard of London
nor of Willenhall, though the latter was but an hour’s walk from their homes . . .
Several have never heard the name of the Queen nor other names, such as Nelson,
Wellington, Bonaparte; but it was noteworthy that those who have never heard even
of St. Paul, Moses, or Solomon, were very well instructed as to the life, deeds, and
character of Dick Turpin, the street robber, and especially of Jack Sheppard, the thief
and gaol-breaker” (123).
7. The same link is presented in some anarchist works, such as Alma gaucha (Gaucho soul;
1906) by Argentine Alberto Ghiraldo, where the protagonist, Cruz, is the son of a for-
mer outlaw (also named Cruz) who has fought with the Indians against whites in the
nineteenth-century southern frontier era. Cruz junior takes on the tradition of insur-
gency and rebellion from his father, whose lessons he took to heart.
8. In a similar fashion, in Capitães da Areia, the marginal youths who had never been out-
side of Salvador consider the caatinga as a sort of utopian “liberated territory,” whose
champion is Lampião.
9. Valid comparisons could be established, for example, between Terras do Sem Fim and
Silver Canyon by Louis L’Amour (1951/56): the showdown of the two landowners, the
love story caught in the middle of the conflict over land, and the smaller landowners
being squeezed out by the competition between the dominant powers of the land.
10. Allow me to provide a few examples from literary works written around the same time as
Terras do Sem Fim. In El resplandor (Sunburst; 1937) by Mexican Mauricio Magdaleno,
Don Gonzalo Fuentes—the conqueror and founder of the lineage of landowners that
would last well into the twentieth century—fought the Otomi occupying the lands that
would become the Hacienda La Brisa at the head of a gang of outlaws. Of course, this
is just a later example of the centuries-old trope of the conquistadors as brigands (for
this, see Hobsbawm, Bandits and Dabove, Nightmares, “Introduction”). In Doña Bár-
bara (1929) by Venezuelan Rómulo Gallegos, the fearsome owner of El Miedo (aptly
called a “bandit captain” by her enemy Santos Luzardo) commands a small army of rob-
bers, assassins, and cattle rustlers in charge of carrying out the manifold acts of violence
necessary in the constant expansion of the limits of the hato (herd) and its cattle hold-
ings. A former bandit, Ño Pernalete, acting as local political boss, ensures that all her
maneuvering is protected by the apparent authority of legality. In Huasipungo (The Vil-
lagers [Huasipungo]; 1935) by Ecuadorean Jorge Icaza, the highlands landowner Alfonso
Pereira hired chagras foragidos (runaway peasant farmers) to evict the Indians from the
mountain land that they occupied—land that Pereira’s American partners (or bosses)
wanted unoccupied in order to extract timber (235). Finally, in Pedro Páramo (1955) by
Mexican Juan Rulfo, Páramo arms and maintains a large group of bandits who fashion
themselves as revolutionaries under the control of his trusted attendant Damasio (a.k.a.
El Tilcuate) in order to keep the real revolutionaries in check. Before this, El Tilcuate had
been crucial in the dispossession of all small landowners in the Comala area that allowed
Páramo to amass the large tract of land that comprised La Media Luna.
11. Seara Vermelha can be considered the last installment of a trilogy of novels written in
the 1940s. The first two installments are Terras do Sem Fim and São Jorge dos Ilhéus. This
tripartite form makes sense from a theoretical point of view: (1) the formation of an agrar-
ian capitalist economy (Terras do Sem Fim); (2) the development of that capitalist system
into one dominated by financial capital with links to international monopolies (São Jorge
dos Ilhéus); and (3) the development of a peasant class consciousness, which enables it to
tackle the challenge of capitalism in its most developed form. This was advanced in the
latter part of São Jorge dos Ilhéus, when Joaquim, a communist militant, says, “Primeiro a
terra foi dos fazendeiros que conquistaram ela, depois mudou de dono, caiu na mão dos
exportadores, que vão explorar ela. Mas um dia, companheiro, a terra não vai ter mais
dono . . . / Sua voz subia para as estrelas, cobria as luzes da cidade / . . . nem mais escra-
vos . . . [First, the land belonged to the farmers that conquered it, then it changed owner,
it fell in the hand of exporters, who will exploit it. But one day, comrade, the land won’t
have an owner anymore . . . / His voice went up to the stars, covered the lights of the city
/ . . . and no more slaves . . . ]” (336). However, in the last novel of the group, Amado
chooses to change the setting, and hence the problems addressed in the novel: instead
of continuing to focus on southern Bahia and the cocoa culture, the novel returns to a
more “classic” setting of Brazilian regionalism—the sertão—and a more classic subject—
backlands culture. I will address the reasons for this shift later in this article.
12. I follow Stuart Hall’s definition of naturalization as “a representational strategy designed
to fix difference, and thus secure it forever. It is an attempt to halt the inevitable ‘slide’ of
meaning and to secure discursive or ideological ‘closure’” (245).
13. The character of Nenen is based on a real life individual, the comrade Giocondo. His
exploits are exalted by Amado in “O Camarada Dias” (Comrade Dias), a nonfiction text
included in Homens e Coisas do Partido Comunista (Men and things of the Communist
Party; 1946). Some other episodes are taken from anecdotes pertaining to Amado’s work
with the PCB, such as the scene of the opening of the first legal headquarters of the party,
narrated in a latter part of the novel (334), and in more detail in the text “Instalação da
Primeira Sede Legal do Partido” (Inauguration of the first legal headquarters of the party;
Homens e Coisas); also, from anecdotes related to the experiences of militants working
with peasants in the short-lived communist ligas camponesas in the Northeast—narrated
as pertaining to Zé Tavares (334)—and in “O Pai da Gente” (The father of the people)
included in Homens e Coisas.
14. Without entering into the thorny issue of deciding if the peasantry is a class, a transi-
tional stage, or not a class at all, for the sake of my argument it suffices to say that Seara
Vermelha narrates the transformation of peasants—or sharecroppers that are situated in
a more traditional setting—into rural proletarians in an entirely modern agrarian con-
text. This transformation accompanies or echoes the movement from the northeastern
fazendas to the southern coffee plantations.
15. The contrast between the oral and the written word in the novel is very important. On
the one hand, the oral word is the medium of the cultural pact between classes (as in
the case of Inácio, as well as the pact—later betrayed—between Lucas Arvoredo and the
senator) and the medium of sertanejo culture (the songs, the poems, and the oral reputa-
tion). The written word, on the other hand, is an instrument of oppression: the ledger
where Artur keeps track of debts, the letter where Aureliano announces that he is selling
the fazenda, Jerônimo’s clean bill of health whose signature Doctor Epaminondas uses to
blackmail Marta into having sex with him.
16. Clearly, this picture of relentless exploitation (through one of its preferred symbols, the
fazenda store) obscures a more complex reality. Allen W. Johnson, in Sharecroppers of the
Sertão (1971), examines the case of sharecroppers in the Cariri area (Ceará) in the 1960s
and provides a much more nuanced perspective on the role of the fazenda store (granted,
for a later period in the twentieth century). Indebtedness, for example, is a means to
secure (and coerce) a steady supply of labor but, from the point of view of the peasant, it
is also an insurance against all too likely catastrophes, such as crop failure, sickness, and
so forth.
17. Lampião always insisted that the death of his father drove him to outlawry and that he
was an avenger and a social bandit, exacting money from the rich and giving it to the
poor. His father’s feud was indeed a cause. But both Jaynes Chandler and Pernambucano
de Mello note that the feud was not over land. The enemy was not a land-hungry colo-
nel, and Lampião’s father was never evicted. Plus, Lampião’s father was killed when the
Ferreira brothers were already outlaws. Lampião never really pursued his father’s killers,
and unlike real avengers, whose careers are limited in time and space (avengers have a
specific objective that is confined to a limited region), Lampião acted for more than
two decades, in six states. However, Lampião in particular, when out of his “original”
territory (central Pernambuco), affected the manners and practices of the noble robber
(see Pernambucano de Mello).
18. In fact, Lucas is crueler with Cândido, the old sertanejo soldier who aided the detach-
ment sent after him. As a sertanejo, he knew the caatinga as well as Lucas. He was con-
sequently a much more fearsome enemy than the senator or Ezequiel da Silveira. Lucas’s
vengeance is, accordingly, harsher: he cut Cândido’s tongue and gouged his eyes (it is not
clear if this was torture or the desecration of a corpse).
19. “A liberdade é o conhecimento da necessidade” (6).
20. There is only one genuine love relationship in this novel, which is between Juvencio and
his wife. The sertanejos are faithful husbands, for the most part. But there is a dryness,
a roughness that prevents a genuinely amorous relationship from flourishing (this is, of
course, a statement on sertanejo culture). It goes without saying that there are gender
inequalities and double standards that pollute these relationships.
21. See Seara Vermelha 277. On a different note, it is remarkable that Nenen’s real son disap-
pears from the narrative, as does his wife.
22. “‘Seu Tavares, me diga vosmecê que sabe, o que é esse tal de comunismo . . .’ [After
receiving the explanation, he exclaims,] ‘Seu Tavares, esse tal de comunismo me arre-
corda assombração. Num vê o senhor que aparece uma luz na estrada e vão diz para gente
que não chegue perto que aquilo é assombração que mata a gente de só espiar. Mas tanto
falam que a gente fica se roendo de vontade de ir espiar. Um dia não arrisiste, chega lá e
vê que é o pai da gente’” (277).
23. This notion of the correlation between the interruption of the peasant/communal order
not only as a topic but as a condition of possibility for the indigenist novel was put for-
ward by Antonio Cornejo Polar (Escribir en el aire 196–97).
Works Cited
Almeida, Alfredo Wagner Berno de. Jorge Amado, Política e Literatura: Um Estudo sobre a Tra-
jetória Inteletual de Jorge Amado. Contribuições em ciências sociais, 3. Rio de Janeiro: Cam-
pus, 1979.
Amado, Jorge. Cacau: Romance. Rio de Janeiro: Olympio, 1936.
———. Capitães da Areia. São Paulo: Martins, 1982.
———. Homens e Coisas do Partido Comunista. Rio de Janeiro: Horizonte,1946.
———. Hora da Guerra: A Segunda Guerra Mundial Vista da Bahia. Crônicas (1942–1944).
Ed. Myriam Fraga and Ilana Seltzer Goldstein. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras, 2008.
———. Jubiabá. São Paulo: Martins, 1965.
———. São Jorge dos Ilhéus. São Paulo: Martins, 1966.
———. Seara Vermelha. São Paulo: Martins, 1999.
———. Terras do Sem Fim. São Paulo: Martins, 1995.
———. Vida de Luiz Carlos Prestes, el caballero de la esperanza. Trans. Pompeu de Accioly
Borges. Buenos Aires: Claridad, 1942.
Assis Duarte, Eduardo de. Jorge Amado: Romance em Tempo de Utopia. Rio de Janeiro: Record,
1996.
Barthes, Roland. “El último escritor feliz.” Ensayos críticos. Trans. Carlos Pujol. Barcelona: Seix
Barral, 1967. 113–20.
Burns, Bradford. A History of Brazil. New York: Columbia UP, 1993.
Cerqueira, Nelson. A Política do Partido Comunista e a Questão do Realismo em Jorge Amado.
Coleção Casa de Palavras. Salvador: Fundação Casa de Jorge Amado, 1988.
Cornejo Polar, Antonio. Escribir en el aire: Ensayo sobre la heterogeneidad socio-cultural en las
literaturas andinas. Lima: Horizonte, 1994.
Dabove, Juan Pablo. “Bandidaje y experiencia de los límites de la razón letrada en José
Revueltas.” Revista de Crítica Literaria Latinoamericana 66 (2008): 77–93.
———. Nightmares of the Lettered City: Banditry and Literature in Latin America, 1816–1929.
Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 2007.
Dulles, John W. F. Brazilian Communism, 1935–1945: Repression during World Upheaval. Aus-
tin: U of Texas P, 1983.
Engels, Friedrich. The Condition of the Working Class in England in 1844. Ed. David McLellan.
Trans. Florence Kelley Wischnewetzky. London: Oxford UP, 1999.
———. The Peasant War in Germany. Trans. Moissaye J. Olgin. New York: International Pub-
lishers, 1926.
“Entrevista de Lampião em Juazeiro do Norte (Interview with Lampião in Juazeiro do Norte).”
Web. 18 Jan. 2010. http://forums.tibiabr.com/printthread.php?t=103926.
Facó, Rui. Cangaceiros e Fanáticos: Gênese e Lutas. Rio de Janeiro: Civilização Brasileira, 1972.
Guha, Ranajit. Elementary Aspects of Peasant Insurgency in Colonial India. New Delhi: Oxford
UP, 2002.
Hall, Stuart. “The Spectacle of the ‘Other.’” Representation: Cultural Representations and Signi-
fying Practices. Ed. Stuart Hall. London: Sage, 1997. 223–90.
Harding, Timothy F. “Critique of Vanden’s ‘Marxism and the Peasantry . . .’” Latin American
Perspectives 9.4 (1982): 99–106.
Harris, Richard L. “Marxism and the Agrarian Question in Latin America.” Latin American
Perspectives 5.4 (1978): 2–26.
Hobsbawm, Eric. Bandits. 4th ed. New York: Pantheon, 2000.
———. Primitive Rebels. New York: Norton, 1965.
———. “The Rules of Violence.” Revolutionaries: Contemporary Essays. New York: Random,
1973. 209–15.
Johnson, Allen W. Sharecroppers of the Sertão. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 1971.
Levine, Robert. The Vargas Regime: The Critical Years, 1934–1938. New York: Columbia UP,
1970.
Palamartchuk, Ana Paula. Os Novos Bárbaros: Escritores e Comunismo no Brasil (1928–1948).
Biblioteca Digital da Unicamp, 2003. Web. 18 Jan. 2010. http://libdigi.unicamp.br/
document/?code=vtls000296054.
Pereira de Queiroz, Maria Isaura. Os Cangaceiros: Les bandits d’honneur brésiliens. Paris: Julliard,
1968.
Pernambucano de Mello, Federico. Guerreiros do Sol: Violência e Banditismo no Nordeste do
Brasil. São Paulo: A Girafa, 2004.
Scott, James C. The Moral Economy of the Peasant: Rebellion and Subsistence in Southeast Asia.
New Haven: Yale UP, 1976.
———. Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance. New Haven: Yale UP, 1985.
Silva, Alberto. “O cangaceiro, herói do terceiro mundo.” Cultura 5.16 (1975): 13–20.
Souza, Paulo de. Seara Vermelha: Discurso Ideológico/Partidário e Suas Implicações no Estético.
Diss. U Federal de Alagoas, 2006.
Yarrington, Doug. A Coffee Frontier: Land, Society, and Politics in Duaca, Venezuela, 1830–
1936. Pittsburgh: U of Pittsburgh P, 1997.
CHAPTER 11
Utopia and the

Politics of Memory
Diana Sorensen
UNTIL RECENTLY, UTOPIAN THINKING WAS CONSIDERED CONTAMINATED because of its

association with totalitarianism. Now, however, we are beginning to find in the
notion of utopia a field of possibilities for future political and social imaginings that
share an initial break as a condition of possibility.1 Although it is a space word—after
all, utopia means no space—its power is more temporal than spatial. It is forward
looking; it elicits the work of prospection and the imagination. But it is also ready
to discard the present in a spirit of negative dialectics. Utopian thinking transcends
the constraints of the present and tries to build speculative bridges between critique
and vision. In that regard, it is unstably perched between nostalgia for a possible
golden age (lost in time) and the longing for reform or radical transformation, as
if to prospectively usher in a new time. In this sense, one could see it as heuristic,
as the impulse behind creative operations. I would argue that there is a productive
interplay between utopia and gloom in the post–World War II period—one that
was beautifully encapsulated by Gabriel García Márquez in his 1982 Nobel accep-
tance speech advocating for “a new and sweeping utopia of life” (qtd. in Draugsvold
153) in the face of the horrors of the past. In fact, utopian thinking—paradoxically
located in no place—is essential for the construction of the possible.
The prospective temporality of utopia is interestingly intertwined with the
backward-looking impulse of memory work. The violent events of the twentieth
century that Eric Hobsbawm has called The Age of Extremes (1998) led to a vast
effort to confront trauma in memory studies. Since the final decades of the last
century, this “memory boom” has become one of the most significant areas of
research in the cultural field. Andreas Huyssen has referred to this structure of
temporality in its backward-looking impulse as one in which “the future seems
to fold itself back into the past” (7). Trauma and memory studies have addressed
the effects of the Holocaust, apartheid, the Dirty Wars in the Southern Cone, and
genocidal conflicts in the old Yugoslavia and Rwanda.

226 Diana Sorensen
In contrast, my claim is that rather than emptying the future of its prospective
energy, memory work could be seen in productive dialogue with utopian impulses
that also found their birth in the violent events witnessed by the twentieth century.
More important, memory work signals the double temporality of utopian thinking,
which is one of the central claims I wish to advance here—namely, that utopia is to
be thought of not only as a signal of the space-time connection (a good place to be
created at a future time) but also as marked by a temporal break, a move away from
a certain condition (of pain, corruption, or repression), and toward a prospective
condition. One could even call utopia tropological in that it is a turn away from and
toward containing a negation in its affirmative, aspirational move. It is prospective
and proleptic: it anticipates and tries to usher in a condition to be realized, but only
as it negates. Utopia therefore tends to be marked by a double bind, which can help
explain its status more as a thought process than as a state.
Utopia between Liberation and Annihilation

To illustrate my claim, I will focus on two utopian impulses or moments and show
how they are characterized by the doubling of negation and affirmation, of past
and future. The first is located in Latin America, a continent that exemplifies the
ongoing, unstable balance between utopian impulses and traumatic memories. It
is the utopian sixties, which were ushered in by violent events (such as the Cuban
Revolution), and the postwar economic growth that made consumer society pos-
sible. In the 1960s, the ideological commitment to liberation engendered cultural
as well as political utopian movements predicated on a radical break. Such a break
implied an attempt to abolish the past and release a concomitant sense of futurity.
Imminence as possibility is central to the cultural and political imagination
of the sixties. In the vision of a possible world, not yet realized but about to
come, lived the belief that the fulfillment of a long-awaited and postponed future
was on its way, almost there, making its signs visible, hence ushering in a spirit
of celebration. The long period of colonialism and neocolonialism was seen as
reaching its end, so there was a sense of transition filled with the conviction that
the new was to be constructed, that a “new man” would emerge from a veritable
change of skin. Liberation as one of the key words of the day commanded a field
of meanings that was political but broadly cultural as well. It reached styles of
dress, sexual mores, intergenerational relationships, religious belief, and educa-
tional forms. In politics, the “old rigidities” of Marxism no longer held sway; in
the wake of Stalinism, the New Left sought renewed articulations of the critique
of capitalism, and even the left had to contend with the demands of liberation.
Sexual liberation and the women’s movement came on the scene partially aided
by the development of the contraceptive pill; they were impelled by the prevalent
questioning of established social roles and the drive to redress alienating regimes
of power. The Catholic Church underwent its own revisionary process in the six-
ties, as liberation theology was energized by a redemptive critical consciousness
that included politics. Revolution and Christianity took on a Latin American and
Third World inflexion in dialogue with Marxism with a commitment to embrace
action to change the plight of the poor. The 1968 Conference of Latin American
Bishops held in Medellín ended with a manifesto proclaiming the hour of action
Utopia and the Politics of Memory 227
in Latin America, of total emancipation, of liberation from subjection. Liberation

was given a theological valence and placed at the center of the Church’s mission.
And here we see the dual rhythm of imminence and retrospective critique: the
spirit of liberation went hand in hand with a denunciation of what existed. Old
forms were to be superseded and even destroyed in order to inaugurate the new.
There was, therefore, an oscillating rhythm between annihilation and construc-
tion, between visions that led to destruction and those that adumbrated liberation
on the personal and the collective levels. These general claims, voiced in North
America and Europe, took on a particularly intense form in Latin America, largely
on account of the Cuban Revolution. The success of the young revolutionaries who
made their way from Sierra Maestra to Havana between 1956 and 1959 surprised
the world and betokened culmination and possibility. For the young and those
on the left, Cuba became a sign of things to come, a force that might sweep the
southern part of the continent. This helps to explain the intensity of this decade in
Latin America, but in no way does it exhaust the complex causality that obtained in
the transnational order of the world in the sixties. The dialogue between the Latin
American and the metropolitan worlds is particularly fertile at this time, both in
the points they have in common as well as in its specificities. I would argue that
the Latin American difference is one of intensity, framed by the twin rhythms of
euphoria and despair. For even as the Cuban Revolution surprised the world, the
stark realities of the Cold War worked as the ultimate limit of the field of possibili-
ties.2 In other words, Latin America in the sixties encapsulates its predicament: a
moment of hope and celebration produced a sense of multiple possibilities only to
reach closure and disillusion in its culmination.
As I suggested, it would be misleading to assume that the sixties’ utopian ener-
gies galvanized only positive impulses. The very euphoria of creation brought
about a certain apocalyptic edge, an impulse to destroy what appeared to be out
of step with the times. And this is not exclusive to Latin America. One can detect
the same tension in the philosophical outlook of the Frankfurt School, whose
work began to be widely read in the sixties. Deeply marked by World War II, the
Frankfurt School philosophers thought in terms of the crisis of capitalism and of
the entire project of the Enlightenment. Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer’s
Dialektik der Aufklärung (Dialectic of Enlightenment), written in 1947, began to
circulate in translation in the 1960s; Herbert Marcuse’s Reason and Revolution, Eros
and Civilization, and One-Dimensional Man, written in the forties, fifties, and six-
ties respectively, reached more receptive audiences in the sixties when the horizon of
expectations was receptive to the kind of critical thinking that combined Marxism,
psychoanalysis, and traces of surrealism to proclaim the need for new social, politi-
cal, and cultural forms to be built on the ashes of the old ones. Marcuse’s work
called for a total transformation whose utopian character was psychic, political,
and cultural. It rested on the “Great Refusal”: a radical condemnation of a social
reality seen as repressive and the longing for a true, unalienated eros leading to
socially constructive forms. In France, Jean-Paul Sartre’s philosophy dealt with
the “unhappy consciousness” of modern man, trapped in a state of alienation.
The revolts of 1968 embraced this sense of crisis, and the revolutionaries con-
ceived of themselves as a cleansing force that began the systematic decentering
of the West. It is that very combination of crisis and creation that produced the
228 Diana Sorensen
conditions of possibility for the emergence of new kinds of thinking. A case in

point is Michel Foucault, whose work was able to find a receptive audience only
after the upheavals of the Algerian War and May 1968 (or so he claimed in a con-
versation with Duccio Trombadori).3 Until then, Foucault explains, it was met
with absolute indifference. Yet before the subject was proclaimed dead, the philo-
sophical outlook of the sixties held out hope for a real break in the continuum of
history and for the reconciliation of contradictions produced by diremption, the
split between man and nature. Spontaneity and enthusiasm went hand in hand
with the longing for transformation: in the condemnation of apathy and alien-
ation, everything pointed to the utopian energy of reinvention. But this energy
was both constructive and destructive. It sought the communal celebration of
the creative festival and of the abrogation of order, for order and the system were
linked to what Adorno and Horkheimer called the “nullity” of thought: “[A]s far
removed from reflective consideration of its own goal as are other forms of labor
under the pressure of the system” (85).
In keeping with my claim that utopian thinking is double voiced, I would sub-
mit that it was the very decried “system” that made this expansive utopian thinking
possible. As the utopian leap turned away from consumption, it remained subjected
to it. Here is a telling disjunction between the material and the symbolic worlds: it
was the economic bonanza of the postwar, bourgeois world that produced the social
context in which a new culture could flourish. Money and exchange came under
suspicion, but they constituted the conditions of possibility for the prevailing sense
of experimentation, artistic autonomy, and a generalized teleology of revolution.
These were the “golden years” of affluence and economic expansion in the West
that witnessed the rise of the transnational economy and the corporation, when
the industrial capitalist economies did extremely well on the basis of mass con-
sumption, employment, and regularly increasing incomes.4 Yet the economic boom
brought about a rise of expectations that could not be fully satisfied: demands were
greater than could be met, and a desire to rebel found abundant rhetorical and
semantic incentives in the ideology of crisis and liberation. An impatient longing
for a transfigured world stripped of the trammels of consumer society and the
established regime of power drew its energies from the very advanced capitalist
economy that produced stunning urban growth, new markets, and new consum-
ers. This is the contradictory logic of the system at that time. For about a decade,
the contradictions remained productive. Capitalism was to finance its own super-
session. A culture of critique and negativity postulated other possible worlds
about to rise from the ashes of the existing one—a world of liberated subjects
who would suture politics and culture, sexuality and play, celebration and work,
all as utopian avatars that shared a rejection of the established order in a new
regime of sociability.5 In the developed world, some theorists of “postindustrial
society” with connections to the New Left envisioned a future-oriented system of
modern living where aspirations for reform would achieve more communal forms
of economic and political organization, beyond work and scarcity.6
Who but the young could take on such an ambitious vision of destruction and
renewal? As the authority of age was devalorized, predecessors were displaced, and
youth as a generational category gained ascendancy. Although the early romantics
had given great shrift to the figure of the young man, it was not until the sixties
that the youth appeared as the carrier of power and innovation, overshadowing the
contestatory power of class.7 The young man or woman of the sixties was located
in a detached and privileged space that replaced the protocols of apprenticeship
of earlier times. In the urbanized economies of the fifties and sixties, occupations
demanded higher education: the modern economies called for planners, adminis-
trators, teachers, and technical experts. The university as a site of training was itself
the focus of contradictions as it entered a period of unprecedented expansion. It
was structured hierarchically as a system for the production and dissemination of
knowledge with faculty not only constructing programs of study but also deciding
on grades and requirements. But it was also the purveyor of critical thinking that
was to shake up existing structures of knowledge. Hence it provided the very stuff
unrest was made of: those who were being taught were set apart from the rest of
society, and they used the tools of analysis to launch a critique of the system, to
occupy the space in which that knowledge was transmitted, demanding a radical
transformation. The scale of the student population explosion exceeded what even
the most affluent economies were able to accommodate, and hence unrest had an
intellectual as well as a material basis (even physical, in the sense that existing build-
ings were unsuited to the numbers they had to house, and the sheer agglomeration
of students led to disturbances). Demands for emancipation and better conditions
went hand in hand with the desire to displace forefathers: youth was conceived as
the culmination of human development.8 In a way, this is inherent to the university
structure. The precondition for its critical power is precisely its separation from the
outer world. Regarding the Tlatelolco massacre, Octavio Paz captures the double
valence of this situation in El laberinto de la soledad (The Labyrinth of Solitude;
1950): “[D]uring the long years in which young men and women are isolated in
schools of higher education, they live under artificial conditions, half as privileged
recluses, half as dangerous irresponsibles” (222).
Yet, while seemingly detached from the economy, the young became a seg-
ment of brisk consumers identified by notions of style in dress, music, cosmetics,
and related tastes. Led horizontally by members of their peer group, they were
both optimistic and impatient, like the decade itself. The optimistic strain was
ambitious and expansive; the impatient one was expressed as a sense of bore-
dom, alienation, and in some cases, as the spirit of rebellion.9 James Dean,
Marlon Brando, and Ernesto Che Guevara incarnated a romantic messianism
that decried a world seen as dehumanized and longing for the utopian, purifying
force of revolution. And in the midst of such redemptive aspirations, one might
detect a different sense of community to come. This mood was often expressed in
sympathy and support for Algeria, Vietnam, and Palestine.
The Latin American inflection of the dominant fiction of this period registered
particular intensity: it was experienced as the long-awaited realization of histori-
cal struggles. The surprising triumph of the Cuban insurrection furnished regional
innovations to the general model of revolution, heightening the sense of emergent
regional power. For one thing, it was the achievement of political actors whose class
affiliations were heterogeneous and therefore unorthodox, encompassing the work-
ing and middle class, urban and rural, lettered and illiterate. They worked out a
foco theory particularly attuned to the specificities of the Latin American context. It
pointed to a different way—a way where radical political change might be generally
230 Diana Sorensen
conceived for future revolutionary endeavors. The young barbudos (bearded ones)
had triumphed by dint of their energy, their constant mobility, and their imagina-
tive reconfiguration of previous revolutionary programs.
For a while, it seemed that the Latin American time had come and that it could
affirm itself as a contributor to the innovative drive of the period. The region was
impatient and impassioned in its desire for contemporaneity with the metropolitan
center. It wanted to be not only up to date but also simultaneous and international.
Further, significant numbers of the middle class had a certain urgency to act on
feelings of compassion and solidarity with the downtrodden. I would claim many
groups in Latin America shared an anxious and at times optimistic sense of immi-
nence, of arrival about to take place or to be voluntaristically ushered in.
Such stirrings had their counterparts in the theoretical ferment of the day,
which might be characterized by various alterations of intellectual focus. In
Latin America and in the Third World, some books added to the impatience for
change. Such was the case of Frantz Fanon’s Les damnés de la terre (The Wretched of
the Earth; 1961) (bearing Sartre’s exalted preface suffused in a sense of impending
violence) and Eduardo Galeano’s Las venas abiertas de América Latina (Open Veins
of Latin America), which, although published in 1971, was true to the worldviews
of the sixties. Fanon and Galeano were less utopian than denunciatory, more
apocalyptic than prospective. But the very anger they inspired moved toward
destruction as well as the reinvention of a more just world order to be willed
into existence. Even more tempered interventions in the intellectual arena were
characterized by the rumblings of a shift from an established paradigm to an
emergent one: Sartre’s hegemony was beginning to lose ground to structural-
ist transformations of the field, such as Althusserian antihumanist Marxism, or
Claude Lévi-Strauss’s structuralist anthropology with its attack on Sartre’s histori-
cism and its proclaimed goal of “dissolving man.” The linguistic model was on
its way to becoming the general paradigm in the human sciences, from Jacques
Lacan to the study of textuality. Marxism had to face the needs of a new revolu-
tionary libido: in Europe the focus became less strategic than analytic, while in
the Third World it was channeled into clandestine movements that appropriated
Marxist theory into their own versions.10 It was as if the last flaring up of Marxism
as a theory of society and of revolutionary action produced an outburst of intense
energy. Yet even in the heat of the emancipatory rhetoric of the 1968 student
movements, one can detect the power of a cultural politics moving away from
the strictly political projects of earlier decades. Such an investment in innovation
contained not only exceptional creativity but also the seeds of its own superses-
sion, which is one of a number of reasons why the decade’s utopian verve came
to an end in the early seventies. While the ferment lasted, it was characterized by
an intense investment in the future and the cultural dimensions of the political.
This is particularly clear in the “boom” novels, whose ambitious sweep culmi-
nated in apocalyptic endings that meant to annihilate defunct social and political
worlds—from the bourgeois family to the neocolonial nation state—all in the
sweep of an aesthetics of explosion. Witness the end of Cien años de soledad (One
Hundred Years of Solitude; 1967), which is only an exacerbated version of the end
of La muerte de Artemio Cruz (The Death of Artemio Cruz; 1962), Pedro Páramo
(1955), La casa verde (The Green House; 1965), or El obceno pájaro de la noche
(The Obscene Bird of Night; 1970).
Adorno’s aesthetic theory captures the specific qualities of the relationship
between culture and society as it played out at that time. For in Adorno, art’s
redemptive promise retains its transformative power and its intimations of tran-
scendence, relying on critical analysis as well as the power to produce apparitions
through images that work as explosions. The logic he works with has the quali-
ties that characterize the decade itself, paradoxically intense and evanescent: “If
it holds true that the subjective rationality of means and ends—which is par-
ticular and thus in its innermost irrational—requires spurious irrational enclaves
and treats art as such, art is nevertheless the truth of society insofar as in its
most authentic products the irrationality of the rational order is expressed. In art,
denunciation and anticipation are syncopated” (Aesthetic Theory 84).
The rhythm between denunciation and anticipation that Adorno assigns to
art is at the root of its creative potential, and it is akin to the structure of utopian
power that I have been delineating, for the explosive Adornian apparitions were
created in the wake of destruction.
Utopia between Memory and Anticipation

The second utopian movement I will touch on briefly lies between memory and
the future. As noted, memory studies have played a valuable role when thinking
through the traumatic events of the twentieth century, many of them related to
human rights violations. Huyssen states that they have relied on a structure of
temporality where “the future seems to fold itself back into the past” (8). And he
adds, “The jumble of the non-synchronous, the recognition of temporal differ-
ence in the real world clashes dramatically with the draining of time in the world
of information and data banks” (8).
Instead, reading the 1948 Universal Declaration of Human Rights takes us to
the space of utopia, much in the spirit of Oscar Wilde’s statement that “[a] map of
the world that does not include Utopia is not even worth glancing at, for it leaves
out the one country at which Humanity is always landing” (141). Landing at the
Declaration helps pull us out of the twilight of memory into the future. It opens
up the space of the imagination that the humanities are bent on exploring. Here is
a different move for the tropology of utopian thinking, turning from memory to
prospection, from a focus on loss and suffering to the hope for things to come. The
utopia projected by the human rights imaginary would be a social organization that
recognizes and protects the existential integrity of people expressed in their imagi-
nary domain. Human rights can fill the nonplace of the postmodern utopia by
generating considerable political and moral energy. Reading some of the articles in
the 1948 Declaration is like landing on those inevitable shores of Wilde’s witticism.
Article 27, as we know, proclaims the right to “participate in the cultural life of the
community, to enjoy the arts and share in scientific advancement and its benefits”;
Article 26 envisages education as promoting “understanding, tolerance and friend-
ship among all nations, racial or religious groups,” while Article 24 declares that
“everyone has the right to rest and leisure.”
232 Diana Sorensen
The utopian impulse of the Declaration of Human Rights comes immediately

out of the horrors of the Holocaust and World War II. It turned away from a
world of murder and destruction in order to try to fashion a better world that
Ulrich Beck would call a “horizontal cosmopolitanism in which no state had
imperial power” (162). This utopian mindset engages in a kind of counterfactual
thinking poised for a future to be constructed. We might call it “as if ” thinking:
it is not aligned with history as fate, but with the potential of the future. In the
aspiration of friendship, understanding, and tolerance we see an ethics of mutual
encounter that allows us to accede to personhood and the affective realm.
Just as the Declaration of Human Rights tends to move us away from memory
and toward an aspirational ethics of the future, it stands in a relationship of produc-
tive tension (perhaps contradiction) vis-à-vis postmodern thinking and the politics
of our times. The death of the subject I referred to earlier (as proclaimed by the intel-
lectual heirs of Karl Marx, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Sigmund Freud) has actually
been accompanied in the public sphere (especially since 1989) by the reclaiming of
the individual as the triumphant center of our political world. It is clear in identity
and identity-related politics, in the desire to return to a pristine condition of self-
hood and presumed individual freedom. This is a productive paradox: philosophy
and critical theory insist on the social (even discursive) construction of the subject
even as we return to the first acknowledgment of the sovereignty of the individual
formulated in early modernity. The humanistic disciplines are well suited to the
challenges of paradoxical thinking, especially when it comes to literature, which
constructs the flesh and blood world of desire and idiosyncrasy in rhetoric, charac-
ter, and form. In fact, I would contend that human rights thinking finds a powerful
form of expression in those novels that stage the contradictions between the indi-
vidual and the social, the abstract human being of the law and the fleshed-out
character of fiction; the negotiation between desire and the law, and the fragile hope
that there can be resolution to the difference between personal and social identity,
and between the individual and the communal.
I will close with a cautionary note: the turn to utopian thinking as it obtains in
the discourse of human rights entails the risk that the global imposition of the human
rights regime might end up justifying interventions that can be considered illegal or
imperialistic (as some may view the “war on terror” against Iraq and Afghanistan, for
example). Such a risk would be averted by the creation of a regime of international law
that would safeguard interventions that emanated from imperialistic designs. It is no
accident that the Universal Declaration of Human Rights is closely connected with
the creation of the United Nations, which sought to avoid a hegemonic power. Here
again, the turn away from such a perceived risk would set the utopian trope to work as
it aspires to concomitantly avoid and advance, destroy and build, turn away and turn
toward, in an ongoing double movement that defines it.
Notes
1. See, for example, Hudson.
2. Jean Franco’s remarkable 2002 book, The Decline and Fall of the Lettered City, is the most
comprehensive study of the period from the 1930s to the 1990s and could be considered
the continuation of her important earlier literary histories, The Modern Culture of Latin
America: Society and the Artist, published in 1967, and An Introduction to Latin American
Literature, which appeared in 1969. I cannot think of a more powerful account of the rela-
tionships between Latin American culture and the ever-present tensions of the Cold War
environment. Unlike Franco, I have focused on a smaller historical sweep, framing my work
not only within the stretch of one decade but also along the organizing principle of the scene
or productive moment as exemplary of the imbrication of material and symbolic forces.
3. See Foucault. This French philosopher and historian of ideas develops the notion that
between 1968 and 1970 France was in the midst of intense changes: facing the end of the
colonial period, there was dissensus on the left and on the right since the Communist Party’s
adherence to the anticolonial struggles in Algeria was at best ambivalent. Foucault claims
that this was the time when it was important to find a new vocabulary for the right and for
the left: “Certainly it wasn’t easy to formulate this new critical position, precisely because the
right vocabulary was missing, given that no one wanted to take up the one formulated with
categories of the right” (111). It is in this sense that crisis and creation were intertwined.
4. For an overview of the extraordinary economic expansion that took place between the
fifties and the early seventies, see Hobsbawm 257–86. Although the developed capitalist
economies were the ones that could consider these years truly golden, the then-called
Third World also witnessed profound economic changes during this period, marked
among other factors by a dramatic move to urban centers in what Hobsbawm calls “the
death of the peasantry.” For an account of the growth of corporations, see Galbraith 75–
90. According to Galbraith, their most dramatic growth in America occurred between
1955 and 1974.
5. Daniel Bell’s now classic The Cultural Contradictions of Capitalism pointed to another
contradiction of the times: it was the disjunction between how in advanced capitalism,
the corporate world encourages hedonistic consumption even as it relies on a work ethic
dependent upon the postponement of gratification.
6. For more on this, see Bell, “The Post-Industrial Society” 44–59; Teodori, The New
Left 90; and Touraine, La société post-industrielle (The Post-Industrial Society) 220–22.
According to Rick Wolff, publications such as the Monthly Review magazine and books
such as Paul A. Baran and Paul M. Sweezy’s Monopoly Capital: An Essay on the American
Economic and Social Order (1966), Andre Gunder Frank’s Capitalism and Underdevel-
opment in Latin America (1967), and Ernest Mandel’s two-volume Marxist Economic
Theory (1968) “did much to put an explicitly Marxian economic analysis back on the
intellectual map of Americans” (329).
7. Totalitarian (most notably, fascist) regimes had worked on the ideological seduction of
youth in their rallies and marches, but it was not until the sixties that the category of
youth occupied the predominant place in the political and cultural imaginary of an era.
8. Edgar Morin has developed the notion of youth as a new historical actor reaching ascen-
dancy in the middle of the twentieth century—not as a social class but as a new class of
age. Previous incarnations of this human type (Athenian youths, medieval scholars, the
suffering Werther) would be notable predecessors; but, unlike them, the youth of the
sixties were not marginal. Morin identifies several reasons for the ascendancy of youth
at this time, including the lengthening of education, the liberalization of families and
educational institutions, and the accelerating rhythms of change (technological, cultural,
social), which fostered an ideology privileging youth and speed. As Morin notes, “Le
sage vieillard est devenu le petit vieux retraité; l’homme mûr, le croulant [The wise old
man became the retired little old man; the mature man, the crumbling man]” (178); the
translation is by the author. It is also the decade when Erik H. Erikson worked out the
notion of the identity crisis of youth as the crucial time in a human being’s development.
See his Young Man Luther; for a discussion of another “class of age” that also deals with
generational categories, see also Ariès.
234 Diana Sorensen
9. The sense of alienated youth is admirably captured in Michelangelo Antonioni’s 1966

Blow Up, whose main character (played by David Hemmings) is both immersed in the
speed of the swinging London and almost paralyzed by a detached sense of alienation
from his feverish surroundings.
10. For more on the European avatars of Marxism in the second half of the twentieth cen-
tury, see Perry Anderson’s In the Tracks of Historical Materialism, which discusses the
movement’s crisis and its relationship to the “double disappointment” of the Chinese
and West European alternatives to the disastrous Soviet regime.
Works Cited
Adorno, Theodor W. Aesthetic Theory. Ed. and trans. Robert Hullot-Kentor. Minneapolis: U
of Minnesota P, 1997.
Adorno, Theodor W. and Max Horkheimer. Dialectic of Enlightenment. Trans. John Cumming.
New York: Continuum, 1999.
Anderson, Perry. In the Tracks of Historical Materialism. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1984.
Ariès, Philippe. L’enfant et la vie familiale sous l’Ancien Régime. Paris: Tlon, 1960.
Beck, Ulrich. Cosmopolitan Vision. Cambridge, UK: Polity, 2008.
Bell, Daniel. The Cultural Contradictions of Capitalism. New York: Basic, 1976.
———. “The Post-Industrial Society.” Technology and Social Change. Ed. Eli Ginzberg. New
York: Columbia UP, 1964. 44–59.
Blow Up. Dir. Michelangelo Antonioni. DVD. Warner Home Video, 2004.
Draugsvold, Ottar G., ed. Nobel Writers on Writing. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2000.
Erikson, Erik H. Young Man Luther: A Study in Psychoanalysis and History. New York: Norton,
1962.
Foucault, Michel. Remarks on Marx: Conversations with Duccio Trombadori. Trans. R. James
Goldstein and James Cascaito. New York: Semiotext(e), 1991.
Franco, Jean. The Decline and Fall of the Lettered City: Latin America in the Cold War. Cam-
bridge, MA: Harvard UP, 2002.
Galbraith, John K. The New Industrial State. 3rd ed. Boston: Houghton, 1978.
Hobsbawm, Eric. The Age of Extremes: A History of the World, 1914–1991. New York: Pan-
theon, 1994.
Hudson, Wayne. The Reform of Utopia. Aldershot, UK: Ashgate, 2008.
Huyssen, Andreas. Twilight Memories: Marking Time in a Culture of Amnesia. New York: Rout-
ledge, 1995.
Morin, Edgar. L’esprit du temps. Paris: Grasset, 1962.
Paz, Octavio. The Labyrinth of Solitude and Other Writings. Trans. Lysander Kemp, Yara Milos,
and Rachel Phillips Belash. New York: Grove, 1985.
Teodori, Massimo. The New Left: A Documentary History. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1969.
Touraine, Alain. The Post-Industrial Society. Trans. Leonard F. X. Mayhew. New York: Random,
1971.
Wilde, Oscar. “The Soul of Man under Socialism.” The Soul of Man under Socialism and
Selected Critical Prose. Ed. Linda Dowling. London: Penguin, 2001. 125–60.
Wolff, Rick. “Economics.” The 60s Without Apology. Ed. Sohnya Sayres et al. Minneapolis: U
of Minnesota P, 1984. 329–30.
CHAPTER 12
The Innocent Eye

Children’s Perspectives on the
Utopias of the Seventies (O Ano
em que Meus Pais Saíram de
Férias, Machuca, and Kamchatka)
Rita De Grandis
Introduction
IN LATIN AMERICA, THE POLITICAL AND CULTURAL atmosphere of the 1960s and
1970s was marked by the Cuban Revolution (1959) and was characterized by a
series of Marxist-led movements. Within an inter-American context, while U.S.
Cold War politics became harsher as protests against the Vietnam War grew in size
and intensity, the resurgence of Cold War politics dismantled leftist movements
and governments in Latin America. This was achieved by supporting military
dictatorships under the prompting of the Doctrine of National Security devised
by the U.S. Department of Defense. A wave of repressive military governments
began in Brazil in 1964, followed by Argentina in 1966, and then Uruguay and
Chile in 1973, with a recurrence in Argentina in 1976.
Now, at the outset of the twenty-first century—three or four decades after the
leftist attempts at social change and the repressive regimes that followed—the
Latin American movie industry is revisiting that era with new representations of
the events that indelibly marked those affected by the incidents that triggered the
disappearance, death, and imprisonment of thousands of people. I am interested
in reexamining this period of post–New Latin American cinema, in relation to
the intersection of leftist politics and aesthetic tendencies, in view of the prevalent
conditions of cultural production in cinema and the uses of cinema to inform
history, including gender models. Three commercial films are particularly rel-
evant for this case: O Ano em que Meus Pais Saíram de Férias (The Year My Parents

236 Rita De Grandis
Went on Vacation; 2006), Machuca (2004), and Kamchatka (2002).1 Each features
a male child protagonist who recalls the story of his parents’ experiences amid
the political turmoil of the late 1960s and early 1970s. The child or adolescent
protagonist, is emplotted within the conventions of the narrative genre of Bil-
dungsroman and, to a certain extent, the road film genre. In these movies, the
hero’s coming of age results from his crossing class and ethnic boundaries in a
journey of sorts that is a rite of passage to adulthood, which brings a realization
of the constraints of an unbending social, class, and cultural order. This voyage of
self-discovery allows for the disclosure of the “biographical time of the character,”
which for Mikhail Bakhtin does not necessarily lead to “a real change” or “becom-
ing” in historical reality but rather to a “fulfillment” in the sense of accomplishing
something that was “sketched at the very outset,”2 rendering biographical time
normative and pedagogical (Bakhtin 141–42). Indeed, according to this critic,
“[The] chronotope of the road permits everyday life to be realized within it. But
this life is, so to speak, spread out along the edge of the road itself, and along the
side roads. The main protagonist and the major turning points of his life are to be
found outside everyday life” (121).
Our hypothesis is that the technique of taking a child’s eye view, with all its
aesthetic and psychological possibilities, functions as a trope to recreate—in an
apparently uncomplicated fashion—the time and place of those tragic years of fratri-
cide in national histories. The child’s perspective renders that traumatic past simpler
and more palatable for transnational and national audiences, contributing to the
official discourses that stigmatize and occlude this past so as to foster democratic
cohesion.3 In these films, the painful history of leftist politics and military interven-
tion is evoked through the experience of a child who has a limited understanding of
what his parents are going through. Because of the protagonist’s age and innocence,
this perspective does not present his parents’ involvement as an object of reflection
or criticism on how their struggles affected the child’s own emotional development
and understanding. Nor does it allow for full consideration of institutionalized
discourses on memory and history; rather, it affirms hegemonic processes of social
construction of memory and history. From an aesthetic perspective, these films work
within the conventions of aesthetic realism combined with elements of melodrama
(Kamchatka) or the aesthetic and ideology of costumbrismo—that is, the depiction of
regional customs (O Ano em que Meus Pais Saíram de Férias and Machuca)—that rely
heavily on the imagery of Hollywood cinematographic representations.
Ethnicity as a Site of Safety

O Ano em que Meus Pais Saíram de Férias (or O Ano) is the story of an 11-year-old
boy, Mauro (Michel Joelsas), an only child of a middle-class couple from Belo
Horizonte. Mauro is the son of a Jewish father and a Catholic mother who must
suddenly go “on vacation” (a euphemism for going underground due to political
repression). They promise Mauro they will return in time for the beginning of the
World Cup, and tell the child that in the meantime he will live with his grandfa-
ther. As fate has it, though, Mauro ends up alone, since while they are on their way
to São Paulo, Mauro’s grandfather suddenly dies, and Mauro is left stranded at the
The Innocent Eye 237
door of the old man’s apartment in the Jewish neighborhood of Bom Retiro. From
this moment on, his destiny falls into the hands of a next-door neighbor, Shlomo
(Germano Haiut), who in close consultation with his religious community, takes
pity on him and decides to take care of the boy as if commanded by the Bible. At
first, Shlomo looks after Mauro only reluctantly, but slowly he becomes immersed
in the situation. Shlomo takes risks in trying to find out where Mauro’s parents
are, and finally brings back his mother, a torture survivor, but not the father, whose
destiny is left unstated—leaving Mauro and the viewer with the certainty that he
has succumbed to the violence of political repression.
While waiting for his parents to return, Mauro lives a double life. On the
one hand, he is consumed with anguish over his parents’ sudden absence; on
the other, he tries to carry on with the life of a normal child. He is absorbed—as
all kids are—in collecting figures of soccer players, with the Soccer World Cup,
and with Brazil’s number one star, Pele, the pride of all Brazil. Mauro learns how
to live in this new city and neighborhood and becomes acquainted with Jewish
traditions, makes new friends, discovers first love, and is also confronted with the
harsh reality of political repression.
The time frame is 1970, as announced after the credits and before the film’s
first sequence, and is accompanied by the caption: “It was 1970, man had just vis-
ited the moon and Pele scored his thousandth goal. Nevertheless, the year began
in low spirits: the Cold War was in full swing, totalitarian regimes threatened
democracy and in Brazil things were hardly any different.”4
This is all the historical context the viewer gets; the representation of the
Brazilian totalitarian regime is but vaguely interspersed throughout the film. It
appears in the beginning as an image of an army truck carrying soldiers that the
family encounters when they are on their way to São Paulo, and in the anxiety
and incessant smoking of both parents before they leave Mauro at his grandfa-
ther’s place. Subsequently, toward the end in the film’s most explicit scene, Mauro
is faced with a direct view of repression when he watches soldiers on horses beat
students and then returns home to find Italo, a student who knows his father, in
hiding and wounded.
From a formal point of view, O Ano is an example of costumbrismo. Mauro
is introduced to Jewish customs and mores: in a synagogue, on the streets, and
at Shlomo’s home. It could be said that Mauro is saved by the care of the Jewish
community because Shlomo’s problem—of not knowing what to do with a child
that has landed on his doorstep—is in the end a community issue: Mauro, much
to his embarrassment, is given a yarmulke (skullcap) to wear at his grandfather’s
funeral and Shlomo calls him Moishale; Shlomo is surprised when he discov-
ers that Mauro is not circumcised and calls him a goy; and Shlomo and other
members of the community speak Yiddish. However, it is not only the Jewish
community that is involved but rather all of Bom Retiro, a multicultural neigh-
borhood where harmony reigns. Bom Retiro is depicted as a melting pot in which
Jews and Italians live in amicable coexistence, particularly through soccer, where
even ethnic jokes are expressed. Italo is of Italian origin and Irene, the girl who
works in the neighborhood bar/coffee shop, is of Greek extraction. This ethnicity
is fundamentally neo-European; only one character is of African descent—Irene’s
238 Rita De Grandis
boyfriend, who is a goalie for one of the Bom Retiro teams and who becomes
Mauro’s role model for future aspirations. Thus the city of São Paulo5 and the
Bom Retiro neighborhood constitute a major character in the film, showcasing
a multicultural and multiethnic urban center. In this neighborhood, Mauro is
inducted into amorous fantasies with Hanna (Daniela Piepszyk), a young Jewish
neighbor who protects and introduces him to the other children of the com-
munity; and with Irene, the older woman from the coffee shop whose attentions
awake Mauro’s fantasies, particularly to show prowess in front of the group of
boys gathered around little Hanna—the devil of the group.
THE LONGING PROTAGONIST: “EXILE IS FATHER BEING ALWAYS LATE”
The lonely Mauro tells the story, and most of it is narrated through a voice-over,
which has a didactic function in that it connects the story to a previous past—it
is the voice of the recollection of past events and is the fundamental voice of the
structure of the story. This voice-over evokes and constructs that past as it has
been transformed by the work of memory. Also, this voice has autobiographical
consequences regarding the experiences and discourse of the director—in this
film as in the others this study examines.
The film’s first sequence introduces a domestic family scene: while the mother
is anxiously waiting for a phone call and for her husband to return home, Mauro
is playing tabletop soccer with toys, focusing on the net and the goalkeeper; he
says, “According to my dad, in soccer everyone is allowed mistakes, except the
goalkeeper. They are different from other players. They spend their lives standing
there all alone . . . expecting the worst.”
This voice-over is a prolepsis of Mauro’s future as someone standing alone in
the world and expecting the worst in light of his parents’ sudden departure. The
position of goalkeeper becomes a larger metaphor for Mauro’s life situation as the
story unfolds and the viewer is introduced to the plot dynamics. Soon afterward,
the father arrives and he leaves for São Paulo with his wife; Mauro’s voice-over
warns, “While everyone else had doubts about the squad’s chances, my father was
sure 1970 would be Brazil’s year at the World Cup. But everything was so weird;
even I started having doubts.”
These doubts about the unexpected holiday of Mauro’s parents, precisely
when he was supposed to prepare for exams, announce the next cataclysm—his
grandfather’s death. At the burial, the voice-over tells us, “My father used to say
grandfather was very stubborn and never late, and my mother used to say my
dad was stubborn and always late. But my mother said they were both stubborn,
which is why they never met. And the day my father arrived on time, it was too
late. My father was right; Grandpa was never late, not even when dead.”
Interestingly, here the leitmotif of the father always being late starts to acquire
political overtones in a roundabout way that is related to mythmaking. It will
become Mauro’s pet word for his life lessons in a rather twisted or distorted way
in that, in the innocent mind of this child, the longing for his parents’ sudden
and inexplicable absence becomes more acute in face of the deception of the
father’s broken promise to return just in time for the Soccer World Cup. Mauro’s
immediate experience evolves around soccer (playing and watching), coping

with a surrogate father figure, Shlomo, and his Jewish habits. When Shlomo and
Mauro are on good terms, Mauro as narrator reminisces, “Time went by. The
World Cup was upon us, and no sign of my parents . . . I suffered every day at
breakfast and dinner at Shlomo’s place. But at least now lunch was somewhere
different every day.” (He was invited by Shlomo’s friends every day to a differ-
ent house.) When the day of the game comes, the narrator says, “That day took
too long to arrive.” Then, when playing soccer with Hanna, he says, “According
to dad, in soccer everyone is allowed mistakes, except the goalkeeper. Save it! I
wonder if he had any idea I’d become a goalkeeper. Or maybe he already knew.”
Mauro’s infantile psyche, now an adult reflecting on that period and experi-
ence, understands his father’s deception in a detoured manner by recourse to
an ellipsis in which the political reason of his father’s absence is never uttered;
instead, the child absolves the father/hero’s wrongdoings through an analogy with
soccer. In sport as in life, people (men) make mistakes but they don’t stain the
supreme authority and legitimacy of the father. Rather, the goalkeeper comes
to express by displacement the myth of a father who, although a fallen figure at
times, remains unvanquished in the kingdom of childhood.
The film’s final sequence has Mauro saying, when leaving Shlomo’s, “And that is
what 1970 was like. Brazil won the World Cup for the third time. And not really
understanding how I ended up becoming what is called an exile. I think exile means
having a dad who is so amazingly late that he ends up never making it home again.”
The juxtaposition of a father who never returns home and exile, as the work of
childhood memories, leaves Mauro unaffected by his parents’ traumatic experi-
ence. To resolve the father’s disappearance and the mother’s torture, by recourse
to a personal trait of his father’s character, empties the word exile of its political
content. Besides, exile designates a situation that is not inferred from the story
the viewer has seen, but rather it is a pun to inject some political content. In so
doing, the film ends in an exemplary manner for Mauro’s coming-of-age narra-
tive: he has managed to overcome a difficult period in his life thanks to Shlomo’s
care and community empathy. That is to say, a good life lesson for a boy—whose
childhood was touched by politics—is the moral and emotional value that this
experience has taught him.
These qualities are stressed cinematographically by resorting to a light blue filter
that creates a dreamy or misty visual effect, altering the sharp colors of the images
and giving them an aura of nostalgia. The filter involves the viewer’s emotions and
thoughts, enhancing the emotiveness of Mauro’s story. In fact, toward the end of
the film, Shlomo and Mauro have a picture taken at a park dated “22/6/1970”—a
snapshot of that very special year in Mauro’s life—which, in Walter Benjamin’s
opinion, freezes a time adding one more vignette to the “search for lost time.”6
Class Struggle as Broken Friendship

Machuca is the story of a friendship between two boys of about 11 to 13 years
old from two different social classes: Gonzalo Infante (Matías Quer) and Pedro
Machuca (Ariel Mateluna). Both boys live in Santiago, Chile; Gonzalo in an
240 Rita De Grandis
upper-class neighborhood and Pedro in a población (shantytown). The time

frame given before the first sequence of the film is the emblematic year 1973:
specifically, as a caption states, the last weeks of Salvador Allende’s socialist gov-
ernment prior to the coup d’état.7 In the midst of these turbulent times, Gonzalo
and Pedro meet at Saint Patrick’s, a private religious school run on British lines.
Thanks to the initiative of its headmaster, Father McEnroe (Ernesto Malbrán),
and the support of some parents, this school establishes a program to integrate
poor kids from the shantytowns in an attempt to bridge the gap between rich and
poor by teaching respect for one another. Saint Patrick’s (like Gonzalo’s house) is
situated in an upper-class Santiago neighborhood. A genuine relationship devel-
ops between these two introverted boys who, through their interaction, discover
each other’s private worlds, their flagrant differences in wealth and ideologies,
as well as in their family relationships. One day their friendship abruptly comes
to an end—with the September 11, 1973, coup d’état and the strife that tears
the country apart—each returning to his own social world. The film ends in
an exemplary manner in more than one sense. At a collective level, it is a lesson
showing that the utopian attempt to bridge the gap between rich and poor, exem-
plified by Saint Patrick’s educational program, does not work; the differences are
too entrenched to allow for reconciliation. At the individual level, it is a lesson
for Gonzalo, who becomes aware of his class and the privileges that it entails, and
learns of the violence and deprivation imposed on those on the margins. Thus,
in this roundabout way, Gonzalo returns home protected by wealth and privilege
but conscious of the damage that his class has done to the poor, while Machuca
is left suspended in the uncertainties of the Augusto Pinochet regime. In this
ending encoded in liberal individualism,8 the hero is redeemed and “order” has
been restored. Gonzalo, with hair pressed back as the military requires, accepts
the new rules of the status quo, accompanying his stepfather who reads a news-
paper with the headline: “FIFA [The International Federation of Association
Football] informed the world that life in Chile is normal.” The historical markers
of Allende’s times are explicit: the disruption of food supplies, the black market,
class struggle, and political turmoil are shown through successive demonstrations
on the streets of Santiago, in repudiation or in support of Allende’s government.
The black market and the alarming signs of social division clearly distinguish the
two camps: the poor and the rich, the fair-skinned and the dark, the nationalists
and the socialists or communists. Women from the upper and middle classes
march on the streets of Santiago or drive in their cars banging pots and pans—the
cacerolazos—and a patriotic group (Patria y Libertad [Fatherland and Freedom])
appears, among whom is Gonzalo’s sister’s aggressive boyfriend, who, with a kind
of whip, performs aggressive martial art movements while shouting “Down with
the communists.” On the other side of the divide, Gonzalo and Pedro, along
with a female neighbor of Pedro’s, Silvana (Manuela Martelli), and her father—
depicted as a pícaro character—playfully amuse themselves by selling the flags
and badges of both political parties.
Against this background, the adventures of Gonzalo and Pedro traverse sharply
distinct and insurmountable geographical, political, and class boundaries. At
the beginning, the relationship between the two boys is not fluid, but soon it
transforms into a solid and singular friendship. When Pedro is integrated into
Father McEnroe’s pilot educational project—representing the possibility of a class-
less society—he is exposed to the world of the middle and upper classes, and he has
to fight to gain respect in this new symbolic and social territory that is the school.
This is shown when Pedro is seated behind Gonzalo after a blond boy, Gastón
Robles (Sebastián Trautmann), is told to move. Gastón, annoyed by such a change,
provokes the marginalized boys by demanding that Pedro return to his seat. After-
ward, at the break, Gastón tries to aggravate Gonzalo by taking his sandwich from
him and sharing it with others. Pedro takes the initiative to defend Gonzalo from
the bully and a bond of friendship is formed between these two boys, which will
grow stronger with the new experiences and worlds to which they introduce each
other—thus conceding Father McEnroe’s project in social engineering.
The boys visit each other’s contrasting homes and neighborhoods, and together
venture into the city center. As Pedro and Gonzalo bridge these social, geographi-
cal, and symbolic spaces, they gain awareness of the great divide. The two boys’
friendship functions as a broader metaphor for what Chilean society is experienc-
ing in terms of rapprochement (reconciliation) and hostility, or integration and
separation. Pedro and Gonzalo will become inseparable buddies, crossing by bicy-
cle (Gonzalo’s) the borders of their respective neighborhoods—from luxury to a
hut in a slum. They are also initiated into erotic foreplay by Silvana (referred to as
“cousin”). She takes a can of condensed milk that Gonzalo gets in the black mar-
ket—an object of desire for her and Pedro—and with this sweet milk on her lips,
she starts a sensual kissing session alternating between Gonzalo and then Pedro.
But toward the end of the film, Father McEnroe’s utopian project starts to
break down when the pigs from the farm situated in the schoolyard begin dying
off. The experimental project had been put in place by Father McEnroe to initi-
ate the rich pupils into agricultural tasks so that they could learn how to actively
participate in the financial support of the school and experience by themselves
what it is to work, usually a line of activity reserved for poor people.9 The parents
meet at the school and voice different opinions in support and in condemnation
of Father McEnroe’s plan. The exclusive private school, where a progressive priest
has allowed for the integration of Pedro and other kids from marginal neighbor-
hoods, is contrasted with the virulent attack from the parents, the school’s final
takeover by the army, and the terminating of Father McEnroe’s tenure. The film
ends with the coup and the violent raid on Pedro’s shantytown, where he wit-
nesses the killing of “cousin” Silvana and the destruction of their shacks. Thus the
interlude of rapprochement through education and friendship is broken, and each
boy returns to his assigned place in the class hierarchy.
THE PROTAGONIST AS OBSERVER
Who tells the story and how? Contrary to what the title suggests, Pedro Machuca
is not the story’s main protagonist—not at least from his own point of view.
Through a prolepsis, the film’s initial sequence mixed with the credits presents
various shots of a boy’s clothing: a pair of small hands buttoning a white shirt,
tucking it into white underwear, zipping up his pants, fixing his tie, putting on a
242 Rita De Grandis
sweater and finally a blazer with the embroidered initials S.P.10 These synechdo-
chic pieces foreground the protagonist in specifically significant ways: innocence,
class, and education, all pointing to a boy of school age who attends a private
school—Gonzalo Infante. The viewer is misled; because of the title Machuca,11
the expectation is that Pedro will tell his own story. Through the inversion of
names, it is Gonzalo Infante instead of Pedro Machuca who is in charge of the
narration of telling Pedro’s story, or rather, his own process of class and political
awareness through the fortuitous encounter with Pedro. Thus the viewer learns
Pedro’s story through the eyes of Gonzalo. It is Gonzalo’s gaze that prevails; his
gray melancholia is the screen through which the viewer gets to know these two
boys. Gonzalo will open himself to a new world: one that he never imagined, full
of deprivation, but also one full of feelings, sensations, and experiences. In this
traditional plot development of the Bildungsroman genre, the hero is a white,
middle-class, and Christian male. The rich redheaded and freckled boy tells the
story of his early adolescent years in which, thanks to his friendship with Pedro
Machuca—a poor dark boy with a drunkard father and a battered mother—, he
is able to come out of his loneliness and confront a world otherwise unknown to
him. It is Gonzalo who in telling his own story reveals Machuca’s social world.
By inverting the protagonism of Pedro’s voice despite the deceiving title, the film
reaches wide national and transnational audiences. Had the darker boy Machuca
told his own story, what might it have been? Possibly something other than the
one presented by Gonzalo. Would Machuca have had the same reception and
popularity? Had the poor, darker boy told his own version of the story, the film
would probably not have broken box-office records. Even their last names are
class markers. When Gonzalo’s sister’s boyfriend asks for Pedro’s last name and
he replies “Machuca,” the boyfriend makes fun of this last name, which does not
have the upper-class pedigree as “Infante” does. In fact, as its etymology confirms,
Machuca semantically carries a negative connotation: it is a name indicative of
pejorative Spanish attitudes toward the Moors.12 The double Gonzalo-Pedro
protagonism as hierarchically represented ideologically whitens Machuca’s story,
neutralizing the implicit classism and racism that underlie the characters’ portray-
als. By this rhetorical artifice the film not only becomes palatable for transnational
and national audiences (considered the most successful movie in the history of
Chilean cinema) but in so doing takes the focus away from a more political treat-
ment of classism and racism. What is clear is that this reversal allows for the
perspective of the middle and upper classes to have their own voices in the politi-
cal history of the country that compromised them so deeply, granting them the
possibility of performing symbolically a mea culpa for the complicit pact that
led to the coup on September 11, 1973, and to the perpetuation of a profoundly
classist society.
Machuca can also be considered a costumbrista narrative portraying through
these boys the realities of both families as metaphors for the Chilean class society—as
a counterpoint. However, the story evolves mainly around the Infantes as the
paradigmatic Chilean family—that is, a typical middle-class family. They live a
“normal” life but with an undercurrent of tension. Gonzalo is taken care of by a
nana (nanny) and he is a kind of love object to his mother, María Luisa Infante
(Aline Küppenheim), a conservative woman who aspires to upward mobility and

has a love affair with a rich Argentine, Roberto Ochagavía (Federido Luppi),
through whom she obtains goods that are not available in the open market. After
school Gonzalo must accompany his mother on frequent visits to Roberto’s house,
who is very interested in gaining Gonzalo’s allegiance. He brings Gonzalo The
Lone Ranger, a classic comic for boys at the time, which is turned into another
class object similar to the child’s running shoes. In fact, when Machuca sleeps at
Gonzalo’s house the night of Gonzalo’s sister’s birthday, he sees and shares Gon-
zalo’s The Lone Ranger with an effusive expression of awe, saying, “Look! The Lone
Ranger,” and also tries on his friend’s Adidas—both of which are objects precious
and unattainable for him.
The father, the husband of this overtly doting mother, Patricio Infante (Fran-
cisco Reyes) is a government bureaucrat who works for the FAO (Food and
Agriculture Organization of the United Nations). He is a rather absent and pas-
sive figure of weak character, who suspects his wife’s infidelity but keeps aloof.
Because he is caught between a wife’s adulterous relationship and his political post
in the Allende government on the brink of collapse, he flees Chile at the height
of the familial and social crisis to take a position in Rome, acknowledging that
socialism is good for Chile but “not for us.” When he goes to Rome on business,
he says to his family, “Let us leave Chile and live in Italy; we will earn dollars.”
Thus Gonzalo witnesses the hypocrisy of an unfaithful mother and a complicit
father. He is unsettled by the complexities of maintaining the lies of a mother who
has involved him in her adulterous relationship. But contrary to what is expected
of an adolescent, he does not rebel. Although he resents his parents, particularly
his mother, he endures an absent father and a fatuous mother. She speaks for her
class, performing her habitus through her penchant for clothing, makeup, and
goods. She is not a maternal figure in the sense of the traditional role of passivity
and suffering, but rather portrays another stereotype of the female: the frivolous
woman from the upper middle class involved in a ménage à trois. She is an overtly
sexualized character (e.g., “Here it smells like a man,” she says when entering
Gonzalo’s bedroom the morning after Machuca slept over; “You have nice eyes,”
she adds after inspecting Machuca; she also finds her daughter’s boyfriend hand-
some). Moreover, as the primary carrier of class ideology in the family, she joins
street demonstrations against the Allende government and expresses her opinion
at the school meeting, despite the embarrassment of her husband, when she says,
“Why mix pears and apples? We are different. Not better or worse, but different.”
Pedro’s family is also paradigmatic, a typical lower-class family in which the
undercurrent of tension is of another nature. Pedro witnesses his overworked
mother as well as his alcoholic and abusive father. The mother is an inspiring
figure, “yet her voice is drowned out by her impoverished situation and lack of
education that stops others from taking her seriously” (Amaya and Senio Blair
50). On the contrary, the father is a negative figure; he is not a role model to
emulate and Pedro spends as little time as possible in the shantytown where he
is daily reminded of his and his family’s marginal existence. The father, in turn,
is the carrier of class ideology; when meeting Gonzalo in their shantytown, he
tells Machuca that in ten years his friend will be working and possibly owning
244 Rita De Grandis
his father’s company, while he will still be cleaning washrooms. The lower-class
depiction of Machuca’s family extends to a neighbor and his daughter (referred
to as “uncle” and “cousin” by Silvana whose mother has left home). In short,
both families are dysfunctional in their parental roles. Pedro’s parents hardly ever
appear together as husband and wife, except once when they fight over money (he
is drunk and steals the money box) and another time at the end of the film when
soldiers ransack the neighborhood and take the father out, threatening him at the
point of a shotgun. As for the neighbor/uncle, he is portrayed as a bit of a clown
in that his socialist convictions are more of a joke than true political engagement
when he sells flags at demonstrations, red or Chilean flags according to the dif-
ferent groups. His political convictions allow for incursions into the enemy camp
if survival strategies so require. As for his daughter, Silvana, an inseparable pal
of both Pedro and Gonzalo, she and Gonzalo’s mother, along with the sister’s
boyfriend, get into a terrible and violent confrontation that Gonzalo witnesses,
becoming aware of the irreconcilable abyss between the two classes.
In the representation of these Chilean families, Andrés Wood relies mainly on
a set of very recognizable images that indicate class, gender, and ethnicity. The
director chooses a melancholic pop tone through songs, clothing, and sets. This
representation allows for probing into the complex Chilean reality of the 1970s
despite its tendency to simplification and use of familiar representational forms,
which are not defamiliarized. The political atmosphere is ambiguously rendered
from the child/adolescent point of view; the political is a territory in which they
move as they can and then assimilate the harsh changes that come. The end reso-
nates as a bitter, premature, and brutal passage to adulthood.13
Family as a Safe Sanctuary

Kamchatka14 is the story of an Argentine middle-class family of young profes-
sionals whose real names are never revealed: he is a lawyer (Ricardo Darín) and
she a scientist (Cecilia Roth) working at the university. They have two boys: the
elder (Matías del Pozo) is about ten and is known by the nickname “Harry,” and
the younger (Milton de la Canal) is around five and is referred to as “el Enano”
(Little Guy).15
The story’s time frame is the beginning of the last military dictatorship, 1976,
explicitly stated in a caption in the opening sequence—“Fall of 1976,” with the
subtitle “A few days after the military coup.” References to the historical events of
the March 24, 1976,16 military coup d’état are few and interspersed throughout
the film. They are presented indirectly as background through images of army
officers inspecting cars and people, as when at the beginning of the film the
mother picks up the children at school and nervously goes through a military
checkpoint; or when the kids are watching television and the images of Presi-
dent Jorge Rafael Videla and Minister of Economy José Alfredo Martínez de
Hoz appear on the screen. Also, subtly hinted and used as a metaphor, is the
constant smoking of the mother and the renewed bed-wetting of el Enano. Both
metaphors serve to show how stressful and precarious their situation is. But the
most ominous allusion to the military regime’s repression is the final unspoken
resolution of the intrigue, which haunts the plot’s entire denouement—the par-
ents’ alleged disappearance.
The action takes place in Buenos Aires (in a public and a private school as
well as on the streets of the city) and in a vacation area of summer homes, as
portrayed by the vacant suburban summer house where the family goes into hid-
ing and, especially at the end of the film, at the crossroads where the two kids
are delivered to the grandfather. The conflict is triggered by the abduction of the
father’s associate from their law office. The couple decides to start hiding to assure
their own security and, from that moment onward, their life changes dramati-
cally and the children experience the changes as a fantasy, an adventure story with
the complicity of the father. The father announces that they will change their
names and professions. They will become the Vicentes, after the protagonists of
The Invaders—a popular television series of the time about extraterrestrials. The
father will become an architect called David.17 The little brother becomes Simón,
and the elder boy Harry stays Harry, since the viewer only knows him by this
fictitious name—taken from a book titled Houdini, el artista del escape (Houdini,
the Escape Artist), which he finds in the temporary house where they take refuge.
The father instructs the children to follow very strict rules: to never answer or
make phone calls and, if they notice strange things around the house, they must
utter zafarrancho and go into hiding in some shrubs in the garden. Zafarrancho
is the made-up, playful, nonsensical word that the father invents to mimic the
distinctive yell uttered as a sign of defiance (danger in this case) in movies about
Indians, he explains. Later, when another younger boy—supposedly a school
militant using the alias of Lucas (Tomás Fonzi)—takes shelter in this house, he
befriends Harry and joins him in his adventures according to the instructions of
the Houdini book: Harry stays minutes without breathing, is tied to a tree, runs,
and practices holding his breath.
Their new life is fraught with tension: the mother is fired from the university,
the country house is raided, and Lucas leaves in quest of another hideout. The
couple decides to visit their estranged grandparents (Fernanda Mistral and Héc-
tor Alterio) for the grandfather’s birthday; this family reunion reveals that they
are still a close-knit family. One day they learn that the people closest to them
have been abducted and they decide to flee (with no return), leaving the children
in the care of their grandparents. The last sequence of the film shows the parents
driving away alone, implying that their future is uncertain; they may go into
deeper hiding within the country or, like many others at the time, will seek asy-
lum elsewhere in Latin America, North America (United States and Canada), or
Europe. Because Harry’s voice-over says he never saw his parents again, the viewer
is led to assume that they are eventually discovered wherever they have gone to
hide and end up among the “disappeared” (los desaparecidos; Foster 109).
THE ADULT CHILD PROTAGONIST
The narrative voice of Kamchatka is a long flashback that starts and finishes with
Harry’s voice-over,18 which first appears mixed with the credits, uttering a child’s
story very much in the sense of Genesis:
246 Rita De Grandis
In the beginning there was a cell and nothing else . . . This cell got divided in
two . . . and so forth. Some became vegetables, others bugs and others us humans.
What has never been explained is how a cell becomes a person and climbs the
Himalayas, invents a vaccine, or becomes a famous escapist like Houdini.19 That is
indeed a mystery. No human being ever talks about these things, no teacher, but
my father yes; he talked to me the last time I saw him. My story starts with a cell
but finishes in Kamchatka.
This beginning is superimposed over a school lesson, “Life: A Supreme Mys-

tery,” in which the teacher shows a film while explaining the millions of years
of life on the planet. The two elements mentioned by Harry’s voice-over, the
cell and Kamchatka, foreground Harry’s parents: the cell anticipates the mother’s
profession (a scientist) and Kamchatka points to the father in various ways. Kam-
chatka comes from a war game: Tactics and Strategies of War or T.E.G. (Táctica
y Estrategia de Guerra),20 which Harry gets from his father and both play. In the
game, opposing players attempt to engage in geopolitical conquest based on how
many countries they can conquer by throwing the dice, with Kamchatka repre-
senting one position/country within this imperial war. In addition, Kamchatka
indicates a remote and unknown place on the map (a peninsula in Russia), with
a very unfamiliar phonology and orthography for a Spanish speaker, pointing to
an absolute political Other, as Foster pointedly remarks.21 But above all, Kam-
chatka designates a place “from where to resist” (“desde donde resistir”). Thus the
plurisemiosis of Kamchatka symbolizes the survival strategies to which the family
resorts to deal with the political uncertainties of their lives. At the end of the film,
Kamchatka is the encoded message the father leaves the son when they depart
supposedly forever. The last sequence shows the father’s lips whispering the word
Kamchatka into Harry’s ear as the moral legacy22 he passes on to his son, while
handing over the game, embracing him and telling him: “I love you and don’t
ever forget it.” Harry dries his father’s tears with his shirtsleeve with a serious
and adult attitude. When the car leaves, Harry first runs after it and then stops.
The child hero has become an adult. The voice-over says, “The last time I saw
my dad, he talked to me about Kamchatka. This time I understood. Every time
that I played the game my dad was with me and when the game became difficult
I stayed with him and I survived; because Kamchatka is the place of resistance.”
Poetry and music contribute to reinforce the significance of Kamchatka as
a place of hope and strength. Musical poetry functions as a primary text and
is sung at the end of the film, closing Harry’s story. This is a musical version of
the famous Spanish poem “Palabras para Julia” (“Words for Julia”; 1979) by José
Agustín Goytisolo (1928–99),23 interpreted by noted contemporary Argentine
singer Liliana Herrero. Part of the lyrics reads: “Life is beautiful, you’ll see . . . / So
always remember / what I wrote one day / thinking of you / as I am now thinking.
/ Never give up . . . / Life is beautiful, you’ll see.”24
The song, along with the father’s whispered Kamchatka, expresses Harry’s
coming to terms with his past; his parents’ hardships have given him a lesson in
endurance. Harry the child, who lived through the tricks and fantasies of Houdini,
has become Harry the adult. But this transformation has been looming all along.
He observes and does not understand why his parents have to move, why they
have to adopt new names, why they lose their jobs, why they have to live in such
secrecy and isolation. But in his child’s mind, Harry is able to cope with his
parents’ fears and uncertainties by resorting to the strategies of Houdini and the
rules of the Kamchatka game, and therefore he and his brother escape the pain
and uncertainty that surround their lives. While Harry’s family is escaping from
the repressive military junta, Harry acquires the name and identity of Houdini,
the protagonist of a children’s book. This idea of the magician being an escap-
ist and not a magician becomes a refrain Harry repeats throughout the film,
containing the life lessons that will help him to overcome his parents’ departure
(disappearance).
In turn, Harry’s parents do not hide what they are living. Whenever Harry
asks, “Who lived here?,” his father answers, “Someone who knows someone who
knows someone . . . ,” from which Harry understands that there is a need for
secrecy. Contrary to his little brother, who wets the bed as a reaction to the anxi-
ety under which they live, Harry behaves as an adult; he knows that his parents
are not able to sleep and cannot make phone calls or contact their friends. Father
and elder son are like two sides of the same coin—the experience of the child and
the reflection of the father through Harry’s voice.
Through this child’s voice melded to his father’s adult voice, Kamchatka
becomes a major statement of the 1970s generation. Contrary to David Foster’s
and Tzvi Tal’s interpretation, or besides it, the film’s significance is not solely
based on the 1976–83 military dictatorship; rather, this interpretation of the
dictatorship is in turn informed by a democratic present. Kamchatka could also
be read within its context of enunciation and production of the major crisis of
200125—a crisis that has somehow marked the end of an era characterized by
neoliberal restructuring, privatization of state-owned industries, and unemploy-
ment that started during the years of the military dictatorship but only developed
full-fledged during the Menem era (1989–99). Here, the unfolding metaphors
of Kamchatka for Argentina and the family for the nation become overcharged
with not only past but also present connotations. The strongest message of family
unity and solidity may be interpreted in terms of not only the last dictatorship, as
Foster and Tal claim, but also the present, following Bakhtin’s notion that in the
novel the speaking subject is always marked by the zone of contact with his or her
present of enunciation. In Kamchatka, this present is characterized by the fragili-
ties of democracy within which the family unit is perceived and constructed as
the only solid social institution that replaces an absent or weak welfare state. Thus
Kamchatka revisits the last military dictatorship by drawing a parallel through the
resistant leitmotif embodied in the word Kamchatka and portraying a middle-
class family that, through decades of threatened extinction by disappearance and
impoverishment, still struggles to be the porte-parole of/for the nation. In this
reevaluation of the military years from the present of a democracy that was so
compromised by its discourse of oblivion and impoverishment, the middle class
is still fighting to have its role in this nation, though it reaffirms its conservative
and heteronormative values.
248 Rita De Grandis
There is a celebration of parenthood, and particularly of paternity, as fathers

seem to be in charge of the story while women (wife, mother) foster the encoun-
ters of their men. The father/son dédoublement (duplication) is what makes
Kamchatka suspicious because the viewer hears through a voice of a child what is
indeed the voice of an adult, replacing the quest of historical truth for nostalgic
memory—the latter taking the place of “truth.” The effect of Harry’s disembod-
ied voice-over points to an owner of the voice that is above the other characters
(Tal 142). Also, this voice projects a role-model/normative discourse authorized
by the father/director/scriptwriter. As Foster points out, the generalization of this
middle-class family without a name stands for all Argentines and, by assigning to
this class such a centrality in the story of the military dictatorship, the viewer is
led to believe that it was the middle class that was most affected by the repression.
This is an overgeneralization that leaves out the centrality of the working class in
the repression unleashed by the military. Also, by depicting this middle class for
whom happiness and unity are supreme values, the film falls into the Hollywood
myth of the happy middle class.26
From a formal perspective, Kamchatka combines an interplay between real-
ity and fantasy, unfolding its narrative structure as a mise en abyme—that is,
as a story within a story within a story. In this substitution, reality and play are
interchangeable; the stories read each other in a reciprocal manner blurring the
limits of what belongs to the realm of the real and to fantasy, and this applies
mainly to father and son. Hence the story of Harry’s parents is emplotted within
the story of the cell and of the Magician Houdini. Moreover, Kamchatka is also a
love story. Like in a Pandora’s box, Harry’s story is subsumed within the broader
structure of a love story between mother and father crowned by the two major
stars that play the key roles: Ricardo Darín and Cecilia Roth. No matter how
tense their situation is, they always show love for each other. Of note are the two
dancing scenes (one in the country house and the other under the moon at the
grandfather’s house, the night of his birthday) in which the couple’s eroticism is
revealed. This is also emphasized when the mother caresses the father while driv-
ing and Harry compares the father’s pleasant moans with the expressions he has
overheard at night when in bed. They are very good parents, strong role models
for their children. Moreover, it is a patriarchal family. Father and grandfather
are still very connected, although there have been miscommunications and little
fights between them. It is the women who mediate the mending of disagreements
between the men. On the grandfather’s birthday the entire family reunites under
a clear sky and a luminous moon. Then at the end, it is the son who leaves his
children to the grandfather’s care, thus transcending his former rebelliousness.
Family harmony and morality reign and are reestablished at the end of the story.
From a gender perspective, normative heterosexuality prevails: the father is the
motivator of the action, the mother the coparticipant, and the same applies to
the grandfather and grandmother. Harry learns the lessons of hope and endur-
ance through the patriarchal lineage. Father and son are in charge of the story:
the father entrusts the little brother to Harry, gives him instructions to follow
in case of danger, and in turn the father-son entrusts the children to the grand-
dad. Even the film’s final sequence focuses on the father who gives his son a last
embrace while the mother remains in the car. Gender heteronormativity is passed
on to the children: Harry is his father’s pal and they both make sexist jokes about
the mother by calling her “la Roca” (the Rock) because she is not flexible (or
feminine) enough as a woman, and both demand that she leave her scientific
posturing and become a real cook like Harry’s friend’s mother from the Ber-
tucci family. This is the heart of Eve Kosofsky Sedgwick’s claims: the emphasis on
homosocial relations among men reinforces gender conventions by which women
facilitate or operate as vehicles of intermasculine interests and desires.27 Moreover,
also notable are the gender overtones of the representation of childhood. Child-
hood is symbolized as feminine (la infancia). When Harry tells the story of the
cell, an image of a girl skipping rope appears in the background; her face, her
red thighs, her shoes, and legs jumping up and down all point to a girl’s features.
Then, at the end, the same girl with the same clothes shows up again, tying
together the flashback story as the father delivers his children to the grandfather.
This girl with her skipping rope immersed in her world of playfulness contrasts
with the loss of childhood Harry is experiencing.
Conclusions
The three films studied recreate the time and place of military interventions in
the 1960s and 1970s in Brazil, Chile, and Argentina through the perception of
child protagonists. Interestingly, all the directors had, to a greater or lesser degree,
some experience of that period. Cao Hamburguer, born in 1962 in São Paulo
from Jewish parents and who was seven years old during the turbulent period of
the Brazilian history of the 1970s, affirms that Mauro’s story in O Ano is partly
based on his childhood memories. Although the film is not autobiographical, it
contains certain elements similar to what he experienced as a child. Hamburger’s
parents had political problems, though he did not. While the kids were distracted
following soccer games and trying to collect all the figures of the soccer play-
ers, there were lists of the names of parents that were being pursued, but they
were not conscious of it. Hamburger’s film tries to recreate the point of view of
the children from that period who were also victims. The director of Machuca,
Andrés Wood, born in 1965, was seven when the coup took place in 1973. In
an interview with John Esther, he talks about the research he did for the film;
he and the screenwriter had earlier worked on a documentary on that period for
television (67). Wood also interviewed the real priest to whom he dedicates the
film (“In memory of Father Gerardo Whelan, Principal of Saint Patrick’s School
in Santiago from 1969 to 1973”) and his classmates. He himself went to a similar
school with a similar priest, but the film is otherwise not autobiographical. In the
case of Kamchatka, both director and scriptwriter witnessed the military coup
era. Marcelo Piñeyro was born in 1953 and in 1976, at age 23, he was a student
at the Film School of La Plata, a university city much targeted by repression.28
Screenwriter Marcelo Figueras, born in 1962, was fourteen in 1976. Regarding
the positive ending of Kamchatka, Piñeyro declares that new times require com-
ing to terms with the past (as a moral lesson for the present), whereas scriptwriter
Figueras, when discussing the script with Piñeyro, perceived Argentina as living
250 Rita De Grandis
in a particular moment of identity crisis, which corresponded to the political and

economic crisis of 2001. Moreover, it is noteworthy that actors Cecilia Roth and
Héctor Alterio also had to go into exile.
In dealing with sociohistorical memory, a trope that has haunted the national
imagination since the aftermath of the fratricidal periods of political division in
the 1960s and 1970s, none of the three films goes beyond visions of the past
already crystallized by official histories. Concurring with Tal, the adherence to
these official discourses is partly what makes these films successful. In Kamchatka
and in O Ano, politics is what one does not talk about, and in Machuca politics is
what decomposes the paradigmatic middle-class “Chilean family.” Hence talking
about politics functions as a warning to avoid at all cost the downfall of the status
quo (Tal 147). In consonance with these official versions of the memory trope,
the realistic aesthetic conventions that the three films display contribute to the
incorporation and refashioning of these official discourses through an iconicity
that is highly recognizable and standardized, and that does not lend itself to any
fissures from which to articulate a critique of these discourses. In engaging with
memory according to the doxa, these symbolic representations join other mutu-
ally reinforcing discursive practices.
By using the technique of an “innocent eye,” the three films bring a new
subject into the representation of that period not explored in previous films with
the same focus. However, they do it in a too unproblematic fashion. Mauro in O
Ano is the one who remains most fixed in a childhood state vis-à-vis his parents’
experience. Therefore, O Ano is the most depoliticized of the three films, whereas
Machuca is the most politicized. Both Gonzalo and Machuca have been touched
by political events, and although they return to their assigned place in society,
they have lost their innocent respect for class division and ideology. As a result of
their broken friendship, they have gained awareness of inexorable social restric-
tions. Kamchatka presents a new take on the 1976 dictatorship and, compared to
another major film on the theme, La historia oficial (The Official Story; 1985),29 it
poses something not analyzed in most films on the subject, which is the bewilder-
ment of children whose parents had been politically prosecuted and disappeared,
asserting that they, the children, are also victims. However, the film deals with
childhood from the perspective of the parents—predominantly the father. The
children are mere spectators who do not develop a voice of their own capable of
expressing disagreement or inquiry. The child protagonist is the rhetorical device
that gives voice to the discourse of the adult, the director, the scriptwriter, and a
generation growing up during the dictatorship.
In the examined films, the side roads and boundaries that the protagonists have
to traverse in their path to adulthood entail leaving one’s home as in Kamchatka
and O Ano, or moving between poor and rich neighborhoods, as in Machuca.
Moreover, these coming-of-age stories connect the loss of innocence with the
disappearance of parents (O Ano and Kamchatka) or with class ideologies that
make clear that class, ethnicity, and gender divides are irreconcilable (Machuca).
Above all, these coming-of-age narratives favor a moral universalizing rendition
of traumatic political experiences over a more historical and complex treatment
of the effects and intelligibility of those political situations.
Within the spectrum of middle-class representations, the three films show the
centrality of the middle class in relation to the politics of their respective eras.
O Ano and Kamchatka focus on an intellectual middle class of neo-European
origins: students in O Ano and professionals in Kamchatka. Also, O Ano is atten-
tive to multiethnic sensitivities, more akin to a politics of identity and, as such, a
story of solidarity and tolerance in a multicultural world, instructive for viewers
of all ages and origins. Machuca and Kamchatka, on the other hand, stick closer
to their major national ethnic formations. Unlike Kamchatka, which portrays life
within the intimate confines of home and family, Machuca focuses on a broader
social context—the viewer even gets a sense of how the Infantes live—and O Ano
focuses on the Jewish and multiethnic community of Bom Retiro in their cus-
toms and solidarity. In these representations of the middle-class family, women
are generally confined to their traditional roles. In each of the three films women
are used as signs demarcating the boundaries of a patriarchal social space inhab-
ited by men and narrated by men to men.
As far as styles and forms of representation are concerned, the three films’
shared elements reveal transformations of the filmmaking of earlier eras (the
1960s and 1970s). They expose a departure from the avant-garde projects of the
radical tradition of the New Latin American Cinema movements, a tradition ori-
ented toward a critique of established structures of power at the political, sexual,
racial, or gender level,30 and with an emphasis on conflict and social forms predi-
cated on a negative conception of an idea of Art as a metaphysical experience.
The expense of the culture industry (art in the service of the market) dictates
what can be said about the leftist experiences of Latin America. It is possible
to revisit the leftist utopias of the seventies, but as a nostalgic commemoration
of a youthful era, as though those utopias belonged to the realm of an infantile
paradise—rendering those social dreams childish. Instead, these national films
operate within the new parameters of “global” practices of production31 and dis-
tribution, producing high-quality entertainment and technical mastery within
conventional cinematographic genres, styles, and images. They are perhaps closer
to a conception of art not so different from technical advertising and digital oper-
ations, extending to literature in the sense that they work in tandem with the
book industry. Indeed, Machuca is based on the novel Tres años para nacer (Three
years to be born; 2002) by Amante Eledín Parraguez,32 and Kamchatka on the
novel of the same name, published in 2003 by Marcelo Figueras.33
In addition, these cinemas are deeply grounded in national preoccupations
and continue to have a penchant for socially engaged themes as in earlier periods
of filmmaking. However, a significant shift has taken place. The social themes and
their forms of representation relinquish or attenuate the ideological and political
stance of their critique, compared to the filmmaking of the earlier radical era. A
move toward a more vague or oblique allusion to and treatment of political and
ideological referents is achieved by using the conventions of genre formats more
in tune with Hollywood standards and imagery. In the three films studied, the
dilution of ideological critique results from an intimate, character-driven focus,
centered on the (supposedly) innocent figure of a child protagonist.
252 Rita De Grandis
We have closely analyzed three films in their production context, in relation to

the period to which they refer, in order to gain some insight into how the culture
industry of Latin American cinema34 compares with previous decades of film-
making in dealing with a past of left politics and military intervention. We have
to bear in mind that the zone of contact with the present in which these films
have been produced coincides with the decline of the imagination of national lib-
eration and the predominance of transnational imaginations. Furthermore, past
traumatic national experiences are refashioned by a new structure of feeling in
which the threat of global annihilation takes precedence, prompting a universal
appeal for the moral lessons of political struggles. The culture industry works
on these trends; in the three films studied, the clear didactic character and the
universal lessons of particular political experiences correspond to them. The films
choose a specific and highly emblematized year to convey a historical period, the
first year of a new decade (1970) in the case of the military regime in Brazil, in
O Ano;35 the very end of the Allende regime in 1973, in Machuca; and the very
beginning of the military dictatorship in 1976, in Kamchatka. In dealing with
these calendrical markers, history is comprised in a nutshell and the viewer grasps
immediately a whole period in terms of the simple reference to a highly connoted
year that summarizes it all. This is how discourses of oblivion and stigmatization
work through commercial cinematographic codes.
Notes
1. Another recent Latin American film with children as protagonists and dealing with
socialist movements is Voces inocentes (Innocent Voices; 2004) directed by Luis Mandoki.
This film refers to El Salvador in the 1980s, which belongs to another decade and wave
of leftist movements. Other recent Spanish films that have children protagonists with
the political background of the Spanish Civil War are Imanol Uribe’s El viaje de Carol
(Carol’s Journey; 2002) and Guillermo del Toro’s El laberinto del fauno (Pan’s Labyrinth;
2006) whose closest antecedent is José Luis Cuerda’s La lengua de las mariposas (The
Tongue of the Butterflies; 1999).
2. Bakhtin refers to the Plutarchian biographical type of discourse—that is, to a discourse
in which order is reestablished so that the disclosure is exemplary of what it should be
(141–42).
3. For transnational audiences, a recall to that past, which at one point was part of the
everyday media (it appeared in the front pages of major newspapers), is now a distant but
still vivid memory of a relatively recent past, consumed as nostalgic yearning for a radi-
cal era long foreclosed. For national audiences, the situation is different in a particular
way; there is something else at stake, which has not found closure yet. Certain sectors of
national audiences are confronted by the dialectic of national consciousness, the dialectic
between memory and forgetting, between the need to remember and the need to forget
in order to build a democratic tradition.
4. In Brazil a military regime was installed by a coup d’état in 1964, which lasted until
1985 with the indirect election of Tancredo Neves. The coup was against the left-leaning
President João Goulart and is widely understood as being part of the Cold War and a
response to the perceived threat of communism. In 1970 General Emílio Garrastazu
Médici began his term after being elected president by the congress on October 30,
1969. He became the third military president after Goulart’s defeat in 1964. Médici
was an ultraconservative and profoundly anticommunist. His regime is known for its
ruthless military force and his government for the brutality of its military repression, tor-
ture, censorship, and the fierce prosecution of urban guerilla groups. During this period,
a spectacular economic growth took place, known as the “milagre brasileiro” (Brazil-
ian miracle), and enormous infrastructure projects were realized: the Trans-Amazonian
Highway, the Itaipu Dam, and the Rio-Niterói Bridge. Médici defeated the guerilla
forces lead by Carlos Marighella and Carlos Lamarca, who were both killed.
5. In two of the film’s shots, the same reference to Asian ethnicity appears through the face
of a little boy looking out of the window of a blue Beetle car. The first is when Mauro
is playing soccer and suddenly leaves the goal box after seeing a blue Beetle on the street
thinking that it is his parents’ car, but to his disappointment, a little Asian face looks out
of the window. The second is in the last scene of the film when Mauro and his mother
are leaving São Paulo to return home. While inside a taxi and looking around the big city
Mauro is leaving behind, the same face of the Asian boy looking out of the window of a
blue Beetle car shows up. This image points to the multiethnic nature of the city of São
Paulo and, more precisely, it is a rhetorical device targeted to an international audience
at which the film aspires.
6. This play on words evokes Marcel Proust’s À la recherche du temps perdu (In Search of Lost
Time, also translated as Remembrance of Things Past; 1913–27) and Benjamin’s descrip-
tion of the novel as photographic imagination in “Zum Bilde Prousts” (“The Image of
Proust”; 1929). Benjamin highlights Proust’s ability to show lost time through his vast
photographic inventory. My idea also refers to the ambiguous nature of photography in
relation to ritual via the concept of aura as in “Das Kunstwerk im Zeitalter seiner tech-
nischen Reproduzierbarkeit” (“The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduc-
tion”; 1936), in which Benjamin claims that the invention of photography emancipates
the work of art from “its parasitical dependence on ritual” (218), and to Roland Barthes,
who sustains that a photograph offers, via its stillness, a very different experience of the
ritual of everyday life. Finally, I stress the intervention of photography and film in rela-
tion to historical memory and nostalgia, as a means to expel the ghost that haunts all
memory, which is the fear of forgetting.
7. The coup d’état of 1973 represents the most traumatic event in the history of modern
Chile. On September 11, 1973, the government of President Salvador Allende was over-
thrown by a military junta led by General Augusto Pinochet, who assumed power and
established a harsh dictatorship that ruled the country with extreme violations of human
rights until 1990. In the midst of the attacks that preceded the coup, Allende gave his
last speech declaring that he would remain in the presidential palace La Moneda, which
was being bombarded. Allende died officially by suicide the day of the coup. Shortly
afterward, the government banned the socialist and other leftist parties that had formed
President Allende’s Popular Unity coalition, and on September 13, the congress was dis-
solved and all political parties declared illicit.
8. This perspective is comparable to the humanist interpretation of Ernesto Che Guevara
in Diarios de motocicleta (The Motorcycle Diaries; 2004) directed by Walter Salles.
9. In Amante Eledín Parraguez’s novel Tres años para nacer (Three years to be born; 2002),
the pupils and priests raise rabbits and ducks on a section of the schoolyard improvised
as a farm.
10. For a Chilean, S.P. immediately has class references since students who attend public
schools have on their uniform the initials of the number of the school they attend (e.g.,
Liceo No. 1). I thank Mónica Escudero for this information.
11. Tzvi Tal argues that by giving only the last name to Pedro, this last name becomes a class
symbol, the social Other of the bourgeoisie (Tal 145). This is partially accurate in terms
254 Rita De Grandis
of class connotation, since in Chile, and usually at school, boys (not girls) call each other
by their last names. I acknowledge Mónica Escudero for having provided me with this
insight.
12. Regarding the name Machuca (as Matamoros), it refers to the Moorish occupation of
Spain. It is the third person singular of the verb machucar (to bruise, to hurt, to squash,
to crush). It comes from the verb machar (to grind), from macho (male), and from the
Latin masculus (male) (Latorre 121).
13. Andrés Wood acknowledges that he has received critiques from both sides of the ideo-
logical spectrum. The left considered him too light and the right politically correct (Tra-
verso 2008).
14. The script was written in collaboration of director Piñeyro and writer Marcelo Figueras,
and it was published in book format in 2002. Later, Figueras published it as a novel of
the same name in 2003 (Foster 116).
15. Although the literal translation is “dwarf,” in the English subtitles of the film it appears
translated as “Little Guy.”
16. The 1976 Argentine coup overthrew the Peronist government of Isabel Perón. A military
junta was put in her place, headed by General Jorge Rafael Videla, Admiral Emilio Edu-
ardo Massera, and Brigadier Orlando Ramón Agosti. The junta remained in power until
1983. Political repression (the so-called Dirty War) was rampant although it had started
before the coup, resulting in thousands of disappearances.
17. I concur with Tal in that this reference to extraterrestrials may also evoke Héctor Germán
Oesterheld’s cartoon El Eternauta (The eternal voyager or The voyager of eternity), in
which the extraterrestrials were the capitalists and imperialists involved in the subjuga-
tion and marginalization of the poor (Tal 143). This cartoon was very popular among
intellectuals in the 1960s and 1970s and it remains an icon of that era, particularly after
the abduction and disappearance of its author in 1977.
18. Tal contends that the acousmatic effect of the offscreen voice designates its owner and
endows this voice with power over the other characters (Chion, qtd. in Tal 142).
19. The book is a clear evocation of Harry Houdini, the famous Hungarian-born American
magician and escapologist (1874–1926) born with the name Ehrich Weisz, who also had
a movie career and about whom various movies have been made.
20. In English it is known as Risk (Foster 108).
21. The choice of Kamchatka could also evoke the post-perestroika geopolitics, whereby the
former USSR becomes a mosaic of new countries.
22. The scriptwriter declares that he remembered a phrase from Herman Melville’s Moby
Dick (1851), which said that true places are not in maps. Kamchatka comes to symbolize
an interior place, a spiritual space of resistance, from which one does not leave but rather
stays (Figueras 49).
23. José Agustín Goytisolo (1928–99) was born in Barcelona; he suffered the death of his
mother, Julia Gray, a victim of a Franco bombing in 1938. This tragic event marked
Goytisolo’s life and writing. He then named his daughter Julia and in “Palabras para
Julia”—one of his most acclaimed poems—he dedicates his poetry to the two women.
This poem has been adapted into song by famous singers, such as Spaniard Paco Ibañez
and Argentine Mercedes Sosa.
24. “La vida es bella, ya verás . . . / Entonces siempre acuérdate / de lo que un día yo escribí /
pensando en ti / como ahora pienso. / Nunca te entregues . . . / La vida es bella, tú verás.”
This is perhaps another resonance of the movie La vita è bella (Life is Beautiful; 1997).
The translation of these lyrics is by Manya Wubbold.
25. Piñeyro notes that the start of the film coincided with the 2001 crisis, which impregnates
the film with specific connotations (48).
26. “By narrowing the film to engage with the myth of the happy middle-class family threat-
ened by evil forces it cannot know and fully calculate, Kamchatka runs the risk of ideal-
izing the victims of neo-fascism” (Foster 115).
27. Sedgwick reinterprets the myth analyzed by Claude Lévi-Strauss, who postulated the
principle of exogamy among communities from an exchange system of women in order
to claim that such an exchange was not a function of heterosexual relations but rather a
system of homosocial exchanges among men in which women serve as vehicles of men’s
desires.
28. Piñeyro was aligned with the Peronist Youth and when the military coup took place, he
went into exile in Brazil. Interestingly, because of its Peronist connotations, the premiere
of Kamchatka took place on October 17, 2002—a date that is highly overcharged with
political connotations since October 17, 1945, is considered the birth of Peronism (Tal
142). On that day, the Peronist masses of poor people marched into the streets of the
city of Buenos Aires reclaiming Juan Domingo Perón’s release. Perón had been arrested
by opponents within the government of Edelmiro Julián Farrell (a friend of his), who
feared the power that Perón was acquiring (see Fraser and Navarro).
29. La historia oficial is the first Latin American movie that won an Oscar for best foreign
film. In this movie, the adoption of a baby girl is the main issue, though again, it is the
complicity of the middle class that is at stake.
30. For example, Javier Sanjinés’s Sangre de cóndor (Blood of the Condor; 1969) elicits a gen-
der analysis, although its proclivity was more political and ethnic.
31. This is a standard practice in film coproductions. Machuca is a Chilean coproduction
with Spain, France, and the United Kingdom, and Kamchatka is an Argentine coproduc-
tion with Spain.
32. Machuca is inspired by this autobiographical novel whose author at age 17 lived in a
squatter’s settlement (toma) and participated in an experimental education program
of integration directed by Father Gerardo Whelan from Saint George’s College. In
Machuca, Father Whelan is acknowledged in a dedication at the end of the film (Krieger
and Portela 125, qtd. in Tal 142).
33. As Tal contends, the literary version of Kamchatka is part of a commercial strategy of
multinational companies by which a film is transformed into a logo to promote sales of
other related products (Tal 142).
34. We are aware of the issues surrounding this all-encompassing terminology, for which we
refer to Shaw’s reflections on this problematic bundling of so distinctively varied national
cinemas and the overarching term “Latin American cinema” (Shaw 2007).
35. Of interest is the fact that O Ano appears to be a remake of Pra Frente, Brasil (Go Ahead,
Brazil!; 1982) directed by Roberto Farias, which critically exposes the practice of torture
in Brazil and is precisely framed by the year 1970 and the Soccer World Cup (see Pérez
Murillo and Fernández Fernández as well as Bilharinho). I thank Professor Ary Pimentel
for pointing this film out to me.
Works Cited
Amaya, Héctor and Laura Senio Blair. “Bridges Between the Divide: The Female Body in Y tu
mamá también and Machuca.” Studies in Hispanic Cinemas 4.1 (2007): 47–62.
O Ano em que Meus Pais Saíram de Férias. Dir. Cao Hamburger. DVD. Mongrel Media, 2006.
Bakhtin, Mikhail M. The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. 1981. Ed. Michael Holquist.
Trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist. Austin: U of Texas P, 1998.
256 Rita De Grandis
Barthes, Roland. La cámara lúcida. 1980. Trans. Joaquim Sala-Sanahuja. Barcelona: Paidós
Ibérica, 2009.
Benjamin, Walter. “The Image of Proust.” 1929. Illuminations. Trans. Harry Zohn. London:
Pimlico, 1999. 197–210.
———. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” 1936. Illuminations.
Trans. Harry Zohn. New York: Schocken, 1969. 217–51.
Bilharinho, Guido. O Cinema Brasileiro nos Anos 80. Uberaba, Brazil: Instituto Triangulino de
Cultura, 2002.
Buchichio, Enrique. Online synopsis of O Ano em que Meus Pais Saíram de Férias. Web. 1 Oct.
2008. http://www.cartelera.com.uy/video.php?id=831.
Burton, Julienne. Cinema and Social Change in Latin America. Austin: U of Texas P, 1986.
Esther, John. “Chile in the Time of the Generals: An Interview with Andrés Wood.” Cineaste
(2005): 67.
Figueras, Marcelo. “Cine, memoria y política.” Cuadernos hispanoamericanos 661–62 (July–
Aug. 2005): 47–50.
———. Kamchatka. Madrid: Alfaguara, 2003.
Foster, David W. “Family Romance and Pathetic Rhetoric in Marcelo Piñeyro’s Kamchatka.”
Contemporary Latin American Cinema: Breaking into the Global Market. Ed. Deborah Shaw.
New York: Rowman, 2007. 105–16.
Fraser, Nicholas and Marysa Navarro. Evita: The Real Life of Eva Perón. New York: Norton,
1996.
Kamchatka. Dir. Marcelo Piñeyro. DVD. Argentina Video Home, 2002.
King, John. Magical Reels: A History of Cinema in Latin America. New York: Verso, 1990.
Krieger, Clara and Alejandra Portela, eds. Cine latinoamericano. Vol. 1. Diccionario de realiza-
dores. Buenos Aires: Jilguero, 1997.
Latorre, Guillermo. “Semantically Transparent Surnames in Spanish.” RLA Archive Organi-
zation. Web. 21 July 2009. http://tell.fll.purdue.edu/RLA-Archive/1989/SpanishGanelin-
html/LaTorre-html/LaTorre-FF.htm.
Machuca. Dir. Andrés Wood. DVD. FotoKem Film & Video, 2004.
Parraguez, Amante Eledín. Tres años para nacer. Santiago, Chile: Gallo, 2002.
Pérez Murillo, María Dolores and David Fernández Fernández, eds. La memoria filmada.
América Latina a través de su cine. Madrid: Iepala, 2002.
Piñeyro, Marcelo. “Cine, memoria y política.” Cuadernos hispanoamericanos 661–662 (July–
Aug. 2005): 47–50.
Schnitman, Jorge A. Film Industries in Latin America: Dependency and Development. Norwood,
NJ: Ablex, 1984.
Sedgwick, Eve Kosofsky. Between Men: English Literature and Male Homosocial Desire. New
York: Columbia UP, 1985.
Shaw, Deborah, ed. Introduction. Contemporary Latin American Cinema: Breaking into the
Global Market. New York: Rowman, 2007. 1–10.
Tal, Tzvi. “Alegorías de memoria y olvido en películas de iniciación: Machuca y Kamchatka.”
Aisthesis: Revista Chilena de Investigaciones Estéticas 38 (2005): 136–51.
Traverso, Antonio. “Contemporary Chilean Cinema and Traumatic Memory: Andrés Wood’s
Machuca and Raúl Ruiz’s Le domaine perdu.” IM4 2008. PDF format. Web. 4 Aug. 2010.
PART VI
Utopia and Ethnicity in the

Twenty-First Century
CHAPTER 13
Urgent (Anti)Spectacles
of Critical Hope
Carla Beatriz Melo
There are two false meanings of utopia; one is this old notion of imagining an ideal
society which we know will never be realized. The other is the capitalist utopia in
the sense of new perverse desires that you are not only allowed but even solicited to
realize. The true utopia is when the situation is without a way to resolve it within
the coordinates of the possible that out of the pure urge of survival you have to
invent a new space.
—Slavoj Žižek in Astra Taylor, Žižek!1
WHEN “THE POSSIBLE” WAS FRAMED BY A conservative and even “perverse” utopia
that deployed the compelling discourse of freedom and proclaimed that “there
[was] no alternative”2 to what was called the new world order, many acquiesced
to its inevitability. Some, considering the fall of communist regimes an index of
capitalism’s fatal victory, even called it “the end of history.”3 Two decades later,
when the effects of the worldwide expansion of neoliberalism have drastically
worsened the life conditions of a great portion of the world’s population and
accelerated environmental destruction, that which was staged as the sole redemp-
tive possibility reveals its deeply ideological character. And thus comes the hope
that, in spite of its seeming impossibility, “another world is possible”4—a world
that is envisioned not only out of dire necessity, as Slavoj Žižek asserts, but also
out of the understanding that the limits of the possible had been set by those who
did not care about any future other than their own.
The reemergence of such hope in Latin America is definitely connected but
not limited to its recent leftward shift in politics. Civil society, especially in the
form of coalitions between activists and artists, may not be seen as the protagonist
of this reemergence, but it is certainly gaining more exposure through various
types of mass media. For this reason, I would like to explore contemporary prac-
tices that, in probing ideological impositions, merge activism and performance
to stage visions of a better world, visions grounded in historical awareness. By

260 Carla Beatriz Melo
rejecting perspectives that deemed imagination obsolete in the face of the expan-
sion of neoliberal capital and by channeling utopian impulses that emerged (or
flourished) in the Americas, these new trends in artistic production and activism,
such as collectivism in the arts and the antiglobalization movement—which some
agree is epitomized by the World Social Forum (WSF)5—have radically chal-
lenged the ways in which culture and politics are articulated.
My usage of utopia follows the line of thinking established by Ernst Bloch,
which explodes narrow definitions of the no place as an ideal commonwealth, or as
any fixed object that is deemed illusory and unreal, to arrive at its core—described
as “anticipatory consciousness,” as a process that is “powerfully real in the sense that
hope and desire (and even fantasies) are real, never ‘merely’ fantasy. It is a force that
moves and shapes history” (Bammer, qtd. in Dolan 7). But instead of examining
how the cultural anticipates future changes, my interest lies in the spaces and prac-
tices in which the distinction between art and political action is obliterated.
By conceptualizing phenomena such as the antiglobalization movement,
also known as altermundism, and artistic/activist collectivism in the arts as uto-
pian strategies that counter neoliberalism and systemic exclusions on the basis
of race, gender, class, ethnicity, and so on, I will explore specific tactics within
these strategies that focus on the rights of indigenous peoples of the Amazon
and of Afro-descendants in Brazil. These tactics involve a visuality at once per-
formative and theatrical, in the sense of seeking to combine affect and effect
through ephemeral, spectacular, and collaboratively staged events. Relying on the
collective body as a way of writing large-scale claims and messages, artist collec-
tives, indigenous movements, and nongovernmental environmental and human
rights groups have been staging what I call “critical hope,” either by bringing past
utopias to the present or by positioning bodies that are at once marginal and ide-
alized within the gaze of the spectacle to call for alternative futures.
Examples of this practice are two recent visual/performative interventions that
occurred in Brazil, one by the artists’ collective “Frente 3 de Fevereiro” (February
Third Front)6 within a soccer stadium, and another led by a coalition of indigenous
movements and nonprofit organizations during the WSF. The effectiveness of these
actions largely resided in their spectacular character and orchestration of media atten-
tion. Though enacted by distinct constituencies with dissimilar praxis and in different
public spaces, both actions share a number of characteristics and allow us to reflect on
a particular contemporary current of embodied symbolic resistance in these Americas
not unproblematically named Latin, especially in regard to an engagement with a
shifting sense of collectivity, identity, historical responsibility, temporality, and hope.
An analysis of these actions of critical hope needs to be contextualized within
broader phenomena that emerged or reemerged more or less around the premi-
llennium period and that—along with the rise of the left in Latin America and
the growth of social movements led by indigenous, Afro-descendants, and the
urban homeless—have acquired a greater momentum, particularly in the first
decade of the new millennium.
In fact, the possibility of “another world” was first rehearsed in January 2001,
in opposition to the World Economic Forum. While the WSF came out of the
political climate set in motion in the mid-to-late nineties by the uprisings of the
Urgent (Anti)Spectacles of Critical Hope 261
Zapatistas and the antiglobalization protests, due to the forum’s global charac-
ter and continued presence, some sociologists considered this event “the most
consistent manifestation of counterhegemonic globalization” (“The World Social
Forum and the Global Left” 249). Since the first three events, which took place
in the southern Brazilian city of Porto Alegre,7 the WSF forum has taken place
in various urban centers of the global South both simultaneously, in a decentered
format, as well as centered in one global gathering. Taking the notion of the open
space as central, the WSF’s charter of principles defines the event as a global pro-
cess that exceeds the annual events, expanding the meaning of open space beyond
temporal and locational limits (World Social Forum, “World Social Forum Char-
ter of Principles”).
In spite of critics who view the slogan “Another world is possible” either as empty
or as a one-time catalyst that now runs the risk of becoming irrelevant (Bello, qtd.
in “The World Social Forum and the Global Left” 264), many others consider the
WSF as a model of a new kind of citizenship (Conway 367) or as the reinvention
of a particular mode of utopian thinking and action. Boaventura de Sousa Santos
claims that the WSF “signifies the reemergence of a critical utopia” in the sense
that it “asserts itself more as negativity—the definition of what it critiques—than
as positivity—the definition of that to which it aspires” (“The World Social Forum
and the Global Left” 254). He goes further to contend that due to its utopian design
it attempts to escape the “historic perversions” that turned critical into conservative
utopias (254).8 Instead of seeking to mobilize political action under a single agenda
that would represent the WSF as a unitarian political subject, in the manner that a
social movement or a political party would, the function of the forum is to act as a
horizontal space and process that allows for the formation, coalition, and mobiliza-
tion of multiple political subjects (249), or in the words of Chico Whitaker, for
the dynamization and “multiplication of modes of action,” and for “awakening the
political potentialities of civil society” (29).
The reemergence of artists’ collectives in the late nineties is also marked by a
certain novel character, which comes from a historical awareness that seeks to rei-
magine ways of creating politically engaged art or aesthetically invested politics.
Through the approach of some of these collectives, who call themselves artivistas,
the romantic desire to merge art and life and/or to create collectively—exemplary
not only in the generations of the sixties and seventies but also in modernist
avant-garde—is rechanneled in a manner that radicalizes the attack on the status
of art as commodity. Art and activism merge into each other in such a way that
they often become indistinguishable rather than being simply juxtaposed for the
sake of making an intervention into the history and institution of art. There have
certainly been other exceptions to this posture, but artivismo seems to reenact the
simultaneously praised and attacked utopian urge that artists have had to obliter-
ate boundaries not only between art and life but also between have and have-nots,
from a markedly distinct subject position in relation to its historical antecedents.
Other important points of convergence between the WSF and artivism are
decentralized structure, their respect for a plurality of views, as well as their diverse
constituency, inclusive character, and a refusal to speak for the Other. Similarly to
the global forum, coletivos (collectives) do not propose solutions but rather expose
social dilemmas while problematizing traditional ways of envisioning change. In

this sense, they could also fall under Santos’s definition of “critical utopias.”
Unlike civil disobedience, which has suffered brutal violence and criminaliza-
tion—as we have witnessed with the massacre of indigenous activists in Peru in
early 20099—symbolic resistance that has come out of these scenarios of critical
utopia stages hopeful yet critical messages through a dialogical mode of visuality.
This may, on one level, help counterbalance the marginalization of subaltern sub-
jects within the spectacle of mainstream media; while on another, empower these
new movements through alternate means of collective experience and expression.
Among other things, I am interested in investigating if and how these performa-
tive interventions, as indexical of broader utopian impulses staged by the WSF
and artivism, may contribute to destabilizing the Eurocentric construction of
Latin America, as well as the ways in which they signal a revitalization of and an
attempt to rescue the contested notion of utopia from its ideological trappings.
Out of Dystopia
As part of the WSF 2009, which took place in Belém do Pará—a port city at the
edge of the Amazon rainforest—a few nonprofit environmental groups, such as
Amazon Watch and Rainforest Network, along with a coalition of indigenous
movements of the Brazilian Amazon (Coordenação das Organizações Indígenas
da Amazônia Brasileira [COIAB; Coordination of Indigenous Organizations of
the Brazilian Amazon])10 and in collaboration with the artist John Quigley,11
staged an event involving over a thousand indigenous people from various tribes
and countries as well as (fewer) nonindigenous activists. Their visual interven-
tion, appropriately titled “Message from the Mouth of the Amazon,” consisted of
lining up bodies in a huge field to form sentences such as “SOS Amazonia” (SOS
Amazon) and “Salve a Amazonia” (Save the Amazon), along with the profile out-
line of an indigenous warrior with bow and arrow in hand. These two moments
were then filmed and photographed from a helicopter. A day later, over a thou-
sand websites, including major news channels like the Brazilian Globo, reported
on the event displaying the image of the human banner.
Although, given some methodological restrictions, I will analyze the visual
performance of the action primarily as a spectator looking at media images, my
own participation as one of those who directed the participants into forming the
shape of the letter and the pictograph also adds an immersive, though limited,
perspective to my analysis. The terms referring to direction and participation may
be misleading: My role was simply to follow the plan already established by the
coalition and coordinate the bodily alignment along the giant design; I had no
function in the conceptualization of the action and no knowledge of the commu-
nities involved aside from the fact that they were willing and eager to participate.
Nonetheless, it is important to note how it seemed extraordinary that, in less than
an hour, and in spite of the extreme humid heat, the difficulty in convincing over
1,600 bodies to line up and be still and the multitudes of languages (in every
sense of the word), we had collectively managed to reach the point of sufficient
efficiency as to make the words and images legible for just long enough to be
documented. As a white woman, my initial resistance to tell índios (indigenous
people) what to do was eased when I learned that the coordination was to be
shared with indigenous leaders. In fact, before assembling the 240- by 180-foot
message, the various nations and the nonindigenous who joined in witnessed a
ritual of blessing and purification performed by a Xavante nation’s representative.
The unprecedented protagonism of the indigenous at a WSF event was also wit-
nessed in the event that followed: after the making of the banner, the indigenous
led the WSF’s opening march (with a crowd of sixty to a hundred thousand).12
This significant participation of indigenous peoples exceeded that of any
previous WSF and thus marked a significant shift in its constituency. In many
ways, the symbolism of action, which took place in the first hours of the six-day
event, surpassed the simplicity of its message to signal, at least for those who
attended the forum, the intensity of the more pragmatic political action that
followed: plans for convergent action among various indigenous groups, as well
as substantial encounters and debates between indigenous peoples of the Ama-
zon, nonindigenous activists, NGOs, government agencies, and even the minister
of environmental affairs. These encounters, in turn, acquired more significance
vis-à-vis the political context of the event, and also due to the location—I am
referring to both its dystopian reality and the more hopeful context of a rising
insurgency on the part of indigenous populations in the region.
It is now common knowledge that the Amazon rainforest, often called the “lungs of
the planet,” as the world’s largest reservoir of carbon, plays a crucial role in regulating
our global climate and that our survival may depend on halting its rapid deforestation
and unsustainable forms of “development.” What often escapes the radar of main-
stream media are the devastating and more immediate effects such “development” has
had on indigenous populations and the resistance these populations have built against
it. Perhaps the most notable example, which places the human banner in a greater
context of activism, is the current multimillionaire lawsuit against Chevron-Texaco
for the loss of hundreds of lives and the enormous environmental and health damages
caused by the company’s oil drilling operations in Ecuador.13
While also responding to systemic conditions, Frente 3 de Fevereiro formed
and named itself in reaction to a single, yet paradigmatic event: the murder of
a young black male by the military police in the north part of São Paulo, on
February 3, 2004. Flávio Santana was executed by the military police because
his appearance corresponded to that of a wanted man whose only identifying
characteristics were being young and black; in other words, Flávio’s crime was to
fit the description of what the police define as a “suspect of standard color.” It is
common knowledge that this type of “mistake” occurs frequently in large Brazil-
ian urban centers, but Flávio’s case called the media’s attention because he was a
“suspect of standard color” that escaped the standard: he was neither poor nor a
slum dweller; he was a middle-class dentist (Muniz, Frente 3 de Fevereiro).
Like most artivist groups, Frente is a transdisciplinary collective. It includes
both Afro-descendants and Afro-identified people of various fields, including
visual arts, cinema, design, theater, dance, history, sociology, and law (Frente 3
de Fevereiro). Their urban interventions, publications, documentaries, and per-
formances seek to memorialize, denounce, historicize, and question what this
case of injustice metonymically represents in relation to what the group calls
Brazil’s herança escravocrata (enslaving heritage)—a legacy already foregrounded
by the nineteenth-century abolitionist Joaquim Nabuco and remembered in verse

and sound by Caetano Veloso in the context of the first gestures toward institu-
tionalizing affirmative action in Brazil: “Slavery will remain for a long time as
Brazil’s national characteristic.”14 Such heritage is obscured by the notion of racial
democracy, which was born out of efforts to construct a solid national identity,
and was thus legitimized by the elites and the state. Because Afro-descendants do
not always identify as such but instead declare their race based on a plethora of
colors, some scholars attempted to prove the notion of a racial democracy based
on the harmonious conviviality of various colors (McCallum 101). While racial
hybridity is a Brazilian reality, the social theory of racial democracy has been
challenged by the exceptionally high level of inequality among Afro-descendants
and whites. Nonetheless, in spite of decades of academic attack, the idea remains
quite hegemonic in the popular imaginary. From a perspective that deems this
myth an obstacle to changing racial relations, it could constitute a conservative
utopia—that is, as one that seeks to maintain the status quo.15 Nonetheless, one
could argue that in certain spaces, such as the soccer field, a more equal access to
agency, independent of skin color, may in fact be momentarily actualized.
In Veneno Remédio (Poison antidote; 2008), a book that explores the complex
relations between soccer and national identity through time, José Miguel Wisnik
contests Manichaeistic views of the game that see it either as an expression of
cultural singularity (that proves the validity of racial democracy) or as an escapist
phenomenon used to celebrate what is perceived as a myth that blinds Brazil-
ians toward social reality (182). As Wisnik poetically problematizes easy solutions
to the paradox of racial democracy, he suggests that far from constituting the
evidence that equality characterizes Brazilian racial relations, soccer provides a
site in which the desire for racial parity is expressed and rehearsed. In this sense,
the racial relations performed on the soccer field constitute not a proof of racial
democracy but, instead, an exception. Thus, in Wisnik’s own words, soccer does
not describe but rather “prescribes” Brazilian society (240). Nevertheless, or per-
haps because of this, as Frente 3 de Fevereiro’s audiovisual performance Futebol
points out, soccer is also the site where blatant racism cannot get away with crime
and, as a result, becomes a media spectacle that is either framed as abnormal-
ity or projected onto an Other. For instance, in 2005, Argentine soccer player
Leandro Desábato was imprisoned for two days for having made racist remarks
to Grafite, from the São Paulo soccer team. This caused a media frenzy in the
country around the question of whether racism is a crime, and inspired Frente 3
de Fevereiro to create ação bandeiras (action flags), which I analyze here. In their
book Zumbi Somos Nós (We are Zumbi; 2007), the group mentions the irony
with which racism becomes a crime when it is committed by an Other (64).
For all these reasons, the choice of the soccer game as site for an intervention
that seeks to denounce and problematize racism is quite provocative. Mimick-
ing large team flags used in soccer games, Frente 3 de Fevereiro infiltrates the
audience space, and relying on coordination among a large number of people,
instantly displays written messages that interpellate the viewer. The words spelled
out on these banners, among other things, reclaim identification with historical
black leaders as a means of deconstructing the present, and call for a different
prospect for Brazilian racial politics.
What becomes clear in these brief descriptions of the two gestures of critical
hope is how the utopian impulse is moved by recognition of a necessity, in these
cases, to halt destruction of the environment and to oppose endemic racism. In
other words, they are enacted in response to dystopic realities. Yet we live in a
“society of the spectacle,”16 an image culture characterized by hypervisuality,17
which is largely numb to the plight of minorities and to these realities. Could
such visual-performative interventions aid in the imaging and imagining of alter-
native futures within this context?
Performing Antispectacles
As Frente 3 de Fevereiro attempts to enter the soccer stadium with a group of
more or less twenty people while carrying an enormous flag, sometimes the group
is blocked, other times it succeeds. After they make it in, they strategically choose
the best position in relation to television cameras, and spread themselves to coor-
dinate the action. Utilizing codes of behavior that are part of soccer culture’s
repertoire, Frente manages to have a banner that measures anywhere from 50 to
65 feet to open and spread itself over the heads of a number of audience members
with their own help. Animated by hundreds of hands, the giant white flag with
large, black, and bold capitalized letters, floats and undulates above the audience
for about ten seconds. Remarks such as “Onde estão os negros?” (Where are the
blacks?), “Brasil negro salve” (Hail/Save black Brazil), and “Zumbi somos nós”
(We are Zumbi) surprise and interpellate not only those who are in the occupied
space but also those who experience the event virtually through media.
The action lasts for about forty seconds—time that is sufficient not only to
unfold, exhibit, and roll the banner but also for substantial media exposure. I
will focus my analysis on the last banner for it possesses greater symbolic power
as a utopian message, and also because it actually names a number of the group’s
related activities—including a documentary in which the action is featured. In
this sense, the sentence on the banner acquired the role of a nodal point within a
web of meanings their work established.
Figure 13.1 Display of the “Zumbi Somos Nós” banner in a soccer stadium. Courtesy of Frente 3
de Fevereiro.
As Frente 3 de Fevereiro penetrates the soccer stadium with a flag that, instead
of exhibiting the colors of a soccer team, proclaims, “Zumbi Somos Nós” (“We
are Zumbi,” or more literally: “Zumbi are us”), it invokes a collective identi-
fication with Zumbi dos Palmares, a leader of the largest and most resilient
seventeenth-century quilombo (a settlement of runaway slaves, free-born black
Africans, and other marginalized subjects), who became a symbol of the black
movement in the 1970s. When the Unified Black Movement rejected the date
of May 13 (abolition of slavery) in favor of November 20, the date of Zumbi’s
death, as the National Day of Black Consciousness, it also clearly opposed the
notion of racial democracy as an obstacle to end racial discrimination.18 Evoking
such an icon within the soccer stadium constitutes an invasion and problematiza-
tion of this utopic space, this exception-place where racial democracy wins the
game at the same time that the other team (of racism) scores the points. Their
gesture announces that the revolution will be televised, as the potency of this resis-
tance comes largely from its media repercussion.19
The same can be said of the SOS action, since a day after the Amazonian coali-
tion between nongovernmental organizations and indigenous groups pleaded with
the world to save the Amazon, over a thousand websites, including major news
channels such as the Brazilian Globo, reported the event and displayed the image
of the human banner. One could say that the índio’s arrow depicted on the banner,
though pictorially in profile, was almost solely aimed at the media. In fact, the two
helicopters that documented the two variations on the theme (“SOS Amazonia” fol-
lowed by “Salve a Amazonia”) carried photographers/videographers from Amazon
Watch as well as one from Globo television, who had been invited by the NGO.
Figure 13.2 Aerial photograph of the “SOS Amazonia” human banner. Courtesy of Antoine Bonsorte.
While both interventions were largely created for the media and are perhaps
more significant and signifying as “mediatic” interventions than as live perfor-
mance, it is through theatricality and the performative visuality of the message
that they infiltrate the media’s spectacle, deploying it and potentially unsettling
mechanisms of reception generally set up within a spectacularized image culture.
The actions deploy a strong visuality that is simultaneously performative, the-
atrical, and spectacular. In fact, they could be said to attain theatricality as they
become spectacular—as they trigger what Baz Kershaw has called the “WOW fac-
tor” (592). These actions are spectacular in their larger-than-life dimension and
in their feat quality, which doesn’t derive from virtuosity as such but rather from
the deployment of a large number of human bodies and the successful organiza-
tion of the action against all odds. For instance, the difficulty in coordinating the
SOS action that I have described earlier can be seen in the dispersive quality of
the letter N in the last image. As performance leaves its traces on the archive, the
wow factor may come in response to the ephemerality of the result vis-à-vis the
implied effort in achieving it. Conversely, the spectacularity of the actions may
also derive from the effortlessness with which the performance unfolds, mixing
precision with spontaneity, choreography with improvisation. This is especially
true of the Zumbi banner, particularly when witnessed by a live audience or expe-
rienced as a moving image by those watching the video documentation.20
Theatricality and the spectacular effects of the visual interventions derive not
only from their ephemerality, embodiment, and precarious virtuosity but also from
the manner with which they promote identification with a tragic hero or with a
crisis situation. The familiarity of the tactics and scenarios facilitates such iden-
tification. The tactic of human banner itself is common and largely deployed by
environmental groups, Greenpeace in particular. Similarly, the Zumbi banner is
staged and read based on a familiar repertoire and mode of visuality—that is, on a
well-known visual and performative element of soccer culture. The power of collec-
tive action could also potentially generate empathy in the audience. In this sense,
the same alienating dangers of tragedy pointed out by Augusto Boal may apply
(26–32). In other words, as the audience identifies with the hero it may simply
experience the crisis vicariously and use the experience as a substitute for real reflec-
tion or action. Yet, especially in the case of the Zumbi banner, this danger coexists
with a Brechtian character—that is to say, with the way in which this particular flag
defamiliarizes the common signifier of the large-scale soccer flag. And similarly to
the function of Bertolt Brecht’s Verfremdungseffekt, defamiliarization here aims at
inciting learning and, ultimately, action. This effect may be complemented by the
action’s performative function, in the linguistic sense. J. L. Austin’s performatives
are statements that are equaled to an action, they are “words that do something,”
meaning, they have an effect on the real world (4–7). In these banners, words are
not enunciated verbally but written in large scale, either supported by or composed
by a mass of bodies. The words in themselves do not act, but they are “in action.”
Although it is the collective body that sets words in motion within public sites and
across media, it is largely the words that assume the role of the protagonist. In this
sense, a performative analysis also includes what the words can do as central char-
acters of the action, and moves toward a reading of the messages within the written
text in relation to its embodiment and performance site.
Who Are Us?

The performative character of the intervention by Frente 3 de Fevereiro comes
not only from the invocation of a symbol of black resistance but also from the
connotation implied in the syntactical construction of the sentence “Zumbi are
us” in so far as it can acquire the status of a response to an assertion already
implicit in the collective imaginary. Though the words do not attain the power
of sealing a contract, as in the “I do” of the wedding ceremony—the classical
example of Austin’s performative—they seem to reply to prior actions. In other
words, the sentence takes on a tone of reaction to more factual assertions, such as:
“Zumbi was a leader of the Palmares,” to which an undetermined us would vehe-
mently answer: “No, no, no, Zumbi are us!” Quilombos were utopias actualized,
but they are located in the past. If we, the audience, were like Zumbi, then we
would struggle to realize the current dreams and hopes of Afro-descendants. That
is what the words apparently do: they push us toward this kind of conclusion.
In spite of its apparently direct character, the statement evokes a number of
questions: Which us are the artists of the Frente referring to? How is the meaning
of Zumbi modified within the soccer game? How does the place impose mean-
ing on the action? The possible answers, as we will see, possess a certain degree
of ambiguity that subverts oppositional tactics characteristic of more traditional
forms of utopian resistance.
Beforehand, it is important to note that being out of the theater and of spaces
that are devoted to protest, such as streets and squatted buildings, makes their act
of critical hope avoid both classifications of artistic performance and of protest—at
least for the public at large. Another aspect that lends ambiguity to the apparent
simplicity of the assertion would be the polysemic tone attributed to Zumbi, when
the icon is presented outside of spaces devoted to raising black political conscious-
ness, as proposed by Ricardo Muniz: “Out of the bag comes the flag . . . And it
unfolds itself without anthems, to the syncopated beat of the group . . . Wide
open, the flag proclaims to the skies the uncertainty of meaning . . . Zumbi are
us. Warrior or outcast Zumbi? Winners or losers? Immortal hero or living dead?
Zumbis are us. Masters or zombies? Flag or corpse’s clothes?”21
But the factor that intensifies the ambiguity of the intervention is the undeter-
mined constitution of this us, since the sentence implicates both spectators and
actors as subjects of the action. Given the context of the soccer stadium, this us
seems to primarily refer to the followers of a team, but since soccer is one of the
central territories of the national imaginary, this us could allude to the larger audi-
ence of the nation and thus exceed the black-mestizo population. Following such
a reading, we could say that Frente’s identity politics seeks to subvert the ideology
of racial democracy, which affirms a general identification with mestiçagem (mis-
cegenation, with a positive connotation) or at least with forms of social relations
that derive from it. On the one hand, to say that “Zumbi are us” can be the same
as to affirm that we (Brazilians) are all black, calling attention to the centrality
of Brazil in the African diaspora and to the majority/minority of a black country
that lives the collateral damages of an enslaving heritage—a heritage that is at
times celebrated as democracy, at others confronted, but always hovering above
the center stage of national identity. On the other hand, to say that “Zumbi are
us” could be simply interpreted as “Zumbi is the masses.”
Ironically, the masses (or o povo) is a homogenizing category that, from the
point of view of those who struggle for reparation (to the black population for
the damages of slavery) and for the specificity of black experience, is considered
an obstacle to this very struggle. Yet, in the words of the collective, “Zumbi are
us, all who seek to convert violence in symbolic resistance in favor of collectivity,
reinventing ways of living together in our social practice—that is, all who are
aligned with the black resistance.”22
Last but not least, the fact that many of the people that end up participating in
the action do not know the content of the message (or are introduced to it so instan-
taneously that it is probably difficult to absorb its implications) seems to suggest that
some of us are Zumbi without knowing it. This tactic, though perhaps not as ethical
as some would expect, sharpens the critical edge of the gesture. In other words, the
intervention simultaneously affirms the specificity of the Afro-descendant experi-
ence without excluding those who are not descendants of slaves who might become
allies, redefining identity as a political choice and the problem of racism as a national
question—a problem that pertains to all citizens, even when they are not aware of
their responsibility. Thus this act of embodied critical hope not only questions the
conservative utopia of racial democracy but also, as it frames the viewer/reader as
agent and as part of the scenario, lends him or her accountability.
Who Is Saving Whom?

The reporting on the human banner was sometimes accompanied by the fol-
lowing message from the leading Amazonian indigenous organization (COIAB):
With the permission of our ancestors’ spirits, we indigenous peoples are here with
our friends from all corners of the earth. We build this symbol with our bodies as
the cry of living beings from this green forest, this planet, for our continuity as
humans and diverse creatures. The symbol of the bow and arrow has three mean-
ings: The first, our aim that every man, woman, and child will decide to care for
our planet; the second, the position of defending the rights of indigenous peoples,
of nature, of the planet, and of our home the Amazon; the third, to send a message
to the world so that each of us helps to protect our home, our air, our water, our
food. The Datsiparabu ceremony is the purification of our minds, our spirit, our
soul, and our hearts. Save the Amazon! (Grass Roots International)
In a similar manner to the Zumbi banner, the effectiveness of their discursive

tactic lies on engendering collective identification among a diverse audience. As
they claim to gather with “friends from all corners of the earth” (both physically
and virtually), they position indigenous peoples as envoys of a transnational urge
toward collective survival, a survival that requires spiritual awareness and respect
for all living beings. As representatives of our human diversity, they claim to over-
come suffering as they take on the role of warriors in defense of natural resources.
By creating the words and images with human bodies (or rather, with a collective
body), which photographed from above become almost a feature of the landscape,
the 1,600 people involved in the action—most of which were wearing their tradi-
tional attires—enact an instant equation between the earth as a living being and
the indigenous peoples of the Americas. But unlike noble savages waiting passively
to be conquered, as some pictorial traditions of the colonial period displayed,23
the equation between the natives and the earth is bonded to a male and aggressive
symbol. Implicit in the pose and weapons of the outlined figure seems to be the
message that indigenous peoples will fight to defend the forest, if necessary. While
such an image may run the risk of instantly following into the other quintessential
stereotype of the Amerindian in the Western imaginary as the blood-thirsty savage
(as seen in representations of the North American Comanches and Apaches, to
name only a few), the environmental cause the action promotes has acquired such
a wide awareness that the action also supports current interpretations of indigenous
peoples as the environmental citizens par excellence. Even for those unfamiliar with
the alliance between the discourse of the new environmentalists and the one of
the majority of indigenous populations, which situates these populations as central
protectors of the forest (Jelin 49), the action can be interpreted as an attempt to
equate ecological rights with human rights, thereby suggesting a convergence of
environmental and indigenous struggles.
Yet, like the Zumbi banner, in spite of its simplicity, the SOS message, which
must be analyzed as embodied and emplaced text, image, and mode of visuality,
also carries some ambiguity. First of all, the juxtaposition of the SOS (which
textually positions those who are doing the calling as helpless victims) with
the warring stance of the figure stages a productive ambivalence that may grab
the attention of the viewer, who, given the cliché status of any plea to save the
Amazon, could otherwise simply disregard it. Combined with the introductory
message, indigenous peoples are simultaneously represented as potential saviors
and as those who need to be saved. And when the identification works, the same
applies to the sympathizing viewer. While the ambivalent potential of the image
causes a certain estrangement, the potentially complex identification, similarly to
the Zumbi banner, raises questions of accountability.
On another level, certainly the action’s location as part of the WSF, and specif-
ically within a forum that took place at the edge of the Amazon, lends significant
charge and urgency to the call for help. In this sense, it is important to note that
while Frente 3 de Fevereiro’s intervention responded to the violation of human
rights through a transgressive occupation of a public site or performatic squatting,
the “Message from the Mouth of the Amazon” is what I call place-specific—a
notion that qualifies a type of site specificity, and is applied to works made for a
site to which they belong, that is, for a site that welcomes and promotes it.
In addition, the reception of the image is also shaped by the mode of visuality
represented by the aerial view. As Erin Stepney suggests, “[A]erial photographs
are constructed in such a way that they lend themselves to the body of interpre-
tive conventions within which maps are read,” thus acquiring the authority of a
totalizing document. In this sense, the aerial gaze and its media repercussion place
the action in a central position within the WSF 2009 and support the goal of the
“actors” to stand as representative of the totality of indigenous people attending
the event. Yet such a claim is misleading since, according to a reporter, some
indigenous groups such as the Kayapó and Guajará of the state of Pará argued
that “the originary people of the pan-Amazonian region are not the guardians . . .
of white man’s interests—the relation between them and the forest is one of sur-
vival,” which in itself is “the historical warranty of its preservation” (Glass 6).
These groups seem to read the message as placing the priority on the forest over
their rights; their perspective is that by ensuring the survival of indigenous peo-
ples the forest is automatically protected. Nevertheless, both constituencies claim
a convergence of environmental and human rights, so the misrepresentation may
not be as problematic since it implicitly benefits both groups.
Another important aspect in our reading of this collective action is its location
within a WSF that simultaneously hosted an unprecedented number of indigenous
peoples from all the Americas and four Latin American presidents that represent the
“left turn” of the region,24 thus charging the forum at once with indigeneity and the
affective power of the latinidad discourse. As Walter Mignolo argues in his book
The Idea of Latin America (2005), the naming of Latin to the region was engen-
dered by the struggle among European nineteenth-century empires over colonial
influence on the newly independent nations. Latinidad was thus adopted by Creole
elites and middle-class mestizos as an identificatory strategy that served to mark
racial, language, and class distinctions so that African and indigenous peoples were
more easily kept in the margins (51–94). In this sense, the presence and the political
agency of indigenous peoples in the WSF 2009 destabilize the power of latinidad as
the only identificatory mode for social movements of the region, reminding us that
Other Americas, identifications, and modes of resistance are possible.
Conclusion
Instead of operating at the margins of the spectacle, both interventions infiltrate
it through the deployment of ephemeral action staged as spectacular visuality.
Ephemerality, as Jill Dolan suggests in her analysis of the utopian function of
performance, is where efficacy lies (8). But such effectiveness cannot be divorced
from its iterative potential and from its recurrence in what Diana Taylor calls the
archive (16–22), which, in this case, is both the alternative and the mainstream
media. Following Kershaw, who identifies the spectacle as “a fabulously flexible
force for change” (593), I posit that through the cracks of the media spectacle,
the peculiarity of the spectacular character of the images disseminated resensitizes
viewers toward crucial social and environmental issues. Though the risk is always
situated at the point in which a spectacular performance becomes a commod-
ity, the immediacy, ephemerality, and subtle ambiguity of the messages in these
spectacles is what may keep them from being commodified. In this sense, they
constitute an antispectacle: a visually seductive event of grand proportions that,
instead of alienating, potentially serves as an entry point for reflecting on con-
temporary utopian currents. Certainly, the fact that they are framed within the
utopian discourse of altermundism and artivism facilitates such reflection.
Yet in contemplating how these visual interventions perform a critical kind
of hope that is not lost in wishful thinking, we must consider not only how the
counterhegemonic context of the WSF and the artivist movement may affect
their reception but also how the actions may help legitimize altermundism and
artivism as viable utopian praxes.
Unlike the banner of having no specific agenda that is attached to contexts of
the WSF, and to a number of collectives that belong to the artivism movement,
these performative banners either take a particular identificatory stance or stand
behind a strong cause. As the actions gained media attention, they countered
criticism toward the movements that frame them as inefficient based on their
supposed lack of direction or agenda.
Further, temporality also plays a part in interpreting how the actions may resig-
nify their broader contexts. As Santos reflects on the temporal needs of the utopian
impulse, he posits that “[c]ritical thinking and transformative practice are today torn
apart by two extreme and contradictory temporalities disputing the time frame of
collective action. On the one hand, there is a sense of urgency, the idea that it is nec-
essary to act now, as tomorrow will probably be too late . . . On the other hand, there
is a sense that our time calls for deep and long-term civilizational changes” (“The
World Social Forum and the Global Left” 255). The framing of the performative
interventions within broader phenomena may resolve this seeming contradiction as
long as the immediacy of the actions and the urgency of their pleas counterbalance
and complement the sustained effort of their counterhegemonic contexts.
In sum, simultaneously direct and polysemic, clear and ambiguous, these ges-
tures perform more than a reclamation of rights; ultimately, in spite of the explicit
causes of their banner(s), they perform a problematization of accountability in
regard to the problems exposed. The spectacular number of bodies moving in
unison under a single purpose signifies the potency of the collective in perform-
ing such a task. Through the embodiment and symbolization of collectivity, these
actions stage a hope that is critical, not only in the sense of exposing problems but
also in the sense of being urgent and crucial to the creation of a future in which
the voices of subaltern subjects in the Americas, who have been speaking for
many decades (even centuries), are finally beginning to be heard.
Notes
1. Quote transcribed from the film Žižek! by Astra Taylor.
2. See Harvey 8.
3. I am referring to Francis Fukuyama’s 1992 book The End of History and the Last Man.
4. This is the slogan of the World Social Forum.
5. See Santos, “The Future of the World Social Forum” 15 and Conway 367.
6. See http://www.frente3defevereiro.com.br/.
7. However, it returned to Porto Alegre for its fifth edition in 2005.
8. It is important to note that I am using Santos’s definitions and not those that derive from
narrative studies of utopia. For more traditional, literary definitions, see Levitas.
9. See the New York Times online: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/06/world/americas/
06peru.html (accessed on November 15, 2009).
10. See http://www.coiab.com.br/ (accessed on November 15, 2009).
11. Artist’s website: http://www.spectralq.com/.
12. These were the numbers given by the police; according to the organizers there were
about one hundred thousand (see Rovai).
13. See the New York Times online: http://www.nytimes.com/2003/05/08/business/suit-says
-chevrontexaco-dumped-poisons-in-ecuador.html.
14. “A escravidão permanecerá por muito tempo como a característica nacional do Brasil”
(see Nabuco 49 and Veloso). All translations are by the author, unless a published trans-
lation is indicated.
15. For a definition of conservative utopia, see Santos, “The World Social Forum: A User’s
Manual” 10.
16. I am referring to Guy Debord’s theory found in La société du spectacle (The Society of the
Spectacle; 1967).
17. See Mirzoeff 4.
18. However, as Michael George Hanchard notes, it wasn’t until the celebration of aboli-
tion’s centennial in 1988 that the notion of racial democracy became challenged at a
greater popular level, at least within self-identified Afro-descendants (143–50).
19. I am referencing Gil Scott Heron’s famous song from 1974, “The Revolution Will Not
Be Televised.”
20. The DVD Zumbi Somos Nós by Frente 3 de Fevereiro comes as part of the hard copy of
the homonymous book.
21. “Do saco surge a bandeira . . . E ela vai se desfraldando sem hinos, na sincope do
grupo . . . Escancarada clama aos céus a incerteza do sentido . . . Zumbi somos nós.
Zumbi guerreiro ou párias? Vencedores ou vencidos? Imortal herói ou mortos vivos?
Zumbis somos nós. Senhores ou fantasmas? Estandarte ou mortalha?” (http://www
.frente3defevereiro.com.br/).
22. “Zumbi Somos Nós, todos os que procuram converter a violência em uma resistên-
cia simbólica em prol da coletividade, reinventando as formas de convivência na nossa
prática social” (Zumbi Somos Nós 11).
23. One of these images has been analyzed by Michel de Certeau in L’écriture de l’histoire
(The Writing of History; 1975, xxv).
24. Brazil’s Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva, Venezuela’s Hugo Chávez, Bolivia’s Evo Morales, Ecua-
dor’s Rafael Correa, and Paraguay’s Fernando Lugo.
Works Cited
Austin, J. L. How to Do Things with Words. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1975.
Bloch, Ernst. The Principle of Hope. Trans. Neville Plaice, Stephen Plaice, and Paul Knight. 3
vols. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1986.
Boal, Augusto. Theatre of the Oppressed. New York: Theatre Communications Group, 1975.
Certeau, Michel de. The Writing of History. 1975. Trans. Tom Conley. New York: Columbia
UP, 1988.
Conway, Janet. “Citizenship in a Time of Empire.” Citizenship Studies 8.4 (Dec. 2004): 367–81.
Debord, Guy. The Society of the Spectacle. 1967. Trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. Detroit:
Black and Red, 1977.
Dolan, Jill. Utopia in Performance: Finding Hope at the Theater. Ann Arbor: U of Michigan P, 2005.
Ellin, Abby. “Suit Says ChevronTexaco Dumped Poisons in Ecuador.” New York Times. 8
May 2003. Web. 15 Nov. 2009. http://www.nytimes.com/2003/05/08/business/suit-says
chevrontexaco-dumped-poisons-in-ecuador.html.
Frente 3 de Fevereiro. Official website. Web. 15 Nov. 2009. http://www.frente3defevereiro
.com.br/
———. Zumbi Somos Nós. DVD. Frente 3 de Fevereiro. 2007.

———. Zumbi Somos Nós: Cartografia do Racismo para o Jovem Urbano. São Paulo: Instituto
Pólis, 2007.
Fukuyama, Francis. The End of History and the Last Man. New York: Free P, 1992.
Glass, Verena. “Diante da crise, o desafio da busca de alternativas.” Caros Amigos Year 12, 46
(Apr. 2009): 4–8.
Grass Roots International. Web. 15 Nov. 2009. http://grassrootsobline.org/news/blog/
indigenous-peoples-call-us-heed-their-call-save-amazon.
Hanchard, Michael George. Orpheus and Power: The Movimento Negro of Rio de Janeiro and São
Paulo, Brazil, 1945–1988. Princeton: Princeton UP, 1994.
Harvey, David. A Brief History of Neoliberalism. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2005.
Heron, Gil Scott. “The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.” Small Talk at 125th and Lenox.
CD/Vinyl. Flying Dutchman Records, 1970.
Jelin, Elizabeth. “Toward a Global Environmental Citizenship?” Citizenship Studies 4.1 (2000):
47–63.
Kershaw, Baz. “Curiosity or Contempt: On Spectacle, the Human and Activism.” Theatre
Journal 55 (2003): 591–611.
Levitas, Ruth. The Concept of Utopia. London: Allan, 1990.
McCallum, Cecilia. “Racialized Bodies, Naturalized Classes: Moving through the City of Sal-
vador da Bahia.” American Ethnologist 32.1 (2005): 100–17.
Mignolo, Walter D. The Idea of Latin America. Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2005.
Mirzoeff, Nicholas. The Visual Culture Reader. London: Routledge, 1998.
Muniz, Ricardo. Frente 3 de Fevereiro. Web. 15 Nov. 2009. http://www.frente3defevereiro
.com.br/.
Nabuco, Joaquim. Minha Formação. 1900. Ministério da Cultura. Web. 15 Nov. 2009. http://
www.dominiopublico.gov.br/download/texto/bn000096.pdf.
Romero, Simon. “Fatal Clashes Erupt in Peru at Roadblock.” New York Times. 5 June 2009.
Web. 15 Nov. 2009. http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/06/world/americas/06peru.html.
Rovai, Renato. “Quando o Fórum foi à Amazônia.” Revista Fórum. 18 Feb. 2009. Web.
15 Nov. 2009. http://www.revistaforum.com.br/sitefinal/EdicaoNoticiaIntegra.asp?id
_artigo=6319.
Santos, Boaventura de Sousa. “The Future of the World Social Forum: The Work of Transla-
tion.” Development 45.2 (2005): 15–22.
———. “The World Social Forum and the Global Left.” Politics and Society 36.2 (June 2008):
247–70.
———. “The World Social Forum: A User’s Manual.” 2004. Web. 15 Nov. 2009. http://www
.ces.uc.pt/bss/documentos/fsm_eng.pdf.
Stepney, Erin. “Seeing the Past: The Effect of Aerial Photography as a Structured Perception
Upon Terrestrial Archeological Survey.” Web. 15 Nov. 2009. http://metamedia.stanford
.edu:3455/31/330.
Taylor, Diana. The Archive and the Repertoire: Performing Cultural Memory in the Americas.
Durham, NC: Duke UP, 2003.
Veloso, Caetano. Noites do Norte. DVD. Universal Music, 2000.
Whitaker, Chico. “Um novo bem comum da humanidade: Uma defesa do FSM como um
espaço aberto aos atores sociais.” Caros Amigos Year 12, 46 (Apr. 2009): 28–29.
Wisnik, José Miguel. Veneno Remédio: O Futebol e o Brasil. São Paulo: Companhia das Letras,
2008.
World Social Forum. “World Social Forum Charter of Principles.” Web. 15 Nov. 2009. http://
www.forumsocialmundial.org.br/main.php?id_menu=4&cd_language=2.
Žižek! Dir. Astra Taylor. DVD. Zeitgeist Films, 2005.
CHAPTER 14
Recent Peruvian
Quechua Poetry
Beyond Andean and
Neoliberal Utopias
Ulises Juan Zevallos-Aguilar
FOR THE LAST TWENTY YEARS, PERUVIAN LITERATURE written in Quechua has been
experiencing a renaissance.1 Among the diverse tendencies of this literary prolif-
eration, the content of the work of Quechua poets Fredy Roncalla (Apurímac, b.
1953), Odi Gonzales (Cuzco, b. 1962), and Ch’aska Anka Ninawaman (Cuzco,
b. 1972) is not utopian in orientation; rather, it focuses more on ethnic recog-
nition, identity politics, and the denunciation of problems that concern them.
Roncalla stresses the cultural flexibility of the Quechuas to adapt and overcome
obstacles from a transnational standpoint, Anka Ninawaman places her faith in
community and family, Gonzales proposes the abandonment of the mythical
Inca kingdom. These poets thus distance themselves from the two utopian pro-
posals best articulated by Peruvian intellectuals in the 1980s: the Andean utopia,
whose major proponent was the historian Alberto Flores Galindo, and the neolib-
eral utopia, promulgated by the writer Mario Vargas Llosa. Both proposals were
articulated in forums, debates, and a series of academic and journalistic articles,
appearing in final form in the books Buscando un inca: Identidad y utopía en los
Andes (In Search of an Inca: Identity and Utopia in the Andes; 1986) and La utopía
arcaica: José María Arguedas y las ficciones del indigenismo (The archaic utopia:
José María Arguedas and the fictions of indigenism; 1996), respectively.
Before analyzing how these poets distance themselves from both utopian models,
I will briefly outline the conceptualizations of the Andean utopia and the neoliberal
utopia within the cultural context in which they were debated. In the 1980s, a
process of neoliberal modernization led to the escalation of poverty, social inequal-
ity, hunger, racism, and the violation of human rights. Moreover, this decade saw

276 Ulises Juan Zevallos-Aguilar
the onset of an internal conflict, in which the military confronted armed groups
who advanced the idea of communist modernization. The uncertainty and anguish
provoked by the economic crisis and the ensuing outcome of the war gave rise to a
debate about utopia in relation to Peruvian cultural identity and memory among
intellectuals of various political stripes. Flores Galindo’s Andean utopia, understood
as a kind of homegrown socialism, and Vargas Llosa’s neoliberal utopia were politi-
cal positions that responded to the implementation of neoliberalism in Peru as well
as insurgent warfare. In that sense, they proposed two projects for modernization
that were substantially different in many aspects yet concurred insofar as both con-
sidered the construction of a present and future utopia to be a possibility.
We might say that Flores Galindo offers at least two different definitions of
the Andean utopia. In the first, the Andean utopia comprised various projects or
desires for change that, since 1532, had looked to Tahuantinsuyo and regarded it
as a model of economic, political, and social organization. In each chapter of his
book Buscando un inca, he examined these proposals for resolving the state of crisis
in which Peruvian society had found itself since the Spanish conquest, including an
entire chapter dedicated to the cultural agency of José María Arguedas (1911–69)
and an analysis of his literary work. In the 1980s, Flores Galindo found evidence
of the existence of an Andean utopia in representations of the death of the Inca
Atahualpa, versions of the myth of Inkarri, and the results of a survey of secondary
school students. Those who opted for the Andean model as a solution to the crisis
did so because they accepted that the Incas had eliminated poverty, hunger, and the
established order. In this sense, the Andean utopia had a concrete referent:
The idea of the Inca’s return did not arise spontaneously in Andean culture. It was
not a knee-jerk reaction to colonial domination. Andean people had already recon-
structed the past in their memory and transformed it into an alternative to the pres-
ent. This is a distinctive feature of the Andean utopia: the ideal city [sic] did not exist
outside history or at the remote beginning of time. On the contrary, it was a historical
fact. It existed. It had a name: Tahuantinsuyo. A ruling class: the Incas. And a capital:
Cuzco. This construction modifies the past insofar as it imagines a kingdom without
hunger and exploitation, where Andean men ruled once again. It represented the end
of disorder and darkness. Inca came to mean an organizing idea or principle.2
Flores Galindo subsequently concludes, “The Andean utopia has three dimen-
sions: not only does it attempt to understand the past or provide an alternative
to the present, but it also seeks to discern the future. Its discourse places equal
importance on what has happened in the past and what will happen in the future.
It announces a new age when the time of the mistis will come to an end.”3
After receiving various criticisms directed at his analysis of “the search for an
Inca,” Flores Galindo found it necessary to redefine the Andean utopia.4 His
revised definition clarified that his aim was not to reinstate Tahuantinsuyo, and
emphasized the violence perpetrated against Andean culture and people as a result
of the imposition of neoliberalism in Peru. Likewise, he proposed an alternative
project for modernization that would incorporate the achievements of both West-
ern modernity and Andean cultures. In the epilogue to Buscando un inca, he notes,
Recent Peruvian Quechua Poetry 277
For people without hope, the Andean utopia challenges a history that condemned
them to marginalization. Utopia negates modernity and progress, the illusion of
development understood as Westernization . . . The challenge is to create a model
for development that does not presuppose rural neglect and an impoverished peas-
antry, and that, on the contrary, allows for the preservation of the country’s cultural
plurality . . . The idea is not to transpose the structures of the past onto the present.
Without rejecting highways, antibiotics, and tractors, the idea is to come up with a
model for development designed to fit our needs and that does not cause unneces-
sary suffering to future generations.5
Although there was no direct and open debate between Flores Galindo and
Vargas Llosa, each expressed his opinion about the other’s proposal for modern-
ization. Vargas Llosa disagreed not only with the proposal for the Andean utopia
but also with Flores Galindo’s analysis of the Peruvian crisis of the 1980s, which
connected the crisis to the representative power of the life, artistic production,
and intellectual work of José María Arguedas.6 Above all, it seems that Vargas
Llosa was annoyed by the responsibility assigned to the elites in the development
of the crisis and Flores Galindo’s faith in socialism as an alternative to the neo-
liberal fervor. He also felt that Flores Galindo’s use of the phrase “the time of the
mistis will come to an end” alluded to him personally. Employing an ostensibly
deliberative rhetoric, he acknowledged the violence of the conquest and the colo-
nial legacy of apartheid, and then took issue with Tahuantinsuyo. Rather than
regarding it as a paradigm, his critique attempted to undermine the Andean uto-
pia by deeming it archaic. Two motives underlie his choice of adjective. On the
one hand, he takes advantage of the relationship between indigenismo and Marx-
ism in Flores Galindo’s conception of the Andean utopia. Vargas Llosa believed
that socialism had demonstrated its bankruptcy in the Soviet Union and was a
thing of the past. Moreover, he thought it ridiculous to use as a model a socio-
economic institution that was no longer extant. Neglecting to take into account
the epidemics and the collusion of various ethnic groups that had contributed to
the destruction of Tahuantinsuyo, he insisted on the Incas’ responsibility for their
own rapid decline. According to Vargas Llosa, “The vertical and totalitarian struc-
ture of Tahuantinsuyo was, surely, more harmful to its survival than the firearms
and swords of the conquerors.”7 The thousands of Indians who sacrificed their
lives in the capture of Atahualpa, for example, “lacked the ability to make their
own decisions, oppose authority, take individual initiative, or act independently
in accordance with changing circumstances, unlike the one hundred and eighty
Spaniards who had set the ambush and were now massacring them.”8 Further-
more, he did not miss the opportunity to praise the contributions of the conquest
and Spanish colonialism to the development of capitalism. According to him, the
conquistadors created a “social arena for human activities not legislated or con-
trolled by a power structure, which would produce, on the one hand, the most
extraordinary technical, scientific, and economic development in the course of
human existence since prehistoric times and, on the other hand, the emergence
of the human being as a sovereign source of values respected by society.”9 In sum,
the Incas were responsible for their own decline and the Spanish conquistadors
were worthy precursors of neoliberalism.
Moreover, for Vargas Llosa, the solidarity and reciprocity that continued to
characterize indigenous societies, and that Flores Galindo had tried to recover,
had produced a fragmented and backward society. The author of Conversación en
La Catedral (Conversation in the Cathedral; 1969) states,
We can only speak of integrated societies in those countries in which the native
population is scarce or nonexistent. In the rest, a discreet, sometimes unconscious
yet quite effective apartheid prevails. Integration is very slow and the price that
the native must pay for it is extremely high: he must renounce his culture—his
language, his beliefs, his traditions, and his customs—and adopt that of his former
masters. Perhaps there is no other realistic way to integrate our societies than by
asking the Indians to pay this high price; perhaps the ideal—the preservation of the
primitive cultures of America—is a utopia incompatible with the more urgent goal
of establishing modern societies, in which social and economic differences would
be reduced to reasonable, human proportions, and in which everyone would be
able to achieve, at the very least, a free and decent life.10
In other words, to assure the success of neoliberalism, which Vargas Llosa

equates with modernity, indigenous people—who are the privileged reposito-
ries of utopia and Andean rationality—must renounce their culture, language,
beliefs, traditions, and customs, and adopt those of the dominant culture. Years
later, Vargas Llosa tempered his position of ethnic genocide, which had been
noted by a number of Latin Americanists (Sá; Ortega). Among other critics, Julio
Ortega found fault with this position, pointing out that
we must not forget that ten years ago the indigenous world in the work of José
María Arguedas, for example, was shown to be nothing more than an archaic and
sentimental national myth. From there it was only one step further to claim that
the indigenous people had no choice but to become modernized or disappear. But
this was a step into the abyss of contradiction: such condemnation was evidence
of the moral and critical bankruptcy of those who needed to punish the excluded
subjects in order to maintain their dominant position; and they did it, moreover,
on the basis of another myth, that of a West with absolute power to impose puni-
tive action, including the death penalty.11
Vargas Llosa’s change of opinion is because in the last two decades of the twen-
tieth century, Peru had become “deindigenized.” The violence of the internal
war launched by the Shining Path, combined with the repressive state apparatus,
had led to an attempted genocide of indigenous people, in which the greater
responsibility obviously lay with the armed insurgents. The survivors who had
migrated to the cities to save their lives created a cultura chicha12 alongside the
cultures already in existence there. According to Vargas Llosa, “Jumble, confusion,
amalgam, and disorder seem to be the most appropriate words to describe that
amorphous society that arose from the forced cohabitation of millions of Peruvi-
ans from the mountains with those from the coast and the westernized inhabitants
of the Andean cities . . . a strange hybrid in which a rudimentary Spanish or cre-

olized slang used for communication corresponded to certain tastes, a sensibility,
an idiosyncrasy, and even virtually new aesthetic values: la cultura chicha.”13
In the nineties the Fujimori administration had defeated subversion,
reestablished order and security, and imposed a program of neoliberal modern-
ization. According to Vargas Llosa, Fujimori, “by instituting a radical program
of modernization—opening the borders, privatizing state-owned companies,
imposing fiscal discipline and deregulation, and encouraging the creation of
markets—has brought . . . high indices of growth to Peru.”14 The changes
brought about by the Fujimori administration precipitated the disappearance
of the Andean utopia, foretold the impossibility of its rebirth, and bespoke the
improbability of forging any other type of utopia. For Vargas Llosa,
It is clear that what has happened in Peru in recent years has inflicted a mortal wound
on the archaic utopia. Whether the informalization of Peruvian society merits a posi-
tive or negative judgment, it is undeniable that that Andean society—a traditional,
communitarian, magical-religious, Quechua-speaking society that conserved collec-
tivist values and atavistic customs, and nourished ideological fiction and indigenist
literature—no longer exists. And it will never again recover, no matter how many
political changes take place in the future . . . everything indicates that Peru finds itself
on the path to a society that definitively rules out archaism and perhaps utopia.15
This pronouncement of the death of the Andean utopia leads Vargas Llosa
to affirm that Peruvian citizens in the nineties were in agreement. Parodying the
consensus that Flores Galindo found among the secondary students in the eight-
ies, the author of La casa verde (The Green House; 1965) believed that Peruvians
in the early nineties, including indigenous people, had agreed not to return to
Tahuantinsuyo. What they wanted was to consolidate the system of capitalist
modernity that had already been established: “Although opinions may vary about
many other things—perhaps about everything—, Peruvians of all races, languages,
economic conditions, and political affiliations agree that the Peru now in devel-
opment will not nor should be a resuscitation of Tahuantinsuyo, nor an ethnically
marked collectivist society, nor a country at odds with the ‘bourgeois’ values of
commerce and the production of wealth for the sake of profit, nor closed to the
world of exchange in defense of its immutable identity.”16
In just a few words, Vargas Llosa applauded the realization of the programs
that characterized the neoliberal utopia: economic austerity measures, privatiza-
tion of the country, and deindigenization.
The Quechua poets take different positions with regard to the proposals I
have summarized. Roncalla has openly declared himself in opposition to the neo-
liberal utopia in Escritos mitimaes: Hacia una época andina postmoderna (Mitma
writings: Toward a postmodern Andean period; 1998), and Anka Ninawaman
and Gonzales are opposed to both utopian visions, though they do not make any
overt political declarations in their literary works. On the one hand, they criticize
the deindianization of the neoliberal utopia, affirming the existence of Quechua
culture by incorporating language variants and the specificities of a living culture
that need not disappear to attain modernity, as Vargas Llosa suggested. Rather,
they focus on the neoliberal order’s negative effects on the Quechua or Que-
chua mestizo family, such as uprootedness and changes in habits and customs.
On the other hand, as we will see, neither do they promote the Andean utopia
in the sense that Anka Ninawaman and Gonzales do not include the Incas, or
the myths and economic and social structures that recall them, in their poetic
imaginaries. Somehow, all three poets realize that these utopias are merely West-
ern academic exercises. The Peruvianist anthropologist Hiroyasu Tomoeda has
already pointed out that one of the personifications of the Andean utopia—the
myth of Inkarri—is an academic creation. In his semiotic dismantling of fifty
versions of the myth, he proposed that although it had circulated among the
Quechuas during the 1950s and demonstrated a memory of the Inca past, con-
temporary Quechuas acknowledged that it had no viability for the future because
it perpetuated their condition of subalternity (167–83).
The distancing of the Quechua poets from the two utopias can be traced to a
new locus of enunciation that was created, paradoxically, as a result of the imple-
mentation of the policies of the neoliberal utopia. Beginning with the Francisco
Morales Bermúdez administration in 1975, the economic austerity and free mar-
ket programs gave rise to unemployment, poverty, epidemics, and illiteracy. The
armed movements, hoping to take advantage of the discontent, started an internal
war in 1980 that laid waste to the country. In the face of this situation, emigration
became a way to escape the crisis. At the same time, neoliberal multiculturalism
on the global level made possible the emergence of a new Quechua poetry. The
activism and cultural agency of Fredy Roncalla, Odi Gonzales, and Ch’aska Anka
Ninawaman are situated in this new neoliberal context, described here by the
anthropologist María Elena García: “[Twentieth-century] activists have begun
pointing to the emergence of what they call ‘transnational Quechua literature.’
Highlighting the international prestige and diffusion of their language, activists
point to the increasing number of Peruvian intellectuals in the United States, self-
styled indigenous, Andean, or Quechua, who began writing ‘self-ethnographies’
(Coronel-Molina 1999b) and to develop and examine concepts such as ‘Andean
archipelagos’ (Zevallos 2002) and postmodern Andean poetry (Roncalla 1998)”
(Making Indigenous Citizens 147).
On the global level, a favorable juncture for the development of ethnogenic
processes has led to the assumption of indigenous identities in Peru. Because of
this, authors writing in Quechua in this century take on an indigenous identity.
Their self-representation as Quechua contrasts with earlier periods in which it
never occurred to those writing in Runa Simi to self-identify as such. The afore-
mentioned poets have used Quechua in various ways and at different points in
their lives as cultural and ethnic capital. The assumption of Quechua identity in
Peru is expressed by linguistic fluency, since this country, in contrast to others,
lacks an official system of ethnic classification.
Roncalla emigrated for the first time in 1975, the same year, coincidentally,
in which neoliberal policies were launched in Peru. He returned to Lima in 1977
to settle down, but the crisis brought about by these policies led to his decision
to move to the United States. His bilingualism in Quechua and Spanish made it
possible for him to immigrate and find work as a research assistant and translator
for the anthropologist Billie Jean Isbell at Cornell University.17 His first collection
of poems, Canto de pájaro (Birdsong; 1984), was written in Spanish and includes
two poems in Quechua. While living in Ithaca, New York, he learned to read and
speak English, and consequently began to write poems and an autobiographical
essay, “Fragments for a Story of Forgetting and Remembrance” (2000), in English.
In the fall of 1992, a series of events were planned in New York City to commemo-
rate the Quincentennial. In a multimedia show that included dance, music, and
poetry readings, designed to increase the visibility of the Andean presence in New
York, he read his poems in Quechua along with their English translations.18 His
most memorable reading took place at the legendary Nuyorican Poets Café on the
Lower East Side of Manhattan. Months later, the awareness of his mastery of three
languages and cultures led him to write poems in Spanish and Quechua, and to
begin his project of trilingual poems, in which he employs code switching among
Andean Spanish, English, and Quechua (“Free Traditions”).
Needless to say, Roncalla initiates this trilingual writing when he is confident of
the existence of a readership that shares experiences similar to his own. The fourth
wave of immigration of poor and lower middle-class Peruvians generated centers
of migration that attracted trilingual immigrants in Spanish, English, and Que-
chua. Roncalla, in essence, takes on an identitary multiplicity, rejecting the notion
that he is a unified subject, a dialectical synthesis, and single heir to three cultures.
On the contrary, he believes that three distinct subjects reside in his body, and that
each thinks, feels, and acts according to the context in which he as an individual
finds himself at a given moment. In a single day he might speak, think, and feel
in Quechua, Spanish, or English depending on the varied contexts in which he
lives.19 The title of his collection of essays, Escritos mitimaes, recognizes his condi-
tion as a migrant and economic refugee. Mitimaes is the Castilianization of the
Quechua word mitmakuna, which was used in Tahuantinsuyo to refer to those
groups of ethnic rebels who were forcibly displaced by the Incas whose agenda was
to uproot them, neutralize their rebellion, and at the same time colonize strategic
areas. Furthermore, Roncalla’s command of Runa Simi and his phenotypic charac-
teristics have led him on various occasions to draw on his Quechua identity in the
United States. Taking advantage of the politics of racialization and ethnicity that
exist in this country, he has applied for grants intended solely for indigenous intel-
lectuals and artists, such as those offered by the Indigenous Research Center of the
Americas (IRCA), and he has participated in various events as a Quechua writer.
Anka Ninawaman used Quechua as an ethnic marker in organizing student
movements at the University of Cuzco, in her poetry readings, and in her work
as a translator from Quechua to Spanish from 1998 to 2002. At this early junc-
ture, she challenged the rhetoric of neoliberal multiculturalism when she sought
to defend her thesis in Quechua, “Literatura oral en la Escuela de Choqecancha,
Lares” (Oral literature in the School of Choqecancha, Lares; 2004), to obtain
her teaching degree at the National University of San Antonio Abad in Cuzco.
Her request created a predicament for the university administration, which had
declared its support for several governmental bilingual and intercultural edu-
cation initiatives, yet was unable to constitute a suitable panel from among its
own faculty. Incapable of finding a single professor fluent enough to sustain an

academic dialogue or debate with the candidate, the university finally resolved
the administrative impasse by inviting the North American ethnolinguist Bruce
Mannheim, who happened to be conducting field work and teaching in his area
of specialization in the master’s program in Andean linguistics at the Bartolomé de
las Casas Andean Studies Center, to assemble the committee for her oral defense.
Gonzales perceives Quechua in a different way than Anka Ninawaman and
Roncalla. Born and raised in a bilingual society in Calca, he first established a
reputation as a poet writing in Spanish in his youth and adult life, before travelling
abroad for his doctoral studies in 2000. He published the collections Juego de niños
(Child’s game; 1988), Valle sagrado (Sacred valley; 1993), Almas en pena (Lost
souls; 1998), and La escuela de Cusco (The Cuzco School; 2005) in Spanish and
competed for several poetry prizes, ultimately winning two of them.20 Not until
leaving Peru did he make public his mestizo identity, publishing his first book,
Tunupa: El libro de las sirenas/Tunupa: The Book of the Sirens (2002), in Spanish,
English, and the Amerindian language. Gonzales’s identity would approach that
of a Quechua mestizo—that is to say, a mestizo who considers his indigenous heri-
tage to be the most important element of his identity.21 Gonzales affirms, “Indeed,
strictly speaking, I have only one book written in Quechua [Tunupa]; however, the
content of the others is wholly Quechuan, Andean, mestizo. Bilingual editions are
the alternative. If I only wrote in Quechua, who would read my books?”22
Now the three poets are regarded as representatives of Peruvian Quechua poetry
abroad and as such have taken part in international events.23 Besides participating
in conventional poetry readings, they have all collaborated on multimedia events
where the reading of poetry was part of a program that included music, dance,
and performance, as well as the staging of indigenous rituals. Gonzales has experi-
mented the most with multimedia in the writing of his poems. In his collection in
Spanish, La escuela de Cusco, he gives voice to the anonymous indigenous painters
of the Cuzco School of Painting to express the emotions, motivations, and hard-
ships of the creative process. He also published poems written in Quechua and
Spanish in response to Ana de Orbegoso’s photographic collages, Vírgenes urba-
nas/Urban Virgins (2007), in the catalog for that exhibition. Indeed, the work
of these three poets may be classified alongside the most recent trends in artistic
renovation and experimentation taking place in the northern hemisphere.
Roncalla, Gonzales, and Anka Ninawaman use Quechua in varying degrees
as a linguistic marker to affirm their authenticity as indigenous people and
legitimate themselves as such. Because they come from a country in which the
population has not been officially racialized, they have to indicate their ethnic
identity linguistically via the use of spoken and written Quechua. In other words,
they cannot claim to be Quechua on the basis of their phenotypic traits or by
showing an official document that classifies them as such, as in the United States
or Chile, for example. In present-day Peru, phenotypic traits convey very little
information. Five hundred years of cultural and biological mestizaje (miscegena-
tion) combined with social mobility have produced a majority of people who
must perform identitary maneuvers to claim affiliation with the privileged part
of their ancestry, be it white, indigenous, Asian, or black. Quechua mestizos
must dress, socialize, and carry out specific cultural practices that include danc-
ing, listening to music, and speaking Runa Simi to be identified as Quechua. In
this sense, Roncalla and Gonzales are considered Quechua mestizos who use all
the markers except dress. Anka Ninawaman adopts more ethnic markers, which
is common for indigenous women. She wears her hair down to her waist and
dresses in Andean clothing. She has also taken up the traditional practice of Que-
chua mestizo writers who used pseudonyms in Runa Simi, but with different
identificatory procedures, as we will see. The name on Anka Ninawaman’s birth
certificate is Eugenia Carlos Ríos. The poet states that by using a pseudonym she
is able to recover identities lost and usurped during five hundred years of domi-
nation. Among these is the recovery of the maternal surnames of her ancestors,
which had disappeared in the second generation under the prevailing Spanish
genealogical system. She then explains the translation of her surnames into Span-
ish. Finally, she stresses that she identifies with her community (ayllu), and not
with the Incas: “They named me Eugenia Carlos Ríos. But I am Ch’aska Anka
Ninawaman. Ch’aska comes from me: morning star. Anka comes from my father:
eagle. Ninawaman comes from my mother: firehawk. From my rebellious Que-
chua people.”24 In these identitary maneuvers Anka Ninawaman, Roncalla, and
Gonzales practice what might be called linguistic strategic essentialism, recalling
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak’s famous term. Although contemporary anthropol-
ogy has demonstrated that cultural essences do not exist, strategic essentialism,
in its linguistic variant, is a political maneuver that takes advantage of the belief
that the cultural singularity of any group is represented first of all by its language.
For the Quechuas, their language connects them to their pre-Columbian past
and their cultural essence. The Quechuas have deployed linguistic strategic essen-
tialism for at least two reasons: (1) the non-Quechuas consider pre-Columbian
languages to be the most tangible signs of indigenous particularity, differentiat-
ing them from nonindigenous society when it comes to identity politics, and (2)
indigenists recognize indigenous languages as a symbolic lack of adulteration or
foreign influence.25 It is also important to point out that Roncalla, Gonzales, and
Anka Ninawaman chose to assume their Quechua identities and that they them-
selves constructed their poetic personae. This allowed them to avoid repeating the
situation in which the talent of the Quechua writer of popular origin was recog-
nized and disseminated by a shrewd scholarly writer or intellectual in Spanish, as
usually happens in the compilation of oral tradition or testimony.26
Having discussed the use of Quechua and the construction of the poetic per-
sona, I will now proceed to analyze the use of literature as a political instrument
in Roncalla’s Escritos mitimaes, Gonzales’s Tunupa, and Anka Ninawaman’s Poesía
en quechua: Ch’askaschay (Poetry in Quechua: Little morning star; 2004).27 This
political use of literature does not look to Tahuantinsuyo as a model, nor does it
take up other matters and topics related to the Incas. On the contrary, it denounces
concrete problems that affect indigenous people today and demands their solution
by calling for compliance with the laws that protect their rights as citizens.
Roncalla’s project for trilingual poems came about by chance.28 The project
materialized in three different moments. The first he wrote, “Tradiciones, tra-
ducciones libres” (“Free Traditions”; 1983/96), is an experimental poem that
demonstrates the limits of cultural translation. Recognizing the impossibility of

translating the emotions and experiences of a trilingual and tricultural individual,
Roncalla saw no other option than to include all three languages within the same
poem. The poem is constructed from evocations produced in English as well as
Chanka Quechua by fragments of huaynos (a traditional musical genre of Peru-
vian origin that can be sung in Quechua or Spanish): “Cinco flores necesito”
(I need five flowers), “Koka kintucha” (Little and lovely coca leaf ), “Cantando
regreso” (I return singing), and “Tankar kichkacha” (Little thorn of Tankar). In
the two-dimensional space of the paper, he made discretionary changes on three
linguistic codes by reproducing the lyrics of huaynos interspersed with lines from
poems in Quechua and English that he found evocative. In the second moment,
he wrote the poem “Muyurina,” which conjures up an emblematic place. Muy-
urina is a real town in the department of Ayacucho, Peru; as such it generates a
series of associations with less remote and more recent experiences and emotions
than other places. The poem was written using the surrealist method of auto-
matic writing. Roncalla links together lines in Spanish, Quechua, and English,
so as to neutralize and overcome the anxiety caused by the creative process while
writing Escritos mitimaes.29 In the third moment, upon acquiring consciousness
of his multicultural identity, he published the poem “Chunniq” (The uttering of
silence), in which the adult “I” recognizes that he has felt, lived, and grown by
virtue of diverse experiences in three cultures and three languages that he could
call his own. Roncalla writes in Quechua and Spanish because he sees them as the
foundational languages of his early experiences and feelings. He writes in English
because it is the language used in his daily life and in which he acquires new
knowledge, experiences, and emotions as an adult.
Gonzales’s book, Tunupa, is composed of ten poems and their recreation
in Spanish by the author, as well as translations from Spanish to English by
Alison Krögel and José Ramón Ruisánchez Serra. The book is divided into
three autonomous sections (Spanish, Quechua, and English) to facilitate the
enjoyment of readers who are not necessarily bilingual or trilingual. Most of
the poems in Tunupa deal with heterosexual love. They are written like travel
notes that record the reflections and impressions of a cosmopolitan traveler;
the poetic “I” does not openly identify with a concrete community as in the
poetry of Anka Ninawaman. In order to document his journeys and sojourns
in Peru and the United States, each poem is identified with a specific place,
such as Brooklyn in New York; College Park and Mount Rainier in Maryland;
Chinchero, Ollantaytambo, and Pisac in the department of Cuzco; Chilcaloma
in Cajamarca; Uros, Taquile, and Kollao in the department of Puno; and the
Pachacamac Temple in Lima. These poems represent woman as the savior of
man. The poet is impressed by the voluptuous female body of his lover and of
the mothers he observes during his travels. His lover’s breasts are compared to
those of the mythical sirens (“your fertile breasts / of turbid milk” [57]) and of
other lactating women (“a herd of boars / rooted about your breasts / life giv-
ing mother” [62]),30 and are seen as signs of fertility. In addition to the lines
cited above, he dedicates the poem “Aqlla” (Inca virgin; 17) to woman and her
attributes as mother: birth, lactation, and child rearing. According to the poet,
one of his aims in Tunupa was to associate the female body with the Pachamama
(Mother Earth) insofar as they are both life givers (personal correspondence).
In Tunupa, Gonzales establishes a connection with pre-Hispanic Andean
mythology.31 In speaking of Quechua gods like Tunupa and mythical characters
like sirens, he recreates a body of knowledge systematized by specialists in Andean
culture. However, he does not choose an important god from the Incan pantheon
or a mythical messianic character who would bring salvation to the Quechua
people. Gonzales recovers a minor regional mythic tradition—that of the Aymara
of southern Peru and Bolivia—from which he selects a god who has fallen from
favor, lost his divine privileges, and is welcomed into the world of men. To clarify
this relationship between the poetic “I” and Tunupa, and between the sirens and
the special women he loves or observes, Gonzales makes the following comment
to the reader in the opening pages of the book:
Many chroniclers have recounted the mishaps of Tunupa, the god which pertains
to the mythic cycle of Viracocha.
The youngest son of Pachayachachic—the Maker and Organizer of the pre-
colombian [sic] world—Tunupa was the defiant and dissonant child, the antihero
who, “in every way was contrary to his father.” Ordered to journey to the Center of
the World—perhaps Cuzco—his duty was to initiate men in the agricultural labors
and cult of his father. Instead, he preferred to travel to other lands. This act of
disobedience provoked the wrath of the powerful Viracocha Pachayachachic, who
ordered his other children to throw the rebellious son—hands and feet bound—
into the waters of Lake Titicaca. His powers and authority taken away, scorned by
his own lineage, and now a mere mortal, Tunupa began a difficult pilgrimage across
the windswept plains and prairies of the Andes. It was during these wanderings
that Tunupa was received by the twins Umantuu and Quesintuu, the first sirens in
Andean mythology. At the bottom of Lake Titicaca, Tunupa lived with the sirens,
thus giving origin to the procreation of underwater fauna.
Tunupa is a myth deeply rooted in the traditional lore throughout vast regions
of Peru and Bolivia, and is also the name given to many mountains that repre-
sent this god who chose love over power. By arbitrarily interpolating (mythical)
times and places with personal experiences, this book attempts to recreate the exile
Tunupa underwent, far from his kingdom and lineage. (51)32
It is clear that the poetic “I” is conceived as the reincarnation of Tunupa,

a rebellious god who refused to participate in the consolidation of his father’s
power, choosing instead to leave the realm of the sacred for the mortal domain.
The speaker in the poems is also very eager to know the world, and prefers the
love of the women whom he wants to impregnate. This explains his emphasis on
the representation of the female body as life giving and protective of her offspring.
However, the path he has chosen is not easy. The poet, after being expelled from
his place of origin, suffers from depression and asthma in exile. While convalesc-
ing, he invokes a siren to save him (“Umantuu,” Escritos mitimaes 11–12). And in
his attempt to recreate the contemporary Quechuan imaginary, Gonzales, in the
poem “Yacana” (25), incorporates the Quechuan constellation found between the
Western constellations Scorpio and Sagittarius.
The cosmopolitan character of this collection of poems is manifested in its

thematic and cultural references to world literature. It is evident that Tunupa
raises the theme of the exiled poet and reworks several motifs from Homer’s Odys-
sey. The difference is that while the sirens in the Odyssey destroy men, the siren in
“Umantuu” is a savior. In sum, all these references contradict the criollo (Creole)
stereotype that Quechuas are provincial and backward people.
Poesía en quechua: Ch’askaschay by Anka Ninawaman includes forty-three
poems in popular Quechua and her translations of them to Andean Spanish. The
poems are organized thematically in six sections that explore the contemporary,
rural, and urban Quechuan cultural imaginary. They are titled “Sirinita Apum-
allkumanta / Seres míticos, estrellas, sirenas, cóndores y vicuñas aladas” (Mythic
beings, stars, sirens, condors, and winged vicuñas), “Yuyaysapa misichakuna-
manta / De gatitos salvajes y pumas” (Of wild kittens and pumas), “Inkantuyupuq
llaqtakunamanta / De diosas montañas y ciudades” (Of goddesses, mountains,
and cities), “Mama Kukachamanta / De Coca mama y alimentos sagrados” (Of
Mama Coca and sacred food), “Huk Vidamanta Kundinarumantawan / Otras
vidas, condenados y maleficios” (Other lives, the damned, and maledictions),
and “Vida vidachamanta / De traguitos, de amores y de la vida vidita” (Of drinks,
loves, and life precious life).
Anka Ninawaman’s poetry incorporates elements of popular culture in the
sense that it represents a collective voice and conceives of the book as a place where
a variety of voices express everyday situations and emotions. In the introduction
written by her parents, after the Quechua salutation, “Little sisters, little brothers;
runa like us” (14), they add, “at this time, our ch’askita daughter, with her thinking
and her poems, gladdens our heart very, very much . . . In ‘Apu mallku,’ ‘Yuyay-
saspa Pumacha,’ ‘Wanp’uli ch’iwarcha,’ ‘Kundinaru,’ and all her poems, our life
is written: our dances, our fears, and our laughter” (14). This notion is confirmed
by the footnote “This is Don Florencio Carlos Anka’s poem” (134) or the poem
“Mana qarayukuq / Gente sin corazón” (144–45 [Heartless people]), in which she
speaks of a grieving mother who regrets having offered her daughter as collateral to
overcome the hunger and thirst of the rest of the family. Another popular element
of her poetry is that it draws on the imaginary and the experience of the poor Que-
chua migrant, the rural migrant in particular. In her poems, Quechuas leave their
homes because of hunger (“San Lurinso yaraqaycha / Patrono del hambre” 146–48
[Patron saint of hunger]), limit situations of poverty (“Viajirita urpicha / Palomita
viajera” 154–55 [Roving dove], “Mana qarayukuq / Gente sin corazón” 144–45),
and the arbitrary nature of rural authorities (“Papay huwis tininte / Papay juez
teniente” 150–51 [Papay lieutenant judge]). Nevertheless, when they settle in the
cities of Cuzco and Lima, their situation does not change much, and they feel
condemned to poverty (“Vida vidascha / Vida vidita” 166–67 [Life precious life]).
In her reconstruction of the popular imagination, she works on themes of sung
Quechua poetry, such as the coca leaf (“Ch’ulla ñawicha / Mi pequeña hojita” 78
[My little leaf ], “Cocacha santa remidio / Hojitas santa remedio” 80 [Little leaves
holy remedy], “Kukacha wachacha / Soltera hojita de coca” 82 [Lonely little coca
leaf ], “Kukacha / Coca sagrada” 86 [Sacred coca]), the condemned man (“Kun-
dinaru” 124), the wakcha,33 the sirens (“Chay sirinitan” 18 [That little siren],
“Sirinitaq inkantun / Encanto de sirena” 128 [Siren’s spell]), and the dove Kukuli.
The sensibility of the poetic “I” is that of a female Quechua subject. That voice
asks the father of her daughter to stay home to raise and educate his children in the
poem “Urpitachay / Mi palomito” (136–37) (My little dove); elsewhere it gives an
unfaithful lover an opportunity to reconstruct the relationship (“Sunquta allinta
frinana / Timoneando el corazón” 138–39 [Navigating the heart]), informs an
old lover that she is engaged to a prosperous man who respects her (“Mana valiq
manzano / Manzano sin valor” 142–43 [Cowardly apple tree]), and finally, begs
her lover to emigrate to Lima to forget the experience of seeing a dying girl who
confused her with her mother (“Viajirita urpicha / Palomita viajera” 154–55). In
her thematization of the new experiences of Quechuas in the city, she refers to the
consumerism of the cultura chicha in the neoliberal era of Alberto Fujimori.34 The
runas (people; in this case, Quechuas) listen to technocumbia (a musical genre
that fuses techno, cumbia, and huayno, which is widespread among the urban
working-class population in Peru), while they get drunk on cheap alcohol to coun-
teract their failure to adapt and their depression (“Wamp’luli ch’iwarcha / Mala fe
traguito” 158–62 [Deceptive drink]) and “Rusi War tragucha / Rosi War traguito”
164–65 [Rossy War drink]). They become consumers of imported products that
are sold at low cost because of neoliberal economic policies that eliminated import
tariffs. And so the young people who wear imported sneakers and no longer eat
traditional bread feel superior and disrespect their mothers (“Mama kutipak-
uqkuna / Niños malcriados” 106–7 [Spoiled children]). Yet instead of becoming
alarmed by these changes, she trusts that the Quechuas possess their own regula-
tory mechanisms that will not permit the abandonment of community, family,
customs, and values. We might say that Anka Ninawaman believes in the cultural
strategy that considers change as necessary for survival. But she does not equate
change with the disappearance of Quechua culture as Vargas Llosa did. Nor does
she advocate for an unadulterated pre-Hispanic culture. She accepts the linguistic
loans from Spanish that have produced popular urban Quechua. She expresses her
discomfort with the positions of purists who argue in favor of a pure Incan Que-
chua, without linguistic loans, whose aim is to continue the domination of most
Quechua speakers.35 For example, she considers it legitimate to use the neologism
vidacha because it registers the Quechuas’ urban experience, and she rejects the
term kawsay proposed by the purists. According to her, “vidacha configures new
images and new symbolic codes, it transmits not only the image of the young
emigrant who undergoes suffering and sorrows in the urban environment, but also
the present-day experience of Quechuas who are being grievously wounded by the
dominant ethnic system in both the city and their community.”36 Her reflection
on the creation of neologisms leads her to creative writing. In the poem “Vida
bidascha / Vida vidita,” written with a “quechuañol” vocabulary (vidachay, vida-
sha, and pasaq, derived from pasar [to pass, go past, spend, etc.]), she deals with
the life led by Quechuas in the contemporary world (“What runa / doesn’t know
how to endure life”), a life characterized by continual suffering from poverty and
hunger (“what poor man / doesn’t know how to endure hunger”).37 Yet she is opti-
mistic that her people will persevere, a reference to the fact that they survived the
genocidal internal war of the eighties, in which the Quechuas were the principal
victims of the Peruvian army and navy’s scorched earth policy, and the massacres
of entire communities perpetrated by the Shining Path’s popular army (“only our
runa life / knows how to endure war”).38 She ends her poem by asserting that the
Quechuas are masters of their lives and will continue to fight on their own terms
(“only the life of the poor, our life / belongs to Ch’askascha warriors”).39
Anka Ninawaman, like Roncalla, has doubtlessly recognized, with her defense
of popular Quechua, that certain experiences are indissolubly linked to the lan-
guage of the place in which they happen. This woman poet and Gonzales are
representative of two aspects of recent Quechua poetry from southern Peru.
Although they both speak and write Cuzcan Quechua, Anka Ninawaman’s poetry
typifies the popular tendency and Gonzales’s is an example of the literary tendency.
In conclusion, upon examining the personal trajectories as well as the poems
and books of Roncalla, Gonzales, and Anka Ninawaman, we have not seen the
appearance of a return to the past or a consideration of Tahuantinsuyo as a model
for the solution of the problems of Quechua people in Peru. Nor are the poets
willing to pay the price of the disappearance of their culture demanded by lib-
eral modernization. Rather than the deindigenization proposed by Vargas Llosa,
they avail themselves of the multicultural politics of neoliberalism and reveal the
richness of contemporary Quechua culture as manifested in the diversity of its
dialects and registers. In other words, lower middle-class or poor migrant Quechua
mestizo or Quechua poets inscribed in the processes of globalization create poetic
voices that speak about their everyday lives in both individual and collective mat-
ters in Peru and abroad. In the case of Roncalla and Anka Ninawaman, certain
sentiments and experiences are associated with the languages of the places in which
they occur. In the case of Gonzales, on the other hand, we find an allegiance to
a literary Quechua language. Each of the three poets articulates a different Que-
chua poetic “I.” Roncalla’s poems reveal the trilingualism and triculturalism of
a poetic voice capable of knowing three cultures and expressing the experiences
and emotions connected to each one in its respective language. Anka Ninawa-
man’s advocacy and poetry construct her as an organic intellectual, who, through
the representation of her family and community, condemns the sorry situation of
the Quechuas, which has continued into the neoliberal era, and claims an urban
Quechua cultural identity. In this way she reveals the hybrid characteristics of the
identity and behavior of poor urban Quechuas and women who are inscribed in
the new process of neoliberal globalization. Gonzales, on the other hand, turns
to the cultural archive of literary Quechua, rejecting hispanisms and utilizing the
regional myth of Tunupa to express the individual misfortunes and observations of
a cosmopolitan Quechua mestizo who perceives the world according to an Andean
cultural code. All three cases lack references to Pachacuti, Inkarri, or cosmic soli-
tude, and the visions they impart are more historical than strictly utopian.
Notes
1. This renaissance is described in detail in chapter 5 of my book Las provincias contraatacan:
Regionalismo y anticentralismo en la literatura peruana del siglo XX (The provinces counter-
attack: Regionalism and anticentralism in twentieth-century Peruvian literature; 2009).
2. All translations (including the main text of this essay) are by Cindy Schuster, unless a
published translation is indicated. Translator’s note: I have used my own translations of
citations from Buscando un inca rather than the published translation by Willie Hiatt
and Charles F. Walker (In Search of an Inca: Identity and Utopia in the Andes; Cam-
bridge UP, 2010). The published translation, in my opinion, elides some important
content that pertains to this article—in particular the concepts of memory and agency.
Moreover, it significantly alters certain stylistic elements present in the original text. The
Spanish version of this quote is the following:
La idea de un regreso del Inca no apareció de manera espontánea en la cul-

tura andina. No se trató de una respuesta mecánica a la dominación colonial.
En la memoria, previamente, se reconstruyó el pasado andino y se lo trans-
formó para convertirlo en una alternativa al presente. Este es un rasgo dis-
tintivo de la utopía andina. La ciudad ideal [sic] no queda fuera de la historia
o remotamente al inicio de los tiempos. Por el contrario, es un acontecimiento
histórico. Ha existido. Tiene un nombre: el Tahuantinsuyo. Unos gobernantes:
los Incas. Una capital: el Cusco. El contenido que guarda esta construcción ha
sido cambiado para imaginar un reino sin hambre, sin explotación y donde los
hombres andinos vuelvan a gobernar. El fin del desorden y la obscuridad. Inca
significa idea o principio ordenador. (Buscando un inca 47)
3. “La utopía andina no es únicamente un esfuerzo por entender el pasado o por ofrecer
una alternativa al presente. Es también un intento de vislumbrar el futuro. Tiene esas tres
dimensiones. En su discurso importa tanto lo que ha sucedido como lo que va a suceder.
Anuncia que algún día el tiempo de los mistis llegará a su fin y se iniciará una nueva edad”
(Buscando un inca 72). According to an editor’s note in In Search of an Inca, misti “is a Que-
chua term that refers to non-Indian, higher-status individuals in Andean societies” (34).
4. Nelson Manrique focuses his constructive criticism on the lack of representativeness in
Flores Galindo’s evidence. He points out that this evidence is limited to a single region
in Peru, that the myth of Inkarri is disappearing and has acquired negative connotations,
and that the survey was carried out among schoolchildren residing in Lima.
5. “Para las gentes sin esperanza, la utopía andina es el cuestionamiento de esa historia que los
ha condenado a la marginación. La utopía niega la modernidad y el progreso, la ilusión del
desarrollo entendida como la occidentalización del país . . . El desafío consiste en imaginar un
modelo de desarrollo que no implique la postergación del campo y la ruina de los campesinos
y que, por el contrario, permita conservar la pluralidad cultural del país . . . No se trata de
transponer las organizaciones del pasado al presente. Sin negar las carreteras, los antibióticos y
los tractores, se trata de pensar un modelo de desarrollo diseñado desde nuestros requerimien-
tos y en el que no se sacrifique inútilmente a las generaciones” (Buscando un inca 416).
6. The review of the 1988 edition of Buscando un inca is included in chapter 15 of Vargas
Llosa’s La utopía arcaica under the title “Una crítica marxista de la utopía andina” (A
Marxist critique of the Andean utopia).
7. “La estructura vertical y totalitaria del Tahuantinsuyo fue, seguramente, más nociva
para su supervivencia que las armas de fuego y el hierro de sus conquistadores” (“El
nacimiento del Perú” 808).
8. English translation of “carecían de la capacidad de decidir por cuenta propia, al margen o
en contra de la autoridad, de tomar iniciativas individuales, de actuar con independencia
en función de circunstancias cambiantes, que si tenían los ciento ochenta españoles que les
habían tendido aquella emboscada y ahora los masacraban” (“El nacimiento del Perú” 808).
9. English translation of “espacio social de actividades humanas no legisladas ni controladas
por el poder que, de un lado produciría el más extraordinario desarrollo técnico, cientí-
fico y económico que había conocido el devenir humano desde los tiempos de la caverna
y el garrote, y, de otro, la aparición del individuo como fuente soberana de valores que la
sociedad debía respetar” (“El nacimiento del Perú” 809).
10. “Sólo se puede hablar de sociedades integradas en aquellos países en los que la población
nativa es escasa o inexistente. En las demás, un discreto, a veces inconsciente, pero muy
efectivo apartheid prevalece. En ellos, la integración es sumamente lenta y el precio que el
nativo debe pagar por ella es altísimo: renuncia a su cultura—a su lengua, a sus creencias, a
sus tradiciones y usos—y adopta la de sus viejos amos. Tal vez no hay otra manera realista de
integrar nuestras sociedades que pidiendo a los indios pagar ese alto precio; tal vez, el ideal,
es decir, la preservación de las culturas primitivas de América, es una utopía incompatible
con otra meta más urgente: el establecimiento de sociedades modernas, en las que las dife-
rencias sociales y económicas se reduzcan a proporciones razonables, humanas, en las que
todos puedan alcanzar, al menos, una vida libre y decente” (“El nacimiento del Perú” 811).
11. “[N]o se puede olvidar que hace 10 años se daba por demostrado que el mundo indígena
en la obra de José María Arguedas, por ejemplo, era simplemente un mito nacional,
arcaico y sentimental. De allí a sostener que los indígenas sólo pueden hacerse modernos
o desaparecer había un paso, pero era un paso en el abismo del contrasentido: tal con-
dena probaba la bancarrota moral y crítica de quienes necesitaban sancionar a los sujetos
excluidos para sostener su lugar dominante; y lo hacían, además, partiendo de otro mito,
el de un Occidente provisto de todas las razones, incluso la de la sanción mortal” (“Pos-
teoría y estudios trasatlánticos” 17).
12. Translator’s note: In Peru, cultura chicha refers to the culture developed by rural Andean
immigrants to large urban areas, such as Lima.
13. “Mescolanza, confusión, amalgama, entrevero parecen términos más apropiados para carac-
terizar esa amorfa sociedad surgida de la forzada cohabitación de millones de peruanos de
origen serrano con los costeños o los pobladores occidentalizados de las ciudades andinas . . .
un extraño híbrido en el que al rudimentario español o jerga acriollada que sirve para la
comunicación, corresponden unos gustos, una sensibilidad, una idiosincrasia y hasta unos
valores estéticos virtualmente nuevos: la cultura chicha” (La utopía arcaica 331–32).
14. English translation of “en el campo económico . . . aplicando un programa radical de
modernización—apertura de las fronteras, privatización de las empresas públicas, dis-
ciplina fiscal, desregulación y aliento a la creación de mercados—ha traído al Perú . . .
elevados índices de crecimiento” (La utopía arcaica 334).
15. “Es evidente que lo ocurrido en el Perú de los últimos años ha infligido una herida de
muerte a la utopía arcaica. Sea positivo o negativo el juicio que merezca la informalización
de la sociedad peruana, lo innegable es que aquella sociedad andina tradicional, comu-
nitaria, mágico-religiosa, quechuahablante, conservadora de los valores colectivistas y las
costumbres atávicas, que alimentó la ficción ideológica y literaria indigenista, ya no existe.
Y también, que no volverá a rehacerse, no importa cuántos cambios políticos se sucedan
en los años venideros . . . todo indica que el Perú se halla encarrilado hacia una sociedad
que descarta definitivamente el arcaísmo y acaso la utopía” (La utopía arcaica 335).
16. “Aunque las opiniones varíen sobre muchas otras cosas—acaso sobre todas las demás cosas—,
los peruanos de todas las razas, lenguas, condiciones económicas y filiaciones políticas están
de acuerdo en que el Perú en gestación no será ni deberá ser el Tahuantinsuyo redivivo, ni
una sociedad colectivista de signo étnico, ni un país reñido con los valores ‘burgueses’ del
comercio y la producción de la riqueza en búsqueda de un beneficio, ni cerrado al mundo
del intercambio en defensa de su inmutable identidad” (La utopía arcaica 335).
17. Their collaboration produced the 2005 book The Ontogenesis of Metaphor: Riddle Games
among Quechua Speakers Seen as Cognitive Discovery Procedures by Billie Jean Isbell and
Fredy Roncalla.
18. He translates Nezahualcoyotl’s poem “En tal año como éste” (In a year such as this;
1467) from Spanish to Quechua (“Kunan hina watapi”) and reads his poems “Ñoqan-
chik / Nosotros” (Us) and “Pichqa pachaq watamanta / Quinientos años después” (Five
hundred years later), both (at least partly) written for the occasion.
19. The construction of this multiple identity is developed more thoroughly in my article
“Memoria y discursos de identidad andina en los Estados Unidos” (Memory and dis-
courses of Andean identity in the United States; 2007).
20. In 1992, he won the César Vallejo National Poetry Prize, sponsored by the Lima news-
paper El Comercio, as well as the National Prize awarded by the National University of
San Marcos in Lima.
21. Fredy Roncalla theorizes about this topic in the interview I conducted with him: “Debe-
mos aprender a hablar de la cuestión indígena en primera persona, de la cuestión del
mestizo en primera persona y de la cuestión de la blanquitud en primera persona. Es
decir, si soy mestizo, ¿debo sólo considerar el lado ‘blanco’ de la mezcla o me es más
importante el lado indígena?; ésa es mi opción [We must learn to talk about the indig-
enous question in the first person, the mestizo question in the first person, and the
whiteness question in the first person. In other words, if I am mestizo, should I only take
into account the ‘white’ side of the mix, or is the indigenous side more important to me?;
that is my choice]” (“Transnacionalismo y racismo en el Perú . . .” 46).
22. “En efecto, a nivel de formas tengo un solo libro en quechua [Tunupa], pero el contenido
del resto es enteramente quechua, andino, mestizo. Las ediciones bilingües son la alterna-
tiva. De publicar solamente en quechua, ¿quién me leería?” (personal correspondence).
23. I have heard Fredy Roncalla read his poems in Quechua at the XVII International Sym-
posium on Indigenous Literatures at the Ohio State University in Columbus, Ohio
(May 11–13, 2006) and the “Discursive Practices: The Formation of a Transnational
Indigenous Poetics” Conference held at the University of California, Davis (May 11–13,
2008). Odi Gonzales read his poetry and spoke on the topic of Quechua poetry at the “II
Festival de Poesía: Lenguas de América” (II Poetry Festival: Languages of America) orga-
nized by Carlos Montemayor in Mexico City (October 12, 2006), the XVI International
Poetry Festival of Medellín (June 24–July 2, 2006), and the XIX Guadalajara Interna-
tional Book Fair (November 24–December 4, 2005). Ch’aska Anka Ninawaman was
invited to the Sixth International Meeting of Poets “Poetry and Violence” in Coimbra
(May 24–27, 2007), the First International Conference of Peruvian Poetry in Madrid
(November 21–24, 2006), and “The Earth Symposium: Breaking New Ground” in Van-
couver, Canada (April 28–May 2, 2004).
24. “Me llamaron Eugenia Carlos Ríos. Pero yo soy Ch’aska Anka Ninawaman. De mi
misma Ch’aska: lucero del amanecer. De mi padre Anka: águila. De mi madre Ninawa-
man: halcón de fuego. De mi pueblo quechua rebelde” (7).
25. My use of the term linguistic essentialism comes from my reading of the article “Zápara
Leaders and Identity Construction in Ecuador” by Maximilian Viatori, who defines it in
a very similar way in the field of anthropology.
26. Apropos of this, José María Arguedas comments, “Es posible que, como ocurre casi
invariablemente en estos casos, Uhle [para escribir El cóndor y el zorro] haya tenido la
fortuna de encontrar un excelente narrador quechua en la ciudad del Cuzco, como lo
encontró el padre Jorge Lira en la Sra. Carmen Taripha, también en el Cuzco (Maran-
ganí) y como encontré yo, en Lima, al admirable narrador Luis Gilberto Pérez del pueblo
de Lucanamarca, Ayacucho [It is possible, as happens almost invariably in these cases,
that Uhle (while writing The Condor and the Fox) had the good fortune to find an excel-
lent Quechua narrator in the city of Cuzco, just as Father Jorge Lira found Mrs. Carmen
Taripha, also in Cuzco (Maranganí), and as I myself found, in Lima, the admirable nar-
rator Luis Gilberto Pérez from the town of Lucanamarca, Ayacucho]” (46).
27. Gonzales published in 2007 his poems in Spanish, Quechua, and English translation in
the catalogue for Peruvian photographer Ana de Orbegoso’s exhibition of photographic
collages, Vírgenes urbanas/Urban Virgins (12–37). The poems allude to the collages that
form part of the exhibition.
28. Fredy Roncalla recalls,
En cuanto a la poesía trilingüe, en 1984 o 1983 puse en práctica un antiguo

proyecto de hacerle un comentario poético a mis huaynos favoritos. Había unos
en quechua y otros en castellano. Les hice unas traducciones muy libres a can-
ciones harto conocidas (por ejemplo, “Cinco flores necesito” es una canción
del centro), sobre todo porque quería explorar las posibilidades de sentido de la
aglutinación del quechua, es decir de los segmentos que añaden ciertos sentidos
y que resienten la traducción literal. Por ejemplo, no es lo mismo decir kuya-yki
(amo-te) que kuya-cha-ku-chka-yki (amo-dulcemente-por mí-estoy-a ti). Se tra-
taba entonces de abrir el panorama e ir explorando [otros sentidos]. Ese poema
se llamó “Tradiciones, traducciones libres”. Cuando llegó a manos de William
Rowe, como diez años después, me pidieron que tradujera el texto al inglés. Pero
me di cuenta que si todo lo pasaba por la criba del inglés se iban a perder las
importantes diferencias entre el quechua y el castellano, así que le puse un “layer”
(nivel) más a la tradición inicial, guiado por las evocaciones de sentido que me
daba la lectura del original bilingüe. Así nació la poesía trilingüe sin querer que-
riendo [As for trilingual poetry, in 1984 or 1983, I realized an old project to
compose poetic commentaries on my favorite huaynos. Some were in Quechua
and others were in Spanish. I made some very free translations of really well-
known songs (for example, “I need five flowers” is a song from central Peru),
above all because I wanted to explore the different possibilities for meaning in
the agglutination of the Quechua language—that is, the segments that add cer-
tain meanings and resist literal translation. For example, it is not the same to say
kuya-yki (I-love-you) as it is to say kuya-cha-ku-chka-yki (I-love-sweetly-by me-I
am-to you). The idea was to open up the panorama and explore (other mean-
ings). That poem was called “Traditions, free translations.” When William Rowe
got a hold of it about ten years later, I was asked to translate the text into English.
But I realized that if I passed it all through the filter of English, important dif-
ferences between Quechua and Spanish would be lost, so I added another layer
to the early tradition, guided by the meanings that reading the original bilingual
text evoked in me. That’s how the trilingual poetry was born, unintentionally,
but with intent]. (personal conversation)
29. “Los demás textos trilingües [‘Muyurina’] son mayormente apuntes poéticos que los
hacía cuando estaba redactando los Escritos mitimaes y me daban unas trabadas de poca
madre. Entonces ir explorando esos tres idiomas solía sacarme del atolladero para seguir
adelante [The other trilingual texts (‘Muyurina’) are mostly poetic notes that I made
while writing Escritos mitimaes (Mitma writings) and they gave me some terrible head-
aches. The process of exploring those three languages usually got me out of the predica-
ment so that I could keep going]” (personal correspondence).
30. Translated by Krögel and Ruisánchez.
31. Gonzales notes, “Lo que traté en Tunupa fue desarrollar un pequeño tema de mi par-
ticular experiencia en los EEUU [cuando] estaba realizando trabajos de traducción e
interpretación de la mitología andina [My intention in Tunupa was to elaborate a small
piece about my personal experience in the United States (while) I was working on the
translation and interpretation of Andean myths]” (interview with Odi Gonzales).
32. Translated by Krögel and Ruisánchez.
33. Translator’s note: Wakcha may be translated as a poor or homeless person, an orphan, or
a person who is not respected.
34. Ex-President Alberto Fujimori (1990–2000) backed the production and diffusion of
technocumbia, which became the theme music for his presidential campaigns and ral-
lies. He would dance to this music in front of the television cameras to win the affection
of his followers. Rossy War, the most famous singer in this musical genre, was a sup-
porter of the Fujimori administration’s policies.
35. “[E]l idioma quechua ha sido asimilado por los blancos mestizos como un código sim-
bólico de dominación. Se erigen en doctores y ‘seudo eruditos’ que se atribuyen hablar
el verdadero idioma quechua de los incas, con lo cual terminan descalificando el idioma
que utilizan los verdaderos quechuas de hoy en día. Se han autoidentificado con ser los
verdaderos portadores del idioma quechua. Y hasta pretenden ser los descendientes de
la panaca real inca. Consideran que el resto de la población habla el runa simi, o sea
una lengua del pueblo, de la plebe. Se ha construido una supuesta identidad cuzqueña
o incásica que en definitiva niega y desconoce a quechua hablantes de origen comunal y
de origen urbano [(T)he Quechua language has been assimilated by white mestizos as a
symbolic code of domination. They set themselves up as doctors and ‘pseudo-scholars’
who claim to speak the true Quechua language of the Incas, and as a result they end
up discrediting the language used by real Quechua people today. They have identified
themselves as the rightful heirs to the Quechua language. And they even claim to be the
descendents of the royal Inca panaca, or clan. For them, the rest of the population speaks
Runa Simi, the language of the people, of the masses. They have constructed an osten-
sible Cuzcan or Inca identity that definitively negates and fails to recognize Quechua
speakers of common and urban origin]” (“La producción literaria . . .” 164).
36. “vidacha configura nuevas imágenes y nuevos códigos simbólicos, transmite no sólo la
imagen del joven emigrante que pasa sufrimientos y tristezas en los espacios ciudada-
nos, sino que transmite la actual vivencia de los quechuas que están siendo fuertemente
atravesados por el sistema dominante étnico tanto en la ciudad como en la comunidad”
(“La producción literaria . . .” 166).
37. “Qué runa / no sabe pasar la vida [qanllas yachanki / nuqaq vidayta]” and “qué pobre /
no sabe pasar hambre [wakcha vidayta, / pi wakchallas].”
38. “sólo nuestra vida de runa / sabe pasar la guerra [man vida pasaq / mana muchuy
yachaq].”
39. “sólo nuestra vida de pobre / es de guerreros ch’askaschas [wakcha vidallansis / allin
Guerra pasaq].”
Works Cited
Alencastre, Andrés (Warak’a, Kilku). Taki parwa/22 poemas. Trans. Odi Gonzales. Cuzco, Peru:
Biblioteca Municipal, 1999.
Anka Ninawaman, Ch’aska Eugenia. “Leyenda.” Umbral. Revista del conocimiento y de la igno-
rancia 13 (2001): 233.
———. Poesía en quechua: Ch’askaschay. Quito: Abya Yala, 2004.
———. “La producción literaria en el idioma quechua como una alternativa en el fortalecimiento
de la identidad e interculturalidad.” Identidad lingüística de los pueblos indígenas de la región
andina. Ed. Ariruma Kowii and J. A. Fernández Silva. Quito: Abya-Yala, 2005. 153–77.
Arguedas, José María. “Una valiosísima colección de cuentos quechuas.” Revista Amaru 8
(1969): 84–86.
Coronel Molina, Serafín. “Crossing Borders and Constructing Indigeneity: A Self-Ethnography
of Identity.” Indigeneity: Construction and Re/presentation. Ed. James N. Brown and Patricia
M. Sant. Commack, NY: Nova Science, 1999. 59–75.
Flores Galindo, Alberto. Buscando un inca: Identidad y utopía en los Andes. 3rd ed. Lima: Hori-
zonte, 1988.
———. In Search of an Inca: Identity and Utopia in the Andes. Ed. and trans. Carlos Aguirre,
Charles F. Walker, and Willie Hiatt. New York: Cambridge UP, 2010.
García, María Elena. Making Indigenous Citizens: Identities, Education, and Multicultural
Development in Peru. Stanford, CA: Stanford UP, 2005.
Gonzales, Odi. Almas en pena. Barranco: El Santo Oficio, 1998.
———. La escuela de Cusco. Lima: Santo X Oficio, 2005.
———. Juego de niños. Arequipa: Libros del buen salvaje, 1988.
———. Tunupa: El libro de las sirenas/Tunupa: The Book of the Sirens. Trans. Alison Krögel and
José Ramón Ruisánchez Serra. Lima: El Santo Oficio, 2002.
———. Valle sagrado. Arequipa: Universidad Nacional de San Agustín, 1993.
Isbell, Billie Jean and Fredy Amilcar Roncalla. The Ontogenesis of Metaphor: Riddle Games
among Quechua Speakers Seen as Cognitive Discovery Procedures. Los Angeles: UCLA Latin
American Center, 2005.
Manrique, Nelson. “Historia y utopía en los Andes.” Márgenes. Encuentro y debate 8 (1991): 21–34.
Ortega, Julio. “Posteoría y estudios trasatlánticos.” México trasatlántico. Ed. Julio Ortega and
Celia del Palacio. Mexico City: Fondo de Cultura Económica, 2008. 9–25.
Roncalla, Fredy Amilcar. Canto de pájaro, o, Invocación a la palabra: Edición bilingüe. Ithaca,
NY: Latin American Bookstore, 1984.
———. “Chun Niq.” Avenue BE 1 (2006): 59–61.
———. Escritos mitimaes: Hacia una poética andina postmoderna. New York: Barro, 1998.
———. “Fragments for a Story of Forgetting and Remembrance.” Language Crossings: Nego-
tiating the Self in a Multicultural World. Ed. Karen Ogulnik. New York: Teachers College
P, 2000. 64–71.
———. “Free Traditions: Translations in Quechua Spanish and English.” Journal of Latin
American Cultural Studies 5.1 (1996): 3–10.
Sá, Lucia. “Perverse Tribute: Mario Vargas Llosa’s El hablador and its Machiguenga Sources.”
Tesserae: Journal of Iberian and Latin American Studies 4.2 (1998): 145–64.
Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty. In Other Worlds: Essays in Cultural Politics. New York: Methuen, 1987.
Tomoeda, Hiroyasu. “Inkarrí en La Habana: Discurso indigenista en torno a un mito indí-
gena.” Desde el exterior: El Perú y sus estudiosos. Tercer Congreso Internacional de Peruanistas,
Nagoya, 2005. Ed. Luis Millones and Takahiro Kato. Lima: UNMSM, 2006. 167–88.
Uhle, Max. El cóndor y el zorro. Ed. Wilfredo Kapsoli. Lima: Universidad Ricardo Palma, 2003.
Vargas Llosa, Mario. “El nacimiento del Perú.” Hispania: A Journal Devoted to the Teaching of
Spanish and Portuguese 75.4 (1992): 805–11.
———. La utopía arcaica: José María Arguedas y las ficciones del indigenismo. Mexico City:
Fondo de Cultura Económica, 1996.
Viatori, Maximilian. “Zápara Leaders and Identity Construction in Ecuador: The Complexi-
ties of Indigenous Self-Representation.” The Journal of Latin American and Caribbean
Anthropology 12.1 (2007): 104–33.
Zevallos-Aguilar, Ulises Juan. Interview with Odi Gonzales. 17 Apr. 2008.
———. “Mapping the Andean Cultural Archipelago in the US.” The Other Latinos: Central
and South Americans in the United States. Ed. José Luis Falconi and José Antonio Mazzotti.
Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies, 2007.
125–39.
———. Las provincias contraatacan: Regionalismo y anticentralismo en la literatura peruana del
siglo XX. Lima: UNMSM, 2009.
———. “Transnacionalismo y racismo en el Perú: Entrevista a Fredy Roncalla.” Wayra 4
(2006): 41–52.
Notes on Contributors
Odile Cisneros is associate professor in the Department of Modern Languages

and Cultural Studies at the University of Alberta. Her publications include His-
torical Dictionary of Latin American Literature, coauthored with Richard Young
(Scarecrow Press, 2010); as well as book-length editions and translations, such
as Novas: Selected Writings of Haroldo de Campos, selected, edited, translated,
and with an introduction, coauthored with Antonio Sergio Bessa (Northwestern
University Press, 2007) and Poemas (1990–2004) by Régis Bonvicino, selected,
edited, and translated with Rodolfo Mata et al. (Alforja, 2006).
Juan Pablo Dabove is associate professor in the Department of Spanish and

Portuguese at the University of Colorado at Boulder. His publications include
Nightmares of the Lettered City: Banditry and Literature in Latin America, 1816–
1929 (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2007) and Heterotropías: Narrativas de
identidad y alteridad latinoamericana, coedited with Carlos A. Jáuregui (Insti-
tuto Internacional de Literatura Iberoamericana, 2003).
Rita De Grandis is professor in the Department of French, Hispanic, and Ital-

ian Studies at the University of British Columbia. Her publications include
Reciclaje cultural y memoria revolucionaria: La práctica polémica de José Pablo
Feinmann (Biblos, 2006); Unforeseeable Americas: Questioning Cultural Hybrid-
ity in the Americas, coedited with Zilà Bernd (Rodopi, 1999); and Polémica y
estrategias narrativas en América Latina: José María Arguedas, Mario Vargas Llosa,
Rodolfo Walsh, Ricardo Piglia (Beatriz Viterbo, 1993).
Christopher Dunn is associate professor in the Department of Spanish and

Portuguese at Tulane University. His publications include Brazilian Popular
Music and Citizenship, coedited with Idelber Avelar (Duke University Press,
2011) and Brutality Garden: Tropicália and the Emergence of a Brazilian Counter-
culture (University of North Carolina Press, 2001).
Gisela Heffes is assistant professor in the Department of Hispanic Studies

at Rice University. Her publications include Las ciudades imaginarias en la
literatura latinoamericana (Beatriz Viterbo, 2008) and the anthology Judíos/
Argentinos/Escritores (Atril, 1999). She is also an active fiction writer, having
published the novels Ischia, Praga & Bruselas (Beatriz Viterbo, 2005), Praga
296 Notes on Contributors
(Paradiso, 2001), Ischia (Paradiso, 2000), as well as several short stories and
fictional chronicles.
José Antonio Mazzotti is professor in the Department of Romance Lan-

guages at Tufts University. His publications include The Other Latinos: Cen-
tral and South Americans in the United States, coedited with José Luis Falconi
(Harvard University Press, David Rockefeller Center for Latin American
Studies, 2007); Poéticas del flujo: Migración y violencia verbales en el Perú de
los 80 (Fondo Editorial del Congreso del Perú, 2002); Coros mestizos del Inca
Garcilaso: Resonancias andinas (Bolsa de Valores de Lima, 1996), translated
as Incan Insights: El Inca Garcilaso’s Hints to Andean Readers (Iberoamericana-
Vervuert, 2008); and Asedios a la heterogeneidad cultural: Libro de homenaje a
Antonio Cornejo Polar, coedited with Ulises Juan Zevallos-Aguilar (Asociación
Internacional de Peruanistas, 1996). He has also published many poetry
books, such as Las flores del mall (Tranvías, 2009), Sakra boccata (Mundo
Ajeno, 2007), and El zorro y la luna: Antología poética, 1981–1999 (Banco
Central de Reserva del Perú, 1999).
Carla Beatriz Melo is assistant professor in the Herberger Institute School of

Theatre and Film at Arizona State University. She is currently completing a
book manuscript titled Squatting Dystopia: Performing [Dis]Placement in Con-
temporary Brazil. Her articles have been published in The Drama Review (TDR),
Latin American Cultural Studies, Latin American Theatre Review, Chasqui, Text
and Presentation, and e-misférica: Performance and Politics in the Americas. She
is also a performance artist, theater director, and co-founder of Corpus Delicti
Butoh Performance Lab.
Beatriz Pastor is professor in the Department of Spanish and Portuguese at

Dartmouth College. Her publications include El jardín y el peregrino: Ensayos
sobre el pensamiento utópico latinoamericano, 1492–1695 (Rodopi, 1996; 2nd
ed. UNAM, 1999); Discurso narrativo de la conquista de América (Casa de las
Américas, 1983; 2nd ed. Ediciones del Norte, 1988; 3rd ed. Ediciones del
Norte, 1998; new rev. ed. EDHASA, 2008), for which she was awarded the
Premio Casa de las Américas, translated as The Armature of Conquest: Span-
ish Accounts of the Discovery of America, 1492–1589 (Stanford University Press,
1992); and Roberto Arlt y la rebelión alienada (Hispamérica, 1980).
Justin Read is associate professor in the Department of Romance Languages

and Literatures at the University at Buffalo (SUNY). He is the author of Modern
Poetics and Hemispheric American Cultural Studies (Palgrave Macmillan, 2009).
He has also published articles in Translation Review, Journal of Latin American
Cultural Studies, Luso-Brazilian Review, Modernism/Modernity, and CR: New
Centennial Review.
Notes on Contributors 297
Wanda Rivera-Rivera is assistant professor in the Department of Hispanic

Studies at the University of Massachusetts-Boston. She is currently completing a
book manuscript tentatively titled Cárcel y creación en el Caribe insular hispánico.
She has also published articles in Revista Hispánica Moderna and Exégesis.
Elena Shtromberg is assistant professor in the Department of Art and Art His-
tory at the University of Utah. She is currently completing a book manuscript
tentatively titled Art Systems: Brazil and the 1970s. She has recently published
on the work of video artist Sonia Andrade, contributed to Art Nexus, and pub-
lished an essay in The Aesthetics of Risk: SoCCAS Symposium, edited by John C.
Welchman, vol. III (JRP-Ringier, 2008). During her time working for the Con-
temporary Programs Department at the Getty Research Institute, she worked
with Glenn Phillips to organize Pioneers of Brazilian Video Art (2004), a video
art screening covering the first decade of video art production in Brazil (1973–
1983), and Surveying the Border: 3 Decades of Video Art about the United States
and Mexico (2005).
Diana Sorensen is James F. Rothenberg Professor in the Department of Romance

Languages and Literatures and Dean for the Humanities at Harvard University.
Her publications include A Turbulent Decade Remembered: Scenes from the Latin
American Sixties (Stanford University Press, 2007); Domingo Faustino Sarmien-
to’s Obras selectas (Espasa-Calpe, 2002); and Facundo and the Construction of
Argentine Culture (University of Texas Press, 1996), translated into Spanish as
Facundo y la construcción de la cultura argentina (Beatriz Viterbo, 1998).
Alejandra Uslenghi is assistant professor in the Department of Spanish and

Portuguese at Northwestern University. She is currently completing a book
manuscript tentatively titled Images of Modernity: Latin American Culture at
Universal Exhibitions. She has also edited the volume of essays Walter Benjamin:
Culturas de la imagen (Eterna Cadencia, 2010).
Ulises Juan Zevallos-Aguilar is assistant professor in the Department of Span-

ish and Portuguese at Ohio State University. His publications include Las pro-
vincias contraatacan: Regionalismo y anticentralismo en la literatura peruana del
siglo XX (UNMSM, 2009); Ensayos de cultura virreinal latinoamericana, coed-
ited with Takahiro Kato and Luis Millones (UNMSM, 2006); Indigenismo y
nación: Desafíos a la representación de la subalternidad quechua y aymara en el
Boletín Titikaka (1926–30) (Instituto Francés de Estudios Andinos, 2002);
Movimiento Kloaka (1982–1984): Cultura juvenil urbana de la postmodernidad
periférica (Ojo de agua, 2002); and Asedios a la heterogeneidad cultural, coedited
with José Antonio Mazzotti (Asociación Internacional de Peruanistas, 1996).
Index
1984 (Orwell, 1949), 3 anti-Semitism, 175

1965 April War (Dominican Republic), 15, antropofagia, 10, 93–94, 99–101; ecology
145–64, 165n10, 168n31 and, 102n6
Araucana, La (Ercilla y Zúñiga, 1569–89),
activism, 208, 259–61; environmental, 41–43
260–63, 266–67, 269–71; race-related, architecture: of Brasilia, 189, 193–94; of
263–69; testimony and, 149; utopian counterinsurgency, 151; of Paris Expo-
impulse and, 265 sition (1889), 65–89
Adorno, Theodor W., 110, 227–28, 231 Arembepe, 179
Afro-Brazilian culture, 179–81, 205 Argentina, 9; films about, 244–52; military
Aguilar, Gabriel, 10 coup in, 254n16; participation in Paris
Ahearne, Jeremy, 190 Exposition (1889), 81–82, 84, 86–88
Aínsa, Fernando, 10, 12, 137 Arguedas, José María, 276–78
Alencar, José de, 96 Arte Física (Meireles, 1969), 188–89, 191–
Alfonso, René, 151 96, 196n3
Allende, Salvador, 240, 253n7 artists’ collectives, 261
Alterio, Héctor, 250 artivistas, 261–62, 272
altermundism, 260, 271–72 Austin, J. L., 267
Álvarez, Julia, 164n3 Aztec Empire, 37–41. See also indigenous
Álvarez, Sonia, 161 people
Amado, Jorge, 15, 203–12, 214–18, 221n11
Amazon rainforest, 95, 262–63, 270–71 Bakhtin, Mikhail, 62n4, 67n27, 140
Amazon Watch, 16, 262 Balaguer, Joaquín, 158
Andean utopia, 10, 275–77, 279–80 Ballu, Albert, 86–87
Anderson, Benedict, 122 banditry, 205–10, 214–18, 221n10. See also
Andrade, Oswald de, 7, 10, 93–94, 96–100, outlaw violence
176–77 Barataria, 14, 52, 54–59, 61–62
Anka Ninawaman, Ch’aska Eugenia, 16, Barrenechea Avilez, Felix Alejandro, 191
275, 279–83, 286–88 Barrios de Chungara, Domitila, 149
Ano em que Meus Pais Saíram de Férias, O Barthes, Roland, 204
(Hamburger, 2006), 235–39, 249–52, Bastide, Roger, 176, 209
255n35 Bate, Jonathan, 94
Anta, 96 Bauer, Edgar, 138
anthropology, 79, 230 Beauchesne, Kim: chapter by, 1–22
antiglobalization movement, 260–61 Beauvoir, Simone de, 190
300 Index
Beck, Ulrich, 232 Campanella, Tommaso, 12

Bénéjam, Valérie, 99–100 Campos, Haroldo de, 11, 93, 95, 99–101
Benítez Rojo, Antonio, 9 cannibalism. See antropofagia
Benjamin, Walter, 12, 73–75, 81, 84, 88, Capitães da Areia (Amado, 1937), 205
111–14 capitalism, 28, 74–75, 96, 213; colonialism
Bermúdez, Francisco Morales, 280 and, 277; critique of, 94, 100, 226–27;
Beverley, John, 8, 134–35, 149 globalization and, 125, 228, 233n4;
Bhabha, Homi K., 80 outlaw violence and, 206–7
Bildungsroman genre, 133, 137, 208; in Carpentier, Alejo, 1
film, 236, 242 Cartas de um Sedutor (Hilst, 1991), 108–10,
bisexuality, 182 119–24
Black Rio movement, 181 cartography, 14, 29–36, 41–43, 46, 46n3; of
Bloch, Ernst, 2–6, 7, 34, 260 Brasilia, 194–95
blogs, 13 Casas, Bartolomé de las, 7–8, 18n22, 36–37,
Boal, Augusto, 267 42, 60
Bolívar, Simón, 9 Cassá, Roberto, 147
Bolivia, 11, 81 Castañeda, Jorge G., 10, 145–46
Bonvicino, Régis, 95 Castro, Fidel, 3, 146
Borrel, Gladys, 159 Catholic Church, 112, 164n2, 177,
Bosch, Juan, 145–46, 150, 165n10 226–27
Bourdieu, Pierre, 13, 45 Çelik, Zeynep, 79
Brasilia, 12, 15, 187–91, 193–96, 196n1, Celso, Afonso, 96, 104n16
198n13; architecture of, 193–94; satel- Cemanahuac, 36
lite cities of, 198n19 Cendrars, Blaise, 98
Brave New World (Huxley, 1932), 3 Centro de Investigación Para la Acción
Brazil, 15–16, 96–98, 173–83; counter- Femenina, 147, 164
culture in, 179–80; ecological issues Certeau, Michel de, 189–91, 194–96
in, 95–97; environmental activism in, Cerutti Guldberg, Horacio, 11
262–63; films about, 197n5, 235– Cervantes, Miguel de, 14, 52, 55, 60–61
39, 249–52; literature of, 203–20; Chagoya, Enrique, 20n33
military government of, 174–75, 191, Chávez, Hugo, 9
197n12, 237, 252n4; participation in Chile, 11, 253n7; films about, 239–44,
Paris Exposition (1889), 80, 81; race 249–52
relations in, 176, 180–81, 263–66, chivalric thought, 53–54, 60–61, 63n11
268–69; revolutionary tradition of, Cien años de soledad (García Márquez,
210; utopian narrative of, 181–83 1967), 43–44, 230
Brecht, Bertolt, 267 Cisneros, Odile, 14–15, 295; chapter by,
Buck-Morss, Susan, 74 93–106
Buenos Aires, 40–41 civil disobedience, 262
Bujosa, Sagrada, 158–59 civil society, 149, 160–61, 163–64, 259, 261
Burga, Manuel, 10 class conflict, 138, 209–10, 214, 239–43
Butler, Judith, 160, 169n37 Cleary, Edward L., 11
Clifford, James, 136, 142n14
Caamaño Deñó, Francisco, 151 Cold War, 6, 149, 227, 232n2, 235, 252n4
Cabral, Donald Reid, 150 Colombia, 11
Cacau (Amado, 1933), 205 Columbus, Christopher, 29–34
Caderno Rosa de Lori Lamby, O (Hilst, Comentarios reales de los incas (Vega, 1609,
1990), 122 1617), 7, 12, 55, 64n17
Calderón, Miguel Ángel, 156 communism, 4, 15, 276; failure of, 103n8,
Cambaceres, Eugenio, 90n13 259; millenarianism and, 218; peas-
Index 301
antry and, 204, 208, 219; political Díaz del Castillo, Bernal, 54, 61, 67n30
reaction to, 252n4. See also Communist Doctrine of National Security, 235
Party (of Brazil); Marxism Dolan, Jill, 271
Communist Party (of Brazil), 15, 177, 204, Dominican Republic, 15, 145–64, 165n10
218–20, 222n13 Duarte Bridge incident, 151, 159
conceived space, 195 Dunn, Christopher, 15, 295; chapter by,
Contos d’Escárnio/Textos Grotescos (Hilst, 173–85
1990), 108, 122 dystopia, 3, 8, 13–14, 17n8, 110, 263, 265;
Cordero, Margarita, 147–50, 152–64 Brasilia and, 187, 196; the city as, 41
Cornejo Polar, Antonio, 9
Cortés, Hernán, 35, 37–41, 45, 54, 61; ecocriticism, 94–95, 101, 103n8, 103n9,
social mobility of, 59 104n15
Cosa, Juan de la, 30–31, 46 ecotopia, 13
Costa, Lúcio, 187, 193–94 Ecuador, 81
countercultural utopianism, 175 Eiffel, Alexandre Gustave, 75–76
counterculture (in 1960s and 1970s), 175, Eiffel Tower, 78, 81–82, 84, 88
178–83, 226–31 El Dorado, 34, 55, 132
Covarrubias, Sebastián de, 55–56, 61 Eloísa Cartonera publishing house, 13, 22n45
Creoles, 9–10 el-Ojeili, Chamsy, 13
Cruz, Sor Juana Inés de la, 9 El Salvador, 252n1
Cuba, 3, 227 Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 94
Cuban Revolution, 146, 175, 227, 229–30, Engels, Friedrich, 4, 138, 210
235 Erasmus of Rotterdam, Desiderius, 53
cultura chicha, 278–79 “Era un aire suave . . .” (Darío, 1896), 108–
cultural cannibalism, 10. See also 9, 114–19
antropofagia Ercilla y Zúñiga, Alonso de, 41–43
culture industry, 108, 251–52 Escritos mitimaes (Roncalla, 1998), 283–84
Espaillat, Teresa, 150, 166n11
Dabove, Juan Pablo, 15, 295; chapter by, “Esquema Geral da Nova Objetividade”
203–24 (Oiticica, 1967), 189
d’Ailly, Pierre, 29, 33 Eulalia/Eulália, 107–11, 115, 119–22, 124–
Darío, Rubén, 9, 15, 108–11, 114–19, 25, 125n3
126n16 exile, 136, 140, 142n14, 142n15, 239; of
Debray, Régis, 147 Mautner, 177–78
Decline and Fall of the Lettered City, The exogamy, 255n27
(Franco, 2002), 232n2
defamiliarization, 267 Fanon, Frantz, 230
De Grandis, Rita, 9, 15–16, 295; chapter by, Féau, Théophile, 81
235–56 Fernández de Oviedo, Gonzalo, 54
Deleuze, Gilles, 46 Ferry, Jules, 77, 89n5
democracy, 6, 11, 118, 121, 162, 180–83, Figueras, Marcelo, 249, 251
214, 236–37, 247; ideals of, 147–49, film, 16, 235–36, 249–52, 252n1; about
175, 181; racial, 16, 176, 264, 266, Argentina, 244–49; about Brazil,
268–69, 273n18 197n5, 235–39; about Chile, 239–44
Desábato, Leandro, 264 Fiore, Joachim de, 35
Desde Cuba, un portal de periodismo ciu- Flores Galindo, Alberto, 10, 275–79
dadano, 13 Fontes, Alfredo, 191
Despradel, Consuelo, 160 Foster, David W., 246–48
diaspora, 136, 142n14; African, 179–81, Foucault, Michel, 228, 233n3
203, 205, 260, 263–64, 268–69 foundational utopias, 14
302 Index
Fourier, Charles, 3 Guha, Ranajit, 216

France. See Paris Exposition Universelle Gullar, Ferreira, 189
(1889)
Franciscans, 35–36, 45 Hamburger, Cao, 249
Franco, Jean, 232n2 Hardt, Michael, 13
Frankfurt School, 110, 227–28 Hayden, Patrick, 13
Fraser, Valerie, 189 Heffes, Gisela, 15, 295–96; chapter by,
French Third Republic, 77–78, 89n7 131–43
Frente 3 de Fevereiro, 16, 260, 263–66, 268, Hernández, Homero, 152, 159
270 heterosexuality, 159, 248
Freyre, Gilberto, 176, 181 Hilst, Hilda, 15, 108, 110–11, 119–24
Fujimori, Alberto, 279, 292n34 Historia general de las Indias (López de
Fuller, Margaret, 94 Gómara, 1552), 56
Hobsbawm, Eric, 205, 220n2, 225
Galeano, Eduardo, 230 Holston, James, 190, 193
Galerie des Machines, 83–84, 88 Hopenhayn, Martín, 11–12
Gallegos, Rómulo, 221n10 Horkheimer, Max, 227–28
gambling, 112–14 humanism, 4, 17n10, 18n12, 60
García, María Elena, 280 human rights, 231–32
García Márquez, Gabriel, 14, 43–44, 225 Huxley, Aldous, 3
García Uriburu, Nicolás, 14 Huysmans, Joris-Karl, 81
Garden of Eden, 30, 31, 33 Huyssen, Andreas, 225, 231
Gautreaux, Hilda, 169n42 hybridity, 9, 140, 264
gender, 93, 151–52, 160–61; in film, 235,
244, 248–51 Icaza, Jorge, 221n10
gendering of space, 111–14 Inca Empire, 7, 10, 277–78. See also indig-
Generación Y, 13 enous people
genocide, 173, 225, 278, 287 Indians. See indigenous people
Genugten, Willem van, 11 indigenous people, 7–8, 53–54, 169n38,
Giedion, Sigfried, 83–84 278–79; architecture and, 85;
Gil, Gilberto, 173–75, 177, 179 early Europeans and, 52, 60, 63n6,
Gil, Juan, 29, 34 63n10, 63n11; environmental activ-
Gil Iriarte, María Luisa, 140 ism of, 260–63, 266–67, 269–71;
Ginés de Sepúlveda, Juan, 37 in literature, 218, 221n7, 221n10;
globalization, 11–13, 21n43, 48n20, 125; Quechua poetry of, 279–88; resis-
antiglobalization movement, 260– tance of, 6, 8, 11, 13, 46, 262–63,
61; postutopianism and, 15; utopian 265–69; utopia and, 7, 16, 31, 176,
impulse and, 108 275–77, 279–80. See also Aztec
Goldberg, Florinda, 136, 142n15 Empire; Inca Empire
Gómez-Peña, Guillermo, 20n33 ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha,
Gonzales, Odi, 16, 275, 279–80, 282–85, El (Cervantes, 1605, 1615), 14, 52–62
288 innocent eye technique, 236, 250
González-Parra, Claudia, 11 interclass alliances, 210–11
Goodman, Paul, 177 International Workingmen’s Association,
Goytisolo, José Agustín, 254n23 139
Greenpeace, 267 invention du quotidien, L’ (Certeau, 1980),
Guaman Poma de Ayala, Felipe, 8 189–91
Guatemala, 81
Guattari, Félix, 46, 104n12 Jacobina, Nelson, 179
Guevara, Ernesto Che, 10, 153 Jacoby, Russell, 2, 6, 11
Index 303
Jameson, Fredric, 2, 5, 47n8 Maravall, José Antonio, 60

Jara, René, 150 Marcuse, Herbert, 3, 5–6, 227
jardín y el peregrino, El (Pastor, 1996), 2, 6–7 Marin, Louis, 17n11, 32, 37, 39
Jáuregui, Carlos A., 9 Martí, José, 9
Jubiabá (Amado, 1935), 205 Martínez, José Alfredo, 244
Marx, Karl, 4–5, 138, 204
Kamchatka (Piñeyro, 2002), 236, 244–52, Marxism, 138–39, 204–5; ecocriticism and,
255n28, 255n31 103n8; indigenismo and, 277; mille-
Kershaw, Baz, 267, 271 narianism and, 218; in 1960s, 226–27,
Kinney, Leila, 79 230. See also communism
Kubitschek, Juscelino, 187 masculinity, 152
Kumar, Krishan, 2–3, 17n5 Mautner, Jorge, 15, 174–83
Mazzotti, José Antonio, 14, 296; chapter by,
Latin Americanism, 160 51–70
Lefebvre, Henri, 187, 194–95 McGann, Jerome, 94
Lennon, John, 175 Médici, Emílio Garrastazu, 252n4
lesbianism, 120, 157–60 Meireles, Cildo, 188–89, 191–96
Levin, Miriam, 77 Mello, Federico Pernambucano de, 215, 217
Levine, Robert, 210 Melo, Carla Beatriz, 16, 296; chapter by,
Lévi-Strauss, Claude, 230 259–74
Levitas, Ruth, 3–5 memory studies, 225–26, 231
Lévy-Bruhl, Lucien, 98, 105n21 Menchú, Rigoberta, 148–49, 165n6
liberation, 226–27 Menéndez Pelayo, Marcelino, 7, 58
liberation theology, 10, 226–27 mestizaje, 9–10, 19n30, 117, 268; in Peru,
Lienhard, Martin, 9 282–83
linguistic strategic essentialism, 283 Mexico, 9, 11, 95; early colonial, 37–41;
Lispector, Clarice, 196 participation in Paris Exposition
literature, 14, 15, 43–44; of Amado, 205– (1889), 81–82, 84–86, 88, 90n11
20; banditry in, 221n10; utopianism Mexico City, 44–46. See also Tenochtitlán
and, 51 Meyer, Alfred Gotthold, 84
Liu, Alan, 94 Michelet, Jules, 73
López de Gómara, Francisco, 54, 56 Mignolo, Walter, 139, 271
Lora, Carmen Josefina “Piky,” 147, 150, millenarianism, 215, 218
154–58, 166n18, 169n42 Miller, Marilyn Grace, 9
Lula da Silva, Luiz Inácio, 183 Mirabal, Minerva, 146–47, 165n4
Mirabal Sisters, 146–47, 164n3
Machiavelli, Niccolò, 14, 51 Miranda, Francisco de, 9
Machuca (Wood, 2004), 236, 239–44, 249– Moctezuma, 38–40
52, 255n31 modernism, 88; in art, 261; in literature, 15,
Magdaleno, Mauricio, 221n10 94, 100; in poetry, 116, 118
Mailor, Norman, 180 modernity, 12, 14–15, 73–75, 84, 111–12,
Mair, John, 63n6 125; Brasilia and, 193–96; critique of,
“Manifesto Antropófago” (Andrade, 1928), 109–10, 173; Darío and, 114; gender
10, 93, 96–101, 101n3, 102n5, and, 160; neoliberalism and, 278;
176–77 outlaw violence and, 204; in Peru,
“Manifesto da Poesia Pau-Brasil” (Andrade, 279–80; utopia and, 3, 277
1925), 93, 96–98 modernization, 108, 111, 138, 275–77, 288;
Mannheim, Bruce, 282 Brasilia and, 187; in Peru, 279
Mannheim, Karl, 3–4 Mohanty, Chandra Talpade, 160–61
“Maracatu Atômico” (Mautner, 1972), 179 Monsiváis, Carlos, 14, 44–45
304 Index
Montesinos, José, 58 outlaw violence, 203–6, 220n2. See also

Moore, Michael, 16n1 banditry
Morales, Evo, 1, 11 Owen, Robert, 3, 138
Moraña, Mabel, 160–61
More, Thomas, 2–3, 7, 34, 137 Palmares, Zumbi dos, 266
Moreiras, Alberto, 160 Paraguay, 81
Motolinia, Toribio, 35–36, 45 paremiology, 66n24
Movimento dos Trabalhadores Rurais Sem Paris, 73, 75, 163; gendering of space in,
Terra, 13 111–14
Movimiento Clandestino 14 de Junio (1J4), Paris Exposition Universelle (1889), 14–15,
146–48, 150–53, 156–59, 162, 164n2, 75–89; Eiffel Tower and, 75–78; Latin
165n5 American pavilions at, 81–89
Mujeres de abril (Cordero, 1985), 147–50, Parra, Francisco de la, 35–36
152–64 Parraguez, Amante Eledín, 251
multiculturalism, 149, 237–38, 280–81, Partido do Kaos, 177
288 Pastor, Beatriz, 2, 6–8, 12, 14, 296; chapter
Muslims, 54, 63n10 by, 29–49
patriarchal ideology, 147, 163
Nabuco, Joaquim, 204, 264 Paz, Octavio, 229
Nação Zumbi, 179 peasant culture, 210, 212, 217
national liberation, 146–47, 149, 161–62, peasant revolts, 10
175 pedestrian speech acts, 191, 194
Native Americans. See indigenous people Peña Gómez, José Francisco, 150
Nazism, 3, 173–76 Pérégrinations d’une paria (Tristán, 1838),
Negri, Antonio, 13 132–41
neighborhood associations, 22n46 Pérez-Bustillo, Camilo, 11
neoliberalism, 13, 259–60, 275–76; indig- performatic squatting, 270
enous people and, 279–80; multicul- Perón, Isabel, 254n16
turalism and, 280–81, 288 Peronist connotations, 255n28
neoliberal utopia, 275–76, 279–80 Perrone, Charles, 179
Neruda, Pablo, 9, 205 Peru, 11, 16, 277–81; early colonial, 54, 60;
New Castile. See Peru mestizaje in, 282–83; Quechua poetry
New Jerusalem, 35–36 and, 275, 279–88
New Latin American Cinema, 251–52 Peruvian society, 133–35, 137–38
New Laws of 1542, 60 Pineda, Magaly, 145, 163, 164n1
New World, 7; participation in Paris Exposi- Pineda de Castro, Álvaro, 11
tion (1889), 80; as utopia, 31–37 Piñeyro, Marcelo, 249, 255n28
Nicaragua, 11, 149, 162 Pinochet Hiriart, Lucía, 11
Niemeyer, Oscar, 187, 189 Pinochet Ugarte, Augusto, 11, 240, 253n7
Noble, Richard, 6 Pizarro, Francisco, 56, 59
Nunes, Benedito, 93, 102n4 Plato, 2, 7
Poesía en quechua (Anka Ninawaman, 2004),
Obama, Barack, 1, 16n1 283, 286
Oiticica, Hélio, 189, 197n6 poetry, 15; of Andrade, 99–100; of Darío,
Olivera-Williams, María Rosa, 160 109–11, 114–19; ecological issues and,
Olschki, Leonardo, 32 95; pan-American, 9; Quechua, 275,
online communities, 13 279–88; symbolic cartography and,
Orbegoso, Ana de, 282, 291n7 41–43; trilingual, 281, 283–84
Ortega, Julio, 278 Polo, Marco, 30
Ortiz, Fernando, 9 pornography, 108, 110, 119, 122–24
Index 305
postmodernism, 15, 20n36, 231–32 Sahagún, Bernardino de, 36

postutopianism, 11, 15 Said, Edward, 4, 160
Potosí, 54, 60, 64n14 Saint-Simon, Henri de, 3, 138, 142n18
Pratt, Mary Louise, 132, 137 Sánchez, Yoani, 13
primitivism, 98, 135 Sandinistas, 162
production de l’espace, La (Lefebvre, 1974), 194 Santana, Flávio, 263
Prosas profanas (Darío, 1896/1901), 108, Santana Castillo, Joaquín, 9
117, 126n16 Santos, Alessandra: chapter by, 1–22
prostitution, 112–14, 122–24, 159 Santos, Boaventura de Sousa, 261–62, 272
São Paulo, 22n46, 111, 238, 253n5, 263
Quechua gods, 285 Sarmiento, Domingo Faustino, 14, 19n28,
Quechua language, 282–83, 287 40–41, 44, 132
Quigley, John, 262 Sartre, Jean-Paul, 227, 230
Quijano, Aníbal, 7–8, 21n40 Science, Chico, 179
Quiroga, Vasco de, 60 science fiction, 20n37
Scorza, Manuel, 205
race relations, 176, 263–66, 268–69 Scott, James C., 208, 210, 216
Raful Tejada, Antonio Miguel, 153, 166n19 Seara Vermelha (Amado, 1946), 207–20,
Rainforest Network, 16, 262 221n11; banditry in, 214–18
Rama, Ángel, 111 Serafim Ponte Grande (Andrade, 1933), 100
Rama, Carlos, 137–38 sexual liberation, 226
Ramírez Ribes, María, 132 Shining Path, 278, 287
Randall, Margaret, 162 Shtromberg, Elena, 15, 297; chapter by,
Randall, Marilyn, 101 187–200
Read, Justin, 14–15, 296; chapter by, 107–28 Silverman, Deborah, 77, 84
Reclaim the Streets collective (RTS), 46 Skłodowska, Elżbieta, 148
recycling, literary, 99–101 slavery, 63n6, 264
Reigota, Marcos, 102n6, 104n12 soccer, 237–39, 264–68
renewable energy, 182 socialism, 15, 277
revolutions, 10–11, 46, 74, 174–75, 220, socialist movements, 10–11
228–29; Cuban, 146, 164n2, 226–27, socialist utopias, 3–4
235; in Dominican Republic, 146–50, social relations, 108
157–59, 161–63; French, 77–78, social space, 194–95, 198n21
89n7, 131, 139; peasantry and, 203– Sommer, Doris, 162–63, 165n6
10, 218, 221n10; urban, 111; utopia Soper, Kate, 95
and, 15, 145; youth and, 227, 229–30 Sorensen, Diana, 11, 15–16, 297; chapter
Revueltas, José, 204 by, 225–34
Ricardo, Yolanda, 153 Soviet Union, 3, 149, 277
Richter, Gerhard, 74 Spain, 51
Rivera-Rivera, Wanda, 15, 297; chapter by, Spivak, Gayatri Chakravorty, 133, 148, 283
145–70 squatter movements, 22n46
Rodríguez, Ileana, 158 Stalin, Joseph Vissarionovich, 204
Rodríguez Sánchez, Hipólito, 154 Steigenga, Timothy J., 11
Román, Juan Miguel, 157 Stepney, Erin, 270
Roman Empire, 107 subalternity, 4, 132–35, 141, 163
Roncalla, Fredy, 16, 275, 279–84, 288 superquadras, 193–94, 198n18
Roth, Cecilia, 244, 248, 250
Rousseff, Dilma, 1, 183 Tahuantinsuyo, 276–77, 281, 288
Rouvillois, Frédéric, 3 Tavárez Justo, Manuel, 146–47, 150, 154,
Rulfo, Juan, 221n10 157
306 Index
Tavéras, Rafael “Fafa,” 150, 162 ethnic, 16; false meanings of, 259;
Taylor, Diana, 271 globalization and, 13, 21n43; human
temporary autonomous zones (TAZ), 46 rights and, 231–32; in Latin America,
Tenochtitlán, 35, 37–41, 45. See also Mexico 6–11, 19n23; literature and, 51; Marx-
City ism and, 4; national liberation and,
Tenorio-Trillo, Mauricio, 82 161; as negative space, 110–11; New
Terras do Sem Fim (Amado, 1943), 206, 217, World as, 31–37; nineteenth century
221n9, 221n11 ideal of, 74; performance and, 271;
testimonies, 15, 148–50, 160, 165n6 in the Quijote, 52–62; religious versus
Thoreau, Henry David, 94 social, 36; socialism and, 3–4; social
Tomoeda, Hiroyasu, 280 relations of, 108; temporality of, 225;
Torre de Televisão, Brasilia, 189, 191, Tenochtitlán as, 38–40; totalitarianism
198n14 and, 225
Torres García, Joaquín, 14 Utopia (More, 1516), 2–3, 7, 12, 17n8, 36,
totalitarianism, 225, 233n7 137, 139
transculturation, 8–9 utopian impulse, 1, 4–8, 10–14, 16,
Tristán, Flora, 15, 131–41 18n12, 29, 73, 140, 226, 260, 262;
Tropicália, 173–74, 178 1965 April War and, 145, 148, 161–
Trujillo, Rafael Leónidas, 146–47, 162, 63; activism and, 265; communism
164n3, 165n10 and, 218; of conquistadors, 7–8, 29,
Tunupa (Gonzales, 2002), 283–86 42; Eulalia/Eulália and, 107–8, 114;
Túpac Amaru I, 10 globalization and, 108; memory and,
Túpac Amaru II, 8 226, 232; side effects of, 12; temporal-
Tur Donatti, Carlos M., 9 ity of, 272; testimony and, 149; visual
arts and, 6
Ufanismo, 96 utopian socialism, 3–4
unarmed utopia, 145 utopics, 17n11
Unified Black Movement, 266
United States, 235; counterculture in, Valdés, Alfonso de, 58, 60
177–78, 180–81; intervention in Vallejo, César, 9, 20n37
Dominican Republic, 145, 151, 161– Vanderwood, Paul, 215
62, 165n10, 168n31; participation in Vargas, Aniana, 169n42
Paris Exposition (1889), 77, 80; race Vargas, Getúlio, 204
relations in, 176, 181 Vargas Llosa, Mario, 10, 275–80, 288
Universal Declaration of Human Rights Vasconcelos, José, 9–10
(1948), 16, 231–32 Vaz, Guilherme, 191
urbanism, 109–11 Vega, El Inca Garcilaso de la, 7, 12, 55
urbanization, 15, 108, 111 Veloso, Caetano, 173–75, 178, 264
Uslenghi, Alejandra, 14, 297; chapter by, Veloz Maggiolo, Marcio, 162–63
73–92 Veneno Remédio (Wisnik, 2008), 264
utopia, 1–2, 11–14, 139, 259–60; 1960s Venezuela, 146; early colonial, 30–31; par-
and, 7, 11, 226–28; 1965 April War ticipation in Paris Exposition (1889),
and, 145–64; Andean versus neoliberal, 81
275–80; Andrade and, 176; as bad Vera Paz, 37
idea, 124–25; Brasilia as, 187, 195–96; Verdeamarelismo, 96, 104n17
Brazil and, 181–83; cartography and, Via Campesina, La, 13
29, 32–36, 40, 43–46; city as, 45–46; Victorica, Julio, 87
communism and, 218; definition of, Videla, Jorge Rafael, 244
2–6, 17n5, 34; dystopia and, 8, 13–14; Vieira, Else Ribeiro Pires, 99
egalitarian, 145–46, 152, 160–61, 163; virtual reality, 113
Index 307
visual arts, 14, 20n33, 104n17, 193, 197n6, World Economic Forum, 173
231; activism and, 261; in Brasilia, World Social Forum (WSF), 13, 16, 46,
189; of Meireles, 188–96 260–63, 270–72
Vives, Juan Luis, 60
Voces inocentes (Mandoki, 2004), 252n1 Yashar, Deborah J., 11, 21n38
youth, 175, 178–79, 182, 227–30, 233n7,
Wessin y Wessin, Elías, 151 233n8; in film, 16, 234n9, 236–51;
Whitaker, Chico, 261 in poetry, 287; revolution and, 164n2,
Wilde, Oscar, 231 255n28
Wisnik, José Miguel, 264
women: in film, 248–49, 251; in 1965 April Zapatista movement, 13, 46, 261
War, 15, 146–50, 152–64, 168n31, Zea, Leopoldo, 9
169n37; in Peruvian society, 133, 138; Zevallos-Aguilar, Ulises Juan, 16, 297; chap-
as prostitutes, 112–14, 119, 124, 214 ter by, 275–94
women’s rights, 161, 226 Zipes, Jack, 6, 139
Wood, Andrés, 244, 249, 254n13 Zumárraga, Juan de, 60, 64n12
Wordsworth, William, 94, 103n7 Zumbi banner action, 265–69

2011 Book TheUtopianImpulseInLatinAmeric

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

2011 Book TheUtopianImpulseInLatinAmeric

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

The Utopian Impulse in Latin America

The Utopian Impulse in Latin America

1. Utopias—Latin America. 2. Utopias in literature—Latin America. 3. Utopias

List of Figures vii

IV Utopia and Counterculture

1.1 Juan de la Cosa’s Map (1500) 31

The Theory and Practice of

AS WE ENTER A NEW DECADE IN the twenty-first century, the relevance of utopia in

K. Beauchesne et al. (eds.), The Utopian Impulse in Latin America

Mapping Utopia: Theoretical Reflections

To map utopia, the question of definition arises. Historically, it is well known

Leaving aside the pejorative meaning of utopia as mere idealization, however,

examine utopia or the notion of a utopian impulse while paying attention to

Despite critiques of universality, both Bloch and Marcuse hope to recuperate

The Practice of Utopia in Latin America

Utopia Still Matters: Crises and Their Antidotes

While it is predisposed to change and transformation, it will continue to have a

Overview of the Volume

region . . . The promise of Obama’s rhetoric in Trinidad failed to materialize in concrete

Utopia in Latin America

IN THE VAST GEOGRAPHICAL, HISTORICAL, CULTURAL, AND political space that we

K. Beauchesne et al. (eds.), The Utopian Impulse in Latin America

Polo and Rustichello da Pisa—until around 1497, when he began to assemble

Figure 1.1 Juan de la Cosa’s Map (1500)

customs and wanderings of Amazons and cannibals; the Biblical references to

illustrated a mythical community of seven cities supposedly founded by an eighth-

the conquest he symbolically encodes in his Brevísima relación de la destrucción

The utopian figure of Tenochtitlán that is outlined as a symbolic projection

Cartographies of Eternal Return

discourse unfolds against the backdrop of two fundamental contradictions. The

Should you hope to found a homeland,

This is a new utopian cartography of a possible history for America, and in

principle possibly be in the descriptions and symbolic maps of today’s city? To

of daily life against the backdrop of a chaotic landscape of catastrophes, multiple

Barataria from the

José Antonio Mazzotti

K. Beauchesne et al. (eds.), The Utopian Impulse in Latin America

Christian prince of the Institutio principis christiani (The Education of a Christian

Return to the Castle

Sancho reveals an enormous ability not only to transform language to ridicule

bilabialization, bringing it closer to llama (flame), refers to a lower place. From

La primera [edición] de 1516 es seguida . . . por otras quince latinas impre-

25. Márquez Villanueva agrees with this:

Utopia and Modernity

Remnants of a Dream World

Each epoch dreams the one to follow.

K. Beauchesne et al. (eds.), The Utopian Impulse in Latin America

Paris, 1889: L’Exposition Universelle

their particularities as manifested in emerging “national styles,” with the uni-

sections . . . [T]his topographical system coincided with other kinds of informa-

The Triumph of Iron

The series of photographic reportage by nineteenth-century photographer Théo-

largest and most ambitious participation of the nineteenth-century exhibitions.

of which there grows a completely new limitlessness and movement in keeping

Rather than an ethnographical or self-exoticizing exercise that responded to the

The visual effect of the profuse ornamentation of the structure—covered in

pendants of the interior cupola. The entire pavilion is covered in porcelains,

pendentifs de la grande coupole à l’interieur. Tout le pavillon est revêtu de porcelaines,

OSWALD DE ANDRADE’S 1925 “MANIFESTO DA POESIA Pau-Brasil” (“Brazilwood

K. Beauchesne et al. (eds.), The Utopian Impulse in Latin America

increased rate in the loss of land—in the thousands of square kilometers—was

reflection on the exploitation of Brazil’s natural resources, or as Andrade puts

of relying on the knowledge generated by foreign colonial powers. The image