Mario Vargas Llosa (1936–2025)

Párhuzamos életrajzok.

Először is bemutatnám Flora Tristant, aki a XIX. század derekán állt neki megváltani a világot. Csak hát a Megváltók esetében kifejezetten hendikeppnek minősült, ha szoknyában gyürkőztek az efféle férfias feladatoknak. Ráadásul Flora ezt a megváltást a szegények felkarolásával kívánta elérni, Munkásszövetségek megalakítását propagálta, amelyeken keresztül holmi proletár utópiát kívánt megvalósítani. No most már akkoriban show more is úgy volt, hogy mindenki marhára kereszténynek vallotta magát, de ezt összeegyeztethetőnek tartották azzal, hogy az empátiát meg a szolidaritást valami ördögtől való dolognak tekintsék, hirdetőit pedig lendületből lekomcsizzák. Szóval Flora is kap hideget-meleget. De kemény csaj, bírja. Nem hátrál meg, küzd az igazságért, kompromisszumok nélkül. Én bírom. Ahogy Vargas Llosa is. Az elképzeléseit bizonyos tekintetben naivnak, megvalósíthatatlannak tartom, de lényegileg egyetértek vele: egy olyan közösség, ahol a közösség szerencsésebb tagjai megalázzák, kihasználják és szenvedésre ítélik a kevésbé szerencséseket, nem érdemli meg a közösség nevet. Ha egy nemzet így képzeli el a rendet, akkor inkább ne is legyen. Szűnjön meg, fújja el a történelem szele. Vargas Llosa részvéttel és energikusan vezet minket végig e bátor asszony életén, miközben gyorstalpalót tart az 1840-es évek munkásmozgalmaiból és utópistáiból, ami egy bizonyos olvasói rétegnek talán unalmas lesz, másokban pedig esetleg rossz emlékeket ébreszt, de ettől függetlenül erős, megkapó szöveg. Engem arra késztetett, hogy hálát érezzek Flora iránt. Mert amivel ő szembeszállt, az egy borzasztó világ volt. Ha a férfi a nyílt utcán verte bucira a feleségét, hivatkozhatott arra, hogy ez törvény adta joga, ha pedig megerőszakolta a saját kiskorú gyerekét, az legfeljebb apró botlásnak, magánügynek minősült. A gyárosok minden további nélkül a húst is lezabálhatták a munkásaikról, az állam pedig nem érezte kötelességének, hogy polgárait megmentse az éhenhalástól. Az, hogy mindez a XX. századra némiképp megváltozott, az olyan rohadt bátraknak köszönhető, mint Flora.



(Hadd jegyezzem meg: megszoktuk, hogy ez az állapot állandó. Szívat ugyan a főnök, de azt azért mégsem teheti meg, hogy indoklás nélkül felére csökkenti a fizunkat, vagy nulla védőfelszerelés nélkül beküld valami mérges gőzbe dolgozni, ami egy éven belül szétmarja a tüdőnket. Mert van Munka Törvénykönyve. Ha farigcsálják is. Hisz farigcsálják. Mert akinél a pénz van, az folyton farigcsálni akarja azoknak a jogát, akiktől még több pénzt préselhet ki. Ezért szükség van időnként azokra a bátrakra, akik hangosan, jól artikulálva kimondják, hogy ez így nem jó, bátya. Akik belefeszülnek, és tesznek valamit. Szóval akármennyire is berzenkedik valaki az efféle radikális szocialista aktivistáktól, gondoljon bele, a hozzájuk hasonló arcok neki is előkészítették mindazt, ami ma evidens, de 150 éve még elképzelhetetlennek tűnt. Amikor azt hallja, „szocializmus”, ne rögtön Leninre meg Sztálinra gondoljon, hanem Flora Tristanra is, meg utódaira, akik elintézték neki, hogy a munkanapja ne húsz, hanem csak nyolc órás legyen. Nem kell szocialistának lenni, Isten ments, én se vagyok az, de fogadja el, hogy az ő hangjukra is bizony szükség van a többi hang mellett.)

Na de hagyjuk a politikát. Beszéljünk inkább az impresszionistákról. Gauguinről mondjuk. Mert ő e párhuzamos életrajz másik fele. Na őkelmét nem kívánom hosszasan bemutatni, régi ismerősünk. Otthagyott csapot-papot, és elment Polinéziába vadembernek, hogy kiteljesedjen. Llosa iránta is felébreszti bennünk a szánalmat, de azért leszögezném, ha Gauguin az edény, ami a nagyszerű művészetet hordozza, akkor ez a nagyszerű művészet választhatott volna tisztább tárolóeszközt is magának. De hát ilyen a művészet: kifürkészhetetlenek az útjai. Mert hát igazán csecse dolog fittyet hányni a konvencióknak, és tökig elmerülni a szabadságban, de amikor már a konvenciók felrúgása a pedofília formáját ölti, akkor ott én már megtorpannék. És bizony Gauguin simán átlépi ezt a határt. Oké, Tahitin mások a szokások, és minden kultúra egyenértékű, de azért attól még, hogy polinéznek vallod magad, még nem lesz kevésbé ocsmány, amit teszel, kedves Paul. És hát nem tudsz annyi fasza képet festeni, hogy efölött szemet hunyhatnék. Arról ne is beszéljünk, hány lányt fertőztél meg a nemi bajoddal. Komolyan, hogy gondoltad ezt?



A szöveg milyenségéről nincs mit mondani. Tiszta, profi munka, kvázi semlegességében tökéletes eszköz arra, hogy Llosa elmondja, amit akar. És ő két emberről kíván beszélni, akikben az a közös, hogy egy ideáért odadobtak mindent, karriert, családot*, egy normális élet ígéretét. Megfizették az árát, mindketten idő előtt haltak meg, Flora Tristan bélgyulladásban, amit súlyosbított egy testében hordozott ki nem operált golyó is, Gauguint pedig a „néven nem nevezhető” betegség, a szifilisz falta fel lépésről lépésre. Llosa mindkettejük döntését bámulatosnak tartja, olyasminek, ami méltó az írói fantázia alapanyagául, ezt pedig azzal is jelzi, hogy lépten-nyomon megszólítja őket a szövegben, mintha nem tudna ellenállni annak, hogy személyes ismerőseivé változtassa őket. Megértem ezt a késztetést, mert valóban, nagyon impozáns életutakról van szó. Olyan életutakról, amelyek tragédiától szaglanak, hisz mind Flora, mind Paul kínok közt halt meg, és amikor lehunyták szemüket, könnyen hihették: kudarcot vallottak, ideájuk megcsalta őket. De így vagy úgy, haláluk után örökségük virágot bontott. Nyilván ők ebből aligha profitáltak, legfeljebb mi. Hogy ennek fényében megérte-e nekik ezt az utat választani, azt mindenki döntse el magának.

* Mondhatni, mindketten következetesen alkalmazták a jézusi ukázt, miszerint hagyd ott a családot, ha követni akarsz. Hát ők otthagyták. Vissza se néztek. show less

"Tell me some more cheap, sentimental things."

The Bad Girl says this to Ricardito like a hundred times in this book, and each time she does, it becomes more and more eye-rollingly irritating. I mean, the first time it happens I was totally okay with it -- the story begins on a high note and crescendos up for the first 100 pages or so, with the Chilean girls and Miraflores and then the beginning of the Paris section -- all of which engrossed me. The simple, honest writing style smelled show more authentic and Spanish to me, and Ricardito as the crushing, aimless writer only kept me a sympathetic reader.

But then the plotline started to loop like a 70s sitcom. Ricardito has a fling with the Bad Girl, she breaks his heart again because she's an evil fuck with no personality, his best friend leaves him and dies, etc. -- repeat. The only constant (other than the repeating plotline) is Ricardito's blind love for the Bad Girl, that terribly-drawn gold digger. Her dialogue leaves everything to be desired -- as does every other depiction of her. She's not a real person. Llosa makes that clear by christening her as a trope -- "The Bad Girl," the unsympathetic "skinny bitch," conniving and ambitious and mean.

We're supposed to feel for poor Ricardito, with his endless stream of cheap, sentimental sayings and his obsessive love for the girl who's given him a life-long case of the blue balls. But once you reduce his life to a constantly looping chain of predictable events, an endless stream of caricatured characters who ebb and flow every 70 pages or so, and an abiding obsession with a shit of an individual, Ricardito becomes the least interesting protagonist ever.

After reading this book, I don't understand why Llosa is so renowned. I liked parts of it -- the first ~100 pages, and the last ~30, and some descriptions rang true to my life. But, in addition to the above flaws, Llosa's writing becomes as repetitive as his plot past a certain point. And the way he treats certain things in this book -- the AIDS epidemic, BDSM, women in general -- comes off as careless and reductionist, products of a narrow-minded writer. show less

I chose to read this book because it's on the 1001 books to read before you die list and there is a group read of it. I knew it would be a little out of my comfort zone, but I ended up really appreciating it, though I can't say I enjoyed a book this brutal.

This book is about the Dominican Republic during the Trujillo era (roughly 1930s-1960s). It starts in the present day with Urania Cabral who is in her late 40s finally returning to the country that she fled from just before Trujillo's show more assassination. She left as a 14 year old girl after a traumatic experience that led her to break ties with her father, a high-up political figure. Her story is slowly revealed and sheds light on Trujillo's personality and her father's fall from favor.

Another story line is that of Trujillo himself in the days before his assassination. Vargas Llosa paints a fascinating portrait of the dictator, his hunger for power, and the inner insecurities of his mind.

Along with these two stories is the story of the men behind the assassination. As they wait to ambush Trujillo, flashbacks tell how they got there.

In the end, it all comes together and you witness the brutal aftermath of the assassination and find out what happens to this small country when their dictator is gone.

Mario Vargas Llosa writes with a ton of confidence. His writing is smooth and authoritative. I believed every word of his portrait of this man, which bothered me at times since this is fiction, after all. Even though this isn't my favorite sort of book, I'd highly recommend it to anyone interested in the era and topic. show less

Vargas Llosa’s famous eschatological novel, "The war of the end of the world”, recounts the bloody uprising of the poor that took place in the Brazilian badlands in the northern state of Bahia at the end of the 19th century.

It would have been a barely noticed hiccup in Brazilian history had this uprising not evolved into a full scale civil war featuring a rebellious community of 30.000 souls fighting back successfully the multiple attacks of the regular Brazilian army. This two year - show more conflict, known as the Guerra de Canudos, came to a bloody end in October 1897 when the Brazilian soldiers, despite suffering heavy losses, finally overran the rebellion’s stronghold and exterminated the insurgents, men, women and children to the last.

It remains an intriguing story, worth telling and certainly worth reading.

In the hostile Brazilian backlands known as the Sertao, a poor region plagued by drought, violence and political corruption, an enigmatic messianic figure known as the Conseilheiro ( the counselor), attracts followers through simple actions of faith : repairing decrepit churches, weeding bad herbs in abandoned cemeteries and enduring long praying sessions.

The people who join him in the early days of the crusade are those that have nothing to lose, the very poor, the excluded, the abused. Their motivation is fueled by an Apocalyptic mood that has appeared in the wake of a great drought that has decimated man and faun alike and a period of great national turmoil caused by the abolishment of slavery and the transition from Monarchy to a young and hesitating Republic.

In the following months, more and more believers inspired by the actions and sayings of the charismatic leader join the army of the destitute. Repentant criminals, people in need of a vision and religious searchers strengthen the ever-growing army.

The expanding group moves from village to village, camping in the open, living from the land and the gifts from sympathizing villagers. But soon enough the erring tribe has grown too large and a need for a permanent settlement is urgently felt. The counselor and his flock establish their own village on top of a hill. Their community is build on their own rules and organizations. They reject property, the use of money and they decide not to pay any taxes.

This of course attracts attention and the Bahia government sends a first small army detachment to quench this kernel of insurgence…

Llosa’s book is dedicated to the Brazilian writer Euclides da Cunha, the writer of Os Sertoes, an early account of the military expeditions against the rebellious village of the Canudos.

This is more than a detail. Da Cunha was a Brazilian journalist and sociologist whose book Os Sertoes, written a few years after the war, was the main source of information of what happened in the desert available to a larger public. It was also the inspiration and contemporary source for the writing of "The war of the end of the world”. Book and the persona of the writer might partly explain the two strange characters in Vargas Llosa’s book : the revolutionary Scot and the near-sighted journalist.

I haven’t read Os Sertoes, but according to the available information, da Cunha, although sympathizing with the rebellion tried to explain the insurgents’ backwardness, their racial degeneration and their ”objectified insanity" with outdated and debunked racial and psychiatric theories.

In the “War of the end of the World”, we follow two characters, two witnesses who, they too, try to make sense of the weird pilgrims and strange development of this pauper - revolution.

The first one is a foreigner, a devilish Scottish revolutionist and phrenologist ( an outdated physiological theory too ), complete with red curly hair and a red goatee, follower of Proudhon and Bakunin who is trying to join the revolutionaries in order to present them, we assume ,his blueprint of a new communist state. He claims to understand the revolutionary movement better than anyone else but his attempt to reach Canudos is hampered by the harshness of the backlands and the people. He will disappear in the desert, murdered or not, after having transgressed all his own social, moral and ethical standards.

The second character, who comes more to the foreground in the second part of the book, when the fall of Canudos needs to be recorded and explained, is an unnamed cynic reporter, traveling with the army. But this journalist is (oh irony ) very nearsighted and prone to sneezing fits when stressed or scared. As he is constantly stressed and scared, he is at the most a very unreliable narrator. When he gets into a fighting melee, before being captured by the revolting peasants, he brakes and looses his glasses and witnesses the last stand of the revolutionary village through a blurred image and through the information he gets from others.

The undoing of both characters seem to indicate that Vargas Llosa’s conclusions are that no theory, scientific or pseudo-scientific can satisfactorily explain what has happened at Canudos and second that no one really witnessed how the peasant revolt resisted so long to an adversary so outnumbered and extremely more powerful and finally that all historical interpretation and explanations in the aftermath are spoiled by political near-sightedness, unreliable information sources and biased mental blur.

So if we cannot explain Canudos, what is it then ?

Canudos is simply a miracle.

"The war of the end of the world” is a long and demanding read. It is a complex story, following many characters with a lot of developments happening at the same moment and crisscrossed by political and religious digressions. But Vargas Llosa is a master storyteller, he holds the narrative reins firm in hand, the novel is impeccably structured and organized. This for the benefit of the leisurely reader, who needs but a shortlist of characters to help him through the 600 or so pages.

It is also a gruesome read, the pages bulk of countless horrors men inflict on fellow men. It is a feast of self flagellation, of primitive religious extremes in sync with the bleakness of the Sertao. The reader is spared nothing.

The fighting chapters in the last part of the book however, come over at times as tedious, especially since we know the outcome of the war. But again Vargas Llosa, deploying all the tricks of the trade…analepses, prolepses, anecdotes keeps the reader with his eyes on the page.

The most intriguing and fascinating chapters are ( at least for me ) those that introduce the most loyal disciples of the Conseilheiro by telling their miserable life stories. It is a series of hagiographic cameos, not unlike those written by Athanasius of Alexandria in the early days of Christianity, often containing scenes of extreme religiosity and abject suffering : Pajeu the cangaceiro with the slashed face, the most evil man of the sertao, Pedrao the enormous brute , the nameless “little blessed one” who tortures himself to express his love for the Conseilheiro, A dwarf terrified of dying, big Jaoa, a runaway slave, Maria Quadrado, devoted Maria Magdalena to the Conseilheiro, the Lion of Natuba, a creature half man half animal saved in extremis from the stake…

There is all along the reading of the War, a sense of familiarity, a strange déjà - vu.

The last centuries have seen dozen of similar insurrections of the desperate, set in movement by a charismatic religious or social leader. All of them leaving an immense trail of blood and terror in their wake. They are the histories of the poor, easily forgotten or overlooked in our history books.

I think it is not too far fetched, if we even recognize in some elements of the Taliban, Isis and the new caliphates, other Canudos. Here too, a backward and violent movement fueled by the frustration and hopelessness of a whole army of poor, encourages lost individuals to sacrifice themselves for an ill-directed cause. Our fogged and damage Tv - glasses do not always let us see things that clearly.

The War of the end of the world is basically an alternative history of the world. In the development of the War of Canudos, a model appears that has been played out numerous times in the history of our civilizations. The fact that these insurrections keep repeating themselves, also in our Modern times, is proof enough that many states have grossly failed to care of their armies of poor and disadvantaged.

If you want to visit Canudos today, say for an innocent pilgrimage or a remembrance of those who suffered, you won’t find it. The ruins of the town are covered by a water reservoir of the Cocorobó Dam, built by the military regime in the 1960s.

What needs to be forgotten must disappear. show less