The Bridge of San Luis Rey by Thornton Wilder

Rating: 4 Stars

1928 Pulitzer Prize Winner

“…soon we shall die and all memory of those five will have left the earth, and we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten. But the love will have been enough; all those impulses of love return to the love that made them. Even memory is not necessary for love. There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.”

On July 20, 1714, an ancient bridge collapses, and five travelers plunge to their doom. The tragedy is witnessed by a Franciscan missionary who is so profoundly moved by the incident that he sets out to seek meaning behind the victims’ sudden deaths.

Starting from this premise, the novel opens with the inquiry into the lives of three of the main characters. Whether it’s a sad woman frantically nurturing her relationship with the daughter who spurns her; or, a brother in anguish over his irreparable loss; or, a caring mentor attempting to help his stricken protégée - the common thread in their lives is love, flawed, yet still sublime.

Thornton Wilder’s classic novel is based loosely on real life characters, and the titular bridge was inspired by a famed Peruvian bridge that spanned the Apurímac River. Wilder’s technique was greatly influenced by his study of classic French literature. The lucid style though emotionally detached is nevertheless deeply compassionate, and his character portraits are indelible. A passage that lingers in the memory is the description of the Archbishop of Lima:

“Between the rolls of flesh that surrounded them looked out two black eyes speaking discomfort, kindliness and wit. A curious and eager soul was imprisoned in all this lard…the distress of remorse was less poignant than the distress of fasting and he was presently found deliberating over the secret messages that a certain roast sends to the certain salad that will follow it. And to punish himself he led an exemplary life in every other respect.”

Though Wilder did not visit Peru until 1941 he is able to evoke the sensibility that we associate with Latin American authors. Like them he too mines the heart for its mysteries. Though Father Juniper attempts to tabulate human virtue and thus make sense of tragedy, the author is graceful in highlighting the impenetrability of cosmic design. 

Chronicle of a Death Foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez



Rating: 4 Stars

[Translated from the Spanish by Gregory Rabassa]

Gabriel Garcia Marquez was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1982

My few experiences with South American writing have left me both fascinated and apprehensive. I have been especially curious about Columbian-born Gabriel Garcia Marquez, among the most pre-eminent of Latin American novelists. I decided to first test the waters by gingerly swirling a toe around some of his lighter books, before taking the plunge into his more acclaimed works. Chronicle of a Death Foretold happened to fit the bill perfectly.

Part detective story and part investigative journalism; this slim novella still packs a mighty wallop. It’s partly based on events from the author’s life, though altered for fiction. In the very first page, we learn that the narrator is looking back into a murder that took place in his town some twenty-seven years ago. He meets and speaks with his fellow townspeople, most of them family and friends, or neighbors of many years standing. They have all played a role in the events that took place on the fateful day, by what they did and what they didn’t.

There is not a lot of suspense to the story, but I’ll try not to give anything away. A wedding precedes the murder, and the murder coincides with the Bishop’s fleeting visit to the town. Both the wedding and the Bishop’s visit have a great bearing on the death. Intertwined with the killing are themes of ‘returned’ brides and family honor; with many memorable characters, including matrons who prophesy that certain young women would be good wives because ‘they’ve been raised to suffer’. As seems to be the case often in South American fiction, there is love and lust - unwieldy, unpredictable, and completely beyond the bounds of reason and etiquette.

The story proceeds backward, tracing each and every incident that leads to the final, shattering climax. The description of the actual murder is horrifyingly graphic. Marquez is remorseless in the details, and the reader is so entranced by the compelling narrative that we can only behold, mesmerized, the tragedy that unfolds before our eyes. So it must have been with the townsfolk. One thing that is made painstakingly obvious is that there were several occasions to avert this misfortune, yet each of those opportunities went to waste; and that raises poignant questions about human nature and predestination.

The killers themselves come out as rather hapless; nor do they bear the burden of guilt alone, not when the whole town appears complicit in the crime. Each character is strikingly lifelike, even though for many it’s only a cameo appearance. By and large, Marquez eschews Magic Realism in the novel except in the final scene which has all the psychedelic vividness of a terrible dream.

The Motorcycle Diaries - Notes on a Latin American Journey by Ernesto Che Guevara

[Translated from the Spanish]

Rating: 3 ½ Stars

Before he became one of the most charismatic political icons of the last century, ‘Che’ was known simply as Ernesto Guevara (1928-1966). He is even now a polarizing figure. To some, he’s a true hero - the intellectual-warrior who saw revolutionary uprising as the only way to empower the downtrodden masses of Latin America. To others, who remember him for his Marxist ideology and his role in the Cuban Revolution, he was a dangerous incendiary.

On the cusp of completing medical school, Guevara decides to take a nine-month hiatus traversing South America. Accompanied by his friend Alberto Granado, on Granado’s bike optimistically called ‘La Poderosa II’ (The Mighty One), the two set off from their native Argentina, and in their travels cross Chile, Peru, Colombia, Venezuela, and the U.S. before Guevara returns home. ‘The Motorcycle Diaries’ is an account of those vagabond months.

Despite its impressive name La Poderosa was none too reliable. It was a tough, capricious beast of a machine with the spirit of a rodeo bronco. Guevara and Granado seem to spend as much time flying off the bike than staying on it. The pair meet with many comical mishaps, and come up with some conmen’s tricks to wheedle food and drink on the way. In return for meals, transport and shelter, they often take part-time jobs working at barbecues, doing odd jobs on ships (that they had boarded as stowaways), participate in football matches, or simply rely on the hospitality of strangers. South America seems a continent that, by and large, is very kindly disposed to unexpected guests. However, there are many occasions where one gets the idea that their hosts were glad to see the backs of the two young men.

Guevara writes with verve, imagination, and an exuberant humor. At times there is also a self-conscious grandiloquence that reveals itself in the flourish of certain phrases, more evident in the beginning and end of the book. For the most part, he comes across not as your average slacker idling some time away from school. Rather, there is a telling intensity and purpose in his observations on regional politics, the living conditions of the working poor, and the dismal medical resources available vis-à-vis the medical needs. A clear intelligence pervades the narrative, a deep interest in the people, history and economy of the places he visits. The glimpse that we get of Guevara at that point in his life is not yet that of a militant revolutionary, rather a nascent crusader who sees urgent need for social reform in his beloved South America.

There is a noticeable hint of criticism in his mention of the United States. Caught in the stranglehold of Cold War paranoia, the U.S. grew increasingly alarmed at the idea of Communism/Socialism thriving in its backyard. In its self-proclaimed role of defender of the free world, it championed democracy everywhere. If none were available, it settled for the next best thing – any government friendly to American interests, no matter how despotic to its own people. Many of South America’s dictatorial regimes were propped up with support from the U.S. government. Guevara’s eventual assassination in Bolivia in 1966, where he had joined in support of Bolivian guerrilla fighters was engineered in Washington D.C.  No doubt the world has become a safer place since then.

It has taken the U.S several decades to learn that global poverty and social unrest can spread like ripples from distant lands before crashing like a tsunami on its own shores. At least, one would hope that the lesson has been learned. Guevara probably was representative of a generation of impatient young men who hoped to change the world for the better with guns. If he had lived longer, perhaps he could have seen that all the populist rebels who stormed in, brandishing weapons and promises of a brighter future outstayed their welcome, clinging to the reins of power even as rigor mortis set in. The more things change the more they remain the same. Perhaps he was aware of it and made his choice anyway, and that is why he remains an emblem of indefatigable, incorruptible youth.



Stories of Eva Luna by Isabel Allende

[Translated from the Spanish by Margaret Sayers Peden]

Rating: 3 ½ Stars

Chilean writer Isabel Allende shot into prominence with the publication of The House of the Spirits based on her own family, and the political history of her native country. She was the niece of Salvatore Allende, who was the President of Chile. After his assassination in 1973, Allende and her family took asylum in Venenzuela. Her writing is marked by the use of magic realism. Magic Realism is characterized as the use of fantastical or mythical elements in an otherwise realistic narrative, and an impartially matter-of-fact tone is used in describing both the probable and the fanciful.

“…She set the tray on the floor and for the first time in more than forty years knocked on his door.

‘How many times have I told you not to bother me,’ the judge protested in a reedy voice.

‘I’m sorry, dear, I just wanted to tell you that I’m going to die.’

‘When?’

‘On Friday.’

‘Very well.’ The door did not open.

As literary styles go, it takes a little getting used to.

The Stories of Eva Luna is a collection of twenty-three piquant tales told by the narrator at the behest of her lover. While the setting is firmly established in unnamed South American lands, the characters who populate these stories seem to have stepped out of fable and folk-lore, so surreal are their actions and motivations. Yet, they are oddly compelling. Even if readers, more attuned to Anglo-Saxon prose find themselves disoriented at first; very soon, we may find ourselves capitulating like Patricia in ‘Gift for a Sweetheart’ – we’re simply transfixed by the bizarre, yet fascinating spectacle of humanity paraded before us.

There are recurrent themes that thread through these narratives. Political persecution and dictatorial regimes form the backdrop for many of them. The decimation and exploitation of the native population, and the pillaging of the land by the non-ethnic races is frequently alluded to. Violence and lawlessness are rife; and yet, there is no ugliness in the telling. This lack of ugliness is in fact disturbing. The most vicious and reprehensible acts are recounted in a tone that is either dreamy or uninflected.

There are far too many tales of older men preying on teenagers. Living as we do in an age of media over-exposure to child abuse, we have been conditioned to an instinctive repudiation of ‘artistic’ attempts at casting girl-children in a Lolitaesque light. ‘Wicked Girl’, about a pre-adolescent’s sexual awakening could have  readers twitching with discomfort. To a startling degree, women seem to live their lives ardently worshiping at the altar of their own voluptuousness.

Perhaps this lack of inhibition with regard to social taboos is merely a cultural difference. It requires some mental adjustments for those to whom the reality seems less magical, and more distorted. However, though the book is pervaded by a humid sensuality, it seems to be a projection of longings that express through the body, but originate in the heart, and that is the essence of these tales – the human heart, in all its twisted, lambent, mysterious glory.