THE DEVIL TO PAY IN THE BACKLANDS BY JOAO GUIMARAES ROSA

Do you believe, sir? In him, I mean. Not God, no; not God. The other one. The dark one. Prince of Darkness? Yes, I have heard him called that. And many other things. You’re a learned man, sir; I can tell…your clothes…you have money, of course, and no one makes money in this world without either education or spilling blood. Or both, perhaps. So you tell me, what should one call him? Or is it better not to call him, for in calling one might make him appear? No, I have never met him, but talk to people around here and you will hear all kinds of stories. If you were to believe them it would seem as though he has settled in these parts, like a vulture sitting in a pindaiba tree, its beady black eyes following the slow progress of an injured animal, waiting for the right time to swoop.

Yes, you’re an educated man…the way you speak, I can tell. So you must read, sir? A silly question; of course you read. There’s a book, maybe you have heard of it: Grande Sertão. A difficult book, they say. In English it is called The Devil to Pay in the Backlands. A better title, I agree. The devil, sir, raising his scaly head again. One cannot avoid him, it seems. And what about the backlands…the backlands of Brazil…the sertão…and the poor bastards who inhabit it? There is much to say about that, certainly. The sertão it is inside you, so says Riobaldo the jagunço. You don’t inhabit it, it inhabits you. The sertão cannot be subdued, it itself subdues. Do you understand me, sir? Wait, not me, no: Riobaldo, the white rattlesnake. I am not he, just as you, sir, are not the devil. Do you understand?

“All who ride high and handsome in the sertão hold the reigns for a short time only: they find they are riding a tiger.”

What is war, sir? Please forgive my boldness, but I want to know what you think. Is it a dirty business? The worst of the worst that man is capable of? The Devil to Pay in the Backlands begins with gunshots. I am telling this wrong, in the wrong order, even though I am starting at the beginning. Grande Sertão opens with gunshots, but it is not war, only Riobaldo, Tatarana, target-shooting down by the creek. What do you make of that? It’s important, sir, I believe. It suggests both war and peace; first one, then the other. It tells you something about the book, about its themes, and about Riobaldo, also. He does this everyday, he says. He enjoys it, unloading a gun.

The sertão? I haven’t forgotten. How could I forget? Bear with me, please. The book is full of fighting and violence. In the backlands…the sertão. I fired and saw the skull fly into pieces, says Riobaldo the jagunço, the bandit. He shoots to kill, they all shoot to kill…the jagunços, as they skip along the surface of the world. Do you understand, sir? This is it: Grande Sertão. The Devil to Pay in the Backlands. War in the backlands of Brazil! Jagunço against Jagunço! It troubled me., sir, I must admit. I had expected war, but thought that it would be jagunço against politico, outlaw against authority. Only, no, it wasn’t like that at all. Backlander against backlander. Poor man against poor man. And to what purpose? For what reason?

To the untrained eye, Grand Sertao is really just an old fashioned western; it is a vengeance play. A great man is killed, and he must be avenged. Ok. What of it? This is not the point. Justice, sir, no, that is not the point. There is some talk, in the book, of civilising the backlands, of civilising the people, as though that is the reason for the war. Ok. But, no, this is not the point either. Are you following me? There are double-crosses. Chiefs change, people change sides. There is no order, no sense to it all, to life in the backlands. Lawlessness. Instability. One moment someone is your comrade, your ally, the next they are your enemy. And do you hate them? Did you love them before? Yes or no? Or does none of that really matter? Do you just do what you do, because you must do it, because what else is there, what hope of a better life? Ah, yes, I believe that this is the point, sir.

Yes, this is the life of the jagunço; this is what it means to be of the sertão. Wretched mindlessness. Mindless wretchedness. Or perhaps that is too harsh. Riobaldo tells the story of Pedro Pindo’s young son, Valtei, who was ‘mean and cruel as all get-out.’ A ‘little monster’ who liked to kill. His parents beat him to drive out the wickedness, to drive out the devil, you might say. Yet after a time they came to enjoy it, by which I mean the beatings, beating their child. What do you say to that, sir? What does that tell you about the people of the sertão? Or people in general? I am losing my way a little, being too specific. Examples are a dead-end. The sertão, Riobaldo says, is where the strong and the shrewd call the tune. Ok. But what of the lepers? The wretched? They are there too, ‘living in hopes of not dying.’  

The backlands are cruel, sir, that much is clear. With poverty, and without hope, comes immense suffering. Yes, that much is clear. But the sertão, it is unclear. What, really, is it? It is not, I think, so literal, so that one can measure it, from here to here, from boundary to boundary. It is boundless. That is the impression Riobaldo gave me, that the sertão is as much in the mind as under one’s feet. In fact, doesn’t he say: the sertão is everywhere? It is endless. And it is cruel, yes, but beautiful too. This we learn from Diodorim. A river falling down, all eagerness, foaming and boiling; the bright fog over Serra dos Confins; hoarfrost collecting on the backs of cattle; a hot gust of wind passing through the fronds of a palm tree. I could go on, sir? The jaguars, the parrots, the croaking frogs. Wretchedness and loveliness; war and peace; devilishness and Godliness. Isn’t this life, sir?

The coin always has two faces. The Devil to Pay in the Backlands is a story of war and brutality on one side, and love on the other. Ah, Diodorim! Otacilia too, but let’s forget her, sir. Diodorim…Reinaldo…that man ‘like a soft haze’ who Riobaldo, Urutu-Branco, loves ‘more than is fitting for a friend.’ Have you ever felt that way for another man, sir? Riobaldo, a jagunço, a bandit, an outlaw, the most manliest of occupations…and he, what, a homosexual? No, bisexual, for he also loves Otacilia and sleeps with numerous whores. And what of Diodorim? He too? Both men, and both jagunços. Well, sir, I found that most surprising. Let’s be honest, in the hands of a lesser writer it might have been ridiculous…too hard to swallow. To pull it off requires skill.

But let me tell you, you believe it, sir. You believe in it. In their love, a love never consummated. Moreover, it adds further depth, to Riobaldo. Diodorim, no, he is fairly one dimensional throughout, but Riobaldo…what a character. A man wracked with doubts, not only about his sexuality, but about his courage, his abilities too. A man who is engaged in the constant questioning of himself, his life, his actions and his place in the world. The coin with two faces; a man has two faces….this man. The intelligent bandit, the fearless coward, the womanising homosexual. But one thing troubled me, sir, for there is a lot of talk in the book about God and about the devil, about how certain inclinations, certain actions, are the responsibility of one or the other. Two faces. So was João Guimarães Rosa suggesting that homosexual desires are the work of Satan? I hope not, sir, but that did cross my mind. More likely the point is that this is how Riobaldo would see it, would understand his desires, for he too, in spite of all his intelligence, is part of the sertão. Reason and superstition. Two faces.

“Doesn’t everyone sell his soul? I tell you, sir: the devil does not exist, there is no devil, yet I sold him my soul. That is what I am afraid of. To whom did I sell it? That is what I am afraid of, my dear sir: we sell our souls, only there is no buyer.”

What does it mean to be a good man? I keep asking you questions, sir. I apologise, but I must continue in this way. A man cannot always answer himself, his own questions. Riobaldo’s narration takes place after these events, of course, after the war, and how does he feel about it all? About all the killing and wretchedness? What does he feel? Not regret, no, but guilt. He is a man with a guilty conscience. In that he is different from the other jagunços. Maybe that is progress, sir? Intellectual, emotional progress. Is that how the sertão will change and prosper, when each man suffers at the hands of his conscience for the evil that he commits? Perhaps. So all that talk about the devil and about God, it makes sense. Who is your master, who is driving the cart? God…or the other one?

Riobaldo is in turmoil, for he doesn’t know who has his hands on the reigns. He is, as I said, for all his intelligence, still of the sertão, he has only dragged himself halfway out of the swamp…and so he sees signs in everything, sees the devil’s work in the world. The big question, the book’s ultimate question, is this: does he exist. Does the devil exist, sir? That is what Riobaldo, Tatarana, repeats, over and over. Does he exist? And, more importantly, can he take responsibility for some of my actions? Ah. Yes, that is it. Can I blame him! Isn’t that what Riobaldo wants? He wants to save his soul, he wants to not go to Hell, of course, but, really, truly, what he wants is for someone to shoulder the blame for the deaths, the blood that flowed.

To his credit João Guimarães Rosa leaves the question unanswered. The question, sir, of whether he exists, the devil, I mean. There is a point in the narrative, when Riobaldo ascends to power and takes on the name: Urutu-Branco. The white rattlesnake. That is surely a symbol, sir, of….for him. The Cursed One. And there are other hints and suggestions, that…Has Riobaldo sold his soul? Did he, that night at the crossroads….ah, once again, so brilliantly Joao handles this scene, for there is no sulphur, no goat-legs, no contract…there is nothing but one man, Riobaldo, alone. Isn’t that the truth, sir? Tell me, please. Isn’t that the truth of the world? That he doesn’t exist, that really it is just you, alone? You, miserable human, with all your flaws. Who is responsible, sir? That is my final question, that is the reason I came to these crossroads tonight myself, to ask you this, and once and for all hear the answer: who is driving the cart?

THE HOUR OF THE STAR BY CLARICE LISPECTOR

I know that women are not intrinsically weak, that they are not more vulnerable than men; I know that unhappiness is not gender specific, that both sexes can suffer equally, and yet something deep in my psyche tells me that a woman’s sadness, her pain, is worse than a man’s, that it is less acceptable or tolerable. Philip Larkin once wrote that ‘they fuck you up, your mum and dad, they may not mean to but they do,’ and I don’t know if I would go that far, but if I had to trace these feelings back to anything or anyone it would be my mother, who raised me on her own. Ironically, she always endeavoured to give me the impression that she was strong, and maybe she was, but I never quite bought it. Her life was a constant bitter struggle to keep disaster at bay, to extract even a glimmer of hope or positivity from each day. In short, she suffered terribly, and I suffered in witnessing it.

All of which goes some way to explaining why I anticipated that Clarice Lispector’s The Hour of the Star would be an uncomfortable, or upsetting, reading experience for me. And to some extent I was right in that regard, for Macabéa, the nineteen year old girl at the heart of the story, is a wretched creature: orphaned, raised by her pious and unpleasant aunt; poor and unloved; ugly and physically withered. She has a job as a typist but, due to a lack of education or inherent mental weakness [the narrator calls her ‘backward’], she is not very good at it. Indeed, there are few characters in literature who have so little going for them. Yet, despite her situation, Macabéa is sweet-natured, even-tempered; she takes all her misfortune on the chin.

One could perhaps explain her stoicism as being a consequence of her naivety, or lack of self-awareness [which the narrator frequently comments upon] or experience. Misery is a habit. You passively accept misfortune because it is all you know; in fact, you come to believe that it is all there is. Moreover, I know from experience that when you have so little, you do not expect or covet things. As a teenager I didn’t think about having a nice girlfriend, nice clothes, a nice house, a stable family life, an exciting future; I didn’t even realise these things were possible, that they even existed. It seems ridiculous, but it is true. If you had tried to convince me otherwise, I’d have brushed it off as make-believe.

[A favela, or slum, in Rio, Brazil]

As a way of accentuating her unimportance, the nothing that is her existence, the narrator says that there are thousands of girls like Macabéa. She is, we’re to believe, not even special in her misery. In one sense, that is a reasonable statement. There are certainly thousands of people [men and women] were are born and raised in poverty, who have few or no prospects, who get so little of any worth out of life. However, there is something extraordinarily delicate about her, something other-worldly, which reminded me of the girl from Anna Kavan’s Ice, or even those sometimes found in Dickens’ novels. Dickens’ work is often accused of being exaggerated or romanticised, vis-a-vis the poor, but I have always resisted that interpretation, for there are all kinds of unusual people in the world, living in circumstances that, were they to appear in a novel, would be rejected as unrealistic. There is, in fact, no such thing as realism, because in life absolutely anything is possible. Yet, that does not mean that Macabéa is ordinary, or archetypal, or representative of a certain class of people, for the average person does not kiss walls because they have no one else to kiss.

For all this talk about Macabéa, it is the narrator, Rodrigo S.M., who dominates The Hour of the Star. I dislike the term ‘unreliable narrator’, for they are all unreliable, but he is certainly unstable. The novel is very short, some way shy of one hundred pages, and yet for the opening half [at least] he struggles to get his story going, focussing more on his own feelings, turning his attention to Macabéa on occasions, but constantly interrupting himself. It is as though Macabéa is a conduit, that it is the appearance [or illusion] of wanting to tell her story that gives Rodrigo S.M. the opportunity to talk about what he really wants to talk about: himself; he is, in this way, like all authors, who use, or take advantage of, their characters. Moreover, he claims to want to play it straight, to be cold and impartial, to avoid sentimentality, etc., in his presentation of Macabéa and her plight, and yet the novel is full of pity and compassion, only, again, one feels as though it is directed more at himself.

“Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?”

So, while it is temping to think that this is a novel about poverty, or how happiness is not doled out fairly, that some subsist on meagre rations, it is actually primarily about the writing process, specifically the relationship between a writer and his characters, a relationship as intimate as any you may have had with your sexual partners. There are a lot of religious references in the book, and you could make much of all that, I’m sure, but for me it relates to how to be an author is to be God, creating worlds, directing events and giving life. In her quiet, contemplative moments, when in need of guidance or assistance, to whom should Macabéa pray? To Rodrigo S.M., her Father who is in His Study, scribbling lines. Her life is in His hands. And, yet, His is in hers also; they sustain each other. Without her we would not know Rodrigo S.M.; if she dies, so does He; her disappearance necessitates His; her end, is His.

As one progresses through the novel, one comes to realise that Macabéa and Rodrigo S.M. are opposite sides of the same coin. Considerable discussion could be devoted to the innocence and sweetness of the poor girl in contrast to the experience of the more worldly and unpleasant narrator. One could also of course touch upon the male-female dynamic, for it was not an accident that Lispector chose to make it so that it is a man who creates, who holds sway over the woman, who puts her through such awful experiences [there is a definite aroma of sadism involved in all that, which does not only have a social-political context, but could be seen as the sadism involved in being an author]. I don’t, however, wanted to linger over this stuff too much. Before I finish, I do want to devote a few words to Lispector’s style, because that is the novel’s real selling point, that is what makes The Hour of the Star one of the necessary books. When reading Lispector previously, I found myself frequently irritated by what I saw as being a dated kind of modernism. But The Hour of the Star is nothing like that. There are no passé Joycisms, rather an abundance of memorable aphorisms, beautifully carved images, and droll asides. It is a strange, unique and threatening style, and all the more cherishable for it.

THE POSTHUMOUS MEMOIRS OF BRAS CUBAS BY JOAQUIM MARIA MACHADO DE ASSIS

The Posthumous Review of [P]

I: A Dead Man Writes

No one expects a dead man to write reviews. One doesn’t lower a guy into the ground or watch him disappear into the flames and think I hope he acclimatises quickly because I cannot wait to read his review of Plato’s Symposium. Naturally, death is seen as an impediment to review-writing, as the final full-stop. So, the very existence of this review is, I imagine, something of a surprise, coming, as it does, from someone recently deceased. It was a surprise to me too, by which I mean my ability to write reviews from beyond the grave, not, of course, death itself. Death I had anticipated. Death I knew was coming to me one day. Death, I’m afraid, is belligerent and indiscriminate. But I had always thought that it was obliterating, was a towel thrown over the birdcage, and yet it turns out that it is more like a surprise party, that, yes, the lights will go out, and so one may feel a moment of disorientation, but soon enough someone will flip the switch back on and you’ll be greeted with a loud cheer and the sight of a bunch of people you have to pretend to be happy to see.

II: Karen

One advantage of being dead is being able to do as you like, because, let’s face it, no one can threaten you with any kind of punishment worse than death itself, except perhaps a life-long membership to the Tory or Republican parties. With that in mind I aim to write this review as I please, and it pleases me to write it in an unconventional and digressive fashion. I feel, at this moment, like writing about Karen, even though I’ve not yet even told you the name of the book that I’m reviewing, or what it is about. You may find this diversion interesting, or you may not, and you are certainly free to skip it if your desire for logical order [a concept that doesn’t apply to a dead book-reviewer] is so strong and impossible to ignore. At one time I was a member of a popular social networking site and Karen is a prominent, perhaps the most prominent, reviewer on that website. I don’t want to spend a lot of time boring my readers with background information about Karen, but want, instead, to focus on a comment left on one of her reviews [the dead can read as well as review]. I don’t, either, want to pass judgement on this comment or the person who wrote it. In life I did not know the person, or what their intention was when they wrote what they did, and anyway death is a great humbler of men.

The comment, because I know you’re gagging for details, was something like I’ve realised that you never review books that I’m interested in, and the implication was, I guess, that this meant that Karen’s reviews were therefore not worth reading. And it struck me then that my response to writing is not always the same response that others have. Yes, it took a hammer to the face and brief stint in a box underground for me to have this epiphany. The thing is, Karen could never have reviewed a single book that I want to read [she, indeed, reviewed plenty I wouldn’t even consider now that I have infinite time on my hands] and I would have still read and enjoyed her reviews. Why is that? Because I liked her voice, because, confident in my own ability to choose which books to read, I am not particularly interested in recommendations from other people; what I want most of all from reviews is a style and a voice that pleases me, and hers did. Voice! Voice in writing is very important, dear friends; it can make the most unappealing things appealing indeed [and likewise it can make the appealing seem unappealing]. Gnome sex? Would I ever read a book about that? No, triple no! Would I read and enjoy a review about it? Yes. And so, we have eventually meandered around to the point: Joaquim Maria Machado de Assis’ authorial voice. It is marvellous.

III: Machado de Assis Earns A Permanent Place In My Affections

In his book Dom Casmurro Machado de Assis wrote about jealousy and possible infidelity, about the scold of grand passion, and those were things I could easily relate to as the very young man I was when I first read it. Yet with Bras Cubas I was less able to identify with the central character and his concerns, it being a book about….well, you’ll have to wait until a later chapter to find that out. In any case, it is Machado de Assis’ voice that guarantees this book a permanent place in my affections regardless of whether I am able to relate to the story. It is funny, it is charming, it is insightful and wise; his voice is always engaging, and his prose, which is the physical expression of this voice, is soulful. Joachim had a lot of soul, and I know this because I’ve seen it here in the afterlife; it’s so huge it spans the gates of heaven.

IV: Why Michael Hofmann Is Wrong

The poet and translator Michael Hofmann once said of the novel The Book of Ebenezer Lepage that it is almost unique in that it gives you the whole man. The idea, one imagines, is that the narrative spans the life of the central character and gives you access to his thoughts and opinions on various subjects. This claim of Hofmann’s is quite often regurgitated [unacknowledged, by the way] by other reviewers, which is funny to me because, well, Hofmann is wrong. Firstly, no novel can give you a whole man, it’s impossible. Secondly, if Ebenezer Lepage is the standard for an author giving you the whole man then lots of novels give him to you, for there is nothing out-of-the-ordinary in the depth of Ebenezer as a character and nothing unusual about a book spanning the life of a character.  One such book is Machado de Assis’ The Posthumous Memoirs of Bras Cubas. Bras Cubas is a kind of bildungsroman; it charts, as these things do, the life of one person from childhood into adulthood, and, then, in a novel move, beyond death.

V: The Fly Killer

The narrative of Bras Cubas progresses like a three-legged dog on a rocky road. In structure and tone it is similar to The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, although it is perhaps less sophisticated. The chapters are short and often appear as though they had been shuffled into a random order prior to publication. My favourite chapter in Bras Cubas is The Black Butterfly, in which Bras kills just such a one and laments that had it been blue it might have been spared. It reminded me of all the stupid childish things I used to do when I was still alive, such as the time I was on a bus and noticed a fly struggling to maintain forward momentum as it climbed up a condensation-soaked window. Mindlessly I flicked at it and it fell down to the small pool of water at the base of the window. I watched it drag itself out, like an exhausted dog from a river, and once it had fully extricated itself I flicked it back down again. Rinse and repeat. Eventually the fly gave up and died, and I felt ashamed. I started to imagine that the fly had been female, that it had children and was probably trying to get home to them. The living are a strange lot: barbaric and yet prone to extreme sentimentality.

VI: I Have Never Fallen For A Crippled Girl

I’ve never fallen for a girl with a limp or a withered hand. I don’t think I’ve ever even met one. A couple of months ago, while still among the living, I was having my cooker fixed by a local workman and he was telling me about a girl he dated once. This girl had a cleft-lip, and the man said that he had to end the relationship with her because he was constantly getting into fights due to the comments made by random people in bars and on the street. He said it just wasn’t worth the hassle and bruises. That little anecdote made me sad. Bras Cubas makes up a trinity of great novels in which the central character almost falls for a crippled girl. The other two are Ulysses by James Joyce and The Year of the Death of Ricardo Reis by Jose Saramago. This chapter is dedicated to crippled girls. May you always capture the hearts of sensitive boys.

VII: It’s Easier To Love When You’re Dead

It’s easier to love when you’re dead. I found that out quite quickly. Here in the afterlife my patience is less tested, I’m more forgiving, more likely to cherish my enjoyment of things rather than look for defects and criticisms. This applies equally to people and books. When I think about my still-living family and friends now I feel a swelling in my once-beating heart; when I consider humanity at large, whose petty preoccupations and often hysterical sense of self-importance would periodically send me tumbling, belly-flopping, into a dark pool of despair, I now feel an overriding affection. Yes, now I am no longer one of you I find you easier to love. I do not extend this love to the dead though; don’t mention the dead to me.

VIII: Superfluous Man

The Japanese writer Natsume Soseki wrote almost exclusively about men who are on the outside, men who are estranged from humanity in general or from their wives and friends in particular. Superfluous men. These men feel isolated, they cannot relate to their surroundings and their peers. It struck me as I read this book for the second time, a book that had seemed a kind of shaggy dog story on first reading, that it is about a different kind of superfluous man, one that is less existentially oppressed. Yes, Bras Cubas is still a superfluous man, even though he isn’t taciturn and brooding; he forges no career and shuns marriage and children for the greater part of his life. It is merely the case that, as a gregarious man who is possessed of a sparkling wit, it is harder to spot how at odds he is with conventional society.

I mentioned earlier how I could relate less to Bras Cubas than Dom Casmurro, and that is because it is a novel about a whole life, about Time’s whims, and at the point at which I read the book I felt as though I was at the start of my life and my time.

IX: I Was Wrong

Turns out I was wrong.