From 5 To 7 An Interview With Guillermo Cabrera Infante

From 5 to 7: An Interview with Guillermo Cabrera Infante
Author(s): REGINA M. JANES and Guillermo Cabrera Infante

Source: Salmagundi, No. 52/53 (Spring-Summer 1981), pp. 30-56
Published by: Skidmore College
Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/40547440
Accessed: 14-12-2015 05:34 UTC
Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at http://www.jstor.org/page/
info/about/policies/terms.jsp
JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content
in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship.
For more information about JSTOR, please contact support@jstor.org.
Skidmore College is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to Salmagundi.
http://www.jstor.org
This content downloaded from 129.115.103.99 on Mon, 14 Dec 2015 05:34:55 UTC
All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions
From5 to 7: An Interview
with
GuillermoCabreraInfante*
Interviewer:REGINA M. JANES
GCI (surveyinga verywet interviewer) : I reallymustapologizefor

theweather,thoughit remindsme of a storyabout Bioy Casares and
VictoriaOcampo. Graham Greene was to visit them one winterin
Argentina,duringtheirsummer;thatsummerwas a particularly hot
and scorchingone, so muchso itmade Bioyverynervousand he kept
moaningto VictoriaOcampo, "Oh, he'll thinkwe live in one of those
dreadfultropicalcountries."
rmj: I've never quite understoodwhyyou chose to live in London
afteryourfallingout withthe revolution.You toldRita Guibertthat
thechoicewas a combinationof accidentand fondnessfortheEnglish
language,but howcould you have chosen a land wherethesun never
shines?
GCI: I toldRita GuibertpartofthetruthaboutmycomingtoLondon
and finallysettlingin Kensington,whichis themovingheartof stable
London. Actually,I was verycourteouslyasked to leave Madrid by
* This is an edited
transcriptof an interviewconducted in London on August 3,
1979.
Best known for Three Trapped Tigers (1967), a brilliantlywittyand inventive
kaleidoscopeof pre-revolutionary Havana nightlife,GuillermoCabrera Infantewas
born in 1929 in Gibara, Cuba, a small town on the northerncoast of Oriente
Province. In 1941, his familymoved to Havana, where his father,one of the
founders of the Cuban Communist Party, worked at the newspaper Hoy.
Graduatingfromthe Havana school ofjournalismin 1952, Cabrera Infantestarted
a weeklymoviecolumnforCarteles,a popularmagazine,in 1954, and foundedand
directedthe Cinemateca de Cuba, a filmsocietyclosed by the Batistagovernment
in 1956. Afterthe revolutionin 1959, he was appointed head of the Council of
Culture and edited the culturalweekly Lunes de Revoluciónfromits inceptionin
1959 untilit was closed by the Castro governmentin 1961. From 1962 to 1965, he
was with the Cuban Embassy in Brussels, and, returningto Havana in 1965, he
decided to leave Cuba permanently.He now lives in London where,in additionto
TTT, he has writtenshortstories,screenplays,filmcriticism,and essays, including
mostrecentlyViewofDawn in theTropics(1974), Exorcismosde EstiCDo(1976), and
La Habana Para un InfanteDifunto(1979).
From 5 to 7: An InterviewwithGuillermoCabrera Infante 31
PhotobyLayle Silbert
GuillermoCabrera Infante
32 REGINA M. JANES
the Spanish police. You see, I am a man witha past, whichis worse
thanbeinga Victorianladywitha lostand foundfan.Don't forgetthat
I had been a diplomatfor the revolutionarygovernmentfor three
whole years.Please observe thatI never reallydefected.I leftCuba
withpassportsissued bytheForeignOffice,withairplaneticketsfor
me and my two daughters paid by the government.Communist
friendsgot themforme; Communistfriendsgot me out of Cuba. I
was stillone of thevice-presidents of theWritersUnion, whilstat the
beginning of the revolutionI had held several importantjobs in the
government, albeit connected with cultural affairs.I was also the
formereditorof Lunes de Revolución,which was the literary(and
sourceof politicaltheory)supplementofRevoluciónnewspaper,at the
timetheofficialmouthpieceof therevolution.I had publishedseveral
issues on Spanish Republican literature,Spanish literaturein exile,
Spanish dissidentwriters.On top of it all, my parentswere staunch
Communists- lifelongones to boot - whichleads me to theFranco
police, or led themto me. How could theybelieve I was not or ever
had been a Communistmyself?Even if I had swornon the Quixote
(theywould have certainlybelieved I didn't believe in theBible) that
I was a bona fide exile, theywouldn't have believed me. So, very
politely,theytoldme thatI couldn't become a residentin Spain, that
theresurelymustbe some otherland towelcomeme (thoseweretheir
verywords) and to please leave my resident'spermitfreeforother
Cuban exiles more in need of Spanish shelter- whichis afterall a
nice turn of phrase in Spanish. I knew only three other cities in
Europe (I've nevercared forthecountryside),whichwere Brussels,
Paris, and London. I couldn't go back to Brussels,whereI had been
a diplomat,forobvious reasons. I loved Paris, and I hated London,
whereI had visitedfora monthin 1963 and feltmiserablefor29 days
in a rainyrow.So I decided to go to London. There is nothinglike an
old pet hateto soothethedepressed.Besides, itwas summer,thesun
was shiningbright,and they said I was merelyswingingthrough
Londontown.I became the man who came for a visit and stayed a
lifetime- whichis exactlywhatI've done. I even became a British
citizen,a subjectof Her MajestyQueen Elizabeth II and a Londoner.
Logic is the stuffdreams are made of.
rmj: But now you're just back froma tripto Madrid, which must
have been a welcomechange fromall thisgrayand gloom and wet.
GCI: Ah, but I was attacked there by the curse of Francostein.
Having lived fartoo long in England,I was overcomebytheheatand
withGuillermoCabrera Infante 33
thesun. But whatsortof interviewdo you have in mind? I am a much

better talker when the interviewis a writtenone, and a brilliant
epigramor a shinypun is able to blind you by piercingthe thickfog
of my prose. The only good interviewI've ever given was to Rita
Guibertbecause I told her the questions and I wrotethe answers,
rmj: Salmagundi is not superstitiousabout the authenticityof
interviews,and we'll be glad to let you work over the text. But it
doesn't seem fairto put you to the troubleof makingup both the
questions and the answers. I think Susan Sontag reworked an
interviewshe gave us, thoughthatwas beforemy time, in 1975.
GCI: And Susan Sontagis notGarcía Márquez. She musthave made
many intelligentand perceptiveremarks.
rmj: But in Madridyou were tapinga TV showaboutyournewbook.
That must have constitutedan interview.
GCI: Yes, and I was so consciousof thecamerasthatI was able topay
no attentionto what the interviewerwas saying. He would ask a
question,and I would reply,sayinganything,withI have no idea what
relationto thequestionasked. I alwaysgo aftercontrolof expression,
and I've found,perhapstoo late in mylife,thatI don't have it orally,
thatI only have it in frontof the typewriter. Even then I writeand
rewrite,which is impossible to do with a tape recorder or in
conversation.You can say so manythingsthatyou don't mean to say
or that you mean in another way. I simply don't feel that I'm
controllingmy expression.
rmj: But surelythatis partof the appeal of interviewsor reportsof
authors'conversationsto readers, a sense forthe momentthatthat
controlhas been relaxed and a new sort of access to the writerhas
been opened up.
GCI: That's true when you have somebodyas exceptionalas Oscar
Wilde, who was so brilliantin personthathis writingwas like an echo
of his talk; but if you are here, it is because I writethingsthatyou
eitherlike or dislikeor have some kindof interestin, but notbecause
I'm a good speaker, because I'm not. English politicians,now,
expressthemselvesso perfectly, so beautifully.You have an example
ofjust theoppositein Americain JimmyCarter,but hereeven minor
politiciansspeak, express opinions,all that,withthe greatestof ease
and eloquence, whichis somethingI don't have,
rmj: Have you always feltthatway?
GCI: I thinkitcomes frombeingexpectedtomake publicstatements
to be writtendownbya journalistor taped bya recorder.I remember
34 REGINA M. JANES
when I got the Biblioteca Breve Prize in Spain; there were about
twentyjournalists,and theybegan askingme questions,and I found
myselfsayingthesilliestthingspossibleabout subjectsI knewI could
talk about very well. "Who influencedyou?": even thatquestion,
whichis apparentlyso easy to answer,I had troublewith.Of course,
therewas the language barrierbecause theywere speakingSpanish
and I was speakingCuban.
rmj: As tothequestionofinfluence,itseems tome thatauthorsread
books and readers read authors.So askingwho influencedyou is to
ask a reader's question of an author.'What influencedyou?' would
make moresense. Do you feela special relationtoauthorsas authors,
or do you feel a special relationto certainbooks as books?
GCI: I see itin termsofbooks,notauthors.A givenauthormayhave
a fewbooks I findappalling,and thenthereis a book I findgreat.But
I don't knowabout influences.I can't say thatany given authorhad
an influenceon me whenI started.It was all movies,morethanbooks,
rmj: Is thatstilltrue?
GCI: In a way. I see a lot of movies, and I read veryfew books,
rmj: May I ask theDewar's Scotchquestion?Whatwas thelastbook
you read?
GCI: You wantto ask me that?
rmj: I'm afraidso.
GCI: I've almostfinisheda book byWalterBenjamin,Illuminations,
whichhas been a littlebit too late, some kind of a revelationto me.
It's late because I'm always waryof Marxistcritics.Lukács was an
opportunistand foolish; Bloch I don't care for, and who is left -
people like Brecht,whomI reallyloathe.Except forwhathe did with
Kurt Weill, and I like those works because of Kurt Weill and not
because of Brecht.I boughtthis book by Benjamin because it had a
prologuebyHannah Arendt,whomI respectverymuch; thenI read
Susan Sontag's essay, and theywere right.He is a greatwriter,and
you don't feel thathe is a Marxist.In fact,I am notquite sure thathe
is one. Marxistwriterstendtothinkin termsofideologyfirstand then
thework.Benjaminis almosta poet writingproseabout otherwriters.
You don'tfeeltheideologyat all. Besides, he had such a tragiclifethat
you care about the authorand forgetabout his politics,
rmj: He killed himself,of course.
GCI: Yes, and I understandthat,themindofthesuicide; I knowwhy
he did it and thathe was rightto do it when he did. Tryingto leave
France,he was a verysick man, and because he couldn't breathe,he
withGuillermoCabreraInfante 35
couldn'twalk,he was thelast one to reach theborderand was turned

back intoFrance. And I knowthatis a verydifficult circumstanceto
face. It was notlike Nabokov, who was a youngerman, able to get a
boat and leave before France was occupied by the Germans. The
borderclosed as he reached it; it was opened the day afterhe killed
himself,whichis one of thosesmall ironiesof historythatembodies
herwithhercruelattitudetowardsmen.Not onlytragic,his deathwas
ironic.
rmj: To go fromthesublimeto theridiculous,thereare threerather
odd books on the shelfbehind you: TheMurderers1Who's Who,the
AnnotatedDracula, and the WorldEncyclopediaof Comics.What are
'
you doingwiththe MurderersWho's Who?
GCI: I read it all in one night.I was simply,absolutelytaken by it,
feelingI could be in thatencyclopediamyself.Murderattractsme in
thesame waythatsuicide attractsme. You knowwhatPavese said, a
suicide is a timid murderer. Besides, the volume confirmed
somethingI've always felt.In England, and you have it also in the
States, there are so many cases of the wrong culpritbeing tried,
sentenced,and hangedthatit is impossibleto be in favorof hanging
or any kind of terminaljustice. In the past theydidn't recognize
crimesof passion,althoughtheyhave quite a fewof them,and I could
be one of them.For instance,therewas the case of a man who had a
rowwithhis mistress.He hit her; she fell on the floor,hit her head
againstsomething,and was dead. He panicked,and theninstead of
callingthe police, he did somethingmuch more complicated,much
more baroque, and in the end much more dangerous. He simply
hacked her to pieces, put her intoa trunk,called a taxi, and went to
PaddingtonStationwherehe put it in a locker.Then the thingbegan
to smell,and he was eventuallytracedbecause he was wearinga very
loud suit. He was hanged,and it was just a domesticquarrel,
rmj: And you identifywiththis?
GCI: Definitely.I know it can happen. It couldn't happen with
Miriam Gómez, my present wife, but it could very easily have
happenedwithmyformerwife,and I thinkit could happento you or
toanyone.WhatI have againstthatactual procedureis thatit's a little
bit too messy:all the blood and all that,thatyou do have to count on
because it is not easy to hack to pieces a person,
rmj: I'm remindedof a veryfunnyscene in SevenBeautiesin which
GiancarloGianini is tryingto stuffa dead body into . . .
GCI: I don'tsee moviesbythatlady.I have a strongprejudiceagainst
36 REGINA M. JANES
her,and I don't understandtheAmericancrushon ... Wertmüller,

I thinkis her name. I saw SweptAway and the one where it rains
forever,but thefilmswere all bitsand pieces. I'm noteven sure why
I disliked those films so much, since I usually like Fellini, for
instance.BertolucciI don't like at all, and AntonioniI likeverymuch,
thoughZabriskiePointwas so opportunistic, so concernedwithsaying
the thingsthatwere being said by Americanradicals because it was
chic at the time to be radical in America. But his last film, The
Passenger,is veryfine.I particularly liked in Blow Up thefactthatthe
key to themystery of thefilm is a photograph, a stillimage ratherthan
a moving image. An old American film called High Windowused
16mmfilmin a similarway,but Antonioni's use of stillphotography
is brilliant.His mysteryis nota literarymystery, buta visual mystery,
and it is visually solved, not verbally explained. Even Alfred
Hitchcock,who is veryvisual and one of the greatestmovie makers
of all time,has manyverbal explanationsto his visual mysteries,as
in Psycho.
rmj: All I rememberofPsychois beingputoffshowers.Whatdo you
mean whenyou say thatthemysteryis solved verbally,notvisually?
GCI: The fact that they get the murderer is visual, but the
explanationof why he did it is verbal. At the time, I thoughtthe
explanationwas superfluous,but now I thinkit is a brilliantsend-up
of certain Freudian explanations of simple lunacy. The series of
murders is explained by a psychiatristat the police station: It all
happenedbecause he actuallysaw his mothercommitadulterywith
somebodyelse and thenkilledhis mother,substitutedhis motherfor
his mother'smummy,and dressedas his motherto killotherwomen
he thoughtwere fickleand evil. But Hitchcockchose an actorcalled
Simon Oakland who is just the opposite of a psychiatrist. He looks
morelike a butcher,is a verybig man witha verybig head and a very
thickneck, and his explanationto the press is almostthe end of the
film.The last shotgoes intothecell withAnthonyPerkins,believing
that the flyis spyingon him and being more mad than ever. The
explanationis ofcourse incredible,butHitchcockis a verycleverand,
more than that,a veryintelligentman, and I suspect he wanted to
send up psychiatry even thoughin thepast he had used it as a motor,
in Spellbound,forexample, in the fortieswhen it was fashionableto
have Freudian explanationsand Freudian images in films,
rmj: How did you like Spellbound^
GCI: I enjoyed it verymuch. You must bear in mind thatI usually
From5 to 7: An InterviewwithGuillermoCabrera Infante 37
have more than one opinion about one film.I have the opinion of
memoryand theopinionofsubsequentviewings.I was fourteenwhen
I saw Spellbound,and I was literallyspellboundby it, in spite of its
being called bya veryfunnytitlein Cuba, Cuéntametu vida.And at
thetimeI was in love withIngridBergman.I also like Miklos Rozsa's
musicverymuch,as does a friendof minewho has alwaysbeen crazy
about movies but is also a littlebit crazy himself.His fatherwas a
cinema projectionist, and I firstmet him in 1950 when I was 20 and
he was about 16. He now lives in Puerto Rico, and when he knew
Miklos Rozsa was comingto town,he arrangedwiththe girlwho sells
recordsin the lobbyof the hotelwhereRozsa was to stay,to playthe
ThiefofBaghdad score throughthe loudspeakersjust at the moment
Rozsa was arrivingat the hotel. Imagine arrivingin San Juan of all
places and hearingyour music throughthe loudspeakers.But those
are thefriendsI treasure,because theyare notcrazyabout literature,
theyare crazyabout movies.
rmj: That remarkin one of yourletters,about theGoytisoloshaving
had slaves in Cuba and thecountryhouse nearBarcelonabuilton the
bodies ofslaves, remindedme of BuñuePs passion fortheperquisites
of the haute bourgeoisie,especiallyas it turnsup in his laterfilms.
GCI: Not the bodies, but the work of slaves, which is far more
valuable. It is farmoreimportantto theslave ownertohave live slaves
thandead ones. As to Buñuel, I like onlyone of his European films,
Viridiana,because ithas such an ambiguousending;I didn'tquite like
Belledujour,and I stoppedseeinghis filmsafterthat.But his Mexican
filmsare a delight.
rmj: If you didn't like SweptAwayand you didn't like Belle dujour,
I won't even ask about theNightPorter,you don't seem to go in much
forrepresentations offemininemasochismor sex as inseparablefrom
violence?
GCI: No. Did you knowthatBuñuel has a filmof Wuthering Heights^.
He was so perverse that he titled it Abismosde pasión, turninga
mountainintoa chasm. To enjoy the film,you must know Spanish,
because itcontainssuch a hodge-podgeof accents.Heathcliffis called
Alejandro and is played by an Andalusian. Catherine is called
Catalina, whichis all right,but the actresswas a girlbornin Poland
who had a verycurious Mexican-Polishaccent. Edgar was played by
a Mexican actor of unbelievable effeminacy,and an actress called
Lilia Prado playedthegirlwho marriesAlejandrowhenCatalina dies.
She used to be a rhumbadancer,and the way she triesto speak her
38 REGINA M. JANES
lineswithoutsoundingvulgaris trulyuncanny.But thebest of thelot

is a Mexican actor called López Tarso who plays an unbelievable
villain with an accent more appropriateto some kind of Mexican
banditfilm.All these voices are jumbled together,so thatbeginning
fromthe way Catalina speaks to Heathcliff,to Alejandro, the whole
unrealityof thefilmis containedsimplyin thedialogue, thoughthey
say very commonplace things. The ending is simply incredible.
Alejandrogoes down intoCatalina's tomb,but it's a tomblike those
you findin a Dracula film,downmany,manysteps, and thereshe is
lyingon a slab. No - I'm sorry- thereis nobodyin the tomb; he is
not able to findher, and then he turnsaround and sees her on the
steps. He sighs, 'Ah, Catalina,' and suddenly everythingchanges,
and the figureon the steps is this López Tarso, the villain with a
shotgun,whokillsAlejandro,whodies therein Catalina's tomb.I saw
thatfilmso many times.I reallymiss it. Do you knowhis Robinson
Crusoe! It is absolutely against the book, against the myth of
Robinson Crusoe, againsteverything.He made a lot of verycheap
filmsin Mexico, 'cheapies,' amongthemsome masterpieces,like El
Bruto,about a veryprimitivebutcherwho finallykillshis wifeor his
girl.
rmj: You won't have seen Cet objetobscurdu désir,then?
GCI: No. TheDevilIs a Womanis such a greatfilmthatI didn't feel
likeseeing Buñuel's even thoughI likedtheidea of twoactresses.But
Marlene Dietrich was such an unlikelySevillian that twofor-one
could notbe odder. Somethingelse thatmakes TheDevilIs a Woman
a verycuriousfilmtosee is thattherepublicbanneditin 1934 because
it insultedtheSpanishwoman or somethingof thatsort,and it is still
banned in Spain.
rmj: In TheExterminating Angel,Bufluelseems tobe struggling with
the fondnessforgood china thathe finallylets wash over him in the
laterfilms.
GCI: That is a Mexican film,and it also is veryfunnybecause of the
accents. For Bufluel,his shortcomingsbecome assets. His principal
actresswas altogetherunable to speak like an upper-classMexican.
He of course never actuallyheardher, but forthe audience it is like
having Stanley Holloway playing Hamlet instead of the first
grave-digger.
rmj: He never actuallyheard her?
GCI: He is totallydeaf. I had an interviewwithhim once, and as you
willprobablyhave todo withthisinterview,I was forcedto inventthe
interviewbecause I was askingsome thingsand he was answeringor

notansweringquite different things.In fact,you shoulddo whatI did
withAnthonyMann, the filmdirector.He came to Cuba in 1958 not
to make a filmbut because he was the husband of Sarita Montiel, a
Spanish singer so famous that since it was 1958 and the Batista
governmentwas having some problemswith guerrillas,she took a
wholefloorofthenewHavana Hiltonforherselfand thesecretpolice.
AnthonyMann suggested we talk in the bar, and I am so poor a
drinkerthatI got drunkon twodaiquiriswhilehe kepttalkingand he
keptdrinking.To thisday,I could be tortured,and I could nottellyou
anythingtheman said. As a matterof fact,I am notsure thathe said
anything.But I had to writean interviewfora column thatweek, so
I wrote it with my opinions of AnthonyMann's films as said by
AnthonyMann, and at the end I wrote "This interviewhas been
taped." Since I am absolutelycertainthatAnthonyMann could not
read Spanish and thatSarita Montiel was not goingto read anything
thatwas not about Sarita Montiel, I was safe,
rmj: But thereis a remotechance you may read English as well as
speak it,and you mightbe temptedto read somethingabout Cabrera
Infante.Speakingofthatauthor,can you tellus somethingaboutyour
new book? The title,forexample; or the subject?
GCI: It has a titlethatworkswell in Spanish, will workeven better
in French, and won't work at all in English: La Habana Para un
InfanteDifunto.It departsfromPavane pour une infantadéfunte,the
piece whichmade Ravel famousand whichaftera time he thought
infamous,since later he was not in agreementwith what he wrote
then.At thetime,it was verymuch afterDebussy. I used his titleas
somethingof a springboard,more than a send-up or even a true
parody.You willsee it in the book. The beginningis about thedeath
of a child and the birthof an adolescent. More than in Tres tristes
tigres,the citypervades the book; it is constantand ever present,
thingshappenbecause theyhappen on a given street.The name of a
streetbecomes of paramountimportance.Like all my books, it is a
fragmentary book, but here insteadof shortfragmentsor a suite like
'Ella cantaba boleros' in TTT, thereare episodes, and thoseepisodes
begin, have a resolution,and an ending, and then anotherepisode
begins, somehow connectedto the firstone. The episodes are also
interconnectedbecause there is a single narrator,a single voice
speaking,whichis preciselytheoppositeof whatI did in TTT. It is not
a particularlyCuban voice, but it is thevoice of a man, of somebody
40 REGINA M. JANES
who is tryingto learn whatit's all about in a city,how to live, how to

learn thecity'slanguage; he also thinkshe's learningabout love, but
in facthe's learningabout sex. The end is an anecdotetoldme bythe
Cuban writerVirgilioPinera, who is a verygood raconteurand who
likes to tellpiquantstories,stories,let's say, witha blue line in them.
Because of the factsof thisparticularstory,it can be taken as some
kindof descentintohell. I kepthis name in the book, whichI wasn't
goingto do because I didn't knowif it was goingto do some harmor
not, but I decided to leave it in as a kind of homage. He is a great
writerwho has never been recognizedas such outside of Cuba,
rmj: One of the many thingsI've always appreciatedabout your
workis thatyou don't in any way mythologizesex. Sex doesn't work
in yourfictionsas it does in so manyothersas a kind of solutionfor
death, time, transience,the absence of God and meaning,and the
insufficiency of all otherhuman enjoymentsand employments.You
seem to treatit as what it is - the only instinctthatcivilizationor
technologyis managingto renderdispensable.
GCI: In thisbook, you don't have whatyou were talkingabout, but
thereis a certainamountof coitus interruptus, coitus interruptedby
laughter,by humor,includingone of the most importantscenes or
momentsin the book, in bed, thatthe narratorinterruptsin a most
inappropriateway because you can't have sex and laugh at it at the
same time.Sex is deadlyserious.Brillat-Savarin said somethingI like
verymuch, thatdinneris the onlyactivityin whichthe firsthour is
never boring. Most of the preliminariesof sex, if they give you
enoughdistance,can be veryboring.While you'rehavingdinner,you
can laugh, exchangegossip, 'pass the salt,' thingsyou can't possibly
do duringsex.
rmj: What you say about the sexual componentof this new book
remindsme of yourdescriptionof a book to be called Cuerposdivinos,
whichyou mentionedin an interviewwithEmir RodriguezMonegal
some years back. Is thisa new versionof thatwork? And was there
anyparticularmomentwhenyou knewyou had foundtheformforit?
GCI: Nope. The new book is old hat, of course, but it's a different
book from Cuerposdivinos.I was in the midst of writingCuerpos
divinos(as a matterof fact,I've been in the midstof writingCuerpos
divinosforthelasteleven years,butthat'sanotherstory,and it's titled
Cuerposdivinos)when a poor pornomagazinein Madrid asked me if
byany chance I had a story,preferablya dirtyone, forthem.Then I
got the same dishonestpropositionfromanotherMadrid magazine,
almostthe same pornopublication(you wouldn't believe how many

pornographicperiodicalssprungup in Spain, like so many Venuses
fromtheFrancoistfoam in thosedays afterthedictatordied foaming
in the mouth), and as theyofferedme more money,I reconsidered,
considered the proposition,accepted it, and wrote a shortstoryso
daringthatReader's Digestwould have touchedit witha blue pencil
and perhapstaken it. The shortstorywas called, voluptuously,"La
plus que lente," afterDebussy's littlepiece. As the Procul Harum
would have said, thecrowdasked formore - and I complied.I wrote
anotherstoryentitled,aftera bolero, "Mi ultimofracaso," in which
"fracaso" means theultimateformof failureforan adolescent.Then
Miriam Gómez commandeered: "Darling, why don't you write a
book in the same vein." Though the last words sounded in Cuban
morelike "shame" and "vain," she said themso persuasivelythatI
metthechallengeand wrotea book in the formof an eroticmemoir.
The novel seems to be about a child who becomes an adolescent
simply by arrivingat a city - the city, that is Havana - and
discoveringsex in the place of excretion(the tenementin whichhe
lives forten years), love in a movie house, and women everywhere.
As in TTT, I startedin mediasres, and the couple of shortstories
became two episodes in the serial of a poor youngman. It was only
afterfinishingthe firstdraftthatI hit withthe title,hidden in TTT,
La Habana Para un InfanteDifunto,and I re-wrotethe whole thing
again.
I believe thiscould also answeryourquestion about form.I think
it is transparentthat the problems of formare really problems of
language.The firstdraftof La Habana was writtenwiththe voice of
a memoiristwhowas a childsuddenlytransformed intoan adolescent,
and thisadolescentlived happilyever afterin his pursuitof women:
girls,youngwomen,maturewomen,etc. The second draftexplored
the femalebodywithtonguein cheek and penetratingparody.Other
rewriteswere done to introduce in various vaginas yet more
ejaculatoryalliterations(a device I use in thisbook as oftenas I used
puns in TTT) of the three kinds - simple, cross, and complex -
morepunninglingus and all kindsofhardcoreparanomasia.It tookme
threeyears to finishthis daftdivertimento,which is now 606 pages
long. As you remember,606 is the numberof the fantasticformula
withwhich Dr. Ehrlichconquered syphilis,a concoctioncalled The
Magic Bullet bythe good doctorEdward G. Robinson in the moving
movieof thesame name. It's myhomageto theirlastfailure,formula
42 REGINA M. JANES
605, Fracastoro'sfracaso.The book ends at the movies, on a cryptic

caption:"This is whereI came in."
But thoughI singsome sad songs betweenitscovers,La Habana is
really a funnybook. As you can see in 77T, I'm actuallya lone
stand-upcomedianperforming foran invisibleaudience. Only stage
frightstopped me from being Cuban Groucho Marx. Stage fright
a
and thefactthatI didn'thave fourbrothers.But at least Grouchoand
I have Havana cigarsand Marx in common,
rmj: Well, I'm gladyoudon'tthinksex is alwaysdeadlyserious.The
seriousnessattributedto it, particularlyabout preliminariesas you
mentionedearlier,I've alwaysthoughtto be rather,oh, adolescent.
GCI: I thinkwe're talkingabout different times.As to adolescence,
it
though, probably means something rather differentto you thanit
does to me. For you, adolescence is biologicalstate; forme it is a
a
social stateand one thatchangesall thetime.The problemin thebook
is thatthe characterkeeps on being an adolescenteven afterhe has
marriedand had a daughter,and thatis whyhe has such a fall.I can
tell you franklythatI have stoppedbeing an adolescentquite a few,
shall I say, monthsago.
rmj: You jest, or you mean somethingdifferentabout being an
adolescent.
GCI: It's a matterof culturesand societies,and it's verydifferentin
yourcultureand whatused to be mine.It was even moredifferent in
1948. In Cuba, adults were alwaystalkingabout 'when you become
a man,' and you werenotsupposed to be a man yetbecause you were
an adolescent.To be grown-upor to be a man was a goal, and a goal
I neverhad. There were periodswhenI was so busyI couldn't afford
to be adolescent,but even thentherewere timeswhenI was expected
to be, in theSpanish-speakingway,'manly,' and I had a lot of trouble
because I've never been that,
rmj: What on earthdo you mean?
GCI: I mean politicalsituationswhereyou were supposed to be very
decisive and all that,but I foundthe situationslaughable; theygave
me thegiggles.There were exceptions,of course, beingin a war as a
correspondentat theBay of Pigs, ifyou can call thata war,thatfiasco
combinedwithover-kill.I was veryserious thenand veryfrightened,
and I don't thinkthatI was adolescentat the time.I knowverywell
what fear is, and it wasn't that kind of fear. The act itself was
absolutelygratuitous.I was a voluntarycorrespondent,and therewas
no reasonwhyI shouldbe there,noneat all. I wentfirstbecause I was
curiousabout war; thenbecause I felt,obscurely,thatit was myduty

to whatwas goingon in Cuba. I knewwhatwould have happenedhad
the enemywon at thattime.There was discovereda blacklist,not in
thesense thattheyblacklistyou whenyou go fora job, but a blacklist
because all thepeople on thatlistwere supposed to be shotin thefirst
48 hours.I was on thatlistbecause I was veryimportantat Revolución
newspaper.I edited the magazine, the literarysupplementto the
newspaper,and the magazine was veryvocal about many thingsin
Cuba and verymuch in the avant garde politically.But manypeople
were goingto theBay of Pigs, and therewas no reason whytheeditor
of the magazinehad to go as a correspondentforthatmagazine. So I
had all thereasonsin theworldto stayin Havana, but I wantedto go,
and thatdesire wasn't adolescent.Nor was I being adolescent when
the magazinewas banned, in the meetingat the BibliotecaNacional
withFidel Castroand therestof thegovernmentwhenI sat, ironically
enough, at the presidingtable while the magazine I had begun and
editedwas puton trial.Thatwas a veryserioussituation,and I wasn't
adolescentat all at thattime.But then the emergencypassed; I was
livingwithMiriam at the time, free of duties and free of care, but
aftera time I was withouta job and livingon Miriam, who was an
actress then and able to earn a lot of money. And I began going
around saying,"Well, I am the firstpimp in socialistCuba," which
was a verystupidthingto say and totallyadolescent,
rmj:But you nowfeel you've leftall thatbehindyou, movingon into
a more perfectadulthood?
GCI: Well, you will have to be careful when you transcribethis
because I do notalwaysmean preciselywhatI say, but I thinkI really
stoppedbeing an adolescentwhen I wentmad. I was in a resthome,
was given sixteenelectroshocks,lots of pills and drugs,whichI still
take.And fora longperiodof time- thishappenedin 1972 - things
looked verydark and were verydifficultforme. I don't thinkI still
have them,but I had suicidalthoughts.And havingsuicidal thoughts
makes you responsible;ifyou take yourlife,you have to thinkabout
so manythings.Firstof all, you have to thinkhownotto make a mess
of yourselfand thenof thethingsyou leave behind.And thatwas, in
a way,ceasing to be adolescentwhen I was almost50, whichis more
thanGombrowiczcan say, since he was stillan adolescentwhen he
died. You knowhis Ferdydurke, a book I like verymuch, in whichhe
wenton at greatlengthabout thejoy of being an adolescentall your
lifeand thatit is somethingyou must embrace. But you have to stop
44 REGINA M. JANES
growingsomeday, somehow; adolescence is simply a growing-up

time, and you have to be finallya grown-upperson. If you keep
growing,I don't knowwhathappens - you won't finda place in the
grave, therewon't be room enough foryou to fitin.
rmj:If you have such associationswithadolescence,whatmust you
think of childhood, which is usually, pace Wordsworth,so much
worse?
GCI: I never had any problemswhen I was a child, and I enjoyed
childhood a lot. We were poor, and strange things happened, of
course. My parentswere foundingmembersof theCommunistParty
in mytown,and one morningfrommybed, I saw mymotherrunning
intothehouse and downthehall withmylittlebrotherwho was three
years old at the time behind her. They were followedby two men
dressed in yellowwithhats like those you had round about the First
World War. Those were guardias rurales,an institutionpeculiar to
Cuba, notpreciselyequivalentto theguardiacivil,but a kindofarmy
forthe interiorof the country.My motherwas seized, and thenmy
father,whowas notin thehouse at thetime,wentall byhimselfto the
guardiaruralheadquarters,and bothof themwere taken to Santiago
de Cuba, the capitalof the province,forseveral months.That was a
veryawkwardperiodforme. I was livingwithmygrandmother all the
time,and I had strangenightmares.But childhoodwas somethingI
liked. I liked the countryside,in whichI was able to go by myself.I
liked birds,I liked killingbirds,
rmj: Killingbirds?
GCI: Yes, I don't knowwhatwas the matter;I liked birds,I stilldo,
and I also liked killingthe birds,I enjoyed havingthemdead in my
hands. But I also enjoyedthetownand thelifein thetown.And then
came Havana and the discoveryof the city,which was forme like
goingto a greatadventure.I discoveredsomethingas complicatedas
climbingup a staircase,which I had never done in my home town
because therewere veryfewbuildingswithmorethanone storyand
thosebuildingsbelongedtotherichpeople and I wasn'table to go into
them.I remembervividlyclimbinga veryrichmarblestaircasethat
led into somethingI'd never heard of, somethingI'd never seen,
somethingI didn't even dream existed - un solar. The word is
peculiarto Havana and is a shortenedformof solariegain the phrase
casa solariega;unSolarissimplya house thatused tobe a house ofrich
people,say in thelastcentury,and has nowbecomea tenementhouse.
At the top of the stairs,therewere no separate houses, only rooms
occupied by differentfamilies,and rooms apparentlywithno doors

because curtainshung instead of doors duringthe daytime.For me
this was a totallynightmarishvision. But at the same timeI kepton
goingabout the city,seeing neon lightswhichwe didn't have in my
town, the profusionof electric lights everywhere,and I simply
enjoyed becoming an adolescent, because that's how I became an
adolescent.
rmj:The mentionof yourlittlebrotherremindsme of the passage in
Orígenesin whichyou say how disappointedyou were thatyou had
been broughta littlebrotherinsteadof the littlesisteryou had been
promisedand thatyou picked up a pair of shears in orderto rectify
matters,but were preventedin the nick of time.
GCI: It's a pity it didn't happen. I even remember the boat my
brotherwas supposed to come intothe harborof my home townon.
It was called the GenevièveLyke,and I am sure it must have been a
United FruitCompany boat,
rmj:The boat he was supposed to come in on?
GCI: Yes, of course, that's whattheytold me all the time,tryingto
explain it to me, thatmy littlesisterwas comingon a ship. But I've
neverfiguredout howI was able totellthedifference and how I knew
whatto do about it.
rmj:Well, in spite of the fact thatyou insistchildhoodwas happy,
what you seem to remember most vividly is prettygrim, even
terrifying.But, I apologize forthequestion,but I can't helpaskingit,
whatwas it like to go mad?
GCI: It was quite ghastly.But in a way I enjoyed the manic phase. I
was endowedwitha greatvision of things,of so manythingsthatnot
even my wifewho is veryshrewdwas able to guess or detect.So for
a whileitwas, notenjoyableexactly,but I had a greatsense of power.
But thedepressionwas quite somethingelse - thatwas veryghastly.
At the time I wasn't yearningfor reality,and ever since I have
questioned the sense of reality,but I was reallyin need of sanity
because I knewsomethingwas verywrong.I was so paranoidthatit
was impossibleforme to do anythingoutsidethehouse because of all
myenemies.Everybodywas an agent,a KGB agentor a Cuban agent
or a CIA agent, afterme. And then finallyI wasn't able to talk to
Miriamhere,so I tookherintoKensingtonGardens. And I suddenly
realized that the dogs were spies and that the pigeons had
microphones. And that was really something very ghastly to
contemplate.Then I went intosome kind of catatoniawhich I don't
46 REGINA M. JANES
rememberat all. The nextI knewI was in a resthome on my bed; I

had just waked up fromanesthesia,and on my templeswere burns,
probably from the first electroshock or, as they say so
euphemistically,ECT session. I still have memory problems,
immediatememoryproblems.I don't have problemswiththemediate
memory,really,but I keep forgetting things,littlethings.But the
worstcame afterI leftthehospital,and I learnedthatone of mybest
friends,AlbertoMora, theman who made it possibleforme to leave
the country,had killedhimselfin Cuba. It was myfatherwho called
me fromCuba, whichwas itselfquite a shockbecause I didn'texpect
him tocall me, and he toldme thisthing.AfterthatI was notonlynot
able to writebut not able even to come intothis room. It was many
monthsbeforeI was able to do anythingthatwas intellectually valid,
even answera letter.
It was a verybad time,but you are able to overcomemanythings.
At thesame time,I thinkI am one of thefewLatin Americanwriters
who has a good wordto say fortechnology.Writersare alwayssaying
technologyis terrible,thatwe must go back to natureor some more
historicallyprimitivetime.But thesame people go fromone place to
anotherinjet planes,and iftheyhave an illness,theytakethemselves
toa surgeon.You mightretortthatmedicineis sciencenottechnology,
but then medicine is so pragmatic,truly empirical knowledge.
Besides, you have all thatparaphernalia:scalpels, pump-oxygenators,
respirators,which are sheer technology,not to mentionman-made
drugs and medical chemistry.I thinkof technologyas even more
beneficialthanscience. Anyway,theyhave been goinghand in hand
since time immemorial.The momenta line was practicallycentered
into a circle to become axle and wheel you had science, that is,
geometry,becomingan invention,thatis, technology.It happenedso
many ages ago thatthereis no way of pinpointingthe exact time it
occurred.This joint venturehas progressedso much thatthereis no
reversal.For me it has become a blessing.It is thanksto technology,
chemistryof salts, applied to psychiatrythatI am able to talk to you
now - whichcould be a mixed blessing.I've been underLithiumfor
about fouryears,and it is thatwhichmakes me able to coordinatemy
thoughtsand not to be always prostratedby fear, which is what
depressionis all about,fearof everything, fearof themostridiculous
things.So now, aftermy breakdown,I am a staunch advocate of
technologyand the advancementof science. Though I can add thatI
am againstvivisection,even ifI was a bird-killerwhenI was a child,
rmj: You didn't take themapart?
GCI: I simplykilled them.

rmj: You dedicated the new Vistadel Amaneceren el Trópico(View
ofDawn in theTropics)(reusingthe titleof an earlyversionof TTJ)
to twomen who died violentdeaths; one of themwas AlbertoMora.
GCI: Those two men not only died violent deaths, theymet with
politicalsudden deaths. The firstone, Plinio Prieto,I'd met in 1950,
and he was crazyabout movingpictures.Not exactlyabout whatwe
call movies but about animation,cartoons,feature-length animated
-
drawings anything thatmoved but was nota livingcreature. He did
notcare foractors or movie starsor a performing dog. He even built
an animation table and a camera. He was also the generous
projectionistwho made theperformancespossibleat our Cinemateca
de Cuba, a local, modestoffspring of CinemathequeFrançaise.When
Batistaseized powerin 1952, Plinio Prietounderwenta sea change.
He became a fighter, wentintoexile, and came back witha smuggled
boatloaded withguns - to land onlytoo late. Batistahad fleda week
earlier.Only thefactthattheyhad been lost at sea fortwoweeks and
Plinio's dignifieddemeanorpreventedhimfrombecominga figureof
ridicule.He caromedabout Havana. He didn't like whathe saw. He
never really liked the revolution. He was a convinced
anti-Communist,so he organized a counter-revolutionary guerrilla
and took to the mountainsin centralCuba witha promisefromthe
CIA to parachutearmsand men. Aftera while,whenhe realized that
thepromisedhelp was notgoingto come, he triedto escape fromthe
island.But he was caught,summarilytriedand executed in less than
24 hours.Theydidn'tgive him muchquarter- he didn'task forany.
Plinio Prietonever was a luckyman.
AlbertoMora was lucky,fora while.I also methim in 1950, which
seems tobe a dangerousyeartomeetme. He was veryyoungthenand
interestedin philosophyand economy. He was influenced,of all
people, byJosephAlois Schumpeter,whomI called,just to vex him,
Joe Schumpete. Albertowas raised and formedby his mother,who
hatedhis father,a well-knownpoliticianwho was as anti-Communist
as he was anti-Batista.When Batistaseized power,Albertobecame a
militantstudentand, performing clandestinejobs, came to knowhis
fatherwell and learned what a brave and disinterestedfighterthis
vilifiedman could be. Albertowas hidden in my house forabout six
months.One day he left (he never said wherehe was going,I never
asked him) and didn't come back. It so happenedthat,comingfrom
an undergroundmeeting,his fatherwas recognizedby a patrolcar.
Albertofoughtthepolicewithbare handstoallow his fathertoescape,
48 REGINA M. JANES
whichhe did. Albertowas arrestedand senttoprison.His fatherwent

instead to meet his death at the suicidal attackon the Presidential
Palace twoweeks later.Albertowas supposed to go withhis father,
but because he was injail was sparedbyhistoryor bychance.Alberto
leftjail a fewmonthslatera changedman, profoundly so. He wentup
themountainswithwhatwas leftofhis group,laterbecame an activist
in Havana and was nevercaught.At thebeginningof therevolution,
he was unhappybecause his group,theDirectorioEstudiantil,was put
aside byFidel Castro. Apparentlyhe had founda surrogatefatherin
the leader of the Directorio,who laterbecame an ambassadorand a
minister.He was obviouslynotthefatherAlbertowas lookingfor.He
foundanotherfatherfigurein Che Guevara, who made him minister
for foreigntrade. He seemed to be happier.He divorced his first,
meeklywife providedby his motherto marrya stunningbeauty he
foundbyhimself.He was a happyman withhisjob, his younggirlof
a wife,and his love forjazz. But Che Guevara fellfromgraceintothe
sea of politicaltroubles,and Albertobeing one of his men lost his
ministry.He divorcedhis second wife,who provedto be fickleand
bird-brained.He wanderedfromsmall jobs to dull assignments.He
marrieda thirdtime,to a Frenchgirllivingin Havana as a political
tourist.He was discontentedand finallybecame an open dissident.As
punishmenthe was assignedto a humiliatingpost as a foremanat a
farmfarfromHavana. He neverreachedhis destinationbut methis
destiny.He killedhimselfwiththepistolgivenhim byhis fatherand
thathe was allowed bythe armyto carryas an honorarycomandante.
No man can be happyall of his life,especiallyifhe happensto live in
unhappytimes.Those deaths,amongmanyothers,motivatedthenew
Vista- whichis, of course, an old vision.
rmj: Do youfeelthatthere'sanyconnectionbetweenbeingafraidof
thingsand the kindof controlyou wantto exertover languagewhen
you write?
GCI: Oh, no, no, no, no, notat all. It has nothingto do withit. I don't
believe in writing'sbeing organicat all. It is somethingyou do with
yourhands. You make use of yourmind,of course, but composition
is digital.You can say I was a daring young man not on a flying
typewriter, but a veryslow-movingone. I typeveryslowlyand very
badly,twofingers,and I incorporatethe mistakesin the text,
rmj: Many people seem to feel thatiftheytamperwiththeirminds
in any way, in particularby going throughpsychoanalysis,their
creativitywill vanish.
GCI: Those are people who thinkof themselvesas precious.I don't
see myselflike thatat all. Not as precious,noteven as different, not

even special. To thinkof oneself as special is a sort of aristocratic
thinking,parallel to the English practiceof speaking this language
withcertainintonationsand pronunciationsof particularwords that
theythinkare differentand above the restof theircountrymen.All
I am is an individual,and I leftmycountrybecause theythoughtof
me as just somebodynot even in a group but in a conglomerateof
otherpeople.
rmj: Speakingof leavingcountries,whatdo you thinkof thepresent
situationin Nicaragua?
GCI: It's a verypuzzling,plain situation.Somoza was an obscene
presencethere,and theyshould have gottenrid of his whole family
fortyyears ago, but the U.S. imposed Somoza on the country.The
man was a totalscoundrel;thecountrywas his privatefarm.The U.S.
havingput him in had no way to get ridof him, but now theywantto
get creditwiththe Sandinistasforhis departure.Now I don't know
what'sgoingto happen.I hope it does notbecome a versionof Cuba,
as itis verylikelytodo, sincetheyare goingveryfast,fasterthanthey
did in Cuba at the beginning.The way theyare talking,it seems as
thoughtheyhave learnedall theirlessons in Cuba. Not onlyare they
talkingabout nationalizationand theirrightto take over the land of
the Somoza people, but theyare also using the tell-talejargon. You
have to be verycarefulwithlanguage in politics,because wordscan
so veryeasily disguise the real politicsof a situationor uncoverthe
totalitarianmind. One hears too much fromthese people about the
'country,'about being a patriot.Dr. Johnsonsaid that"patriotismis
thelast refugeof a scoundrel," and I thinkhe didn't see thatitcould
be the firstrefugeof a demagogue.
rmj: I don't thinkit would have surprisedhim at all to find them
meetingin the same place. But goingback to the writer'sdifference,
youmustregardyourselfas in some waydifferent sinceyou knowthat
you can do things other people can't.
GCI: I'm sure thatthat's of absolutelyno consequence at all. I'm
sure thatif theyput themselvesto it, theywould be able to do it.
rmj: You can't reallybelieve that.
GCI: No, but I do, absolutely.It's only when physicalprowess or
powersare invokedthatyou can say 'you can do it,' or 'you can't,' in
somethingdifficult like balletdancingor running,thingslikethat.But
writing really easy. There is nothingveryspecial about writing,
is so
and writersare commonplace.At least I thinkI am. I don't believe I
50 REGINA M. JANES
was elected by God to become a writer.(It so happens thatI don't

believe in God - how is He thengoingto believe in me?) I don't see
myselfas one of themanyavatarsof Homer,as Joyceso proudlydid,
as Borges so modestly does. (I suppose the fact that those
contemporarywritersare sightless makes it possible for them to
become, respectively,a twosomewiththe Grand Old Blind Man.) I
didn't feel myselfdestined, much less predestined,to become a
writer.It happenedthroughan unhappycombinationof opportunism
and chance. I came, I saw, and I became the sedulous ape. It was as
easy as that.To be a writeris as easy as eatingapple pie. Some writers
should eat humble pie instead.Compare thewriterto an architector
to an engineer,even more to a physicistor a physician.Those are
really difficultthings, but writinginvolves almost no effort.Of
course, good writingis one thing,and greatwritingis another.The
question of qualitydoes bringin anotherproblem.But forthe most
part,forwhattheydo, I tendtothinkthatwritersare overpaid.In spite
oftheiraskingforpraiseall thetime,theyusuallyhave morethanthey
deserve.
rmj: Can thereever be too much praise fora writer?
GCI: From the pointof view of the writer,of course not; but from
the pointof view of the reader,makingtoo much fuss about a given
writeror a given piece of writingcan be rathersilly.There are many,
many instancesof a writer'sbeing praised incredibly;you examine
thewritingand you findthatthere'sabsolutelynothingto it.You had
a writerin the States two or threeyears ago who was even called a
feminineversionof Chaucer,
rmj: Who was that?
GCI: You're sure I'm not goingto be sued if I say? Erica Jong,for
instance. I read her book and it was total crap. It was a version
of Jacqueline Susann. You have a useful distinctionin English
betweenreviewersand critics,but sometimescriticscan be taken by
reviewers or they try to be as expedient and up-to-dateas the
reviewersare.
rmj: What do you thinkof currentwritingin the U.S.?
GCI: Well, I thinkin the States you have a problemwithwriting.
Reallybad writersare placed notonlyas good writersbut as geniuses.
Like Saul Bellow, for instance,who is an atrociouswriter.There's
somethingof a greatdesertin writingin theStatesnow,and you find
people like Donald Barthelme,whois incrediblygood, who is a writer
of fragments, and has thecourageto say so, but who forthepast four
years has not been the writerhe used to be. He isn't up to his
standardsanymore.
rmj: With some of his most recentthings,the object parodied and
the parodymergecompletely.In twentyyears, one won't be able to
distinguishthe parody from a documentaryexample of the same
thing.
GCI: I thinkit's good that he doesn't tell the reader what it's all
about, thatthis is serious or that's a parody.But the problemis that
he has somehowbeen repeatinghimselfof late and not findingthe
great - not the great themes or the great materialwhich no one
expected him to - but whateverit is thatenabled him to produce
pieces like the one on the phantom of the opera, which is a
masterpiece;it is done withsuch love of the original.
But the Americanscene seems to be no longersomethingvalid to
theAmericanwriter,so thatyou have theoddityof Americannovels
in which the action takes place in Africa. That sense of having
somethingto say about America rightnow, which is somethingthe
Americannovelused to do, now showsup in thenarrativeelementin
movieslike Rudolph's WelcometoL.A., whichis like whatSchnitzler
used to be in La Ronde,or morerecentlyRememberMy Name,a film
like thosemade byJoanCrawfordin the 1940's or BetteDavis in the
1930's, though with Géraldine Chaplin and a very quiet ending
insteadof a melodramaticone. A verylikeable movie,witha kind of
writingyou don't findin Americannovels these days,
rmj: What about Pynchonor Coover?
GCI: I haven'tread eitherof them,thoughI've been toldto,and was
supposed to meet Coover. There is good work being done in
non-fiction, likeFear and LoathinginLas Vegas.It's a littlebitlike The
Lost Weekend,in thatitdoesn'thave thegreatscope UndertheVolcano
has; you read UndertheVolcanoand it's a tragedy;you read TheLost
Weekendand you have a minorproblemhappeningto somebodyin
thecity.But in Fear and Loathing,therenderingof thedrugsituation
and the spell of drug-takingis verywell done,
rmj: Whyshouldtherebe moreofa problemwithmodernAmerican
fictionthanwithmodernLatin Americanfiction?
GCI: Modern Latin Americanfictionis also in trouble,but I think
thatEnglishhas somethingto do withit. Englishis a beautiful,useful
language, but it is also an over-written language. You can see the
over-killin Englishnow even in readingTimemagazine,as I do every
week. But language is a great problem for writers.They have to
52 REGINA M. JANES
compete withso many thingsanyway,thatif theyhave to compete

withan over-written language, theyare in greattrouble.You can't
possibly do in English what Faulkner did - that prose taken from
Joycethrough othersourceslike the Bible and the southernreligious
tradition.You simplycan't do it again, can't be in the same position
withrespectto his languagethatFaulknerwas, whohad a moreor less
plain language before he came, plain English strugglingto become
moreand more plain in everybook, as in, say, SherwoodAnderson.
But he could do it,and he got awaywithso manythings,withterrible
problemsofsyntax,thatno writercould do nowwithoutbeingpanned
and pummeled by the criticsfor writingbad syntaxand imitating
Faulkner.
rmj: But whydo you thinkmodernLatin Americanfictionis also in
trouble?
GCI: Have you ever heard of a new, reallyyoung Latin American
writer?I haven't. The last one I heard of was Reinaldo Arenas in
Cuba, who was the only Cuban writerwho developed withinthe
revolution,thoughwhathe was writingwasn't revolutionary at all in
the way that theythinkof 'revolutionary'in politicallytotalitarian
countries.'Revolutionary'is a dangerousword;even Goebbels called
theNazi movementand takeoverof Germany"our revolution."But
Arenas was thelasttoappear,and he hasn'twrittenanythingin many
years.It's truehe has had manyproblemsbecause he is a homosexual.
He was chargedwithassaultinga minorand sentencedto a four-year
termin Cuba. He was released beforehis timewas up, but I haven't
heard fromhim since,and thatwas fouryearsago. In theotherLatin
American countries,there is nobody really. In Mexico there was
Gustavo Sáinz, who was some kind of hope, but his last novel is not
good at all. And I read recentlya very good essay on the literary
situationin Argentinain whichthe authorsaid more or less thatthe
situationwas hopeless and talked about a new writercalled Manuel
Puig. Well, Manuel Puig is 48 years old, publishedhis firstbook in
1967, and ifyou call thata new writeryou must call JoséHernández
a recentlybornwriter.1
About three years ago, I thought the problem might have
somethingto do withthe effectof militarydictatorships, since all of
Latin America from Cuba to Argentina is an enormous army
barracks. But there are other countries that are not military
1 Authorof MartinFierro,published 1872 (1834-86).
From5 to 7: An InterviewwithGuillermoCabrera Infante 53
dictatorships,and you can't find writersin them either. There is

Venezuela, whichprovesnothingsince therehave never been good
writersin Venezuela, and I've lost hope thatthereis goingto be one.
There is Colombia, but you don't have anyonewritingtherenow who
is anygood, and thereis Costa Rica, but imagineCosta Rica. It's like
a gardenaftersix. And Mexico - it's a very,veryawkwardcountry
to live in, not to say to writeabout or to thinkof writingabout,
rmj: You mustthinkthatthewayCortázarand Fuentes and Garcia
Márquez console themselvesforbeingnovelistsbycallingall good art
revolutionary is rathersilly,thoughat worsta wayof tryingfutilelyto
outflankattacksfromthe leftforbeing novelistsat all.
GCI: I would disengageFuentes, ancien écrivainengagé, fromthat
tristetrio,reducingit to a duo doloroso.Fuentes is too intelligentto
admit,today,such a sillything.But I can confidein you (I knowyour
lips are sealed) and tell you thatyet anotherLatin Americanwriter
said (and even wrote) thatno good writercould ever be a reactionary.
Why, it's almost Gramsci upside down! Good writingis always
revolutionary. Which could mean thatgood is beautifuland all that
Platonic jazz - a clash of symbols. Of course, I find all those
statementsstupid.Furthermore, theyare noteven false. At least lies
can be amusingand whatwithfictionbeing the oppositeof truth,all
fictionis lying. The decay of lyingis the decay of fiction,whichhas
become poorersincethesecond comingof theRealists,nowdisguised
as SocialistRealists. Fictionmust cryout: Give me lies or let me lie
dormant!
rmj: Do you thinktheattentionwritersget thesedays mightbe part
of the problem?
GCI: Somethingperhapscan be attributedto an excessive amountof
attention,which can paralyze anybody.Many of the writersmost
talkedabout were alreadyadults,as personsand as writers,when all
this thingabout the Latin Americannovel came about, people like
Cortázarwhois now68. When he publishedhis mostacclaimednovel,
he was reallya grown-upman. My own experiencetells me thata
writeris in his primewhenhe's in his 30's. It is thenthathe has either
read or seen or lived long enough to be able to have anythingto say
and to have acquired sufficientskillsto say it properlyor to say it the
best wayhe can. After40, quite frankly, rigormortissets in. It is very
difficultto finda writerwho has done anythingvalid after40. There
are exceptionsof course.In Latin America,you have Borges;Thomas
Mann wrote The Magic Mountainin his 40's, and it is probablyhis
54 REGINA M. JANES
best book; Laurence Sternehad thewisdomto startlate, at 46, and to

die by 55.
rmj: Do you thinkthatwhatenables a writerto keep writingis his
relation to ideas, to some predominantlyintellectual concerns?
Sterne,afterall, had bothan epistemologyand a genrethathe wanted
to make fun of.
GCI: Ideas are for essayistsand short-story writers.An extremely
intelligentperson like Borges can be both those but cannot be a
novelist.Novelistsare actuallydumb writers,whomake mistakesand
never notice them. They are capable of writingchaptersand even
wholebooks made of trash- whichis somethingtheessayistand the
short-story writercan't affordto do. I know whatyou are thinking,
about to mentionJoyceand Proust, but Ulyssesand A la recherche
cannotbe consideredtruenovels,and Kafka neverwrotea novel but
parables and fables of a given length.Only in Faulknerdo you have
a pure specimenof the novelistin the twentiethcentury,a dumb ox
tracingtheboustrophedonof thefamilytree's shade. The otherwriter
you can call intelligent,Nabokov,wroteonlypuzzles and riddlesand
chess problems.
rmj: Afterthat,I'm not going to ask if you're a novelist.But why
should theresuddenlydevelop a deficiencyof dumb oxen aftersuch
a spate of them?
GCI: I suspectthereare probablytoo manycompensations,too many
easy gratificationsforyoungerwriters,since theone commonpattern
amongthewritersall thefusswas made about is exile. Exile was very
good for me, even the revolutionwith everythingit broughtto so
manypeople in Cuba, includingmyself.If Fidel Castrohadn'twon in
1959 and everythinghad gone on as before,by now I would be the
editorof Carteles,the magazine of which I was managingeditorin
1959, and I would be locally a very importantperson, which is
somethingthatcan alwayskilla writer.At thetime,mysituationwith
Miriam Gómez was not stabilizedenough; I would have continued
my adolescent practice of going to bed with as many women as
possible, and the rest of the time I would have been terriblybusy
doing the magazine. So I would never have writtenanythingexcept
the filmcriticismI wrote before 1959 and thatcrappybook of short
storiesI publishedin 1960. So that'smycase, whichis thecase I know
mostabout. Otherwriterswho were moreor less in exile, like Carlos
Fuentes, saw not the reality,because I don't thinkfora writerthere
is such a thingas reality,but theirmaterial,theirpossible or feasible
withGuillermoCabrera Infante
From5 to 7: An Interview 55
material,and were able to writethewaytheydid in Paris or wherever

theywere livingat the time.The same applied to Cortázar,to Garcia
Márquez. Again, the only real exceptionis Borges,
rmj:He is incomparable,isn't he? I thinkof thatlinePope made such
mock of in Peri Bathous:"None but himselfcan be his parallel."
GCI: But he is thesame case as Lezama Lima; thepatternis uncanny,
exceptforLezama's spoilingthesymmetry bydyingin 1976. He lived
all his lifein the same house in Havana Vieja and was the eldest son
of a colonelin theCuban armywhowentto theStatesto Pensacola or
some such place on militarymatters,contractedpneumonia, and
died. Lezama was about seven at the time,and since then,the whole
familygot the idea thatto go abroad can kill you. Lezama grew up
among books being read by his mother,who was a veryformidable
character,and amassed an incredibleamount of knowledge of all
kinds,especiallyliteratureand metaphysics.He read everythinghe
could aboutphilosophy,even Chinese philosophy,ifyou can call what
Confuciussaid philosophy,and was alwaysquotingesotericwriters,
as Böhme said, as Swedenborgsaid. Like Borgeshe was interestedin
poetryand wrotewhatis forme, togetherwithBorges and twomore
poets, the best poetrywrittenin Spanish, includingboth Spain and
Latin America, in this century.It is a veryobscure, even hermetic
poetry,but great.And Paradiso,a memory-novel thathe wrotevery
late, whichyou should read ifyou haven't. Like Borges,therewas a
sisterin the life among books, and just beforehis motherdied, she
managed to marryhim off to some friendof the family,just like
Borges's mother.Borges,thoughhe is an impotent,does like women
a lot,butLezama was a homosexualwhocultivateda veryrespectable
disguise,wearingeven in summertropicalsuits witha tie. Afterthe
revolution,he triedveryhardto conceal his homosexuality,notto be
noticedbythemachosrevolucionarios,and to be acceptedas a senior
citizen.He did his best to adapt himselfto lifein a totalitarian
Cuba,
was silenced by the literarybureaucracyafterthe success abroad of
Paradisoand died a verylonely,cruel death, unrecognizedand unat-
tendedin a generalhospital.But Lezama could notleave - noteven
his country,not even his city - he could not leave his street,his
house. He lived therefromthe time he was born until he died. An
extraordinary man, he was the only writerI've knownwho actually
spoke as he wrote.He was asthmatic,and he made the same pauses
in talkingas he made in writing,
rmj: Look, ifyou thinkLezama is special, you mustthinkwritersare
56 REGINA M. JANES
special, and thatnotjust anybodycan do it ifhe sitsdownand begins

to pound at thetypewriter. It's veryJohnsonianto thinkthatanyone
can do anythingifhe simplysets himselfdoggedlyto it,but is ittrue?
GCI: That's the way I startedwriting,and that's the way I've been
writingever since. I startedwritingbecause I saw somebodywho was
writingsomethingthatwas consideredvaluable, and I knew it was
feasibleforme, and I did it. It was a parody,of course; it was words.
But it was somethingI could do and somethingthatsomebodyelse
was doingand was being paid forand was being praisedfor.I never
thoughtI was goingto be a writer.I neversaid to myself,I wantto be
a writerwhenI growup. As a matterof fact,whatI wantedto be was
a major-leaguebaseball player.Looking at my height,my build, my
sense of coordination,you can see how ludicrousit was, but that's
whatI thoughtat thetime.And I can stilltellyou therosterof theSt.
Louis Cardinals in 1946 and of the Cuban leagues of the time,
rmj: Do you rejectanotherJohnsoniandictum,then,thatno one but
a fool ever wroteexcept formoney?
GCI: I thinkGertrudeStein was rightwhen she said thata writer
needs onlythreethings:praise,praise,and praise.But isn't thatwhat
most human beings need? If I were to tell you thatyou have good
legs. . .

From 5 To 7 An Interview With Guillermo Cabrera Infante

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

From 5 To 7 An Interview With Guillermo Cabrera Infante

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

From 5 to 7: An Interview with Guillermo Cabrera Infante

Author(s): REGINA M. JANES and Guillermo Cabrera Infante

GCI (surveyinga verywet interviewer) : I reallymustapologizefor

thesun. But whatsortof interviewdo you have in mind? I am a much

couldn'twalk,he was thelast one to reach theborderand was turned

her,and I don't understandtheAmericancrushon ... Wertmüller,

lineswithoutsoundingvulgaris trulyuncanny.But thebest of thelot

interviewbecause I was askingsome thingsand he was answeringor

who is tryingto learn whatit's all about in a city,how to live, how to

almostthe same pornopublication(you wouldn't believe how many

605, Fracastoro'sfracaso.The book ends at the movies, on a cryptic

curiousabout war; thenbecause I felt,obscurely,thatit was myduty

growingsomeday, somehow; adolescence is simply a growing-up

occupied by differentfamilies,and rooms apparentlywithno doors

rememberat all. The nextI knewI was in a resthome on my bed; I

GCI: I simplykilled them.

whichhe did. Albertowas arrestedand senttoprison.His fatherwent

see myselflike thatat all. Not as precious,noteven as different, not

was elected by God to become a writer.(It so happens thatI don't

compete withso many thingsanyway,thatif theyhave to compete

1 Authorof MartinFierro,published 1872 (1834-86).

dictatorships,and you can't find writersin them either. There is

best book; Laurence Sternehad thewisdomto startlate, at 46, and to

material,and were able to writethewaytheydid in Paris or wherever

special, and thatnotjust anybodycan do it ifhe sitsdownand begins

You might also like