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| Julio and his cigarette. |
I’m rereading two books, one in Spanish that I read in the early 80s, Rayuela by Julio Cortázar and one I read in the 90s, The Color Purple by Alice Walker.
I have to say, I am actually enjoying them much more this second time around. I’m not much into rereading books, as I’m not much into watching movies more than once. Usually for me the second time I find less pleasure. I remember rereading Exodus by Leon Uris, my “mostest” favorite book in my teenage years. My first reading was in Spanish and I remember it made me cry more than once. The second time I read it in English and I didn’t find it as touching. I also wept like a baby when I watched Benigni’s Life is beautiful for the first time, while the second time it was still heart-breaking but I didn’t cry. This is why I do not want to watch Crash again. I went to the movies on my own and I found myself sobbing loudly. To me my tears were almost a purifying experience. I don’t want to see it again and find myself indifferent to its beauty and storytelling.
Anyway, that Cortázar, man, was he brilliant! Sometimes I wish we lived life like Oliveira does, with his acid and sharp intelligence that makes you analyze everything in life and then allows you to converse with your friends in a way that has depth and meaning. Oh man, when they talk about jazz and literature it’s no surprise La Maga feels stupid, who wouldn’t? I often find myself going back a couple of pages to try to figure out what the hell they’re talking about, coming out still confused and questioning.
My husband’s heroes are Cortázar and the Peruvian Vallejo. I read Rayuela before Raúl came into my life, but 62/Modelo para armar and Historias de famas y de cronopios I read because of Raúl. It’s because of him that I know about the poetic charge of dying on a rainy Thursday in Paris. Raúl has read all of Cortázar’s books and I believe Vallejo’s too.
Still, you know, when I try to imagine a reality like the one lived by Oliveira and the rest of The Serpent Club, I can see how unreal it is. Who like Horacio decides to stay with a mediocre pianist who believes herself to be a genius to the point where she accuses him of sexually accosting her? Who like Horacio stays with a homeless woman, gets drunk with her until she tries to fellate him? Come on, it’s pretty crazy. How can someone like Horacio discover that an infant is dead cold on a bed and does nothing or asks for help? I think these things happen in literature so you can acctually ask more philosophical and existential stuff that I’m probably too stupid to think about, much less ask. But I do recognize Cortázar’s brilliance. Because of him and with him (very happily) I’ve walked blocks and blocks with Oliveira through the rainy Paris nights, while he questions the world with his intelligence that just goes on and on. I’ve felt as lonely and dumb as La Maga, and I’ve identified with her, while feeling totally in awe and at a disadvantage of Horacio and Ossip and Etienne the rest of those cultured bohemians and their surrealism, their stream of consciousness and all that merde.
Of course, The Color Purple is a sadder experience. It talks about another world, a world that sadly seems to me to be more immediate, real and more true than Oliveira’s. It’s a world I can relate to better. I feel that I am or can be an inhabitant of The Color Purple. I’m familiar with its characters and their flaws and their stories. It’s a world somehow known by me. Perhaps, it is my bones and my genes that remember a world like Celie’s.
I’m hoping my daughter will find an opportunity to read these masterpieces soon. That is how much they are worth it.
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