Finds: Federico Guzmán Rubio
After taking a good look at the shelf where he keeps his most cherished books, albums and movies, this is what Mexican writer Federico Guzmán Rubio decided to share with us.
El traductor, by Salvador Benesdra
You have to be careful with Argentinians: every three months they announce with great ceremony the arrival of a new masterpiece which, once read, turns out to be similar to books published anywhere else: Chile, Spain, Bolivia. But they’re strange, Argentinians, for when a masterpiece truly comes out of their country, apart from a few exceptions, they don’t seem to notice. That’s exactly what happened with El traductor, by Salvador Benesdra.
It’s very tempting to speak of Benesdra’s life, a firm candidate to the pantheon of legendary cursed writers, with lunacy and suicide included. But let’s talk instead about the novel, which doesn’t need its author’s biography to become a myth, whether a foundational or closing one, since it didn’t start or end any traditions within Argentinian and Latin American literature, but rather became a part of them like a bomb that should’ve made everything explode but is still there, ticking. The novel recounts the life of Ricardo Zevi or, more accurately, its dismantling and resulting normalization. Zevi works as a translator in a “progressive” publishing house and he’s first witness to and then victim of the changes implemented by the new administration, which has decided to balance the accounts, modernize, and have a more, let’s say, “proactive” attitude. Does this ring a bell? At the same time, Zevi, a secular Jew and a macho porteño (like the ones from yesteryear?), meets Romina, from Salta, protestant and frigid, and they begin a relationship. While neoliberalism triumphs throughout the world, Zevi discovers his interest in certain sexual perversions, and Romina agrees to everything her partner demands, always in search of God, the orgasm, and social ascent, in that order. The ending, and I won’t get into details, is disquietingly happy.
What stands out in El traductor is its monumentality and ambition, the insolently lyrical and rational style, its interpretative and critical will, the courage with which it takes on its plot, theory, and reality. The novel, Benesdra—a collector of lost battles—tells us, doesn’t have to be trivial, miniscule and subtle.
Beyond the novel’s unquestionably high quality, one is drawn to its themes’ current relevance. It’s said that no one paints a more accurate picture of the decade of the ‘90s in Argentina. This is undoubtedly true. But this goes beyond the ‘90s and Argentina; Benesdra, who died in 1996, is the writer who has best understood what we carry of that century everywhere, both in the present and the immediate future (if we’re optimists). There are books that are also prophecies and this one, unfortunately, is one of those. We’re still immersed in the pages of El traductor, who knows if closer to the beginning or the end. Perhaps, when we leave it and it shows us, finally, our past, Benesdra will have the place he deserves: that of an enlightened yet reasonable individual.
In a literature like that of Argentina, rich in antinovels, little novels, novelettes, novels made up of prologues, puzzle novels, gaucho novels, nouveau roman novels, essay novels, and conceptual novels, but not rich in just plain novels, like that, on their own, it can certainly be said that El traductor is the best novel of all its kind in history.
I’m not one for bookish fetishism except, among a few cases, with my edition of El traductor. I bought it, like the instructions say, at night, alone, in a bookstore on Corrientes Street, my mouth dirty with chorizo and fernet foam (no pun intended). I read it voraciously in a hotel room. The book, published by Ediciones de la flor and financed by friends and relatives, had been for years unfindable. I lent it to a couple of friends who didn’t know how to appreciate it, thank God, and gave it back to me. Now that Eterna Cadencia is putting out a new edition, I don’t lend it to anyone. Don’t ask me for it, I’m letting you know. Whoever wants to read it will have to buy a copy. You’ll thank me.
Finds:
[Adrés Burgos: No]
[Esteban Mayorga: Neighbors]
[Juan Álvarez: Pueblo alimaña]
[Diego Erlan: Últimos días de Sexton y Blake]
[Rodrigo Blanco Calderón: Maten al león]
[Ricardo Silva Romero: Girls]
[Betina González: Sweet Days of Discipline]
El traductor, by Salvador Benesdra
You have to be careful with Argentinians: every three months they announce with great ceremony the arrival of a new masterpiece which, once read, turns out to be similar to books published anywhere else: Chile, Spain, Bolivia. But they’re strange, Argentinians, for when a masterpiece truly comes out of their country, apart from a few exceptions, they don’t seem to notice. That’s exactly what happened with El traductor, by Salvador Benesdra.
It’s very tempting to speak of Benesdra’s life, a firm candidate to the pantheon of legendary cursed writers, with lunacy and suicide included. But let’s talk instead about the novel, which doesn’t need its author’s biography to become a myth, whether a foundational or closing one, since it didn’t start or end any traditions within Argentinian and Latin American literature, but rather became a part of them like a bomb that should’ve made everything explode but is still there, ticking. The novel recounts the life of Ricardo Zevi or, more accurately, its dismantling and resulting normalization. Zevi works as a translator in a “progressive” publishing house and he’s first witness to and then victim of the changes implemented by the new administration, which has decided to balance the accounts, modernize, and have a more, let’s say, “proactive” attitude. Does this ring a bell? At the same time, Zevi, a secular Jew and a macho porteño (like the ones from yesteryear?), meets Romina, from Salta, protestant and frigid, and they begin a relationship. While neoliberalism triumphs throughout the world, Zevi discovers his interest in certain sexual perversions, and Romina agrees to everything her partner demands, always in search of God, the orgasm, and social ascent, in that order. The ending, and I won’t get into details, is disquietingly happy.
What stands out in El traductor is its monumentality and ambition, the insolently lyrical and rational style, its interpretative and critical will, the courage with which it takes on its plot, theory, and reality. The novel, Benesdra—a collector of lost battles—tells us, doesn’t have to be trivial, miniscule and subtle.
Beyond the novel’s unquestionably high quality, one is drawn to its themes’ current relevance. It’s said that no one paints a more accurate picture of the decade of the ‘90s in Argentina. This is undoubtedly true. But this goes beyond the ‘90s and Argentina; Benesdra, who died in 1996, is the writer who has best understood what we carry of that century everywhere, both in the present and the immediate future (if we’re optimists). There are books that are also prophecies and this one, unfortunately, is one of those. We’re still immersed in the pages of El traductor, who knows if closer to the beginning or the end. Perhaps, when we leave it and it shows us, finally, our past, Benesdra will have the place he deserves: that of an enlightened yet reasonable individual.
In a literature like that of Argentina, rich in antinovels, little novels, novelettes, novels made up of prologues, puzzle novels, gaucho novels, nouveau roman novels, essay novels, and conceptual novels, but not rich in just plain novels, like that, on their own, it can certainly be said that El traductor is the best novel of all its kind in history.
I’m not one for bookish fetishism except, among a few cases, with my edition of El traductor. I bought it, like the instructions say, at night, alone, in a bookstore on Corrientes Street, my mouth dirty with chorizo and fernet foam (no pun intended). I read it voraciously in a hotel room. The book, published by Ediciones de la flor and financed by friends and relatives, had been for years unfindable. I lent it to a couple of friends who didn’t know how to appreciate it, thank God, and gave it back to me. Now that Eterna Cadencia is putting out a new edition, I don’t lend it to anyone. Don’t ask me for it, I’m letting you know. Whoever wants to read it will have to buy a copy. You’ll thank me.
Finds:
[Adrés Burgos: No]
[Esteban Mayorga: Neighbors]
[Juan Álvarez: Pueblo alimaña]
[Diego Erlan: Últimos días de Sexton y Blake]
[Rodrigo Blanco Calderón: Maten al león]
[Ricardo Silva Romero: Girls]
[Betina González: Sweet Days of Discipline]
