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The

 Latin  American  Novel:  


Testimony  of  an  Epoch  
Miguel  Ángel  Asturias  
12  December  1967  
 

I  would  have  preferred  this  meeting  to  have  been  called  a  colloquium  
instead   of   lecture   –   a   dialogue   of   doubts   and   assertions   on   the   subject   that  
concerns   us.   Let   us   start   by   analysing   the   antecedents   of   Latin   American  
literature  in  general,  focusing  our  attention  on  those  aspects  that  have  most  
connection  with  the  novel.  Let  us  follow  the  sources  back  to  the  millenarian  
origins   of   indigenous   literature   in   its   three   great   moments:   Maya,   Aztec   and  
Inca.  

The   following   question   arises:   Was   there   something   resembling   the  


novel  among  the  indigenous  peoples?  I  believe  there  was.  The  history  of  the  
original  cultures  of  Latin  America  has  more  of  what  we  in  the  western  world  
call   the   novel   than   of   history.   It   is   necessary   to   bear   in   mind   that   the   books   of  
their  history  –  their  novels  we  would  now  say  –  were  painted  by  the  Aztecs  
and   Mayas   and   preserved   in   a   figurative   form   which   we   still   do   not   under-­‐
stand  by  the  Incas.  This  assumes  the  use  of  pictograms  in  which  the  voice  of  
the  reader  –  the  indigenous  do  not  distinguish  between  reading  and  reciting  
since  for   them   it   is   the   same   thing  –  recited  the  text  to   the   listeners   in   song  
form.  

The   reader,   reciting   stories   or   ‘great   language’,   the   only   person   who  
understood   what   the   pictograms   meant,   carried   out   an   interpretation,  
recreating   them   for   the   enlightenment   of   those   who   listened.   Later,   these  
painted  stories  become  fixed  in  the  memory  of  the  listeners  and  pass  in  oral  
form  from  generation  to  generation  until  the  alphabet  brought  by  the  Spanish  
fixes  them  in  their  native  tongues  with  Latin  characters  or  directly  in  Spanish.  
In   this   way   indigenous   texts   come   to   our   knowledge   with   very   little   exposure  
to  European  corruption.  The  reading  of  these  documents  is  what  has  allowed  
us  to  affirm  that,  among  the  native  Americans,  history  has  more  of  the  charac-­‐
teristics   of   the   novel   than   of   history.   They   are   accounts   in   which   reality   is  
dissolved   in   fable,   legend,   the   trappings   of   beauty   and   in   which   the   imagin-­‐
ation,  by  dint  of  describing  all  the  reality  that  it  contains,  ends  up  re-­‐creating  
a  reality  that  we  might  call  surrealist.  
This  characteristic  of  the  annulment  of  reality  through  imagination  and  
the  re-­‐creation  of  a  more  transcendental  reality  is  combined  with  a  constant  
annulment   of   time   and   space   as   well   as   something   more   significant:   the   use  
and   abuse   of   parallel   expressions,   i.e.   the   parallel   use   of   different   words   to  
designate   the   same   object,   to   convey   the   same   idea   and   express   the   same  
feelings.  I  wish  to  draw  attention  to  this  point  –  the  parallelism  in  the  indigen-­‐
ous   texts   allows   an   exercise   of   nuances   that   we   find   hard   to   appreciate   but  
which   undoubtedly   permitted   a   poetic   gradation   destined   to   induce   certain  
states  of  consciousness  which  were  taken  to  be  magic.  

If  we  return  to  the  theme  of  the  origin  of  a  literary  genre,  similar  to  the  
novel,   among   the   pre-­‐Colombian   peoples   it   is   necessary   to   link   the   birth   of  
this  novel  form  with  the  epic.  The  heroic  legend,  exceeding  the  possibilities  of  
historical  fiction,  was  sung  by  the  rhapsodists  –  the  great  voices  of  the  tribes  
or   ‘cuicanimes’   who   toured   the   cities   reciting   the   texts   in   order   that   the  
beauty   of   their   songs   would   be   disseminated   among   the   peoples   like   the  
golden  blood  of  their  gods.  

These  epic  songs  that  are  so  abundant  in  pre-­‐Columbian  literature,  and  
so   little   known,   possess   what   we   call   ‘fictional   plot’   and   what   the   Spanish  
friars  and  missionaries  termed  ‘tricks’.  

These   fictional   tales   were   originally   the   testimony   of   past   epochs;   the  
memory   and   fame   of   high   deeds   that   others   on   hearing   would   desire   to  
emulate,   this   literature   of   reality   and   fable   is   broken   in   the   instant   of   servi-­‐
tude   and   remains   as   one   of   the   many   broken   vessels   of   those   great   civilisa-­‐
tions.  Other  narratives  will  follow  –  in  this  same  documentary  form  –  recount-­‐
ing  not  the  evidence  of  greatness  but  of  misery,  not  the  testimony  of  liberty  
but   of   slavery,   no   longer   the   statements   of   the   masters   but   those   of   the  
subjects  and  a  new,  emerging  American  literature  attempting  to  fill  the  empty  
silences  of  an  epoch.  

However,  the  literary  genres  that  flourished  in  the  Iberian  peninsulas  –  
the  realistic  novel  and  the  theatre  –  were  not  to  put  down  roots  here.  On  the  
contrary,  it  is  the  indigenous  effervescence,  the  sap  and  the  blood,  river,  sea  
and   mirage   that   affects   the   first   Spaniard   to   write   the   first   great   American  
‘novel’  for  the  ‘True  Story  of  the  Events  of  the  Conquest  of  New  Spain’  written  
by  Bernal  Diaz  del  Castillo  deserves  to  be  called  no  less.  Is  it  not  rather  bold  to  
describe  as  a  ‘novel’  what  that  soldier  called  not  history  but  ‘true  history’?  But  
are   not   novels   frequently   the   true   history?   I   repeat   the   question:   is   it   really  
boldness  to  describe  as  a  novel  the  work  of  this  illustrious  chronicler?  

To   those   who   might   call   me   daring   in   my   description   I   would   invite  


them   to   enter   the   cadenced   and   panting   prose   of   this   versatile   foot   soldier  
and   they   will   notice   how   –   on   entering   into   it   –   they   gradually   forget   that  

  2  
what   happened   was   reality   and   it   will   seem   to   them   increasingly   a   work   of  
pure   imagination.   Indeed,   even   Bernal   himself   says   no   less,   next   to   the   very  
walls   of   Tenochtitlan:   “this   seemed   to   be   the   work   of   enchantment   that   is  
recounted  in  the  book  of  Amadis!”  But  this  is  the  work  of  a  Spaniard  –  it  will  
be  said  –  although  the  only  thing  Spanish  about  it  is  its  having  been  written  by  
a   ‘peninsular’   resident   in   Santiago   de   los   Caballeros   de   Guatemala   –   where  
that   glorious   manuscript   is   kept   –   and   its   having   been   composed   in   the   old  
language  of  Castile  although  it  partakes  of  that  masquerade  characteristic  of  
indigenous   literature.   To   Don   Marcelino   Menendez   y   Pelayo   –   this   expert   in  
classic  Spanish  literature  –  the  taste  of  this  prose  is  strange  and  the  fact  that  it  
has   been   written   by   a   soldier   he   finds   surprising.   It   escapes   this   eminent  
writer   that   Bernal,   at   the   age   of   eighty,   had   not   only   heard   many   texts   of  
indigenous   literature   being   recited,   being   influenced   by   it,   but   through   osmo-­‐
sis  had  absorbed  America  and  had  already  become  American.  

But   there   is   another   more   impressive   parenthesis.   In   their   last   sorrow-­‐


ful   cantos   the   indigenous   peoples   –   now   subjugated   –   call   for   justice   and  
Bernal   Diaz   Castillo   expresses   his   deepest   feelings   in   a   chronicle   which   is   a  
howl   of   protest   at   the   oblivion   into   which   they   fell   after   being   “fought   and  
conquered.”  

As  from  this  moment,  all  Latin  American  literature,  in  song  and  novel,  
not  only  becomes  a  testimony  for  each  epoch  but  also,  as  stated  by  the  Vene-­‐
zuelan   writer   Arturo   Uslar   Pietri,   an   “instrument   of   struggle”.   All   the   great  
literature   is   one   of   testimony   and   vindication,   but   far   from   being   a   cold  
dossier   these   are   moving   pages   written   by   one   conscious   of   his   power   to  
impress  and  convince.  

Will  the  south  give  us  a  mestizo?  The  mestizo  par  excellence  since  –  in  
order  for  nothing  to  be  lacking  –  he  was  the  first  American  exile:  Inca  Garci-­‐
laso.   This   Creole   exile   follows   the   indigenous   voices   already   extinguished   in  
his   denunciation   of   the   oppressors   of   Peru.   The   Inca   offers   us   in   his   magni-­‐
ficent   prose   not   only   the   native   American   –   nor   only   the   Spanish   –   but   the  
mixture  materialised  in  the  fusion  of  the  bloods,  and  in  the  same  demand  for  
life  and  justice.  

To  start  with  nobody  discerns  the  ‘message’  in  the  prose  of  Inca.  This  
will   be   clarified   during   the   struggle   for   independence.   Inca   will   then   appear  
with  the  dignity  of  the  Indian  that  knew  how  to  make  fun  of  the  empire  of  “the  
two   knives”   –   that   is   to   say   civil   and   ecclesiastical   censorship.   The   Spanish  
authorities,   slow   to   fathom   the   message   containing   so   much   spirit,   imagin-­‐
ation  and  melancholy,  wisely  order  the  confiscation  of  the  story  of  Inca  Garci-­‐
laso  where  the  Indians  have  “learned  so  many  dangerous  things.”  

  3  
Not  only  poetry  and  works  of  fiction  bear  witness.  The  least  expected  
authors   such   as   Francisco   Javier   Clavijero,   Francisco   Javier   Alegre,   Andres  
Calvo,   Manuel   Fabri,   Andres   de   Guevara   gave   birth   to   a   literature   of   exiles  
which  is  –  and  will  continue  to  be  –  a  testimony  of  its  epoch.  

Even   the   Guatemalan   poet   Rafael   Landívar   has   his   form   of   rebellion.  
His   protest   is   silence   –   he   calls   the   Spanish   ‘Hispani’   without   qualifying   the  
adjective.   We   refer   to   Landívar   because,   despite   being   the   least   known,   he  
should   be   considered   the   standard   bearer   of   American   literature   as   the  
authentic   expression   of   our   lands,   our   people   and   landscapes.   According   to  
Pedro   Henriquez-­‐Urena,   “among   the   poets   of   the   Spanish   colonies   he   is   the  
first  master  of  landscape,  the  first  to  break  definitively  with  the  conventions  
of   the   Renaissance   and   discover   the   characteristic   features   of   nature   in   the  
New  World  –  its  flora  and  fauna,  its  countryside  and  mountains,  its  lakes  and  
waterfalls.   In   his   descriptions   of   customs,   of   the   crafts   and   the   games   there   is  
an   amusing   vivacity   and   –   throughout   the   poem   –   a   deep   sympathy   and  
understanding  of  the  survival  of  the  original  cultures.”  

In  1781  in  Modena,  Italy,  there  appeared  under  the  title  of  ‘Rusticatio  
Mexicana’  a  poetic  work  of  3,425  Latin  hexameters,  in  10  cantos,  written  by  
Rafael  Landívar.  One  year  later  in  Bologna  the  second  edition  appeared.  The  
poet  called  by  Menendez  y  Pelayo  ‘the  Virgil  of  the  modern  age’  proclaimed  to  
the  Europeans  the  excellence  of  the  land,  the  life  and  the  peoples  of  America.  
He  was  concerned  for  the  people  of  the  Old  World  to  know  that  E1  Jorullo,  a  
Mexican  volcano,  could  rival  Vesuvius  and  Etna,  that  the  waterfalls  and  caves  
of  San  Pedro  Martir  in  Guatemala  were  the  equals  of  the  famous  fountains  of  
Castalia  and  Aretusa  and  referring  to  the  cenzontle  –  the  bird  whose  song  has  
400  tones  –  he  elevated  it  above  the  realm  of  the  nightingale.  

He  sings  the  praises  of  the  countryside,  of  the  gold  and  silver  that  was  
filling   the   world   with   valuable   coins   and   the   sugar   loaves   offered   at   royal  
tables.  

His   poem   is   not   short   of   statistics   concerning   the   riches   of   America.   He  


cites  the  droves  of  cattle,  the  flocks  of  sheep,  the  herds  of  goats  and  pigs,  the  
sources   of   medicinal   waters,   the   popular   games   –   some   unknown   in   Europe   –  
and  he  does  not  hide  the  glory  of  the  cocoa  and  chocolate  of  Guatemala.  But  
there   is   something   that   we   should   be   aware   of   in   the   song   of   Landivar;  
namely   his   love   of   the   indigenous.   The   Indian,   for   Landivar,   is   the   race   that  
succeeds   in   everything,   he   describes   the   marvels   of   the   floating   gardens  
created  by  the  Indians,  he  holds  them  up  as  examples  of  charm  and  skill  with-­‐
out  forgetting  their  great  sufferings.  In  this  way  he  imparts  poetic  substance  –  
in   naturalistic   poetry   far   from   symbolism   –   to   a   fact   that   has   always   been  
denied:   the   superiority   of   the   American   Indian   as   farmer,   as   craftsman   and  
worker.  
  4  
To   the   image   of   the   bad   Indian,   lazy   and   immoral   that   was   so   widely  
propagated   in   Europe   and   accepted   in   America   by   those   who   exploit   it  
Landívar  opposes  the  picture  of  the  Indian  on  whose  shoulders  has  weighed  –  
and  continues  to  weigh  –  the  burden  of  labour  in  America.  And  he  does  not  do  
it   by   simply   stating   it   –   in   which   case   we   would   have   the   right   or   not   of  
believing   it.   In   his   poem   we   see   the   Indian   on   board   his   charming   canoe,  
transporting   his   goods   or   travelling   and   we   admire   him   extracting   the   purple  
and   scarlet,   laying   out   the   snowy   worms   that   produce   the   silk,   holding   on  
stubbornly   to   the   rocks   in   order   to   remove   the   beautiful   shellfish,   patiently  
and   doggedly   ploughing,   cultivating   the   indigo   plant,   extracting   the   silver  
from  his  native  mines,  exhausting  the  golden  veins...  The  Rusticatio  of  Landí-­‐
var   confirms   what   we   have   said   of   the   great   American   literature   –   it   cannot  
accept  a  passive  role  while  on  our  soil  a  famished  people  live  in  these  abun-­‐
dant  lands.  In  its  content  it  is  a  form  of  novel  in  verse.  

Fifty  years  later,  Andres  Bello  was  to  renovate  the  American  adventure  
in   his   famous   ‘Silva’,   an   immortal   and   perfect   work   in   which   the   nature   of   the  
New  World  appears  again  with  maize  the  leader  –  as  haughty  chief  of  the  corn  
tribe  –  the  cacao  in  ‘coral  urns’,  the  coffee  plants,  the  banana,  the  tropics  in  all  
their   vegetable   and   animal   power,   contrasting   the   impoverished   inhabitant  
with  this  grandiose  vision  ‘of  the  rich  soil.’  

Bello   recalls   Inca   Garcilaso   in   his   role   as   an   exile,   he   is   of   the   American  


lineage   of   Landívar,   both   represent   the   brilliant   start   of   the   great   American  
odyssey  in  world  literature.  As  from  this  moment  the  image  of  nature  in  the  
New  World  will  awake  in  Europe  an  interest  but  it  will  never  attain  the  incan-­‐
descent  fidelity  that  is  achieved  in  the  work  of  Landívar  and  Bello.  A  distorted  
vision   of   the   marvels   is   offered   us   by   Chateaubriand   in   ‘Atala’   and   ‘Les  
Natchez’.  

For   the   Europeans   nature   is   a   background   without   the   gravitational  


force  achieved  by  Creole  romanticism.  The  romantics  give  nature  a  perman-­‐
ent   presence   in   the   creations   of   poets   and   novelists   of   the   epoch.   This   is  
exemplified  by  José  Maria  de  Heredia  singing  of  the  Niagara  Falls  and  Estaban  
Echeverria  describing  the  desert  in  ‘La  Cautiva’  to  mention  just  two.  

Latin   American   romanticism   was   not   only   a   literary   school   but   a  


patriotic   flag.   Poets,   historians   and   novelists   divide   their   days   and   nights  
between   political   activities   and   dreaming   their   creations.   Never   has   it   been  
more  beautiful  to  be  a  poet  in  America!  Amongst  the  poets  influenced  by  the  
Patria  converted  in  Muse  are  José  Mármol,  author  of  one  of  the  most  widely  
read   novels   in   Latin   America   –   ‘Amalia’.   The   pages   of   this   book   have   been  
turned  by  our  febrile  and  sweaty  fingers  when  we  suffered  in  our  very  bones  
the  dictatorships  that  have  plagued  Central  America.  The  critics,  when  refer-­‐
ring  to  the  novel  of  Mármol,  point  out  inconsistencies  and  carelessness  with-­‐
  5  
out  realising  that  a  work  of  this  type  is  written  with  a  madly  beating  heart  –  
pulsations   that   leave   in   the   sentence,   in   the   paragraph,   on   the   page   that  
abnormal  heartbeat  reflecting  the  distortion  of  the  life  force  that  troubled  the  
entire  country.  We  are  in  the  presence  of  one  of  the  most  passionate  examples  
of  the  American  novel.  Despite  the  years  ‘Amelia’  –  the  imprecations  of  José,  
Mármol  –  continue  to  move  readers  to  such  an  extent  as  to  represent  an  act  of  
faith.  

It  is  at  this  very  moment  that  the  voice  of  Sarmiento  is  heard  posing  his  
famous   dilemma   at   the   threshold   of   the   century:   ‘civilisation   or   barbarism’.  
Indeed,   Sarmiento   himself   will   be   startled   when   he   becomes   aware   that  
‘Facundo’  turns  his  arms  against  him  and  against  everyone,  declaring  himself  
to   be   the   authentic   representative   of   Creole   America,   of   the   America   that  
refuses  to  die  and  attempts  to  break  –  with  a  breast  already  hardened  –  the  
antithetical   scheme   of   civilisation   and   barbarism   in   order   to   find   between  
these   two   extremes   the   point   where   the   American   peoples   are   able   to   find  
their  authentic  personality  with  their  own  essential  values.  

In  the  middle  of  the  last  century  another  romantic,  no  less  passionate,  
appears   in   Guatemala:   José   Batres   Montúfar.   In   the   midst   of   tales   of   festive  
character   the   reader   feels   that   he   should   forget   the   fiesta   to   listen   to   the  
poetry.  The  immortal  José  Batres  Montúfar,  with  abundant  charm  tinged  with  
bitterness,   was   able   to   get   to   the   core   of   issues   that   already   –   in   the   middle   of  
the  past  century  –  were  highly  charged.  

Another   voice   was   to   ring   out   from   north   to   south,   that   of   José   Martí.  
His  presence  was  felt,  whether  as  an  exile  or  in  his  beloved  Cuba,  the  fre  of  his  
speech  as  poet  or  journalist  being  combined  with  the  example  of  his  sacrifice.  

The  20th  century  is  full  of  poets,  poets  that  have  nothing  more  to  say  
with   very   few   exceptions.   Among   the   latter   stand   out   the   immortal   Rubén  
Darío   and   Juan   Ramón   Molina   from   Honduras.   The   poets   flee   from   reality,  
maybe   because   this   is   one   of   the   ways   of   being   a   poet.   But   there   is   nothing  
living  in  much  of  their  work  which  instead  tend  towards  garrulity.  

They  are  ignorant  of  the  clear  lesson  of  the  native  rhapsodists,  they  are  
forgetful   of   the   colonial   craftsmen   of   our   great   literature,   satisfied   with   the  
bloodless   imitation   of   the   poetry   of   other   latitudes   and   ridicule   those   who  
sang  the  bold  gestures  of  the  liberation  struggle,  considering  them  dazzled  by  
a  local  patriotism.  

It  is  only  when  the  First  World  War  is  passed  that  a  handful  of  men  –  
men   and   artists   –   embark   on   the   reconquest   of   their   own   tradition.   In   their  
encounter   with   the   indigenous   peoples   they   drop   anchor   in   their   Spanish  

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home   port   and   return   with   the   message   that   they   have   to   deliver   to   the  
future.  

Latin  American  literature  will  be  reborn  under  other  signs  –  no  longer  
that  of  verse.  Now  the  prose  is  tactile,  plural  and  irreverent  in  its  attitude  to  
conventions  –  to  serve  the  purpose  of  this  new  crusade  whose  first  move  was  
to  plunge  into  reality  not  so  as  to  objectify  but  rather  to  penetrate  the  facts  in  
order   to   identify   fully   with   the   problems   of   humanity.   Nothing   human   –  
nothing   which   is   real   –   will   be   foreign   to   this   literature   inspired   by   contact  
with  America.  And  this  is  the  case  of  the  Latin  American  novel.  Nobody  doubts  
that  the  Latin  American  novel  is  at  the  leading  edge  of  its  genre  in  the  world.  
It   is   cultivated   in   all   our   countries,   by   writers   of   different   tendencies,   which  
means   that   in   the   novel   everything   is   forged   from   American   material   –   the  
human  witness  of  our  historic  moment.  

We,  the  Latin  American  novelists  of  today,  working  within  the  tradition  
of   engagement   with   our   peoples   which   has   enabled   our   great   literature   to  
develop   –   our   poetry   of   substance   –   also   have   to   reclaim   lands   for   our  
dispossessed,  mines  for  our  exploited  workers,  to  raise  demands  in  favour  of  
the   masses   who   perish   in   the   plantations,   who   are   scorched   by   the   sun   in   the  
banana   fields,   who   turn   into   human   bagasse   in   the   sugar   refineries.   It   is   for  
this  reason  that  –  for  me  –  the  authentic  Latin  American  novel  is  the  call  for  
all   these   things,   it   is   the   cry   that   echoes   down   the   centuries   and   is  
pronounced  in  thousands  of  pages.  A  novel  that  is  genuinely  ours;  determined  
and  loyal  –  in  its  pages  –  to  the  cause  of  the  human  spirit,  to  the  fists  of  our  
workers,   to   the   sweat   of   our   rural   peasants,   to   the   pain   for   our   under-­‐
nourished  children;  calling  for  the  blood  and  the  sap  of  our  vast  lands  to  run  
once  more  towards  the  seas  to  enrich  our  burgeoning  new  cities.  

This  novel  shares  –  consciously  or  unconsciously  –  the  characteristics  


of  the  indigenous  texts;  their  freshness  and  power,  the  numismatic  anguish  in  
the   eyes   of   the   Creoles   who   awaited   the   dawn   in   the   colonial   night,   more  
luminous   however   than   this   night   that   threatens   us   now.   Above   all,   it   is   the  
affirmation   of   the   optimism   of   those   writers   that   defied   the   Inquisition,  
opening   a   breach   in   the   conscience   of   the   people   for   the   march   of   the  
Liberators.  

The  Latin  American  novel,  our  novel,  cannot  betray  the  great  spirit  that  
has   shaped   –   and   continues   to   shape   –   all   our   great   literature.   If   you   write  
novels   merely   to   entertain   –   then   burn   them!   This   might   be   the   message  
delivered   with   evangelical   fervour   since   if   you   do   not   burn   them   they   will  
anyway   be   erased   from   the   memory   of   the   people   where   a   poet   or   novelist  
should   aspire   to   remain.   Just   consider   how   many   writers   there   have   been  
who  –  down  the  ages  –  have  written  novels  to  entertain!  And  who  remembers  

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them   now?   On   the   other   hand,   how   easy   it   is   to   repeat   the   names   of   those  
amongst  us  who  have  written  to  bear  witness.  

To  bear  witness.  The  novelist  bears  witness  like  the  apostle.  Like  Paul  
trying   to   escape,   the   writer   is   confronted   with   the   pathetic   reality   of   the  
world  that  surrounds  him  –  the  stark  reality  of  our  countries  that  overwhelms  
and  blinds  us  and,  throwing  us  to  our  knees,  forces  us  to  shout  out:  WHY  DO  
YOU   PERSECUTE   ME?   Yes,   we   are   persecuted   by   this   reality   that   we   cannot  
deny,   which   is   lived   in   the   flesh   by   the   people   of   the   Mexican   revolution,  
embodied   in   persons   such   as   Mariano   Azuela,   Agustin   Yanez   and   Juan   Rulfo  
whose  convictions  are  as  sharp  as  a  knife;  those  who  share  with  Jorge  Icaza,  
Ciro   Alegría,   Jesús   Lara   the   shout   of   protest   against   the   exploitation   and  
abandonment  of  the  Indian;  those  who  with  Romulo  Gallegos  in  ‘Done  Bábara’  
create  for  us  our  Prometheus.  Here  is  Horacio  Quiroga  who  frees  us  from  the  
nightmare  of  the  tropics,  a  nightmare  that  is  as  peculiar  to  him  as  his  style  is  
American.  ‘Los  ros  profundos’  of  José  María  Arguedas,  the  ‘Rio  oscuro’  of  the  
Argentinian   Alfredo   Varela,   ‘Hijo   de   hombre’   of   the   Paraguayan   Roa   Bastos  
and  ‘La  ciudad  y  los  perros’  of  the  Peruvian  Vargas  Llosa  make  us  see  how  the  
life-­‐blood  of  the  working  people  is  drained  in  our  lands.  

Mancisidor  takes  us  to  the  oil  fields  to  which  are  drawn  –  leaving  their  
homes  –  the  inhabitants  of  ‘Cases  muertas’  of  Miguel  Otero  Silva...  David  Vinas  
confronts   us   with   the   tragic   Patagonia,   Enrique   Wernicke   sweeps   us   along  
with   the   waters   that   overwhelm   whole   communities   while   Verbitsky   and  
María   de   Jesús   lead   us   to   the   miserable   shanty   towns,   the   Dantesque   and  
subhuman  quarters  of  our  great  cities...  

Teitelboim   in   ‘E1   hijo   del   salitre’   tells   us   of   the   gruelling   work   in   the  
saltpetre  mines  while  Nicomedes  Guzman  makes  us  share  in  the  lives  of  the  
children  in  the  Chilean  working  class  districts.  We  feel  the  countryside  of  E1  
Salvador   in   ‘Jaragua’   of   Napoleón   Rodríguez   Ruiz   and   our   small   villages   in  
‘Cenizas   del   Izalco’   of   Flakol   and   Clarivel   Alegria.   We   cannot   think   of   the  
pampas  without  speaking  of   ‘Don  Segundo  Sombra’  by  Guiraldes  nor  speak  of  
the   jungle   without   ‘La   voragine’   of   Eustasio   Rivera,   nor   of   the   Negroes:  
without  Jorge  Amado,  nor  of  the  Brazilian  plains  without  the  ‘Gran  Sertao’  of  
Guimaraes  Rosa,  nor  of  the  plains  of  Venezuela  without  Ramón  Díaz  Sánchez.  

Our   books   do   not   search   for   a   sensationalist   or   horrifying   effect   in  


order  to  secure  a  place  for  us  in  the  republic  of  letters.  We  are  human  beings  
linked  by  blood,  geography  and  life  to  those  hundreds,  thousands,  millions  of  
Latin   Americans   that   suffer   misery   in   our   opulent   and   rich   American  
continent.  Our  novels  attempt  to  mobilise  across  the  world  the  moral  forces  
that   have   to   help   us   defend   those   people.   The   mestizo   process   was   already  
advanced   in   our   literature   and   in   rediscovering   America   it   lent   a   human  
dimension   to   the   grandiose   nature   of   the   continent.   But   this   is   a   nature  
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neither  for  the  gods  as  in  the  texts  of  the  Indians,  nor  a  nature  for  heroes  as  in  
the  writings  of  the  romantics,  but  a  nature  for  men  and  women  in  which  the  
human  problems  will  be  addressed  again  with  vigour  and  audacity.  

As  true  Latin  Americans  the  beauty  of  expression  excites  us  and  –  for  
this  reason  –  each  one  of  our  novels  is  a  verbal  feat.  Alchemy  is  at  work.  We  
know   it.   It   is   no   easy   task   to   understand   in   the   executed   work   all   the   effort  
and  determination  invested  in  the  materials  used  –  the  words.  

Yes,   I   say   words   –   but   by   what   laws   and   rules   they   have   been   trans-­‐
formed!  They  have  been  set  as  the  pulse  of  worlds  in  formation.  They  ring  like  
wood,  like  metals.  This  is  onomatopoeia.  In  the  adventure  of  our  language  the  
first   aspect   that   demands   attention   is   onomatopoeia.   How   many   echoes   –  
composed  or  disintegrated  –  of  our  landscape,  our  nature  are  to  be  found  in  
our   words,   our   sentences.   The   novelist   embarks   on   a   verbal   adventure,   an  
instinctive  use  of  words.  One  is  guided  along  by  sounds.  One  listens,  listens  to  
the  characters.  

Our   best   novels   do   not   seem   to   have   been   written   but   spoken.   There   is  
verbal   dynamics   in   the   poetry   enclosed   in   the   very   word   itself   and   that   is  
revealed  first  as  sound  and  afterwards  as  concept.  

This   is   why   the   great   Spanish   American   novels   are   vibrantly   musical   in  
the  convulsion  of  the  birth  of  all  the  things  that  are  born  with  them.  

The   adventure   continues   in   the   confluence   of   the   languages.   Amongst  


the   languages   spoken   by   the   people,   in   which   the   Indian   languages   are  
represented,   there   is   an   admixture   of   the   European   and   Oriental   languages  
brought  by  the  immigrants  to  America.  

Another   language   is   going   to   rain   its   sparkle   over   sounds   and   words.  
The  language  of  images.  Our  novels  seem  to  be  written  not  only  with  words  
but   with   images.   Quite   a   few   people   when   reading   our   novels   see   them  
cinematically.   And   this   is   not   because   they   pursue   a   dramatic   statement   of  
independence   but   because   our   novelists   are   engaged   in   universalising   the  
voice  of  their  peoples  with  a  language  rich  in  sounds,  rich  in  fable  and  rich  in  
images.  

This  is  not  a  language  artificially  created  to  provide  scope  for  the  play  
of   the   imagination   or   so-­‐called   poetic   prose;   it   is   a   vivid   language   that  
preserves  in  its  popular  speech  all  the  lyricism,  the  imagination,  the  grace,  the  
high-­‐spiritidness  that  characterise  the  language  of  the  Latin  American  novel.  

The   poetic   language   which   nourishes   our   novelistic   literature   is   more  


or  less  its  breath  of  life.  Novels  with  lungs  of  poetry,  lungs  of  foliage,  lungs  of  
rich   vegetation.   I   believe   that   what   most   attracts   non-­‐American   readers   is  
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what   our   novels   have   achieved   by   means   of   a   colourful,   brilliant   language  
without  falling  into  the  merely  picturesque,  the  spell  of  onomatopoeia  cast  by  
representing   the   music   of   the   countryside   and   sometimes   the   sounds   of   the  
indigenous   languages,   the   ancestral   smack   of   those   languages   that   flourish  
unconsciously   in   the   prose   that   is   used.   There   is   also   the   importance   of   the  
word  as  absolute  entity,  as  symbol.  Our  prose  is  distinguished  from  Castilian  
syntax  because  the  word  –  in  our  novels  –  has  a  value  of  its  own,  just  as  it  had  
in  the  indigenous  languages.  Word,  concept,  sound;  a  rich  fascinating  transpo-­‐
sition.   Nobody   can   understand   our   literature,   our   poetry   if   the   power   of  
enchantment  is  removed  from  the  word.  

Word   and   language   enable   the   reader   to   participate   in   the   life   of   our  
novelistic   creations.   Unsettling,   disturbing,   forcing   the   attention   of   the   reader  
who  –  forgetting  his  daily  life  –  will  enter  into  the  situations  and  personalities  
of  a  novel  tradition  that  retains  intact  its  humanistic  values.  Nothing  is  used  
to  detract  from  mankind  but  rather  to  perfect  it  and  this  is  perhaps  what  wins  
over  and  unsettles  the  reader,  that  which  transforms  our  novel  into  a  vehicle  
of   ideas,   an   interpreter   of   peoples   using   as   instrument   a   language   with   a  
literary   dimension,   with   imponderable   magical   value   and   profound   human  
projection.  

Translated  by  The  Swedish  Trade  Council  Language  Services  

From:  Les  Prix  Nobel  en  1967,  Editor  Ragnar  Granit,  [Nobel  Foundation],  
Stockholm,  1968    

 Copyright  ©  The  Nobel  Foundation  1967  

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