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 “César Vallejo’s Publics” Stephen M. Hart (University College London): January 9, 2016: MLA, Austin, Texas Introduction In this paper I intend to look at some examples of the various publics that César Vallejo’s life and poetry have created over time. Clearly Vallejo is continuing to draw in new international audiences, as i
suggested by new translations of his poetry, new editions of his poetry and letters, the new vibrant ii
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readings of his work, the new biographies and novels based on his life, the new iconographies, and v
the new selections of his work, which have been published recently. My specific reference in this paper are the practitioners – the poets, the novelists, the filmmakers, the artists – who have been inspired by Vallejo’s work and thereby created new audiences for it. I include, for example, some discussion of the poets – mainly the Spanish ones – who commemorated their “audience” of and with Vallejo in a number of poems (in the 1988 “Homenaje a César Vallejo”), and of the novelists who have resurrected different aspects of Vallejo’s biography – including the Argentine Juan José Saer’s La pesquisa (1994), the Chilean Roberto Bolaño’s Monsieur Pain (1999), Luis Freire Sarria’s César Vallejo se aburrió de seguir muerto, Eduardo González Viaña’s Vallejo en los infiernos (2007; Eng. Trans. César Vallejo’s Season in Hell, 2015) and Jorge Nájar’s Vallejo y la célula Nec plus ultra (2010). I have also included some analysis of films such as the Swedish filmmaker Roy Andersson’s Sånger från andra våningen [Songs from the Second Floor] which won the Special Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival in 2000, along with Fernando Szyszlo’s artwork which have drawn on and extended the scope of the Peruvian poet’s work. I want to explore the idea that Vallejo operates as a ghost-­‐like figure for his various audiences which differs from the sense of cultural commemoration and artistic memorialization as these terms are normally understood to operate in the discourse of cultural studies. Research Context The main idea I pursue in this paper is that Vallejo came to be perceived by many artists as a haunted poet, that is, an individual who was overwhelmed by forces he could barely understand, by – for way of example – poverty, bad luck, destiny, the supernatural. I also explore the idea that Vallejo “haunted” those people who become his audience and public. In this sense I’ll be arguing against some of the concepts which underpin ideas such as commemoration and memorialization understood in a cultural sense. Katherine Hite, for example, argues: “We rely on memories to orient our vi
understandings of the present. Collective memories, or social memories, are connective tissues.” Furthermore, she argues, “commemorative processes are more than symbolic exercises to acknowledge the past. Memorialization can transform the meanings of the past and mobilize the present” (Hite, p. 4). She suggests that “much official memorial work is essentially representing an image of a unified, strong state, particularly in the aftermath of major violence, such as war” (Hite, p. 5) and also that “Memorials can become a means of acting; they can possess transformative power” (Hite, p. 7). While there are a number of physical commemorations of Vallejo’s life and work – examples are Vallejo’s grave in the Montparnasse cemetery in Paris and the numerous statues of vii
Vallejo which are sprinkled around Peru – which (in turn) invoke the notion of Vallejo’s public, my focus in this paper will be on less solid memorializations which are closer to the notion of a phantasm than an edifice made of stone. As Jacques Derrida suggests in Les Spectres de Marx (1993): The spectre is a paradoxical incorporation, the becoming-­‐body, a certain phenomenal and carnal form of the spirit. It becomes, rather, some "thing" that remains difficult to name: neither soul nor body, and both one and the other. For it is flesh and phenomenality that give to the spirit its spectral apparition, but which disappear right away in the apparition, in the very coming of the revenant or the return of the specter. There is something disappeared, departed in the apparition itself as reapparition of the departed. The spirit, the spectre are not 1 the same thing, and we will have to sharpen this difference; but as for what they have in common, one does not know what it is, what it is presently. It is something that one does not know, precisely, and one does not know if precisely it is, if it exists, if it responds to a name and corresponds to an essence. One does not know: not out of ignorance, but because this non-­‐
object, this non-­‐present present, this being-­‐there of an absent or departed one no longer viii
belongs to knowledge. Drawing inspiration from the protagonist’s experience in Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Derrida’s conception of the phantasm goes beyond the traditional belief, according to which a ghost is the “soul or spirit of a deceased person, taken to be capable of appearing in visible form or otherwise manifesting itself to the living” in order to pursue the idea that the spectre haunts others because it has come undone from time; thus it haunts from the past as well as from the future. Derrida's notion of the ghost as a paradoxically-­‐embodied voice “out of joint” in time and space, as we shall see, offers a particularly fruitful way of understanding Vallejo’s presence in his audience for, to quote Derrida, it is a “non-­‐
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present” presence which “no longer belongs to knowledge.” The example of Hamlet is crucial for the illustration of my argument in this essay. In Shakespeare's play, Hamlet, the Dutch Prince, is visited by the ghost of his father who advises him to avenge his death at his brother's hands, and this message is re-­‐performed later on in the play which Hamlet commissions to express the unsayable truth of the uncle’s treachery -­‐-­‐ Lacan would call it the irrepresentable impossible, in other words, the Real. In the works I shall be analysing we find a rhetorical gesture which has some important similarities with the Hamletian dilemma, the spectator who is caught at the point of being obliged to spectate a reality which he refuses consciously to understand but which he nevertheless unconsciously grasps. Vallejo haunts the lives of his readers. Vallejo’s Self-­‐Image But before talking about the ways in which a public has formed around Vallejo’s work I want to start with the way that Vallejo used to project himself visually. I’ll take three photographs of him. The first shows Vallejo in Fontainebleau wood in July 1926, a black stone on a white stone, already metaphorised, no longer a casual snap taken on a day out with Juan Larrea, the second was taken with Georgette in the summer of 1929 at Versailles and the third on a bench on the promenade in Nice near the Negresco Hotel. In all three images Vallejo self-­‐projects as brooding, reflective, mysterious. It was a pose which would become common currency in later years – especially in the 1960s and 1970s – for his various audiences. Vallejo, Alfonso de Silva and the Eruption of the Elegiac Voice Vallejo’s poem, “Alfonso: estás mirándome, lo veo…” was crucial in the creation of a voice for his later audiences. Vallejo met the Peruvian musician, Alfonso de Silva (1902-­‐1937), on 28 July 1923 in the 2 Legación Peruana in Paris; they soon became the best of friends and Vallejo accompanied Alfonso to various restaurants where Alfonso played the violin for a few ‘sous’ to pay for a meal for both of them. Silva resided in Paris until 1930 when he returned to Lima. Though he had been relatively successful with his music in the 1920s – he had been invited in 1925 to play at the Municipal Teatro Forero, as well as at a concert performed in the President’s Palace in the presence of President Augusto B. Leguía, along with a recital in the prestigious Teatro Ideal (and he was famous enough, as it were, to merit inclusion on a Peruvian stamp)– his career took a nose-­‐dive in the 1930s, and what proved to be his last concert, held in September 1936 in the Philharmonic Society in Lima, was not well-­‐attended. On hearing of Silva’s death year Vallejo wrote his famous poem to him, and some of the mood of the failed promise of Alfonso de Silva’s career may have filtered into Vallejo’s poem. The poem – dated 9 October 1937 -­‐-­‐ begins with a direct address to Alfonso who in now dead (he died on 7 May 1937): Alfonso: estás mirándome, lo veo, Desde el plano implacable donde moran Lineales los siempres, lineales los jamases. (Esa noche, dormiste, entre tu sueño x
Y mi sueño, en la rue de Ribouté) The poem gradually builds to its elegaic crescendo in which the poet lifts a glass to his absent friend, and infuses the act with a mood of consubstantiation: Es éste el otro brindis, entre tres, Taciturno, diverso En vino, en mundo, en vidrio, al que brindábamos Más de una vez al cuerpo Y, menos de una vez, al pensamiento. Hoy es más diferente todavía; Hoy sufro dulce, amargamente, Bebo tu sangre en cuanto a Cristo el duro, Como tu hueso en cuanto a Cristo el suave, Porque te quiero, dos a dos, Alfonso, xi
Y casi lo podría decir, eternamente. Apart from the emotive closeness of the poem – the words almost enact a hug between the two men – the use of everyday details collapsed with a thinly sketched cosmic backdrop, along with its tragic and pathos-­‐filled tone, became the code used by later poets to refer to their own proximity to Vallejo’s poetry as well as to his person. This much is clear from the 71 poems included in the 1998 “Homenaje a César Vallejo” which typically invoke this poetic manner for their own poems about 3 xii
Vallejo. Valentín Arteaga’s “Liturgia dolorida para César Vallejo,” for example, opens with a personal message for Vallejo which soon turns into the “we” of suffering: Te traigo, César, toda la dolencia de siempre y todavía; La ceniza que viene, la que queda desotro corazón, La universal que aúlla para luego, para antes de ahora, Mientras llueve en Perú, llueve en el río De París, y en este instante nos morimos un poco más, xiii
Morimos mucho menos remachando esta lágrima. The striking feature of this poem – like many of the others in this collection – is its direct invocation of Vallejo’s presence-­‐absence. Pointing in a similar direction, the poet-­‐photographer, Gerard Malanga, has spoken in a recent book entitled Malanga Chasing Vallejo (2014), of his personal relationship with Vallejo which has little to do with an officialist type of commemoration. He became acquainted with Vallejo’s poetry in 1969 and thereafter developed a sympathy for his life and work: Having read about his life – consumed by the burden of poverty and malnutrition – I felt he was a kindred spirit; and through his verse, I came to understand the bleakness, the loneliness, the deprivation of what he had expressed in his daily living. Life was not kind to him. I experienced what he experienced. It’s no fun being poor in Paris, especially during his sojourn there in the late 1930s, I can imagine. Sixty years later I, too, walked those same Paris streets of gloom and rain and bitter cold. (…) Vallejo’s experiences became my experiences – not by choice, mind you, but by the mere fact of our spiritual brotherhood through poetry. It’s as if I fully understood the spirituality of what he was expressing on a universal plane. He was talking to me directly. His soul touched mine through his verse. In this moment, we became spiritual xiv
brothers. The apparently untrammelled nature of the relationship between Malanga and Vallejo – though it may strike some as a Romantic cliché – is common to a number of poets and commentators who have written about Vallejo’s work. There is the possibility, though, that he may have used some of Vallejo’s iconic poses for his own photographic work. Consider, for example, his famous portrayal of Andy Warhol,, which appears to have a close similarity to one of Vallejo’s poses. Some writers have even described their relationship with Vallejo in terms of the language of the uncanny. This is the case with the poet and translator, Clayton Eshleman who has spoken in the following terms about his experience of an encounter with Vallejo: “The first poem I tried to read, from Poemas humanos, was ‘Me viene, hay días, una gana ubérrima, política…’. It was as if a hand of wet sand had come out of the original and ‘quicked’ me in – I was quicksanded, in over my head. Or xv
was it a spar Vallejo threw me?” What this various descriptions point to is the creation over time of a connection between Vallejo and his public in which Vallejo’s poems go hand and hand with his life 4 (the sense in Malanga’s words that life “was not kind to him”). Given the rather haunted look that Vallejo displays in the three iconic photographs listed above along with the tone of his poem dedicated to Alfonso de Silva, it is perhaps not surprising that a notion grew over time of Vallejo as xvi
the ghost of Latin American poetry. Vallejo the Ghost Figure in the Novels Inspired by Him The novels written about Vallejo – including Juan José Saer’s La pesquisa (1994), Roberto Bolaño’s Monsieur Pain (1999), Luis Freire Sarria’s César Vallejo se aburrió de seguir muerto, Eduardo González Viaña’s Vallejo en los infiernos (2007; Eng. Trans. César Vallejo’s Season in Hell, 2015) and Jorge Nájar’s Vallejo y la célula Nec plus ultra (2010) – are varied, but one theme is constant and this is the projection of Vallejo as a mysterious character. This is particularly evident in Roberto Bolaño’s dense novel, Monsieur Pain, in which we learn about the demise of a Peruvian man in the Arago Clinic in Paris through the eyes of an acupuncturist, Pierre Pain, who was commissioned by Georgette in April 1938 to cure her husband’s illness (he was suffering from a mysterious disease and was afflicted, xvii
among other things, by uncontrollable fits of hiccups). While based in its essential details on fact, Bolaño’s novel turns into a suspenseful tale about two mysterious individuals whose identity is never revealed – though we do know they are Spaniards – but who want to prevent Monsieur Pain from treating Vallejo. The ailing patient, Vallejo, becomes a spectral figure, haunting Monsieur Pain’s mind, as evident during his surreal dream: Someone whispers, right in my ear: “watch out for the South American…” Looking back over my shoulder all I can see is darkness: I see that I am indeed in a sewer… Blurry old photograph from 1920s Pleumeur-­‐Bodou,Terzeff and I are crossing an iron bridge; when we reach the other side we turn and raise our hats – except for Terzeff who waves a white handkerchief – bidding farewell to a dim and gradually disappearing silhouette. I come to a square and see that a gallows has been set up: a new gallows. Terzeff and Pleumeur-­‐
Bodou remark, but their lips barely exhale an infrahuman sound; a mild autumnal breeze blows in through the windows, but is it autumn? The same voice, although this time I know that it is coming from within me, insists: “Watch out xviii
for the cold South American…” The “cold South American,” who is also the “dim and gradually disappearing silhouette” to which they xix
bid farewell in Monsieur Pain’s dream, is clearly Vallejo. And this spectral presence is a powerful motif through Bolaño’s novel. After Monsieur Pain is ejected from the hospital, for example, he finds himself in a dark room with a shadow which hiccups, and he concludes that “someone was imitating Vallejo’s hiccups. But why?” (Monsieur Pain, p. 76). Indeed, from this point onwards in the novel Monsieur Pain begins so disorientated by what has happened to him that he seems to lose his mind: A few nights ago I dreamed of you… You looked very old, as old as you are now, in fact… Wrinkled and worried… But in the dream it was 1922, and the others were there, you know what I mean… Why am I thinking of them? … They’re like ghosts. (Monsieur Pain, p. 80) In his last desperate attempt to find Vallejo he bursts into the hospital and finds once more the silhouette, but this time it is a diminished form because he sees “barely more than a blurred silhouette, an armless body, a nightmare catapulted straight from infancy. It was more pitiful than frightening, but its presence was unbearable. Embrace it, I told myself, but did not entertain that thought for long. My hands were trembling. I sensed that the silhouette was trembling too. I turned and ran” (Monsieur Pain, p. 110). Vallejo is finally revealed – in Bolaño’s novel, to be an unbearable, trembling silhouette. Vallejo in Films A number of films have been made about Vallejo, including Julio Vélez’s excellent 30-­‐minute documentary, César Vallejo (1991), Manuel Arenas’s vivid dramatization of Paco Yunque (2004), xx
Stephen Hart’s Traspié entre 46 estrellas (2006), and Santi Zegarra’s video installation Vallejo Eterno xxi
(2010), but the most adventurous exploration of Vallejo’s poetic idiom occurs in Roy Andersson’s Sånger från andra våningen [Songs from the Second Floor] which won the Special Jury Prize at the Cannes Film Festival in 2000. Composed of 46 loosely-­‐tied sequences, Andersson’s film works around 5 a number of themes which hold the film together, including death, poverty, disaster, and fate, while alluding at key junctures of the film to Vallejo’s poetry. The most obvious example of the allusion to Vallejo is the mad son of the depressive businessman (played by Lars Nordh); the son is in a lunatic asylum and has gone mad, as his father repeatedly points out throughout the film, as a result of writing too much poetry. At various junctures of the film lines from Vallejo’s “Traspié entre dos xxii
estrellas” are quoted. As Andersson pointed out in an interview: “The Vallejo poem is almost religious in the sense that it’s so respectful of vulnerable human beings. I’m not religious in the sense that I think we have connections to heaven, but I do have full respect for the Sermon on the Mount – xxiii
‘Do to others as you have them do to you’”. The tone of the film is Beckettian as well as Vallejian in places (Andersson has referred to his interest in Beckett’s work), and this is not surprising given the connection that Efraín Kristal has convincingly demonstrated exists between the work of the two xxiv
writers. One of the most bizarre sequences od Andersson’s film occurs when an unnamed individual suddenly appears and begins speaking with great earnestness to the depressive businessman in Russian (a language the protagonist cannot understand), and we learn that he is a ghost who cannot rest because he had some unfinished business with his sister – who was hanged (like himself) by the Germans in World War II. The businessman also meets a man to whom he owed a lot of money – 240,000 euros – and he admits that he felt relieved when he learned that the latter had died. The unnamed man reveals he is “dead” in a gruesome way, by showing the self-­‐inflicted wounds on his wrists. Both of these scenes allow us to suggest that the leitmotiv of haunting is central to the film’s composition and thematic structure. This haunting structure is also evident in the very careful composition of the work, especially in the deep focus photography which allows things at a distance to be as much in focus as those placed nearer the camera. The reason for this is demonstrated forcefully in the striking conclusion to the film. The deep focus employed in the concluding sequence of the film allows the viewer to watch the people in the distance slowly approaching the two protagonists who are throwing away statues of 6 Christ; they bought them in the hope of making some money but the venture turned out to be a flop. In the final scene numerous people emerge in the fields – as if from the grave – and approach the men to enact an apocalyptic (though unarticulated and unwitnessed) dénouement to the fillm. Vallejo and Art Vallejo has also had an impact in the work of a number of Peruvian artists. Fernando Szyszlo, for example, included a lock of Vallejo’s hair in one of his paintings, simply entitled “César Vallejo,” which was exhibited at an exhibition held in the Museo de Arte in Lima frm 6 July until 2 October xxv
2011. The lock of hair had been gifted to Syszlo by Vallejo’s widow, Georgette. This is a photo of Syszlo holding the painting. Apart from Vallejo’s lock of hair it contains a copy of the famous photograph of Vallejo at Versailles and a copy of the autograph poem of “Invierno en la batalla de Teruel” which Georgette had also donated to the Peruvian painter. It is perhaps more a collage, or a homage, than a work of art. And here is a close-­‐up of the lock of hair taken from Vallejo by Georgette when he died on 15 April 1938, and given to Syszlo, and then integrated into his art-­‐work. What is curious about the piece – whether one sees it as a art-­‐work or a homage tout court – is that it echoes the mood in which Vallejo is often re-­‐created by other artists – that of a ghostly presence. For Vallejo is nothing if not absent in Szyszlo’s painting, and he has been rendered as a synecdoche. There are many other re-­‐creations of Vallejo in oil – and I cannot do justice to them all in this short xxvi
paper -­‐-­‐-­‐ but I want to end with a brief discussion of a portrait of Vallejo by the Peruvian painter, Patricia Moll, which was originally gifted to the Director of the Paris-­‐based organisation, Amis de César Vallejo. 7 There are a number of motifs which deserve mentioning briefly. The painting iconises Vallejo’s body as a projection of the Andes, evident in the images of the Andes which are scattered throughout the picture, in the space between Vallejo’s thumb and left finger, in the white snowy peaks of his handerchief neslting in his lapel pocket, in the rugged ridges of his white collar, even in his elbow which functions as an upside-­‐down snowy peak. Vallejo is also associated with the redness of communism – the sombre tones of his chair as they appear in the black-­‐and-­‐white photograph on which this portrait is based, for example, are converted into a reddy-­‐purple colour, and the association pursued by the painting is between communism and love, as suggested by the red love heart which drapes the chair like a cover against which the poet rests. But perhaps most striking about the painting is its sense of mystery for we cannot see Vallejo’s eyes, shrouded as they are by the shadow which falls across the right-­‐side of his face. Ultimately – the painting seems to be suggesting – Vallejo is absent from the enquiry of our gaze, and his absence comes to haunt the xxvii
spectator’s space. Conclusion Whether in poems written by poets seeking to assert a connection with Vallejo’s life and work, or in novels such as Roberto Bolaño’s Monsieur Pain (1999), in films such as Roy Andersson’s Sånger från andra våningen (2000) or in art pieces such as Fernando Szyszlo’s “César Vallejo,” Vallejo emerges as an enigmatic figure, a ghost who cannot quite be contained within the frame of his various audiences. i
The Complete Poetry: César Vallejo: A Bilingual Edition, edited and translated by Clayton Eshleman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007); César Vallejo: The Complete Poems, translated by Micheal Smith & Valentino Gianuzzi (Bristol: Shearsman, 2012); Malanga Chasing Vallejo: Selected Poems: César Vallejo, translated by Gerard Malanga (New York City: Three Rooms Press, 2014); Cartas de César Vallejo a Pablo Abril de Vivero, edited by Andrés Echevarría (Montevideo: Biblioteca Nacional, 2013); España, aparta de mí este cáliz (Madrid: Ardora, 2012), facsimile edition edited by Alan Smith. ii
Michelle Clayton, Poetry in Pieces: César Vallejo and Lyric Modernity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2011); Vallejo 2014: Actas del Congreso Internacional Vallejo Siempre, ed Gladys Flores (Lima: Cátedra Vallejo, 2014-­‐2015), 3 vols. iii
Jorge Nájar, Vallejo y la célula Nec plus ultra (Lima: Altazor, 2010); Stephen M. Hart, César Vallejo: A Literary Biography (Woodbridge: Tamesis, 2013); Eduardo González Viaña, César Vallejo’s Season in Hell (London: Centre of César Vallejo Studies, UCL, London, 2015). iv
Imagen de César Vallejo: iconografía completa (1892-­‐1938), edición de Carlos Fernández and Valentino Gianuzzi (Madrid: Del Cetnro, 2012). v
Selected Writings of César Vallejo, ed. Joseph Mulligan (Middletown, Connecticut: Wesleyan University Press, 2015). 8 vi
Katherine Hite, Politics and the Art of Commemoration: Memorials to Struggle in Latin America and Spain (London: Routlege, 2012), p. 1. vii
This public is hailed, as it were, once a year, on 15 April, in readings of Vallejo’s poetry held at his grave in Montparnasse cemetery. viii
Jacques Derrida, Spectres of Marx, translated by Peggy Kamuf (London: Routledge, 1994), p. 5. ix
Zizek’s model is rather different in that it conforms more or less to the Lacanaian notion of the 'barred subject'. The Lacanian model supposes a subject around an irrepresentable-­‐impossible kernel. the Real, to which it cannot have access, instead anamorphically accessing 'reality' through the work of fantasy -­‐-­‐ not a sustained illusion, but the way through which we structure reality. For Zizek, however, we are surrounded by a 'plague of fantasies', pseudo-­‐concrete images which cover over the mounting abstractions at work. Nevertheless, the very way in which we structure our reality through the work of fantasy suggests that fantasy and materiality are mutually constitutive. So, in opposition to the claim that fantasy creates a narrative which covers over, quilts, sutures, hegemonises, makes a whole of existence, Zizek argues that fantasy consistently comes undone, falls apart, 'the truth is out there', embedded materially, right alongside the fantasy, not hidden away from it. x
“Alfonso: estás mirándome, lo veo…”, César Vallejo. Poesía completa (Lima: PUCP, 1997), vol. III, pp. 193-­‐95 (p. 193). xi
César Vallejo. Poesía completa, vol. III, p. 195. xii
“Homenaje a César Vallejo,” Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, nos. 454-­‐55 (April-­‐May 1988), vol. 2, 549-­‐638. xiii
Cuadernos Hispanoamericanos, nos. 454-­‐55 (April-­‐May 1988), vol. 2, 551-­‐52. xiv
Gerard Malanga, “César Vallejo, the Man and the Poet,” in Malanga Chasing Vallejo: Selected Poems: César Vallejo, translated by Gerard Malanga (New York City: Three Rooms Press, 2014), pp. Ix-­‐xi (pp. Ix-­‐x). xv
“Afterword: A Translation Memoir,” in The Complete Poetry: César Vallejo: A Bilingual Edition, edited and translated by Clayton Eshleman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), pp. 677-­‐88 (p. 678). xvi
It should be noted that Alfonso de Silva’s musical pieces, particularly works such as "Yo seré tu tristeza," "Están emponzoñadas mis canciones," and "Dolor," – which Vallejo liked very much –were haunting, emotive, delicate. xvii
For a description of the days leading up to Vallejo’s death, see Stephen M. Hart, César Vallejo: A Literary Biography (Woodbridge: Tamesis, 2013), pp. 262-­‐63. xviii
Robert Bolaño, Monsieur Pain, translated by Chris Andrews (New York: New Directions, 2010), p. 35. xix
It is also the shadowy figure in the small framed photograph hanging up in Monsieur Pain’s room of a street in Clichy, to which Madame Reynaud feels drawn; Monsieur Pain, p. 37; see also p. 39: “I knew without a doubt that he was the South American mentioned in the dream.” xx
https://www.facebook.com/video.php?v=10150699028880376&permPage=1 xxi
See Santi Zegarra, “Vallejo Forever,” in Politics , Poetics, Affect: Re-­‐visioning César Vallejo, ed. Stephen M. Hart (Newcastle-­‐upon-­‐Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2013), pp. 137-­‐46. xxii
“Traspié entre dos estrellas,” César Vallejo. Poesía completa, vol. III, pp. 197-­‐99. xxiii
Jonathan Romney, “Roy Andersson: Funny Peculiar,” The Guardian, 9 February 2001; see http://www.theguardian.com/film/2001/feb/09/culture.features3 xxiv
“Introduction,” in The Complete Poetry: César Vallejo: A Bilingual Edition, edited and translated by Clayton Eshleman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2007), pp. 1-­‐20 (pp. 8-­‐11). xxv
I first discussed this painting with Szyszlo in 2003 in Jorge Puccinelli’s house but it was only in 2011 that I finally able to see it. xxvi
See, in particular, the work of Armando Reyes Castro; see http://spanport.byu.edu/instituto_vallejiano/pinturas.html xxvii
Though we do “see” Vallejo in the novel, it is only when Monsieur Pain cures his hiccups; during the whole scene Vallejo is not depicted as uttering a word or becoming fully conscious; Monsieur Pain, pp. 40-­‐42. 9