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Bandits seem ubiquitous in Latin American culture. Even
contemporary actors of violence are framed by narratives that
harken back to old images of the rural bandit, either to legitimize
or delegitimize violence, or to intervene in larger conflicts
within or between nation-states. However, the bandit escapes a
straightforward definition, since the same label can apply to the
leader of thousands of soldiers (as in the case of Villa) or to the
humble highwayman eking out a meager living by waylaying travelers
at machete point. Dabove presents the reader not with a definition
of the bandit, but with a series of case studies showing how the
bandit trope was used in fictional and non-fictional narratives by
writers and political leaders, from the Mexican Revolution to the
present. By examining cases from Argentina, Brazil, Mexico, Peru,
and Venezuela, from Pancho Villa's autobiography to Hugo Chavez's
appropriation of his "outlaw" grandfather, Dabove reveals how
bandits function as a symbol to expose the dilemmas or aspirations
of cultural and political practices, including literature as a
social practice and as an ethical experience.
El ano del desierto is the story of a year in the life of Maria
Valdes Neylan, narrated by herself, from somewhere in Ireland or
England. The novel narrates the (literal) dissolution of a city
(Buenos Aires), of a nation (Argentina) and of a life story (that
of Maria). The agent of this dissolution is the Wilderness (la
intemperie). But, what is the Wilderness? The novel does not
provide any definition or clarification regarding its nature. We do
not know if it's a natural or supernatural phenomenon. We do not
know if it's a sentient phenomenon, an instrument animated by an
evil design or just an impersonal force. Furthermore, nobody
witnesses the Wilderness in action. Only its effects are recorded:
the gradual (but fast-paced) degradation and disappearance of
buildings, streets, of all trace of human work or habitation, and
its replacement by a nature (certainly not Mother Nature) out of
control. Because of the Wilderness, the city disappears and the
Desert reclaims what always belonged to it. This novel by Pedro
Mairal (Buenos Aires, 1970) is a brilliant tour de force. On the
one hand, it captures the Zeitgeist of post-2001, pre-Kirchner
Argentina. But, as happens in Kafka's fictions (or in any work of
literature worthy of that name) Mairal takes the allegory well
beyond the mere document of the present. In these pages the reader
will find a story that is simultaneously familiar and infinitely
strange, the sights and sounds of Buenos Aires' everyday life, but
also the peculiar taste of a nightmare. The novel is also a sui
generis archive of Argentina's historical, cultural and literary
experience (its events and characters, as well as its founding
tropes and obsessions are all there). Susan Hallstead and Juan
Pablo Dabove have exhaustively annotated the novel to allow the
reader access to the myriad allusions and meanings embedded in the
novel. However, in spite of Mairal's totalizing ambition, El ano
del desierto never ceases to be a highly legible novel, with a
capacity to move us with the vicissitudes of Maria's individual
destiny. The introduction (also by Hallstead and Dabove) locates
Mairal in his historical and literary context, and gives numerous
clues for a complete understanding (and enjoyment) of this novel,
one of the best in recent Argentine narrative.
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