Oaxaca vistas

We had our first storm of the rainy season yesterday here at Casa Tobalá, the thunder echoeing back and forth in the valley and lightning striking so close it seemed like we could touch it. The electricity was out for hours and we sat in the candlelight and listened to the storm. And what a thing of beauty to hear the water gushing into our new cistern! Up here in these arid mountains you learn how precious water is.
I saw a couple of deer the other evening while out for a walk; they bounded out of a ravine right near me and ran up into the mountains.
We're teeming with birds now, including a pair of roadrunners, which are huge and awkwardly beautiful.
Up this morning at 5:30 to watch the sunrise; Venus hung just below the fat crescent moon. As my days here tick away I want to capture every moment of daylight I can.

Journey to Ixtlan

My son Jason and I took a 6-hour walk into the mountains behind Casa Tobalá today, 4 hours up and two hours down, counting getting lost in the descent and ending up the range over, at one point having to cross a foot-wide cement dam spanning a ravine to avoid backtracking to who knows where. That's the problem with taking a wrong turn--after the first every other turn is by definition the wrong one. But we managed to find a path that brought us in fact to the very bottom of our property, where an old abandononed house looks over the little river. Our place sits at about 5800 feet and we climbed high, high, high, up to the summit of one mountain, literally where every step was a step down, and looked out over the city of Oaxaca to the south and our own little shack in the valley to the north. Sitting on top of the world is a cliche I guess, but it's really possible to do so. I strongly encourage trying it.
It was so great share this trek with my son, visiting us for the holidays from Chicago, where he is doing his masters in architecture. He is very attuned to forms and structures per se, and here in Oaxaca they abound in such diverse examples, from ancient pyramids to colonial buildings to foot paths carved out by streams and the force of nature. And what a luxury to spend so much time alone together, where both the conversations and the silences on the mountain paths acquire such density. I learned from Jason about the concept in physics of the unit of "work," velocity x acceleration, and why we were generating "negative" force when going down hill compared to up.
Last week some friends invited us along on a journey to Ixtlan, the native terrain of Benito Juárez, way up in the Sierra Juárez mountains a couple of hours outside the city of Oaxaca. What dramatic beauty, especially when one is higher than the clouds. We drove miles up a twisted dirt road and reached another peak. It's an amazing thing to look down upon the world instead of up into the sky.

American Gothic: Cormac McCarthy

My first experience with Cormac McCarthy was All the Pretty Horses, a novel I imagine was the introduction to his work for many readers, a nice romantic story of young cowboys riding the open ranges and meeting swarthy young women south of the border. Part of his "Western Trilogy" that includes the lesser novels The Crossing and Cities of the Plain, All the Pretty Horses utilizes a sparse diction and economy of language perfectly suited to the taciturn young hero. It got made into a mediocre movie directed by Billy Bob Thornton, and even the casting of my heart throb Penelope Cruz didn't raise the work much in my estimation. No Country for Old Men takes place in the US/Mexico border region, with a good old boy sheriff hunting down a Eastern European hitman, who is searching for some poor dope who stumbled upon the aftermath of a shootout between drug dealers and wanders away with a suitcase full of money. The Coen brothers (a shoutout to my paisanos from the Twin Cities) turned it into a film good enough to win the Oscar for Best Picture. Fargo set in the deserts of the Southwest instead of the icy frozen north of Minnesota.

I think you need to read McCarthy's last work, The Road, and a couple of his earlier novels to comprehend the importance of this writer (objectively recognizable: McCarthy has won among other awards a Pulitzer Prize, a fellowship from the American Academy of Arts and Letters, Guggenheim and MacArthur grants, the National Book Award, and the National Book Critics Circle Award, so I guess he has that going for him).

Blood Meridian (1984) and Suttree (1979), both written before the Western trilogy, manifest a kind of American Gothic that comes directly out of William Faulkner (much as does, say, Toni Morrison's Beloved) or even Mark Twain (in whose work, among the most important literature our country has produced, not far below the ironic humor lurks a brutal world view). I read Blood Meridian last summer, a truly harrowing work about a heart of darkness, or many hearts of darkness, in the scorching sun of the Mexican desert where bounty hunters maraud like a plague of the Apocalypse. McCarthy has said he likes precise declarative sentences and it is the minute, detailed descriptions that render this book so powerful. The cold lens through which we see the violence puts everything into the sharpest focus (Roberto Bolaño uses this stylistic device so successfully in a similar way in 2666). To leave the emotion, the decrying, the breast-pounding, the judgment out of the narrative makes the reader confront precisely reality (whether fictional or not). Joseph Conrad said fiction is history, human history, or it is nothing.

Suttree, a novel some twenty years in the writing, takes the author back to the city where he grew up, Knoxville, Tennessee, and the Tennessee River. The protagonist is a fisherman who lives in a wretched shantyboat and wanders among the dregs of society (like that fisher of men, Christ): the homeless, conmen, drifters and grifters, whores and thieves, alcoholics and drug addicts and vagabonds of all kinds, preachers and perverts. He inhabits a narrative world not far from Huck Finn's and his observations of the comedie humaine are not so far different. The flotsam of the river reflects the people he encounters, filthy refuse, stinking and rotting, what Twain would have called the damned human race. But McCarthy, like Twain, always leaves open the possibility of discovering in the end man's humanity to man.

Recommended activity: Today, this lucky Friday the 13th, starts the 29th Feria Internacional del Libro (International Book Fair) of Oaxaca, downtown on the Alameda near the Cathedral, running through November 30. There will be tables with books for sale as well as a wide-ringing calendar of events and discussions. For more information go to http://www.vivelalectura.com.mx/.

Recommended reading: Papeles inesperados, by Julio Cortázar. Hetereoglossia, anyone? A compilation of little known stories, articles, deleted chapters, interviews, letters, and...by one of the masters of modern Latin American literature. A lot of the texts hit and miss, but some true gems ("Manuscrito hallado junto a una mano," "La fe en el Tercer Mundo," "Acerca de Rayuela," "Entrevista ante un espejo"). I'm working on a review of it for the book review Rain Taxi that should be done in the next couple weeks.

a few shots of culture

Café Tacuba's "Unplugged" playing on this warm Oaxaca morning in the Sierra Juárez. Mexico has a tremendous cultural heritage, music and performance and literature and painting all parts of people's everyday lives. One of the jewels of the nation is the Universidad Nacional Autonoma de México (UNAM), located in Mexico City (in fact it is its own "ciudad universitaria"). An ongoing project UNAM is developing is Descarga Cultura (http://www.descargacultura.unam.mx/), a website that offers access to lectures, conferences, music, theater performances, etc., from classic to contemporary works. Especially interesting are authors reading from their own works, like Elena Poniatowska, Monica Lavin, Eduardo Lago, among many others. The site has links to radio stations and programs, the arts and culture magazine Revista de la Universidad de Mexico, as well as a variety of physical and social sciences pages. Check out Descarga Cultura and you'll understand how UNAM was awarded this year the prestigious Prince of Asturias Prize in Communications and Humanities.

Book lovers in Oaxaca, please visit Amate Books, a wonderful independent bookstore downtown on Alcalá. It has a great selection of Latin American literature in English, lots of books on regional and national art, architecture, and cuisine, and many unique titles. Owner Henry Wangeman frequently hosts readings and discussions and was kind enough to let me talk about literary translation a couple weeks ago to a full house (though I imagine most people came for the free mezcal). Amate also has some very cool folk art and handicrafts for sale. There are some kites designed, and signed!, by Francisco Toledo hanging from the walls that are themselves worth the visit.

Recommended reading:
Ficciones de la revolución mexicana, by Ignacio Solares (Mexico City: Alfaguara, 2009).
What would have happened to the nation if some of the great events in Mexico's revolution had turned out differently? Ignacio Solares, author of La invasion (Yankee Invasion, Scarletta Press and Aliform Publishing, 2009), puts figures like Madero, Carranza, Zapata and Huerta in stories that depart startlingly from the official versions. These kinds of parallel universes (Pancho Villa conquers a town in the US, for example) put the heroes and villians of the Mexican Revolution into some new and unexpected lights.

This Sunday, 15 de noviembre, in Oaxaca at the Auditorio Guelagetza, Los Discipulos are going to open for Café Tacuba. Sorry, my beautiful niece Blanqui, who keeps me apprised of culture going around about town, doesn't know what time.

Reading novels

I'm on sabbatical this year and one of the advantages is the opportunity of reading what I want to, not what I have to (well, there is some of that, too, to complete my sabbatical project). But what's become interesting is not only what I read, but how--the luxury of reading for hours, even days, at a time. It's not the same experience at all to read a half hour here or there, or before going to sleep or sitting on the bus between stops. Things like narrative structure and most importantly style only truly come across once the reader is literally sumberged in the text. I just finished 2666 by Roberto Bolaño (my vote for best world writer born in the second half of the 20th), a thousand-page journey through the violence and corruption of modern Mexico that I finished in 3 days. It's a "page-turner," and the relentless way the author catalogues the murders of young women in Ciudad Juárez (especially pertinent now that the state attorney general whose office proved so apathetic in the investigations has just been named the nation's attorney general) has to be read in a relentless way as well--you can't turn away from what's happening.
[Recommended reading by Roberto Bolaño: The Savage Detectives]
I also read one of the most remarkable works of contemporary US fiction, David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest, another phonebook-sized novel (with 100 pages of footnotes in tiny font) I read in a short time (about 3 weeks, which must be some kind of world record for that book). Reading is always a kind of "reader response":there is either a connection or not, and that connection is ultimately physical, sensatory, sensual. This book is truly a work of (tortured) genius, so many voices, so many layered trains of narration, so many interruptions, lapses, hollow spaces, empty discourses..it's not hard to understand how a person who wrote such a work could have committed suicide. What a loss for literature, but what gifts left behind.
I've just started a book by my favorite contemporary US writer, Cormac McCarthy, Suttree. Heir to William Faulker (and by extension Gabriel Garcia Marquez) and Joseph Conrad, McCarthy writes the lushest descriptions imaginable, even when that lushness comes from broken glass and rusty metal. Thanks to my beloved sister-in-law Blanca Cue for lending me this work, and so many others.
And as I start this blog (something I never could have imagined doing a year ago, Luddite that I am; but it is this Thoreau-like solitude up here in Casa Tobala in the mountains of southeastern Oaxaca, the Sierra Juarez, that allows for all the time for reflection), I wish to thank a few people who have led me down this path: first of all my father John Miskowiec, the most prolific reader I've ever known, who from the time I was a kid taught me the wonders not only of literature but of books themselves, those precious objects one may hold; Eduardo García Aguilar, my friend and mentor for half my life, and one of Latin America's great writers, who taught me how much literature is a living thing, that it is made from life itself, and has allowed me to translate his work, including The Triumphant Voyage, Mexico Madness, Luminous Cities, and Boulevard of Heroes; Carlos López, director of the independent publishing company Praxis in Mexico, whose generosity has in many ways made possible Aliform Publishing; Gregory Rabassa, professor emeritus, who did as much as anyone to bring modern Latin American literature to a US audience, my dissertation supervisor who became my friend and colleague as I've published to date four of the maestro's translations. And finally to the person who has fed my creativity through all our years together, Lourdes Cué, artista extraordinaria.

CHECK OUT:
http://www.aliformgroup.com/ for the best in contemporary Latin American and world literature in translation
http://www.lourdescue.com/ to see this Mexican installation artist's website