By RENATO ORTIZ*
Gabriel García Márquez is a master of this subtle and delicate craft in guiding the reader to the rhythm of the undulation of the sentences, he holds the cistolic art of guiding us through the lines of the text.
The passage sent by the Society of Writers and Publishers of Spain surprised me. Academic life has become accustomed to being treated with few privileges: executive class. By enjoying them, one learns a few things. Class differences imply rarefied services and access to certain amenities.
The seat is wide and reclining, providing passengers with a comfortable night's sleep. There is plenty of legroom; since there are fewer seats, the plane's cramped compartment gives the impression of spaciousness, far from the suffocating conditions of mass transportation. Comfort is evident in the details: the table in the seat is larger than in economy class and, during meals, the body is not squeezed between the tray table and the reclining part of the seat.
The food is delicious, and you can choose from a menu; the wine is good, and comes in bottles, not in the tiny, standardized format offered in other compartments. The menu says that the airline would like to provide us with a wine adventure; in addition to the traditional French wine, you can taste the flavors from other corners: South Africa, Chile, Australia, California. The differences also mean separation: boarding is done away from the embarrassment of the crowds, and there are no lines.
Since the space reserved for him is at the front of the aircraft, the passenger knows that his disembarkation has priority, avoiding tripping over the impatient crowd jostling in the aisles. However, there is a setback. At immigration, his illusion is shattered: before the authority of the State “we are” equal; however, upon boarding, upon leaving the premises, the traveler heads to an upper floor, where the VIP lounge is at his disposal. A feeling of euphoria and disappointment invades him.
Frustration sets in when signs appear indicating the division between business and first class. It becomes clear that the top of the world is an unattainable place. A momentary embarrassment, euphoria embraces him again when he is welcomed into a lounge filled with sandwiches, champagne cocktails, soda, white wine, and snacks. Satisfied, he adjusts to his mitigated privilege.
I was put up at the Hotel Gran Versailles, with its dimly lit stars. The event was held at the Casa de América, in the Linares Palace, a building dating back to the late 19th century. Perhaps out of an excess of zeal, América is used in the singular, referring to the entire American continent, a bit like the Europeans used the expression after Amerigo Vespucci's expedition. But the term would hardly apply to the theme of the meeting, a discussion of Iberianism, restricted to the expansion of Spanish pride.
The opening was given by two great writers, José Saramago and Gabriel García Márquez. The co-presence of Portuguese and Spanish affirmed the coexistence of a community of speakers. José Saramago was approachable and friendly; García Márquez, the figure of arrogance, chatted with the others while staring at a fixed point in the distance. The auditorium was packed, with television cameras, wires spread across the floor, and a battalion of photographers waiting for them. Flashes announced the unexpected storm.
José Saramago spoke well; his communist background prepared him well for public speaking; he is capable of artfully articulating political themes and the subtleties of literary life. He said that literature was situated in the encounter between the author and the readers; they formed a kind of tribe of sensibilities, a community of shared feelings. García Márquez, eaten away by envy, who had asked to speak after José Saramago, refused to speak. He had no explanation for his act, the result of an adolescent tantrum. The audience booed.
The Spanish language has some guttural sounds that are good for evoking the harshness of things, and it is rich in insults. People got up from their chairs and began to mistreat him. The organizers of the event spent the day explaining to the press the reason for their childish attitude, to no avail.
The comma is the breather of the sentence; it is where the rhythm of the writing slows down, takes a breath, and projects itself forward. I envy writers who lead the reader along with the undulation of sentences; they have the art of guiding us through the lines of the text. Gabriel García Márquez is a master of this subtle and delicate craft. On the last day of the proceedings, Felipe González, former socialist prime minister, closed the meeting.
Politicians tend to be blunt in their speeches, they cultivate platitudes; Felipe González had a different attitude, he made an intelligent reflection on current problems, he showed attention and sensitivity to the “new times”. After his presentation, to everyone’s surprise, García Márquez asked to speak. He made no apologies, he said that he was not a public man, an intellectual, his intention as a writer was to show us his art.
He took out of a folder the unpublished pages of a short story — perhaps the outline of a future book, he warned us —, just the first chapter (In August see you, Record, 2024). That was when he began reading. The words and commas entangled us, a placid silence fell before his slow and sonorous voice. He immersed the audience in his fantasy universe, the cadence and pauses of the text marked the audience's breathing. Transcendence? Applauded, much applauded, he turned the page of his fiasco.
* Renato Ortiz He is a professor at the Department of Sociology at Unicamp. Author, among other books, of The universe of luxury (Mall). [https://amzn.to/3XopStv]
Originally published on BVPS blog.
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